In the Winds Eye

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In the Wind’s Eye ISBN #1-4199-0416-7 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. In the Wind’s Eye Copyright© 2006 Charlotte Boyett-Compo Edited by Mary Moran. Cover art by Willo. Electronic book Publication: March 2006

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing Inc., 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously. Cerridwen Press is an imprint of Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.®

IN THE WIND’S EYE Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Trademarks Acknowledgement The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Colt: Colt Industries Inc. Stetson: John B. Stetson Company Waterford: Waterford Wedgwood Plc Company Wedgwood: Waterford Wedgwood Plc Company Winchester: Olin Corporation

In the Wind’s Eye

Chapter One To the weary man riding slowly beneath the hot Georgia sun it was a day of colors. Thick orange dust clung tenaciously to the emerald green kudzu. Deep purple wisteria wove its way along the pale brown split-rail fence posts. Here and there, patches of spiky pink blossoms stood out in the early afternoon light as the rider passed tall, lacy-leafed mimosa trees. A striking red cardinal darted out from among the scrub oak branches standing hunched over the silver-shot river and dove gracefully into the shimmer of the blue sky. Colors, the rider thought as his tired eyes took in the passing scenery, are such a balm to the senses. Colors put reality to life and bring peace to the heart. A riot of colors, a profusion of sensual delights catching the eye, can go a long way in easing the ache in a man’s soul, no matter how lost that soul had become. How long, he wondered, had it been since he indulged his delight in colors? Four years, he remembered with a wince. It has been four long years since he had noticed any colors other than Confederate gray, Federal blue and blood red. He forcibly tore his mind away from those vicious, brutal hues and concentrated instead on the pale yellow of a field of dandelions. The cicadas were tuning up and he pulled back gently on his mount’s reins. The roan came to a halt, nickering softly as it bobbed its head, and there was stillness on the road save for the clicking of the cicadas. Just as his world had been leached of the pigments that once had colored it so richly—the pastel elegance of silks and satins, the royal hues of velvet, the imposing grandeur of white cotton shirts crisply starched, champagne-colored brocade embossed with lustrous embroidery of golden thread—so too had gentle sounds also disappeared to be replaced with roaring cannon, crackling rifle fire, the screams of dying men. “Don’t think about it,” he said aloud. The soothing sound of the cicadas reached into the rider’s battle-scarred soul and he hung his head, tears gathering at the edges of his glazed brown eyes. How gentle that sound—how much like home. But the reminder of days past when he had sat on the veranda of WindLass alongside his brothers and listened to just this monotonous chant, brought other memories as well and he heard ghost sounds that hurt him deeper than any shot driven into his body. Laughter—the tender tinkle of beautiful young women and the hardy guffaws of brazen young men. Music swirling about the dance floor in patriotic abandonment—the glorious strains of Dixie swelling the heart and underlining the fervor.

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Firecrackers exploding in the night air—the ominous precursor to the earsplitting boom of battle. Ivonne’s voice—her soft drawl with just a touch of French rhythm to entice a young man’s passion. The rider’s chin came up sharply and he pushed away such thoughts with an angry shake of his head. What good were memories when they tormented worse than anything the Union prison guards ever could have conceived? “Don’t think about it!” he repeated through gritted teeth. Lifting a pale hand to his road-dirty face, the rider plowed trembling fingers through a scraggly crop of limp brown hair. His grip tightened in the lank curls and he tugged brutally, trying to tear the memories from his head. “You’ll take care, won’t you, Sinclair?” “I’ll do my best.” “And you’ll come back to me as soon as this awful war is over.” “I’ll move heaven and hell to do so.” “And I’ll be waiting, beloved. On my honor, I will.” Honor? The rider questioned. He swiped angrily at the tears that were streaking down his grimy face. What the hell was honor? Honor was something they had been forced to abandon long ago. Not sure exactly when that had happened, he climbed down from his horse and walked the beast to the river. Could have been at Chancellorsville or maybe at Bull Run. Or on the day he and his men had been marched into Camp Douglas and had become prisoners of the Union. There had certainly been no room for honor in that hellhole deep in the freezing climate of Illinois. It had been a struggle just to stay alive. Hunkering down at the riverbank, he drove his hands into the tepid water and splashed his face. The wetness felt good—the cleanness felt even better. He smelled, and the very odor of his body caused more hurt to fester in his soul. For a long time he just squatted there, staring at the rippling water, then he stood up and reached for the tarnished buttons of his tattered uniform tunic. “I had Mr. Duvalier use the very best wool, dear,” his grandmother had assured him. “You will be the most dashing officer in the regiment!” The once elegant uniform was frayed now at the cuffs and along the collar. The pants were torn at the knee and the seams at the cuffs were gone. A blackened hole just below the left shoulder board gave mute evidence of a round of shot that had pierced the stiff gray wool and plowed a furrow all the way through its owner’s chest. There were bloodstains—his own and others. “You are a lucky man, Captain,” the field surgeon had mused. “Another inch lower and we’d be burying you.” Rory Sinclair McGregor laid his uniform top carefully, respectfully, on the ground and unhooked the buttons of his pants. He shrugged out of his shirt and then sat down

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on the ground to pull off his boots. The worn boots, which had been issued to him upon his release from prison, were a size too small for his feet and he breathed a sigh of relief when he tugged them off. There were holes in the toes of his socks and already blisters were forming on his heel from the rub of the too-tight boots. When he’d removed his pants and the filthy union suit beneath, he waded out waist-deep into the water, dragging the union suit and socks with him. The cleaning of his underclothes was more important than washing his body, he reasoned, and he set to scrubbing the material as hard as he could to rid it of the dirt and accumulated sweat and—he knew—the lice that infested it. Once he thought it clean enough, he waded back through the water and draped the garments on a lowhanging oak branch to dry, then he turned and dove, arching his body gracefully through the slow-moving river. He never knew how long he swam that day. When he had finally had his fill of the freedom of the water and the wonderful feel of it caressing his tired and aching body, he stood up and trudged back to the riverbank. And discovered his clothes were gone. “What the hell?” he roared, turning around and around, searching for his clothes or the son-of-a-bitching varmint who had dared steal them. The Lord knows, he fumed, the damned things weren’t worth anything. Who in their right mind would want such rags? “You’d better get your ass out here with my damned clothes right now!” he shouted. And realized his horse was gone too. “Son of a bitch!” he thundered. The broken-down nag wasn’t much, but it was all he had to his name. When someone stole a man’s horse—no matter how much the beast was worth—he forfeited his life! Murder had never been a welcomed part of Sinclair McGregor’s life, but it was something he fully intended to commit just as soon as he found the thief who had taken his meager possessions. With his face red with fury and his thin body pale from years in prison, he stomped over to the bushes alongside the river and poked around among them, seeking in vain for what he knew he wouldn’t find. “You bastard!” he snarled, totally oblivious to his nakedness. “I’ll gut you when I find you.” “With what?” came an amused chuckle from behind him. Sinclair spun around, crouching in a battle stance that was as much a part of him as the skin on his back. When he saw the man sitting on the imposing stallion, he straightened up, eyes narrowed with lethal intent. “You are a dead man, Brendan Brell!” he growled.

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The man on the golden stallion crossed his wrists on the pommel of his saddle and leaned forward, eyeing McGregor up and down. “Surely you don’t mean to show up in town in all your natural splendor do you, Sin?” Brell cocked his head to one side. “With your dangly bobbing around like that?” One moment the younger man was seated on his Arabian, the next he was flat on the ground, an enraged warrior pinning him to the ground. “Where are my clothes, Brendan?” McGregor growled through clenched teeth as he straddled his cousin. “Gone,” came the gasp, for Sinclair McGregor’s rump was pressed firmly into Brell’s belly. Sinclair slapped Brendan’s hands away and reached up to grab a handful of thick black hair, tugged, lifted Brell’s head from the ground then punctuated each word with a deliberate pull on the curly locks. “Gone…where…Brendan?” Sinclair snapped. “I…b-burned them!” Brell whimpered, trying to free the clenched hand buried in his dark hair. “You better not have!” Sinclair’s explosions of anger made him slam the young man’s head viciously on the hard ground hard enough to make Brell’s eyes cross. “You certainly won’t knock any sense into him that way, Sinclair. Everybody’s tried and it just doesn’t work.” McGregor didn’t need to turn around to know who belonged to the new voice. He lifted Brell’s head once more, tightening his grip in the young man’s hair. “I’ll splatter your worthless Irish brains all over the ground if you don’t tell me where my clothes are!” “Conor, make him stop!” Brell pleaded, his face scrunched up in pain. “He’s killing me!” Conor Brell snorted then swung his leg over his horse’s head and slid to the ground. “I know of no one who’d care if he did, Brenny,” Conor told him. “Maybe one or two people you owe money to, but certainly no one else.” “He’s killing me!” Brell repeated, howling as his head was slammed once more on to the ground. “Oh, do stop brutalizing your cousin, Sinclair,” Conor grunted. “We couldn’t let you go home dressed like a field hand, now could we?” Sinclair spat out a vulgar word or two then pushed himself up. He turned around and fixed Conor Brell with a steely eyed glower. “Do you know how hard I had to fight just to keep those damned clothes on my back for the last two years, Brell?” The smile slipped slowly from Conor Brell’s face. He turned and took a carpetbag from his saddle and walked to the cousin he hadn’t seen in three years. He held out the carpetbag. “I think you’ll feel better with new clothes, don’t you?”

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Sinclair’s jaw clenched. “Maybe. Maybe not.” He swiped the carpetbag from his cousin’s hand and without sparing the young man sitting on the ground another look, opened it, and began to drag out the clothes inside. “We were only trying to help,” Brendan pouted. “Leave him alone before he pummels you again,” Conor warned. He had spared one glance at the too-thin body of his first cousin—taking in the scars that had not been there before—and had looked away. “Where’s my horse?” Sinclair demanded as he stepped into the twill breeches that were too loose by far. He hoped C.J. had thought to bring a belt. “Just around the bend a ways,” Conor replied. “You two look well enough,” Sinclair told the Brells. He twisted his head as he pulled on a crisp cotton shirt. “You don’t,” Brendan mumbled. If Conor had been closer to his little brother, he would have slammed the brat’s head down onto the ground himself. As it was, he had to content himself with glaring at Brendan, which had the desired effect. Sinclair sat down on a fallen tree to put on his socks. “Prison has a way of taking its toll on you, Brendan,” he remarked. Brendan, already stung by his older brother’s venomous stare, realized there had been no need for his careless remark. “I understand that, Sin,” he said, chastened. “I should have minded my tongue.” “You’d best remember that, else one day someone might well relieve you of it!” Conor declared. Dressed in new clothing that itched and felt glorious at the same time, Sinclair stood up, flexing his toes in a pair of new boots that fit like gloves on his feet. He spread his hands out beside him. “Am I presentable enough?” he inquired. Conor shrugged indifferently. “You’ll do.” He walked over to his cousin and held out his hand. “Welcome home, Sin.” Sinclair looked down at Brell’s hand then shook his head. Without saying a word, he stepped up to Conor Brell and put his arms around his cousin, drawing the man into an embrace that said more than mere words could have. Brell’s own arms enclosed his cousin and he felt the hot prickle of tears flooding his eyes. This was a man he had loved all his life. A man who had been the driving force in Conor’s world before he had marched off to war—a war Conor Brell had also fought. And lost. “How are things at WindLass?” Conor flinched. Wrapped in the arms of this man he had admired and respected more than he had his own father, Brell wanted desperately to give him good news, to make his homecoming a wonderful thing. He swung his gaze to his little brother,

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shaking his head slightly to warn the boy not to open his big mouth but, for once, Brendan knew better and kept silent. “C.J.?” Sinclair prompted, and pushed back so that he could see Brell’s face. Conor drew in a deep breath, locked his eyes on Sinclair’s and tightened the grip he had on the other man’s shoulders. Slowly, he exhaled and a grim smile touched his mouth. He would rather have undergone a beating than have to tell Sinclair what he was about to. “I’m afraid I have some rather distressing news, Sin,” he offered. A shadow darkened Sinclair McGregor’s face and he abruptly stepped back, dropping his hands from Conor as though the man’s flesh had become red-hot to the touch. “They burned it,” he stated flatly, fear making his voice break. “No!” C.J. was quick to say. “No! It’s still standing, none the worse for wear.” There was something in the way his cousin was looking at him that told Sinclair he might well wish his ancestral home had been burned to the ground when the coward Sherman had marched through Georgia to the sea. “Savannah was spared,” Brendan put in, not liking the sudden silence that had gripped his brother and cousin. “Nothing was torched, Sinclair.” Sinclair ignored the younger man. He was staring intently at Conor, searching the other man’s face for a hint of the disaster he knew had occurred to the place where generations of McGregors had been bred and buried. Conor could not prolong the agony he saw flitting over Sinclair’s face. He lifted his chin. “It was sold,” he said firmly, then in a voice that was bare of both force and belief, he whispered, “For back taxes.” The sound of screaming horses and yelling men, cannons blasting away, a trumpet calling retreat, stampeding feet of fleeing men shattered the quiet afternoon and a blood-red haze tinged Sinclair’s sight. He turned, stumbled in his grief and sat down heavily on the fallen tree. When Conor would have gone to him, he put out his hand, refusing to allow the comfort he knew his cousin wanted to give. For a moment or two he just sat there, staring blankly at the tumbling water beside him, then he straightened his shoulders. “Who?” he asked, already knowing in his heart, but refusing to acknowledge it. Conor took a step forward, but Sinclair’s head came up and he stopped, recognizing well the look that was now aimed at him. “I think you know,” he said softly. Sinclair nodded, his gaze still fused with his cousin’s. “For how much?” Conor shrugged helplessly. “Four thousand.” His mouth trembled. “We tried to come up with the money, but…” “I offered to sell Seachance,” Brendan put in, flinging a look toward the Arabian, “but no one—” Sinclair held up his hand. “Don’t think about it,” he said, repeating the litany that had become his mantra over the last three years. “You will stay with us at Willow Glen,” Conor insisted. “That’s a given.”

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A part of him wanted to shout that it wasn’t right that the Brells had been able to retain their lands while he had lost his. That they had a place to call their own while he had nothing to call his but the clothes on his back. A snort of laughter rushed from his chest when he realized the folly of that thought. “Hell,” he said thickly, “I don’t even own them!” “Beg pardon?” Conor asked, coming a few steps closer. He didn’t like the bitter look on Sinclair’s thin face. How much weight, he wondered, had the man lost? “My horse?” Sinclair asked, looking to Brendan. The young man bobbed his head. “I’ll go get it,” he stated, and hurried over to his own mount. “She’s with him, isn’t she?” Sinclair asked after Brendan had ridden off. Conor bit his lip, nodded without speaking. A brutal spike of intense jealousy, hurt, betrayal and downright fury drove straight through Sinclair McGregor’s heart, but he did not let it show. Instead, he thrust his hands into the pockets of his new breeches and hunched his shoulders. “Children?” he inquired noncommittally, as though he were discussing someone who had not been the single most important entity in his world before the War. Brell’s voice was deep and hesitant. “One on the way,” he answered. Sinclair nodded. “Due when?” “Two months.” Conor wished with all his heart he could say something that would put a smile on Sin’s once handsome face. The face that once had made all the women of Chatham County swoon with delight was now haggard and drawn with deep hollows beneath the dull brown eyes. A livid scar stood out along his left jaw where the backswing of a saber had narrowly missed severing McGregor’s head from his body. There was a look in those heralded brown eyes that bespoke a torment beyond understanding and now Conor had added still another circle to Sinclair’s private hell. “Don’t think about it,” Sinclair said, knowing full well his cousin’s thoughts. He looked out across the river. “What about Tina?” Conor’s lips moved into a beaming smile. “We’re going to be married in less than a week.” Sinclair looked around. At last, here was something good. He tried to smile, but the smile never reached his lifeless eyes. “Congratulations, Conor James. I know you’ll be happy.” Brell’s own smile slipped a notch. “You will be best man, won’t you?” he asked, never realizing the pain his innocuous words inadvertently caused his cousin. Sinclair winced, but he withdrew his right hand and extended it toward Conor. “I would be honored.” As Conor’s hand closed around his own, Sinclair could hear the ghosts whispering to him once more. 11

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“I would like you to be the best man at our wedding.” “Are you sure?” Conor had asked. “I thought Duncan…” “Duncan may be my older brother,” Sinclair had replied, “but you’re my best friend.” “But I would have thought Ivonne would have preferred either him or her brother Robert. What…?” “I want you,” Sinclair had interrupted. “You will be best man, won’t you?” “I would be honored,” had come the hitching reply. The thunder of hooves pounding on the ground brought both men instantly alert. They stepped away from one another, Conor’s hand going to the Colt he wore slung low against his left side. “Get my rifle,” he said urgently, nodding toward his horse. Sinclair sprinted to Brell’s mount and drew out the rifle. As he turned and faced the galloping horses headed their way, he recognized Brendan, but had to strain to hear what his young cousin was shouting. “Cane Stewart!” Brendan called out. “He was trying to take Sin’s nag!” Conor snorted with disgust. “And you had to come racing back here like a bat out of torment just to tell us some worthless white trash was—” “It’s WindLass!” Brendan interrupted, throwing Sinclair his horse’s reins. “The field’s on fire!” Not even stopping to think what he was doing, Sinclair grabbed the pommel of his mount and threw himself up on the horse’s back. Before either of his cousins could stop him, he had dug his boot heel into the horse’s flanks and was racing away. Conor ran to his horse and vaulted into the saddle. Whipping his reins against the steed’s neck, he fell in behind Brendan, slapping his heels against the horse’s sides. It was a three-mile ride from the river to WindLass and it was the longest three miles Sinclair had ever ridden in his life. Not even the night he had tried to outrun the Union patrol and had been captured had been as harrowing a ride as the one he was on at that moment. The image of the plantation was before him as he whipped his mount to a faster gallop. The harsh, dry wind stung his eyes and lashed at his cheeks, but he barely felt their intrusion. He had to reach WindLass at all costs and he had to reach it before anything could happen to his home. It’s Edward Delacroix’s home, a niggling voice reminded him. “Don’t think about it!” Sinclair snarled. He came over a rise and there before him was smoke rolling up from the south field where cotton had yet to be harvested. The dirty white bolls would burn quickly, spreading the fire like oil on water toward the plantation house. “Over there!” Conor yelled. There was a line of people slapping wet burlap bags at the growing fire and a wagon loaded with water barrels from the big house was careening wildly toward the place where the flames were the thickest. Men were plying shovels as fast as their arms could piston, digging a firebreak ahead of the encroaching flames. The women had 12

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formed a bucket brigade and were lined up, passing their precious water from one hand to another. Sinclair yanked on his horse’s reins and was out of the saddle before either Conor or Brendan. As he ran, he stripped off the new shirt the Brells had given him and threw it away, hoping no one would see it and take it. “Wet down ahead of the fire!” Sinclair shouted, pointing past the men. He knew that a single spark from the fire could set ablaze the cotton beyond the firebreak. Several men turned and looked at Sinclair. Some were pleased to see him, but a few looked as though his presence among them would poison the very ground on which they stood. A couple moved out of his way as he snatched up a shovel and began to work the tool into the red clay, destroying plants as he went. “Mr. Delacroix ain’t gonna like you digging up his plants,” one of the men mumbled. Sinclair cast his eyes toward the speaker but didn’t reply. It was better to lose a few dozen plants than the entire field. “Why you want to come back here for anyways?” the speaker demanded, stopping to glare at Sinclair. “You know ain’t gonna be nothin’ but trouble you coming back here.” “It’s my home,” Sinclair snapped around a clenched jaw. He hadn’t meant WindLass. He knew well enough that the land on which he had been born, on which he now stood, was no longer his. He had been referring to Savannah herself, but the man whose glower was aimed at him had taken McGregor’s words literally. “Ain’t yours no more!” the man spat, his beady eyes flashing. “It belong to the Delacroix now!” Sinclair itched to slam his fist into the man’s mouth, but he kept digging the shovel into the soil, widening the firebreak, taking his frustration out on the land that would never betray him. “And Miss Ivonne belong to the Delacroix now,” the man stated hatefully. “She be Mrs. Edward Delacroix.” “How ‘bout that?” Sinclair snapped, doing his level best to keep himself from thrashing the man. “Gonna have his youngun, she is,” the speaker insisted. “My wife say it gonna be a boy too, and she know dese things!” The speaker’s identity finally fell into place in Sinclair’s mind—André Thibodaux, one of the Delacroix family’s bastard offspring. André‚ and his wife Seville had come to Savannah from New Orleans about a year before Sinclair had gone off to fight. Seville fancied herself a voodoo priestess or some such nonsense. André was nothing but white trash.

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“You better go back to where you come from,” André warned. “You don’t want no trouble wid the Delacroix. You start trouble wid him, he take more’n just your woman and your place. He take—” Sinclair reacted before he realized he’d done it. He dropped the shovel and hit Thibodaux with a roundhouse punch that broke the man’s nose and knocked him out cold. André Thibodaux fell backwards into the cotton and lay still. “You always had you a wicked punch, Mr. Sin,” an old black man chuckled. McGregor bent over, took up his shovel and started in again. “Someone come get this Cajun swamp rat out of my way!” he bellowed, flinging dirt on Thibodaux’s body. The old black man sputtered with laughter as two men rushed forward and picked up the unconscious man. They cast fearful looks at Sinclair, but didn’t greet him. “She waited as long as she could, Mr. Sin,” the black man observed as he armed sweat from his brow. “Not long enough,” Sinclair snapped. From his place astride his big black stallion, Edward Delacroix stared across the wavering heat of the fire to the man who was helping to dig the firebreak. He ignored the furious activity around him as men in his employ as well as neighbors worked frantically to stop the fire. At that moment in time, the biggest worry Edward Delacroix had wasn’t the fire destroying his cotton crop. The biggest concern on his mind right then was the only man he had ever hated or feared. “We got it almost under control, Mr. Edward,” Delacroix’s overseer said as he hurried up. “I sent back for another wagonload of water though, just to be on the safe side.” Delacroix nodded absently. He had never worried about the big house catching on fire. The field was too far away and the money represented in the cotton crop wasn’t all that important either. He had ventured out to the fire simply because he was bored and Ivonne indisposed. At the thought of his wife’s nausea and bloated belly, Edward Delacroix shuddered. Thank God for Jeanine, he reminded himself. Had it not been for his mistress, these last seven months would have been sheer hell. “By Jove, isn’t that Sinclair McGregor over there, Edward?” Delacroix turned his head and looked at his friend De Layne Corcoran. “Yes, De Layne, I believe it is.” De Layne lifted one thick blond brow. “Well, that’s not good, now is it?” Edward looked back at the man who had stopped digging and now seemed to be issuing orders to some of the men around him. “On the contrary, De Layne,” he protested. “I think it may well be the answer to our prayers.” Corcoran frowned. “I can’t imagine how,” he responded. He stared at his friend. “I certainly wouldn’t want my rival showing up on my doorstep.”

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Delacroix straightened in his saddle, controlling his mount with a slight pressure from his thighs as the animal shifted to the right. “I must go and welcome our returning hero home,” he stated. De Layne blinked. “You can’t be serious!” A vicious, brutal smile stretched across Delacroix’s thin lips. “I am always serious, De Layne.” The smile became a predatory leer. “Especially when I set out to destroy what’s left of a man’s life!”

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Chapter Two Ivonne Boucharde Delacroix clutched the railing of the banister beneath her hands as though it were a life raft upon which her very life depended. The child nestled within her kicked, her fear and turmoil somehow having been transmitted itself to the squirming fetus. Reluctantly, she drew her left hand from the railing and absently rubbed her belly, never once taking her eyes from the dark gray smoke rising up from the cotton field. “They got it under control, Miss Ivonne,” Silky, Ivonne’s Negro maid said from her place behind the pregnant woman. “I know,” Ivonne whispered. “It’s just…” She bit her lip, tears forming in her liquid brown eyes. “If anything happened to his home…” “Hush, child!” Silky snapped, coming up to place a restraining hand on her mistress’s shoulder. “You be careful what you say!” Ivonne hung her head. “Sometimes I think—” “Don’t do no good to think!” Silky remonstrated. “What’s done, be done, and ain’t no good wishin’ it wasn’t so!” Ivonne lifted her head and stared blankly across the manicured lawn of WindLass Plantation. She, like many of their neighbors, wondered just what Edward had promised the Yankees in order to keep the McGregor home place intact during the War. Nothing had been touched when Sherman and his men had marched through. Not one animal had been confiscated, not one barrel of molasses had been touched. “Evil that man is,” Silky murmured as she made the sign of the cross. Her black eyes were narrow slits as she watched Newt Guthrie ride up to the front door. “Evil as the swamp he crawled out of.” “Miz Delacroix?” Newt called up as he swept the floppy gray hat from his head in respect. “Yes, Newt?” Ivonne replied, her own eyes narrowed with dislike. Newt smiled and his tobacco-stained and rotted teeth were like broken fence posts in the hollow of his mouth. “Mr. Delacroix said to tell you he sure would be obliged if’n you’d come down to where he’s at.” “What he want the missus to come down there for?” Silky spat, her fingers twisted in the folds of her skirt to ward off the danger this swamp rat created. “He knows the missus ain’t up to riding ‘round in this heat!” Newt shrugged and his mount shifted uneasily, whinnying as the burly man dug his spurs into its belly. “Ain’t no good askin’ me such questions, girl. You want to know, you ask the Mister.” 16

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Ivonne sighed. If she didn’t go, Edward would be displeased, and an annoyed Edward was something she wanted to avoid at all costs. “I’ll be right down, Newt,” she replied. “Bring the buggy around, will you?” “Right away, missus!” Newt agreed, and swung down from his mount. “You ought not to do this!” Silky grated from between clenched teeth. “Where is his mind?” She trounced behind Ivonne as her mistress went back into her sitting room. She headed for the door into Ivonne’s dressing room. “There’s no need for me to change,” Ivonne said. “If he doesn’t like the way I’m dressed, that’s too bad.” “You ought not to do this,” Silky repeated. Her cinnamon-colored face had turned to dark umber in her anger. “Just let me lean on you going down the stairs,” Ivonne remarked. She was afraid of the stairs—terrified, actually—and always wanted someone near her whenever she had to make her way down them. “You be careful,” Silky urged as she took Ivonne’s arm. Newt had the buggy ready and was waiting at the front door when Ivonne and Silky made their way out. Taking a cue from the master of WindLass, he swept the two women an elegant bow, unfortunately fanning his rancid body odor toward them as he swept his dilapidated hat in front of him. “Your carriage awaits, milady,” he mimicked and reached out a hand to help Ivonne into the buggy. “Get ‘way!” Silky snapped, swatting at his filthy hand. Her eyes gleamed when he yelped as her fan rapped hard against his grimy knuckles. “There ain’t no cause to treat me like that, girl,” he protested, but moved back as Silky helped her charge into the buggy. “Lord God Almighty!” Silky said loudly. “You stink, Newt Guthrie.” “Been at the fire,” Newt defended himself. “Need to be in the fire,” Silky grumbled. “Silky,” Ivonne whispered, embarrassed. “Well, he do!” Silky stated. The ride out to the field was slow—at Silky’s command—but nevertheless uncomfortable for Ivonne. She cooled herself with the delicate lace fan Silky had thought to bring along and wiped often at the perspiration that dotted her upper lip. “Where is his head?” Silky repeated for the umpteenth time. Her hatred of Edward Delacroix was a mental barb that was forever poking into her thoughts. That he could be so thoughtless toward her mistress was nothing new—the Delacroix family was not known for taking anyone’s comfort into consideration when they wanted something. “Didn’t cause too much damage, Miz Delacroix,” Newt said. “We got it under control pretty fast.”

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“That’s good,” Ivonne said, looking over the scorched field that was still smoldering. Here and there, field hands beat at the steaming ground with bags, stamping out the embers. “Good thing André seen it,” Newt replied, bobbing his head. “‘Bout the only thing he be good for, I reckon, is seeing things,” Silky sneered. She turned to look at her mistress and saw that Ivonne’s gaze was fastened on the bare back of one of the firefighters. Only one of a few white men who were beating at the recalcitrant flames, the man’s tall, lean figure had caught Ivonne’s eye. As she watched, he turned in half profile to her and she drew in a quick breath, her hand flying to her throat. “Lord!” “What is it?” Silky asked immediately. She leaned over. “You hurtin’?” “It can’t be,” Ivonne whispered, never taking her eyes from the man who was now arching his back to relieve the ache from bending over. Silky followed her mistress’s gaze and sucked in a breath as she too recognized the tall figure of the firefighter. “Sain’ts alive!” the Negro woman gasped. “He’s done come back!” Ivonne felt a twist of anticipation tug at her heart and she wasn’t even aware that she was crumbling the lace fan in her fist as she stared out across the field. Newt looked around and smiled hatefully. “Came back just in time to help put out the fire.” His gaze went knowingly over Ivonne. “If’n I didn’t know better, I’d think he was the one what set it.” The thunder beating in her chest was making Ivonne feel faint. Every breath she took seemed too shallow to sustain her—every thud of her heart threatened to rip the organ from her. Around her, the air had turned hotter than the flames Sinclair McGregor was helping to stamp out and she put a hand up to her lips, unaware her fingers were trembling. “You don’t go getting yourself upset,” Silky warned, reaching up to draw Ivonne’s fingers from her mouth. “Ain’t no good you doing that.” “He’s home, Silky,” Ivonne said softly. “Glory be to God,” Silky muttered, making the sign of the cross once more. “But don’t you be dwellin’ on it!” At the moment Silky spoke, Sinclair McGregor looked that way and his gaze locked with Ivonne’s. For a moment, he didn’t move, gave no sign that he recognized the woman in the buggy. He stood where he was, his hands hanging loosely at his sides and continued to stare. “Never had no manners, them McGregors,” Newt snorted. “Bold as they come, they are.” “You want me to go fetch him?” Silky asked in a low, conspiratorial voice. Ivonne’s lips opened, but she found she had no voice. Yes, she thought, with all my heart I want you to go fetch him. But even as that passionate desire filled her heart, she 18

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knew she dared not do anything that might be reported back to Edward. Such a thing could be dangerous for Sinclair. “Miss Ivonne?” Silky prompted. Slowly Ivonne shook her head. “No,” she said, and her words were a mere breath of sound. Sinclair saw Ivonne shaking her head, saw Silky give him a look of pure hopelessness, and he turned away, his heart aching so horribly in his sweaty chest he feared it would burst. Walking rapidly back to where his horse was being watched by a group of young Negro boys, he barely stopped long enough to scoop up the shirt C.J. had given him. With the white shirt clutched desperately in his grimy hand, the imprint digging deeply into the fabric, he had almost reached his mount when hoofbeats came pounding toward him. He didn’t have to look up to know who it was. “I heard you were home,” came an imperious voice. The young boy holding the broken-down nag that had brought Sinclair from Illinois to Georgia took one look at the anger on the white man’s face and practically tossed the reins to him. He moved quickly out of the way as the tall man grabbed the pommel and swung himself up on to the horse’s back. “I assume you’re going to be staying at Willow Glen.” Sinclair’s jaw was set, his glittering eyes chips of brown fire as he turned to look at the speaker. “Do I have a choice?” he grated. Edward Delacroix smiled nastily. “I suppose not.” He controlled his prancing thoroughbred with a practiced press of his thighs. “It’s good to have relatives when one is down on one’s luck, isn’t it?” “Go to hell,” Sinclair snapped. Delacroix clucked his tongue. “Now, now, Sin. Is that any way to treat the man who saved your family’s home place from Sherman’s torch?” An incredulous look flitted across Sin’s dirty face. “You stole my home, you conniving Creole bastard!” The smile slid slowly from Delacroix’s face. “I bought the place for back taxes your family could not pay,” he defended his actions. “It was all legal.” “Legal, my ass!” Sinclair seethed, his teeth bared. “I don’t know how you managed to hold onto your money during the war, but I wouldn’t put it past you to have been selling Savannah to the Yankees!” Delacroix’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I am a true son of the South, sir!” he declared, a muscle working fiercely in his lean cheek. “Do you dare to accuse me of collaborating with the enemy?” His right hand went down to the gun strapped to his thigh. Sinclair’s eyes flitted from Delacroix’s red face to the Colt on his hip and he snorted before his gaze lifted once more to the other man’s. “If you want to call me out, feel free, 19

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Delacroix. You know where I’ll be!” With a twist of his wrist, he pulled on his horse’s reins and the animal turned away. Before Delacroix could answer the challenge, Sinclair put heels to his mount’s flanks and galloped off. Edward Delacroix felt the blood pounding in his veins and his hand itched to pull the Colt from its holster. He would have liked nothing better than to put a bullet in McGregor’s back, but that would have to wait for a better time. A time when there would be no witnesses to the murder Delacroix was at that moment planning. When his hated enemy’s cousins were not milling about watching. As he sped away, Sinclair could feel the hairs at the nape of his neck stirring. He hadn’t lived through as many battles as he had without developing a keen sense of selfprotection. The old wound in his chest ached and his back tingled. There was no doubt in his mind that Delacroix would have fired on him had there not been others standing there to see him shoot an unarmed man in the back. Get yourself a gun, Sin, that little voice inside his brain warned. The man wants you dead. Sinclair knew that was true—he’d read the proof of it in Delacroix’s eyes. Even now that Edward owned everything that had once belonged to Sinclair, the Creole would not feel secure with those possessions until the rightful owner was put into a position where he could never make claims on them ever again. Not on the land or the plantation. Not on what would be left of the cattle. Not on the timber or the sawmill. Nor on the woman Sinclair had called his own. “Ivonne,” Sinclair breathed, and the name was like a soft caress against his body. For a moment he closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly against the sight of her sitting in the buggy. From where he had been standing, he could not see the expression on her lovely face, but he didn’t need to know she had been as shocked to see him as he had been to turn and see her watching him. The desperate longing that had driven straight through him as he had looked at her had almost drawn a groan of pain from him. It had taken every ounce of his willpower not to run to her, to sweep her from the buggy, clasp her tightly to him then cover her mouth with the hot kisses he had dreamed of plying upon her soft lips as he lay in his prisoner’s bunk at Camp Douglas. He ached to hold her again, to feel her body along his own. To know the sweetness of her mouth, the pleasure of her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. To hear the gentle throatiness of her laugh and see the light of love glowing in her eyes as she looked up at him. The scent of the lavender perfume she always wore seemed to fill his nostrils and he drew in a deep breath, opening his eyes—half in expectation of seeing her right there in front of him. Instead, he drew in a sharp breath for his mount was racing dangerously close to a stand of trees and he quickly reined it in, turning it just in time before it plunged on into the thick copse. The horse whinnied loudly, protesting the abrupt turn and bucked beneath him, almost unseating Sinclair, but an experienced rider such as McGregor had no trouble in controlling the already tired horse.

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Slowing the animal to a fast walk, Sinclair bent forward and patted the horse’s neck, talking softly to it, calming it. The beast had seen probably as much turmoil as its new master and was just as weary. By the time Sinclair reached Willow Glen, the sun had set and the air was filled with thick humidity. It would be a hot night and already the mosquitoes were buzzing at his face. He swatted at the pesky insects, hating the feel of them. There had been more than a few nights when he had been made to endure the stings and bites of insects while he had been interned at Camp Douglas. On one such night—when he had angered one of the guards to the point of retaliation—he had passed the time bucked and gagged in front of his barracks while the vicious insects had made a meal of his flesh. And he had come down with a fever that had nearly killed him. He was brooding again and he shook his head. “Don’t think about it,” he reminded himself. The litany was his safeguard against memories that had almost driven him insane. Surely they had stolen a part of his soul that could never be restored. Some things were best left in the past, stored there in a Pandora’s box that should never be opened. “Ivonne,” the night wind whispered to him, and he felt the hot prickle of tears sting his eyes. Angrily, he reached up and wiped them away, determined to keep his mind from the dark-haired angel who still held his heart so securely in her small hand. “I thought you was gonna sleep over to WindLass,” someone called out and Sinclair reined in his horse. He peered through the gathering darkness, searching for the owner of the voice. “I wasn’t invited,” he replied. A chuckle came from off to Sinclair’s right and he turned that way. A match was struck, the sizzle giving way to a faint light and the sharp scent of sulfur wafted under Sinclair’s nostrils. “I reckon that would be the damned last thing Eddie would want, don’t you, Sin?” There was a crunch of gravel then the speaker stepped out from behind a live oak tree. The tip of his cheroot glowed bright red for a moment then subsided to a dull speck. Sinclair swung his leg over his mount’s head and slid wearily to the ground. “Were you waiting for me?” he asked, walking up to the man leaning against the oak. “You think I ain’t got nothing better to do than stand around out here being munched on by skeeters and wait for some fool of a cousin to come riding up?” was the snort. “I would imagine that’s about all you got to do,” Sinclair mocked. “Heard you was stupid enough to get a bullet in you.” “Heard you got captured up in Pennsylvania,” Sinclair retorted. “Heard wrong,” came the sneer. “It was Ohio.”

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Sinclair smiled. “Well hell. Why didn’t you come on over to Illinois and visit me, then, Leland?” Leland Brell shrugged. “My accommodations were better than yours.” “Wouldn’t have had to go much to be better than mine,” Sinclair laughed. He reached out and drew his cousin into his arms. “How you been, Lee?” “Fair,” Lee replied, returning the fierce hug. He winced at the bony protrusions of Sin’s ribs, but nodded as he pushed the younger man away and gave him a long look. “Bossie will fatten you up, boy.” “I’ve been dreaming of her lace bread since Memphis,” Sinclair replied. “Grandmother is waiting for you,” Lee said quietly. “Supper is everything you like.” Sinclair nodded, his heart filling with trepidation at the mention of their grandmother. “Is she okay?” Lee grunted. “She’ll live to be a hundred and five!” He draped an arm around Sinclair’s shoulders and leaned against him. “Let’s go on in.” In the last letter he had received from his family before his own capture, Sinclair had been told of the terrible wound Leland had suffered in a skirmish near Cincinnati. The wound had become infected and Lee’s right leg had been amputated at the knee by a Union surgeon in order to save his life. “Does it bother you?” Sinclair asked, the weight of his cousin leaning into him adding to his own weariness. “On occasion, but, hell, I make do.” Lee pulled on the cheroot. “Christina’s made the comment that it makes me look rather rakish, so I guess I can live with it.” At the mention of Conor’s bride-to-be Sinclair smiled. “They’ve waited a long time. I’m glad the wedding will be soon.” “Would have gotten hitched sooner if’n it hadn’t been for you,” Lee snorted. Sinclair stopped and looked around. “Me? What did I have to do with them waiting?” “Fool!” Leland snapped. “C.J. wouldn’t have nobody but you be best man!” He shook his head with disgust. “I’m his oldest brother and I get pushed aside for some uppity little snot I used to diaper!” “You did not,” Sinclair shot back. “Dropped you on your head a couple of times, I did,” Lee remarked, nudging Sinclair forward again. “I reckon that’s what was wrong with you in the first place— brain damage. Figure the Yankees done went and finished the job I started. You can’t be all that intelligent coming back to this place, Sin.” Sinclair’s horse was walking behind them, its head hanging lower and lower. He glanced back. “I’ve about done the poor thing in,” he said.

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Lee nodded. “We’ll get you a better mount, Sin.” He took one last draw on the cheroot, knowing his grandmother would have no smoking in her home. “If’n you can keep your bony ass on a good piece of horseflesh.” “He can sit a mount better than you, Leland Alexander Brell! You stop insulting that boy and let him get on up here!” Sinclair stopped at the commanding voice and steadied Lee. “How much does she weigh now?” he whispered. “Close to a ton, I’m thinkin’,” Lee whispered back. “Get up here, boy!” Sinclair grinned and stepped away from Lee. There was a lantern sitting on the porch rail that ran along the back of the kitchen and against the glow of the light cast from the kerosene, he could see a massive shape standing arms akimbo, waiting for him. “Did you bake me a ham?” he inquired. “Is the Flint River muddy as redeye gravy?” came the retort. Sinclair stepped into the circle of light from the lantern and shielded his eyes. “You gonna box my ears for getting shot?” A low gurgle of laughter turned to soft affection. “After I squeeze you some, I reckon.” Sinclair opened his arms. “Come here, good-looking.” Bossie was a mountain of black flesh wrapped in a starched white apron and topped with a bright red bandanna wrapped around her thick white hair. She smelled of vanilla extract and molasses as she stepped off the porch and enfolded Sinclair into her huge arms. She pulled him none too gently against her massive bosom and cradled him as securely as she had when he had been a small boy. “You all right, son?” she asked, tears thick in her voice. “Yes, ma’am,” Sinclair replied. He held onto her—this woman who had been his anchor against a world that had taken his mother and father on the same fateful, terrible night. “My baby,” Bossie sighed, reaching up one large hand to stroke back the tousled brown hair that reeked of smoke and dirt. “My precious baby boy.” “I’m fine,” he assured her as she eased him back and studied his too-lean face. He watched as many emotions crossed the doughy expanse of her dark face—love, tenderness, grief, happiness and then anger. “They hurt my baby,” Bossie said fiercely. “Them damned no-good Yankees done went and hurt my baby.” “I’m fine,” Sinclair repeated. “Will be,” Bossie stated flatly. She pinched his cheek. “When I get some good food in you, I s’pose.”

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“He won’t get any food standing out here, Bossie Mae. All he will get is another bout of malaria.” Sinclair looked up to find his grandmother watching him. The elderly woman stood bracing herself on her cane, her hands crossed on the wolf’s head that formed its top. “You have gotten prettier while I was gone, Grandmother,” he said formally, stepping away from Bossie. “Have you found the Fountain of Youth?” Grace Vivienne Brell shrugged indifferently. “Found something better than that.” Bossie snorted. “Old man Roy Floyd Bartlett,” she mocked. “A beau?” Sinclair questioned, surprised. “If’n that’s what you wanna call it,” Bossie grunted. “Ain’t no fool like an old fool, if’n you asks me!” “Nobody asked you,” Grace Vivienne replied. She cocked her head toward the kitchen. “Come on in, Sinclair. We’re waiting table.” The old woman started back in the house. “Don’t I get a hug?” Sinclair asked. “We’ll see,” his grandmother answered. She had already gone back inside. “And pray take a bath before you join us, young man. The water is waiting in your room.” “She mad at me?” Sinclair asked Bossie as he helped the immense woman up the steps to the kitchen. “Some,” Bossie admitted. “Why?” Bossie stopped and looked at him. “You know the answer to that.” Sinclair did, indeed. He had known his grandmother would be angry that WindLass had been lost to them. It had been her home, the place where she had been born and raised, the parlor in which she had been joined in marriage to his grandfather Daniel Wynth Brell. It had been her pride and joy, a material source of the status the McGregors held in Savannah and the showplace of Chatham County. To have lost it was a blow that could not easily be forgotten. Or forgiven. “Don’t go blaming yourself,” Bossie advised as Sinclair opened the door for her. “You wasn’t the only boy of Mister Devon’s to go off to war. If’n she gots to blame somebody, she better be blamin’ that hardheaded brother of your’n.” Duncan, Sinclair’s brother, had been killed at Bull Run and he had been his grandmother’s favorite. He had been the hope of WindLass, Grace Vivienne’s pride and joy. His death had been a terrible blow to the old woman and she had wept bitterly, taking to her bed for days on end as she struggled to get over her grief. At one point, she had cursed the God who had taken the best and brightest of the three brothers and left the middle and youngest alive and well. “Why not Leondis?” she had screamed. “Why not Sinclair?”

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Two months later, news had come that Leondis had been killed near Columbia, South Carolina. The old woman’s world was crumbling around her, there was only one grandson left to run WindLass and he was the one she had never liked. For the first time in his life, she began to pray for Sinclair’s safety. When word reached them that he had been wounded, she had spent hours on her knees begging the Lord not to take him. She had nearly succumbed from exhaustion and had taken to her bed, bitterly regretting the carelessness with which she had sent her two youngest grandsons off to fight. There had been a time, at the beginning of the war, when both Leondis and Sinclair had signed up, that their grandmother had been eager to have them fight for their Southern honor. She had ordered the best uniforms, purchased the very best horses money could buy, obtained the most exquisite swords and precise rifles for them. She had given balls in their honor and ensconced their fiancées in beautiful rooms redecorated specifically for Marianne Dubois and Ivonne Boucharde. She had seen her grandsons off to war with a warm smile and hardy wave with never a thought to their safety. “They are McGregors,” she had said proudly. “I have no fear of anything happening to them. They will be here when Duncan weds Alexa! This war will not last long!” For a while, things went exactly as she would have them go. Duncan had run WindLass just as his grandmother wished, but his eyes often strayed to the northern horizon and he worried constantly about his brothers. He wrote to each of them every day, fretting like an old man when news of them did not come regularly. Finally, feeling guilty for not being his own man and after installing Conor James Brell in his stead to look after WindLass, he had kissed Alexa, asked her to wait for him and simply ridden off without so much as a good-bye to Grace Vivienne, knowing his grandmother would put him in chains rather than allow him to enlist. His leaving had not only infuriated his grandmother, it had nearly killed her. When he died, Duncan ceased to exist for Grace Vivienne. He had betrayed her but, more importantly, he had betrayed WindLass. He had thrown away his home, his honor and his grandmother’s love. As a result, his name was never mentioned and his portrait had been removed from the gallery on the stairs. Now, the old woman’s hopes rested on Duncan’s brothers and when she was well enough, Grave Vivienne had sent word to General Robert E. Lee himself to have someone find Robertis Leondis McGregor and send him home where he was needed. But Leondis was dead and buried somewhere in the palmetto country of South Carolina. His memory, like that of his older brother before him, had been stricken from their grandmother’s thoughts and her hope fastened—reluctantly and bitterly—on Rory Sinclair. The meal Bossie had prepared was delicious. Baked ham with redeye gravy, collard greens floating with corndodgers, thick hominy grits, sliced ripe tomatoes with cucumbers and onions, iced tea that was as sweet as liquid sugar. Sinclair relished the 25

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wonderful tastes flooding his mouth and had to keep reminding himself that he was in polite company and didn’t have to wolf the food down. Leland, Conor and Brendan had eaten their meals quickly and had already excused themselves, their grandmother having made it clear to them that she wished to be alone with Sinclair. Now, sitting across the table from her grandson, Grace Vivienne watched him eating and studied the hollows and dark circles beneath his tired eyes. His hair had been washed, but it needed cutting badly. He was far too thin and his leanness made his face appear drawn. Pale and red-eyed from lack of proper rest and adequate food he seemed frail, but one had only to look into his eyes to see the dogged strength that had carried him through years of brutal imprisonment. There was a harsh manliness in his gaze that had not been there when he had ridden off to join the Confederate Army. She could not help but wonder what might have been had this brother stayed behind to run WindLass. “You have been home,” she said abruptly, drawing her grandson’s attention from the chunk of ham he had been about to place in his mouth. She watched him lower his fork and place his hands in his lap as he answered her. “Yes, ma’am,” Sinclair replied, knowing she meant WindLass. Grace Vivienne’s face turned hard as stone. “Did you see that man?” Sinclair nodded. “I spoke with him.” A white brow arched upward. “And what exactly did you say to him, Rory Sinclair?” There was a slight hesitation before Sinclair replied. “I told him to go to hell, Grandmother.” The old woman’s lips twitched ever so slightly. “Is that so?” When he inclined his head, acknowledging the question, she fastened her scrutiny on his carefully blank face. “And did you see her?” He had known she would ask. By now, everyone within a ten-mile radius would know he had seen Ivonne out at the field, had spoken to Delacroix. Even as he sat there with his grandmother, he knew the details of that meeting were being discussed at every table in every home in Chatham County and by morning speculation about the two men would be all over five counties. “I didn’t speak to her,” Sinclair stated. He had lost his appetite and he brought up his napkin to wipe gingerly at his mouth. He folded the crisp white linen and placed it beside his plate, took up his goblet and drank some tea. “She’s a whore,” came the pronouncement. Sinclair’s eyes glittered dangerously over the rim of the crystal goblet and his grandmother took note of the reaction as he set the goblet down. He would never dare to contradict her—had damned well better not—but she could tell from the way his hands clenched into fists on the table edge that he was angered at her remark.

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“You take exception to my observation?” she inquired. Sinclair had to swallow the bitter reply he wanted to make and instead took a deep breath before replying. When he did, he looked right into his grandmother’s eyes, knowing the old woman valued bravery more than anything else save WindLass. “I am sure you paid a goodly sum of money to have the sheets from their marriage bed brought to you, Grandmother,” he said carefully, dropping each word as though it were poison from his lips. “Are you going to tell me there was no blood on them?” Grace Vivienne threw out a hand, fanning away the question as though it were of no consequence and he had not spoken of something that was considered taboo in mixed company. “There are many explanations for blood on a woman’s sheets, boy.” “She was a virgin,” Sinclair stated in a tone that said he believed it with all his heart, which he did. “A woman can be a virgin on her wedding night and still be a whore,” his grandmother proclaimed. “All one has to do is sell one’s self to the highest bidder to qualify for the title.” Sinclair was too tired, too heartsick and too angry to get into this with his grandmother tonight. All he wanted to do was go to bed and sleep. Tomorrow would be time enough for the mental cruelty he now knew was to be his punishment for allowing WindLass to be lost to the McGregor family. His shoulders sagged with fatigue and he looked down at the food still on his plate, feeling a touch nauseous as he took in the congealing fat from the ham juices. “I really don’t want to discuss this, Grandmother.” “I would think not,” she told him. “I am told it is a bitter pill for a man to swallow when his fiancée leaves him for another.” Sinclair flinched, but he refused to look up. He knew there would be spite on his grandmother’s face and he really didn’t want to see it. Hearing it in her voice was bad enough. “Ivonne,” he said pausing, for the sound of the name on his lips was, as his grandmother said, a bitter pill to swallow, “believed I was dead.” “That is beside the point! She wanted to be mistress of WindLass and she is,” Grace Vivienne snapped. “She has everything she ever wanted.” “No,” Sinclair replied, looking up at her, his hurt glistening in his eyes. “Not everything.” “And what, pray tell,” the old woman sneered, “does she not have, Sinclair?” There was no hesitation. “Me,” he said. Grace Vivienne’s chin came up. “There are some things in life not worth having, now aren’t there, Sinclair?” The old woman’s words drove a dagger straight through his pride. He could not stop the pain from entering his voice. “Is that what you think? That I wasn’t worth her

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waiting for?” He could have bellowed with annoyance when his voice betrayed his emotions and broke as he asked his question. “You lost this family our birthright!” his grandmother accused. “You! What good are you, Sinclair?” For a long time he simply stared at her, hating her for the first time in his life. He had always feared her, been wary of her, had never known from her the unrelenting love she had shown Duncan and, to a lesser degree, Leondis. She had always made him feel inferior, an outsider, and now, she had made him into the villain of the piece. When she said no more to him, he pushed back his chair, bowed elegantly to her and turned to go. “I did not give you permission to leave my table, young man!” Sinclair turned just enough so that his gaze met hers. “I didn’t ask your permission, Grandmother,” he replied. Grace Vivienne stiffened, opened her mouth to berate him, but for a fleeting instant she saw some of Devon McGregor, his father’s blazing pride glaring back at her from Sinclair’s dark, smoldering eyes, and she slowly closed her lips. Perhaps there was more backbone in the boy than she realized. She said not a word to him as he bowed once more and left her. Sitting alone at the massive table she considered her position as matriarch of the Brell family now that her daughter Leticia had passed on, she listened until Sinclair’s footsteps could no longer be heard above. She leaned back in her chair, relaxing her perfect posture, and rested her hands on the arm of the chair. For an hour she sat there, her mind working even though her body had begun to fail her, and thought perhaps, just perhaps, she could make of Rory Sinclair the kind of man she needed to regain WindLass. And the best way to do that was to make damned sure he took Edward Delacroix’s wife away from him. Or died trying.

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Chapter Three “It would’ve been the damned hardest thing I’d have ever done to stand there and watch him strutting down the avenue and not take out my pistol and put a bullet through his head,” Leland growled. Conor nodded slowly from his seat on the front porch rail. “I heard tell one of our dear ladies walked up to him and told him he would never subjugate the South.” He took a sip of the liquid white fire in the jar he, his brothers and cousin had been passing around all evening then handed the jar off to Sinclair. “Whooee, but that is righteous!” Sinclair brought the jar up to his lips, but thought better of it. The moonshine had already turned his world as mellow as he wanted it to get so he passed the jar off to Brendan. “What did General Sherman reply?” he inquired. “He said,” Conor replied, wiping the back of his hand across his lips, “‘I don’t want to subjugate you—I mean to kill you, the whole of you, if you don’t stop this rebellion!’” Leland practically snarled at the answer. “Arrogant Yankee pissant!” he spat. “Imagine speaking to a lady in such a way. If’n I had been within hearing distance of that remark—” “You’d have wound up back in the stockade,” Conor predicted. “Hell,” Leland snorted, “couldn’t have been no worse than the Columbus Penitentiary!” “Them damned Yankees treated our boys like they was less than human,” Brendan put in. “I heard Andersonville was brutal,” Sinclair said quietly. “No worse than Libby prison, I’m thinking,” Brendan quipped. “Reckon that’s tit for tat?” Sinclair leaned his head against the back of the rocking chair in which he sat and stretched out his long legs. “No man should have to endure brutality, little cousin. Just because they treated us that way was no reason to return the favor. It brings us down to their level.” He closed his eyes. “And that was pretty damned low.” “Can’t get much lower than Sherman, I’m thinking,” Brendan grated. “Burning his way from Atlanta here, and then causing our neighbors in South Carolina more misery than a dog with the mange.” “I would’ve shot him right between his arrogant pissant eyes,” Leland grumbled. He swiped the jar of moonshine out of Brendan’s hand and took a long pull.

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Sinclair swiveled his head and looked at his eldest cousin. The man had developed a strong liking to the hard stuff and when he’d questioned the wisdom of that, Leland had shrugged, “It helps the pain in my leg.” “Phantom pains,” Doc Doorenbos had remarked when Sinclair had asked. “There’s no leg there to hurt but, in his head, Lee feels it just the same.” “Lee,” Sinclair said softly. “You’ve had enough.” Leland Brell turned a vicious, hateful smirk to his cousin but, drunk as he was rapidly becoming, he saw the concern in Sin’s dark eyes. He opened his mouth to protest anyway then thought better of it. He snapped his lips shut and handed the jar to Conor. “Thank you,” Sinclair acknowledged. “And you’re a damned arrogant pissant too,” Leland muttered. Sinclair smiled. “So you keep telling me.” “You’re lucky I’m a generous man,” Leland burped. “How’s that?” Leland shrugged. “I won’t shoot you between your eyes for it.” With that, his eyes rolled back in his head, his chin fell to his chest and he was out cold. Conor chuckled. “Never could hold his liquor.” Sinclair stood up and stretched before sitting back down again, the ache in his lower back worse than usual that evening. “Maybe you shouldn’t encourage him, C.J.” He glanced down at Conor. “He’s taken too fond a liking for that ’shine.” “You’re right,” Conor agreed. He looked down at the last ounce left in the jar then tipped it to pour the contents on the ground. “Aw hell, C.J.!” Brendan protested. “All you went and done was make some fire ants happy. I could’ve finished that off.” “You don’t need it, neither,” Conor told him. Brendan grumbled, but he pushed himself up off the porch step and shuffled on to the door. He cast a look behind him. “You boys coming?” Conor waved his little brother away. “In a minute. Go on.” Long after Brendan had gone up to bed and as they listened to the loud, ungodly snores coming from Leland’s drooling mouth, Sinclair and Conor sat watching the evening stars begin to fade in the heavens. The air was humid, but ripe with the sweet smell of honeysuckle and pine. The crickets and cicadas were all tucked safely in their beds and quiet. Now and again a dog could be heard barking off toward the old Thompson place, but other than that melancholy sound, the late evening was still. “You ready for tomorrow?” Sinclair asked, breaking the companionable silence. He stretched with a loud yawn. Conor sighed. “I’ve been waiting for tomorrow for four long years, son.”

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Sinclair crossed his ankles. “I wish I could get you and Christina a wedding present, C.J., but—” “Having you here is better than any silver trencher or Waterford crystal goblet, Sinclair,” Conor interrupted. “Just you standing up there at my side is worth more than an entire chest of silverware.” A tired, fleeting smile drifted over Sinclair’s face, pulling at the wicked scar on his cheek. He reached up absently and stroked it. He’d never been a vain man, but the scar from the Yankee’s saber had cut its way into his soul when it disfigured his face. “It makes you look downright dangerous,” Conor commented, seeing where his cousin’s attention had gone. Sinclair looked over at him. “You think so?” Conor nodded. “The ladies will love it.” It was too dark for Conor to see the pain his innocuous comment caused. There was only one lady’s opinion Sinclair cared to know and he doubted he would be allowed to hear it. “She’s gonna be there,” Conor said quietly. He knew well enough what Sinclair was thinking. “I couldn’t take back the invitation.” “I wouldn’t have wanted you to,” Sinclair replied. “She and Tina have been friends since they were children.” “All the same,” Conor stated, “if I could, I would ask her not to come so—” “I’ve got to talk to her sometime,” Sinclair told him. “Tomorrow is just as good a time as any.” He laced his fingers together and put them behind his head. “Just keep Delacroix away from me, C.J.” The very real possibility of the two lifelong enemies causing a problem at his and Tina’s wedding had Conor worried. Everyone knew how much Sinclair and Edward disliked one another. That dislike went back to when they were boys, but now it had festered into out-and-out hate. Eddie had taken Sin’s woman, his land and his pride. If there was going to be trouble—and there wasn’t a solitary soul in Savannah and the surrounding counties who didn’t know trouble was inevitable between the two men— Conor would just as soon not have it happen on Tina’s wedding day. “Sinclair,” Conor began, but stopped when his cousin suddenly bounded out of the chair. “We’d better get Lee up to his room else he ain’t gonna be worth snot tomorrow,” Sinclair said. “Tina will have my—” Conor tried to say, but once more Sinclair cut him off. “I swear I won’t start anything at your wedding.” Conor looked closely at Sinclair, trying to gauge in the darkness just how much that oath meant. “Well,” Conor said slowly, “there’s the reception too, and—” “Or at the reception,” Sinclair stated firmly. He reached down and took hold of one of Leland’s limp arms, then cocked an eyebrow at his cousin. “You gonna sit here all 31

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night worried about when I’m gonna kick Edward Delacroix’s ass or are you gonna help me tote your brother upstairs?” Conor’s brow furrowed. “You are gonna do it, aren’t you?” he asked worried. “What?” Sinclair sighed. “Kick his ass.” A tight grin carved its way onto Sinclair’s full mouth as Conor reached for Leland’s other arm. “I fully intend to try,” Sinclair answered. He grunted beneath the strain of lifting Leland up and bracing the man’s boneless body against him. “Grandmother wanted to hire somebody to shoot him,” Conor commented as he and Sinclair swung Leland’s unconscious form toward the door. “It’ll be taken care of,” Sinclair promised.

***** Cheers rang out over the gathering as the landau bearing Christina Marie Dunn came rolling down Drayton Street. The black landau was festooned with ribbon streamers and flowers and the two matched white horses pulling the landau clopped along slowly beneath their silver trappings and flower-draped blankets. The elegantly dressed black man who drove the landau was dressed in white formal attire and behind him sat the bride and her father. “May the road rise up to meet you!” someone yelled from the crowd gathered in front of Saint John the Baptist Catholic Church and a chorus of well-wishers joined in with, “May the Wind be always at your back!” As the crowd’s voices broke over Conor James Brell’s consciousness as he stood nervously in the church’s rectory along with his two brothers, Sinclair McGregor and Bishop Augustin Verot and two of the Bishop’s acolytes, C.J. trembled visibly. “It’s not too late to stop this, little brother,” Leland quipped, winking at Sinclair. Bishop Verot smiled. The Sulpician Father from Baltimore was loved by his parishioners and trusted explicitly by the Brell family. His words carried a lot of weight with the Irish-Catholic community and every eye in the room turned to him at Leland’s statement. “Is that what you wish, Conor James?” Bishop Verot inquired gently. “No, Your Excellency!” Conor was quick to say. “I’ve waited a long time for this and—” “Then stop trembling, lad,” the bishop advised. “Do you want your bride to think you have not gladly met this day?” “I…I,” Conor looked at Sinclair. “You look like a boy going to visit the dentist for the first time, C.J.,” Sinclair chuckled. “I don’t think you could get any whiter if we were to soak you in buttermilk.” Conor groaned and hung his head, burying his face in his hands. “Lord help me,” he mumbled.

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Bishop Verot grinned. “I’m sure He will, Conor James.” He took out his pocket watch and nodded to his acolytes. “I think it is time we robed. We mustn’t keep the lady waiting.” Sinclair had to bite his lip to keep from howling with laughter. He had just said he didn’t think Conor could get any paler. He had been wrong. His best friend’s complexion turned chalky even though there were bright patches of red high on his cheekbones in stark contrast. Leland and Brendan excused themselves as the bishop and acolytes left the room, leaving Conor and Sinclair alone. “Do you think she’s as nervous as me?” Conor inquired hopefully. Sinclair nodded sagely. “No,” he said, his lips twitching with merriment at the contradiction. Conor held up his hands and watched them shaking. With a groan, he buried them beneath his armpits and bent over, his belly alive with butterflies. “You’ll be all right, C.J.,” Sinclair advised. “Tonight when you’re toasting your new wife and it’s just the two of you and not the whole of Savannah, you’ll be just fine.” “I’ll have had a heart attack by then!” C.J. moaned. Sinclair stood up and walked to his friend, placed a reassuring arm around the man’s shoulders. “If that should happen, I promise we will wait a decent amount of time before Tina and I marry.” Conor turned his head and looked up at Sinclair, a frown creasing his brow. “What?” Laughter turned Sinclair’s normally sad face into the handsome, carefree countenance it had been before the War and Conor saw the pure male beauty every woman in Chatham County had found so alluring long ago. Even the wicked scar on his cheek did not distract from the devilish good looks of Sinclair McGregor when he laughed. “Will you relax?” Sinclair asked, squeezing Conor’s shoulder. “You are making me nervous!” There was a discreet knock on the door then it opened to reveal one of the acolytes. He smiled. “It’s time, gentlemen,” he announced. “Oh, God!” Conor groaned, and felt his knees threatening to give way. “Conor, damn!” Sinclair said with exasperation. “You are going to survive this!” “I’m not so sure,” Conor swallowed. “Let’s go,” Sinclair said, not giving his friend another moment to think about what was about to happen. He put his hand in the small of Conor’s back and pushed him firmly toward the door. The pews of Saint John the Baptist were filled to overflowing with parishioners, some of whom only attended during the Easter and Christmas holy seasons. Ladies were garbed in their best finery and the men were elegant in white broadcloth suits. A few children were scattered about, most fidgeting in their Sunday best and aching to be outside. The altar cloths were crisply starched and gleaming white against the tall

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candelabrum blazing away with white tapers. Floral arrangements and tall palms flanked the altar rail and the sweet scent of musk vied for attention with the perfumes and toilet water fragrances of those assembled. As Conor and Sinclair took their places with Bishop Verot and Conor’s brothers at the rail, C.J. ran his finger along the high collar of his shirt in an attempt to ease the constriction of his throat. He was barely aware of Sinclair’s reassuring hand on his shoulder as the music began and the two young children who were ring bearer and flower girl began to make their way down the center aisle. “Sweet Mary and Joseph,” Conor moaned. “Hush,” Bishop Verot whispered beneath his breath, and he gave Sinclair a stern look as though to remind him of where his duty as best man lay. As the pretty little girl who had haphazardly strewn rose petals on the carpeting took her place on the bride’s side, Conor thought he would break into a screaming fit and run—hands waving to the heavens—out the side door and away from this place as fast as his new boots would carry him. He was sweating profusely, nauseated and the room was beginning to close in around him to the point where he could only see the very back of the church and the procession of the two young women who were Tina’s bridesmaids. Sinclair tensed as the second of the two young women took her place on the bride’s side. He knew well enough who would be the next person to come down the aisle and his stomach began to clench. He felt his palms grow slick with sweat and he unconsciously ran them along his pant seams. He could feel his heart thudding dangerously fast in his chest and the blood pumping through his veins could be heard loudly in his ears. And then she was walking down the aisle toward him. Ivonne Boucharde Delacroix was astonishingly beautiful in a soft green gown of moiré silk designed in such a way it all but hid the fact of her pregnancy. Peach-colored ribbons and hibiscus adorned her ebony hair and two ringlets dangled beside her left cheek. Around her neck on a delicate golden chain was a stunning emerald encircled with diamonds. In her hands, she carried a bouquet of peach-colored hibiscus and azalea blossoms. The sight of this woman walking down a church aisle toward him was more painful than Sinclair could have imagined. Since he was twelve years old, he had dreamed of the day Vonnie and he would marry. He had lain awake in his pubescent bed pondering the treasures he would find once he had removed the virginal white gown she would wear. Not once did he imagine the gown would not be deserved, for he had pledged he would never put either himself or her in a position where that would not be the case. He had worshipped Ivonne as much as he loved her, and her virginity was as much a prize to him as it was to her. Not even when they were in their late teens and he had been tormented by the heated arousal he constantly suffered when in her presence, did he once contemplate stepping beyond the bounds of his moral and ethical duty

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toward the woman he loved. That had not stopped him from having erotic dreams which brought him bolt upright in the bed and groaning with agony, but those dreams had only made his pledge that much more secure. Then she had been sent off to make the grand tour in Roberte, he to college, and they had not seen one another for almost two years. When at last they met again, he had been tingling with anticipation, for that summer their engagement would be announced. Even then, he was not tempted to touch what was not yet his—to taste the forbidden wine that he himself had denied them both. But then war had come and he had refused to do what his Grandmother had suggested and marry Ivonne before leaving. “I’ll not leave her a widow,” he had said adamantly, not once contemplating that that could happen, but striving to protect her anyway should something happen to him. Sinclair looked over at Leland and the wooden leg, which had come to replace the straight, fine leg that had once helped Leland Brell win every foot race he entered. The faint aroma of lavender wafted under Sinclair’s nose and his vision blurred. Ivonne’s perfume had always thrilled him, the smell going straight to his soul. He had to shake his head to rid himself of old memories and new pain, and when he focused again, it was into Ivonne’s eyes that his vision took him. Ivonne faltered as her gaze met Sinclair’s. It had been four long years since she had kissed this man good-bye and sent him away to fight for his homeland. He was still as handsome as he had been that crisp fall day, but there was such sadness, such terrible loss in his dark eyes, that it was nearly her undoing. All morning, she had been dreading this moment. The thought of being so close to him, having to touch him when the ceremony was over and he escorted her up the aisle—her hand on his arm—made her heart ache so terribly she felt she would collapse. Now, looking into Sin’s wounded face, knowing what he must think of her, she felt the prickle of tears begin. Sinclair had to tear his attention from her before he grabbed her, shook her and demanded to know why in hell she could not have waited for him. Why, in God’s name, she had dared to marry the one man he hated more than any other. Ivonne felt the deliberate cut to the very core of her. She ached to reach out, to touch this man, to attempt to explain why she had betrayed him, why she had given herself to a man she loathed and feared. From the rigidity of his shoulders and the determined turn of his head away from her, she knew no explanation would ever be good enough for Sinclair. With her head lowered, she took her place beside Helen and Martha, the other bridesmaids, her hands shaking so badly that petals were falling from the bouquet she held. The music stopped and all eyes went to the back of the church. As the organ sounded again and the wedding processional music began to swell, those assembled stood up and faced the entrance. “I’m gonna be sick, Sin,” Conor complained. “No, you are not!” the bishop snapped. “Not in my church, Conor James Brell!”

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Sinclair was at the end of his patience with Conor Brell. The man was about to have everything he had ever wanted—the woman who loved him and he loved beyond all reason, a home life that would be the envy of all who knew him, and in-laws who thought he was absolutely perfect. There was no reason to be acting as though his world was about to come to an end. Certainly no reason to be sick to his stomach! “I am gonna—” Conor started to say again, but Sinclair reached out, took his upper arm in a sharp, unrelenting grip and hissed nastily beneath his breath, “If you don’t shut your damned mouth, Brell, I’m gonna shut it for you. You’ll have a hard time kissing your bride with a broken jaw!” Bishop Verot’s lips pursed together at the cursing, but his eyes blazed with approval when Conor straightened his shoulders and politely shook off Sinclair’s steely grip. “I am fine,” Conor stated. He screwed up his courage and focused on the vision walking toward him down the aisle. Everyone assembled heard the gasp of shocked delight that came from Conor Brell’s lips when he saw his bride. Sinclair’s jaw was clenched, his teeth grating together as he too turned to look at Tina. What he saw made him relax and the hard gleam in his eyes soften. Even a slight, bemused smile touched his tight mouth. Ivonne wished with all her heart that it were she who was walking down the aisle in the lovely confection of white satin and Alençon lace studded with seed pearls. Her childhood friend was very dear to her, but Ivonne bitterly envied her this day. Christina was marrying the man she had loved since they were toddlers and would have a happy life with C.J. Brell. Any children who came from this marriage would be dearly wanted and loved and have parents who wanted to be together. Christina would not have to worry about such humiliating things as quadroon mistresses who flaunted their position in front of her. She would not have to bear the knowing eyes of people who disliked her husband, for all admired C.J. who knew him. Nor would Tina have to endure the social shuns of Savannah’s better families. “Who gives this woman to this man?” the bishop intoned, breaking into the selfpity Ivonne was feeling. She lifted her chin and forced a smile to her lips. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sinclair smiling and her heart ached that much more. Would he, could he, ever smile at her again? The rest of the ceremony was a blur for Sinclair. He watched the wedding couple kneel on the prie-dieu and make their vows. He listened to the blessing the bishop bestowed on C.J. and Tina, but his mind was not on what was happening around him. He was intensely aware of Ivonne standing not three feet away and his hands itched to swoop her up and carry her as far from Chatham County as they could ride. He ached inside so badly he thought he just might throw back his head and bellow in sheer frustration. It was all he could do to stand still and not fidget like the children he could hear fretting behind him. When the ceremony was finished and the bishop turned with the couple so he might present them to the assemblage, Sinclair had to steel himself for what was about to follow. 36

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“Ladies and Gentleman, I present Mr. and Mrs. Conor James Brell.” The applause was hardy and approving, the music swelled through the church, Tina was beaming and Conor’s shoulders were squared with pride as he began to walk his new wife up the aisle. Sinclair drew in a deep, steadying breath then stepped toward Ivonne, extending his arm to escort her. He kept his attention on his grandmother who was staring back at him with ill-disguised contempt. The old crone hadn’t spoken to him since the night of his homecoming—taking her meals in her room to avoid all contact with him. Her hooded gaze was sharp and hateful and there was an evil smile on her withered lips. The moment Ivonne’s hand came to rest on his coat sleeve he thought he could see satisfaction enter his grandmother’s wrinkled face. Ivonne felt the tenseness of the muscles beneath her lightly resting fingers. The scent of cinnamon, the aftershave Sinclair had worn since becoming old enough to shave those first few hairs from his lean jaw, filled her nostrils and she gloried in the touch and smell of this one man. It mattered little that he would not look at her, that he was as rigid as a sword beside her as they walked back up the aisle. It was enough for her that she was with him, even so remotely, and that Edward’s glittering jealousy was like a beacon drawing her attention to him as she passed. Edward looked back at his wife with detachment, but inside he was a mass of contradictions. One part of him reveled in the intense pain he saw emblazoned on Sinclair McGregor’s face, because destroying McGregor had become an obsession with Edward many years before. Yet another part of him was insanely jealous of the man. He did not understand the feelings of jealousy, for he surely did not love Ivonne. Had she belonged to any man other than McGregor, he would never have gone after her. It became an obsession to own the most beautiful and productive plantation in Georgia and to take the woman of the master that plantation loved more than life itself. Edward knew the combination of those two actions would crush McGregor completely. The jealousy was certainly not something Delacroix had anticipated and something which would have to be examined more closely at a more opportune time. Sinclair hurt so badly he thought he might well drop to his knees at any moment. Having Ivonne so close and so untouchable was an agony worse than the bullet that had nearly killed him or the saber cut that had sliced open his cheek. Her perfume made him giddy with longing and the touch of her hand on his arm was sheer torture. He dared not turn and look at her, dared not speak to her for fear he would lose all sense of self-control. If he even dared to acknowledge that she was trembling as badly as he was, he would surely unman himself. Leland was not so thoroughly immersed in his brother’s wedding ceremony that he did not take note of the heads that pressed together or the hands that went to lips to whisper tales best unheard as Sin and Vonnie passed down the aisle. He noticed the knowing eyes, the nodding heads, the twitching lips of those who had never been all that fond of the McGregor family, especially those who had ever been envious of Sinclair himself. He frowned at a few of them and had the satisfaction of seeing some 37

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turn away with embarrassment at being caught in their maliciousness. Helen Bryan Lutz, the lady clinging to his arm, turned to look at him and he could see the disapproval in her pale eyes. “I hope no one says something to him,” she whispered. Leland nodded, a little too angry to reply. He hoped not too. Outside, the afternoon sun was lowering behind a few silver-shot clouds. There was a storm brewing off the coast and rain was ripe in the air. The temperature had cooled just a little as the ceremony had progressed, but it was still a sweltering July day with thunder bumpers building out in the Atlantic. As soon as they had cleared the entry of the church, Sinclair lowered his arm, making it necessary for Ivonne to move her hand from his coat sleeve. Without looking her way, he mumbled a quick good-bye and disappeared down the steps even as Conor and Tina were climbing into the landau that would take them to their reception at Willow Glen. Left abandoned where she stood, Ivonne felt the censure of the people standing around her and even heard a snicker or two of contempt before Edward’s hand closed tightly around her elbow. “Lift your head,” she heard him command. “You are a Delacroix!” Sinclair turned the corner around the church and stopped. He slumped against the building, his back to the rough stone, his eyes closed. At his side, his hands were clenched into tight fists. He didn’t even feel the tears sliding heedlessly down his scarred cheek.

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Chapter Four Brendan looked up and smiled hesitantly. “You all right?” he asked. “Yeah,” Sinclair grunted. He swiped a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and downed it in one gulp. “That looks like a good idea,” Leland quipped. Snaking out a hand, he grabbed the waiter’s arm. “Find us an unopened bottle of this French spit, will you, Thomas?” The black waiter nodded elegantly and moved on. Music was playing from the pavilion where Conor and Tina were waltzing gaily across the mahogany floor. Her white gown swept against her new husband’s legs as he twirled about, and their merry laughter rang out over the assembled guests. “Damned nuisance!” Sinclair snarled as he yanked his cravat from around his throat and tossed it contemptuously behind one of the oleander bushes. “Oh, aren’t we in a pleasant mood,” Leland announced. “Go to hell,” Sinclair replied. “Been there, my good man,” Leland reminded him. “As have you.” “Wish I’d stayed,” Sinclair mumbled. Brendan and his brother exchanged a look then the younger man moved away, too excited and happy on C.J.’s wedding day to stay around his embittered cousin. Thomas returned carrying a large bottle of champagne. “Miss Grace Vivienne asked that you behave, Mr. Leland,” the black waiter cautioned. He cast a worried glance at Sinclair. “And she asked me to tell you she would like to see you in the drawing room, Mr. Sinclair.” Sinclair waved a hand in acknowledgment of the black man’s message but had no intention of going to his grandmother at the moment. The last thing he needed was a lecture from the hateful old woman. “Let’s get ripped,” Leland suggested pleasantly. With some difficulty, he sat down in one of the many chairs that had been arranged artfully around the yard and stretched out his wooden leg. “Getting drunk won’t solve a damned thing,” Sinclair stated, taking the bottle from Thomas and swilling the expensive wine as though it were water. “Lord, Lord, Lord,” Thomas muttered. He rolled his eyes and walked off. He’d known these two men since they were young boys and neither one of them would be fit company by nightfall. “She is one of the sweetest women in the county, don’t you think, cuz?” Leland sighed.

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Sinclair lowered the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Who is?” he grated. He was ready to jump on Leland Brell if the man dared mention Ivonne. “Miss Leonie,” he said, sighing again. He pointed at a middle-aged woman who was speaking to Tina’s brother Jonah. Glancing toward the woman of whom his cousin was speaking, Sinclair shrugged. “I guess so. If you like overweight spinsters.” Leland’s jaw hardened. “Not her fault she had to take care of her ailing mother all those years. Don’t you think that was the Christian thing to do?” “The old woman was a selfish bitch like our grandmother,” Sinclair snorted. “She didn’t want Leonie to marry because then she couldn’t control her.” Leland sighed once more. “A damned shame, really.” He jerked the champagne bottle out of Sinclair’s hand. “Had notions of asking her when we was younger, you know.” Sinclair turned and looked at Leland. “You never told me that,” he accused. Leland grinned around a mouthful of wine. He nodded, swallowed then rested the bottle on his good thigh. “Sure I did. You just don’t remember.” Sinclair couldn’t ever remember discussing Leonie Emerson with anyone, let alone Lee, but he let it pass. “So why didn’t you?” “Miss Gertrude was a mean-spirited old biddy. I got up the courage one time to go ask the bitch if I could take Leonie to Denton Herndon’s wedding, but she said no. I’d go by there, hoping to see Leonie out by herself, but Gerty seemed to always know I was there. Never would let me alone with Leonie long enough for me to court her,” Leland replied. “Would have asked her had I been given the chance.” His eyes took on a dark, hopeless look, and then he took a long drink of the French wine before passing the almost empty bottle back to his cousin. “I surely would have asked her,” he sighed deeply. “Ask her now,” Sinclair advised. The hopeless look in Leland’s dark eyes became wounded pain. “Not now,” he said quietly. “Why not?” Leland tore his attention from Leonie Dawn Emerson and pierced his cousin with a knowing look. “She deserves a whole man, Sinclair, not a piece of one.” There it was again, Sinclair thought. Leland had developed this habit of feeling sorry for himself and it was starting to wear thin. Not that the man didn’t have a legitimate excuse for feeling down, but Leland could rise above it if he wanted to. The thing was, Leland didn’t seem to want to. “As long as you think of yourself as a piece of a man,” Sinclair said through clenched teeth, “I guess that’s what you will be!” “You ain’t gonna get a rise outta me so stop your baiting, brat,” Leland snorted. He reached over and took the bottle from Sinclair, lifted it and finished off the contents. 40

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“Does she know how you feel about her?” Sinclair pressed. Leland nodded. “Don’t see how she couldn’t know,” he responded. He glanced over at Sinclair. “At that cotillion ‘fore we all rode off, I kind of hinted that I wanted her to wait for me.” This was another revelation to stun Sinclair. How could he have been so blind not to notice his older cousin’s interest in the Emerson spinster? Or anyone’s interest in the mousy woman, Sinclair amended in his mind. “What did she say?” Leland closed his eyes. “I don’t remember exactly.” There was something strange in Brell’s tone that told Sinclair the man was lying. Whatever the woman had said to him had obviously not been what Lee had wanted to hear. “I would think in the absence of any other suitors, she would certainly consider you a prime candidate for a husband,” Sinclair put forth. “Absence,” Leland said flatly. “Aye, that is why she certainly won’t consider me now. It is a true case of absence not making the heart grow fonder.” Sinclair’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?” Leland opened his eyes. There was a dark, far-away look in the cinnamon-brown orbs and deep, wounded sadness. “The absence of my leg, cuz,” he said quietly. “Oh hell!” Sinclair snapped. “I’m sick to death of hearing you spout all this damned self-pity! Grow up, Brell!” He sprang up from his chair and strode off, his shoulders tight with annoyance. “Arrogant pissant!” Leland called after him. He watched the tall, dark figure of his cousin striding away and thought what a magnificent looking man was Rory Sinclair McGregor and he wished with all his heart the two of them could trade places. Sinclair could feel Lee’s eyes on him and he tried to shrug off the sensation. He was as put out with his oldest cousin as any man could ever be and rather than say all the mean things rolling around inside his head, he’d just leave Lee alone. A few couples were strolling about arm in arm, and their smiling faces and soft conversations as he passed them only seemed to underscore his loneliness. He greeted a few by name but most he ignored, although he could feel them turning to look at him as he walked toward the stream which separated Willow Glen from WindLass. Evening was coming on and fireflies were flitting among the cherry laurels growing along the stream’s shallow bank. The rich, intoxicating scent of jasmine was thick in the air as Sinclair plopped down on the bank and leaned against the rough bark of a live oak tree. He rested his wrists on his crooked knees and stared blindly at the slowly moving stream. God, he hurt, he thought. He ached so badly it was a wonder he didn’t begin to disintegrate where he sat. The scar on his cheek throbbed although the injury had happened three years earlier. The bullet wound, two years old and fully healed, seemed 41

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to burn all the way through his chest as though the lead had been shot through him only a moment before. His head hurt, his stomach hurt and his heart was close to breaking. “Ivonne,” he whispered, and closed his eyes to the beautiful name. How glorious she had been at the wedding, he thought. That mysterious glow that all expectant women have had turned her flawless complexion into rose-tinted ivory. Even though he knew her to be in the seventh month of her pregnancy, the gown she had worn had hidden the fact with its empire waist and yards of moiré silk. The gown had only enhanced her beauty and her beauty had only enhanced the pain in his heart. “Don’t think about it!” he said aloud, and his hands curled into fists. “Mr. Sinclair?” With a snarl of anger, Sinclair swiveled his head up and around and saw Thomas standing a few feet away. “Have you no care for a man’s privacy, Thom?” he spat. The black man inclined his head politely. “Yes, sir, I do, but I was sent to fetch you and—” “I am not ready to be lectured by my grandmother!” Sinclair snapped. “I wasn’t sent by Miss Grace Vivienne, sir,” Thomas reported. “Mr. Conor and Miss Tina are getting ready to retire to their cottage, sir, and Mr. Leland sent me to fetch you because you have to do the toasting before they leave.” Sinclair squeezed his eyes shut. “Damn,” he sighed, and pushed up from the ground. “I’d forgotten all about that nonsense.” Thomas lifted one snow-cropped brow. “Aren’t you happy for him, Mr. Sinclair?” Sinclair felt as though the weight of the world had been settled on his shoulders. Through the rapidly dimming light, he could see the disapproval on Thomas’ dark face. “Yes,” he replied with a long sigh, “I am very happy for C.J., Thom.” “Then perhaps you should act like it, sir,” Thomas admonished. Sinclair nodded. “Perhaps I should,” he answered. “It’s better than feeling sorry for myself, ain’t it, Thom?” He smiled to let the black man know he wasn’t altogether serious. Thomas smiled gently and held out a hand, indicating he would follow Sinclair. “Did you know Lee was sweet on old maid Emerson?” Sinclair asked as the two of them started back to the house. “I have heard Mr. Lee singing the lady’s praises,” Thomas answered. “And he makes a point of riding toward the Emerson place each morning.” Sinclair’s left brow crooked up. “That so?” Thomas was not in the least surprised when the white man draped a companionable arm around his shoulders. “So,” Sinclair stated. “What are we gonna do about it, Thommy?”

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Sinclair looked at the newlyweds and smiled. “C.J., Tina. Samuel Rogers said it better than I ever could.” He cleared his throat and lifted his glass. “‘Across the threshold led, and every tear kissed off as soon as shed, his house she enters, there to be a light shining within when all without is night; a guardian-angel o’er his life presiding, doubling his pleasure, and his cares dividing!’ To Conor James and Christina Brell— May all their troubles be little ones!” “Here! Here!” those assembled agreed. Grace Vivienne Brell nodded her own approval—not only of the newlyweds but of her grandson’s toast. She had feared bitterness from Rory Sinclair and was relieved the boy was not so engrossed in his own misery that he would spoil Conor’s wedding day. A long expulsion of breath from the elderly woman was the only sign she allowed to show her relief. As it was, she was still angry, furious in fact, that Ivonne had not come to the reception. Angrier still that Delacroix had sent a messenger instead of coming himself as etiquette dictated to say his wife was ill-disposed. A snort of unladylike irritation came from Grave Vivienne. “Ill-disposed my wrinkled ass!” she said beneath her breath. The only illness Ivonne Boucharde was feeling was a guilty conscience. The little slut deserved to suffer! Grace Vivienne’s sharp gaze latched onto Sinclair and held. She could only hope Sinclair was man enough to make Ivonne pay for hurting him. Sinclair felt the hairs stirring on his neck and knew someone was staring at him. He looked toward the throne-like chair that had been provided for his grandmother’s comfort and found her attention riveted on him. He looked away quickly, not wanting to give the old woman a chance to beckon him over to her. Instead, he shut out the toasts being made by other family members and ducked behind an enormous lady who could shield two of him. “Welcome home, Colonel McGregor,” the fat lady called to him. “Captain, ma’am,” Sinclair responded automatically, and gave the woman no further chance to engage him in conversation. He couldn’t remember her name, but he knew her to be one of Savannah’s most notorious gossips. Skirting the crowd, he made his way toward the gazebo, hoping no one had ventured that way to hide in the darker shadows. He climbed the four steps up into the octagonal structure and was happy to find he was alone. But he wasn’t for long. “Are you hiding, Captain McGregor?” an amused feminine voice spoke to him from behind the gazebo. Sinclair jumped. He turned and peered out into the darkness. He could see no one but, then again, night had fallen with a cool crispness and the rain, which had been threatening all day, was beginning to fall in fat little drops. “Are you?” he returned. Soft laughter came from off to his right and he turned that way. The rustle of silk aimed his search in the right direction and he saw an unaccompanied lady walking

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toward him from the high banks of azaleas, holding her voluminous skirts up from contact with the wet grass. “I find solitude absolutely necessary at times,” the lady said as she came around the side of the gazebo. She looked up as Sinclair walked to the steps. “Am I intruding upon yours?” he asked, trying to see the lady’s face through the darkness. “No, sir,” she replied. “Am I upon…yours?” “Not at all.” He held out his hand to help her up the steps, for the rain was beginning to fall a bit heavier and off toward where the wedding party was gathered he could hear squeals of surprise. The lady lifted her left hand and placed it in Sinclair’s. She came up the steps gracefully and allowed him to lead her toward the wicker swing that was well out of the path of the steadily falling rain. “I fear there will be a few unhappy ladies,” she quipped. Sinclair grinned. “But there will be chivalrous gentlemen to come to their aid.” He helped her to sit in the swing and then stood beside it, his hand on the chain from which the wicker seat was suspended. “Oh, I am sure there will be,” she laughed. Sinclair wondered who this woman was and why no gentleman was protecting her. She was obviously of quality else she would not have been invited to the wedding reception. He squinted, striving to focus on her face in the shadows. “You are trying to place me,” she said playfully. “We are acquainted?” he responded. “How soon they forget,” she sighed deeply. “I can only beg time and distance, milady,” he said gallantly, “for misplacing your name.” For the life of him, he couldn’t ever remember talking to this woman before tonight. “Leonie,” she prompted. “Leonie Emerson?” Sinclair blinked. The light was dim, but he didn’t think it was so dim that he hadn’t been able to recognize Gerty Emerson’s old maid daughter. “My apologies, ma’am,” he said quickly. “It’s been a while, but I certainly…should have recognized you.” Leonie smiled shyly at him. “I don’t see why you should have, Captain,” she replied. “We did not move in the same circles before the war.” Sinclair felt the slight barb—intended or not—that Leonie Emerson knew he would never have looked at someone like her. He didn’t know how to respond, but she must have sensed that for she spoke again, her voice very warm. “I am thankful you returned to Savannah in good health, Captain.” “Sinclair,” he urged, still feeling the sting of her censure.

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“Sinclair,” she repeated, and his name on her tongue sounded exotic. “That was your great grandmother’s maiden name, wasn’t it?” “Yes, ma’am, it was,” he allowed. “Do you know we are distant kin?” she inquired. Sinclair grinned. “I think all of us Irish are kin to one another in some way,” he quipped. “I suppose that’s true,” she laughed. “On which side of the family?” he asked, for his roots had always intrigued him. “Your mother’s,” Leonie answered. We have a great aunt in common. We are, if I remember correctly, fourth cousins.” “I never knew that,” he stated. “I wonder why no one ever mentioned it.” Leonie shrugged. “My mother was not well liked in Chatham County, Captain. She—” “Sinclair,” he corrected. She ducked her head. “I can’t quite get used to calling you that, but I will try.” She looked up at him. “You knew her, of course?” “Miss Gertrude?” He grimaced. “Yes, ma’am, I knew her.” Leonie smoothed the skirt around her legs. “My grandfather was very strict on her when she was growing up and she was very strict in return. Her manners put people off I suppose.” Her “manner”, Sinclair thought, put the fear of God in most people. Gertrude O’Brien Emerson, daughter of the local blacksmith and widowed wife of a foundry owner, could forge iron with her scathing tongue, it was said. “She wasn’t as harsh as most people believed her,” Leonie remarked. “I remember she was ill,” Sinclair said. “Consumption, wasn’t it?” Leonie nodded. “We should have moved to a dryer climate, but Mother loved Savannah,” she replied. “Her Irish heritage came from the sea, from generations of Galway fisher folk, she used to say, and she would live her life within sound of the waves.” “You took care of her for many years,” he said, and winced, for he had made it sound like an accusation. “What I meant to say was—” “People believe,” she said, cutting him off gently, “that Mother did not wish for me to ever marry. They believe she was selfishly keeping me at home so I could look after her.” “Miss Leonie,” he said, embarrassed, “I did not—” “The truth is, Captain,” she interrupted his apology, “I stayed single because no man ever asked me to go out walking with him.” That was more than he wanted to know, Sinclair thought, acutely uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation. Not because the woman didn’t interest him, but 45

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because she interested his cousin Leland. He should tell her, he thought, but he couldn’t help wonder how she would react to the suggestion that Leland be allowed to pay court. “Perhaps they feared Mother,” he heard her say. “A lot of us, ah, did,” he muttered, not knowing how else to respond. She was looking up at him, seeming to search his eyes in the darkness. “I had always hoped one young man would find the courage to come calling.” Sinclair shifted uneasily. “I, ah, believe there was one who wished to,” he told her. Leonie drew in a breath. “Why did he not tell me?” Damn you to the Abyss, Leland Brell! Sinclair thought. Why had the man ever told him how he felt about the old maid? “Why didn’t he speak to my mother?” she prompted. “He did,” Sinclair responded, his jaw clenched. “But your mother turned him away.” For a long moment, Leonie just stared at him then she said, “Oh,” very quietly and looked down at her skirt. “And he never tried again?” “Well, Lee’s a—” Leonie’s head snapped up. “Lee?” she questioned. Sinclair nodded. “Leland.” He was unaware of the crestfallen look that suddenly came over the plump woman’s face for he could not see her clearly in the shadows. “He was quite taken with you, but now…” He shrugged. She lowered her head. “Now?” she queried, her voice devoid of the lightness that had been there a moment before. Sinclair could have bitten off his tongue. He shifted again, wishing he were anywhere else but there. “He, well, he feels… That is to say he…” He lifted his hand and plowed it through his dark curls. “Lord, Miss Leonie, I shouldn’t be telling you this.” She stood up. “No, sir, you should not.” She started toward the gazebo’s entrance. “It’s still raining, Miss Leonie,” he cautioned. “Rain never hurt anyone, Captain,” she replied, and began down the steps, hurrying away from him. “Miss Leonie, wait!” he called out, going after her. “I’ll be all right!” “Miss Leonie!” he shouted, but already the woman had disappeared into the cascading rain. Overhead, a bolt of lightning streaked across the night sky, lighting up the gazebo and the surrounding garden in an eerie blue-white light. Summer storms were dangerous on the coast and it was foolhardy to be outside when one was building up a full head of steam. From the flares of lightning off in the distance and the cracks of thunder already beginning to shake the ground on which he stood, Sinclair knew he

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should head for the house. But his Southern heritage, the rules of chivalry so deeply ingrained it was hard to overlook them, prodded him into going after the Emerson woman to make sure she was safely inside by the time the brunt of the storm was upon them. With a snarl of irritation, he set out in the direction she had run and within seconds was drenched thoroughly.

***** “You had nothing better to do than go traipsing out in weather such as this?” Grace Vivienne questioned. She pierced her grandson with a steely look that should have dropped him where he stood. “Strip those clothes off, boy, before you catch your death of cold.” “I will undress when I get to my room,” Sinclair grated, and would have passed the elderly woman, but she surprised him with a strength and quickness he would not have guessed she possessed as she snaked out a hand and grabbed his arm, preventing him from walking away. “You will remove them here and now,” she stated. She held out her hand for the cummerbund he was gripping fiercely in his hand and looked pointedly down at his mud-caked boots. She was too upset with him to ask what he had done with the expensive coat and silk cravat he had been wearing when she last saw him. “I do not want you sloshing mud and water on my good Aubusson carpet!” It was on the tip of Sinclair’s tongue to tell her that it wasn’t her carpet, but rather her sister-in-law’s family heirloom brought over from Paris when Angelique Dupree married Grace Vivienne’s twin brother Galen. Willow Glen, like everything in it, actually belonged to Leland as firstborn. Sinclair exhaled loudly then sat down in the kitchen chair and pulled off his muddy boots. Bossie, who was standing off to one side, hurried forward and took them from him. “Do as your granny says,” Bossie whispered. “She ain’t gonna let you up them stairs ‘til you do.” Sinclair drew in a long, angry breath and then bolted out of the chair wanting his grandmother to know how irritated he was by her demand. His hands went to his shirt and he began to unbutton it with no care for the buttons or fabric. “I can not imagine what you thought you were doing running after that woman,” Grace Vivienne stated. She watched her grandson jerk the shirt from his trousers then flick the cufflinks open before dragging the wet fabric from his chest. She frowned as he threw the shirt on the kitchen table and the cufflinks bounced along the floor. “I didn’t want her to fall and get hurt,” he said as he unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them down over his hips. Bossie turned away as he stepped out of the sopping wet trousers, stooping down to retrieve the errant cufflinks, but Grace Vivienne continued to watch Sinclair. There

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was no discomfort on her face as he flicked a glance in her direction, almost as if to ask if she intended to see him butt naked. “Go on,” his grandmother snapped, fanning her hand at him. “I’ve seen you without clothes before.” The muscles in Sinclair’s jaw bunched. “Not since I have been a grown man,” he replied. He was shivering as he stood there in just his union suit and the soaking wet socks. Grace Vivienne’s eyes narrowed. “Get out of those clothes, boy! Now!” A perverse little imp reared its ugly head and Sinclair unbuttoned the union suit and peeled it off his shoulders, shoved it down his legs and yanked off his wet socks. He stood there, hands on his hips, in all his glory and turned so that he faced his grandmother squarely, hoping she, like Bossie, would turn away in shock and embarrassment. She didn’t. Instead, Grace Vivienne walked to him and looked him up and down, her attention sharp on the bullet wound in his chest. She put out a hand and touched it, ignoring her grandson’s flinch. Before he could say anything, she turned him around to study his backside. With his teeth grating audibly together, he allowed her inspection, tensing as her fingers trailed across his shoulders then down his spine and along his right hip. “What caused this?” he heard her ask. “A bullwhip,” he replied, the muscles in his jaw working. “Who dared to lay a whip to you?” she demanded. “A Union soldier.” There was a beat or two of silence then, “Why was this done?” “He had a score to settle with me. I had stopped him from raping a little girl,” Sinclair stated. “He took exception to my interference.” The cool touch of his grandmother’s fingers left his flesh and he sensed her moving away from him. He twisted his neck and looked around, surprised to see her standing off to one side, her eyes wet with moisture. “Damn his cowardly soul to hell,” Grace Vivienne cursed. “Damn him to hell and beyond for daring to do that to a McGregor!” Never would he have guessed that his grandmother would care one way or another what had been done to him during his imprisonment. She had never shown the least interest in him when he was growing up and only tolerated him now because he was the last of her daughter Maeve’s children. He knew she believed him to be her only hope of having WindLass returned to the family. Bossie was just as stunned as Sinclair was when tears slid silently down Grace Vivienne’s cheeks. “Miss Gracey, maybe you should go on up to bed now. It’s late.” She

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handed Sinclair the robe Thomas had been sent to fetch when Sinclair had been heard running up to the house. Grace Vivienne lifted her chin. “I have guests,” she said, looking toward that part of Willow Glen where the wedding party had run when the storm began. Sinclair put on the robe and belted it tightly around his waist. “Then perhaps you should go bid them good night, ma’am,” he suggested. Despite himself, he was touched by the unexpected show of feelings his grandmother had exhibited. For the first time in a long time, he felt gently toward her. The old woman nodded. She turned, her back stiff, and started to leave the room then she stopped, looked around and locked her eyes with Sinclair’s. “You are a McGregor,” she stated as though she had to remind him of his ancestry. “You are Devon McGregor’s only living relative.” Her eyes hardened. “Do not ever forget that, boy!” “No, ma’am,” he assured her. “I will not.” Grace Vivienne nodded curtly then pushed out of the kitchen.

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Chapter Five Ivonne’s hand tensed on the lace curtain, a tremor running down her body. She stood staring south where, on a slight rise, a dark horseman sat. For three days in a row, he had come late in the afternoon, just as the sun was beginning to set. Venturing no farther than the serpentine creek that separated WindLass from the Brell’s property, the rider held his mount still on the crest of that small rise and watched the plantation house. No one had mentioned seeing this daily apparition, but Ivonne knew everyone at WindLass was aware of the solitary visitor’s presence. A sound in the hall outside her boudoir door made Ivonne jump and she let go of the curtain, moved away from the window just as there was a sharp, demanding rap at her door and the thick oaken portal swung inward. “How are you feeling today, my love?” Edward asked. He walked to her and gave her his perfunctory kiss on the cheek. He reeked of cheap perfume, cigars and the brandy fumes on his breath were nearly overpowering. In his right hand he carried his leather riding gloves and he tapped them impatiently into the palm of his free hand as he waited for his wife’s answer. “I am well,” Ivonne said quietly. She moved to her settee and, with some effort, sat down. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit, sir?” Edward glanced at the lace curtain fluttering at his wife’s window and frowned. “I really must insist you keep these windows closed, Ivonne. It is the time of season for the fever and you do not wish to become ill.” He walked to the offending window and shut it. Ivonne lowered her head. “It gets very hot in here, Edward.” “Then go downstairs,” her husband snapped. He walked back to her and stood looking down at her bent head. “I will not be here for supper, I have a business engagement in town.” He took out his pocket watch and made a great show of studying the time. “I am late as it is.” Returning the pocket watch to his vest, he bent down and planted a light kiss on Ivonne’s hair. “Don’t wait up for me.” With that, he was gone as quickly and as impersonally as he had come. He left behind the scent of cheap perfume and stale cigar smoke. And indifference. Ivonne got up from the settee with some effort and went to the window. Pushing back the curtain, she was disappointed to find the rise vacant of its vigil keeper. With a long sigh of regret, she went back to the settle, sat down, burying her face in her hands.

*****

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He had been watching the house for over a week now, carefully scrutinizing the comings and goings of the staff. No one ventured out his way and no one had come to challenge his right to be where he was. Throwing caution to the wind, he finally rode down from the rise, crossed the stream and came onto WindLass land. He wanted no trouble with Delacroix or his men, but should it come, he would meet it headon. Despite no longer being the owner of his birthplace, Sinclair would be damned if anyone would drive him or keep him away from his destination. He had thought long and hard about coming here and he saw no reason to deny himself what little comfort the trip would give him. There was darkness in his soul that needed light and the family cemetery at WindLass was like a beacon drawing him to its flame. It was with genuine surprise that he found the gravestones well tended, the grass mowed and the wrought iron railing around the plot newly painted. There were flowers on his mother’s grave, and though not fresh, they were better than no flowers at all. Sinclair dismounted and tied his horse’s reins to the wrought iron. He opened the gate, surprised again when it did not squeak, and ventured inside the plot. His mother and father were buried side by side, the black granite headstone proclaiming their tragedy. Devon and Felicity McGregor—Taken in death together September 5, 1843. How old was I? he tried to remember. Seven? Eight? That evening stood out in his memory so sharply, but the little details of his own existence during that terrible time were long forgotten. Not so much because of what had happened to his parents, but because that had been the day his grandmother had come to live at WindLass and his life had changed so drastically. “Had you been a better child, Rory Sinclair, your parents would still be alive,” she had thrown at him. With his young heart breaking, his world shattering around him, Sinclair’s spirit had been thoroughly crushed by the old woman’s meanness. To this very day, he wondered why she blamed him for his father’s death. And why his father’s passing would mean more to his grandmother than her own daughter’s tragic end. Shaking away memories of a lonely, unloved childhood, Sinclair went to his mother’s grave and knelt down on one knee. He swept the hat from his head and laid it beside him on the grass. “I’m here, Mama,” he said. Lovingly, he put his fingers to his lips then reached out and touched the cold gravestone. He lifted his hand to make the sign of the cross, bowed his head and began the prayers for the repose of his parents’ souls. When he became aware he was not alone, he would never remember. It would always seem to him that things that happened in relation to his parents and their untimely deaths would forever exist in a limbo of their own. Passing ghost-like images would always hover just beyond his ability to see them and memories would vanish almost as quickly as they came. Nothing seemed to stick and like the will-o’-the-wisps along the seashore, one moment they were there and the next they were gone. Yet what he perceived behind him meant him no harm and he finished his prayers, once more

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making the sign of the cross before he looked around, somehow knowing who would be there. “I did not mean to intrude,” she said. Sinclair did not trust himself to speak. She was on the other side of the railing—a bouquet of flowers clutched tightly in her hand—and the distance between them had never seemed so great. Ivonne knew she was trembling, but there was no chill to this August day. It was her emotions playing havoc with her body that caused her to shiver so. She hoped he did not notice, but from the way he was staring at her, she knew well he was missing nothing. She tore her eyes from him. “I bring flowers every Wednesday,” she said lamely, half extending the flowers toward him as though they were a peace offering. Sinclair flicked his attention to the flowers. “Today is Saturday,” he reminded her. Ivonne looked up. “I was not feeling well Wednesday and I…” Her voice trailed off. Why should he care whether she had been well enough to come there? The look on his face was so distant, so blank. Even his voice was noncommittal, as passionless as though he were speaking to a stranger. Or someone he no longer trusted. “I will just leave them here,” she said, meaning to lay them on one of the two wrought iron benches that flanked the gate. “They belong on Mama’s grave,” he said a bit too harshly, and instantly regretted his tone for he saw her flinch. He stood up, annoyed with himself, and moved away from the grave. “I won’t bite you, Ivonne.” A flicker of a smile drifted over Ivonne’s lips and she put out a hand to open the gate. With more courage than she actually felt, she pushed it wide and went inside. The closer she came to the man standing so stiffly in the corner of the enclosed plot, the harder Ivonne trembled. She could actually hear the flowers rustling in her hand and would be relieved to place them in the marble urn that sat in the middle of the black granite headstone. Sinclair watched her bend over the urn and remove the old flowers then drop in the new ones. He said nothing as she artfully arranged the larkspur, lavender, coneflowers and daisies that he remembered were his mother’s favorites. He folded his arms over his chest and observed the woman he had loved more than life itself say her own prayers for his parents’ souls then straighten up. He met her look, careful not to give any of the hurt and loneliness in his soul away. He looks so angry, she thought. There was none of the sweet warmth that once had been in this man’s handsome face. There was no welcome, no semblance of forgiveness in his eyes. He was looking back at her with such indifference a casual viewer would have thought she had never meant anything to him. “I hear you will be managing the cotton gin at Willow Glen,” she said, wanting so much to take the blankness from his face.

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Sinclair nodded. “I have to live somewhere and the Brells were good enough to offer a small salary so I won’t be completely penniless,” he replied, and could have kicked himself for the hateful remark. A sharp pain ripped through Ivonne’s heart and she turned, needing suddenly to get away from this man she had helped to destroy. “Why?” She stopped, but didn’t turn back around at his harsh question. She stood still, her head lowered, her hands clutched in the folds of her skirt. “Ivonne, why?” he repeated, his voice so lost and so hurt, like a small boy who has been whipped for no good reason. How could she tell him? What could she say that would make him understand? He waited, his heart in his tormented gaze, but she did not turn around. Instead, she pushed open the gate and hurried out. For the first time, he noticed the black woman who had obviously accompanied her mistress, for Silky rushed forward and put an arm around Ivonne’s quaking shoulders, bending her dark head to speak to the white woman. “Why?” he yelled, now more angry than hurt. “I loved you, Ivonne! Why did you marry him? Why didn’t you wait for me?” He started after her, intent on stopping her and making her answer, but Silky held out a warning hand, denying him the right to come any closer. “Go home, Mister Sin,” Silky told him. “We don’t want no trouble.” “Ivonne?” he questioned one final time, hoping she would say something, but the two women increased their pace and were soon lost among the magnolia trees that grew thick on the edge of the cemetery plot.

***** Sinclair had been given a cottage near the cotton gin because he had not wanted to be under the same roof as his grandmother. The old woman’s piercing scrutiny followed him everywhere he went at Willow Glen and her scathing tongue was more than he could bear. He simply could not endure her one more night, yet he had not said it that plainly to Leland. Although Sinclair was sure his cousin understood well enough the reasons for vacating the room allotted to him, he nevertheless had no choice but to take his evening meals with the rest of the family. “Can you afford a cook?” had been Leland’s argument. “Well, no, but—” “Can you cook?” Leland had taunted. Sin’s chin had lifted. “My men and I existed off parched corn before we were captured at Cumberland Gap, Lee. I think I can cook biscuits and—” “You will eat with us,” his grandmother had insisted, and that had been that.

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Now, sitting alone in the kitchen of his small cottage, Sinclair was fuming over the old woman’s demands that he attend a soiree she was giving for Conor and Tina the following week. The newlyweds had honeymooned in Paris and were due back home late the next morning. “We will welcome your cousin and his wife home in style,” Grace Vivienne had stated. “The cream of Savannah society will attend.” “I have business to see to,” he had argued, but his grandmother had been adamant. “You have family obligations, young sir, and you will attend to those first!” “Damned hateful old crone!” he named his grandmother and snatched up the canister of brandy he had swiped from Leland’s study. You are getting far too fond of this stuff, he told himself as he took a long, hard pull on the fiery plum-flavored liquor—almost as much of a fondness as Lee seems to have developed. Not that it mattered. Tomorrow was Sunday and the only thing he had to do was go to Mass with the rest of the family. If he were hungover, no one would notice. He’d just sit there with his head down, pious and saintly, and sleep if he had to. At least with his eyes shut he wouldn’t have to see Ivonne sitting beside Edward Delacroix, her belly plump with the Creole bastard’s offspring. With absolute rage flowing through his body, Sinclair lifted the brandy canister and flung it as hard as he could against the fieldstone fireplace. The expensive Waterford crystal hit the stones, shattered on impact and rained shards of glass all over the kitchen floor. He stared at the pieces, seeing his drunken reflection staring back at him from one of the jagged remnants, and thought what a wonderful metaphor for his life—shattered pieces. “Why?” he asked aloud, and thrust his hands through his hair. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and clenched his fingers through the sable curls, tugging brutally at them. “Why did you do it, Ivonne?” To someone who did not know this tormented man, the words and their tone would have sounded hopelessly defeated. But there was no hopelessness at that moment, only blind fury that threatened to suffocate Sinclair McGregor. He sat as he was for ten minutes, perhaps longer, then sprang up from the table as though yanked by unseen hands. With a murderous glint in his demon-dark eyes, he snatched up his hat and slammed out of the cottage.

***** Dorrie Burkhart smoothed the satin of her scarlet-red gown, adjusted the bodice and then headed for the man who had just entered her establishment. “Looking for company?” she inquired. Sinclair swung his attention from the two women in corsets he had been staring at to the saucy blonde woman walking his way. The exaggerated sway of her hips as she approached caught and held his attention, and he grinned. “How much?”

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Her eyesight wasn’t as sharp as it used to be but Dorrie, pushing thirty and looking older, recognized gentry when she saw it. Her cornflower blue eyes gleamed as she anticipated the purse this tall, dark man carried. “Depends on who you’d like to spend time with, I suppose,” Dorrie replied. She reached out and linked her arm through Sinclair’s. “And what you’d like to do.” Sinclair looked down into the overly made-up face of the prostitute and thought one whore was as good as another for what he needed. He looked from Dorrie to the two women who had first gained his notice. One was looking his way, smiling coyly— the other was leaning on the piano, her full attention on the man plying the keys. Neither of those women really interested him so he returned his attention to Dorrie. “How ‘bout you?” he asked. Dorrie smiled at him. There was a wavering scar on the man’s left cheek, but rather than detracting from his handsomeness, it added to it. The damage done made him appear dangerous and the glint in his cinnamon-brown gaze told her this one would be a handful. He was the kind of man Dorrie preferred—potentially lethal and devastatingly good-looking. “I am free for most of the evening,” she returned. She was held spellbound when the man’s finely chiseled lips stretched brutally over white teeth and his grin became predatory. A shiver ran down her spine and, for one moment, she thought better of taking him above stairs with her. Sinclair sensed the whore’s sudden misgiving. He realized the anger in his heart, seething in his brain, must have somehow communicated itself to her. He relaxed the tenseness of his face. “All I want is a warm body for an hour or so,” he told her, letting the sincerity of his request show through. “Nothing weird, nothing exotic. Just a nice, warm body.” Dorrie’s brows drew together. There was just a hint of quiet desperation in the man’s words. She became aware of the loneliness in his face. He wasn’t begging her with his words to ease that loneliness but the need was there nevertheless, as well as the blazing knowledge that someone, some woman, had hurt this man very deeply. “Shall we retire to my boudoir, then?” she asked, and watched as relief shifted subtly over the man’s thin face. Had he thought he would be rejected…here of all places? “I’d like that, mam’selle,” he replied, and the smile he gave her made Dorrie’s heart pound. She had a glimpse of the man he must have been before the wicked scar had damaged his self-image. She led him to the stairs, casting a glance to the two women she thought were most unfortunate not to be taking this man to their bed. “What’s your name, sugar?” Dorrie asked. “Just call me Sin.”

*****

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She watched him sleeping, his hair tousled on the sweat-dampened pillow. There was a frown on his face and his breathing was short, raspy. He was obviously locked in the throes of a nightmare for now and again he would whimper and twitch, his legs thrashing out as though he were running. Ordinarily, as soon as business had been taken care of, Dorrie would eject the customer from her bed. Since she owned the Thorny Rose Gentleman’s Club, she could do as she pleased. She had, of course, her regular customers—men of means with deep pockets and generous notions—yet most nights, she simply acted as policeman and overseer of the five girls who were in her employ rather than turning the tricks herself. If Dorrie did not wish to receive “company” as she called it, she did not. It was rare for her to take on a new client and when she did, she made certain the terms of their relationship were discussed in detail beforehand. Finances always came first with Dorrie Jean Burkhart. But this one was different, she thought as she lay beside the thrashing man and watched him. Her head was propped on the support of one fist, her other hand lay gently on Sin’s sweaty shoulder. “What demons haunt you, sugar?” she whispered as a loud groan of absolute torment escaped the dreaming man’s lips. She reached out to ease a thick lock of hair from Sin’s eyes and as she did, those tortured windows to his soul flew open. For a moment it seemed he did not recognize her, did not know where he was. There was a wild, trapped look on his sweat-glistening face. He stared at her, fear and incomprehension stamped across his countenance like the imprint of an inquisitor’s brand. Then he pushed himself up in the bed, his hand shaking as he plowed it through his damp hair. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked, his voice gruff. “An hour or so,” she replied. She knew it was longer than that, but it didn’t matter. Sinclair drew in a long breath then let it out in a wavering rush. His mouth tasted as though a herd of buffalo had tramped through it and his head was pounding fiercely. “What the hell did I drink?” he demanded, licking his lips. “I don’t know what you had before you came here, honey, but you drank a bottle of my best cognac as though it were lemonade,” she laughed. “Cognac?” he repeated. My god! How much am I going to owe this woman? he thought. He tried to remember exactly what he’d had in his pockets when he’d come there, but couldn’t remember. He looked out over the room, searching for his trousers. “Don’t worry about that now,” Dorrie told him, instinctively knowing what he was thinking. “I haven’t been loved like that since I lost my…” she stopped, chuckling silently. “Well, let’s just say I had a good time,” she finished. Sinclair couldn’t remember what had happened from the time he’d walked into the Thorny Rose Gentleman’s Club to the moment he’d awakened to find this strange woman leaning over him, her hand on his cheek. He couldn’t even remember her name. “I gotta get outta here,” he said lamely, and started to throw the covers back from his 56

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naked body, but the effort made his head swim unmercifully and he gagged, instant nausea galloping up his throat to burn and warn. “I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere anytime soon,” Dorrie predicted. She tossed the covers back from her side and stood up, hurried to the chamber pot tucked under his side of the massive brass bed and sat down beside him. She had barely dented the mattress before he got sick. Grimacing, Dorrie held Sinclair’s forehead as he relieved his supper into the chamber pot. “I don’t think you’re all that used to drinking, are you, sugar?” she queried. “No,” he answered weakly before another round of nausea turned his world into a series of sickening strains. When it seemed there was nothing more for her patient to bring up out of his spastic gut, Dorrie left him with the chamber pot clutched tightly in his hand and went to find the soothing powders that would ease his sickness. She mixed the powders with water and brought the green-tinted milky cure back to him. “Here, drink this.” As sick as he still felt, Sinclair didn’t question her order. He meekly drank the godawful mess, hoping the whore hadn’t poisoned him. He was grateful when she helped him lie back down because he didn’t think there was any way he could get up and navigate on his own. “I think you’d better just spend the night here, sugar,” Dorrie advised. “Can’t,” he whispered, although the pain was easing from his pounding temples and the fur was being shaved from his teeth. “Afraid the little woman will come looking for you?” Dorrie teased. She had looked for a wedding ring when he’d first come in and hadn’t seen one. But that didn’t make much difference in this day and age. There were men who refused to wear a wedding band and those who took the telltale sign of commitment to vows off when they ventured into establishments such as hers. “I don’t have a woman,” came the soft reply. “It seems she couldn’t wait.” Ah, Dorrie thought. This was one of the walking wounded, then. A man who had gone off to war, leaving behind a sweetheart, only to come home and find another man had usurped his place while he had been risking his life for his country. “She didn’t deserve you, then,” Dorrie pronounced with firm resolve. Sinclair shook his head. “I wasn’t good enough for her.” Dorrie’s lips tightened. “Well, that’s a load of horse shit if I’ve ever heard it! You are certainly one hell of a man!” she snapped. When he looked over at her, surprised, she arched a brow. “Professionally speaking, of course.” Sinclair blushed and had to look away. “It has been a long time,” he mumbled. “Once you learn to ride, you never forget how,” Dorrie proclaimed, and was delighted to see the blush on Sinclair’s face deepen. How many men did she know who were still capable of blushing? Not many! 57

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“I…ah…” Sinclair cleared his throat. He looked once more for his trousers and finally saw them folded neatly on the woman’s desk chair. “I have to go.” Dorrie didn’t say anything as her bedmate tossed back the covers and swung his long legs over the side of the high bed. For a moment, she watched him hover there, gripping the mattress tightly, his head hanging down. She knew he was still feeling the powerful effects of the potent cognac he’d consumed and was certainly in no condition to leave, let alone climb atop a horse, but she kept silent, waiting for him to realize he wasn’t going to be able to get up on his own steam. As she watched him and waited, her gaze roamed over the broad expanse of his back and lingered on the three long grooves that had been cut into the flesh across his shoulders, down his spine and along one hip. The daughter of a muleskinner, Dorrie knew damned well what had caused such destruction and wondered what Sin had done to warrant such inhumane treatment. “I don’t think I’m gonna be able to get up, mam’selle,” she heard him say. Dorrie smiled. “I didn’t think you would.” He tried to turn his head to look at her, but the nausea came galloping back and he had to swallow hard to keep it down. “Just lay back down and let’s get some sleep. Dawn isn’t that far off,” she reminded him. Despite his drunken agony, Sinclair’s head snapped up. Dawn? He could feel the blood draining from his face. How long had he been in this woman’s bed? “If you’re worried about what you owe me,” Dorrie told him, “don’t. First time’s on the house.” “No,” he managed to say. Business was business and he’d pay for what he got. “It may take me a while to pay you for last night, but—” “Lay down,” she cut him off. “We can discuss our future arrangements later. When you feel better.” Sinclair was finally able to twist around so he could see her face. “Future arrangements?” he questioned. Dorrie inclined her head. “Let’s just say I would prefer you reimbursed me in kind, sugar.” His brows drew together. “In kind?” She reached for him, pulling him unresisting back down to the bed. “Let’s negotiate our terms,” she said, and her hands set out to do the explaining for her.

***** The sun was well up in the sky before Sinclair was able to make his way out of the Thorny Rose Gentleman’s Club. He had to put up a hand to ward off the harsh sunlight. Squinting against the glare, he walked to his horse and mounted. How he was going to explain his absence from Mass this morning was uppermost in his mind as he took the road out of town. By now, the family would be gathered at Willow Glen, having lunch. 58

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Would Conor and Tina be back? he wondered, and thought briefly of going down to the docks to see if the Northwind had docked. But in his condition—rumpled and with a day’s worth of stubble on his unwashed face—he certainly wouldn’t make a presentable figure to greet his returning cousins. No, he thought. Best to go home, take a bath and then head on over to Willow Glen. He was already mentally preparing himself for the vicious lecture he could expect from his grandmother and the knowing looks from Lee and Brendan. “Who was she?” he could hear Leland asking. “How much was she?” Brendan would need to know. What was her name again? Dorrie, he remembered. A slight smile slipped into place on his lips. Maybe life wasn’t going to be so bad in Savannah after all.

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Chapter Six Despite what he had thought, his grandmother said nothing to Sinclair about missing Mass on Sunday, although her pursed lips and flashing eyes conveyed her anger more than mere words could have. He had spent the week avoiding her and now that the guests were beginning to arrive for Conor and Tina’s party, he could no longer expect to be spared his grandmother’s scathing tongue. Nor was he. “Young man!” Sinclair stopped, lifted his eyes to heaven then turned around, a smile he did not feel plastered on his mouth. “Yes, ma’am?” Grace Vivienne was advancing on him, an elderly gentleman in tow, her hand held securely in the crook of the octogenarian’s arm. “I want a word with you, Rory Sinclair!” she snapped. “This can’t be Sin!” the old gentleman exclaimed. His rheumy eyes lit up. “Devon’s brat?” “How are you Colonel Bartlett?” Sinclair inquired, reaching out for the frail, liverspotted hand that was thrust at him. “Fair to middling, boy, fair to middling.” Roy Floyd Bartlett’s grip was firmer and stronger than Sinclair would have imagined. “You’re looking fit as snuff. None the worse for wear, I’m thinking.” “He has gained some weight since coming home but he, like his cousins, has developed a strong addiction to the brew!” Grace Vivienne stated. “Do tell,” the colonel grinned. “Like a spot of it myself at the end of the day.” He released Sinclair’s hand. “Nothing like good Kentucky whiskey to aid the digestion.” “Humph,” Grace Vivienne snorted. “Where is Leland, Rory Sinclair?” Sinclair looked around them. “I think he and Brendan are showing Mr. Arnold the new foal. Would you like me to—” “I want you to walk with me,” she cut him off, and politely disengaged her hand from Colonel Bartlett’s arm. With a sweet, almost coy look on her wrinkled face, she tilted her eyes up to her escort. “Will you excuse us, R.F.?” She held her hand out to him, fingers curled downward. The colonel bowed elegantly, took her hand and kissed the arthritic fingers. “Of course, ma’am.” He inclined his head in Sinclair’s direction then ambled off, spine erect and shoulders squared. “I’ve always liked the colonel,” Sinclair said.

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“I should think so,” his grandmother snapped. Before he could respond, she threaded her arm through his and began to walk toward the gazebo, dragging him reluctantly in her wake. When they reached the structure, she indicated that he help her climb the steps. Once inside, she sat on the swing, arranged her skirts, folded her hands in her lap and then looked up at him sternly. “I have been informed that you visited an establishment of ill repute this past weekend,” she stated. Sinclair winced. Who the hell had told the old biddy? He opened his mouth to answer, but his grandmother didn’t give him a chance. “Now, I understand why you did not see fit to Honor the Lord and keep Holy his Sabbath!” “Grandmother, I am…” he began, his face red. “Going to hell as surely as the sun will set in the west!” she threw at him. Her mouth twisted into an ugly line. “But then you seem to revel in consorting with whorish women, do you not, Rory Sinclair?” The blush on Sinclair’s face turned redder still, but it was anger now instead of shame that deepened the color. “As I was going to say before you so rudely interrupted me, Grandmother,” he grated, his jaw set, “I am a grown man. I have certain—” Grace Vivienne waved a dismissive hand. “Needs?” she queried. Her nose practically quivered. “I know all about men’s so-called ‘needs’, Rory Sinclair. Your father, the Saints be good to him, kept a darkie for his amusements.” She snapped open the fan she wore hanging from a strap on her left wrist. She fanned herself briskly. “While I find the whole sordid business contemptible and ungodly, I quite understand the nature of a man, and although I recognize these baser instincts as things men seem compelled to satisfy, I will not have a grandson of mine spending the night in such places!” Sinclair ground his teeth together and carefully chose his words. “I had had a bit too much—” “Brew!” his grandmother finished for him. “Yes, I am aware that you have developed the habit.” She stopped fanning and glared at him. “That will stop, Rory Sinclair. I have already so informed your cousins that there will be no more indiscriminate imbibing in my house.” “Your house?” he questioned, his anger building. “Since when did Willow Glen become your house, Grandmother?” Storm clouds were building in the dark recesses of his eyes. “The house is Leland’s, not yours!” Grace Vivienne’s lips curled with contempt. “As long as I am matriarch of this family, the house is under my jurisdiction!” The fan began to move at an incredible speed, causing the fine white hairs at her temple to move as though they were alive. “Leland has no problem with that. Why do you?”

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“Leland couldn’t care less about what goes on around him!” Sinclair snapped. “He came back from the war missing his leg as well as his backbone it seems, if he can accept you making him a guest in his own home!” His grandmother surprised the hell out of him when she pushed up from the swing and without pause, drew back her hand and slapped him as hard as she could. Rocked by the force of her hand, Sinclair stumbled back, the imprint of her palm livid on his scarred cheek. He put up a hand to the stinging pain, wondering how a woman his grandmother’s age could move so fast and hit so damned hard. “Do not,” he heard his grandmother say in a low, compelling voice, “ever speak to me in such a manner again, sir!” Knowing he had overstepped his bounds, Sinclair swallowed his embarrassment, lifted his chin, and tried to keep the anger from his voice. “I apologize, Grandmother,” he said, his jaw clenched. “From the moment you were born, I told Devon you would be the scourge of his family,” Grace Vivienne declared. “I told him he would have to take the strap to you more than he ever would Duncan or Leondis.” Her eyes narrowed hatefully. “Unfortunately, you were his favorite and he allowed you far more leeway than he ever did your brothers.” She raked her gaze down his tall frame. “And that was surely a mistake for you have turned into a common individual with no manners or sense of family pride.” Sinclair held his tongue. He had always known his grandmother despised him, but he was just now learning how much. When she took a step toward him, he stood his ground, refusing to cower as Leland, Conor and Brendan did before her wicked temper. “Were it not for you,” Grace Vivienne said, her face ugly and hateful, “WindLass would still belong to this family. As it is, unless you start doing what is expected of you, it will remain in that heathen’s hands!” “And just what is it you think I can do, Grandmother?” he threw at her. “I have no money—” “Take it back!” the old woman shouted at him. “How?” he returned with equal fire. Grace Vivienne poked him in the chest with her fan, punctuating her words with a vicious stab. “Do I really have to tell you, Rory Sinclair? There is only one way—go after the whore!” “And just what am I to do about her husband?” Sinclair scoffed, letting slide the insult to Ivonne. A mean, evil smile formed on the old woman’s lips. “Kill him, of course.” “In cold blood?” he questioned. “Just shoot him down on the highway like a rabid dog?” “Challenge him to a duel,” she suggested, her smile lethal. “You are a better shot than he, are you not?”

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Sinclair snorted. “The last I heard, dueling was illegal in Savannah, Grandmother. Even if I managed to win, I’d be hung for murder.” “Oh pooh!” she snapped, waving away the suggestion. “There isn’t a magistrate in seven counties who would dare convict a McGregor of murder for disposing of a heathen like Delacroix!” “Well, I hope you’ll forgive me for not finding out if that’s true or not!” he grated. Grace Vivienne lifted her chin. “Speak no more to me of backbones, Rory Sinclair. It seems neither you nor your cousin returned from the War with one in tow!” With that, she snapped her skirts behind her and was down the steps and onto the lawn as agilely and quickly as a woman half her age. Sinclair watched her bulldoze her way across the verdant lawn, marveling that such a small woman could be such an overpowering presence. He saw her guests—and there was no question that those assembled to honor Conor and Tina were his grandmother’s guests, no one else’s—bow and scrape to her as though she were the Queen of Georgia. “A mad queen,” he said beneath his breath. “A crazy old bitch of a queen!” Since there had never been any love to lose between them, he wasn’t hurt by her treatment of him. He had long since developed a tough skin over his heart where his grandmother was concerned. After his parents had been killed, she had applied the strap she had mentioned far too many times for him to have anything but fear and dislike for the old woman. Her whippings with the leather strap she kept for such purposes had drawn blood until it ran down his bare legs. The first woman he had ever bedded had remarked upon the scars on his backside. “You must have been one hell of a child!” Robertis had quipped. “I was an unloved child,” he’d returned. Standing there in the gazebo, his hand on the post beside him, Sinclair wondered— and not for the first time—why his grandmother hated him the way she did. There had to be more to it than just having been born.

***** “Where have you been?” Sinclair smiled. “Getting my ass chewed,” he responded, and took the slim hand that was extended toward him. “How’s married life treating you, little cousin?” Christina Dunn Brell shrugged. “I’ve got my work cut out for me, Sin.” She sighed loudly. “C.J. is a handful, I’m afraid.” “I do believe you’ll manage,” Sin laughed. He looked at the petite woman with the golden hair and sassy blue eyes and almost envied C.J. his possession of the lady’s heart. Tina would be a blessing to his cousin. Tina looked around them and then lowered her voice. “I hear tell you’ve been visiting naughty places and doing wicked things,” she accused, but the twinkle in her eyes gave lie to the seriousness expressed in her words. 63

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Sinclair ducked his head toward hers. “And enjoyed the hell out of it too!” Tina drew back, pretend shock on her delicate face. “For shame, Rory Sinclair McGregor! You’ll go to Hell for sure!” “So I’ve been told,” he returned. C.J.’s new wife linked her arm in his. “Then I shall just have to try to save you,” she put in. “And how do you propose to do that, Miss Wiseacre?” he asked, walking with her. “I shall have to find a good woman to take you in hand,” she countered. She did not look up at him but she had felt his body go rigid. She didn’t give him a chance to protest her words for she continued on in an insistent voice. “You know you need to marry.” “Who says so?” he grated, his jaw set. “Conor and I,” she replied. She risked a look at his face and wasn’t too discouraged by the slight pique that had mottled his complexion. “We want you happy.” “Then tell Ivonne to leave that prick she’s married to,” Sinclair snapped. A long relationship since childhood with the man walking beside her allowed Tina to overlook his vulgar word and the anger in his tone. She squeezed his arm tighter and refused to comment. “I’m not joking, Tina,” Sinclair told her. “Oh, I know you aren’t,” Tina responded. “But you and I both know there will be no divorce for Ivonne so stop acting like a little boy whose candy has been filched by the local bully and grow up!” Sinclair stopped, causing the woman at his side to stumble. He had to put out a hand to keep her from doing so. He lowered his voice so no one would hear. “Don’t you start giving me advice about how I am supposed to conduct myself, Christina!” “Then stop mooning after Ivonne and get on with your life!” Tina demanded. “She is a married woman with a child on the way and there is no chance under heaven that any of that is going to change!” “So I’m just supposed to forget I love her? Forget that she is the only woman I will ever love?” he challenged. Tina held his stare. “She wants you happy, Sinclair, and she knows the only way that will ever happen is if you get over her!” “And if I don’t want to do that?” he fumed. “Then you will become the male version of Grace Vivienne McGregor Brell!” Tina seethed. “I don’t have a female first cousin to marry!” he tossed at her, knowing where this was leading. Tina’s eyes narrowed. “You know what I mean!” “No, I don’t,” he returned, obstinately.

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“See?” Tina grumbled. “That’s what comes of marrying your first cousin! Someone should have warned Grace Vivienne that her grandchildren would be addled!” “I don’t want anyone but Ivonne,” he stated, each word dropping like a rock into the conversation. “Well, you can’t have her!” Tina reminded him. She lifted her hand and waved to a group of women who were standing together near the long plank boards that had been set up as buffet tables. “But I can introduce you to—” Sinclair disengaged his arm, spun around on his heel and was striding briskly away before Tina could stop him. “Coward!” she called after him, but her giggle let him know she wasn’t angry. From her place beneath a spreading chinaberry tree, Ivonne had been watching her best friend and the only man Ivonne would ever love in deep conversation. She knew well enough what was being said for she and Tina had discussed it in depth the evening before. “You have to make him understand that things have changed,” Ivonne had insisted. “Make him get on with his life.” “He’s a stubborn man,” Tina had insisted. “You can lead a mule to water, but you can’t make him take a wife he doesn’t want!” Ivonne smiled as she remembered their conversation. Tina was infamous for mixing her metaphors. It was one of her most endearing traits. Conor and Sinclair had given her a nickname when they were growing up—Willa Wiseacre—for Tina was always dispensing advice whether it was asked for or not. But the advice she had given her girlhood friend the evening before had gone straight to Ivonne’s heart. “You have to let him go as well, Ivonne,” Tina had counseled. “Until you do, neither of you will be able to get over the other.” Easier said than done, Ivonne thought. For as long as she drew breath, she would love Sinclair McGregor—and only Sinclair McGregor. He had been her heart and soul for as long as she had known what true love meant. Her dreams had been filled with his handsome face and her body ached for the feel of his strong arms around her. “Are you feeling all right, my dear?” Ivonne shook herself and looked up to the man standing beside her. “I am fine, Edward,” she replied. “You look a touch wilted, Sister.” Ivonne frowned. “I am fine,” she repeated, and turned her attention to the tall, graceful blonde woman standing beside Edward. “Why don’t you take your sister and introduce her to everyone, Edward?” Edward nodded absently. He had spotted the one man he had been searching for in this boring mass and was studiously watching him. “I shall. Perhaps later.”

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“There are so many terribly handsome men in the throng,” Evangeline Delacroix Hardy quipped. Her violet eyes swept over the assembled men. “I can hardly wait to be introduced to those you think suitable, Edward.” “Of course,” her brother replied, but he wasn’t paying any attention to his widowed sister. Finding her a husband so he might get her out from under his roof was certainly high on his list of things to do but, at the moment, he had something more important on his mind. Evangeline looked away from the men she had been surveying and down at her sister-in-law. “You know,” she said, her mouth crooked into a frown of disapproval, “it would not be considered decent for a woman in your condition to be seen publicly in New Orleans.” “Savannah has long made its own rules,” Ivonne responded, her face set. “Just because a woman is pregnant—” “Oooh!” Evangeline said, putting her hands over her ears. “One does not say that word in polite company!” She stamped her foot. “Edward, please! Isn’t it bad enough that I must accompany you into public with her in such a condition? Must we be subjected to her base language?” Edward looked away from his quarry and stared at his sister. “What?” he inquired. He had no idea what his sister and wife had been discussing. Not that it mattered. From the moment Evangeline had shown up on his doorstep two days earlier—and upon learning of the soiree scheduled at a neighboring plantation and insisting she be included—the household at WindLass had been turned upside down. Not only had his only sibling arrived with every possession she owned, but the twit had also made it plain she would be living with Edward until husband number three could be found. And that wouldn’t be soon enough for Edward! “She is enceinte, Edward,” Evangeline complained as though her brother didn’t know his wife was with child. “You should have insisted she stay home.” “Take your sister and introduce her around, Edward,” Ivonne ground out, her hands clenched tightly on the arm of the chair in which she sat. “I insist!” Edward sighed. “Of course.” He wanted to be out of Evangeline’s company as much as his wife did. He held out his arm. “Come along, sister.” Ivonne’s face was murderous as she watching the tall, willowy creature sashaying away with Edward. As it all too often happened when beautiful women met, there had been instantaneous dislike between them. Each had sized up the other and formed an immediate and irreversible opinion of the other’s attributes. Ivonne had no idea—and didn’t care to know—what Evangeline thought of her. Her thoughts on her sister-inlaw, however, were precise and to the point—Evangeline was a female shark! “I will need to remarry as soon as possible,” the woman had stated at the table that first night. “A lady must never be without resources and have to depend upon the charity of her family.” “What happened to all the money John David Hardy left you?” Edward had asked. 66

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Evangeline had tossed her blonde curls. “Once his gambling debts were paid, I was left virtually penniless.” “And I don’t suppose there was any money left from the Granger estate?” Edward had pressed. Ivonne had learned that a rattlesnake had bitten Evangeline’s first husband Gerald Robert Granger not long after their marriage. The poor man had lingered on for several weeks and then took his last breath while calling for his wife. “Edward!” Evangeline had proclaimed, putting her handkerchief to the corner of her eye. “You know I do not like to discuss my darling Gerry!” Edward had explained to Ivonne later that evening that Granger had been a wealthy tobacco farmer in Virginia, but his family had protested his will, which left everything to Evangeline, and the estate had been settled in favor of his brother. “I’ll be willing to bet the next time she marries, my dear sister will have papers drawn up that will ensure there is no way for her husband’s family to contest what he leaves her!” Edward had commented. “That’s providing her husband preceds her in death,” Ivonne had reminded him. A strange look had come into Edward’s face and he had smiled. The smile had been almost evil. “I would venture to say Evangeline will be around long after she’s put a few more husbands in their graves.” “Edward!” Ivonne had gasped. She didn’t like the woman but had found that a terrible thing for a man to say about his only sister, but Edward had laughed. “A woman like Evangeline will worry any man she marries to death, Ivonne. Believe me. She hasn’t been here long enough for you to want to strangle her, but you will!” He had draped a companionable arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Let’s just hope we can get her married as soon as possible.” He winked. “Else I might be tempted to do the bitch in, myself!” Looking around at the eligible bachelors of Chatham County, Ivonne wondered which one would have the misfortune to catch Evangeline’s eye. At least, she thought, it certainly wouldn’t be Sinclair McGregor, though he was by far the handsomest of the lot, for Edward had hinted that only a wealthy man would be good enough of his sister. Sinclair’s name drifted through Ivonne’s mind and settled there like a sharp pain. She searched for him among those gathered but didn’t see him. Did he even know she was there? Had Tina told him? If she had, he was making it a point to avoid the area of the lawn where Ivonne was seated. She slumped in her chair and placed a hand on the mound of her belly. It wouldn’t be long now until her child came. She just wished she didn’t feel so bad all the time. For the last two days, she’d been sick to her stomach far more than she had during the first trimester of her pregnancy. Heartburn had been especially bad and she had a niggling shunt of pain just under her rib cage. She hadn’t felt the baby moving as much as he had been and not at all that day. She rubbed her stomach. That usually got his attention, but there was no movement. 67

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“Ivonne?” Ivonne’s heart thumped wildly against her breast and she slowly turned her head. He was standing about five feet away, looking more handsome than any man had a right to look. His dark hair was curled in the high humidity of the August day and a single lock had found its way over his forehead. There was a slight gleam of sweat on his face. “I shouldn’t have run away from you that day,” she said softly. “I do owe you an explanation.” Sinclair reached up, pulled a leaf from the chinaberry tree and looked down at it, unable to meet her eyes. “I don’t think now’s the time for explanations.” “No,” she agreed. She ached to get up and go to him, to run her fingers through his thick hair. She had always thrilled to the touch of it, the smell of it. When he lifted his head and looked into her eyes, she caught her breath for there were tears in his. “Tina is intent on playing matchmaker,” she heard him say. She could not allow his tears to fall for that would be her undoing. She had done this to him, caused this melancholy that brooded so harshly on his face. It was up to her to set things right, but she had no idea where to start. “I have no intention of marrying, Ivonne,” he told her. His look was intense. “I will not settle for second best.” The insult was there, she thought. He knew well enough that she herself had settled for less than what she had always wanted. He didn’t know why—and at the moment she dared not tell him—but one day he would know and she hoped it would not destroy him. “I want you to be happy,” she said, and felt the prickle of her own tears forming. There was a wry, self-mocking laugh from his chiseled lips then he looked away, watching a group of children rolling a hoop along the grass. “I don’t think that’s going to happen, Ivonne,” he replied. “You…” Ivonne felt a wave of nausea lurching up her throat and stopped, trying to swallow down the bitter bile. It would not do to throw up in front of Sinclair—she would be mortified for as long as she lived. Sinclair wasn’t looking at her and wasn’t aware of the pallor that had erupted over her face. He was watching the children. “I won’t pretend to try to understand what you saw in him or why you would want to marry him in the first place, but even if I can’t accept it, I can honor it.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Even if that goes against every instinct in my body.” Ivonne was beginning to feel worse. She was hot, sweating profusely and the niggling pain under her rib cage became a steady prod. She put her hands on her belly. “Sinclair?” she whispered.

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He didn’t hear her. “I thought I could stay here, but I can’t.” He opened his eyes. “I have decided to leave Savannah and go over to Colquitt. Tina’s brother says his uncle needs someone to help him with his farm.” “Sinclair?” Sinclair turned to her and froze. Ivonne was standing in front of her chair, her hand out to him. Her face was ghastly white. He took one step and then saw her knees begin to buckle. Moving quicker than he ever had, he was at her side, catching her as she fainted. He swept her up in his arms, yelling for help. Even as he ran toward the house, her unconscious body draped over his arms, he felt the heavy wetness of her gown slapping at his legs and smelled the thick, cloying stench of copper.

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Chapter Seven Tina was crying softly against her husband’s shoulder. Brendan and Leland paced back and forth in front of the hearth. Grace Vivienne sat plying her knitting with dexterous fingers that defied her age and arthritis. Edward Delacroix stood like a statue in the corner of the drawing room, his fierce gaze locked hatefully on Sinclair. “I hold you responsible for this, McGregor!” he growled. Sinclair looked up from his contemplation of the rug at his feet and turned his head toward Delacroix. There was no expression on the younger man’s face and when he did not answer the accusation but simply stared at his enemy, Delacroix cursed him. “There is no need for vulgarities, Mr. Delacroix,” Grace Vivienne stated firmly. “Rory Sinclair is not at fault here.” “Then who is, madam?” Delacroix shouted. “Do not raise your voice to me, young man!” Grace Vivienne cautioned. “This is my home and I will remind you that you are a guest here.” Delacroix’s jaw clenched. He bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment of the chastisement. “My apologies, Miss Grace Vivienne,” he muttered, his heated gaze straying once more to a silent Sinclair. “Dr. Doorenbos,” Leland said quietly. Every eye in the room flew to the staircase down which the young doctor came. There was a weary look on his bearded face as he unfolded the shirtsleeves he had rolled above his elbows. His attention went straight to Edward as that man crossed the room in a rush. “How is she?” Delacroix demanded as he reached the staircase. Grace Vivienne looked toward Sinclair and frowned. The boy was still sitting there—as he had been for the last two hours—mute and detached, his face carefully blank. Even now, as he looked at the doctor, there was no emotion showing on his lean countenance. “Well?” Edward snapped. “I am sorry to be the one to tell you we were not able to save your daughter, Mr. Delacroix,” the physician stated gravely. “Your wife is resting as comfortably as possible.” “Daughter,” Edward said as though the word were a heavy stone to be dropped.

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“Yes. I fear the infant had expired long before this afternoon.” Dr. Doorenbos’ brows pulled together. “Has your wife been ill in the last day or two?” Delacroix did not seem to be listening. He was looking past the physician, staring at the door to the room in which Ivonne lay. “A girl child,” he muttered, and then seemed to shake himself. A look of what appeared to everyone there as relief came over his face. “Well, I am, of course, devastated by the loss of my daughter, but there will be others.” Dr. Doorenbos blinked. “Beg pardon?” he asked, shocked by the man’s cavalier attitude. Edward waved a dismissive hand. “I had been expecting a boy, you see. While I am saddened to lose my firstborn, it was, after all, a female. I am sure the next babe will be a boy.” Sinclair came slowly to his feet, his hands clenched into fists at his side. The physician stared with disbelief at the man. He shook his head, seeming to want to push away the shocking words he had heard. He looked from Grace Vivienne to Leland then back at Delacroix. “Sir?” he questioned. “You have not allowed me to finish what I have to say.” “You can explain whatever needs saying on the way to WindLass,” Edward declared. He turned, spying Brendan. “Brell, fetch my man. We will carry my wife—” “Sir!” Dr. Doorenbos interrupted, his face stern. “You will not be taking your ladywife anywhere for the time being!” Delacroix looked back around and fixed the physician with an arched brow. “Her place is in our home, in her own bed.” He glanced toward Sinclair who was still standing immobile by Leland. He sneered and then turned back to Doorenbos. “I will not allow her to spend one more moment here.” “Mr. Delacroix,” Dr. Doorenbos spoke as though to the village idiot. “Your wife is ill. She has lost a great deal of blood and may be suffering a malaise with which I am not familiar.” “What kind of malaise?” Grace Vivienne spoke up. The physician shook his head. “I am not certain. That is why I asked if the lady had been ill prior to today.” “Of course she has not,” Edward denied. “She was fine until that bastard brought on her miscarriage.” “That was uncalled for!” Conor growled. “You can not blame Sin for—” “I most certainly can!” Delacroix cut him off. “Had he not upset my wife, thrown her into turmoil with his demands.” “What demands did I make?” Sinclair asked in a deadly quiet voice. Delacroix raised his chin and looked down his nose. “Well, I suppose only you and my wife know what adulterous suggestions you were making to her behind my back, McGregor!” 71

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“Mister Delacroix!” Grace Vivienne gasped. “How dare you accuse my grandson of such a thing!” Delacroix ignored the old woman’s question. Instead, he turned back to the physician. “I am removing my wife from this house.” He made to push past Doorenbos, but the young doctor reached out and took a firm grasp of Edward’s upper arm. “No, sir, you are not!” the physician stated succinctly. “I administered a goodly amount of laudanum so she would sleep. Rest is what she needs at the moment and I cannot allow you to remove her from her bed. She might likely bleed to death if you do!” “I am taking my wife home with me!” Delacroix shouted. “No, you aren’t,” Sinclair told him. Delacroix rounded on his enemy, stalking toward him, eyes blazing and fists raised. He would have swung at Sinclair had Leland not hobbled between them and caught Delacroix in a bear hug. “Be still, man!” Leland demanded. He half pulled Delacroix’s coat from his shoulders in his attempt to keep Edward from attacking Sinclair. “You want me,” Sinclair challenged, “we’ll take it outside, but Ivonne is not leaving this house.” “You keep my wife’s name from your filthy lips, McGregor!” Delacroix raged. He pulled away from Leland and shrugged his suit coat back into position. “I thought you a gentleman, sir,” Grace Vivienne observed, “but I can see I might well have been mistaken.” She stood up. “I must ask you to leave my home.” Shooting his cuffs, Delacroix glared spitefully at Sinclair but made no further attempt to hit him. He turned toward the old woman, his jaw set. “I ask your pardon for my behavior, Miss Grace Vivienne. I must cite my grief as the culprit for allowing my baser instincts to govern my head.” He ignored Sinclair’s rude snort. There were no commiserating eyes looking at him from the room and he knew he had worn out his welcome. The only face-saving thing to do would be to depart. It galled him to leave Ivonne at Willow Glen, but he saw no way to force these people to hand her over to him. “Your sister is welcome to stay, of course,” Grace Vivienne declared. “I would imagine Ivonne would appreciate the company.” “She was a great help,” Dr. Doorenbos said, though he had taken an instant dislike to the woman. There had been something far too avid about her face when the child had been delivered stillborn. He shook off the feeling. “I will, naturally, be visiting every day. I need to peruse my medical journals. Perhaps I can discover similar conditions as those under which Mrs. Delacroix lost her child.” “Evangeline is welcome to stay if she so desires,” Edward mumbled. He could not have cared less if his sister stayed or dropped off the face of the Earth. At the moment,

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he had plans to make and he was now eager to leave Willow Glen and the unfriendly faces watching him. “You may visit whenever you feel the need,” Grace Vivienne commented, but she would have bet every nickel she had squirreled away that the man’s attendance on his wife would be sketchy at best. Delacroix bowed elegantly. “That is most gracious of you, ma’am,” he replied. He nodded at the doctor, at Leland, then spun on his heel and marched to the door. “I bid you all a good day.” Taking his hat and cane from Bossie he left. “And a good day to you too, you pissant Yankee collaborator,” Leland sniped beneath his breath. “How ill is she, Doctor?” Tina asked what everyone there wanted to know. “That’s hard to say, Mrs. Brell,” the physician answered. “I wanted to ask if she had perhaps eaten tainted meat, for she has all the symptoms of food poisoning.” He scratched his head. “Yet, her sister-in-law says she’s eaten nothing the rest of them have not eaten as well. She takes no special herbs or the like for energy and such. Frankly, I am at a loss to understand what caused the miscarriage. It makes no sense.” “Food poisoning,” Sinclair repeated. He looked up the stairs, his eyes narrowed. “Could she have been given something to make her lose the child?” “What are you suggesting, Rory Sinclair?” his grandmother demanded. “I’m not suggesting anything, Grandmother. I am only asking Ray if that might be a possibility,” Sinclair replied. Dr. Doorenbos shrugged. “Who would do such a thing, Sin? I know Delacroix is a heartless bastard, but surely he would not harm his own child.” “He seemed glad enough to learn it was a female child,” Tina accused. “I think he would have been less blasé had it been a male child he lost!” “He wanted the child,” Evangeline spoke from the stairs and everyone looked up at her as she came down the staircase. Sinclair had not met Delacroix’s sister and he wondered at the lack of resemblance between the two. Where Edward was dark-haired and dark-eyed, this woman was blonde with eyes the color of fresh cut lavender. Where Delacroix was tall and rangy, his sister was petite in shape with a body most men would find delectable. To him, she appeared overblown and haughty. As their eyes met, he saw instant assessment form in hers and he looked away. “My brother is a very private man. I am sure he is taking this harder than you all realize,” Evangeline insisted. She came off the staircase, walked straight to Sinclair and held out her hand. “I do not believe we have been introduced.” Sinclair had no choice but to take her proffered hand. Being the Southern gentleman he had been raised to be, he brought her fingers to his lips and placed a chaste kiss on her slender knuckles. “Sinclair McGregor, at your service,” he said politely.

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“Evangeline Hardy,” she replied, her gaze wandering over his handsome face and down his lean body. Leland saw the look of distaste flicker over his cousin’s face as the brazen woman’s scrutiny crawled over Sinclair. He might well have been amused by it if he too hadn’t felt the essence of pure evil flowing from Delacroix’s sister. “How is Ivonne?” Sinclair asked, withdrawing his hand. Evangeline’s lips pursed, giving away her displeasure at not being fully appreciated as she had intended. She fluttered her eyelashes in an attempt to garner interest in this handsome man, but when McGregor failed to take the bait, she frowned, remembered she was doing so and relaxed her features. After all, frowns caused lines and wrinkles. “My dear sister is resting,” Evangeline said, dismissing Sinclair with a look intended to punish him for his lack of attentiveness. She moved away, going unbidden to take a seat beside Grace Vivienne on the settee. “I do appreciate the offer to stay here in your beautiful home, Mrs. Brell. I am sure Ivonne will need my help.” Grace Vivienne eyed the beautiful woman and also felt the current of underlying evil about her. She nodded politely, but moved her skirts from contact with the other woman’s. “You are welcome to stay as long as needs be,” the old woman offered. “That is most kind of you,” Evangeline replied. “I promise I will be no trouble at all.” Leland exchanged a look with Sinclair. Neither man would care to make a wager on how much trouble the blonde woman would turn out to be. Sinclair shrugged in answer to Leland’s raised brow. “Well, I’ll be going,” Dr. Doorenbos said. He bowed to Grace Vivienne. “I’ll come by around ten tomorrow morning. Don’t hesitate to send for me if you need before then.” Grace Vivienne inclined her head. “Most certainly, Doctor.” She watched the physician take his leave then turned her hawklike attention to Sinclair. “Rory Sinclair?” she questioned. “Yes, ma’am?” Sinclair looked around. “Please check on our guest and make sure she is sleeping comfortably.” Evangeline gasped, her hand fluttering to her chest. “I certainly do not think it proper for a young man to enter a disposed lady’s boudoir!” she protested. Grace Vivienne smiled nastily and reached out to pat a soothing hand on the younger woman’s arm. “That’s quite all right, dear. Rory Sinclair and Ivonne have been friends since childhood.” A harsh red stain enveloped Evangeline’s face, turning her pretty face ugly. “I know of their connection, Miss Grace Vivienne, and I am certain my brother would object most strenuously to Captain McGregor—” “Your brother is not here,” Grace Vivienne said firmly, “and nothing untoward will occur under my roof while Ivonne is here, I can assure you.” She turned away from the

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shocked look on Evangeline’s face and stared pointedly at Sinclair. “Is that a correct assumption, Rory Sinclair?” He knew what his grandmother was doing. He also knew word of his having gone to Ivonne’s room would get back to the man intended to be angered by it. The meddling old biddy had every intention of seeing him and Delacroix at each other’s throats. He hoped the outcome of their inevitable meeting would be to her liking. “I would protect Ivonne with my life, Grandmother,” he replied. “Her honor is as sacred to me as it is to her.” Evangeline glared at him, consigning him to the devil with a look intended to allow him to see her displeasure. “I shall,” she said through clenched teeth, “have to report this impropriety to my brother.” “By all means, dear,” Grace Vivienne agreed. “We certainly want no secrets between our two families, do we, Rory Sinclair?” Sinclair shook his head. His grandmother was a crafty, sly old bitch who loved nothing better than to manipulate people. He wondered how his grandfather had ever lived with her as long as he did. “I’ll look in on her then I’ll be heading back home,” he answered. “You aren’t staying?” Leland asked. Sinclair glanced at Evangeline. “It’s best if I don’t, Lee.” Leland sighed. “I suppose you’re right.” Tina reached out to touch Sinclair as he passed her. “You will give her my love?” Sinclair covered her fingers with his hand. “I won’t wake her if she’s sleeping, but if she isn’t, I’ll tell her you’re waiting to see her, okay?” Tina nodded thankfully. “I know every cloud has a silver stitching, but I just fail to see it here.” Conor winced at his wife’s words, sighed and then put an arm around her. “Let’s take a walk outside, dearling. You need the fresh air. Sin will come get you if Ivonne is awake.” Evangeline watched the tall man climb the stairs to Ivonne’s room and hated him with every fiber of her being. Not only had he failed to be smitten by her beauty, he had made it obvious he preferred the dark looks of Edward’s harlot to her own fair grace. The man had once been Ivonne’s lover, had he not? Edward had hinted as much to her. She narrowed her violet gaze. Were they still seeing one another now that McGregor had returned? Obviously, they were from the eager way he had insisted Ivonne stay at Willow Glen. She looked around her. And were not these people, this family of his, participating partners in McGregor’s continued seduction of her brother’s legal wife? Not that she cared one way or the other for Edward’s happiness, but family honor was at stake here! Surely, even in the backwaters of this heathen Savannah, adultery was frowned upon by genteel society! Perhaps a few well-chosen words in the right ears…

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“Will you partake of a glass of sherry with us, Mrs. Hardy?” Grace Vivienne interrupted Evangeline’s spiteful plans. The young blonde woman smiled gaily. “I would love a spot of Madeira if you have it!” Grace Vivienne nodded. “Of course.”

***** He eased the door open and looked inside. Ivonne was sleeping, her face turned slightly to one side. The room had been darkened, the draperies closed, but a faint glow from the lantern cast enough light for him to see the pallor of Ivonne’s flesh. He frowned and came on into the room. Walking quietly, not wanting to wake her, he went to the bed and stood staring down at her. What he saw filled his heart with terrible grief. Her cheeks were slightly sunken, faint blue lines underscored her shuttered eyes. She was far too pale and far too quiet for his peace of mind. Going to his knees beside the bed, he reached for her still hand and laid his lightly upon it. Her flesh was cool, dry, and the feel of it worried him even more. Gently he curled the fingers of his right hand under her palm and held her hand. He reached up to push a lock of dark hair from her forehead and when he did, her eyelids fluttered open. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispered, bringing her hand to his lips. “How are you, my lady?” She smiled weakly at him. “My lady,” she echoed, her heart and soul in the words. “I sincerely miss having you call me that.” Sinclair’s face crumpled and he lowered his head. Silent sobs shook his broad shoulders. “Ivonne, I am so sorry!” She reached across with her free hand and placed her palm on his head. “I know,” she answered. “I know.” “If I caused—” “Shush!” she told him. “You caused nothing. It was God’s will. A punishment He saw fit to bestow upon me.” He looked up, his face streaked with tears. “Punishment for what?” he challenged. “For loving you,” she returned, “more than anything on this Earth.” Her chin trembled. “More than anything in this life!” “Oh, God!” he cried out, burying his face against the mattress. His tortured cries shook the bed beneath her and she cradled his head in her hand. “Sinclair, you can not blame yourself for this. It was meant to be,” she whispered. “No!” he spat, pushing away from the bed and springing to his feet. “If I had not sought you out, if I had left you alone—” “Nothing would have changed,” she told him.

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“Aye, it would have,” he disagreed. “I will not have you blaming yourself for what could not be helped!” she chastised him sternly. “I’ll hear no more of such talk.” “Ivonne…” he pleaded, his torment stamped plainly on his tearful countenance. “I need to rest,” she said. “I can not… I do not…” She turned away. “Go, Sinclair. Please!” “Don’t send me away, Ivonne,” he begged her. “Let me stay until you—” “Go away, Sinclair!” she ordered. She refused to look at him again. He backed away from the bed, never taking his eyes from her, wanting to stay, needing to be with her. He ached to reach out and take her in his arms, to hold her, to soothe away the pain making her lovely face so wretched. “Please go,” she said one last time, and closed her eyes, shutting him out.

***** His mind was not on where he was or what he was doing. His thoughts were dark, hateful and squeezing his heart. He did not hear nor see the men until they rode down on him, and when he at last became aware of their purpose, it was already too late. They dragged him from his horse and to the ground, their booted feet and gloved hands vicious as they beat him. He fell and a sharp pain shot through his side as a brutal kick landed squarely in his rib cage, another half lifted him from the ground as it dug into his back. He rolled, trying to escape the punishment. He crawled a few feet and another boot slammed into his belly, lifting him and rolling him to his back. He flipped to his side, drew his knees up and out of the corner of his eye, saw a boot coming straight at his head. He threw his arms over his head but it did little good. The glancing blow to his temple was excruciating and brought the stars down from the heavens. It stunned him and he was unable to fight back as two of them jerked him to his feet and held him as the third man set about to destroy Sinclair’s face. The first hit was savage, breaking bone and spraying blood as his nose broke. A gush of blood flooding down his throat gagged him and he coughed, gasping for breath and sucking more liquid into his lungs. His belly was on fire from the brutal punches into his gut and his jawbone felt as though it had caved in as one particularly wicked punch clipped his chin. His battered face gave way beneath the strength of the man hitting him—an eye closed, his lip split, a tooth was knocked loose. He sagged between the two men holding him, feeling his knees giving way as the third man’s hard fists drove unmercifully into his stomach. His head rocked from side to side and his vision began to close as his eyes swelled shut. He grunted as they dropped him to the ground and began to kick him. Curling into a protective ball, he endured their savage assault, for he could do nothing else.

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Not one word was spoken throughout the attack. He knew none of his assailants. What he did know was who was to blame, who had ordered what was being done to him, but he could never prove it. If he survived long enough to point a finger, he doubted he would be recognizable. He began to pray for his own death as the beating continued without letup until, with one well-aimed punch, agonized pain replaced all the light in his world and Sinclair McGregor’s consciousness shut down.

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Chapter Eight André Thibodaux had pocketed a fourth of what Edward Delacroix had paid to have Sinclair McGregor killed, calling it a finder’s fee for providing the three toughs who’d done the actual murder. His only regret was that he hadn’t been able to see all that much while Cullen and his two brothers-in-law had been beating the hell out of McGregor. From his place beyond the oak stand, Thibodaux had heard the meaty thuds and gasps of pain, but actually hadn’t been able to see the carnage until it was over and done and he’d ridden by to make sure their victim was dead. Laying facedown in the tall grass, McGregor had looked dead, but the more he thought on it, maybe the man had been pretending so they’d leave him alone. “If dat man ain’t dead, you gonna have a helluva time explainin’ it to Monsieur Delacroix,” his wife Seville warned him. “He pays you, you does as he says.” “I tink he was dead,” André said. “He weren’t moving.” “Was he breathin’?” Seville demanded. Her Cajun eyes flashed black fire at him. “Don’t rightly know,” André admitted. “Didn’t get down to check.” Seville pursed her red lips. “You’d better get back out dere and make sure he be dead! We ain’t givin’ dat money back!” Thibodaux sighed. “I don’t tink dat’s such a good idea,” he said. “If’n he ain’t dead, he could jump me and you know I got me a bad back.” His wife rolled her eyes. “If’n he be dead, he ain’t gonna jump you! If’n he was beat as bad as you say he was, he ain’t gonna be in no condition to jump you anyways!” She shook a finger under his nose. “Get back out dere and make sure one way or t’other! We ain’t givin’ dat money back! I done got it spent.” “Ah, Seville! I don’t want to,” André whined. “What if somebody sees me out dere with him and he’s croaked? Dey’ll tink I done it!” “Somebody sees you, you tell ‘em you tought you saw somethin’ and was invesitagtin’. If’n he ain’t dead and if’n somebody happens by and sees you, you be a hero for tryin’ to help and maybe dey give you a reward! You tink of dat?” Thibodaux thought about for a minute then shook his head. “Mr. Delacroix will have my hide ifn’ dat man ain’t dead. Won’t be no hero in his eyes!” He chewed on his lip. “Best to leave matters just de way dey be and hope McGregor’s croaked.” “Suit yourself,” Seville said with disgust at her common-law husband’s cowardice. “Don’t make no never mind to me. You don’t wanna go? Don’t go, but we ain’t givin’ no money back!”

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***** Tim Cullen and his two brothers-in-law sat drinking at the Hound and Stag tavern on the outskirts of Savannah. The cheap redeye whiskey had already turned Cullen meaner than usual and he was eyeing the men loitering in the rough seaside tavern in the hopes one of them would give him an encouraging look. If there was one thing the Mobile, Alabama man took great delight in doing, it was fighting. His meaty fists were scarred from years of brawling and there were few men who could say they had come out on the standing end of a confrontation with Cullen. The War had given him an excuse to use his savage strength and brutality at Andersonville where he and his brothers-in-law had been assigned as guards. Too cowardly to fight, the two Drake boys had signed on with Cullen to work at the prison camp. Between the three of them, they’d beaten five Yankees to death and crippled a sixth for life. There was no doubt in their minds they had killed Sinclair McGregor. “What you lookin’ at?” Cullen snarled as a man at the bar just happened to turn around to survey the room. At the challenge, Newt Guthrie swallowed his beer too quickly and choked on as it went down the wrong way. He coughed, spewing foam on the sawdust floor. No one came to his aid as he continued to cough, doubled over from the effort. “I asked you what you was lookin’ at?!” Cullen demanded. He shoved back his chair and stood up, weaving a bit as the rotgut rushed to his head. “N-nuthin’!” Newt managed to gasp, turning around to grasp the bar. He was trying to breathe, but his throat was burning. “I say you was!” Cullen growled. There were four men at the bar and they all moved back, taking their mugs of beer with them. The bartender wiped his hands on his apron and made himself scarce. The rinky-tink of the battered piano in the corner of the room was shut off as the piano player joined the bartender in the storage room. “I think you better teach him some manners, Timmy,” Lyle Drake encouraged his brother-in-law. “Let him know it ain’t polite to stare at folks.” “‘Specially folks what are deadly,” Robbie Drake, Lyle’s younger brother piped up. His glazed eyes were wild and he was so drunk he couldn’t stand up. “I…don’t want n-no trouble,” Newt managed to say in between gasps. “I weren’t sstaring at you, mister.” He reached for his mug, hoping another swallow would wash away the burning in his throat. Cullen stopped midway between his table and the bar and cocked his head to one side. “You calling me a liar?” he asked in a husky whisper. Newt heard the deadly challenge in those five words and turned around, putting up a hand to ward off the big man. “No, sir, I ain’t! I’d never do that!” “He called you a liar, Timmy,” Robbie Drake sneered. “I heard him.”

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“Teach him not to call you no liar, Timmy,” Lyle suggested. “Teach him some respect for our family honor.” Egged on by his brothers-in-law, Cullen hitched up his pants and headed for the bar. “I done beat the shit outta one man today. I reckon I got time to make it two.” “I don’t want no trouble!” Newt whimpered. He sidestepped down the bar, making the mistake of reaching down for the skinning knife he had strapped to his thigh. The moment he saw the big redhead’s mean eyes light up, he knew he’d made a dangerous mistake. “Please, mister. I don’t want no trouble with you!” “I reckon you don’t, but you done went and got it!” Lyle chuckled. He pushed himself up from the table and stood there on wobbly legs. “You gonna get it good!” Newt knew he was outnumbered and he knew there would be no help from the other barflies who had scattered like chickens. He looked fearfully around the bar and saw no one save the three bullies glaring at him and he began to fear for his life. “Please, mister,” Newt whimpered, tears filling his eyes. “I wasn’t looking at you. Honest to God, I wasn’t.” “And I say you was,” Cullen whispered. Newt flicked his eyes to the tavern door, gauging how long it would take him to reach it and safety. He managed to take one step that way before Cullen lashed out with a heavy hand and grabbed him, drawing the smaller man up by his shirtfront. “You stared at the wrong man, son,” Cullen warned then drew back his free hand and sent it smashing into Newt’s face, knocking out what was left of the man’s front teeth. From the storage room, bartender Jake Lynch could hear the furniture being broken and the mirror behind the bar smashed. Not that he cared one way or another. It wasn’t his bar anyway. But he kind of liked Newt Guthrie and hated to see the man die for something he hadn’t done. He looked around at the piano player and grimaced. “You better ride out to WindLass and tell Mr. Delacroix his overseer’s got himself in a heap of trouble.” The piano player shook his head of thick gray hair. “I ain’t goin’ nowheres!” he denied. “You want somethin’ told, you go tell it!” He folded his arms and leaned against the wall. Jake opened his mouth to demand the man do as he was told when the door to the storage room crashed inward and Newt Guthrie stumbled in, his face nearly destroyed from the vicious beating he was taking. “Help me!” Newt pleaded, his hand out to Jake. “The bastard’s gonna kill me!” With that said, Newt’s eyes rolled up in his head and he pitched facedown on the sawdust floor, his expulsion of breath sending up a small cloud of debris as he landed. “He dead?” Jake’s head snapped up and he found himself staring into the most brutal face he could ever remember seeing. “I d-don’t think s-so,” the bartender answered. He backed

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away from Newt’s unconscious form, putting distance between him and the burly redhaired man glowering at him from the doorway. “Well hell,” Cullen sneered. “Maybe next time.” He hawked up a wad of phlegm and spat on Guthrie’s back, hitched up his dirty trousers and turned away. “Should teach him not to stare at a man.” Jake couldn’t have replied if he’d had the courage to try. As it was, he stood in the middle of the floor, alternately casting a worried look at the empty doorway and a fearful look at Newt Guthrie’s unmoving body. “Newt?” he whispered, his voice a squeak of sound. “You alive, Newt?” A low groan from the floor reassured the bartender and he sidled closer, still watching the door. “You gonna make it, son?” Newt opened one of his eyes, tasted sawdust, said, “Gah,” then promptly slid back into unconsciousness. He never felt the hands that later lifted him up to take him back to WindLass and a month-long convalescence.

***** Dorrie Burkhart grunted as the big man rolled off her and began to snore loudly. The stench of his unwashed body made her grimace with distaste. Accustomed to the varying degrees of body odor that clung to her customers, she could not remember one that could even begin to equal the smell permeating Tim Cullen’s bloated flesh. It was a vile stench that made her eyes water and brought bile to her throat. She had to force herself not to vomit as she eased out of the bed and reached for her wrapper. “You asked for it you greedy bitch,” she reminded herself as she laced the wrapper around her and tiptoed to the door so she would not wake the drunken man. She was reasonably sure he’d meant for her to spend the entire evening with him, but she already had enough bruises and slobber on her to last her the rest of the week. She smelled of him and that alone was reason aplenty to vacate the room. Sometimes, she thought, as she walked gingerly down the stairs, fifty dollars wasn’t nearly enough money to pay for the abuse Cullen heaped on a person. Few men mistreated her girls as Cullen and his brothers-in-law did, although they paid very dearly for the privilege of doing so. There were a few good men in town who visited her establishment and were eagerly welcomed when they returned. Some were old married men whose wives had long since dried up to become cold, wrinkled fish. A few wanted to try things they would never dare ask the missus to do. One or two liked the sneaky, sinful aspect of cheating on their wives, but most just liked the variety a good whore could provide. Fortunately for Dorrie’s girls, there were only three—Cullen and the two Drake boys—who liked it rough. Although Dorrie picked and chose the men with whom she slept, there were times when she was in a rotten, self-hating mood and as luck would have it, tonight had just been one of those nights. If Roberta, Cullen’s regular girl, hadn’t been having the monthlies, Dorrie wouldn’t have thought twice about substituting herself. Now she was 82

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sorry she had. Thank God, customers like Cullen were few and far between. Most treated women like Dorrie well enough, even if they showed them hardly any respect. Then there were men like Sinclair McGregor. Dorrie went into the bathhouse, shut and locked the door, and went over to test the water still sitting in one of the tubs. The water was tepid, not all that clean, but good enough to get Cullen’s smell off her. She untied the laces of her wrapper, let it fall to the floor and then climbed into the tub. She sank gratefully into the scum-shot water and reached for the bar of lye soap. Scrubbing vigorously at her flesh, she let her mind drift back to two nights before when Sin had spent the evening with her. “Why did she do it, baby?” she’d asked as she held him close to her ample breasts. “Why did who do what?” he’d returned, sleepily. “Why did she hurt you so bad.” He’d looked up and the drowsiness fled instantly from his burnt-cinnamon eyes. “Who said someone hurt me?” Dorrie had smoothed the hair back from his forehead. “It’s written here, sugar,” she’d replied, running her fingertips over his eyelids, shutting off the warm brown sadness watching her. “A man’s soul is hiding in his eyes. Didn’t you know that?” Sinclair had not replied. Instead, he’d pushed himself up in the bed. “I don’t need a mama and I don’t need a confessor. I had one, I got the other.” Dorrie had reached out to trace the whip marks on his back. “I haven’t lived here all that long,” she said, surprised that he didn’t tell her to stop touching him, “but I did hear tell you was engaged before going off to fight.” She smoothed her hand down his spine. “I remember you telling me that first night that she didn’t wait for you. Why couldn’t she wait?” “Shit happens,” he had grunted. “Well, to my way of thinking,” Dorrie had concluded, “the bitch was downright stupid not to have waited.” It had been the wrong thing to say. Sinclair had flung the covers back, popped up from the bed as though he’d had springs attached to his firm backside and reached over to snatch up his breeches. “No one asked your opinion,” he’d snapped, dragging on the breeches. “No,” she’d agreed, “but that’s never stopped me before.” He’d turned to glare at her as he drew on his shirt. With his fingers making quick, little jerking motions as he buttoned the chambray shirt, his remarkable dark eyes had narrowed with irritation. “I’d like to see you again, Dorrie, but if it’s your intention to question me about my personal life every time I come over here, I’ll find another lady with whom to sleep.” Dorrie paused as she lathered soap down her leg, Sin’s words ringing in her ears— Another lady with whom to sleep.

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A rare quiver of delight spread through the prostitute’s body. She’d known many boys and men since first being initiated into the mysteries of being a woman at age eleven. Some of those who’d used her had been fairly gentle, a few had been downright savage, most had treated her with more indifference than they would have a stray dog. Four had been virgins. One had nearly killed her. “‘Another lady with whom to sleep,’” she said softly. He’d made it clear to her that he’d be coming back and that pleased Dorrie more than she would have dared to admit even to herself. And she could not allow herself to think of his returning as anything other than what it would be—relief from the terrible loneliness she’d seen lurking in his sad, hurt eyes. Dorrie’s own cornflower blue eyes hardened. The woman—and she knew, just as the entire county did, whom it was—had to be a slice of bread shy a loaf to let a man like Sin get away. What female in her right mind would do such a thing? The man wasn’t just classically handsome in a storybook way, he was gallant and charming and sexy as all get-out. He was a dream come true for any woman who’d ever entertained thoughts of a tall, dark stranger riding into her life to change it. But he was also the kind of man mothers warned their daughters about too! “Never give your heart into the keeping of a man better-looking than you,” Dorrie’s mother had cautioned. “But if you do,” her grandmother had chuckled, “you’d damned well better make sure it’s your bed he prefers to any other woman’s!” Well, Dorrie thought, as she resumed her bath, scrubbing even more roughly at her tainted flesh, Ivonne Delacroix’s stupid mistake was Dorrie Burkhart’s gain. It would be a cold day in hell before she ever turned Sin McGregor out of her bed or gave him reason for leaving!

***** Ivonne winced, put a hand to her belly, and felt the tears trickling down her cheeks once more. She felt so evil, so unclean. She had not wanted Edward’s child—she had cursed its very conception. Now, she was paying for having wished the innocent little soul had never been conceived. The baby should not have had to pay for its mother’s sins and Ivonne felt the guilt in her very soul. But she was not the only one suffering the loss of her baby daughter. Poor Sinclair, she thought. The look in his eyes had been horrible to see. He blamed himself for the miscarriage, though the entire burden rightfully fell on her shoulders. She had not wanted the child, she had not been looking forward to its birth. Now she would have to live with the tragic realization that perhaps this had been God’s way of punishing her for not honoring her husband and the commitment she had made to him.

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And for Sinclair to have been there when her punishment had come was surely Divine Retribution for the wicked thoughts she had been entertaining about him all these years. “You need something, Miz Ivonne?” Bossie asked as she came to hover over Ivonne’s bed. “No, thank you,” Ivonne whispered, and turned her face into the coolness of the starched muslin. “You’d tell me if’n you did, wouldn’t you?” the Negro woman asked gently. “Yes.” Bossie clucked her tongue as she pulled the mosquito netting closer around the bed. She had seen the tear streaks on the white woman’s pale cheeks before she’d turned away. “Don’t seem right for Silky not to be here wid you,” she grumbled. “Lady ought to have her girl with her at times like these. But never you mind. I’ll be sitting right over there by the window if’n you need somethin’.” Ivonne didn’t answer. She closed her eyes and dug her nails into the palms of her hands to keep from screaming. With all her heart, she wished Sin was there. To whisper to her in that soft drawl that sent shivers of pleasure down her spine, to touch her. To lie beside her, enfold her in his strong arms and hold her against his wide chest so she could listen to the safe, reassuring beat of his loyal heart. A loyal heart she would never again be worthy of possessing. How could she ever tell him why she had married Edward Delacroix? The very thought of attempting to explain sent her into spasms of terror. He must never find out the reason she had broken her engagement to him and accepted Edward’s name. If he ever did, the gates of hell would break loose and Sinclair would surely fall through. That was something to be avoided at all costs—even her own peace of mind and sanity. “Go ahead,” Edward had taunted her only the night before. “Tell him! I don’t give a damn. I might even tell him myself!” “Edward, no!” she had pleaded with him, clutching his arm. “You must not!” Had the evening’s argument been the beginning of her miscarriage? She wondered. Had the recriminations and accusations brought on the death of their child? She had been very upset—Edward had been verbally abusive and hateful beyond the normal before storming out of the house to go to his mistress. Ivonne hadn’t been feeling well for several days and Evangeline’s forcing upon her that godawful homemade remedy for stomach ailments after Edward left had not helped. If anything, the too-sweet brew had seemed to make the sickness worse. She had awakened this morning with a horrible headache and would have stayed home had Edward not insisted she attend the party in Conor and Tina’s honor. She had been so weak, she had spent the entire time sitting.

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“Git you some sleep, honey,” Bossie encouraged, turning down the flame on the lamp beside Ivonne’s bed. “You needs yo rest.” Ivonne turned her face toward the old black woman. “Was Mr. John called, Bossie?” Ivonne asked. The Negro woman flinched. “What you wanna be thinkin’ ‘bout dat for, child? You don’ts need to be thinkin’ ‘bout no undertaker right now. You hush up and git to sleep. It’s goin’ on midnight, I reckon.” Where was Sinclair? Ivonne wondered. She had not heard him come back. Had he gone to that woman? Was he even at that moment lying in that woman’s soiled bed, holding her to him, giving to her what should belong to Ivonne? The thought of her Sinclair in the arms of a piece of white trash like the Burkhart woman was a hard pill to swallow, but infinitely better than him being in the hands of a young virgin girl or mature widowed woman who might make him happy. That was a mental exercise to be avoided at all costs. The mere flicker of such a thing crossing her mind was a torment not unlike those being experienced in Purgatory. “Wicked woman!” she chided herself. “You should not begrudge him a chance to be happy!” “What’d you say, honey?” Bossie inquired, shifting her bulk in the rocker until the chair groaned in protest. “Nothing,” Ivonne whispered, and turned her face into the pillow again. She caressed her belly and felt the emptiness there. There would be no more shifting of a warm little body inside her own. No more vigorous kicks that heralded a child eager to come into this world. There would be no need to pick names now, to finish the crocheted christening gown, to make sure Conor and Tina would be the baby’s godparents. And there would be no visible sign of that night eight months earlier when Edward Delacroix had brutally raped her. Nor any chance Rory Sinclair McGregor would put a bullet through Edward Delacroix’s heart and hang for it.

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Chapter Nine He felt as if every bone had been broken in his body. Lying there, the night covering him like a blanket, he could neither see nor smell. His eyes were swollen shut, blood caked in the corners, and his nose was broken, clogged with bloody mucous. Inside his mouth, his tongue was swollen, cut, stuck to the soft palate and two of his teeth were loose. His scarred cheek was pressed against a sharp rock and the rock was cutting into his flesh, but he was too hurt, too battered, to move his head—and even if he could, the excruciating ache that had settled in his brain would have surely caused him to black out should he try. Had they thought he would die here? he wondered. Certainly that had been their intent. The beating had been brutal and exacting, meant to do as much damage as possible and it had. He knew there were at least two ribs broken—he had felt them snap. One was grating against another with every breath he took so he tried to breathe as gently through his split lips as he could. Lying on his belly, his left arm above his head, the other crooked downward at his side, he was incapable of pushing himself up. And, God, how he wished he could, for he was lying in his own body wastes. He could taste the vomit that had sprayed from his mouth when he’d first awakened. He hadn’t even been able to lift his head to avoid the putrid mess. All he had been capable of doing was retching, his gut on fire, and spew out his lunch. There was grit caked on his lower lip and a bit of it he’d sucked into his mouth. At some point, he had peed on himself and the wet clung to his thighs. All in all, he thought with a grim inner chuckle, he was pretty damned messed up and in a whole heap of trouble. Something stung him on his left hand and he moaned, unable to do anything more than involuntarily flex the fingers of that hand against the pain. Whatever it was stung him again and the pain spread up his wrist then his arm. He prayed it was a fire ant taking bites out of him and not a black widow spider. When the pain struck again, he managed to pull his hand off the ground and drag it closer to his side. The movement brought tears to his eyes. If you stay here, McGregor, he told himself, you are going to die for sure. The thought did little more than amuse him, for there was no way under Heaven or on Earth that he could move of his own volition. He might as well have been crucified to the red Georgia clay on which he lay. Even if he could have pushed himself up, rolled over to his back, he doubted he could have sat up much less hauled himself to his feet. Get the hell up, McGregor! that inner voice scolded. And do what? Walk? Yeah, right, he mused. I’ll just hop right on up and take a leisurely stroll on home. What’s that you say? Well no, I don’t suppose I could see where I was going. 87

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Horse? Oh, no, thank you. Don’t think I could climb up just now and I really don’t think I could ride. No, he mentally corrected, I know I can’t. I might well have a problem lying in the back of a buckboard, if truth be told. Even a litter would pose a slight imposition to the old bones. No, I’ll just lie right here, thank you just the same. And die, the inner voice rebuked. Yeah, I can see that happening. A slight laugh pushed from Sinclair’s torn mouth and he winced. There really wasn’t anything to laugh about. He was in a hell of a predicament and the only hope he had was if someone just happened to notice he’d gone missing.

***** “I don’t suppose you know where your cousin is this morning, Leland Alexander?” Grace Vivienne inquired as she passed her grandson the marmalade. Leland shook his head. “No, ma’am.” He spooned a dollop of the orange condiment on his bread plate then passed the silver server on to Brendan. “I would have thought he’d have come back to check on Ivonne last evening, but…” His voice trailed off. “You want me to go fetch him, Granny?” Brendan asked. Grace Vivienne winced then turned the full force of her displeasure on her youngest grandchild. “Do not call me that vulgar appellation, Brendan Neil!” she warned. “I will not tolerate it. Do you understand?” Brendan smiled around the biscuit he had jammed into his mouth. “Yes, ma’am,” he agreed, and had to duck his chin to keep a gob of marmalade from oozing out the side of his mouth. “Brendan Neil!” his grandmother hissed with exasperation. “The young have such deplorable manners these days, don’t you agree, Miss Grace Vivienne?” Evangeline queried. She daintily applied her linen napkin to her lips. Grace Vivienne turned her head and surveyed the woman seated to her right. It had galled her to have Edward Delacroix’s irritating sister spend the night at Willow Glen, but the social amenities must be extended even to those one considers to be quite beyond the pall. “My grandson has excellent table manners, Mrs. Hardy,” the older woman stated firmly. “He simply chooses to annoy me because he knows he can do so.” She deliberately turned away from Evangeline and stared hard at Brendan. “Isn’t that right, Brendan Neil?” “Yes, ma’am,” Brendan said with great dignity. “When he wants to,” Conor piped up, and yelped when his new bride clipped his shin none too gently beneath the table. “As for Rory Sinclair,” Grace Vivienne said, as though the subject had never changed, “he will eventually come wandering in, I suppose.”

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“He could be seeing to that broken flume up at the mill, Grandmother,” Leland put in. “He mentioned it yesterday.” He wiped his mouth and laid his napkin beside his plate. “If you ladies will excuse me, I’ve a long day ahead of me in the ledger books.” “Need any help?” Conor asked. “You promised to take me into town for wallpaper samples, C.J.,” Tina protested. “We can do that anytime,” C.J. complained. “Lee has—” “Enough sense to add numbers all on his own,” their grandmother finished. She sent Conor a condemning look. “You made a promise to your wife and you will keep that promise, young man. Is that clear?” “Yes, ma’am,” Conor mumbled. “Then if you are finished, escort your lady from the table and get ready to go,” Grace Vivienne ordered. She glanced at Bossie. “Tell Felix to hitch up the buckboard for Mister Conor.” Bossie rolled her eyes. “Mister Conor,” she snorted as she waddled out of the room. “I ain’t never called dat tadpole mister in all his born days and I ain’t gonna start callin’ him dat now!” She clucked her tongue. “Mister Conor my fat black ass!” Evangeline wanted more of the fried ham steaks and hominy grits with redeye gravy, along with the cat’s-head biscuits with freshly churned butter, but the old biddy was waving her hand at her grandson to pull out her chair for her, signaling the breakfast was over. Looking with longing at the rich, pink meat and clouds of creamy white grits still mounded in the Sevres bowls, the young widow sighed heavily. She had no choice but to leave the table. “Betcha don’t get good food like this in New Orleans, do you, Miss Evangeline?” Brendan quipped. Evangeline’s left brow arched at the young jackanapes who was pulling out her chair for her. He was grinning at her and in his young eyes—far too mature for his awkward age—she could see spite. When his lips twitched at her obvious pique at his words, he broke into a malicious grin that set Evangeline’s teeth on edge. “Behave yourself, Brendan Neil,” his grandmother said softly, but there was in the old woman’s tone, a certain admiration for her grandson’s taunting words. Casting grandmother and grandson a haughty look, Evangeline swept past them both and headed for the stairs. “I must look in on Sister,” she pronounced. “You will excuse me?” “There is no excuse for her,” Brendan Neil quipped under his breath. Grace Vivienne smiled, and the gesture made her almost pretty again. She did not respond to her grandson’s improper comment, but took his proffered arm and allowed him to walk her into the parlor. Climbing the stairs angrily, Evangeline cursed the bumpkins under whose roof she had been forced to spend the night. The feather mattress had been lumpy, the goosedown pillows reeked of mildew and there were holes in the mosquito netting. For

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heaven’s sake, the sheets did not even appear to be all that clean, either! She could have sworn she had felt bedbugs crawling on her all night and though she had gotten out of bed, lit the lamp and held it over the covers to see if, indeed, that was what was making her twist and turn, she had not been able to discover any insects scuttling amidst the bedclothes. And to have been awakened at the break of dawn! Well, it was absurd. One did not rise before noon in New Orleans. Nor had the day begun with any degree of pleasantness. Why the bath water the hideously fat maidservant had brought had been absolutely cold! The soap was coarse and the washcloth coarser still. Her morning libations had been most unsatisfactory and Evangeline had every intention of letting everyone who was anyone in Savannah know of the deplorable conditions the Brells had forced upon her! Stopping outside her sister-in-law’s sickroom, Evangeline arranged her chignon, smoothed her skirts then flung the door open without knocking, a false smile plastered tightly over her blank face. “Good morning, Sister. How are you feeling today?” Ivonne was sitting up in bed, a breakfast tray across her lap. She had been pushing the food from one side of the plate to the other instead of eating it. Tina had spent the night coming into and out of her room checking on her until Ivonne had demanded her friend get some sleep. Bossie had slept in the chair near the window should Ivonne need anything and Miss Grace Vivienne had been in earlier to discuss the arrangements for Ivonne’s baby’s funereal. For once, the old woman had actually seemed human and had even spoken with a gentleness Ivonne had never heard her use before. “He will be in to see you as soon as he gets here,” the old woman had promised. “I shall see to it.” “Edward won’t like it, Miss Grace Vivienne. He—” “Doesn’t have to know about it,” came one of the interruptions for which Sinclair’s grandmother was infamous. “It isn’t fair to Sinclair,” Ivonne had protested, “to make him dance attendance on me because of what happened. He was not at fault, though he thinks he is.” “Of course he wasn’t at fault,” Grace Vivienne had stated firmly. Ivonne had looked down at her hands. “I don’t want to hurt him any more than I have, Miss Grace Vivienne.” “I will send him in to you as soon as he arrives,” the old woman had repeated, ignoring the guilty words. When the door had opened, Ivonne’s heart had leapt to her throat, thinking it was Sinclair. She should have known he would not have had the ill manners to come in unannounced. Seeing who had come to call, Ivonne returned her attention to the congealing grease spread out over the plate. “I am all right, Evangeline,” she replied quietly. “Well, of course, you are,” Evangeline agreed. She looked about the room, frowning. Why this boudoir was positively gorgeous! She had paid no heed to it the

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day before but now its luxuriousness caught her eye. The coverlet was done in sprigs of ivy and hot pink roses on a cream background and was edged with a deep row of finely worked lace. White lace fluttered at the windows and the sheets looked crisply starched. There was no dust on the armoire or the desk or any of the tables, though the room in which Evangeline had slept had seemed to be coated with the reddish grime. There was a fine carpet underfoot—another amenity missing from Evangeline’s room. There was even a slight scent of gardenia in the air. “Will you be returning to WindLass today?” Ivonne inquired. Evangeline’s eyes hardened. Well, it did not take a genius to know Ivonne had been given a room in direct proportion to her standing with the Brells. After all, she had been Sinclair McGregor’s whore, had she not? The thought of the man who had snubbed her the day before put Evangeline in a bitter frame of mind. She turned that bitterness on her sister-in-law. “Do tell me,” she said, seating herself in the chair Tina had pulled up to Ivonne’s bed earlier that morning, “how Captain McGregor came by that hideous scar.” Ivonne stopped shuffling her food around and looked up. “Why do you ask?” Evangeline pretended to shudder. “Oh, my dear! It is quite awful, don’t you think? Makes him look positively demonic!” “It does no such thing,” Ivonne replied, a touch of color tinting her too-pale face. “I hardly notice it.” The young widow’s smile was patronizing. “Well, I quite understand,” she said, reaching out to pat Ivonne’s hand. “I am told they say love is blind to imperfection.” Ivonne ground her teeth together. “You did not answer me, Evangeline,” she said, pulling her hand away from her sister-in-law’s reach. “Not until you do, Sister,” Evangeline replied. “I am sure Edward would not abide you staying here without a chaperone.” “A chaperone?” Ivonne questioned. She had been feeling sorry for herself, her loss nearly unbearable, but now—with the intrusion of this woman she had come to loathe—some of Ivonne’s natural spit and fire was resurfacing. “I am not in need of a chaperone!” “Edward feels you do and I must agree,” Evangeline declared. She turned and looked about the room, becoming increasingly more insulted by the pigsty in which she had been forced to sleep. “I have known the Brells all my life and—” Evangeline returned her gaze to Ivonne. “It is not the Brells who worry my brother, dear one, and well you know it.” Certainly Ivonne knew, but she would not give the bitch the satisfaction of admitting it. Instead, she sighed deeply then pushed the tray away. “I am feeling weak, Evangeline. Would you please take the tray?”

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“You’ve eaten hardly anything at all!” Evangeline exclaimed. She surveyed the tray and was annoyed to find her mouth watering. “It is a sin to waste food.” One of the things Edward had been complaining about so bitterly since his sister’s arrival was her fondness for eating. The woman was constantly stuffing herself and it was a wonder her waist was as tiny as it was. By the time she reached middle age, Ivonne was quite sure Evangeline would be plump and wobbling with jowls and a double chin. “I can’t eat another thing,” Ivonne admitted truthfully. She lifted the tray weakly, giving Evangeline no choice but to take it. “Please, just set it on the table. Bossie will remove it later.” “And have it draw flies?” Evangeline asked. She shook her head. “No, I shall carry it downstairs myself.” Empty, Ivonne thought, as her sister-in-law turned to go. “I shall return later to sit with you,” Evangeline reported. Ivonne flinched with irritation. “You don’t have to bother yourself.” “No, I insist,” Evangeline stressed. “It is my duty, Sister.” There was no doubt in Ivonne’s mind that the duty conceived in her sister-in-law’s mind was to keep Sinclair from being alone with her.

***** Leonie’s horse shied away from something just beyond the roadway in the tall grasses that melded into the forest. “Easy, girl,” Leonie soothed the big gray mare. “Easy.” She leaned forward and patted the horse’s sleek neck. “What do you see, huh?” The mare whinnied then sidestepped to the other side of the road, jerking her head as though trying to get the bit between her teeth. Obviously something was spooking the animal. Looking about, Leonie saw nothing other than the strange dark mound in the tall grass. She hesitated, expertly controlling her mount with her knees and the grip on the reins. Should she investigate or just ride on to Willow Glen to see how Ivonne was doing and send someone else back to see what it was there? If it was a dead animal, someone would need to bury it. If it were an injured animal, it would be dangerous and should be approached with caution. Either way, Leonie wasn’t sure her own intervention was necessary. She had made up her mind to ride on and had already drummed her heels into her horse’s flanks when she heard a low moan. “Whoa, girl!” she ordered, pulling on the reins. She stood up in the stirrups, the better to see, and saw a brief movement that brought another moan. “Hello?” she called out. “Are you hurt?” When there was no answer, she repeated, “Hello?” As tenderhearted as she was, Leonie Emerson could not force herself to ride away when she knew for a certainly there was someone hurt. She felt her heart racing in her throat, but there was nothing to do but see if she could be of any assistance. When

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Windkeeper her horse would not venture any farther across the road, Leonie pursed her lips and climbed down. She walked the horse over to a scrub oak and tied her reins. Hitching up her own courage, she moved cautiously toward whoever was lying in the grass. “Hello?” she called out again. “Do you need assistance?” “Help me,” came the ragged plea. Leonie felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck. She stopped where she was, biting her lip. Could this be some kind of ploy to get her into the forest? She had heard of things like that happening and had been warned often it wasn’t safe for a woman to ride out alone. No one had ever bothered her, but that wasn’t to say someone hadn’t followed her out of town. “Who are you?” she called out, taking a step back. “Please, help me.” The words were weak. “I’ll send someone to help,” she said. She stopped again when the groan of hopelessness shot straight to her heart. “I…can’t…hurt…you…” Not “I won’t hurt you”, she thought as she stood there, but “I can’t hurt you”. She let out a long breath and then made up her mind. I’m middle-aged and as plain a Jane as any in Chatham County, she told herself. Who the hell in their right mind would want to pounce on me? She stomped across the roadway, waded through the grass and came to an abrupt halt as soon as she saw the man lying on his stomach in the grass. “Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” she exclaimed, running the rest of the way and falling to her knees beside him. She began to frantically sweep away the red ants crawling on his right hand and arm. “P-please…help…me…up…” he pleaded, his voice hoarse. Not even bothering to answer, Leonie used all the strength the adrenaline pumping through her body gave her. She levered her arms under him, wincing at the terrible yelp of pain that told her beyond any doubt there were ribs broken inside this man’s bloody, battered body. She fervently prayed she didn’t send one straight through a lung. Hoisting him as best as she could, she managed to help him to his knees, swung his swollen right hand and arm over her shoulder then wobbled them both to their feet. “Damn it!” she yelled as a red ant stung her own hand. She batted her hand against her skirt, crushing the wicked thing. Nothing hurt worse than the sting of one of these small red ants. The venom inside their pinchers not only caused blisters, it could kill if enough of the poison was injected into a victim. “God,” she heard the man whimper as she struggled to help him walk. “Can you ride?” she asked. “No,” he whispered, and before they could take another step, his knees went out from under him and it was all she could do to keep him from crashing to the ground. As it was, it took all her strength to lower him as gently as she could to his back. She

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was too intent on looking for red ant mounds to notice his face at first, but when she did, she drew in a harsh gasp. Someone had worked him over but good. She wasn’t sure if the swelling was entirely from the fist that had broken his nose and torn his lips or if the fire ants hadn’t gotten to him there as well. “I’ve got to get help,” she said, and started to rise, but he caught her wrist in a surprisingly strong hold. “Don’t leave m-me,” he asked. “B-been here all n-night.” He was shivering and Leonie knew it certainly wasn’t from the cold for the day was blazing hot with a sun bearing down like a fireball out of the sky. “Water,” she said, scanning his cracked lips. “You need water.” She eased his fingers from her wrist. “Let me go to my horse.” “Don’t leave me!” he gasped. “I’m not,” she told him. “I’m only going to the horse.” Before he could stop her, she was up and running. She unhooked the canteen from her saddle horn, untied the reins then swatted her horse as hard as she could on its rump. “Get!” she shouted. “Go back home!” The horse took off running, eager to be away from the smell of blood coming from the man across the road anyway. Its hooves shook the ground as it raced back toward town. Leonie knew someone would catch Windy then send a party out looking for her. “At least I hope they do,” she said, hurrying back to her patient. He was panting when she got there, his teeth clicking together from the chill that had gripped him. His flesh was hot to the touch and she knew the fire ant venom was racing through his system. Gently slipping her hand under his head, she placed the canteen against his lips and dribbled a little water into his mouth. “Easy, now. Not too much,” she cautioned. As he tried to swallow, she realized his tongue was swollen and he was having difficulty breathing. Easing down to the ground, she cradled his head in her lap and gave him a bit more water to drink. With his head at that angle, his throat less constricted, he could drink. She poured some of the water in her hand and tried to wash some of the blood and dirt from his face. Gently, she swept the blood-streaked hair from out of his eyes and back over his high forehead. It was as she was smoothing away the caked dirt on his left cheek that she noticed the long deep scar. Her hand stilled on his dirty flesh. “Sinclair?” she whispered, her eyes roaming over the battered face with disbelief. It couldn’t be! She thought, her hand trembling as she gently cupped his chin. This couldn’t be! “I am so c-cold,” he told her. Without even thinking about what she was doing, Leonie cautiously lifted his head and laid it down on the ground once more. She lay down, stretching out beside him and took him into her arms, bringing his body to hers.

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“You’ll be all right,” she said, fury lighting the fires in Leonie Emerson that had never been adequately stoked. “I swear to God, you will be all right!”

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Chapter Ten His name was Ronny Tucker and he was a bear of a man. His arms bulged with muscle well honed from years of pounding horseshoes into submission. When Leonie Emerson’s mare came thundering into Tuck’s livery stable, the blacksmith looked up from his shoeing and stared, hammer in the air. A frown on his ruddy face, Tuck let go of the hoof he had been holding and straightened up. He laid aside his hammer and the horseshoe he had been about to nail into place then walked slowly toward the lathered mount. “Easy girl,” Tuck said softly. “Easy, now.” He moved to the jittery horse and looked her over—checking the stirrups, the saddle and its flanks for any sign of injury to the animal. Seeing nothing to indicate why the horse would have come racing home, he reached behind him and began to untie his leatherwork apron. “Emmie?” he called out. Emmie Lou Tucker poked her head out of the tack room where she had been doing inventory. “What is it?” She spied the gray mare standing at the trough, stamping its hoof on the ground, and turned worried eyes to Tuck. “Is that Windy?” He nodded. “Gonna ride out toward WindLass,” Tuck told her. “I think maybe Leonie done went and got thrown.” His wife’s pretty eyes filled with immediate concern. “You don’t think she’s hurt, do you?” Tuck grinned. “You ought to know better than most that woman’s got a hard head,” he replied. “Nah, I don’t think she’s hurt.” Since a bad knee kept the big man from riding a horse, he headed for the buckboard his wife had driven into town earlier from their farm. “I’ll leave Windy here. Have Malachai see to her, will you?” “You tell Leonie I warned her about gallivanting all over creation by herself!” Emmie grumbled. “And going about riding around in men’s trousers most of the time too.” She shook her head. “I don’t know where that woman’s head is sometimes!” “She needs a man,” Tuck suggested as he climbed painfully up onto the buckboard seat. “Don’t guess Leland Brell’s ever gonna ask her to go out walking with him.” “She needs a man what won’t let her go gallivanting off by herself, is what she needs!” Emmie huffed. Tuck winked at his wife then snapped the reins attached to Emmie’s horse Paladin. “Get up there, Pal!” There were clouds building out to the west of Savannah as Tuck took the road that led to WindLass. He eyed them with a touch of concern, for one had a mighty goodsized anvil top forming on it. The wind was coming in pretty good too, and if his knee was any indication of impending rain, Savannah was going to be in for some by

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evening. Hurricane season wasn’t far off and bad weather was not one of Tuck’s favorite things. His best friend Tom Pete Michaels was one of those rare birds who liked to watch the weather patterns and regale his friends with dire warnings and predictions. The thing was, usually Tompe—as most folks called him—was right on when it came to reading the weather. Tuck made a note to call on his friend before heading home that afternoon. By the time Tuck was less than an eighth of a mile from where Leonie and Sinclair were huddled under a white oak tree, the rain had started to come down in fat droplets. Off in the distance, lightning was stitching across the sky and the horizon was gunmetal gray in coloring. There had been a drop in the temperature that was as forbidding a sign as Tuck could want that bad weather was only a county line away. “Tuck!” someone shouted, and the smithy pulled in on Paladin’s reins. He saw Leonie running toward him and gave a sigh of relief. “What’d you do, Leonie?” Tuck called out. “Piss off that mare of yours?” “I’ve got an injured man here, Tuck,” Leonie told him as she reached the buckboard. She flung an arm toward a stand of oaks. “You’re gonna have to help me carry him to the buckboard and lay him down.” “You run over him, did you?” Tuck chuckled. He tied Paladin’s reins to the dashboard and climbed painfully down. “You dad-burn women drivers are a road hazard, you are.” “It’s Sinclair McGregor,” Leonie told him, ignoring his joking. “Someone beat the hell out of him.” Tuck glanced at her. “Was it Delacroix?” “Not personally, but Sin knows that was who ordered it done. There were three of them as best he can remember,” Leonie snapped. She put out a hand to stop the smithy. “They worked him over something awful, Tuck. Be careful with him.” Tuck’s forehead crinkled with surprise. So, he thought, as he continued on beside the woman, that was the lay of the land, was it? There had been that little “something extra” Emmie was always going on about being in woman’s voice when she was speaking of the man she loved that had been there in Leonie’s voice. Tuck knew he would had to have been blind, deaf and dumb not to see it in the worry on the woman’s face, hear it in the warning to be careful or realize there was deep-seated anger on Sin’s behalf in her tone. “He’s got some broken ribs and managed to make a meal of himself for some red ants,” Leonie said as they reached the trees under which she had half-carried, halfdragged Sinclair. Tuck blinked against the rain that was coming down steadily now. “Red ants?” He grunted. “I hate them sons of bitches. Remember when I burned up your mama’s boxwoods trying to get rid of them sons of bitches in her front yard?” “Shut up, Tuck,” Leonie snapped.

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Tuck threw her a look, but she had walked on ahead. “Sinclair?” she said gently, dropping down beside the prone man. “Ronny Tucker is here to help us.” “Lord God Almighty!” Tuck exclaimed as he saw the damage done to Sinclair’s face. He winced, knowing firsthand the kind of pain such a beating could cause. “I hope you got a lick or two in before they made mincemeat pie outta you, old son.” Sinclair tried to smile, but his cracked lips and battered jaws would not cooperate. “Never got a chance to get one lick in,” he replied. Tuck hunkered down beside him. “Don’t reckon you can walk, huh?” “No way, no how,” Sinclair reported. The smithy sighed. “That’s what I thought.” Without another word, he put his arms under Sinclair’s shoulders and knees and hefted him up as though he was no heavier than a child, turned and started back to the buckboard. “How far’s Willow Glen? Five, six miles?” “He doesn’t want to go to Willow Glen,” Leonie told him. She hunched her shoulders up in a vain attempt to ward off the rain that was coming down hard now. Tuck looked over at her. “How come?” “Ivonne’s there,” was the only answer the big man needed. He nodded and said no more. “He wants to go to his place,” Leonie explained, then climbed up into the back of the buckboard and helped Tuck situate Sinclair inside with as little pain as possible. She sat down, cradled his head in her lap and bent over him to shield him from the driving rain. Tuck pulled himself up onto the buckboard seat, drew in a long breath as he rubbed his throbbing knee. The wet weather always played havoc with the old injury that had been caused by a big roan stallion that had taken exception to being shod. He untied the reins, clicked his tongue and sent Paladin into a slow trot toward Sinclair’s cabin. “I don’t like the looks of this weather,” Tuck commented. “Neither do I,” Leonie answered. They were almost to Sinclair’s cabin. She—along with the men—was soaked through, and had a terrible headache from not having had either breakfast or lunch. “You’ll stay until it passes, won’t you?” she asked the smithy. “Nah,” Tuck denied. “I ought to head right on back and get Doc Doorenbos to come have a look-see at Sin,” he reminded her. “Broken ribs ain’t nothing to sneeze at.” “I’m all right,” Sinclair reported then gasped when one of the wagon wheels rolled into a pothole. He grasped his side and nearly passed out. Tuck around and down at his passenger. “See what I mean? One of them things could go right on through to a lung, Sin.” Leonie was frowning, trying to remember something she had heard about the good doctor earlier that morning. When it came to her as they pulled up in front of Sinclair’s door, her shoulders slumped. “Tuck? I think Doc went out to Colby Burds place this morning. Miz Burds went into labor.” 98

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Tuck paused as he was about to climb down from the seat. “I believe you’re right.” He shook his head. “First babies and such take awhile and she’s having twins, ain’t she?” At Leonie’s nod, he shrugged. “Well, ain’t nothing to it but for you to stay and watch over him ‘til I can get hold of Doc.” He grinned as he helped Leonie ease Sinclair toward the back of the buckboard. “Think you can handle that, gal?” Leonie met Tuck’s knowing smile and pursed her lips. “I think so,” she mumbled, knowing full well Emmie would be all over her like flies on sorghum just as soon as she returned to town. She winced when Sinclair moaned at being picked up once more, then hopped off the buckboard and ran to open the cabin door. Inside, the cabin was dark from the storm. She had to hunt for a lamp and fumble around for matches. Once she had the lamp lit, she held it aloft and went in search of Sinclair’s room. Setting the lamp on the bedside table, she pulled the covers back, plumped the pillow and stood aside as Tuck came in carrying Sinclair. Tuck hesitated in the doorway. “Well, what are you waiting for?” Leonie demanded. “Put him on down!” “I don’t think we oughtta put him on the bed ‘til we strip these wet clothes off’n him, Leonie,” Tuck advised. Before she could answer, he swung around and stomped back down the hallway and into the sitting room. Carefully, he set Sinclair on the couch. “Find him a nightshirt while I get him undressed.” Leonie didn’t question the order. By the time she got back, Tuck had unbuttoned Sin’s shirt, pulled off his boots and socks and was leaning over him unbuckling his belt. “I’ll brace him while you take his shirt off,” Tuck said, and gently pulled Sin toward him so Leonie could drag off the wet linen shirt. “I’m sorry to have to put y’all through this,” Sinclair lamented as he rested his forehead on Tuck’s broad shoulder. His head was spinning something fierce and he realized he hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. His hunger, combined with the beating, was making him weak. He tried to lift his hand to rub at the pain in his right temple, but he just didn’t have the strength. “We’re gonna get you to bed quick as a frog jumping over hot coals, Sin,” Tuck told him. “Just hang in there a bit longer ‘til we can get you dressed.” Leonie threaded Sinclair’s right arm through the sleeve of his nightshirt then walked around to the other side of Tuck to put Sin’s left hand through the remaining sleeve. As carefully as possible, she pulled the nightshirt over Sinclair’s head. “You’re gonna have to pull his trousers off, Tuck,” she said, blushing. Tuck chuckled dryly. “Sure you don’t want to do the honors?” He glanced up and wagged his brows at Leonie. “Get his trousers off, will you?” Leonie grated through clenched teeth. She felt her face burning with embarrassment as Tuck eased Sinclair back and McGregor glanced up at her with mute apology. She looked away. “This is gonna hurt like hell, I’m afraid, Sin,” Tuck advised. “I’m gonna have to have you lift your hips up…” 99

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“I can’t,” Sinclair told him. “Ain’t no way in hell I can.” Tuck nodded. “No problem.” He straightened up and looked Leonie in the eye. “You’re gonna have to pull them off his legs while I lift him a ways off the settee, Leonie.” His face was stern, all humor gone. “You understand?” She swallowed, nodded and then dropped to the floor at Sinclair’s feet. Not giving herself time to think what she was doing, she reached up to the waistband of his trousers. Outside, lightning zinged through the air and there was a loud clap of thunder that shook the cabin. The light in the lamp flickered, casting hazy shadows on the wall as Tuck went behind the settee, bent over the back and put his arm around Sinclair’s waist. “Ready?” he asked. Leonie nodded. The last thing Sinclair remembered was a shriek of thunder, his own muffled scream of pain and then total blackness swooping over him.

***** The storm was raging beyond the windows. Rain streaked wildly down the panes and now and again, the world would become a harsh blast of white light. Battering winds drove increasingly against the cabin and the timbers were set to shaking. A chill had invaded the bedroom and Leonie sat huddled in a chair Tuck had carried in to place by Sinclair’s bed. Either her patient was sleeping soundly or was unconscious— she couldn’t tell which. Every now and then he would moan. There had been precious little in the way of meal fixings in his cupboards, she thought as she sat there, cold and hungry. What she had found, she had used to make a broth for him and the pot was simmering in the fireplace Tuck had been kind enough to light. Along with a couple of jars of stewed tomatoes, a few slices of slab bacon and a handful or two of rice, the heel of a loaf of day-old bread, a jar of pickled peaches and a few shriveled up apples had been the extent of the bounty found in Sinclair’s kitchen. “I reckon he eats up at Willow Glen,” Tuck had replied when Leonie demanded to know how Sinclair could live like that. “A bachelor makes do, Leonie.” The smithy had given her a wizened look. “Seems to me what he needs is a wife to take care of him.” “Don’t I hear Emmie Lou calling you, Tuck?” she had flung at him. “Don’t I hear you telling me to leave so you can be alone with him?” Tuck had shot back. “Go…away!” Leonie had snapped, annoyed at his dry chuckle. Tuck had checked on Sinclair before leaving then had hunched his shoulders against going out again into the pouring rain. He stood on the little porch and glared at the streams of water cascading down from the roof. “This is gonna get worse ‘fore it gets any better,” he had warned Leonie. “Then you’d better get home to your woman,” Leonie had reminded him. 100

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Nodding thoughtfully, Tuck had walked as fast as he could out to the buckboard and climbed up on the seat. He took up the reins then called out just as Leonie was shutting the door, “Be gentle with him, Leonie!” With a snort of anger Leonie slammed the door, but not before she heard Tuck’s booming laughter competing with the thunder on high.

***** She thought it was the thunder that had awakened her. Sitting upright in the chair, she wiped the sleep from her eyes and pulled the blanket closer around her shoulders. The storm had, indeed, worsened as Tuck had predicted it would, and was driving against the cabin with ever-increasing fury. Blustering wind skirled around the eaves and slapped branches against the windows. “No.” Leonie looked toward the bed and saw that Sinclair was thrashing his head from side to side on the pillow. She shook off her blanket and stood up. “No!” “Sinclair?” she questioned softly as she went to the bed. His savaged face was glistening with sweat and when she put her hand on his forehead, she drew in a sharp breath. He was burning up with fever! She looked down at his swollen right hand and knew it was the fire ant stings that had caused it. “Take the hill!” she heard him command, fear rising in his voice. “Take the hill!” She tried shaking him out of his nightmare, but he was well caught in its grip and seemed to take her touch as a hit rather than the gentle touch it had been. Wanting to make him as comfortable as she could, Leonie went to the kitchen and pumped a basin of water. Gathering some flannel rags, she went back into the bedroom, wet them, wrung them out and then sat beside him to wipe his perspiring face. “Take the hill,” he entreated, and his voice held a note of hopelessness. For over twenty minutes, he kept repeating the same words over and over again. The cuts on his lips broke open and oozed. His face had become a mottled black and blue color with tinges of yellow around the edge. He groaned as he tried to move and his fists clenched and unclenched. At one point, his arms shot up and he grabbed the iron bars of the headboard, yanking as hard as he could. “Let me out!” he shouted. “Sinclair,” Leonie said in a gentle voice. “You are safe. You are at home.” He could not hear her. He was lost in the snow-mantled hills of Tennessee. All around him, men were dying, their blood running thick in the snow. Horses were screaming as cannon shot ripped open their bellies and spewed hot innards on the cold ground. The Rebel yell had been stifled, the bugle was sounding retreat, the drums of the enemy were frantically beating the rhythm of advance. Officers were shouting to their men, the enlisted soldiers were dying. 101

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Lightning cracked over the cabin and thunder rumbled heavily overhead. Light flared brightly against the windows and Leonie squinted to block out the harsh invasion. A shrill whistle of wind careened around the corner and blasted against the front door. The cannon fired, booming so loud he had to cover his ears to keep his hearing. The piercing whistle of the cannonball flying across the afternoon sky made him look in that direction only a moment before the deadly missile landed and exploded, flinging men and horses high into the smoky air. “They are overrunning the redoubt!” the major yelled and then a sniper’s bullet caught him in the throat. With an astonished look on his too-young face, the West Point graduate from Mississippi had fallen back, the front of his gray uniform awash in bright red blood. “Captain!” But the warning had come too late. Sinclair turned, only to feel the hot lead pierce his chest. He looked down, saw the mushrooming stain spreading across his chest. He thought of Duncan and Leondis, his parents, the men whose company he had held until they too had met their tragic fates in this godforsaken war. Another bullet whizzed past his ear and he was thrown to the ground, a wizened soldier from the Miller County Wildcats plastered on top of him. “Private Elijah Thompson, Sir,” the soldier grinned. “At your service!” “Much obliged,” Sinclair returned, and then passed out. At two o’clock in the afternoon, all hell broke loose and the sky turned black as pitch. The wind began to moan around the cabin and the roof timbers began to shake and rattle. Leonie paused as she wiped Sinclair’s face and neck, and listened. She could hear what sounded like a train coming. Considering the fact they were miles and miles from any track, she knew exactly what was bearing down on them. “Sinclair!” she shouted, shaking him. “Wake up!” She lightly tapped his cheek with her palm. “Wake up!” The Union colonel slapped him hard, splitting his lip. “You will answer me, you dirty reb!” Sinclair’s head rocked back and forth as the blows came again and again. The Pennsylvanian had lost kin at Bull Run. He had been itching to question Sinclair for days but the field surgeon would not allow it. This morning, the physician had had no choice but to release his patient into the unmerciful hands of the colonel. “Answer me, boy!” Pain rocketed through Sinclair’s head and gut. A rock-hard fist drove into his belly and let escape all the air. Gasping for breath, his bullet wound stinging, he clenched his jaw to keep from crying out and took another hit, this time to the side of his head and he plunged into darkness once more.

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Overhead, shingles were tearing loose from the roof and branches thudded hard against the outside wall. The roar of the tornado was bearing down on the cabin and the very floor beneath Leonie’s feet was vibrating. Each time a shingle was ripped off, Sinclair groaned. She sat down on the bed, tried to pry his hands from the iron bars above his head and couldn’t. His fists were locked in place. “Let me out.” She heard him whisper. “Please let me out!” Name, rank and regiment. That had been all he had given the vicious little man from Pennsylvania. Though two of his men had been executed right in front of him, he had said no more. His own beating had only made him more determined not to say anything that would give away the position of the main troop. “I’ll make him talk, Colonel,” the burly man with the Minnesota accent had promised. “We are not barbarians!” the Pennsylvanian had stated. But while the colonel was seeing to other matters, the Minnesota sergeant took matters into his own beefy hands with the rebel. “You remember me, boy?” the sergeant asked. “If you don’t, you will by the time I’m through with you!” The first pass of the bullwhip had slammed Sinclair against the post and the leather strand had left a brand from shoulder to shoulder. The second pass had put a jagged line of pain from shoulder to hip. “Stop that!” Once more the warning had come too late. The third pass had cut deeper and had produced an unearthly scream from Sinclair’s lips. He had awakened in the field surgeon’s tent, afire with fever and more determined than ever not to open his mouth. What he had not counted on was the hole into which he had been thrown to loosen his tongue. He was moaning in his fevered sleep. His arms were rigid as he held the bedposts. Sweat dripped down his bruised face, puddled in the hollow at the base of his throat. The front of his nightshirt was soaked with perspiration and the rancid odor of fever permeated his body. “Let me out,” she heard him plead, and she watched him try to open his eyes, which were sealed shut from the beating. “You are out, sweetheart,” she told him gently, and unbuttoned his nightshirt so she could wash the sweat from his chest. “You are safe.” “Please!” he begged, and the iron bars rattled beneath his fists. They had dragged him to the hole and thrown him in, mindless of the brutal cuts caused from the whip or the not quite healed wound in his chest. He had slid down a small shaft and landed with a painful thud to his tailbone. Twenty or so feet above him, he could see just a rectangle of daylight, then even that was partially removed as an iron grate was thrown across the opening and locked in place.

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“Let’s see how you like your new accommodations, reb!” someone had yelled down to him. He never knew how long he sat there until he finally became mad enough to examine his prison. He had stumbled about in the darkness—for it was now nighttime—and had finally concluded his cell to be about ten by ten feet in size. Under foot, the ground felt mushy and stank horribly, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it so he finally sat with his back against the shaft’s wall and dozed, his belly rumbling with hunger. Rain greeted his awakening the next morning as it dripped down on him from the crisscrossed bars of the shaft’s entranceway. No one came to offer him food or water so he had stood under the doorway’s center and opened his mouth to collect water. The rain washed his face and comforted him only a little. When he heard the unmistakable sounds of camp being broken, he had begun to demand to be released. “Hey!” he had yelled. “Let me out of here!” The fear of them leaving him there to die had not yet entered his mind. Surely the brutish colonel from Pennsylvania wouldn’t dare leave a fellow officer locked in a hole in the ground then ride away. “Hey!” He had tried to climb the walls of his prison, but the stone was slippery, wet with rain and slick with something that barred getting a good handhold on the jutting rocks, but he managed to get within two feet of the grate before his foot slid out from under him and he scraped himself all the way down to the bottom again, landing hard enough to knock the breath out of him before his head cracked against the stone and he lost consciousness again. Leonie sighed with relief when she heard the roar passing over the top of the cabin. One moment the train was speeding toward them, the next, it was gone. She bowed her head and said a prayer of thanksgiving, grateful for the sparing of their lives. It was Sinclair’s sudden release of the bedpost as he covered his face with his hands that brought her hurrying to his bedside. “Don’t leave me here to die! Oh, God! Don’t let them leave me here to die!” he sobbed. Leonie whimpered with compassion. Sinclair’s words drove straight through her heart. “You are safe,” she said, for what had to be the hundredth time that afternoon. “You are safe. It’s all right.” She lay down beside him, stretching her body alongside his and gathered him in her arms. “It’s all right.” He was in the hole for three days without food. Passing into and out of consciousness that first day from the concussion the fall had given him, he would wake to remember where he was and begin to plead for help. On the second day, he realized no one could hear him and there would be no help. The thought of starving to death in a hole in the ground was more than his mind could take. “Don’t think about it,” he began to say. Over and over again, he chanted the mantra. If he did not dwell on the horror of such a death, surely it would not happen.

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On the third day, he had heard horses nearby and had tried to call out only to find he was too weak and his voice too hoarse from the litany he had spent every waking hour repeating time and time again. The thought of his salvation being within a call’s distance away and him unable to issue that call made him laugh. It was the laugh the little South Carolina drummer boy heard as he was taking a piss. And it was the laugh that saved Sinclair McGregor’s life. “It’s all right,” Leonie said, frowning at the maniacal laugh that erupted from Sinclair’s strained throat. “I’m here with you.” “Ivonne?” she heard him question, and knew he was at least partially conscious. For a moment, she said nothing then pressed his head to her cheek. “Yes, Sin. It’s Ivonne.” His arms came around her and he plastered himself tightly to her. “Don’t leave me,” he pleaded. “No never,” she told him. “I love you,” he said, and he nestled his head against her breast. Leonie stroked his sweat-soaked brown hair. “I love you, Sinclair,” she whispered, her lips trembling. “I have always loved you.”

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Chapter Eleven Leonie looked over her shoulder and frowned. Sinclair was still asleep but he was restless, moving fitfully as though his dreams were worse than his mind could bear. His battered face lay in a beam of sunlight filtering in through the window and the depth of the savage beating he had taken was overwhelming. It hurt her tender heart to see the physical reminder of the further pain this man had suffered and she turned away, unable to look upon that battered visage much longer for fear she’d run screaming like a banshee into the forest in search of his attackers. Not that those sons of bitches would go unpunished, she thought grimly as she set about fixing a meager breakfast for her patient. She vowed that if it were the last thing she ever did, she’d find the men who had brutalized Sinclair McGregor and make them pay dearly for what they’d done to him. There is no greater concept of vengeance in all the world than a female intent on righting a wrong done to one of her own—and in Leonie Emerson’s mind, Sinclair McGregor was hers. “Ivonne!” Leonie’s hands stilled on the fatback she was slicing and she lifted her head to stare blindly at the cabin wall in front of her. She didn’t hate Ivonne Delacroix. Never had and probably never would, despite the fact the woman had hurt Sinclair more than any beating ever could. But she envied Ivonne her delicate beauty and shapely figure, her glorious black hair and beautiful amber brown eyes. And the love of the man whose plaintive cry had cut a long slice through Leonie’s heart. “Ivonne!” She turned and went to his bed, sat down and reached for him, drawing him to her. “Hush, now, dearling,” she whispered, smoothing the sweat-dampened hair from his forehead. “I am here.” Sin felt the warm arms around him and in his semi-conscious state, believed it was his love that held him. The scent of her perfume filled his nostrils, the touch of her hand on his brow filled his soul with a need that overpowered the pain in his body. He could hear her crooning to him, but his head hurt so unmercifully bad he could not make out the words. All he knew was that she was talking to him, comforting him, and he reveled in having her hold him. But Sinclair McGregor needed more from the woman he cherished. More than life itself, he wanted the sweet pleasure of her arms around him. The moment his hand slid up to her breast, Leonie was lost. She drew in a shocked breath—started to protest, to push the hand gently away—but the glorious feel of those

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strong fingers caressing her, touching her where no man’s fingers had ever strayed, stilled the denial on her lips and overrode the guilt in her lonely heart. Instead of stopping what she knew was wrong, she reached out to press that questing hand tighter to her chest. Somewhere in his soul, Sinclair knew what he was doing wasn’t right, but he ignored the warning. Yes, she was married to another man. No, she was not his to do with as he pleased. But, damn it all to hell, she was his! She loved him as he loved her and why could he not consummate that precious love if she wanted it as much as he? She was willing—her hand on his told him as much. Her shallow, quick intakes of breath told him she was as aroused as he, as eager for him as he was for her. Yet still, he was a gentleman and he would not take what he was not given permission to have. “Please?” Leonie heard him ask. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, knowing full well he did not know whose body he was touching, in whose arms he lay. “Beloved?” There was one brief moment when she could have stopped it from happening, one tick of the clock that would have made the difference between heaven and damnation. A single flicker of time when a single word would have sufficed. A simple removal of his hand would have put an end to the madness. Getting up from his bed would have been enough. But she did none of those things. Instead, she lay down beside him and gave herself up to the wonder of his hands on her unfulfilled body. When he was full and ready for her, she removed her riding skirt and straddled him, seeking the heaven—or hell—he offered.

***** Ivonne woke with a start, her heart thudding in her chest. She sat up, pushing herself up in the bed, wincing a little. She turned her head to the window where sunlight streamed through and wondered what had pushed her so rudely from slumber. The storm that had raged over Willow Glen the night before had washed the heavens clean and it was a bright, sunny day filled with promise. And the surety that she would see Sinclair. So why did she feel this heavy burden in her chest? Why were her hands trembling and her mouth dry? It was almost as though she had had a premonition in her sleep of some terrible tragedy to come and the spirit of darkness had nudged her awake. “Damn foolish woman,” she called herself, yet the unease, the dread, she was experiencing would not leave her. When Bossie tapped gently at her door with her breakfast meal, Ivonne was still nervous and full of uncertainty. “Dat was some downpour, huh, Miss Ivonne?” Bossie asked.

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“Yes, it was,” Ivonne answered. She smiled shyly at this mountain of a woman she’d known most of her life and trusted as much as she did her own Silky. “Has Mr. Sinclair arrived yet or are the roads impassable?” She knew he had not returned the evening before. Bossie frowned. “We ain’t seen him yet dis mornin’, but dat ain’t nothin’ unusual with dat boy!” Ivonne looked down at the coverlet. “How has he been, Bossie?” she asked. “You knows how he’s been, Miss Ivonne,” Bossie replied with a touch of bitterness. “You done went and broke his heart when you married dat man. How you ‘spect him to be?” Ivonne nodded. “I know I hurt him.” “Dat you did,” Bossie said with emphasis, “but what’s done, done be done and cant’s be changed.” “I know,” Ivonne said quietly. She looked up. “Do you think he will forgive me for hurting him?” Bossie shrugged. “Knowing dat boy, I’d say he’s already done dat.” She started to say something else, but there was a discreet knock at the door. “It’s Dr. Doorenbos,” came the pronouncement. Bossie opened the door for the physician and left him with his patient. She trudged her bulk down the stairs and into the kitchen where Miss Grace Vivienne was nosing through the cupboard. “Whatchu doing, Miss Grace?” the black woman inquired. “That woman,” Grace Vivienne snapped, “says she has a bellyache and I was looking for some castor oil.” Bossie knew her mistress was talking about Delacroix’s sister Miss Evangeline. She grinned. “You gonna give her castor oil for a belly ache?” “I’d give her strychnine if I knew no one would find out,” Grace Vivienne snapped. “Don’t she know what castor oil be for?” Bossie chuckled. “That slut doesn’t know her tail from a hole in the ground!” Grace Vivienne snorted. “If she hadn’t stuffed her prissy mouth full of our food last evening, she wouldn’t be having a bellyache today.” The old woman’s sharp eyes narrowed with lethal intent. “Find me that damned castor oil, Bossie!” Bossie walked to one of the cupboards, opened it and pulled out an amber-colored glass bottle. “If’n you gives it to her in some apple juice, that’ll make it work that much quicker, Miss Grace.” Grace Vivienne’s smile could have equaled that of her girlhood when she was of flirting age with all the gallant young beaux of Chatham County. “A very good suggestion, Bossie.” She watched as the black woman filled a large tumbler with apple juice then poured a goodly amount of castor oil into the juice. “Dat should do the trick!” Bossie proclaimed, and extended the glass to her mistress. 108

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“That looks good,” Conor said, as he came through the kitchen door. “How ‘bout fixin’ me some, Bossie?” “You don’t wants none of this,” she told him. Her mouth stretched into a wide grin. “Dis be for dat woman.” Conor didn’t need to ask which woman. Bossie certainly would never do anything to harm Sin’s beloved Ivonne and if that knowing smirk on his grandmother’s face was any indication, what was in the tumbler was certainly not something he’d care to drink. “On second thought, I’ll just have a glass of milk,” he suggested. “Good choice, young man,” his grandmother agreed. She took the glass and walked regally from the room, a smile of pure spite on her weathered face. “Sin ain’t here, yet?” Conor asked Bossie. “Ain’t seen him.” Bossie poured him a large tumbler of milk and handed it to him. Conor frowned as he sat down at the kitchen table. “That’s strange, don’t you think?” “Reckon he’s still smarting,” Bossie decreed. “Blames himself for what happened.” She set to work making Conor’s breakfast. “Where yore lady dis mornin’?” Conor wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “She was feeling a touch sick to her stomach and said she didn’t want no breakfast.” Bossie looked around. “Sick to her stomach?” she repeated. “You’re too good a cook, Boss Lady,” Conor laughed. “She ate way too much last night.” “Wasn’t my food what’s made her sick, boy,” Bossie grated, narrowing her eyes at him. “She been sick ‘fore now?” The young man shrugged. “A few times over in Roberte, but you know how rich that food is.” “Uh-huh,” Bossie agreed. She turned around, hiding the smile she didn’t want him to see. “Leland already out?” Conor inquired. “Had him up and fed early and he be over to the sawmill, I reckon,” Bossie replied. “Well, he’ll see Sinclair then,” Conor stated. “Don’t guess I need to ride over to check on him.” “Reckon not,” Bossie concurred.

***** Evangeline grimaced terribly as she returned the tumbler to her hostess. “That has to have been the most godawful mess I’ve ever put in my mouth!” she exclaimed. I’ll bet you’ve put something even worse in your mouth many a time, Grace Vivienne thought viciously, but didn’t utter her comment. Instead, she put on a false face of

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sympathy, set the tumbler on the night table beside the bed and stooped over to adjust the Hardy woman’s covers. “You just rest today, dear,” Grace Vivienne commanded. “I’ll have your meals sent up.” “I don’t believe I can eat a thing right now,” Evangeline declared. “Well, just ring when you’re hungry,” the old woman told her. “Don’t worry,” Evangeline snapped. “I will.” She cast her hostess a stern look. “You are taking care of Sister, aren’t you? Edward would not be pleased to know his wife was being neglected.” Grace Vivienne stiffened. “She is getting the best of care, I assure you, madam.” Her tone became hostile. “I would venture to say she’s getting far better care here than she received at WindLass!” Evangeline’s eyes narrowed into thin slits of malevolence. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” “You know perfectly well what it means,” the old woman ground out. “I don’t know what you gave her, but you gave her something to make her lose that baby she was carrying.” “How dare you!” Evangeline hissed, but her face had paled, her eyes widening with instant fear. “I would never do anything to hurt—” “Shut up,” Grace Vivienne commanded. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what you do to that whore. I care about as much for her life as I would a rattlesnake’s.” She leaned over the bed. “As long as she is under my roof where Sinclair has cause to worry about her then I’ll see to her comfort and safety.” Her eyes filled with an unholy light. “But once she’s back at WindLass, you can do whatever the hell you want to her.” She straightened up, wincing at the pain in her spine. “Do we understand one another?” Evangeline stared at the old woman, not believing the true evil she saw reflecting in the watery gaze, but recognizing it well, nevertheless. It was an evil she’d often viewed in her own eyes through the reflection of a mirror. Like always recognized like, her old grandmother used to say. “Do we understand one another?” Grace Vivienne repeated. A slow nod lowered and raised Evangeline’s head. “Yes, I believe we do.” “Good,” the old woman pronounced. She turned away, putting an end to the dangerous conversation. Whatever the tramp decided to do was fine by her as long as it wasn’t done at Willow Glen. Evangeline sat perfectly still as the door to her room snapped shut with a finality that was almost as purposeful as the grave. She stared at the closed portal, going over the old woman’s words in her mind then shuddered. She’d hate to make an enemy of Grace Vivienne Brell.

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Leland barely glanced up as Conor rode by. He waved at his brother, realized he should have asked after Sinclair, but there didn’t seem much need. He hadn’t expected his cousin to come to work today because he knew the man would be too worried about Ivonne. Besides, Brendan needed the experience of running the crew if the boy was ever going to make anything of himself. “Hamp!” Leland called out. “Where’s that idiot going with that load of pulp wood?” The black foreman looked around. He wished Mr. Sin was here. Already this morning—and it wasn’t even noontime yet—Mr. Lee was slurring his words and smelled like Brooks’ still down the road from the sawmill. Lord, but that white man could put away the white lightning. Sighing heavily, he hunched his shoulders in his dirty, old brown cotton shirt and starting ambling toward his boss, wishing he knew what was keeping Mr. Sin.

***** Sin was sleeping again, lying on his back with one arm flung over his eyes. His gentle snores were comforting to the woman who sat in the rocking chair beside the bed, watching him. There was a slight ache between her thighs but other than that, and the telltale stains on Sinclair’s sheets, there was no sign Leonie Emerson had, after all these years, finally become a woman in the truest sense of the word. As she sat there, her hands on the rocking chair’s arms, and gently rocked, she was as content with the world as she had ever been. Despite the slight niggling sense of sinfulness that now and again flickered across her dyed-in-the-wool Protestant brain, she was at peace with herself. Her dreams had come true with the man of her dreams and she would allow nothing, nothing, to get in the way of the happiness that had made her world mellow this morning. All that concerned her were the lies she had formulated to keep Sinclair from ever knowing what she had done as he lay semi-unconscious on his bed. Not that that would be all that difficult, she reasoned, as her gaze drifted over the numerous bloodstains spotting his sheets. What were a few more little specks? He wouldn’t even notice them—she intended to see he didn’t. No, she thought. He could never know that she had crossed the threshold and taken him with her. It would not do and his guilt would be a cruel master she knew he could ill afford at this juncture of his life. Protecting him from her folly—one which she had instigated and, if truth were told, wanted to happen—would be the kindest thing she could do for him now. The thought of the possible consequences of this morning’s endeavor slipped insidiously across her brain. She stopped rocking. Well, she thought, what would be would be. Her hand went to her belly and she caressed the overweight bulge there. If she had conceived while she rode him, it was 111

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meant to happen. She would have to leave Savannah for the child’s sake, she lamented, but that was better than having to raise Sin’s son or daughter with the stigma of being a bastard attached to his or her name. In a new town—away from the gossiping tongues and knowing eyes of Chatham County—she could hint of a tragic, untimely death of her “husband”. No one would know—no one would care. Widows always received special respect in a community and a widow, alone and raising the child of a deceased war hero, would garner extra sympathy. She began to rock again, her eyes steady on Sinclair’s still form. Oh, Lord, but how she loved him, she mused. Had loved him for so many years. Her virgin dreams had been filled with his handsome face and tall, straight form. His laughter had always sent a shiver of delight through her body and his smile…well, his smile had sent shivers elsewhere. “‘From childhood’s hour I have not been as others were—I have not seen as others saw—I could not bring my passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken my sorrow; I could not awaken my heart to joy at the same tone; and all I lov’d, I lov’d alone’,” she quoted her favorite writer Poe. Yes, she thought. She had loved him alone. He had never known nor would he ever know. She meant to keep her secret from him. That was the kindest thing she could do for him, she thought again. She closed her eyes and laid her head on the rocker’s tall back. In her mind’s eyes, she was imagining his dear face hovering over hers as he made her his woman for all time. Her body felt his hands upon her. Her senses filled with the scent of him, the warmth of him, the imagined weight of him as he pressed her body into the mattress. No other man would ever touch her again because in her heart Leonie knew no other man could possibly live up to the expectations Rory Sinclair McGregor had fulfilled. “Miss Leonie?” Her eyes flew open and straight to the bed. She could feel the heat rushing to her face as she saw him looking at her, struggling to see her through the puffiness that swelled his eyes. She bounded from the chair and rushed to him. “How are you feeling, Captain?” she inquired, putting out a hand to feel his sweat-dotted brow. “May I have some water, ma’am?” he responded. “You certainly may!” she exclaimed, and hurried to pour him a glass from the pitcher she’d placed on his night table. Sitting down beside him, she gently lifted his head and helped him to drink. “Not too much,” she cautioned. His lips were painful and it was difficult to drink, but he was parched and felt feverish. When she eased her hand from behind his neck, he lay back down and groaned, the pain throughout his body rushing over him like a runaway train. “Tell me what I can do to help, Captain,” Leonie asked. “How long have I been out?” he asked. Leonie bit her lip. “Since noon yesterday,” she lied.

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He lifted the back of his hand to his torn lips. “I must apologize for—” “You have no need to apologize to me for anything, Captain,” she was quick to tell him, her gaze wandering to a particular splash of crimson on his sheets. “Tuck will no doubt be coming back to check on you and when he does, I’m sure he’ll go on to Willow Glen to let them know what happened.” Sin’s jaw clenched. “They’ll come back to finish the job once they find out I’m still alive.” Leonie nodded. “I would imagine so. Did you know them?” “No, ma’am, but I got a good enough look at them to recognize them when I see them again,” he answered. He shifted in the bed, flinching at the renewed agony in his ribs and gut. “Lie still,” Leonie advised. “We don’t know how much damage was done.” “More to my damned pride than to my body,” he sighed. He tried to look up at her, but his vision was still blurred and it was difficult to see through the swelling. “How bad is my face?” “They whipped you good,” she replied, her scrutiny wandering over the livid bruises and battered nose. “Your nose is broken and you’re damned lucky they didn’t break your jaw. All in all, I’d say you’ll heal fairly well. Maybe a cut or two will leave scars, but nothing as harsh as the one you already have.” Sin winced. He was very conscious of the scar down his left cheek. “It makes you look very dangerous, Captain,” Leonie told him. The scar fascinated her and, although the pain it had caused him hurt her to her very soul, she rather liked it on his handsome face. It gave him a maturity and manliness that had not been there when he had ridden off to war. All through the night they had passed together, she had lovingly touched that material source of his torture and wished she had been there to help him adjust to it. She knew he hadn’t—perhaps never would—but to her, it was a sensual mark that set him far apart from other men. Rather than detracting from his male beauty, it only heightened it. “My back feels like it’s caved in,” he said, changing the subject. “There’s a pretty bad cut back there,” she told him. Her brow furrowed. “I didn’t know they whipped prisoners of war, Captain.” “The man that did that had a particular grudge against me, Miss Leonie,” he replied. “I remembered him the moment I saw him and I know he remembered me.” Leonie cocked her head to one side. “You knew him before the war?” Sin nodded although it nearly cost him his consciousness. He squeezed his eyes shut to keep the nausea and blinding pain from pushing him over the edge. Keep talking, he thought, or you’ll pass out again. “I had the displeasure of making his acquaintance up in Boston when I was there with Leland just before our Carolinian brothers seceded,” he explained.

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“When y’all went up to buy that stallion from that Arabian fellow,” she added. There wasn’t much she didn’t know about Sinclair McGregor and what he had been doing before the War. She had made it her business to find out all she could about the man. “Ben-Alkazar,” Sin acknowledged. “A nice man. Good horse breeder.” He ran a hand over his sweaty face. “That Yankee SOB was working for the American agent who was handling the sale. I got a look at him when he was unloading the stallion off Captain van de Lar’s ship. Later that evening, I saw him again.” “Under less than pleasant circumstance if your expression is any indication,” Leonie observed. “Aye,” Sin agreed. “The bastard was trying to rape a little girl.” Disgust filled Leonie’s face. “What did you do?” “Lee and I pulled him off her, but he swore she was a…” He stopped, his face flaming. “Prostitute?” Leonie supplied. “Ah, yes,” he answered, his mouth tight with embarrassment. “That may well be true up there in the heathen North, Captain,” she reminded him. “All the same, he didn’t need to be pawing that child,” Sin grated. “That goes without saying,” she agreed. “So when you come across him a few years later and he recognizes you, he undertakes to make you sorry you interfered with his night’s pleasure.” “Something like that,” Sin mumbled, acutely uneasy with the turn the conversation had taken. “I paid dearly for interrupting him, I assure you.” “Whatever happened to him?” Sin looked up. There was fire in her eyes and he figured she could handle the truth. “I strangled him with my manacle chains,” he admitted. “Good,” was her firm pronouncement. “I hope he suffered.” A slight smile touched Sin’s split lips and he moaned. “Ah, Miss Leonie, I need…” He stopped, trying to push himself up. “I’ve got to—” “Use the chamber pot,” she finished for him. Before he could answer, she bent over and pulled the porcelain appliance from beneath his bed. “Miss Leonie, you’ll…” He was embarrassed beyond measure and didn’t know how to ask her to leave him to his own devices, but he didn’t need to. She got up from the bed and, in a matter-of-fact and businesslike way, calmly walked out of his cabin and firmly shut the door behind her. It took some doing on his part to swing his legs from the bed and stand, but relieving his bladder was well worth the head swimming and the bruised muscles that screamed in agony with every breath he took. When he was finished, he thought for a moment of going to the cheval mirror and taking a look at the damage done to his face,

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but what difference did it make anyway? Who was there to really care what he looked like? The only woman whose opinion counted didn’t seem to care one way or the other. Dorrie said it didn’t matter and Miss Leonie had indicated that it was of no real importance, so what the hell? Lying back down, he flung his arm over his eyes again and sighed. He’d give himself time to heal. Let the broken bones mend, the split skin seal itself together again. Then he’d do what the war had taught him to be good at doing—he’d kill Edward Delacroix.

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Chapter Twelve There was fire in the old woman’s eyes as she stared down her grandsons. “This is not acceptable,” she snapped. Her furious attention flicked from Brendan to Leland to Conor then back to Leland, where it settled with growing rage. “Well?” Leland shrugged. Nothing bothered him all that much of late and especially not his grandmother’s ire. “I don’t know what to tell you, Granny, he—” “Do not call me that despicable sobriquet!” Grace Vivienne shouted so loudly the crystal pendants in the chandelier overhead tinkled. Tina lowered her head, her lips pursed tightly together to keep from laughing. She found her grandmother-in-law’s anger high entertainment since it was rarely directed her way. She cast her eyes to the side as Conor slipped his hand in hers and squeezed— a good indication her husband was on the verge of laughter himself. “My most humble apology, Grandmother,” they heard Lee mutter. “Get up from this table right this minute and go out to his cabin and find out why he did not appear for either breakfast or lunch!” Grace Vivienne demanded, her enraged glower locked on Leland Brell as though he were a magnet and her fury the iron filings. Leland nodded without speaking. He pushed his chair back from the table, stood unsteadily beside his place for a moment, then turned and walked with as much dignity as the bottle of good Kentucky bourbon he’d consumed during the day would allow. “I don’t suppose that woman will be down for supper, either,” the old woman stated, a gleam of pure spite now warring with the fury in her rheumy stare. “No, ma’am,” Tina answered for everyone. “She has had a particularly bad case of the…” She looked to her husband. “What did Lee call it?” “The quick-steps,” Conor replied, his lips twitching. His hold on his wife’s hand tightened almost painfully. Grace Vivienne gave a rather unladylike snort. “Must have been something she ate.” “Or drank,” Tina said quietly, and lifted her head so that she looked directly into the old woman’s vengeful gaze. Although there was no guile in the younger woman’s face, there was no doubt in Grace Vivienne’s mind that Christina knew precisely what had given the Hardy woman a severe case of diarrhea. “I hope it isn’t something that is going around,” the old woman said pointedly, her eyes narrowing as she glared at her granddaughter-in-law.

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“I hope not, too, ma’am,” Tina replied respectfully. “Tina’s been a bit under the weather since we got home from—” Conor nearly yelped as his wife’s nails dug into his hand. He turned a surprised face to her. But the damage had already been done. Grace Vivienne pounced on her grandson’s words. “Under the weather in what way, Conor James?” she demanded. Tina swiveled her head and gave Conor a look that would have quelled the staunchest warrior and he blinked, wondering what on Earth he could have said to cause such a venomous look from such an accommodating lass. “Answer me, boy!” his grandmother commanded. “How has she been ill?” Tina’s pursed lips were no longer clamped together from humor—they were pressed together with high annoyance. Before her husband could reply, she looked at his grandmother and lifted her chin. “I think you know very well, ma’am, but this was neither the time nor the place for the cat to be let off the rolling stone.” Conor sighed at the mixed metaphor. Where did she come up with these things, he wondered? “And pray tell why not?” Grace Vivienne wanted clarified, but Tina was not easily cowered. “Considering Ivonne’s tragic circumstances, I thought it inappropriate,” Tina replied with a little sniff. The old woman stared at her for a good long while and then slowly, thoughtfully nodded. “I see.” She lifted the linen napkin from beside her place, shook it out and laid it daintily in her lap. “I do believe congratulations are in order.” “Thank you,” Tina said, and placed her own napkin in her lap. “Congratulations for what?” Brendan asked, his head swiveling from his grandmother to his sister-in-law. “For not telling Ivonne that Tina was sick,” Conor said with annoyance. At least he thought that was what his grandmother and wife were discussing. “Oh,” Brendan stated. He looked at Tina. “I suppose that was a good idea, Wiseacre.” Tina smiled slowly as she avoided looking into the knowing face of her grandmother-in-law. Sometimes men could be so dense, she thought.

***** Leland nearly fell off his horse four times before the gelding finally arrived at Sinclair’s front door. Grumbling to himself as he climbed down painfully from atop his mount, he consigned Rory Sinclair McGregor to the farthest reaches of the Pit for making him have to ride all the way out here. Arming the sweat from his brow, breathing hard in the high humidity of the hot August evening, he had no intention of

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knocking on Sin’s door, but as he reached the closed portal, he was taken aback as it came open with a snap. “I was beginning to think no one up at Willow Glen gave a rat’s ass what had happened to Sinclair,” Leonie Emerson snapped. “Did you people just now realize he was missing?” Lee Brell blinked. Blinked again, then his eyebrows drew together over stormy cinnamon-brown eyes. “What are you doing here at this time of evening?” he demanded. “Why didn’t someone come out here yesterday to check on him?” she countered. “He’s a grown man,” Leland grunted. “Why are you here?” “He’s a hurt man,” she responded. “What good is family if no one cares if someone nearly beats you to death?” Leland stared at her. “What are you talking about, woman?” Leonie’s mouth tightened and she snaked out a hand, snagged Lee’s shirtsleeve and pulled him into the cabin. “I reckon you don’t know,” she answered. “Know what?” he grated, but the woman he’d loved almost his entire life was walking down the small hallway right into Sin’s bedroom as though she had made herself perfectly at home there. With a mighty scowl on his handsome face, Leland stomped after her. “Your cousin is here,” Leonie said softly, putting a gentle hand on Sinclair’s shoulder. She smiled as he came awake and looked up at her quizzically. “Lee’s here,” she repeated, then straightened and turned up the flame on the lantern. Sinclair turned his head toward the doorway and saw Lee standing there. From the look on the older man’s face, he was neither pleased with the gentleness in Leonie Emerson’s voice nor her presence in Sin’s room. As Lee’s angry gaze finally snapped from Leonie to him, Sin saw Brell’s eyes widen with shock. “Lordy be, Sinclair! Who the hell put you through a meat grinder, son?” Lee gasped as he ventured into the room, his mouth agape. “I’ll give you one guess,” Leonie answered for her patient. Lee glanced at her then turned back to Sin. “Delacroix did this?” “Three of his men,” Leonie corrected as she bent over Sinclair to adjust his covers. Lee snapped his mouth shut with an audible click then—with hands on his hips— turned to Leonie. “How long you been here, Miss Leonie?” “Since yesterday at noon,” she replied, and ignored the sharp intake of breath her scandalous admission invoked. “There didn’t seem to be anyone else interested enough to come check on his whereabouts and—” “We didn’t know this had happened!” Lee defended himself and his family honor.

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Leonie stopped fussing with Sin’s covers and gave Leland an accusatory look. “And I suppose it didn’t occur to a single, solitary soul at Willow Glen when this man, worried sick as he is about Miz Delacroix, didn’t come back there last evening to check on her condition and didn’t show up for either breakfast or dinner to see how she was?” “Well, we—” “He could have died out there on the roadway, Colonel Brell,” she declared. “That was certainly the intention of his attackers. Had his horse not run off and had he been able to mount the beast and ride on here to his home, he could have lain here in this bed and succumbed to his injuries had I not been here to care for him.” “I understand that, but—” “And not one of you came out here to see how he was.” Her chin lifted. “Not a one of you!” “Miss Leonie, I told you—” “And another thing…” Sinclair was following the exchange with a great deal of amusement. If he didn’t feel so bad and if doing so wouldn’t hurt like hell, he would have laughed. Leonie was shaking a chubby finger in Leland’s face and Leland was opening and closing his mouth like a largemouth bass as he tried to get a word in edgewise. “So now you can take over while I go home and clean up!” Leland watched her gather up her hat and, for the first time, became aware of the gun belt she had also snatched up. All he could think to ask was if she knew how to handle the Colt nestled inside the worn leather holster. “I can hit a possum dead center on a moonless night,” she quipped, pushing past him to exit the bedroom. “The devil you say!” Leland grunted. He turned and followed her, their angry voices drifted back to Sinclair as the two of them headed outside. When Leland came storming back into his room, the first thing out of his tight mouth was a vehement curse. “That goldarned woman took my damned horse!” he seethed. He glared down at Sinclair. “Said mine was already saddled and she didn’t want to wait around for me to saddle that nag of yours!” Sinclair grinned at him, wincing as his torn lips broke open. “She was right, Lee. I know she’s tired.” Leland didn’t say anything for a moment then reached out and dragged the rocking chair up to Sin’s bed. “Who was it done this?” “I didn’t know them, but you and I both know who paid ‘em,” Sin answered. “Describe what they looked like,” Lee snarled. “Let that go for now,” Sin said, and weakly held up a hand as Leland would have protested. “How is Ivonne?” he needed to know more than he needed to have the men found who’d nearly killed him. 119

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“She was doing okay when I went down to supper,” Leland replied. “I checked in on her and she asked where you were.” Sinclair closed his eyes. “She must think I’m the worst kind of bastard not to have been there.” “She’ll understand,” Lee reminded him. He hunched forward, his clasped hands dangling between his spread thighs. “The baby’s gonna be buried tomorrow at WindLass and she ain’t up to traveling over there, Sin. It’s gonna be a rough day for her.” “I know,” came the quiet reply. He held Lee’s gaze. “I want to be there for her, Leland.” Leland sighed. “I figured as much.” He stood up, hitched up his trousers and turned to leave. “I’ll go get the buckboard and me, Conor and Brenny will come back for you.” He looked around the room. “Where’s your gun, brat?” “I haven’t worn one since I came home,” Sin replied. He knew why Lee had asked. “But there’s a Winchester in the cabinet by the front door. Shells are in the kitchen drawer.” “It won’t take us long to get back here, but I want your ass protected just in case,” Lee said unnecessarily. He stalked out of the room and came back shortly with the loaded weapon.

***** Evangeline smoothed her skirt as she started down the stairs. She had spent the entire day in her boudoir and had missed all three meals. Her belly was rumbling and despite the loose feeling in her nether region, she intended to find something in this inhospitable place to quiet the hunger pangs. Not wanting to run into the elderly bitch from hell, Delacroix’s sister had waited until she thought everyone had retired for the evening before making her way down to the kitchen. When she heard the voices coming from the front parlor, she quickly crossed the hallway and was about to retreat back up the stairs but Edward’s name spoken with a good deal of venomous spite caught her attention. Being as quiet as she could, she stepped over to the parlor and hid behind the tall potted palm flanking the archway. “And you are positive it was him?” the old woman was hissing. “As sure as the sun rises in the east, Grandmother,” Leland Brell replied. “Son of a bitch!” Grace Vivienne’s explosive curse lifted Evangeline’s delicate brows into the gold of her carefully plaited hair. “I’m sure they thought he was dead or they wouldn’t have just ridden off,” Leland remarked. “No doubt Delacroix paid them a goodly amount and they reported everything taken care of.” Evangeline frowned. Who were they talking about, she wondered? She had been so ill during the entire day, she was barely conscious of the comings and goings taking

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place outside her closed bedroom door. For the most part, she had been ignored by the staff, but once or twice one of the darkie women had come in to empty the chamber pot, however, she had not deigned to speak to the hired help so Evangeline was unaware of anything of import having taken place. “He’ll kill him for sure now,” someone said, and Evangeline was fairly sure it was the middle son Conor. “That woman will be the death of my grandson yet!” Grace Vivienne grumbled. “Would you care?” That was Leland’s droll voice. There was a long moment of silence then the old woman’s steady, acid-filled voice. “Go to bed, Leland,” she commanded. “It’s all you can do to stand up as drunk as you are!” Evangeline had to plaster herself tightly behind the palm as Brell came hobbling angrily from the parlor. He didn’t turn his face toward her but there was no need. Evangeline had seen the utter contempt and self-loathing on the man’s set profile and hadn’t missed the fists tightly clenched at his sides. “You two might as well go on up to bed, as well,” she heard the old woman say on a long, tired breath. “There’s nothing can be done until Sin’s recovered from this cowardly beating.” “He’ll kill him for sure,” Conor Brell repeated his prophesy. “He has every right to!” their grandmother proclaimed. “Does Ivonne know?” Brendan asked. “I’ll tell her in the morning,” the old woman replied. “No sense in waking her this evening and getting her all upset.” How thoughtful, Evangeline smirked. “Don’t stay down here too long, Grandmother,” Conor advised. Once more Evangeline had to hide behind the palm until the two brothers had passed by her and gone up the stairs. She stood where she was, chewing on her lip, then drew in a long, steadying breath and pushed aside the palm fronds to make her way into the parlor. The surprised look on the old woman’s face pleased her. “What are you doing down here this time of night?” was the bitter query. “I was hungry,” Evangeline answered without a bit of remorse. “How badly was the captain injured?” Grace Vivienne’s face turned hard. “Eavesdropping is not the way to repay your hostess’s hospitality,” she snapped. “The extent of the hospitality shown to me in this backwoods shanty would fill nothing more than a thimble,” Evangeline muttered. Without being asked, she went to one of the settees and sat down, fanning her brocade skirts around her legs. “Is there something I can do for you, Mrs. Hardy?” Grace Vivienne spat. “I hate my brother,” came the reply.

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The old woman’s left eyebrow crooked upward. “Is that so?” Evangeline inclined her head. “Yes, it is. I have hated Edward since the day I was introduced to him.” She primly smoothed the material of her skirts, brushing away imaginary lint. “And I have despised that guttersnipe of a wife of his since the day I arrived in Savannah.” The old woman leaned back in her chair. “Why do you feel the need to tell me this?” Evangeline smiled and Grace Vivienne recoiled a little, for it was a smile of pure evil and filled with a deadliness she had only seen once before in her life. “You loathe Edward too,” she heard the Hardy woman saying. “And Ivonne…” The smile turned deadlier still. “Well, let’s just say you would not have grieved had she succumbed at the same time as the brat she carried.” The great clock in the hallway began to chime the eleventh hour and both women sat staring at one another, listening to the elegant bongs until there was only a reverberating through the otherwise quiet house. At last, Grace Vivienne spoke. “What exactly is it you want, Mrs. Hardy?” “Please call me Evangeline.” “What is it you want?” the old woman repeated. “Well, as you know I am a widow—” “A state of being attained, no doubt, by very careful planning,” Grace Vivienne interrupted. “Extremely careful planning,” Evangeline conceded. “Then I suppose you would not consider fratricide beyond your abilities.” “Oh certainly not!” Evangeline laughed. “Especially since I do not consider Edward true kin.” “I was referring to your sister-in-law.” “Oh her,” Evangeline sighed, waving a hand as though to dismiss the woman completely from this world. “I will see to her all in good time.” “The sooner the better,” was Grace Vivienne’s reply. “Perhaps,” Evangeline agreed. “Perhaps.” “You have not told me what your intentions are, Mrs. Hardy. Surely you know that should something happen to Edward, Ivonne would inherit WindLass and all of his properties.” “Should she survive him, yes,” Evangeline responded, “but I intend to see she predeceases him, Mrs. Brell.” A slow smile began to form on Grace Vivienne’s face. “Am I to take it you are in your brother’s will?” A slow, delicate incline of Evangeline’s head was the only reply.

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“And that if and when your brother shuffles off this mortal coil, you will become the owner of WindLass?” Another slow, graceful nod. “And you want precisely what from me?” Evangeline sat forward, her beautiful face intent, her eyes locked on Grace Vivienne. “I want you to do nothing, Mrs. Brell. Absolutely nothing.” She lowered her voice. “I will rid this world of that whorish bitch upstairs, Edward will meet an untimely end a few weeks later and I will inherit WindLass.” “I don’t see how that helps me beyond getting the two of them out of Rory Sinclair’s life once and for all,” Grace Vivienne stated. “WindLass belongs to the McGregors, yet it is in the hands of our enemy at the moment. What good will it do us to have it in your hands, instead?” “I want that house,” Evangeline said, her mouth set with hard lines of possession. “I have wanted it from the moment I set eyes on it and I intend to have it. When I decide to move on, I will sell it back to you, at a reasonable price, of course.” “Of course,” the old woman muttered with disbelief. Evangeline’s face took on a look of ungodly spite. “Don’t interfere with my plans, old woman, and I’ll see your family home is once more in your possession. Cross me, and I swear to you, you will regret it for as long as I allow you to draw breath on this Earth!” Grace Vivienne shocked the younger woman as she threw back her head and laughter pealed from her wrinkled throat. “I see nothing humorous about this conversation!” Evangeline snapped, and was further shocked when the old woman leapt to her feet and with one graceful move that belied her many years, was in Evangeline’s face, nose to nose with her. “This is the way it is going to be, dearie,” the old woman growled. “Get that bitch out of Rory Sinclair’s life and I’ll see to it he kills Edward for you. If you do it, the law may become suspicious. There’s already talk about the untimely deaths of your husbands. In exchange for my cooperation in all this, you will marry Sinclair—” “What?” The gasp even stopped the crickets outside the windows from chirping. “You will marry Sinclair and produce an heir for him.” There was a firm shake of the old woman’s head. “I don’t care if it’s a boy or girl so long as there is issue. As soon as the child is born, you will deed WindLass over to him or her and leave this city.” “Are you out of your mind, you stupid old crone?” Evangeline snarled. “I have no intention of being shackled to that scar-faced—” “Once the child is born and WindLass is once more in the possession of the McGregor family,” Grace Vivienne continued, “Rory Sinclair will have outlived his usefulness and you may dispatch him as you did your other husbands. I don’t care one way or another.” She stood up, her thin hands on her bony hips. “All I ask is that he not suffer unduly.”

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Evangeline sat there, her mouth open, staring up at a woman who had just given a virtual stranger carte blanche to do away with her own flesh and blood. “What’s it to be?” Grace Vivienne inquired. “If I say no?” Evangeline countered, vying for time to think over this shocking proposal. Grace Vivienne smiled hatefully. “You are not the only one who knows how to use arsenic, my dear, and unless you do as they did in medieval times and have someone taste every morsel of food you cram into that greedy little mouth of yours, how will you know that what you are eating hasn’t been laced with an extra spice or two?” Evangeline shuddered delicately. She lowered her head, thinking feverishly, going over and over the pros and cons of the situation and didn’t see how she could possibly come out on the bad end of all this unless she crossed this vindictive old bat. Sinclair wasn’t entirely unattractive and just knowing she was getting what Ivonne desperately wanted was too rich a sweet to pass by untested. At last, she looked and smiled sweetly. “Do you prefer to be called Mother Brell or Grandmama?”

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Chapter Thirteen When Ivonne opened her eyes, she gasped. Grace Vivienne was standing over her bed, a look of pure venom on her lined face. As soon as she realized Ivonne was awake, the hatred dissolved like sugar in water to be replaced with a phony, tight smile. “Good morning, Ivonne,” Grace Vivienne said curtly. “I trust you slept well.” Ivonne pushed herself up in the bed. “I slept very well, thank you, Mrs. Brell.” The old woman nodded as though she had expected to hear as much. “I am told your husband is on his way over to pick you up for the ceremony. Would you like me to have Bossie help you get dressed?” She swept an arm behind her. “Your mourning dress was delivered a few moments ago.” Ivonne’s dark eyes slipped past her hostess and a stab of hurt went through her when she saw the black apparel lying across the settee. She ducked her head as tears for her dead child rose up. “I would be grateful for the help, ma’am, thank you.” Grace Vivienne’s nose lifted into the air. “We have not been invited to the services, as I am sure you would suspect.” At the mention of Edward’s callousness, Ivonne winced, but she could not defend her husband so did not try. All she could do was apologize, which she began to do. “No need,” the old woman said, cutting her off. She turned, and then looked back over her shoulder. “I would stay and help, as well, but I must see to Rory Sinclair.” Ivonne’s head snapped up. “Is he ill?” A brief flicker of spite shot through Grace Vivienne’s stare before it was damped. “Oh, of course you would not have heard,” she said with false compassion. “He was set upon by persons unknown two days ago and severely beaten.” “He was attacked?” Ivonne whispered, her hand going up to her throat. “Yes,” the old woman acknowledged. “And I think you and I both know who was responsible for this cowardly assault, don’t we, Mrs. Delacroix?” Ivonne’s eyes widened. “You think Edward was behind it?” Grace Vivienne smiled hatefully. “Oh, my dear, I don’t think it—I know it!” With that, she snapped open the door and left, shutting the portal firmly behind her, ignoring Ivonne’s question, “Is he all right?” When she received no answer, Ivonne flung the covers back and stood, swaying a little from three days lying in bed. She had wondered why Sinclair had not come to see her since that first day, now she knew. “Damn you, Edward Delacroix,” she hissed. “Damn you to the Abyss!”

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There was a soft rap at the door then Bossie came in, her wide face glistening with sweat. “Gonna be a scorcher today, Miss Ivonne,” the black woman announced. “Already hotter than blazes.” “How is he?” Ivonne asked, reaching out to grab the other woman’s beefy arm. “How badly was he hurt?” Bossie shook her head, the red-check turban wrapped around her thick hair in peril of coming unwrapped. She reached up a chubby hand to push it back in place. “He got himself a buncha bruises and cuts. Them mens broke his nose and Doc Doorenbos said he gots a few broken ribs ‘though nothing inside got busted.” Ivonne winced. “When did this happen?” “A few days ago.” “What?” Ivonne gasped. “And no one told me?” “We’s didn’t know ‘til last night when Mr. Leland done went and fetched the boy back here. Nobody knowed.” She winked. “And I’ll tell you Miss Grace just about had a cow when Mr. Lee came riding back and told her. He and his brothers took the buckboard over to Mr. Sin’s place and fetched him here.” “Then who was taking care of him?” Ivonne demanded, her thoughts on Sinclair lying hurt in his cabin with no one to see to his needs. “Miss Emerson found him on the road a couple days ago and she and Mr. Tucker took him home.” Bossie shrugged. “I guess Miss Leonie took care of him, I don’ts rightly know. Ain’t talked to the boy this morning.” “Help me dress,” Ivonne said. “I have to see him.” “Don’t want you to,” Bossie declared. “I don’t care what you—” “Not me,” Bossie corrected. “Him. He told Miss Grace last night that you was not to be allowed in to see him.” “Why?” Ivonne cried. “Don’t want you to sees how he looks, I’m thinking,” the black woman explained. “Ain’t a fittin’ sight for a lady.” Ivonne stood there, chewing on her lip. She had to respect his wishes, but she was damned sure not going to leave Willow Glen until she found out how he was. And if Edward was responsible for the beating Sinclair had taken. “Help me dress,” she said again. “I sure am sorry about yore chile, Miss Ivonne,” Bossie stated. “Thank you,” Ivonne replied, but her thoughts were not on the product of Edward’s insanity. She mourned her child only in that it had been a part of her. In some secret part of her soul, she was glad she would not have a reminder of that terrible day when Edward had attacked her.

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“You’re good at such things, aren’t you?” Ivonne grated, unaware that she had spoken aloud. “Beg pardon, ma’am?” Bossie queried. Ivonne flung out an angry hand. “Not you, Boss Lady.” Her eyes narrowed into thin slits of hatred. “I wasn’t talking about you.” Another rap at the door and, before Ivonne could call out, the portal opened and Evangeline swept in, her black satin dress sparkling in the shaft of sunlight coming in from the tall mullion windows. “If you would like me to do your hair—” she began, but Ivonne cut her off. “I don’t need anything from you or your brother,” Ivonne snapped. “Kindly leave my room and do not speak to me for the remainder of the day, ma’am.” Evangeline blinked. “Whatever has gotten into you, Sister?” “I am not your sister!” Ivonne hissed, her eyes flaring. She lifted a hand and pointed an accusing finger at Evangeline. “Did you know what Edward was planning?” “About the funeral?” Evangeline hedged, knowing full well that wasn’t what this was about. “I am sure you can understand why he wants it to be just family. He—” “Did you know he hired thugs to beat Sinclair?” Ivonne shouted at her. Edward’s sister snapped her mouth shut, narrowed her gaze and lifted her chin. When she spoke, her voice was cool and decidedly spiteful. “I knew no such thing, although I was awake when they brought your—” her lips slipped into a mocking smile “—your ex-paramour here last evening. No one knows who set upon him, Ivonne.” “Oh, I beg to differ,” Ivonne ground out. “The entire county will have learned by now, I’m sure!” Evangeline’s chin went higher. “Do not, I caution you,” she said with emphasis, “place the blame on Edward unless you have proof.” “I don’t need proof,” Ivonne seethed. “I know all too well the depths of depravity to which Edward Delacroix can sink!” She flung out an angry hand. “Now, get the hell out of here and don’t bother me again, you freeloading bitch!” She laughed at the gasp of shock that shot from her sister-in-law then pointedly turned her back on the woman. Her spine stiff with outrage, her eyes snapping fire, Evangeline spun around and stormed from the room. “I guess you done told her,” Bossie chuckled as she began to lace up Ivonne’s corset. “I’ll not have that woman under my roof another week,” Ivonne declared. “I’d watch her if I was you,” Bossie warned. “I just don’ts trust her.” “Neither do I,” Ivonne stated. She put her hand on her belly, wondering not for the first time in the last three days if Evangeline had not given her something to bring on the miscarriage.

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Not that it mattered, Ivonne decided. Her child was gone, there would be others. But she would be damned if they would be Edward’s!

***** The coffee burned his tender lips and Sinclair put the cup aside. He’d been unable to eat much of the breakfast Bossie had prepared for him because it was painful to chew. His jaw, although not broken, sure felt as though it were. And his nose, broken and swollen beyond belief, made it impossible for him to taste the food anyway. His eyes were swollen as badly as they had been the day before, but his vision was still blurred and his head spun when he moved too fast, something his broken ribs didn’t allow to happen too often. “You’ve a concussion, Sinclair,” Doc Doorenbos had told him. “Best to stay in bed a few more days.” “He isn’t going anywhere,” Sin’s grandmother had proclaimed. “The constables will be out later today to talk to you,” Conor put in. He and Brendan had ridden into Savannah to report the attack only to find out Tuck had already filed a report. Now, sitting there, trying to shift positions in the bed that would not put so much pressure on his battered body, Sinclair heard the shouting coming from Ivonne’s room and knew she’d been told. He frowned. He had asked his grandmother not to tell Ivonne, but he should have known the old woman would anyway. “She is the reason you are lying here flat on your back, your face looking like something the cat dragged in,” his grandmother had snapped. “Daydreaming, Rory Sinclair?” Sin turned his head and saw his grandmother in the doorway. He hadn’t heard her knock then realized she wouldn’t have anyway. His privacy meant nothing to the old bat. She’d proven that the day she’d made him strip in front of her. “You told her,” he accused. “She asked,” his grandmother replied. She shut the door behind her and then came to the bed. “How do you feel?” “The same way I look,” he mumbled. “That bad, eh?” the old woman chuckled. Reaching behind her, she pulled up a chair and sat down. “We need to talk.” “About what?” he asked warily, not liking the look in her faded eyes. “I will not allow an uncivilized jackanapes like Edward Delacroix to molest a member of my family and think to get away with it,” she stated. “Steps are being taken to find the men responsible and see them brought to justice.”

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“I’ll find them and mete out my own justice, Grandmother,” Sinclair said through clenched teeth. “I think not,” Grace Vivienne denied. “Taking the law into your own hands would only get you a prison cell.” She smiled. “I would think you’d had your fill of them for a while.” That was true enough, Sin acknowledged. “I can’t let him get away with this, Grandmother.” “And he won’t,” she responded. Her eyes became brittle, hard. “Do you know why that woman married him?” A warning went off in Sinclair’s head. He didn’t like the way she was staring at him and he didn’t like the tone of her voice when she’d asked her question. Nor the disrespect with which she had referred to Ivonne. “Her name is Ivonne, Grandmother,” he reminded her. “Yes, I know,” Grace Vivienne agreed. “And if things had turned out the way I had planned, her last name would have been McGregor,” he said quietly. “I am aware of that, Rory Sinclair,” his grandmother grated, her lined face filled with resentment. “But you never wanted that, did you?” he asked, knowing full well she had had something to do with Ivonne and Edward’s marriage. What, he didn’t know, and something told him he really didn’t want to ever find out. “I never thought she was good enough for you,” came the admission. Before her grandson could defend his choice of wife, Grace Vivienne held up her hand. “I thought the Mahon girl would suit better.” “Because her father’s land adjoins WindLass to the east and since Lisa is an only child, she would have inherited the lands and they could have been incorporated into WindLass’ holdings,” he accused. “True,” his grandmother conceded. “Lisa was in love with Nick McCormack,” he informed her. “They had an understanding.” “Sean’s son was killed at Shiloh,” Grace Vivienne replied. Sinclair’s face clouded. “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry. He was a nice guy.” “I am told he was,” his grandmother answered. For a long moment neither spoke then footsteps down the hall drew their attention to the door. Bossie’s encouraging words and Ivonne’s low answers filtered through the closed portal then faded as the two women descended the staircase. “The funeral is today,” Grace Vivienne said quietly. “How is she holding up?” he asked just as quietly. “Quite well considering she never wanted the brat.” 129

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Sinclair’s mouth twisted with anger. “Why do you make comments like that, Grandmother?” he demanded. “You have no notion at all how she felt.” “A child she conceived out of wedlock?” the old woman cut in. If there was one thing that Sinclair knew for a fact about his grandmother, the woman was unscrupulously honest. She never repeated gossip and spoke only when she knew what she was saying was the absolute truth. If she was suggesting Ivonne was pregnant before she married Edward, there was reason for her to say it. “They had an affair,” he said flatly, wanting things clarified. Grace Vivienne’s expression was pure evil as she spoke. “He came to me, pouring out his love for that woman,” she said with disgust. “Telling me how he had always loved her. She believed you were dead since we’d received no word for months. She was grieving herself to death and he feared for her life.” “Ivonne always hated him,” he said, wondering when that had changed. “He asked my thoughts on the matter and I told him I believed it would be best if she found herself a new beau.” Sinclair slowly closed his eyes to that piece of news. He could just hear the thoughts clicking away inside his grandmother’s head back then—find a husband for “the woman” and get her out of Rory Sinclair’s life, should he ever come home unscathed from the War. “So you gave him permission to court my fiancée,” he whispered. “I suggested he court her, yes,” his grandmother answered, “but she would not receive him.” Sinclair opened his eyes and looked up. “As a matter of fact, she rebuffed each of his attempts to entice her into a relationship.” Something dark and very evil was stirring in his grandmother’s gaze as she stared at him. A chill went down Sinclair’s body and he found himself gripping the sheets in both fists. “I don’t believe anyone has ever denied Edward Delacroix anything he’s ever wanted,” he heard his grandmother saying, but her words seemed to be coming from far, far away. Already in his soul, he knew what she was going to say and he didn’t really want to hear it. “No,” he said too quietly for anyone to have heard. “So he followed her out to the riverbank one afternoon.” He sat there, his gaze locked on his grandmother as she told him how Edward Delacroix had lain in wait for Ivonne. How the man had poured out his feelings for her only to be rejected soundly. How Ivonne had turned to go and Edward had stopped her, dragging her back and into his arms while he thrust his unwanted kisses on her protesting lips. How Ivonne had managed to pull away and run, screaming for help 130

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that never came. How Edward had caught up with her and thrown her to the ground, angrily yelling that if she would not have him in an honorable way, he would have her any way he wanted. Of how Edward had raped the love of Sinclair’s life. “No,” Sinclair whispered. “When she discovered she was in the family way, her parents suggested she marry Edward to keep the gossip at a minimum.” “No.” The word was a plea for help—a negation of the terrible pain that was destroying what was left of Rory Sinclair McGregor’s world, just as Edward Delacroix knew it would. “She came to me, asking for my counsel.” “And you told her to marry him,” Sinclair said bitterly. “There was no other way,” his grandmother responded. “Yes there was,” he protested. A thought occurred to him. “Why didn’t Leland and Conor go after that son of a bitch and kill him for raping Ivonne?” “They knew nothing of what had happened,” she told him. He stared at her. “You didn’t tell them?” “It was none of their concern and she asked me not to say anything for fear they would be arrested for murdering Delacroix, which they surely would have been.” He cocked his head to one side. “But it doesn’t matter if I kill him though, does it?” he asked. “Oh, I am counting on you doing so,” she replied. He just looked at her, knowing how she felt about him, hurt even more by the obvious unconcern she had for his life. She didn’t want him to go after the men who had beaten him for fear he’d be arrested and put in jail. No, she wanted him to go after Edward Delacroix and, if he was hanged for putting a bullet between the Cajun bastard’s eyes, well, that was the price to be paid. “What’s to happen to Ivonne after I swing from the scaffold, Grandmother?” he asked. Grace Vivienne waved a dismissive hand at his words. “Do you really think I would allow one of my grandsons to be convicted of murdering that white trash?” “You couldn’t care less what happens to me,” he accused. His grandmother’s gaze narrowed. “I have never lied to you, Rory Sinclair. You are a grown man and I am sure you know I have never borne you any love.” He winced hearing the old woman actually admit to it was worse than he could have imagined it would be. “But nevertheless, I will not have the stigma of murderer attached to your father’s name. You will never be punished for ridding the world of that Delacroix scum, I can promise you that.”

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How she’d do it, he had no idea, but he knew just as surely as he sat there that she would see he did not hang for killing Edward. Not that she would care if he did, but the family name could not be besmirched. At least that was a consolation, he thought, with a snort of self-pity. “That is the only way you will ever be with her,” his grandmother said slyly, bringing his gaze back to her. “She will be a very wealthy widow and will need a husband to care for her.” He let out a long breath. “You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you, Grandmother?” he asked. “That’s what you want, isn’t it, Rory Sinclair?” she said, her lined face innocent of expression. “Isn’t that what your cousins want for you, as well?” She could not have made her instructions any clearer to him, he thought. Kill Edward and then marry his widow. And WindLass would revert to the McGregor family. He lowered his head, closed his eyes and gave in to her, just as he had given in to her all his life. Whatever his grandmother had wanted, he had done. The only difference this time was it was something he too wanted more than life itself. And valued more than his own life. “All right,” he agreed, not looking up so he did not see the triumph emblazoned on the old woman’s face. “You will kill him?” “Yes.” Grace Vivienne reached out a wrinkled hand and placed it lightly atop her grandson’s arm. “That’s a good boy,” she proclaimed then stood up. “You will do what is right for the family.” She walked to the door. “Grandmother?” She stopped, looked back at him. “Yes, Rory Sinclair?” He fused his gaze with hers. “What if he kills me instead?” The old woman smiled brutally. “Then I shall weep at your funeral, dear,” she said, opened the door and left.

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Chapter Fourteen Silky held her mistress’s arm as Ivonne walked up the wide flanking steps of WindLass. The black woman was concerned by the too-quiet disposition and glazed look that had entered the white woman’s dark eyes. No emotional outburst at the burial of the child had stopped the ceremony and, to Silky’s way of thinking, no screams of grief or prostrations of weakness were sure signs Miss Ivonne had not yet accepted the death of her firstborn. The look on her charge’s face was one of blankness, numbing exhaustion and just plain disbelief. But it was the dullness in the lady’s normally flashing eyes that Silky had glimpsed before the thick black mourning veil had obscured them that worried her the most. “You feeling all right?” the black woman inquired as Wilson, Edward Delacroix’s man, opened the wide oaken door for them to enter the mansion. “I am fine,” Ivonne said tonelessly, and gently removed her arm from Silky’s light clasp. “Would you like some tea, Miz Delacroix?” Wilson inquired, his carefully arranged Stygian face creasing with a gentle smile. “Yes, Wilson,” Ivonne answered in a vague manner. “That would be nice.” She inclined her head toward the front parlor. “I’ll take it in there.” Ivonne turned to the elaborate mirror hanging just to the left of the door and reached up to lift the long, gauzy veil from her face. Beneath the black silk, her face was even more pale and wan in contrast to the ebon fabric. She pulled the hatpins, which held the veil in place, from her chignon and handed the entire ensemble to Silky. Patting into place a few strands of loose hair, she moved on into the front parlor. “I would like to be alone a while, Silky,” Ivonne said quietly, and when her maid would have protested, she lifted her head and fixed a resolute gaze on the dark woman. Silky had reservations about leaving her mistress alone, but she bowed her head slightly to the request and turned to go. “And shut the door behind you, please,” Ivonne requested. Silky looked around and saw that her charge had seated herself by one of the opened casement windows and was resting her head on the tall back of the chair, her eyes closed. Quietly, she began to close the door just as Ramona, one of the downstairs maids, came hurrying up with the tea service. She held the door open for the young girl and waited until Ramona had placed the tray beside Miss Ivonne’s chair. “Would you like me to pour you a cup, Miz Delacroix?” Ramona asked. “No, thank you. I will do it myself,” Ivonne replied without opening her eyes.

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Silky beckoned Ramona and the young girl scurried out of the room, leaving Ivonne alone with her grief. And it was grief of a sort, Ivonne thought as she slowly opened her eyes and looked out the window. Beyond the opening, she could see Edward standing on the lawn, talking with the bishop. Now and again, her husband would shake his head and look to the heavens as though the heart inside his chest were breaking. She watched his shoulders slump as the bishop laid a comforting hand on his parishioner’s arm and gave an unladylike snort of contempt. She tore her gaze from the scene, unable to bear Edward’s playacting. They had said nothing to one another since she had arrived back at WindLass for her baby’s burial. Edward had given her a hateful, superior look and turned away, as though the sight of her offended him in some way. His handsome face had been set in a deep scowl and his manner left no doubt in her mind that he was furious at her for having had to remain under the Brell roof during her convalescence. Even as they attended Mass then the internment of their baby daughter, he had not muttered one word of solace to her. Not in any way had he shown her the first speck of human kindness or extended to her even a minute amount of comfort. If his attitude and hot glower were any indication of his state of mind, she knew his fiery Cajun temper would explode as soon as those who had been allowed to attend the funeral were out of earshot. Not that she cared. Her own temper had been building since she had heard of what had befallen Sinclair. It had been all she could do not to confront Edward with her certain knowledge that he was behind the vicious attack that had nearly killed the man she loved. Unaware her nails were digging into the brocade that covered the chair arms, Ivonne turned her head and looked out the window once more. The bishop’s buggy was disappearing down the long avenue of oaks that arched over the driveway and Edward was staring toward the mansion, his gaze seemingly fused with hers. She held that look for a moment and then resolutely looked away again, her lips set in a bitter, unforgiving line. For what seemed like an hour, she sat there alone in the front parlor as the sun slowly sank behind the majestic oaks and imperial pines. The regal scent of magnolia and wisteria drifted through the window and the princely sound of the harpsichord in the music room would have been pleasant had her thoughts not been so dark and intent. As it was, the perfumed air reminded her too sharply of the sweet peas covering her child’s casket and Evangeline’s musical renditions only echoed the solemn hymns that had been sung at the gravesite. When the parlor door opened, she didn’t bother to look to see who had entered. She knew.

*****

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“Here, drink this,” his grandmother demanded as she slid her hand behind his neck and lifted his head. Sinclair obediently opened his mouth. The bitter brew slid insidiously down his throat and he nearly gagged with the vile taste of it. “What is that?” he managed to ask as he lay his head down again, his tongue and lips numb. “Laudanum,” she informed him. “Haven’t you had it before?” “No, ma’am,” he replied, trying to swallow the last trace of the nasty stuff. He wiped his hand across his mouth and marveled that he could not feel his lips. “What did those Yankee bastards give you when they removed the bullet, Rory Sinclair?” she asked, her eyes hard on his face. “Nothing,” he replied. “There was nothing to give me.” “Humpf,” his grandmother sniffed. “Saving the medications for their own men, I suppose.” “Medical supplies are hard to come by on the battlefield, Grandmother,” Leland remarked. “No matter the side upon which you are fighting.” He absently rubbed at the stump of his leg. “We will let your cousin sleep,” Grace Vivienne declared as she moved past Leland. Her look silenced any protest the man would have made and he preceded her from the room, glancing back to wink at his cousin before she shut the door in his face. Sinclair winced as he tried to position his body in the bed in such a way that every bruise, cut, abrasion and welt didn’t plague him. He ached from the top of his head, where a throbbing, shooting pain was stabbing through his right eye, to the wicked fire ant bites on his calves. “You’ve a concussion,” Doc Doorenbos had informed him, “and a few broken ribs. Nothing that won’t heal on its own.” The young doctor had snapped shut his medical bag. “You are lucky Miss Leonie found you out there or you could have died from exposure.” Leonie, Sinclair thought. He owed a debt of gratitude to that lady he doubted he would ever be able to pay in full. She had cared for him, stayed with him—at the risk of her own good reputation—and for that he would be eternally thankful. He doubted he would have survived another nightfall out in the open. But there was something lurking at the back of his mind about Leonie Emerson and no matter how hard he tried, he could not bring the details into sharp focus. He knew that was in part due to the laudanum his grandmother had forced him to drink, but it seemed vital that he remember every moment of their time together. Why he should feel such a compulsion, he didn’t understand. All he knew was that it was important he recall the events that had transpired in his cabin, when he and Leonie were alone. He tried to remember their conversation, but words and images kept flickering away from him until the room became dark with the evening shadows and the numbing lassitude overtook him at last. Sinking down into the covers, he closed his eyes and let the

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darkness claim him. There would be time tomorrow to think about Leonie whose dark, soulful eyes followed him into sleep.

***** Grace Vivienne sat in her rocker, her feet planted firmly on the veranda floor as she pushed back and forth in the chair. She was listening to the three boys as they talked, now and again shifting her attention to Tina who was seated beside her. “Feeling better today?” the old woman asked her granddaughter-in-law. “Yes, thank you,” Tina answered. She was experiencing the untold misery of severe heartburn and that evening’s supper lay on her stomach like a ton of granite, but she would rather die than admit her discomfort to Coni’s grandmother. “You do not have to suffer needlessly, Christina,” Grave Vivienne commented. “I feel fine, Grandmother Brell,” Tina replied, her teeth on edge. She would be damned if she would allow the old biddy to feed her some of the potions she was always making from the contents of the herb garden she allowed no one to tend save herself. “Suit yourself,” Grace Vivienne mumbled. She was quiet again, listening intently to what Leland was saying about the attack on Sinclair. She smiled at his anger—much as any indulgent grandmother would upon hearing the grandiose schemes of her progeny. “God help ‘em when I find out who they are!” Leland was snarling. “I’ll make them wish they’d never laid hands on Sinclair McGregor!” “Well, you know damned well who it was, Lee,” Brendan snapped. “You gonna go after him?” “Sin will,” Conor reminded them quietly. “It’s his concern and he won’t appreciate anybody doing anything about it except him.” “He can cripple the son of a bitch for all I care, but I am going to find out who did the beating and see that they never beat anyone else.” Leland looked at his grandmother and was not surprised when she nodded her agreement. “Perhaps you should ride into town in the morning. You might hear of someone spending money for things they haven’t had money for before now,” Grace Vivienne suggested. “You think it was locals, Grandmother?” Brendan asked, not really believing anyone in Savannah would hate Sinclair enough—or not fear the Brells’ retaliation—to take Edward Delacroix’s money for something like this. Savannah was still a small town at heart and everybody knew everybody else’s business. “Whoever did the beating wasn’t from around here, I am sure of that. But someone told those men where to find Rory Sinclair,” the old woman reminded them. “Someone who knows him and acted as a go-between for that man.” Her wrinkled face turned hard and her rheumy eyes grew flint-hard. “My guess would be André Thibodaux.”

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Leland literally snarled at the mention of the name. “I’ve considered that and I believe you’re probably right.” He rubbed the thigh of his missing leg and then hit it with his fist. “I believe you’re right,” he repeated. “Go into town,” his grandmother told him, “and ask around. I’ll be willing to bet that slut of a wife of Thibodaux’s has been spreading his thirty pieces of silver about.” She pulled her shawl closer around her frail shoulders. “When you find out she has, go by that woman’s and speak to her.” That “woman” was Dorrie Jean Burkhart’s house of ill repute, Leland thought with a grimace, wondering how his grandmother knew Seville Thibodaux worked there as a maid. He turned to look at the old woman. “What should I ask her?” he wanted to know. Grace Vivienne sighed. “Don’t ask her anything!” she snapped, swinging her head toward him. “Tell her we know it was André who sold Rory Sinclair out and that we have a proposition for her.” “What kind of proposition?” Conor inquired, casting an uneasy look toward his wife. “Tell her we’ll offer her a reward if she will go to the sheriff and tell him it was her husband who hired the thugs who beat up your cousin.” “It would have to be a fairly large reward,” Tina put in, having seen the way Seville Thibodaux spent money at the waterfront markets when she had any to spend. “Offer her a thousand dollars,” Grace Vivienne replied. Leland’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t be serious!” Where the hell did the old crone have a thousand dollars stashed away? “That would be enough to get her back to New Orleans and away from that filthy sharecropper with whom she lives,” his grandmother reminded him. “A woman like her would sell her own child for far less than that.” “Offer five hundred,” Tina countered. “She’ll take it.” She looked at her husband’s grandmother. “No sense in throwing away good money.” Grace Vivienne smiled. “You may be right.”

***** The door opened and Tina came in carrying a breakfast tray. She was smiling even though rain was pounding furiously at the windows and lightning was streaking dangerously across the dark sky. “Hungry?” she asked Sinclair as she placed the tray on his bedside table. “Famished,” he answered, trying to push himself up in the bed and only managing to put unnecessary strain on his already tortured muscles. He groaned. “Need some help, big boy?” Tina laughed.

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“I need a new body,” Sinclair sighed, looking up at her through the curtain of his thick lashes. “I’d say the one you have is pretty darn good,” Tina quipped. She ignored his blush and put her arms behind him to help lever him up in the bed. She braced him against her until he was sitting up as comfortably as his injuries would allow. “If you’d stop abusing it, it would work better for you.” She patted his head as though he were a small child. “You’re an evil woman, Christina Brell,” Sinclair mumbled as she spread a napkin in his lap. “You know I’m right,” she said as she transferred the tray from the table to the bed. “Where is everybody this morning?” he asked. No one had come in to see him and it was well past dawn. “Your grandmother is reading in the front parlor,” Tina told him as she removed the cover from the plate of fried ham, eggs, grits and crisply fried new potatoes. “Brendan and Conor are going over the ledgers from the mill since they won’t be doing any work out there today.” “And Lee?” Sinclair asked, stuffing a buttered biscuit into his mouth. He wanted desperately to talk to Leland. “He rode into town,” Tina informed him, seeing the immediate concern flash over Sin’s handsome face. “In this weather?” Sinclair queried. He gave her the look she knew he would. “Why?” “You know why,” she replied, and perched on the chair beside his bed. Sinclair laid down the fork he had been about to plunge into the ham. “I will handle this,” he said, his face tight. “I know, but she wanted to make sure.” He didn’t need to ask to whom Tina was referring. A low growl of frustration erupted from Sinclair’s throat. “Why can’t this family mind its own business?” he snapped. “You are our business,” Tina answered. The door opened abruptly, cutting off Tina’s words. Both she and Sinclair turned to see Grace Vivienne framed in the doorway. There was a strange light illuminating the aged face and the dark, hard eyes were positively alive with snapping energy. “What’s happened?” Sinclair asked, feeling the hair on his arms stirring. “Leland just got back,” the old woman said breathlessly, putting up a hand to touch her sagging throat. “And?” Sinclair prompted, instinctively knowing he wasn’t going to like what his grandmother had to report.

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Grace Vivienne smiled. “The town was buzzing with the news,” she said, coming into the room. “No one could talk of anything else.” Sinclair could feel his heart skipping beats inside his chest. “Tell me,” he said, his voice so quiet Tina barely heard him. “It’s Ivonne Delacroix. She’s in jail,” the old woman crowed. “She was arrested for murdering her husband!”

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Chapter Fifteen They hadn’t been able to stop him from getting out of the bed. Despite the obvious pain racking his body and the lightheadedness that made him grab for the bedpost to keep from passing out, neither could they dissuade him from getting dressed and hobbling down the stairs—not Tina’s shouts of reprimand nor Conor and Brendan’s bellows of outrage could deny him. The hands which had reached out to stop him had been batted away angrily and the sturdy bodies of his cousins shoved brutally out of his path as he strode purposefully to the door where Leland stood, blocking the exit. “Get the hell out of my way, Lee!” Sinclair growled, his face harsh in the gray light filtering in through the fanlights. “You are in no condition to go anywhere, fool!” Lee pronounced. He thrust out a restraining hand and shoved Sinclair’s shoulder. “Get your ass back upstairs.” Sinclair’s nose crinkled with absolute fury. “Get the hell out of my way!” he repeated, his voice thundering. “No,” Leland replied, and braced himself. He doubted his cousin would dare to shove him as he had Leland’s younger brothers. A red haze of pure rage overshot Sinclair McGregor and he would have plowed headfirst into Leland Brell’s gut to move him out of his path had not Conor and Brendan made a grab for him, imprisoning his arms. He bucked in their grip but they held on for dear life, keeping him from getting free. His bellows of unsurpassed irrational fury shook the rafters, but his young cousins were tougher than they looked and stronger than he could have imagined. “Take him back upstairs,” he heard his grandmother ordering. “We will shackle him to the bed if need be.” “You would not dare!” Sinclair thundered, swiveling his head around so he could glare at the old woman. “I would and I will,” Grace Vivienne answered. She turned to one of the field hands who had come running at Bossie’s bidding. “Isaac, get me those shackles Colonel Brell used for his recalcitrant slaves.” “No!” Sinclair shrieked, and jerked so hard in his cousins’ grip that the blinding pain that had been shooting through his temple since awakening, became a red-hot iron thrust to his brain. He gasped with the sheer agony of it and—despite his anger and determination—slumped in the hands that held him, a wave of nausea galloping up his throat. He opened his mouth to say something else and then the stars dropped down from the heavens to envelop him.

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***** When he came to, he was lying spread-eagled in his bed, his wrists and ankles shackled to the bedposts. At first, he just lay there, staring blindly up at the ceiling, ignoring the old woman who sat in the chair beside his bed. The longer he lay like that—utter silence and stillness weighing like a marble slab on his temper—the more he hated his grandmother. And wondered why she hated him the way she did. “Are you rational?” he heard her inquire, but he refused to answer. He blinked then resumed his steady stare at the ceiling. “She will hang, you know,” Grace Vivienne said in a matter-of-fact tone. Slowly, he turned his head so that he was looking at his tormentress. Had his hands been free, he would have wrapped them around her neck and squeezed until there was no taunting life left in the wrinkled, sagging old body. The thought made him smile, but it was a smile of such evil, such inhuman intent, it made his grandmother lift a white brow in tribute. “You would like to break my neck, wouldn’t you, Rory Sinclair?” she asked sweetly. He just stared at her, the hatred in his face as tangible as the iron manacles confining his arms and legs. “Do you want to hear the particulars of what happened at WindLass last evening or do you just want to lie there and wonder how and why your whore killed her husband?” He looked away from her, knowing she’d tell him what he was desperate to know all in her own good time. If she could drag it out, make him suffer, make him beg to hear the whole sordid story, she would. He had no intention of giving her the satisfaction of hearing him ask. “When you were little,” she said, brushing away a piece of lint from her gabardine gown, “I remember having to whip you for lying to me.” She glanced over at him. “Do you remember that, Rory Sinclair?” He remembered every beating the old woman had ever given him. Part of his punishment had always been standing in front of her, being made to remove his shirt and britches and bend over the old table in the potting shed while she vigorously applied the peach tree switch that would cut the blood out of his legs and rump and lower back. He had learned not to whimper, not to utter a sound while she was whipping him, for the more he cried, the longer the rain of blows on his unprotected skin. “You had sneaked off to see that little tart,” she reminded him. “Do you remember that?” He had sneaked off many a time to see Ivonne, he thought, but the old bitch had caught him only once. When she had asked where he’d been, he’d known better than to

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tell her he’d been over at the Boucharde place. Her plans for him did not include Ivonne Boucharde. So he had lied, and been caught in the doing of it. “Do you remember what I told you that day, Rory Sinclair?” He remembered, he thought. There was little of his childhood—save any happy times there might once have been—that he did not remember in full, ungodly detail. That day she had nearly crippled him with the old leather strap his grandfather had used to sharpen his razor. The leather had sliced into his thighs and rump like a hot knife through butter and he had screamed near the end, begging her to stop. “That little whore will be the death of you, Rory Sinclair!” his grandmother had warned him. “Mark my words—she will end badly and you will pay the consequences of her sins!” Tolbert, his grandfather’s overseer, had had to carry Sinclair to his bed that day for the fifteen year old had been unable to walk. Blood ran down his legs and stained the sheets, angering his grandmother even more. When she had stormed into his room, her satchel of potions and remedies in hand, he had pleaded with her not to touch him, for he knew well the sting of the brews she kept in that black bag of punishment. “I warned you she would have a bad end, didn’t I, Rory Sinclair?” Grace Vivienne asked, bringing him back to the present. Sinclair clenched his jaw and determined not to be baited. He knew too well his grandmother’s entire propensity for saying just the right words to make a man lose his temper or a child his self-esteem. “Leland and Conor have ridden back into town to consult with Mr. Olson.” At the name of the family barrister, Sinclair turned his eyes back to her. He would be damned if he’d ask her why Wiley Olson was being consulted, so he just stared at her, waiting, pitting his patience against hers. Grace Vivienne’s weathered face slowly crinkled into a pleased smile. “You are learning, boy,” she said, a touch of admiration in her tone. Her smile widened. “I may make a man of you yet.” How many times over the years had she accused him of not being man enough to suit her? he wondered. How many other insults had been flung at him? A thousand? Two? Three? Over and over again, she had thrown such hurtful barbs at him and many had struck, causing deep-seated scars on his very soul. But none as sharply—and with as much pain—as the one that suggested he was less a man than he should be. “Oh well,” the old woman sighed. “Let it not be said I did not try to mold you into half the man your father was.” The dreamy look that always came over his grandmother’s face when she mentioned her son-in-law had always puzzled Sinclair. Had he not known better, he would have wondered if the old crone had not been in love with the man who had married her favorite daughter. But he knew that wasn’t the case. She had hated his father even more virulently than she hated him, if that were possible.

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“We will, of course, retain Wiley to represent her,” he heard his grandmother saying. He looked at her, narrowing his eyes. “Why?” he asked, hating himself for giving in. Grace Vivienne had won their battle of wills and was satisfied that she had put her grandson in his place once more. She relaxed in her chair. “She admits to killing him,” the old woman said. “She shot him squarely in the chest with her derringer.” Sinclair flinched. There was no reason for his grandmother to lie to him about the circumstances of Edward’s death—everyone in Chatham County would know the gory details by now. If Ivonne had killed Edward, he had given her more than ample reason to do so. “Was she hurt?” he asked, dreading the answer. “Not in the least,” his grandmother replied. “I believe she pulled the gun from her gown pocket and shot him before he could react.” “He deserved it,” Sinclair whispered. “Of course we will use a defense of insanity,” she continued. “What with the miscarriage and all, we will say she was not in her right mind when she did him in. Given his reputation for having—” “In exchange for what?” he ground out, knowing his grandmother did nothing without a reason. Having Ivonne cleared of murder charges would exact a very high price he had no doubt. One he would have to pay. That voice from long ago returned, “Mark my words—she will end badly and you will pay the consequences of her sins!” She cocked her head to one side. “You will not be allowed to see her, Rory Sinclair,” she told him. “Not now nor in the immediate future.” “In exchange for what?” he repeated, his heart thundering in his chest for he knew full well that whatever the old woman asked, he’d have no choice but to do. “She was not in his will, by the way,” his grandmother continued as though she had not heard him. “That will be a saving point with any jury since she did not stand to gain anything by his death save her freedom from him.” His forehead crinkled with concern. Edward had not left WindLass to Ivonne? Then who? “You will marry Evangeline Hardy.” Like a bolt of lightning from out of a clear blue sky, he began to see where this was going. It hit him hard—like a cannon shot to his heart—and he saw his life stretching out before him in one long, bleak landscape. “Marry Evangeline Hardy,” he echoed, disbelief turning his dark amber eyes a deeper brown. “She is the new owner of WindLass,” Grace Vivienne explained, “and she has agreed to the joining of the two families.”

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Agreed? he thought, wondering just when the snooty bitch had agreed to this hellspawned marriage. By the gods, she didn’t even know him! Had only spoken to him once or twice, and then with as much disdain as a woman could put into her tone of voice. He thought back to the way her violet eyes had latched onto the scar on his cheek. He had actually seen her shiver with distaste before looking away. “When was all this decided?” he asked, feeling his happiness slipping farther and farther from his grasp. Grace Vivienne stood up and stretched daintily, covering a slight yawn. She sat down beside her grandson and laid a gentle hand on his left cheek. “We discussed it at length night before last,” she grandmother replied. “She wants a husband who will not make demands of her.” Her palm caressed the livid scar bisecting his flesh. “One she can control.” “I see,” he whispered. And he did. Evangeline no doubt wanted WindLass, but she also wanted a man who could make the plantation work for her. With Edward gone, eligible bachelors would begin pouring out to the mansion, vying for the hand of the wealthy woman who now owned the most productive and valuable lands in Eastern Georgia. Hungry men with their eye on the land, not the pretty widow who had inherited it from her deceased brother. Evangeline Hardy would be inundated by offers, but not for herself. “Ivonne will be cleared of all charges and we will see that she is sent to the Continent for a long rest.” Grace Vivienne’s face became full of womanly concern. “To get over the death of her child and husband and recuperate.” “How long?” he wanted to know. “Two years,” came the ready reply. Those two years would be hell on Earth, he thought, but he had done without her the two years he had wasted away at Camp Douglas. “Wiley will see to it that she doesn’t serve one day in jail beyond these next three weeks,” his grandmother said. Sinclair looked up. “I want her out of that filthy place now!” he snapped. “I’m not about to leave her in there for three weeks!” “The banns must be read,” his grandmother reminded him. “I don’t give a damn!” he shouted, pulling on his shackles. “I want her out of there today!” Grace Vivienne shook her head. “No. The marriage must be performed and the joining consummated before she will be set free.” “Consummated?” He stared at her. “You want me to sleep with the bitch?” “That is what the word means, Rory Sinclair.” “No,” he said. “I will not.”

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“I would venture to say she is cleaner than Dorrie Burkhart,” his grandmother snorted. He ground his teeth, wanting to hurl the filthiest words he could at the old woman, but he doubted if anything would embarrass the hag. He shook his head. “I will not bed that woman.” His grandmother’s hand slid down to his chin and she took his jaw in a grip that surprised him with its strength. The pressure increased until he locked stares with her. “You either do what I tell you, boy, or that slut will remain where she is until they come to drag her out to the scaffold!” The pressure became an agony of its own as she tugged at his chin. “And I can promise you she will hang.” The old eyes flared with purpose. “Do you question my sincerity?” No, he did not question any threat the old woman made because he knew she’d like nothing more than to see Ivonne out of his reach for all eternity. He tried to pull free of her grip but she anchored his chin, not allowing him to look away. “You’d better listen to me, young man!” she warned him. “I will not have her in that rotten jail cell!” he seethed. They stared at one another for a long moment and then Grace Vivienne gave him enough rope to hang himself with. “All right, Rory Sinclair,” she said, releasing his chin. “There is no law that says you have to marry within the Church. There are the odd itinerant preachers riding about the countryside. Any one of them could come out to WindLass and perform the ceremony today.” Sinclair winced. “Today?” he repeated. “The quicker the ceremony, the quicker Ivonne will be released.” The very thought of being tied to Evangeline Hardy, Edward Delacroix’s vacantheaded sister, was enough to turn his stomach, but nothing mattered except Ivonne’s freedom. If he had to exchange the shackles confining his body for shackles confining his soul, it was a bargain he would undertake to keep his woman safe. “What happens after those two years are up?” he asked. “When she returns to Savannah from abroad, she will naturally return to live with her sister-in-law.” Grace Vivienne’s mouth quirked with disgust. “What you and she do then will be of no concern to either Evangeline or myself.” He could not believe any wife would let her husband carry on a liaison with another woman under her roof. Especially not with servants’ tongues wagging gossip. He said as much to his grandmother. Grace Vivienne waved her hand in dismissal of his question. “I would imagine you would take that whore and get as far away from Savannah as time and space would allow.” She locked her stare on him. “As a matter of fact, I will insist on it!’ “And what happens to WindLass?” he asked, knowing there had to be a reason his grandmother would agree to any of this and it had to be the family home. Nothing mattered to her as much as WindLass. “What’s in this for you?” 145

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“Evangeline will deed the mansion over to her child,” Grace Vivienne explained, “then it will revert to the McGregor family.” “What child?” he asked, confusion turning his handsome face blank. There was supreme satisfaction in his grandmother’s chuckle. “The one you’re going to make damned sure you get off her!” she laughed. “You’ve got two years in which to get her pregnant.” Nothing could have stunned—or hurt—him more than that. He felt every muscle in his body give in to the hopelessness of it. She’d make sure Ivonne was kept in— where?—Roberte for those two years and if Evangeline had not conceived in that time…longer still until the deed was done? “Don’t do this,” he asked, knowing it was useless to ask. “I’m begging—” “Don’t grovel, Rory Sinclair,” she warned him. “It does not become you.” There it was—lying there like a coiled serpent ready to strike. Either you accept her deal, Sinclair, he told himself, or Ivonne pays the penalty for your stubbornness. What choice did he have? “Well?” she asked, reaching out to stroke his scarred cheek. “You hate me that much?” he wanted to know. “Yes.” He watched her eyes for a moment then closed his own, giving in to the awful fate she had reserved just for him.

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Chapter Sixteen There had been a time when his world had shone with a light so bright and so pure, he had had to shield his eyes to its vibrant colors. Music had filled his soul as love had filled his heart and no dark cloud had rolled by overhead to block out the nourishing sun. There had been laughter, there had been the promise of tomorrow, there had been the woman he loved more than life itself. All that wonderful essence of being had dissolved the day he learned Ivonne had become Edward Delacroix’s wife. The sky had turned smutty with ashes that were bitter upon the tongue, the music had died and the love he bore her had been pushed down deep inside his aching soul. Tomorrow became a word without meaning and today became a sentence to be served with the pronouncement of seven brutal words. “I now pronounce you man and wife.” Evangeline looked up at him, a set smile on her ivory-cast face, and waited for the perfunctory kiss that would seal this Devil’s bargain. Sinclair tensed as she put her hand on his arm in an attempt to let him know this was something that could not—and would not—be avoided. “Sinclair?” she whispered. He turned to her and bent down—grunting with the discomfort from his battered body but unable to deny her this small concession—and briefly touched his rigid lips to hers in a kiss as chaste as any ever given. As he straightened, their eyes met and he saw triumph blazing in hers. For a moment he paused, feeling his captivity to the depths of his being then tore his gaze away, already weighted down with these new shackles of ownership. And to him, that was exactly what it was—Evangeline Hardy McGregor owned him. Owned him body and soul. If he had been any less a man, he would have dropped to his knees, buried his face in his hands and sobbed like a brokenhearted child. “We will be leaving immediately, Reverend Bass,” Evangeline was saying. “The ship sails at two o’clock.” Sinclair frowned. What ship? he wondered, but he didn’t ask. His life was no longer his own and would not be until the day he and Ivonne were reunited. That she was safe was all that mattered. If he had had to forfeit his freedom to gain hers, it was a small cost. For the time being. “Are you ready, darling?” his new bride asked as she took his arm, linking hers through his. “Aye,” he said, and had to clear his throat and repeat his agreement. He didn’t care where they were going or how long they would be there. His feet felt mired in

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quicksand as it was, and he was sinking slowly with every step he took. Soon, the muck would be over his head and he would drown beneath it. Already it was up to his chest, cutting off his air. “Pray don’t look as though you are walking to your execution, Rory Sinclair,” Evangeline hissed under her breath. “Don’t call me that,” he said, showing the first sign of life since this travesty began two hours before. He turned, his face fierce, his eyes steady and flickering with dark amber fire. “Don’t ever call me that. Do you understand?” Evangeline understood. She nodded, making a mental note that the use of his full given name struck a chord of unease and anger in him. “As you wish, darling,” she agreed. She saw his jaw clench at the use of the endearment and smiled slyly. “You are my husband, Sinclair. Would it not seem strange to everyone if I did not call you ‘darling’?” “You can call me anything you like, Evangeline, except Rory Sinclair,” he grated. “You paid for the right, didn’t you?” She tightened her grip on his arm, her lips pursed. “Yes, I did.” There was nothing he could say and even less he could do about the situation so he walked with her to the carriage that was waiting to take them to the docks. Being the gentleman he had always been taught to be, he helped her into the carriage though the movement nearly caused him to cry out with pain, gingerly seated himself beside her and looked out over those who had gathered to witness the vows he had been forced to take. With the sole exception of the Reverend Mr. Bass, Sinclair knew none of the other ten people gathered. Most were former slaves who had come to WindLass from Delacroix’s home plantation of Deer Creek. The two white men who had been chosen to be legal witnesses to the marriage were strangers as well. He realized that his grandmother had either made sure Lee and his brothers stayed away or had not even bothered to tell them what was happening. He idly wondered what the Brells’ reaction would be when they heard he had run off and married Edward’s widowed sister. “You haven’t asked where we are headed, Captain,” Evangeline said, having decided she rather liked the title, for it lent a touch of mystery and authority to her quiet companion. “Does it matter?” he replied, not bothering to look her way. “You don’t care?” He turned to her, his face as carefully blank as his gaze was lost. “Not in the least.” Evangeline sighed. Was the man going to be difficult? If so, she should put him in his place right from the start so there would be no chance of him balking at the bit. “We are going to New York,” she told him. “For our honeymoon.” Sinclair flinched, unpleasantly reminded of the duty he would be required to perform. He let out a long, shuddering breath and slumped in the seat, totally unaware of the hand she laid upon his thigh.

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“It won’t be so bad, Captain,” she promised. “I am told my charms are more than adequate to pleasure a man.” He wasn’t listening to her any more than he was feeling the rub of her palm on his leg. He was staring blindly at the passing scenery and could not have described it to anyone had his very life depended upon it, although WindLass was his home and he’d grown up there and knew every nook and cranny of the plantation lands. Evangeline realized he wasn’t paying attention to her and, for a brief moment, dug her nails into his thigh, but even that failed to gain his notice so she stopped, smoothing her hand over the fabric of his pants as though soothing a child. “It won’t be so bad, Captain,” she repeated, studying his strong jaw. She let her gaze roam along the indention of the scar on his bruised cheek and thought perhaps it looked rather rakish and dangerous instead of ugly as she’d once perceived it. She liked the way his dark brown hair curled along his high collar and swept forward toward his silk cravat. A thick wave fell over his high forehead and she wondered what he would do if she reached up to ease it into place. She was about to find out when he suddenly turned his head toward her. “What about Edward’s funeral?” he asked. “There’ll be talk about us marrying this quickly.” Evangeline shrugged. “If I worried about what people said about me, Captain, I would be as wrinkled as your vicious old grandmother,” she replied. She saw the hint of amusement tug at his expressive mouth for just a second before he took firm control of it. “But to not go to your own brother’s funeral…” he began, then shook his head, “will certainly cause a great deal of talk.” “Oh pooh!” Evangeline dismissed the notion. “They will think we had been carrying on an affair these past few weeks and couldn’t wait.” She watched him stiffen at the suggestion but hurried on. “Edward was my half-brother and there was never any love lost between us, Captain. I doubt anyone will care whether I am there or not.” “They will,” he responded, knowing the people of Savannah and Chatham County better than she. She eyed him carefully, surprised that she felt a pang of pity looking at his battered face. “Do you care what they say?” How was he to answer that? he wondered. Yes, he cared, but did it matter? The town tongues would wag despite any explanation his grandmother would give for this sudden wedding. The people who knew him well would know this had not been something he had either planned or wanted. His cousins—knowing their grandmother as they did—would realize he had entered into this farce of a marriage to save Ivonne’s lovely neck from the hangman. But would they understand? “Try not to let it worry you, Captain,” Evangeline suggested. She sensed his unease, and for once in her life actually felt compassion for a man. She gave in to her desire to

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push that errant lock of hair from his forehead and was surprised when he didn’t flinch away from her touch or give any indication he found her presumption distasteful. “As long as she’s safe,” he whispered, a muscle in his lean cheek bunching, “nothing else matters.” Evangeline trailed her fingers down the livid scar on his flesh, tracing the cicatrix of puckered flesh that pulled at his cheekbone and then slowly eased her fingertip down the dark whiskers of his thick sideburn. She rather liked the feel of his hair and let one silky curl spiral around her finger. When he became aware of what she was doing, he turned his head and looked at her, and Evangeline Hardy McGregor blinked. There were tears gathered in his eyes and as she watched, one slid treacherously down his right cheek. Her attention went to his lips—taking in the slight tremble as he tried desperately to hold back his emotions—and she was lost. “Come here, baby,” she said to him, and reached out her arms, turning so that if he wished, he could come into the comfort she was offering. He hesitated for only a fraction of a moment and then folded himself into her arms, feeling them close around him like an iron trap.

***** The Northwind’s shrouds snapped as the clipper tacked into the freshening breeze off Tybee Island. The sleek teakwood hull sliced cleanly through the waves as the sheeting caught and held the brisk wind. Seagulls flew overhead—tracing the path of the vessel—as dolphins skimmed over the waters in tandem with the ship’s passage. The sharp tang of saltwater settled over the polished deck and the spray coated the gleaming brass rails. To the man standing at the starboard rail, looking out upon the heaving waves, the sea was as much a part of his soul as the land of his birth was. He had grown up swimming in the choppy waters off Tybee Island and had an affinity with the ocean and her denizens of the deep. As a child, he had been fascinated with the tales the old salts told around the Savannah docks. He had sat wide-eyed as sailors recalled their journeys to far-off lands and had always wanted to board one of the stately ships and sail off to the far horizon. The few times he’d been able to sneak onboard those ships, he’d investigated every inch of her magnificent hull and sat down on deck to daydream of being a pirate and raiding the waves. “You should come inside, Captain.” Sinclair shook himself, having become lost in the memories of his childhood. How long had he been standing here? he thought, for the sun had slipped down behind the curve of the ocean and night had come. “I’ll be along shortly,” he told his wife. Evangeline opened her mouth to demand he come down to their cabin that moment, but the defeated set of his shoulders and the tiredness in his voice warned her

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to leave him alone. Instead of commanding him to do her bidding as was her nature to do, she touched his shoulder gently, told him not to stay too long then turned— surprising herself at her sudden strange feeling of protection for this near stranger— and went below. She had just removed her gown when he entered their cabin. He stopped, taking in the lace of her camisole and petticoats and quickly looked away. “I’m s-sorry. I didn’t think…” he stuttered, his face flaming, and he turned to leave. “Will you unlace my corset, Captain?” she asked, cutting him off. Not giving him a chance to say no, she turned her back to him. Sinclair drew in a long breath and then slowly exhaled. She had every right to expect him to function as any normal husband should. He closed the cabin door and went to her, put unsure hands on the laces and began to undo them. “I love the sea, don’t you?” she asked, liking the closeness of their bodies as he worked the laces. “Aye,” he answered, frowning as he concentrated on what he was doing. “When I was a little girl, my father took me with him to Roberte,” she mused, sighing with rapt remembrance. “I loved the majesty of that beautiful ship.” She craned her head and looked back at him. “The Serenian Star. Have you heard of her?” He nodded absently. The great ship had once sailed into Savannah Harbor and the entire town had turned out to gawk at her. “I would like to sail on her again some day,” Evangeline told him, smiling at the thin sheen of moisture that glistened across his forehead. Was being this close to her causing Sinclair to sweat? She certainly hoped so, for it would bode well for their marriage if he found her enticing. And she found herself wanting this marriage to work. “Perhaps we could sail to Roberte next spring,” she suggested. Sinclair’s fingers stilled on her laces. “Ivonne will be in Roberte,” he reminded her. The smile left Evangeline’s face and she looked away from her husband. “Yes, of course, she will.” The last thing she wanted was for him to think of Edward’s murderess and she had to define their relationship here and now if there was to be any peace of mind for her. “We will not mention her again,” she replied. He moved away from her, putting distance between them. “Is that an order?” he asked, his voice hard. Evangeline dug her nails into her palm as she turned to face him. “Yes, it is,” she answered, locking her eyes on his. Sinclair said nothing as he stared at her then he nodded slowly, understanding the rules as they were given to him. He was her husband and, as such, there were certain limits beyond which he would not be allowed to go. Ivonne was one of those limits.

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“I understand,” he said quietly. All of her life, Evangeline had been taught how to manipulate and control men, the supposedly stronger sex. There were looks and touches and smiles that could convey in a split second what a thousand words could not. Her body was a weapon—finely honed and expertly tuned to engineer in any man great lust and desire. Her wit, her intelligence, her very being had been disciplined to exact every last essence of reaction from the male upon whom she had set her sights. Few had ever withstood her all-out assault. None had ever turned away without at least tasting the charms she had in such abundance and was more than willing to share. But never had she known a male who exacted from her the desire to know him as the man he was. Who fascinated her to the point of distraction, as did Sinclair McGregor. Perhaps it was because he did not want her as a woman that she found him so utterly desirable. Or perhaps it was because he belonged—heart and soul—to another woman and she wanted to bring him to her instead. She ached to wipe away all thoughts of other women from his mind and to make him entirely hers. Or perhaps it was because she saw such loneliness and heartache and terrible hopelessness in his dark umber gaze and at long last her maternal instincts were being roused. He would be a challenge for her—one she was more than willing to undertake. “I will try to make you happy, Captain,” she was stunned to hear herself say. A sad, weary smile stretched over Sinclair’s full lips. “You will fail,” he told her. “But I will try nevertheless,” Evangeline stated. He grunted indifferently then shrugged out of his coat, which he laid over the desk chair. Reaching up, he untied his cravat and pulled it off, tossing it to the desk. “Am I to sleep with you?” he asked, eyeing the large bed which nearly dominated the cabin. “That was my plan,” she replied, watching for his reaction. “Am I to…” He lowered his head as he began to unbutton his shirt. “Am I to bed you, as well?” Evangeline swallowed, nervous as a green girl as she watched him undress. “Yes,” she managed to say, wanting him more than she had ever wanted a man in her experienced life. “All right,” he agreed tiredly. When she made no comment, he looked up and found her staring at him with a look he understood all too well. As the tip of her tongue shot out to flick at her upper lip, he sighed. She could not have made her expectations any clearer if she had reached out and taken in hand that part of his anatomy she was obviously anticipating. Apparently, not only was he to bed her, he was to pleasure her as well. “All right,” he repeated, giving in to what was expected of him. Evangeline removed her corset and tossed it aside. She crossed her arms over her bosom, hooked her thumbs under the straps of her camisole and lowered it, her full breasts released to his view as she pushed the camisole down her hips. With her hands

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trembling, she removed her petticoat and bloomers and stood there—clad only in her garter belt and stockings—and waited for her husband to come to her. He had to admit she was a beautiful woman. Her breasts were high and full, her waist small and her long legs tapered elegantly. She stood unselfconsciously before him, allowing him what she must have considered the pleasure of seeing her unclothed, and all he felt was disgust. He had to make himself go to her and take her in his arms. The feel of her body against his naked chest made him ill and as she wrapped her perfumed arms around his neck, he was forcefully reminded of the iron trap once more. “I will do my best to please you, Captain,” she whispered in his ear, her tongue flicking out to touch the spiral. She took his shudder as passion and molded herself against him. “I will make you…” She had started to say “forget all about Ivonne”, but common sense warned her that was not something she should ever do. Instead, she finished with, “…a good wife.” “Whatever you wish,” he answered. He did not want to prolong the inevitable so with his jaw set, his eyes blank and without any spark of passion, he led her to their wedding bed and laid her down. He steeled himself to keep eye contact with her as he peeled back his belt, unbuttoned his trousers and shoved them carelessly down his lean hips. He saw her eyes widen with arousal at his nakedness. “You are a very handsome man, Sinclair McGregor,” she told him, and held out her arms. The trap was closing again, he thought as he stretched his body atop hers and felt her embracing him. But what difference did it make? Ivonne was safe.

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Chapter Seventeen Evangeline watched her husband closely. His curly brown hair framed his face and she thought him almost beautiful without the thick growth of beard she had asked him to remove when they had come back from supper with the captain of the ship. There had been one brief moment of rebellion flickering through his stony stare then he had simply turned away and found his razor and brush. She sat on the bed, watching him shave, enjoying the movement of the muscles across his back as he plied the razor to his face. “Will the scars fade in time?” she asked as she studied the crisscrossed stripes. “I have no idea, but I doubt it,” he answered, seemingly unconcerned with whether they did or not. “I am told you killed the man who did that to you. Is that true?” He looked around, apparently surprised she knew of it, then nodded, turned back around and continued shaving. “Where was this?” He dipped the razor into the washbasin to remove his whiskers then leaned toward the mirror, the better to see the tender spot under his nose. “Camp Douglas.” He winced, having nicked himself, but ignored the tiny dot of blood that bubbled up. “The gods sent that bastard there as a guard and gave me the opportunity to strangle him.” He peered at her through the mirror, gauging her reaction to his brutal words. Evangeline frowned. “You had met him before?” “Twice,” he replied, and turned his head to even out the sideburn on his right cheek, being more careful not to cut himself. “Was it a matter of course to whip prisoners, Captain?” she asked. Undoubtedly, she would be asked questions about her husband’s internment at the prison in Illinois and she needed to know the particulars. “I wasn’t whipped at Camp Douglas and no, it wasn’t a matter of course.” He whipped the razor through the water to clean it, laid it aside and took up a towel to blot his suds-streaked face. “So he whipped you—” “I don’t wish to discuss this, Vangie,” he snapped, tossing the towel aside. The first time he had called her the nickname, she had protested vehemently, but she had seen the gleam of spite in his forced grin and let it pass. Since then, he had taken every opportunity to use the nickname to annoy her. But the fact of the matter

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was, she rather liked it and in his soft Georgia accent, it was almost sensual the way he pronounced it. “All right,” she agreed, and pushed up from the bed. She took up the towel and walked over to him, reaching up to wipe away a glob of suds he had missed. He stood there obediently until she was finished, never looking at her, then waited until she put the palm of her hand on his clean cheek before letting his gaze lower to hers. “Do you intend to paw me every chance you get?” he asked in a nasty tone, and wasn’t prepared for the slap that rocked his head to the side. The sound was loud in the ship’s cabin and it stung, for his wife had put her strength behind the hit. When he turned to face her, he was not in the least surprised to see her lovely face creased with fury. “If I want to ‘paw’ you,” she hissed, her eyes blazing, “I will ‘paw’ you whenever I wish! I own you, McGregor!” She watched his cheek stain with the imprint of her hand and saw the muscles bunch there. She knew if she listened closely, she would hear his teeth grinding together. Holding his angry stare, she lifted her chin. If truth were told, he had hurt her deeply with his snide question, for never had any man ever found her touch as revolting as this one obviously did. She wanted to lash out at him again—not with her hand this time—but with a weapon she knew would hurt him more—her tongue. “If you want to see that whore of yours ever again, I suggest you do nothing to upset me, Captain,” she told him. “It is well within my power to make sure you never lay eyes on Ivonne Delacroix this side of the grave!” She saw a slight flicker of his eyelids—the only concession he gave that he had heard and understood her threat. The fight seemed to drain from him at that moment and his proud shoulders dropped ever so slightly, the battle gone from his suddenly blank expression. “That’s better,” she pressed, rubbing salt into the wound she had opened. A false smile of forgiveness eased over her red lips. “Must we fight on our wedding night, Captain?” Just like that, he thought with disgust, he had witnessed his wife’s quicksilver personality change before his eyes. He had already decided she was a duplicative bitch long before now, but he could now add consummate actress to the description. She was like a coral snake he’d once seen coiled inside a bunch of bananas being off-loaded at the docks in Savannah—beautiful to look at and lethal to the touch. Deliberately, she reached up and put her palm to the place where she had struck him then pressed her body closely against his, grinding her silk-clad hips against him. “I can think of other things to do on our wedding night rather than fight.” She looked up at him through the fringe of her long golden lashes. “Can’t you?” Her fingers caressed his cheek. He stared back at her, hating her to the depths of his soul, but he didn’t push her away as he wanted to do. “What is it you want?” he ground out.

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“You,” she replied. Her hand slid from his cheek, down his neck, his chest, and came to rest at the waistband of his trousers. She licked her lips. “I want you.” Before he could reply that he’d already performed his husbandly duties once that evening, her hand moved lower still until she had cupped it around him. He had to force himself to stand still, to endure her touch, and when she realized he would make no move to accommodate her, she removed her hand, stepped back. “Take off your clothes, Captain,” she ordered. He blinked. “You want me to strip for you?” he asked, incredulity creeping into his voice. “Slowly and with a great deal of care,” she replied, and seated herself on the bed once more. She crossed her legs, folded her arms over her chest and waited, one tawny brow lifted in challenge. “No,” he snapped, his jaw working, his nose crinkling with distaste. “I will not.” “Yes, you will,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, “and you will do it now.” They glared at one another for a full minute, neither giving in. The tick of the clock on the wall behind the desk and the harsh breaths coming from Sinclair’s flaring nostrils, the only sound in the cabin. When it seemed as though she would finally throw her hands up in defeat, she grinned at him. “We make landfall tomorrow, Captain, and I do believe I will need to telegraph your grandmother that you are not cooperating.” She tilted her head to one side. “Perhaps she has gone to see Ivonne and will have news for you on how the effort to free her is coming.” The blackmail worked for she saw his eyes close slowly, heard the slow, deliberate intake of breath before he opened the lids halfway and shot her a murderous look. “Take off your clothes,” she repeated, not giving him time to argue further with her. “And then what?” he threw at her. “You pleasure me, Captain,” she answered. “And you’d better make damned sure you do!”

***** Sinclair was so inebriated he could barely find the doorknob as he tried to enter their hotel room. Not that he gave a gods-be-damn anyway, he thought, as his hand kept sliding around the brass knob in an effort to capture it. If he needed to sleep outside the door because he couldn’t find the damned knob, he would. Just as he’d decided that wouldn’t be such a bad idea and was halfway down to the floor, the door opened and he stumbled into the room, narrowly avoiding crashing into his wife who stepped aside with an unladylike snort of disgust. He careened into the room, trying to keep from falling facedown on the floor, and spun, knocking over a small Wedgwood table filled with bric-a-brac as he did. “You are drunk!” Evangeline pronounced. 156

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“No shit,” he responded with a crooked grin and a giggle that set her teeth on edge. She watched him weave his way across the elegantly appointed room and throw himself into one of the silk brocade armchairs, wincing as she heard the delicate frame crack beneath his weight. Glaring at him—her slippered foot tapping out a dangerous rhythm on the carpet—she was amazed to see him fish inside his coat and withdraw a bottle of spirits. “Oh no, you don’t!” Evangeline grunted, and rushed forward to grab the bottle, but he pulled it out of her reach. They struggled for the pint, him holding it away from her—switching it from hand to hand to keep it out of her reach—until she doubled her fist and plowed it into his belly. The hand holding the bottle came down in reaction and she grabbed it, hurtling it against the fireplace where it landed to shatter into a dozen pieces. “Bitch,” he muttered drunkenly. He rubbed at his belly, but didn’t retaliate. He was too drunk to move and too apathetic to care what the hell she did to him. “Where have you been?” she demanded. She’d had the hotel concierge out looking for him since suppertime when he had disappeared from the expensive supper club where they had eaten lobster and filet mignon. He had been swilling the champagne down as though it were water the entire time and when he had excused himself to go to the restroom, she had informed the waiter there were to be no further spirits. She had sat there for nearly half an hour before she realized he wasn’t coming back. Furious, hurt and a little worried about him, she had enlisted the aid of the maître d’ to find her errant husband, explaining he had suffered a blow to the head while onboard ship and had a tendency to wander off. She hoped that explained some of the cuts and bruises on Sinclair’s face. From the look the Frenchman gave her, she knew he hadn’t bought her story for one moment. A search of the supper club had not resulted in finding her missing spouse and she had returned to the hotel, enraged and worried. When she’d heard him muttering to himself out in the hallway, she had breathed a sigh of relief and—for one of the few times in her life—offered up a prayer to the Virgin for his safe return. “I asked you where you’ve been, Sinclair?” she demanded again. “Drinking,” he told her, “and getting shit-faced drunk as an okefenokee swamp rat.” “And you smell like one, as well,” she responded, fanning the air. He let out a loud, obnoxious belch, chuckling evilly when she gasped with displeasure at his deliberate rudeness. He held up his hand. “Come ‘ere, Vangie,” he ordered, arching his fingers at her. “Come ‘ere and let me screw you!” “Go to hell,” she snapped, and strode purposefully into the bathing chamber. She could hear him snorting like a pig as he laughed and she smiled. She rather liked the way he snorted when he laughed and, as drunk as he was and as mean-spirited as he’d been to her, she was beginning to enjoy their sparring sessions. No man had ever held his own with Evangeline and this one was doing an admirable job of entertaining her. 157

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If she could only stop him from drinking. Already she could see that was going to be a problem. She knew why, of course. All men liked to drown their troubles in a bottle of strong drink, but she was not about to allow her husband to wallow in his self-pity. If it was the last thing she did, she would make Sinclair McGregor forget Ivonne Delacroix. “Van…gie!” he shouted in his singsong voice that was meant to irritate her. He had no way of knowing she was becoming increasingly fond of the name. “Van…gie!” She opened the bathing chamber door and glared at him, her lips quivering. “What is it?” He wagged his brows at her and held up his right index finger that he pointed at her and swiveled back and forth. “Wanna screw?” he hiccupped. Evangeline pursed her lips together to keep from laughing at him. “You couldn’t screw the side of a barn right now, Sinclair.” She giggled. “You couldn’t even hit the side of a barn right now!” “Wanna bet?” he challenged, and before her horrified eyes, he reached down, unbuttoned his trousers, extracted himself and began to urinate over the arm of the chair. “Sinclair!” she gasped. “No!” Even as she rushed to get a towel to blot up the stinking mess, he fumbled his way out of the chair and came after her, laughing like an idiot. “Come ‘ere, Van…gie!” She slammed the door in his face only a fraction of a second before he could cross the threshold. His muffled “Wha…?”, a thud, a yelp of pain and the slide of his body down the oaken portal let her know he’d walked right into the door. She gasped, opened the door and found him on his knees, holding his nose as blood poured over his fingers and onto the carpet. “You bwoke my nose,” she heard him say. “Oh, baby, I’m sorry!” she told him, and knelt down beside him, putting the towel under his chin. “You bwoke my nose, dammit,” he accused then pitched sideways, his eyes rolling up in his head.

***** She lay there watching him sleep, two dark bruises under his eyes to add to the bruises that were still on his face from the beating he’d taken. His poor nose was swollen—broken again—and he was snoring because of it, though his snores weren’t that unpleasant. Bending forward, she eased a loose lock of dark hair away from his eyes.

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He was handsome, she thought. More handsome than any man had a right to be. Why had she ever thought the scar that swept over his left cheek detracted from his male beauty? It did not. It gave him a rakish, dangerous look that she’d seen other women watching—putting their heads together to discuss—and admiring. She trailed her fingers over that wicked scar, claiming it for her own and then slid her fingertips over his slightly parted lips. The upper lip was just right, she decided as she studied it, the curve of it had been hidden beneath his mustache. She traced the fullness of the bottom lip and pulled it down just a little to get a glimpse of his white teeth. Between the fascinating dark amber color of his brown-tinted eyes, the curl of his dark hair and the mole on his right cheek, she came to the conclusion he was just about the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Her gaze fell to the patch of hair at his breastbone and she lowered her fingers to thread them through the dark strands. She liked the feel of those crisp curls against her nipples and the weight of his body that was just right. “What are you staring at, Vangie?” She looked up to find him watching her and pulled her hand back, knowing how he did not like her to touch him. She moved away from him, rolling to her back and laying down, their bodies not touching. “Go back to sleep, Captain,” she told him. They lay like that for a while, both staring up at the ornate plaster ceiling, then she felt his hand touch hers then cover it. Without a word, she spread her fingers until he had locked his with hers, curling his hand down to entrap her own. “Are you feeling better?” she asked quietly. He snorted with amusement. “I ain’t feeling nothin’, darlin’.” She smiled and turned her head toward him. “Numb, are you?” Through the low light coming in from the window, she saw him grinning. “Numb as a corpse on a cooling board,” he answered. She laughed. “That’ll teach you to leave me unescorted, Captain,” she admonished. He was silent for a moment and then he turned his head toward her. “I can be a prick sometimes,” he admitted. “Yes, you can,” she replied. Her smile faded. “But I know why.” He nodded. “I know you do.” She was surprised to feel his grip tighten on her hand. “I made a decision tonight,” he told her. “That being what?” she asked, thinking they were acting like any married couple as they lay there discussing their life together. “I’m going to start acting like a grownup.” She laughed. “That would be a nice change.”

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“I love her, Vangie. I will always love her and when the time comes, I will be with her. You have to understand that.” Deep, abiding hurt filled Evangeline’s heart but she merely nodded her acceptance of his words if not agreeing with them. “But?” She felt there was a “but” somewhere in his thoughts. “But I am your husband and you deserve to be treated with respect,” he said. She held her breath, not daring to give away the joy his words had brought. Instead, she squeezed his hand. “That would be nice, Captain.” “Sinclair,” he said softly. “Sinclair,” she repeated, and sealed their bargain by lifting his hand to her lips and kissing his scarred knuckles. He stunned her when he returned the favor, looking into her surprised eyes as he did. “Truce?” he asked. She smiled. “Truce.” “No more stripping for you?” he teased, his left brow lifted. “We’ll see,” she answered. He looked at her for a long moment then leaned over her, placing his lips to hers in a gentle kiss that caused a ripple of longing in her lower belly. Before she could bring her arms around him, he lay back down, released her hand and turned to his side, away from her. “‘Night, Vangie,” he said quietly. She ached for him, wanted him as she had never wanted another man in her life, but she knew when to back off, knew when to leave well enough alone. “Goodnight, Sinclair,” she whispered. He didn’t move away from her when she molded her body to his—needing the feel of him against her.

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Chapter Eighteen Ivonne sat quietly, her hands folded primly in her lap. The plain gray dress she wore was rough beneath her fingers as she plucked at the material. There was a stench to the cell that had not been there the day before and she knew it was from the chamber pot that had not been emptied that morning. Her breakfast—meager and greasy as it had been—still sat upon the tray, untouched and unwanted and drawing flies which buzzed around the congealed fat of the bacon. For three days now, she had been waiting for Sinclair to come for her, but she had received no word from him and no one had been allowed in to see her save her attorney. Wiley Olson had informed her he was working on getting her out of jail, but that it would take time to gather the necessary signatures—the wheels of justice were turning slowly it seemed. A shout from one of the other cells startled her and she jumped, her nerves so frayed and raw by now the least little sound sent shudders of fear through her. It was the solitude and confinement that preyed on her the most—that and not having Sinclair to comfort her. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the stone wall. Why had he not come? she wondered. Surely he knew of her predicament. The entire town had to know. It wasn’t every day a woman shot her husband to death then calmly waited to be arrested for doing it. “We will suggest you were temporarily unable to know right from wrong, Mrs. Delacroix,” Wiley had explained. “The death of your child, the fire at WindLass, Sinclair’s return.” He’d shaken his head in commiseration. “All these things combined will help the magistrate see that you were not in your right mind. Non compos mentis, you understand?” “It was none of those things, Mr. Olson,” she had told him. “It was the beating he—” “We can’t mention that!” Olson had snapped. “We don’t know for a certain he hired those men and besides—” “He hired them,” she had shot back. “He admitted as much to me and he told me he would hire them again, and this time they would finish the job! Why do you think I shot him?” “If you admit to the real reason you killed your husband, you might as well put the hang rope around your neck yourself!” Olson had warned. “No jury in the land would clear you simply because you were defending your lover, madam!” “I was saving Sinclair McGregor’s life!” she’d argued. “We will not mention it,” Wiley had stated. Ivonne opened her eyes and stared unseeingly through the murky light in the cell. She could still see the expression on Edward’s face when he had joined her in the front

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parlor. His words still echoed through her mind and the events began to replay themselves in front of her. “So, you have decided to return to your rightful place,” he grated, his black eyes spiteful. “Who were they?” she asked. From the immediate smirk that settled on Edward’s dark face, all doubt was removed that he had been the one to hire the men to kill Sinclair. “That bastard has more lives than an alley cat,” Edward spat. He walked to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of sherry. “The next time I send them after him, I’ll make damned sure they finish the job.” Ivonne’s head came up. “There will be no next time, Edward,” she said through clenched teeth. “You will leave him alone.” A nasty laugh rumbled from Edward Delacroix as he turned and gave his wife a superior look. “The next funeral you attend, my dear, will be McGregor’s.” He lifted his glass and toasted her, his sardonic gaze on her the entire while. She hated this man with every fiber of her being and the thought of a lifetime at his side filled her with such intense loathing she could barely breathe. Just looking at him, her flesh crawled and her belly roiled, sending a bitter, acrid taste into her mouth. It was bad enough when he cast his gaze upon her, for his leer was predatory and possessive. But having him touch her, lay his vile hands upon her, was more than any woman could endure and remain sane. From the way his eyes flicked over her, she had no doubt he would attempt to bed her that very night so he could physically remind her to whom she belonged. The very thought of his body on hers made the gorge rise up in her throat and she turned her head away, unable to bear looking at him any longer. “Did you see him?” Edward smirked, coming to stand over her. “I am told his face was nearly destroyed.” Ivonne refused to answer him. Although she had not seen Sinclair after the beating, she had been told he was mending well enough. He had broken ribs and a concussion, but nothing lifethreatening that she knew about. Bossie had assured her the terrible swelling had gone down a bit and that it didn’t appear there would be any permanent damage to a face most women in Savannah found devastatingly handsome. “Did you really think I’d let him come back here and cause trouble?” Edward inquired hatefully. She turned her head up to him. “He has done nothing to warrant your animosity, Edward,” she responded. “He is alive!” her husband had accused. “Alive and drawing breath!” He knocked back the remainder of the sherry and slammed the cordial glass down upon the table beside her chair. “But not for much longer!” He glared at her, daring her to refute his claim. With a calmness she did not feel, Ivonne rose. She steeled herself not to flinch as her husband’s hand shot out and his strong fingers closed brutally around her upper arm. Despite the vicious jerk he gave her as he pulled her into his arms, she did not let any emotion show on her pale face as he fastened his mouth to hers in a kiss that made her ill. As his sherry-tainted tongue thrust between her lips, she stared blankly through him and simply endured his

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unwanted attention until he became aware of her rigid, unyielding posture. With a muffled curse, he thrust her away. “May I go now?” she asked, reaching up to wipe the back of her hands across her lips. Edward’s black eyes widened as he took in that single act of repugnance. Before she could react, he drew back his hand and slapped her with enough force to knock her backwards. She stumbled and fell against the wall, crying out in pain as her shoulder connected hard with the plaster surface. Weak as she was from the loss of blood and her stay in bed at Willow Glen, she slid to the floor in a heap, her hand to her injured shoulder. “How dare you?” Edward thundered, rushing to her and hovering over her like a vulture. “How dare you, woman?” He reached for her, his intention clear in his raging glower and would no doubt have beaten her senseless if Silky had not intervened. “What are you doing?” the black woman shrieked, rushing into the room and putting herself in harm’s way as she tried to protect her mistress. “She’s just had a miscarriage!” There had been murder on Edward’s face as he straightened up. His savage nature blazed across his dark face like a Gulf of Mexico hurricane. He would have struck Silky as well, if Ivonne had not hurried to grab his hand and pulled, turning his attention back to her. “Edward, please no!” she begged. “I’ll do whatever you want!” “Get your ass upstairs!” he commanded, jerking away from her hold. He put out a hand and shoved Silky out of his way. “And get this nigger out of my sight!” With that, he turned on his heel and stormed from the room. Silky bent down to help Ivonne to her feet, her black face filled with worry. “Are you all right?” “Go,” Ivonne had ordered, easing out of Silky’s grasp. “Find Dancer and send him to Willow Glen.” She had to stop and draw in a breath for her shoulder was throbbing with agony from her fall. “Tell him to make sure they know Edward intends to send those men after Sinclair again.” “What men?” Silky asked. “What are you talking about?” She had no intention of leaving her mistress, for the white woman was pale and shaking so hard it was a wonder she could stand. “Go, Silky!” Ivonne hissed. “Send word now before something happens. They’ll know what he’s talking about.” Silky hesitated a moment, deep concern in her black face, then she turned. If anything happened to Sinclair McGregor, her mistress would never forgive her. “You stay here until I get back!” Silky told her. Ivonne waited until Silky had left the house in search of her twelve-year-old Dancer. The boy could be trusted and she knew he’d hurry to Willow Glen to warn the Brells. Taking a deep breath, Ivonne started for the stairs, hearing Edward giving orders to the house servants that he was going to his room to rest and was not to be disturbed. She met him in the front hall and he barely glanced her way as he took the stairs two at a time, expecting her to follow. By the time she climbed the stairs and opened the door to her own room, she had made up her mind what to do. She would be damned if she would allow Edward to touch her in the way he so obviously planned. Not only because she was still convalescing from the miscarriage and the

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man should have had the common decency to understand her condition, but because she had no intention of ever letting him lay hands to her again. The derringer was in her dressing table drawer. She took it out, loaded it and slipped it into the pocket of her mourning gown. Before giving herself time to think about what she was going to do, she opened the door that connected her room with Edward’s then closed it behind her. “Get that ugly dress off,” Edward snarled. He was already half undressed, standing barefoot by the bed in his trousers and suspenders. When she lifted the gun and pointed it at him, he actually grinned. “Am I supposed to be afraid of that little piece of shit?” “No, Edward,” she responded. “You are supposed to die.” The kick of the derringer was almost unnoticeable. The smell of the cordite was strong in her nostrils as she watched the disbelief spread over Edward’s stunned countenance. She saw him look down at the blossoming stain of red on his union suit front then lift his head to stare at her. “You murdering bitch,” was the last thing he said before he fell facedown to the plush Aubusson carpet and lay still, his hands to either side of his dark head. She stood there for a moment—hand extended toward him—then slowly lowered her arm. Below stairs, she heard the rumble of voices and the echo of footsteps hurrying up the risers. The dark crimson stain that was spreading along the once beautiful rug caught and held her attention as the blood seeped from the wound in Edward Delacroix’s chest. The first one through the door had been Evangeline. Edward’s sister stopped short at the sight of her half-brother lying dead at Ivonne’s feet. Her eyes wide in her pretty ivory-tinted face, she slowly lifted her attention from the corpse to her sister-in-law and Ivonne could have sworn she saw intense amusement in the woman’s violet gaze. Everything else that happened that morning was a blur—the men coming in to take Edward’s body downstairs, the sheriff arriving, questioning the servants, placing her into what he euphemistically called “protective custody”, the trip into Savannah, the questions she would not answer until the family attorney had been called, her request for someone to send for Sinclair McGregor. It had been that request that had turned the sheriff into an avenging angel intent on seeing her hanged. “Ain’t you hungry, Miz Delacroix?” Ivonne shook herself and looked up. The young man who was her jailer was staring at her through the bars. “No, Linwood, I’m not.” Linwood Dixon frowned. “You should eat,” he told her. There was hope on Ivonne’s face. “Has there been any word from Mr. McGregor?” she asked, and saw instant embarrassment flit across the young man’s ruddy complexion before he ducked his head. She stood up and went to the bars, wrapping her fingers around the cold steel. “Linwood?” she inquired, her heart thudding in her chest. “Has something happened?” The young man shook his head, but refused to look up at her. The sheriff had cautioned him not to say anything to Mrs. Delacroix about the hasty marriage that had set the town of Savannah back on its heels.

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“Linwood?” she asked, reaching her hand through the bars toward him. “Has something happened to Sinclair?” There was stark fear in her trembling tone. “Not that I know of,” the young man answered then turned to go. “Linwood!” she pleaded with him. “If something’s happened to him, I have to know!” Dixon shook his head and left as quickly as he could, leaving Ivonne calling after him. He glanced at the sheriff and the visitor with him and swallowed. From the cell area, he could hear Mrs. Delacroix calling out to him. “You can take a break, Lin,” the sheriff suggested. “I’ll take Mrs. Brell in to visit the prisoner.” The young man cast a quick look at the imposing elderly woman standing so rigidly beside the sheriff and knew he did not want to be anywhere near the pretty widow when she found out the man she loved was now married to her dead husband’s kin. He dipped his head in respect to the elderly lady then got out of there as fast as he could. For once, he did not envy the sheriff his job. Ivonne was still standing at the bars—her hands clasped tightly around the iron— when Grace Vivienne walked up to her. There was such blazing spite on the older woman’s face, it made Ivonne release her hold and step back. “If you will give us some privacy, Sheriff?” Mrs. Brell asked, never taking her steady gaze from Ivonne. “Sure thing, Miz Brell. Just holler when you want me to escort you out,” the sheriff agreed. He could not look Ivonne in the face either, and left just as hurriedly as his warder had, closing the door behind him with a firm click. “You look none the worse for wear, Ivonne,” the old woman said in way of greeting. “Is Sinclair all right?” Ivonne asked, caring little for the social amenities at the moment. “As far as I know, Rory Sinclair is doing quite well,” Grace Vivienne replied. She threaded her black lace-gloved fingers together at her waist in a prim and proper manner, her reticule dangling from her left wrist. “I trust you have not been mistreated while in the sheriff’s care?” “Wiley told me you had hired him to defend me,” Ivonne countered, relieved Sinclair was safe. “I appreciate your—” “I did not do it for you, my dear,” the old woman interrupted. “I did it for my grandson.” Ivonne had long known how the elderly woman felt about her. Grace Vivienne had made that plain the day her grandsons had ridden off to war. “It would be best if you went home to wait with your parents,” the old woman had ordered. “They can care for you far better than I.”

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It hadn’t mattered that Sinclair had expressly asked Ivonne to remain at his home. As his fiancée, he wanted her with his family where he would not worry about her. No one had written him to tell him otherwise. “Regardless of why you did it, Mrs. Brell, I am most appreciative,” Ivonne forced herself to say. “Well, under the circumstances, I am sure this was what Sinclair would have wanted. Despite everything, I fear he still harbors some small fondness for you,” Grace Vivienne replied. Ivonne tucked her bottom lip between her teeth, and then asked, “Is he worried about me?” Sinclair’s grandmother smiled nastily. “I have no idea how he feels at the moment, my dear, although I am sure he is enjoying himself just as any newly married man does.” “I don’t want him to—” Ivonne stopped, the old woman’s words registering. Her forehead creased in confusion. “I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood you.” Grace Vivienne lifted her chin. “No, you did not. You heard me perfectly well.” Ivonne walked slowly to the bars, coming as close to the old woman as the bars would allow. “What are you talking about?” she asked, her heart once more thudding dangerously in her chest, beating so hard so can scarce draw breath. “Why, Rory Sinclair’s marriage, of course,” his grandmother laughed. “I wish I could tell you how he is so it would ease your mind, but he is on his honeymoon in New York with his lovely bride and—” “Who?” Ivonne hissed, her jaw tightly clenched. “A most lovely young woman of good breeding and social standing. A lady of property.” Grace Vivienne’s expression was evil. “One of whom I most wholeheartedly approved as a suitable match for him.” “Who?” Ivonne spat, and wanted to reach through the bars and grab the old crone’s throat. “Why, your sister-in-law!” Sinclair’s grandmother reported. “Didn’t you know they had been seeing one another secretly ever since she arrived?” Ivonne’s eyes widened. “You are lying!” she accused, actually thrusting her right arm through the bars in an attempt to grab the old woman. Grace Vivienne moved quickly for her age and infirmities, putting herself out of the crazed woman’s reach. She drew herself up as Ivonne repeated her accusation and glared at the prisoner. “Why should I lie?” she inquired. “Everyone in town knows of the marriage.” “No banns were read!” Ivonne threw at her. “He would not have—” “They eloped,” Grace Vivienne stated. “The Reverend Mr. Bass married them three days ago on the front lawn of WindLass.” She smiled brutally. “Ask anyone.” She threw out her hand, indicating the door that led to the sheriff’s office. “Ask Linwood or 166

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Bartow. They will be most happy to relate to you the gossip surrounding my grandson’s hasty marriage.” She frowned a little. “But you know what they say about marrying in haste, don’t you? ‘Repent at leisure’, isn’t it?” Ivonne felt the floor dropping out from beneath her feet. If there was one thing she knew about Grace Vivienne Brell, the old woman never said anything that couldn’t be proven. Unscrupulous as she was, she was not a liar and what she had suggested could be easily proved or disproved. “As I said,” she heard the old woman saying, “my grandson still has feelings of a sort for you and as such, I promised him I would see you were not hanged for the coldblooded murder you committed. It is a terrible embarrassment to him, you understand, and I do believe he feels unjustifiably responsible for your imprudent actions. But no matter, Wiley will have the writ of non compos mentis this afternoon and you will be escorted to Milledgeville where—” “What?” Ivonne shouted, her eyes nearly popping from her head. At the mention of Milledgeville, the State Capital and home of the Georgia Lunatic Asylum—a place rumored to be horrible beyond belief—Ivonne thought she would faint. “No woman in her right mind would kill her husband, my dear,” Grace Vivienne stated. “To have done so means you are quite insane and as such, a danger to yourself and to society. You must be locked away for your own good.” Absolute terror shot through Ivonne and she slid down the iron bars, striving not to break into a fit of uncontrollable screaming. “But, I know that is not what Sinclair would want.” Ivonne slowly lifted her head and stared up at the old woman. “He doesn’t know what you’ve planned for me, does he?” Her question was ignored. “If I pay your way out of the country and provide a small monthly stipend upon which you could live fairly comfortably, will you swear to me you will never attempt to contact my grandson again? If you do, I will see that you are not sent to that savage place. Otherwise, you can rot there for all I care.” So, Ivonne thought—her entire being numb—this was what it was all about, getting her permanently out of Sinclair’s life. “Well, what’s it to be?” the old woman pressed, not wanting to give the young woman a chance to think. “Do you spend the remainder of your days in that snake pit up in Baldwin County or do you live a relatively comfortable life far away from the scene of your dastardly deed?” “Why are you doing this?” Ivonne asked. The thought of Sinclair’s marriage to Evangeline was not nearly as hurtful as never seeing him again. He had dealt with her marriage to Edward, surely she could deal with his marriage to her conniving sister-inlaw so long as she could see him from time to time, talk to him, perhaps find a way to be with him.

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“They are in love,” the old woman lied, seeming to read Ivonne’s thoughts. “Why else the hasty marriage.” “You contrived this,” Ivonne answered. “I don’t know how, but I do know why. He loves me and would never marry Evangeline or anyone else without being forced to do so!” Grace Vivienne turned her head to one side. Though it went against all she’d ever been taught, all she had ever believed in, sometimes sinning could not be avoided and she dipped into that well once more. With a slight smile on her face, the old woman lifted her chin and said, “My dear, she is already pregnant with his child. How do you explain that if he had not been sneaking around with her?” She saw the sudden pallor come over Ivonne’s face and pressed harder. “I know of only one way to—” “Get out,” Ivonne said, quietly. “They have been seeing one another since—” “Get out!” The old woman smiled pitiably and went for her enemy’s jugular, wanting to completely destroy Ivonne and any hope the young woman might entertain that she would ever be with Sinclair. “I can understand how you feel. To learn the man you love has played you false is a terrible thing, but you have to understand, Rory Sinclair knew Edward had named Evangeline as his heir. He left WindLass to her, not you, and my grandson knew the only way he would ever be able to live in his own home again would be to court—and marry—the woman who would inherit it. I don’t approve of his methods—getting her with child as he did—but neither am I upset by his actions. I understand how men are, as I’m sure you do.” Her smile became lethal. “And he had every intention of killing Edward Delacroix to make sure WindLass was returned to him, you just beat him to it!” “Get out!” Ivonne screamed, slamming her hands over her ears. “Get out! Get out! Get out!” Grace Vivienne nodded as the young woman ran to her bunk and threw herself facedown on the coarse blanket. She stood there for a while and watched Ivonne Boucharde Delacroix pulling hunks of hair from her dark hair, pummeling her fists on the bunk and screeching like a madwoman. Even when the sheriff came running, the old woman stood there, her head cocked to one side, watching. “You were right, Miz Brell,” the sheriff said, shaking his head. “She does need to be up at the asylum. She’s plum crazy.” “Yes,” Grace Vivienne sighed, “I believe she is.” She clucked her tongue as the screams of anger and hurt and torment came rolling from Ivonne Delacroix. “Poor thing. Poor, wretched little thing.” With her head held high, the old woman reached out, took the sheriff’s arm and asked him to escort her from the scene. He did not see the vicious pleasure on the aged face as he closed the door on the mindless cries coming from beyond the thick wooden door. 168

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***** Linwood Dixon had to balance the tray on his hip to unlock the main door into the cell area. He cursed as the cup of lukewarm coffee sloshed over the tin cup and splattered his uniform pants. The area beyond the door was partially cast in shadows and he had to set the tray down to light the lantern to the right of the door. After he did, he picked up the tray, took two steps and then dropped it with a loud clatter of tin dishes. She had used strips torn from her dress to fashion a noose. One end of the makeshift rope was tied to the upper crossbar of the cell door and the other was wrapped tightly around her throat. Ivonne Boucharde Delacroix, the love of Sinclair McGregor’s life, hung behind the thick iron bars, her neck broken.

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Chapter Nineteen Evangeline smiled politely at the little man behind the counter as he handed her the letter. She placed the letter securely in her reticule, nodded pleasantly at the gentleman who held the door open for her to leave the post office and walked outside into the gunmetal gray light hovering over New York City. It was turning colder as she walked up Fifth Avenue toward the hotel where she and her husband were staying so she stopped in a little teashop to get warm. Ordering a pot of black tea, she settled back in her chair, removed her gloves and laid them aside. She waited patiently for the waiter to bring her order and then poured herself a cup of tea before opening her reticule and withdrawing the letter. She stared at the envelope for a moment, her frown returning as she scanned the unfamiliar handwriting. Laying the envelope aside, she took up her bone china cup and took a sip of the scalding brew. The fumes made her eyes water, but the soothing warmth of the rich tea went a long way in calming the frayed nerves that had started the moment the postmaster had responded “Yes, ma’am” to her query of, “Do you have any mail for Mrs. Sinclair McGregor?” She glanced down at the letter as though it were a spider sitting there. In no hurry to read it, she took another sip of tea, gathering the courage to open the repulsive thing. Now and again—as she consumed the hot beverage—she would cast a wary eye to the ominous letter then look away, her gaze turning dark with dread. There was, she thought with growing dismay, no reason for the old woman to write to her. It had been understood that unless something of major import took place in Savannah during her absence, there would be no need for Grace Vivienne Brell to contact her. Since only the old crone knew where she and Sinclair would be staying, the letter could be from none other than the witch herself. “Is everything all right, madam?” Evangeline looked up at the waiter, annoyed at his interruption. “Yes, thank you. I’m just not used to these Northern climes,” she replied, batting her eyes in such a way she knew would make the young man blush with wayward thoughts. When he did just that, she allowed her lips to pull into a coy smile. “Is it all right if I just sit here a while longer? Until I thaw out?” She reached out to touch his hand in passing. “Stay as long as you want,” the young man hurried to say. He blushed again and then backed away, loath to look away from such a beautiful woman. “Will you let me know if you need anything else?” “Of course,” she answered, her smile seemingly just for him. Since the day was lowering with what looked like a chilling rain, the little teashop was empty of all but two customers. The one other lady sitting at the rear of the shop 170

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was engrossed in a bulky novel and had yet to look up. Evangeline knew she could stay as long as she wished. After pouring herself a second cup of tea, she took a deep breath, picked up the envelope and slipped her finger beneath the flap. The sound of the paper tearing as it opened set her teeth on edge for it vividly reminded her of a line in a poem she had once read. The fabric of her life was ripped open with the cutting point of a pen. As she exhaled, Evangeline unfolded the one page note—her gaze going to the signature to make sure the letter had, indeed, come from the old woman, but the bold scrawl of a “G” across the bottom of the note did not reassure her. With her hands trembling, she lifted her eyes to the top of the page and began to read. On Friday past, your sister-in-law hanged herself in her jail cell. I suggest you do not return as planned next week, but rather take an extended trip to your birthplace. Arrangements have already been made at the Conniver House for your visit. Absolute shock rippled through Evangeline. She stared at the letter, her face was devoid of even the ruddy glow the cool air had brought to her cheeks. Ivonne, dead? How could that be? There had been no love lost between the two women, but to learn such startling news about her rival had turned Evangeline speechless. Although originally she had planned on ridding the world of Ivonne once they returned to Savannah, to learn now Ivonne was dead was a bit disconcerting. Nothing the old woman could have written to her would have stunned her more than this! She had hated Ivonne, been jealous of her, wanted her out of their lives, yet the first thought that came into her mind was of Sinclair’s reaction to hearing his beloved Ivonne was gone. She knew this would hurt him deeply. “Oh, dear God!” Evangeline whispered, her hand going to her mouth. She drew in quick, shallow breaths of panicky air, her eyes darting from one side of the room to the other in her agitation. She was vaguely aware of the other customer staring at her— disapproval on her sharp, thin face—but she ignored the woman. What was she to tell Sinclair? How could she tell Sinclair? She closed her eyes slowly, trying to still the sudden rapid beat of her heart. Bitter vetch rose in the back of her throat at the mere thought of sitting her husband down and relating this tragic news to him. Of late, things had been—if not romantic—at least pleasant between the two of them. The last three days had even been enjoyable. Not one drop of liquor had passed her husband’s lips and he had even relaxed enough in her presence to relate some of the funnier moments of his war days.

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Telling him about Ivonne would put a stop to the smiles he had been hesitantly bestowing upon her, to the gentle looks he had begun to give her and the begrudging friendship, if not romance, she thought might well be starting. Because her and Sinclair’s relationship had begun to change, she had given up her desire to kill Ivonne, believing eventually she would be able to bring Sinclair around to being a proper husband to her without being forced to take Ivonne’s life. “Oh, Sin,” she murmured. “I dare not tell you this. It would ruin everything!” She looked down at the letter once more and reread the lines advising her to extend the honeymoon to her birthplace. “New Orleans,” she said, unaware that she had spoken aloud until the other customer shushed her with a loud hiss. Turning her head, Evangeline glared at the thin, cadaverous-looking bookworm until the other woman sniffed and resumed her reading. Certainly New Orleans would be a warmer place than this Yankee icehouse was. The mere thought of the Spanish moss-draped live oaks and the stately pines, the elegance of the French Quarter, the lacy iron balconies and whitewashed buildings set Evangeline’s Cajun blood to racing. She knew he would have no objection to leaving New York, for he hated the looks his soft, Southern drawl brought to the faces of these Yankee victors. That was why he rarely left the hotel except to dine and, even then, he allowed her to do most of the talking. No one had been acutely impolite to him, but their cool reception of him at the places where she and he had gone always served to make him uneasy and eager to leave. “New Orleans it is,” she thought firmly, and refolded the letter, slipped it back in the envelope and placed it in her reticule. She withdrew the money to pay for her pot of tea and motioned for the waiter. She would not tell him about his grandmother’s letter. Obviously that was the best course of action. It would destroy him and definitely put an end to the honeymoon. “No, he must not know,” she said to herself. “There will be time enough when we return to Savannah for him to learn of Ivonne’s foolishness.” The thought of what her husband would surely do upon hearing the dreadful news made her blanch. By all that was holy, she hoped the news did not unhinge him! As she walked briskly back to the hotel, her mind was alive with things that needed to be attended to before she and Sinclair could set sail for the Crescent City. The hotel’s concierge could certainly make the travel arrangements with the Northwind’s captain so that would not be an issue. Getting Sinclair to agree to prolong their stay would not prove to be too difficult a problem, she hoped. After all, had he not turned his life over to her in all ways except the one she wanted the most? Evangeline stopped, her lips slowly parting. “In all ways except one,” she whispered.

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Ivonne had been a problem before she and Sinclair left for New York and would have been a major problem once they returned to Savannah. Despite Sinclair’s oath to remain with her until Ivonne returned from Roberte that would not have stopped him from pining for her. His thoughts would have been on Ivonne Delacroix the entire time, making it virtually impossible for Evangeline to get a foothold on his heart. But now… A light mist began falling from the darkening sky yet Evangeline barely noticed it. Her thoughts were racing as she stood there under the canopy of a millinery store. Ivonne had been as good as dead anyway, she thought, for she had had every intention of making sure Edward’s widow would not survive long after her return from exile. There had never been a question of allowing Sinclair to ever sneak off with his longtime love, of allowing him to ever leave his rightful wife. “Do you need help, ma’am?” one of the shop girls from the millinery store asked as she came to the door. Evangeline tore her thoughts from Ivonne and looked blankly at the girl. “What?” she inquired. “Do you need help?” the girl repeated, fanning a hand at the display of expensive hats in the window. “Do you see anything you like?” Evangeline shook her head. “No, I…” She shook her head again. “Thank you, but no.” She hurried on, becoming aware of the falling rain. With every step toward their hotel, Evangeline’s heart grew lighter. No longer would it be necessary to find a way to get Ivonne Delacroix out of Sinclair’s life, the stupid chit had seen to that! Now all that was needed was to keep Sinclair away from Savannah for a few more weeks until word arrived from his grandmother that it was safe to bring him home. She would have her husband to herself until then. Evangeline smiled. That would certainly not be a hardship at all.

***** It had been years since Sinclair had been in New Orleans. He had always liked the city and the food, he thought, as he savored the lobster bisque that was their meal that evening had no rival in the States. He grinned around a succulent mouthful of the rich lobster dish and nodded at his wife’s raised eyebrow. “Didn’t I tell you it was the best you’d ever eat?” Evangeline inquired. She took a sip of her white wine. “I won’t be able to get into any of my clothes if I keep eating like this,” he warned her.

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Evangeline shrugged as she swirled the wine in her glass. “Then I will buy you new clothing, sweetie.” Sinclair looked down at his food and chuckled. “What do you find funny?” his wife asked. He shrugged. “You make me feel like a gigolo when you say that.” He looked up. “Hell, I am a gigolo.” “You most certainly are not!” Evangeline insisted. “You are my husband.” The humor left Sinclair’s face. “I am a kept man,” he responded, and when she made to disagree, he interrupted her. “You have the money, Evangeline. You have the home, the land and the workers. What have I got?” “You have me,” she stated firmly, her eyes steady on his. He stared at her for a moment and then nodded slowly. “Aye, I do,” he said quietly. A little ripple of hurt squiggled through Evangeline’s heart and she reached out and put her hand over his where it rested beside his wineglass. “I know I was not your choice of wife, Sinclair,” she told him. “Both of us were blackmailed into this marriage, but…” She squeezed his hand. “I must confess that I have come to care for you a great deal.” “Don’t,” he said, withdrawing his hand from hers. He held her look. “You know as soon as it is decently possible, once Ivonne can return home, she and I will be together, Evangeline. I love her, she is my life and I want no other besides her.” A brief flicker of anger shot through Evangeline’s violet gaze but was deliberately stamped out as quickly as it flared. She let a tremulous, hurt little smile that wasn’t entirely false hover over her red lips. “I know how you feel right now, dearling,” she agreed, “but I am hoping that perhaps you will—” “Leave it alone, Evangeline,” he asked. “Ivonne has always been the only woman I’ve ever loved, and as long as we live, she will always be the only woman I will ever love.” Evangeline dipped her head, lest he see the triumph his words brought to her face. “I don’t want to hurt you, Evangeline,” she heard him say, and glanced up to see him watching her. “I just want you to understand that there can never be anything but friendship between us.” She cocked her head to one side. “Are we friends, Captain?” she asked. “I would like to think so,” he replied. “You could have made these past three weeks intolerable had you been so inclined.” He took up his napkin and wiped his lips. “I appreciate the fact that you’ve allowed me a modicum of freedom.” Evangeline winced at the bitter tone in his voice. True, she had kept a constant watch over him for fear he would leave, but she should have known he would not. Sinclair McGregor was an honorable man and he would always honor his debts.

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She intended to see that she became his primary debt. “There is one little thing that we have overlooked of late though,” she injected into the conversation, studying his eyes to catch his reaction. “We are to produce an heir for WindLass.” She made herself blush. “Have you forgotten?” Sinclair looked away from her. “No, I have not forgotten.” Not since that first night onboard the ship bound for New York had he lain with her in the carnal way, she thought with dismay. Not that any amount of carnal knowledge she had of him would produce the heir the old woman wanted. There would never be children of this unholy union no matter the degree of diligence on her husband’s part. But Grace Vivienne Brell did not know that. And neither did Sinclair. “I know you find me repulsive, Captain, but…” she began, and almost smiled as he quickly corrected her. “You are a very beautiful woman, Vangie,” he told her. “Any man would want you.” “Any man except you,” she replied. Sinclair picked up his wineglass and drained it. Evangeline only allowed him one glass per meal and that had begun to wear thin. He glanced around, caught the eye of their waiter and pointed to his glass. Evangeline’s lips pursed. “Sinclair, I don’t…” She stopped as she saw his face take on a hard, challenging look. “If you want me to service you this evening, Vangie, don’t begrudge me my only means of courage,” he snapped. Had any other man said such a thing to her, Evangeline would have thrown the remainder of her own wine in his face. As it was, she was sorely tempted to do just that and it was difficult not to act on her impulse. She glared at her husband, almost hating him, then relaxed as she noted the humiliation on his handsome face. He was mortally ashamed of the role he was being forced to play and the more she rubbed the salt of his predicament into his open wounds, the more rebellious he might become. So, instead of reacting hatefully to his remark, she lowered her head demurely. “I understand, Sinclair.” Through the fringe of her lashes, she watched him. “Although I fear I am falling hopelessly in love with you, I know you will never be able to reciprocate those feelings.” She saw him frown. “I will not expect you to do so.” “It is not my intention to hurt you, Evangeline,” he said again. “I just want things understood between us.” Evangeline pretended to sniffle. “I quite understand the way it is to be, Captain.” Sinclair looked out over the room. “I will do what is expected of me,” he told her. “I know you will,” she replied, and looked up to see him closing his eyes to what he no doubt thought was an unbearable situation. Had she been a less selfish person, she might have felt his hopelessness and feeling of being trapped. 175

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Yet even if she had felt those things, it wouldn’t matter. If that was the only way she could have him, then so be it. Sinclair McGregor was hers and she would kill anyone who tried to take him away from her! “Shall we order dessert?” she asked. Sinclair shook his head. “No.” He folded his napkin and laid it beside his plate. “I’ve lost my appetite. I’m ready to go back to our suite.” Once more that flicker of anger pulsed in Evangeline’s violet orbs, but she refused to allow it to become a full-fledged conflagration. She merely inclined her head in agreement of her husband’s wishes.

***** He lay in the darkness and stared at the ceiling. Beside him, she slept soundly, her head on his shoulder, her arm draped possessively across his naked chest, one shapely thigh pressed intimately between his legs. Outside the thick mosquito netting, lightning flared dangerously. A storm was brewing out in the Gulf and already the waters of Lake Pontchartrain were churning. It was hurricane season and the air was too still, too humid and too full of the sharp tang of the sea. The ominous crack of lightning and the answering rumble of thunder as it moved toward New Orleans had been what awakened him from the restless sleep that had claimed him after their lovemaking. Hot and sweaty after the ordeal, he had rolled off his wife and lay there, allowing her to wiggle close to him as she ran her hands over his body. “I have never had that kind of pleasure ever before,” she told him. “I’m glad I pleased you,” he’d responded. “Did you…” She had stopped, seemingly shy about asking whether or not he had enjoyed the interlude. Which he had not. “Go to sleep, Vangie,” he’s said, instead. She had plastered her body to his and laid her head on his shoulder, her arm over him and he had once more felt the suffocating entrapment he had experienced on the ship. “Goodnight, my love,” she had whispered, her lips on his chest. A loud shriek of lightning as it stitched across the sky made the woman lying beside him jump and she pressed her body closer to his, her fingers curling over his rib cage. “It’s all right,” he said. “I don’t like storms,” his wife said. “There’s nothing to worry about,” he responded. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “Don’t leave me, Sinclair.”

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A single hot, scalding tear fell from Sinclair McGregor’s left eye and slid into the crease of the saber cut on his cheek. “No,” he whispered. “The gods help me, I can’t.

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Chapter Twenty Evangeline watched her husband staring out over the levee. The wind was tousling the dark curls about his head as he stood braced against the light mist blowing in from the Gulf. From the set of his shoulders, the way he stood with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his cords, he seemed a man alone against not only the forces of nature bearing down on him, but one bearing the weight of the world on his wide shoulders. He had been quiet all day, moody, though polite enough. She could not remember seeing him smile since rising that morning, but that in itself was not unusual for Sinclair. He rarely smiled and when he did, the smile did not reach his dark eyes. Could he know? Could he—somehow in his soul—know Ivonne was no more? Had there been some otherworldly, spiritual link between them that had been severed and he was just now beginning to sense the loss? She shook her head and turned from the window. What good did it do to speculate on her husband’s inner feelings? Sinclair was a private man and he had gently—but firmly—turned aside any questions she had concerning his moods and feelings. “Give me time, Vangie,” he had asked, his brown eyes intense as he looked at her. “I have promised to behave. I will not shame you nor will I mistreat you in any way, but neither will I share with you what by rights belongs to her. Don’t ask me to.” That she envied a dead woman irritated Evangeline. Never had she allowed herself to envy anyone before now, for she had always felt herself better than, and a cut above, most women. She knew her self-worth and was keenly aware of her beauty—an asset she had used with extreme care over the years. To find that she was jealous of a woman now moldering in her grave did not set well with her. How did one compete with a ghost who would forever remain pure and beautiful and young in her lover’s memory? Sighing deeply, she sat down on the settee and laid her head along the tall camelhair back. Staring up at the embossed tin ceiling, she let her mind wander back to the last two weeks of their stay in New Orleans. It had been a glorious time for her with genteel dining in immaculate restaurants, long rides down oak-arched lanes, the gaiety of the French Quarter, leisurely rides on the riverboats. All that before the weather had turned chilly as September gave way to October. Come morning, she and Sinclair would board The Northwind and head home to Savannah. And the disastrous news waiting there for her husband. How would he react upon hearing of Ivonne’s death? And the manner in which the woman had died? A shudder went through Evangeline, for she knew all too well how he was apt to handle such devastating news. If she had come to know anything of the man at all, she

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knew he would no doubt go quietly insane with the loss of the woman he loved. She only hoped there was some way she would be able to pull him back from the edge of the Abyss into which he would surely plummet if left to his own devices. Rain hitting against the windowpane broke her reverie and she pushed herself up, feeling as tired as an old woman today. She smoothed down the skirt of her gown, patted her chignon and then padded over to the window. Drawing the curtain aside, she looked out, surprised to see her husband still standing on the levee, eyes intent on the surging sea swells rolling toward him. “Sinclair, really!” she hissed, much as a mother would upon seeing her child doing something foolish. Stamping her foot with vexation, she swept away from the window and went to the bellpull, yanking on it with annoyance. She paced about the suite until a soft, polite knock came at her door. “Yes, Mrs. McGregor?” the steward inquired when the door was flung open. “Will you take an umbrella down to my husband and tell him I wish to speak to him immediately?” Evangeline snapped. “He is standing outside in the pouring rain!” The steward bowed elegantly, wondering why any sane man would be out in the coming storm, but agreed to do as he was asked. He winced when the door was slammed shut behind his departure and wondered why any sane man would take such a termagant as that one to wife in the first place. Sinclair lifted his face to the rain, reveling in the coldness of it as it mingled with his tears and washed them away. He barely felt the cold, although he was keenly aware of the saturated clothing clinging to his body like a second skin. He breathed in the salty essence of the sea and closed his eyes, allowing the elements to rage around him, for they rivaled in intensity the rage of helplessness in his soul. From the moment he had awakened this morning, he had felt on edge—nervous and jumpy. The walls of the suite had begun to close in on him and he found he couldn’t stomach the morning repast and had foregone the elaborate meal Evangeline had ordered. At noon, he had pushed his food around on his plate until finally laying the fork aside and—taking up his glass of water—gone out on the balcony to stand and watch the passersby on Canal Street below. By the stroke of one, he was so jittery he had simply taken his coat and left the suite, not bothering to tell his wife where he was going. Not that he had to, he thought as a gust of wind-driven rain pelted his face and he opened his eyes to the sting of it against his flesh. He blinked as the water ran into his eyes and he lowered his head to look down at the waves slapping against the wooden pilings below his feet. Why was he feeling this way? he wondered as he stared at the murky, silt-laden water lapping up the sea wall. Was it because he would be going home to Savannah tomorrow and dreaded it? He knew Ivonne would have left for Roberte by now so there was no chance of running into her, seeing her, longing for her and being unable to reach out and take her into his arms. He knew there would be talk and he also knew there

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would be those who would despise him, cut him dead socially, for having married Delacroix’s widowed sister so soon after the woman the whole of Chatham County knew he loved beyond reason had shot Delacroix dead in their home. He had never worried about what people said, had never cared what they thought. Apparently Evangeline felt the same way else she would not have agreed to this ridiculous marriage, but tongues were often sharper than swords and could cut just as deeply. He knew that well enough for Evangeline had verbally wounded him many times over the last month. At the thought of his wife, Sinclair shook his head angrily, flinging rain droplets away from his soaking wet hair. He hunched his shoulders against the cold he was finally beginning to feel but still stood there, a penitent beneath the punishing hand of Mother Nature. Evangeline. He knew the woman was beginning to fall in love with him. He could see it in her eyes, sense it in the way she touched him, hear it when she spoke to him and feel it as she held him against her when he had no choice but to make love to her. All that would change just as soon as he got her with child. He would have held to his devil’s bargain with his grandmother and that would be the end of it. Let Grace Vivienne have WindLass for all he cared. As long as he would have Ivonne, what did anything else matter? He would take Ivonne as far away from Savannah as he could and they would never look back. Advancing footsteps behind him made Sinclair turn. The smile that had come with the thought of being with Ivonne slowly slipped into a frown as the black steward hurried toward him beneath the protection of an oversized umbrella. He did not need to ask why the man was there. Evangeline would have sent him to retrieve her errant husband as though he were a little boy in need of a nanny’s judicious care. He looked away from the man hurrying through the rain toward him and glanced up at the window of the suite he shared with Evangeline. He knew he would find her there staring down at him and was not disappointed. She was glaring at him—her face stern—and, though he could not hear her words at this distance, he could make out what she was mouthing at him, “Get in here!” He sighed and dropped his gaze back to the steward who had reached him and was holding the umbrella over Sinclair. “I’m sorry you had to come out in this, Westin,” he apologized. “The storm will only get worse before it blows itself out, sir,” the black man advised. “It’s probably best to come inside now.” “There are storms and then there are storms, eh, Westin?” Sinclair said quietly. Westin looked up at the woman at the window and thought he understood. “Yes, sir, Mr. McGregor. That is surely true, sir.” Sinclair nodded and started walking toward the hotel. He was beginning to shiver and felt a sneeze coming on. It wouldn’t do to have caught a cold standing out there.

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He’d never hear the end of it from Evangeline. He began to prepare himself mentally for the sharp rebukes he knew she would no doubt make as soon as he walked in the room. When the door to their suite opened, Evangeline turned from the window, intent on lashing out with her very best vitriolic admonishments about stupid men who stand about in the pouring rain, but one look at the wary resignation on her husband’s face, she clamped her lips shut. There was something so lost about him at that moment, so totally hopeless, that her anger evaporated to be replaced with deep concern. “Westin, would you get the captain a carafe of brandy, please?” she asked, coming forward. “And have someone come up to draw him a hot bath.” “Yes, ma’am,” the steward agreed. He eyed the man standing just inside the room like a schoolboy called to the headmaster’s office and felt sorry for Mr. McGregor. Sinclair didn’t speak until the door closed behind Westin then opened his mouth to ask his wife not to start in when she surprised him. “Please remove those wet clothes before you catch cold, Sinclair,” Evangeline advised. “I’ll get you some fresh things from the armoire.” She turned away as gently as her words had been given to him, walked over to the armoire and opened it. “You’re not going to yell at me?” he asked, his brows drawn together. “You are a grown man, Sinclair,” Evangeline said over her shoulder. “If you wish to stand in the rain and watch the ocean, that is your God-given right.” She pulled out a fresh nightshirt from the armoire. “You have earned the privilege of doing what you will, don’t you think?” He stared at her, perplexed and confused by her reaction to what he’d done. He had expected her to do no less than scream at him and at the most, throw something at his head. To have her calmly accept his actions simply confounded him. And worried him. “Are you feeling all right, Vangie?” he asked then sneezed, sneezed again before running his coat sleeve under his nose. “Are you?” she asked, turning around. She waved her hand at him. “Please get out of those wet clothes!” He shrugged out of the coat, shivering a little as the air hit the fine lawn shirt beneath. Looking around for some place to put the wet garment, he was further amazed when his wife came to him and took it. A discreet knock at the door drew Evangeline’s attention and she motioned her husband behind the fine Chinese screen to continue undressing as she let in the maid who was no doubt there to draw Sinclair’s bath. When he unbuttoned his shirt, he began to feel the foolishness of what he’d done because he found himself shivering so badly his teeth were chattering. He hurriedly stripped off the shirt, unbuttoned his trousers and sat down on a dressing bench to remove his boots.

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“I would like you to obtain these things for me when you are finished,” he heard his wife telling the maid. The drawer to the writing desk opened and he knew Evangeline was getting out paper and pen. He had stripped down to his wet long johns when Evangeline poked her head around the screen and handed him a blanket. “Your bath is almost ready,” she informed him, and he saw her frown. She looked at him for a moment, started to speak, obviously thought better of it, turned and went back into the sitting area of the suite. Such behavior was at odds with the Evangeline he had come to know and Sinclair was growing concerned at her solicitous attitude. He certainly had not expected this diligent care and when she told him to come into the bathing room, he meekly did as he was told, stepping into the wonderfully hot copper tub with delight. “Your lips are blue, Sinclair,” Evangeline remarked. “Drink your brandy. It will help ward off the chill you are surely going to have before the night is over.” With that said, she left him to his bath, closing the door gently behind her. Sinclair stared at the door, her behavior throwing him entirely off guard. He sneezed, sneezed three more times in quick succession then looked to the heavens, expecting his wife to barge in with a shaking, admonishing finger to say “I told you so!” but the door remained closed. Downing the warmed brandy, he took up the bath cloth and began to scrub himself vigorously, his teeth clicking together like castanets as the cold began to invade his upper body. When he was finished and wrapped in the fleece robe Evangeline had laid on a chair in the bathing chamber, he came out into the parlor, his wet hair rumpled. “Come sit down and let me rub your chest,” Evangeline told him. Sinclair’s forehead crinkled. “Why?” Sex was the last thing he wanted at that moment and to have her pawing him was just as bad. “This is camphor,” Evangeline said, holding up a little white jar. She pointed to a red flannel rag warming beside the crackling fireplace. “If you don’t want a raging cold, Sinclair, please allow me to try to ward it off. You certainly don’t want to be sick on the voyage home.” “Camphor,” he said with disgust. He hated the smell of camphor. His grandmother had plastered the stuff on him every winter and the feel of it pressed against his flesh had made him itch and wiggle when he was a boy. Just thinking of it clinging to his chest hair now that he was a man was worse yet. He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t think— ” “Sinclair—” Evangeline sighed as though much put upon “—come over here and let me doctor you before you catch lung fever.” She crooked her finger. “Come on.” “I really don’t—” A violent sneeze cut him off. His head was beginning to ache as badly as his body was so he gave in, coming over to her with as much reluctance as a little boy dragging his books behind him to the first day of school after a glorious summer.

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He knelt before her and opened his robe, allowing her to rub the hated camphor over his chest and along his rib cage. The smell—well remembered from his childhood—made him nauseous and the feel of the sticky, oily mess being slathered over him crinkled his face with disgust. Evangeline had to bite her lower lip to keep from laughing at the woebegone expression on her husband’s face. His eyes were scrunched closed and his upper lip raised, wrinkling his nose. Beneath her palms, she could feel his body heat and knew it was higher than normal. “You are going to have a blazing cold if you don’t go right to bed this instant,” she said as she finished rubbing the camphor on his chest and reached for the warm flannel rag. Sinclair opened one eye, saw the rag being brought to his chest and tensed, knowing how the feel of that clinging material was going to annoy him. When it was laid on his chest, he wiggled his shoulders, hating the feel more than anything he could think of at that moment. “Sinclair, honestly!” Evangeline laughed, and patted the rag in place. “Aw,” Sinclair complained on a long breath. “God, I hate that!” “Hate it all you will,” she replied. “It stays and gets changed every hour until I’m satisfied you’ll not catch your death of cold.” “Doesn’t matter if I get asphyxiated from the fumes though, does it?” he complained, wiggling his shoulders again. He took off the robe and put on the nightshirt she held out to him. “Stop fidgeting and it won’t be so bad!” she warned him, her eyes dancing. Sinclair eyed her meanly. “I’m so glad you find this amusing, Evangeline.” “I think you should lie down,” she said. He was beginning to feel really bad and had to agree. Although the sun was still high enough in the sky to light the windows, he didn’t think a quick nap to help ward off a potential cold would hurt. Without any argument, he went to the bed, wincing at the feel of that hated flannel rag, and lay down, allowing her to draw the covers over him. “Get some rest,” she said, leaning over to kiss him on the forehead. She frowned at his damp hair, but knew as thick as it was, it would take a long time to dry. She pushed a heavy lock from his forehead then straightened up and turned to leave the bedroom. “Vangie?” he asked, stopping her as she reached the door. “Yes?” He looked so like a little boy as he asked, “Why didn’t you yell at me?” Evangeline shrugged. “What good would it have done, Sin?” She closed the door behind her. For a moment or two, he lay there, not wanting to move because each time he did, the damned rag moved on his chest and the camphor stench rose up to assault his 183

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nostrils. So he laid perfectly still, his arms atop the cover, his head turned slightly toward the door. Within a matter of minutes, he was sound asleep, never knowing the brandy had been more than generously laced with laudanum.

***** The workers on the docks knew precisely who Sinclair was as he and the fancydressed blonde woman came down the gangplank of The Northwind. Heads went together as the men gossiped amongst themselves and the occasional bawd plying her trade along the docks stopped to stare at the new master of WindLass. Fingers were pointed and eyes were narrowed at the couple as Sinclair hoarsely inquired after a carriage to take them out to the plantation. He had a roaring cold and a sore throat that pained him something fierce every time he swallowed. A slight fever aggravated the raging headache that throbbed each time he bent over. He had stayed in their cabin beneath several blankets and repeated applications of a bed warmer the entire trip up from New Orleans, and although Evangeline had not dared say “I told you so!”, he wished she would because he knew damned well she was dying to fling those words at his stopped-up head. “Ain’t got time to drive you out there,” the third carriage man in a row snarled at Sinclair before letting his rheumy eyes wander down Sinclair’s tall frame. “Whyn’t you get some of your kinsmen to come get ya!” Sinclair didn’t respond, just turned and walked away, hearing the man spit and knowing full well the action had been meant as an insult. He stopped a few feet shy of where Evangeline stood, her eyes angry at the deliberate snub her husband had just suffered. Letting out a long, weary breath, Sinclair put his hands on his hips and told her, “Nobody seems to want to take us out to the house.” He looked toward the hotel. “You want to get a room and stay here tonight? I’ll send word to Leland and ask him to ride over to WindLass and have someone come get us in the morning. Wilson can retrieve the luggage from the ship tomorrow, but I’ll go back and get your portmanteau when I get you settled in.” Knowing full well what her husband was bound to find out as soon as he spoke to his cousin, Evangeline was loathe having him send for the man just yet. The idea of spending the night at the hotel did not appeal to her, but it was better than standing in the street. “That would be fine with me, Captain,” she said for the benefit of the carriage man who was gawking at them. She lifted her chin and held out her hand for him to take. Sinclair felt the eyes of each and every one of the people who stopped to stare at them as they walked over to the hotel. He heard the muted whispers, the occasional hiss of angry breath—and once—the words, “Some nerve coming back here after what he’s caused!” That the entire county would blame him for what Ivonne had been forced to do, he had expected. And he knew well enough his grandmother would have done nothing to 184

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alter people’s opinion of the kind of son of a bitch he was. From the hateful glowers and steely stares aimed his way, he knew he was about as welcome in Savannah as a plague ship in the harbor. “Do not let their meanness disturb you, Sinclair,” Evangeline said in a low, angry voice. “What does it matter what they think?” What, indeed? He thought as he opened the door to the hotel for her, ushering her inside with a hand to the small of her back. But when they neared the counter and the ingratiating smile on the desk clerk’s face slipped into a mask of dislike as soon as he recognized Sinclair, hurt settled like a lump of coal in the pit of his belly. “May I help you?” the desk clerk sneered as though he had suddenly smelled something rancid. “We need a room for the night,” Sinclair answered, reaching for the register to turn it toward him to sign. “We don’t—” the desk clerk started to say, but Evangeline’s warning hiss stopped the man. “Give my husband the damned pen and the room key before I cause a scene that will have the whole of Georgia talking about it over morning coffee and croissants!” she spat, drawing Sinclair’s startled eyes to her. The desk clerk’s chin came up and he had every intention of asking them to leave, but there was something so deadly, so full of lethal intent on the blonde woman’s anger-infused face that he thought better of refusing them lodging. If the blistering glitter of those sharp violet eyes were any indication of the harlot’s ability to throw a tantrum, it would, indeed, be one that would be discussed most avidly. Thinking it more prudent to get the couple out of sight and away from him, the clerk snatched up his pen and thrust it toward Sinclair. He spun around as soon as Sinclair took the pen and plucked a key off the rack behind him. “Room nine,” he spat, slapping the key on the counter, holding Sinclair’s gaze. “Thank you,” Evangeline grated, and turned to go. When her husband didn’t move, just continued to stand there and stare at the desk clerk, who had been uncommonly rude to them, she reached out and took his arm. “Sinclair?” she questioned. When he still did not move, she tugged insistently on his biceps. “Sinclair?” Her husband finally tore his gaze from the rude desk clerk and reached over to cover her hand on his arm with his own. He patted her fingers—almost as an afterthought—then escorted her to the stairs but not before he heard the desk clerk mutter, “I don’t know how you can sleep at night.” Sinclair would have turned, gone back to the man, but Evangeline stopped him. “Let it go, sweeting,” she advised. “Just let it go.” The laugh of derision from the desk clerk as Sinclair swallowed his pride and led his wife upstairs was a bitter pill to swallow for a proud warrior like Sinclair McGregor. It hurt to the very bottom of his soul and sent wretched waves of self-disgust through his belly. Even when he had closed the door to their room behind him, he felt the 185

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contempt coming at him from the man downstairs. He slumped against the door and lowered his head. There was nothing Evangeline could say to him to make it any easier for him to bear. It was something she knew he would have to overcome in his own way, in his own time, and to try to tell him she understood what a man could possibly feel at a time like this would seem patronizing. So for once in her life, Evangeline wisely said nothing. Instead, she took off her hat and laid it on the bed then sat down and waited. The silence played out in the room for a long time. Sinclair stood where he was, his whole posture one of a man brought down to the lowest defeat. Evangeline sat on the bed, hands folded demurely in her lap, head down, gathering the strength she knew she would need to help this man when the time came. When she heard the low thumping, she looked up and winced as she watched Sinclair slowly banging the back of his head against the door in frustration. “Pray, don’t dent the door, Sinclair,” she said gently. “The bastard would probably make us buy a new one.” Her attempt at humor went right past her husband. She watched him cross his arms over his chest, hugging himself as though he were in the throes of a chilling blast. “I knew,” she heard him say as he banged his head once more on the portal, “it would be bad. I just didn’t know it would be this bad.” His voice broke and she saw him close his eyes and got up to go to him. Evangeline reached out and cupped her husband’s cheek. “Do you know I love you, Sinclair?” she asked, and when he opened his eyes and stared bleakly at her, she stroked his scarred flesh. “Do you know how much I love you?” He searched her eyes for a moment then put his hand up to cover her own. “I am beginning to,” he answered, turning his lips into her palm and kissing it, grateful for her company at that moment. Gently, she moved her hand along his jaw and frowned. “You are burning up, baby,” she told him. “I want you to get to bed and rest.” When he started to protest, she covered his lips with her fingers. “Go lie down and I’ll send word to Leland.” Sinclair shook his head. “No, ma’am, I won’t have that son of a bitch downstairs—” “I can handle him!” Evangeline stated firmly and her eyes blazed. Sinclair watched that militant blaze become a mighty conflagration and chuckled softly. “I noticed.” “Then come to bed.” She took his hand and led him to the bed. “I have a flask of brandy I prepared for you and I want you to drink it.” She picked up her reticule and fished out the silver flask, unscrewed the cap and handed it to him. “Drink it all then lay down until I get back. I won’t be long.” She waited until he had drained the small flask and stretched out on the bed, breathing a sigh of relief that he couldn’t detect the trace amount of laudanum dissolved in the potent liquor.

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When she descended the stairs, the first person she saw was Conor Brell, standing at the counter talking in low, urgent whispers to the desk clerk. That he had his hands wrapped in the man’s lapels did not bode well for the uppity little man. As that one’s eyes shifted nervously to her, Evangeline thought she saw the fear of God in the man’s rapidly blinking eyes a moment before Conor thrust him away as though the contact had soiled him. As Brell’s attention shifted to her, Evangeline felt the hatred of the man shoot through her like a lead ball. “Does he know?” Conor Brell snarled, pushing away from the counter and striding briskly to her. Evangeline feigned surprise. “Know what, sir?” Conor stopped before her, looked up the stairs then took her arm in a savage grip. He pulled her unceremoniously out of earshot of the desk clerk. “You are hurting me, sir!” Evangeline protested, trying to drag her arm free of Conor’s grip. “Does he know?” Conor repeated, shaking her. “Know what?” Evangeline spat, managing to pull her arm free. “I have no idea what you are—” “Ivonne!” Conor snarled at her. “Does he know about Ivonne?” “That she is on her way to Roberte?” Evangeline asked, playing for time. “That was—” “Has anyone sent word to you about what’s happened?” Conor snapped. “I have no idea to what you are referring, Mr. Brell!” Evangeline threw back at him. “We have just this afternoon returned from our honeymoon.” “What room are you in?” Conor said, cutting her off. He ran a hand through his dark blond hair in agitation. “If he doesn’t know I have to tell him before any one else does.” “Tell me what?” Evangeline jumped, spinning around to see her husband on the stairs. “What are you doing out of bed?” she asked stupidly. A snort of contempt from the desk clerk took Conor’s attention to that man and the look on Brell’s face made the man turn and go back into his office. “Tell me what, C.J.?” Sinclair inquired, coming down another few steps. Conor threw Evangeline a quick look then walked around her. He went to the stairs and stood there, looking up at Sinclair. He took in the flushed face and the slight tremor that shook his cousin’s body, but it was the dull, glazed look in Sinclair’s eyes that worried him the most. “Are you ill?” Conor asked. “He caught a bad cold,” Evangeline said, pushed past Conor, lifted her voluminous skirts and started up the stairs. “He should be at home in his own bed instead of this drafty hotel.” She reached her husband’s side and took his arm. “Let’s get you back to the room.” 187

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Sinclair gently shrugged away her touch. “What’s happened, C.J.?” he asked, instinct telling him something had. The bravura and anger that had brought Conor Brell at a hard stride from the barber shop to the hotel upon learning his cousin had returned to Savannah was slowly dissolving as he looked into Sinclair’s tormented eyes. Obviously Sinclair did not know what had transpired while he was away. How was he ever going to tell the man? “C.J.?” Sinclair questioned, his heart beginning to pound furiously in his chest. He came down another two steps, feeling lightheaded, weak and totally detached from everything around him. But Conor’s suddenly pale face and concerned eyes brought him fully alert. “Tell me!” he demanded. “Is it grandmother?” “Lee tried to reach you in New York,” Conor interrupted, his breathing quick and shallow with emotion. “We never received word back that you had gotten the message. Then we heard you’d gone to New Orleans and we sent word there only to have the telegraph office say no one picked up the missive. We had no idea what hotels you were staying at and no one seemed to know you.” “Mrs. Brell knew precisely where we were, Mr. Brell,” Evangeline stated, wanting to drive as wide a wedge as she could between the cousins and their grandmother. “I gave her our itinerary.” Conor’s jaw tightened. “Well, if she knew, she didn’t let on to us she did!” Sinclair came off the last step and stood in front of his cousin, searching the younger man’s face. “What was so important that you needed to get in touch with us?” Conor shifted his gaze to Evangeline and saw the wary, frightened look on the woman’s face, knowing at that precise moment she was aware of what had happened. Knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she knew and hated her more than ever for being the one responsible for him having to give Sinclair the news of Ivonne’s suicide. “Conor?” Sinclair insisted, reaching out to take his cousin’s arm in a hard grip. “Tell me!” Conor took time to swallow then drew in a long breath, turned to face Sinclair and looked him in the eye. “I’m afraid I have some bad news, Sinclair,” he said, holding his cousin’s gaze. “It’s Ivonne. She’s dead.” Evangeline did not need to pretend her distress as those words were spoken for she could almost feel the fight leaving her husband’s body. She put a hand to her lips, barely aware that her fingers were trembling as she waited for Sinclair to say something. When the single word “How?” came, she closed her eyes and reached out with her free hand to grip the banister. Conor swallowed again, wishing he were anywhere but where he was. Wishing he had not come over here to confront Sinclair. Knowing that what he was going to say would destroy his cousin. But there was no help for that. He lifted his chin. “She hanged herself in her cell when she learned you had married this woman,” were the words he would later have given anything not to have said.

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As the desk clerk who was eavesdropping at his office door would later report to anyone who happened to ask, Sinclair McGregor said nothing at all at the revelation. The ex-prisoner of war had simply stood there, his attention riveted on his cousin’s face, then he had turned, shrugging off the hand Brell had put out to either comfort or stop him and had walked out of the hotel, leaving the door open behind his departure. “Go after him!” Mrs. McGregor had demanded of the Brell lad, but Brell had shaken his head and turned to stare up at her with such violent intent, it was a wonder he did not strike her dead where she stood. “You have to go after him!” she’d pleaded, tears streaming down her cheeks. “He’s not been well!” “And whose fault is that?” Brell had flung at her before turning on his heel and stomping away. The McGregor woman had dropped to the step beneath her, sitting down hard on the carpeted runner, then buried her face in her hands and sobbed. “You’d have thought the bitch’s heart was gonna break!” the desk clerk had scoffed. But the consensus of the whole of Savannah was that Evangeline Hardy McGregor had no heart. Despite the fact Conor looked for his cousin for over two hours before giving up and riding hellbent-for-leather back to Willow Glen to enlist the aid of his brothers and a few retainers in finding Sinclair, there was no sight of the troubled man. Not at WindLass, the house Sinclair had once hoped to share with Ivonne. Not at the gravesite where Sinclair’s mother and father were laid to rest. Not at the river where he and Ivonne had gone walking or at any of the old haunts to which they had gone before the war had separated them. Sinclair was nowhere to be found. He had simply disappeared off the face of the Earth.

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Chapter Twenty-One Lyle Drake knew he was going to die. He had known it the moment the tall, brownhaired man had come through the door. Backing away from the steady approach of a man he had tried to help kill, Lyle looked wildly around him, searching for a way out of his predicament and realizing there was none. Drake’s eyes rolled in his head and he put out a denying hand as he plastered himself against the rough cedar wall. “Please,” he whispered, but he knew begging wasn’t going to help. He’d already recognized the brutal look on the brown-haired man’s face because he’d often seen it on his brother Robbie’s face and in the savage eyes of his brother-in-law Tim Cullen. The tavern was just a spit of a place sitting on the Georgia side of the GeorgiaAlabama-Florida border triangle. The place stank of urine and vomit and other smells too vile to mention. The interior was smoke-filled from the low ceiling to the sawdust floor littered with boiled peanut shells and damp, for Lake Seminole was only a stone’s throw from the back door. Beside Lyle and the bartender, there were two other customers sitting off to one side at a rough-hewn table. Sinclair McGregor stopped in the middle of the tavern and swung his gaze to the two men sitting at the table. His eyes narrowed as he met their direct gazes. It was a challenge even a dimwit would have understood, the bartender later recounted. “I don’t know who you are, mister,” one of the men said, “but we don’t want no trouble with you.” He brought his hands to the sticky tabletop and laid them palm down. The man beside him did the same. McGregor nodded then shifted his full attention to Drake. “Please,” Drake whimpered. He knew there would be no help from the other men in the tavern and the gun he wore high on his hip was mostly for show. In his soul he knew he would never clear leather before the Walker that was strapped low on McGregor’s left hip drilled him. “Where are the other two?” McGregor asked in a voice that was completely devoid of emotion. The fingers of his right hand were flexing at his side, almost casually. “Please,” came the response. It seemed the only thing Drake was capable of saying. The man was trembling from head to toe, his eyes wild as he searched in vain for a way out. Sweat dripped off his beaked nose and sharp chin and the underarms of his faded gray shirt were dark with stains. “Where are the other two?” the brown-haired man repeated. To the two men sitting quietly and expectant at the table off to the stranger’s right, it was a moment they would long remember. Both had served with Longstreet and both

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were experts with the Colts that were strapped to their thighs. Between the two of them, they had killed well over a hundred men since reaching their majority—some in fair fights, some, not so fair—but neither could claim to be as quick as the dark-haired man as he pulled that widow-maker and fired a warning shot just to the left of the other man’s head. “Gawwwwwwww!” Drake screeched as the cedar planking by his cheek exploded, splintering his face. He felt the gush of piss flooding down his legs then heard the guffaws of laughter from the bartender and other two men as he put his hand up to his bleeding cheek, bringing his hand around to stare at the red stain on his fingertips. “I won’t ask you again,” he heard McGregor warn in a low, deadly voice and when he risked a look at the brown-haired man, he was amazed to see the Walker once more in its holster. The two men at the table tensed, knowing what was coming. Neither wanted to be on the receiving end of the closely controlled rage they saw on the stranger’s pale face and they suspected the man who was about to meet his Maker didn’t either. The bartender hadn’t moved from the spot where he had been standing when the gunslinger had entered the tavern. He stood with a whiskey glass in one hand, the bottle in the other, not daring to make a sound or draw attention to himself in any way. Only his eyes moved—from the stranger to the quivering man pressed tightly to the far wall and back again. “If’n I t-tell you where they are,” Drake stuttered, “will you let me l-leave?” The bartender saw the stranger’s head cock slightly to one side then felt his own knees grow weak when the most vicious smile he had ever seen stretched slowly across the brown-haired man’s handsome face. “You’re a dead man either way,” came the soft drawl. “Whether you die easy or hard is your choice.” Every eye in the place flew to Drake. One of the men at the table spoke up. “It ain’t nothing to me, mister, but I’d tell the man what he wants to know.” Sinclair flicked his eyes toward the man speaking for just an instant then back to Drake. The fingers of his right hand closed into a loose fist a couple of times then relaxed. The strain on Drake had become unbearable and he made a low, animal-like whimper a moment before he lost all caution and went for his gun. It was the last mistake Lyle Drake would ever make. A small black hole appeared in the center of his sweaty forehead and he stiffened then slid slowly to the floor to sit with his back to the wall, his eyes open and staring as a small trickle of blood eased down his nose. The men at the table sat back in their chairs, the sound of the Walker slapping back in its holster drawing their attention from the dead man to the stranger. They watched him square his shoulders, turn and walk out of the tavern as calmly as he had walked in.

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***** The Miller County Georgia sheriff shook his head. “Sumofabitch,” he commented. Putting a finger to his Stetson, he pushed the hat back from his forehead and straightened up from his hunkered-down position. “Never stood a chance.” Bud Thompson, the sheriff’s deputy, shrugged. “Gun is outta his holster. He just weren’t fast enough’s all.” “One of the Drake boys, ain’t he?” the sheriff inquired. “From down Bainbridge way?” Bud sniffed. “That’s them,” he answered. “Their pa had a shack by the Flint and their ma worked for Sadie Phelps. White trash is what they all wuz.” “Didn’t I hear his brother was shot about a week ago over near Donalsonville?” the sheriff inquired as he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, snapped it open and then blew his bulbous nose. “Lyle,” Bud agreed. “Got plugged right ‘tween the peepers.” The sheriff stuffed his handkerchief in his back pocket. “Reckon it was the same man what did ‘em both?” He glanced down at the neat little hole in Robert Drake’s chest. “Figure it might be,” Bud replied. “Hear tell the man that got old Lyle asked where the other two was.” A deep frown settled into place on the sheriff’s florid face. “Got him another ‘un on his list then, you think?” “Them Drake boys was guards up to Andersonville,” Bud recollected. He took off his hat, armed the sweat from his brow then slammed the battered hat back on his head. “Could be a Yankee prisoner ‘o war hunting ‘em down. Heard tell they was mighty mean to them fellas.” “T’weren’t no Yankee,” Elmo Bennett snorted. The undertaker leaned against his buckboard. “I seen him myself and he weren’t no Yankee.” The sheriff pursed his lips with annoyance. “How can you tell by lookin’ at a man, Elmo, whether he’s a Yankee boy or not?” “Didn’t say I could,” Elmo replied, turning his head aside to spit a stream of tobacco into the grass. “Then how you know he weren’t?” Elmo cocked one shoulder upward. “He’s a Southerner. I heard him ask Drake where his friend was, but old Drake there was too stupid to answer.” A nasty laugh rumbled out of the fat man’s chest. “Or too damned pissant scared, maybe. That was a mighty big gun that boy had strapped on his thigh and he was lightning quick with it.” Since the undertaker and a few other townspeople in Colquitt had seen the onesided gunfight that had claimed the life of Robert Earl Drake, the sheriff was inclined to let the matter drop. As gunfights went, it had been a fair enough duel with the dead

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man drawing first. He only wished the man responsible for this mess had stayed around long enough for him to ask a few questions to keep it legal-like. “He shot that man, Mr. Buck, and he just walked calm-like over to that big roan and swung up like he didn’t have a care in the world,” Sledge Bailey had reported when he came running to tell the sheriff about the killing. “Didn’t even look back, just rode on away.” “What did this fellow look like?” Sheriff Buck Cole turned and asked one of the witnesses. “You seen him around these parts afore?” “Nah, suh,” one of the darkies answered, shaking his grizzled head. “Ain’t never seen dat man ‘round here ‘fore dis mornin’.” He scratched his stubbled cheek. “He was de meanest-looking white man I ever did see, Mr. Buck. Dem eyes of his’n had the fires of hell in ‘em!” “I agree,” Elmo Bailey put in. “I felt a shiver all the way to my toes when he walked past me. Was like somebody walked over my grave.” Buck Cole looked down at the dead man and wondered what the bastard had done to make a gunslinger come hunting him. Not that it mattered. If there were no kin left to pay for burying the fool, the county would stick him out to Mother’s Home Cemetery and that would be the end of that. He glanced at Elmo. “Take him on down to the icehouse and we’ll be along shortly.” He motioned for the black man to help the undertaker then walked back to where his horse was tied. “We gonna go after him?” Bud asked, falling into step beside the sheriff. Buck let out a disgusted snort. “You wanna go up against a man these here folks said was faster than greased lightning, Bud?” “Nah,” Bud was quick to reply. “It’s just I’d like to see him for myself.” “Well, I sure as hell don’t,” Buck Cole snapped as he pulled himself up in the saddle. “And I hope he don’t find that other fella in my damned county!”

***** Sadie Phelps was the first one to see the handsome stranger when he came through the doors of her whorehouse. Her eyes widened and fell immediately to the gun strapped to his lean thigh. Unless she missed her guess, this was the man who had shot and killed Mona’s boys Lyle and Robbie, and was no doubt searching for the man who was at that moment with one of Sadie’s gals upstairs. As he neared the bar, she couldn’t help but notice the cold, penetrating gleam in his dark eyes and a shiver ran down her spine. She had to swallow before she could speak. “What’ll it be, mister?” “Whiskey,” he ordered. The whore mistress plucked a bottle from under the bar and poured two fingers of her best whiskey for the stranger. “You’re new around here, aren’t you?” she asked, hoping her voice wasn’t as shuddery as it sounded in her own ears. She sat the whiskey before him then noticed the wedding band on his left hand where it rested on the bar

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top. The wide golden ring surprised her and her eyes flew up to his face. She was taken aback by the slow, malicious smile that pulled at his sensual mouth but never reached his eyes as he held her stare. Unconsciously, she licked her lips—an open invitation any man would recognize for what it was, but this one merely grunted and reached out for the whiskey glass. She watched him throw his head back and knock off the whiskey. When he set the glass down, she arched a brow in question. “I’m looking for a man,” the stranger told her. “Aren’t we all?” Sadie quipped, and leaned forward to brace her elbows on the bar, affording him a good look down her bodice. The stranger’s brown eyes shifted to the place Sadie had intended, held for a moment then flicked back to her painted face. “Nice view,” he complimented in a slow drawl, “but not what I’m after tonight.” Sadie let her vision crawl over his handsome face and felt a quickening in the pit of her belly. The man was perhaps the best-looking gent she’d ever seen. From the long curly brown hair showing around the brim of his Stetson to the beard growing in around a lean jaw and strong chin to those brown eyes framed beneath long, thick eyelashes, this stranger was every inch a man. Not even the wicked scar showing through the blackish stubble detracted from his pure male beauty. If anything, the scar heightened his sensuality and made her squirm inside. Wide shoulders and a lean waist, slim hips and flat belly girded with a serviceable gun belt slung low on his left hip, long legs in tight black cords, all set her heart to racing and her mouth to watering. “What’s your name, good-looking?” she asked breathlessly, her scrutiny crawling down his body like she wished her hands were doing. One thick brown brow arched upward. “Sin,” he answered, and reached out a finger to hook it in the bodice of her gown, pulling her closer to him. His lips went to her ear, sending a shudder down her body as he whispered, “As in deadly sin.” Sadie drew in a breath, for his finger was hot as fire against the cleft of her bosom and his lips against her ear were just as fiery before he leaned away from her, but not before that lean finger slid beneath the top of her gown and touched one tight nipple. A low, heartfelt groan came from the whore’s mouth and she drew in a quick breath, feeling his touch all through her body. “W-what do you w-want?” she managed to ask. “His name is Cullen,” the stranger told her. “Timothy Cullen and I heard he comes here quite often.” Sadie’s eyes flew to the stairway, giving away the secret she had wanted to use as leverage to get this handsome man between her sheets. Sinclair McGregor turned his head and looked that way, studied the balcony for a moment then looked back at Sadie. “How ‘bout you doing me a favor, sugar,” he drawled. “Anything,” Sadie breathed.

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He straightened up, reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar gold piece, slapping it down on the bar. “That should cover the whiskey and any mess that may be made before I leave.” Sadie frowned. “What mess?” The stranger ignored her query. Instead, he snagged the whiskey bottle, poured himself another drink and brought it slowly to his lips. He took a sip, licked the moisture from his lips—completely uninterested in the instant sexual tension his action caused in the whore—and turned so that he faced the door, propping himself up on his left elbow. “You go tell Cullen, Sinclair McGregor is waiting down here for him,” he said softly. “Sinclair McGregor,” Sadie repeated, thinking the name beautifully fitting for this man. “You go tell him, now,” Sin said. He took another sip of whiskey. Sadie had never liked Tim Cullen or the Drake boys. When Lyle and Robbie’s mother had been alive, the Drakes had never set foot inside Sadie’s establishment. Well, at least the boys hadn’t, but Lydon Drake, their pa, came every chance he got. Once Mona passed on, her boys started coming in regularly and one day had brought Tim Cullen, their sister Gail’s new husband, with them. Now, every time Cullen showed up, at least one of Sadie’s girls wouldn’t be able to work for an entire week after he’d gotten through beating on her. Eager to rid herself of a dangerous nuisance—and she had no doubts the dark-haired stranger could take Cullen—Sadie readily agreed and hurried to the stairs. Sinclair’s eyes followed the whore up the stairs and to one of the doors. When he heard the loud roar of an angry man demanding to know who the hell was interrupting his playtime, a slow, sinister grin settled on Sin’s mouth and he drained his whiskey and put the glass aside. Cullen wasn’t pleased when the urgent knock came at his door. He had just awakened and reached for Harriet and the knock had interrupted his rutting. “What the hell do you want?” he bellowed. “There’s a man down here looking for you, Tim,” Sadie called through the door. “What man?” Cullen snorted. “Said to tell you he was Sinclair McGregor,” Sadie replied, her hand on the panel. Cullen froze where he sat. He’d been down in Florida for over two months, helping an old friend rob a few stores down near St. Augustine. He’d been back in Decatur County only a couple of hours and hadn’t had a chance to go down to the Flint to see Lyle and Robbie—he’d been too urgently in need of a woman and a bottle. Now, he wished he’d made the time to go.

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“What you want me to tell him?” Sadie inquired, glancing over the balcony to the man at the bar. She was surprised to see the place had cleared of customers and she wondered if the tall stranger had advised the others to leave. “You can tell him to go to hell!” Cullen snapped, flinging aside the covers and reaching for his gun belt. He was about to strap it around himself over his long johns when Harriet reached out to snag his arm. “What?” he hissed, yanking free of her hold. “If that’s the same man what killed Lyle and Robbie, you don’t stand a chance against him, Timmy,” Harriet warned. “He’s fast as they come.” Cullen’s head snapped toward her, shock dropping his mouth open. “The Drakes are dead?” he gasped. “Shot deader than doornails a few weeks back,” Harriet informed him. Tim Cullen looked down at the gun belt he’d slung around himself then dropped it as though it were a hot rock. He’d never been all that good with the damned thing and he was fairly sure a man of McGregor’s breeding would be a deadly shot. But there was more than one way to kill a man, he thought, and he knew he’d have to kill McGregor if he were to ever know any peace. And he wanted to finish the job he’d started a few months back—laying the uppity captain in his grave! Reaching for his britches, Cullen stepped into them and plopped down on the bed to pull on his boots. When he was finished, he stood up, slung his arms through the straps of his suspenders. “Cullen?” Sadie called through the door. She cast a quick look downstairs and saw the dark-haired man gazing up at her with cool detachment. “Whatcha gonna do? Stay in there all night?” She stopped as the door was jerked open. “What I’m gonna do?” Cullen sneered, threading his fingers together and cracking them. “I’m gonna beat that little shit to death is what I’m gonna do!” He flung out an arm and knocked Sadie back against the wall as he strode past her and headed for the stairs. Harriet came out of her room wrapped in a sheet and barely noticed Sadie joining her and a few other girls and one of their customers at the balcony rail. Sadie reached out for the rail and gripped it, wondering if the stranger could possibly have enough stamina to outlast a man like Cullen in a fair fight. She figured he’d be as good as they came with that gun hanging on his hip—and maybe even with a knife—but he wasn’t as bulky as Cullen nor as tall. She pulled her lower lip between her teeth and hoped she hadn’t misread the danger Sinclair McGregor posed. “I ain’t gonna gunfight you, McGregor,” everyone heard Cullen shout as he came off the stairs. “I ain’t armed.” He plowed across the room, stopping about ten feet from McGregor. His big fists were clenching and unclenching at his side and there was a haughty sneer on his beefy face.

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Sadie watched the stranger’s eyes and would later swear she saw amusement flare in those cognac depths although she was too far away to have even made out the man’s eye color. But her own eyes widened as she saw him reach down to unbuckle his gun belt. What happened next would be talked about at Sadie’s for years to come. Cullen— infuriated that a man who should by rights be dead from the beating he and the Drakes had given him—leapt forward and onto the stranger before the younger, smaller man had finished removing his gun belt. Taken off guard, the stranger fell backward against the bar and a look of pain flashed monetarily across his face as his back collided with the edge of the bar. His head snapping to the side as Cullen’s meaty fist drove into his jaw, the younger man was half-twisted over the bar with the blow. Cullen laughed—a high, keening sound of glee and he snagged his hands into the fabric of the stranger’s cambric shirt, intending to drag the younger man forward and headbutt him, but the stranger’s knee came up and drove brutally into Cullen’s privates, crumbling the bigger man, who let go of McGregor’s shirt to grab his battered body. “I’ll gut you for that!” Cullen gasped as he pushed painfully from the floor and stumbled back, out of the way of the fist that managed to catch him on the tip of his chin anyway. A yelp of surprise as Cullen collided with a table and fell over it made the watchers on the balcony laugh. It was the laughter that drove Cullen wild. The burly man heaved himself upright, panting with the effort, and stood there glaring at Sinclair, daring him to come closer. “Come on, you little bastard!” Cullen taunted, crooking the fingers of his left hand toward McGregor. “You try that stunt again and I’ll geld you!” Sinclair shifted his gaze from Cullen’s enraged face to the knife the man now held clutched in his right hand. He put a hand up to the trickle of blood coming from his nose and wiped it away on his sleeve. One lucky sucker punch, he thought in the back of his mind, was all he was going to allow Cullen. From that moment forward, he had every intention of turning the sadistic bastard inside out. But the knife posed a real threat and he cursed his luck for not having hidden his own weapon in his boot as Cullen had no doubt done. “What’s the matter, Captain?” Cullen sneered. “Afraid of this here little pigsticker?” He made a swipe toward Sinclair, who jumped back away from the flashing blade. Sadie hiked up her dress and lifted her leg, bracing her foot on the balcony rail. Withdrawing the weapon she always carried from her red leather boot, she flipped the knife over in her palm until the blade rested in her palm then threw it over the balcony. “Sin!” she called. “Here!” The knife landed on point right in the center of one of the gaming tables and Sinclair cast a quick look that way, saw Cullen’s eye flare with rage and knew if the man could reach the knife before he did, there might a far different end to the fight than what Sinclair had planned.

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“What’d you do that for?” Harriet complained. Cullen rushed forward, intending to snatch the blade out of McGregor’s reach, but the younger man threw himself at the table, leaping across the distance and sliding over the top of the table on his belly, sending the green felt-topped table crashing to the floor. He slid a foot or two, before coming to his knees on the far side and spinning around to face Cullen’s advance. But the knife was in Sinclair’s grip, blade down as one of the men in his regiment—a half-breed Cherokee from Early County—had taught him to use it. The sight brought Cullen up sharp as McGregor came to his feet. The bigger man spared a glance to the professional way the blade was being held and thought twice about trying to gut McGregor. Obviously the man knew how to fight with a knife as well as he did a gun. “Let’s do this man to man,” Cullen grated, tossing his knife aside. He brought his fists up, never having been defeated by an opponent in a fistfight in all of his forty-nine years. He knew he could take McGregor and just the thought of destroying the younger man’s pretty face sent an itch through Cullen’s manhood. “Any way you want it,” Sinclair agreed, and laid his knife on the bar. On the balcony, Sadie watched with worried eyes as the two men closed in on one another. She wasn’t so sure Sin could take Cullen, but after the first half dozen blows landed and she began to see fear in Cullen’s pale eyes, she began to think things would turn out as she wanted them to. The fight was vicious, as brutal as any the male customers at Sadie’s had ever witnessed. It seemed as though a demon were housed inside the body of the younger man and was being unleashed to destroy Tim Cullen. Blood sprayed the tables, the walls, the floor as both men took hits that should have laid them both out cold, but the brutality that had turned the younger man’s face to a hard, savage mask was echoed in the punches he drove mercilessly into Cullen’s broad body. With his bloody lips drawn back over his teeth, the stranger pummeled Cullen to his knees then to his back. He savagely backhanded him, breaking the older man’s nose. Even before Cullen could regain his equilibrium, the younger man was straddling him, holding Cullen’s shirt in his left hand as he repeatedly shot his fist forward to reign ruinous blows into the older man’s face. The crunch of bone against flesh was loud and telling, and the battering Cullen got broke his jaw and shattered one cheekbone before unconsciousness swooped up to drag the man into oblivion. Sadie knew Sin was going to kill the man unless he was stopped and she was not inclined to want Cullen to live. How many times had he beaten one of her girls to a bloody pulp and ridden off laughing about it? With the exception of Harriet, who seemed to like such treatment, there wasn’t a woman there who wasn’t silently cheering the stranger on.

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“Somebody stop him!” Harriet cried out. She shrugged out of the sheet and ran for the stairs, jerking away from Janet’s outstretched hand as that girl tried to keep her from going downstairs. Everyone knew they were watching a man being beaten to death, but no one dared interfere. The girls—in various stages of undress—clutched at their male customers and the customers just stood there, glad they hadn’t done anything to warrant the stranger’s animosity. Maybe it was the shriek of outrage that made Sinclair turn as the naked woman flung herself at him. It might well have been another woman’s shout of warning from above him. Or it could even have been the little angel that had been sitting on Sinclair McGregor’s shoulder since the day he was shot during the war. Whatever it was that made him turn and twist to the side, saved his life as the whore drove a knife into his side as she slammed against him. “You son of a bitch!” Harriet screeched, and tried to twist the knife in the stranger’s side, but he cuffed her on the side of the head, sending her sprawling. She tried to get up, but one bloody fist rammed forward, catching her on the point of her chin, and she went out like a light. Sadie was down the stairs in a flash, hurrying toward Sinclair. He was pushing up from the floor, slipping in the blood that was already pooling beneath him. The side of his shirt was soaked red and he was pressing a hand to the wound to staunch the flow. “Get Doc Hinton” she yelled to one of the customers and the man went careening out into the night. Sinclair managed to get to his knees while gasping for breath for the pain in his right side was unbearable. He had no idea how much damage the woman had done, but he knew he was losing blood rapidly. The last thing he remembered was another woman’s face above him, her eyes filled with fear. He reached his free hand toward her. “Ivonne…” he whispered, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

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Chapter Twenty-Two Sheriff Ellis Boyett glanced at his lifelong friend, Buck Cole, and frowned. “Ain’t got anything to charge this here gent with, Buck. How ‘bout you?” The sheriff of neighboring Miller County returned the look. “Nope, but I’m mighty glad you sent Lavon up to let me know you found the man what caused such a commotion on my town square. No doubt Odell will want to know too,” he replied, referring to the sheriff of Seminole County where Lyle Drake had been killed. “This young fella sure caused havoc around these here parts.” He squinted at the unconscious man lying on Doc Hinton’s surgery table. “What’d you say his name was again?” Ellis scratched at his near-bald pate. “McGregor. Sinclair McGregor. Leastwise, that’s what Sadie said he told her his name was when he called Cullen out.” Cole’s deputy, Bud Thompson, looked up from his contemplation of the knife wound old Doc Hinton was stitching closed. “What’s that?” he inquired. “Did you say Sinclair McGregor?” “That’s what he told Sadie,” Ellis replied. “Why?” Buck queried. “That name sound familiar to you, Bud? He on a wanted poster I ain’t looked at yet?” Bud shook his head. “Nah, Buck, but my brother mentioned something about a man with that name.” He looked up expectantly. “Want me to go get Elijah and have him come down here?” “Might not hurt,” Buck replied, “if’n Lij knows somethin’ that might be important.” “I’ll go get him now!” Bud responded, and hurried from the room. “He gonna be all right, Doc?” Ellis asked for the third time. He didn’t want the man dying before he got a chance to question him about why he’d been after the Drakes and Cullen. “He certainly will if I’ve got anything to say about it,” Doc Hinton quipped. He tied off his stitches and cut the thread. “Why don’t you gentlemen go get some coffee. I’ll call you when he wakes up.” He poked a finger at the old button wound on his patient’s chest and marveled the man was still around and kicking. “I could use me something to eat,” Ellis remarked. “Marilynn baked a pecan cake yesterday. Let’s go get us a couple slices.” He motioned for Buck and the two men left, reminiscing about their last quail hunt together. Sadie Phelps was watching from the corner of Doc Hinton’s office and heaved a sigh of relief when she saw the two lawmen striding briskly toward the sheriff’s house. As soon as Boyett and Cole were inside Boyett’s house, she slipped quickly up the stairs

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to Doc Hinton’s and knocked quietly at the door. When the physician opened it, she scooted past him like a scalded cat. “What the tarnation you want, Sadie June?” Doc snapped. He was drying his hand on a towel and aching to lay down while his patient was still unconscious. “How is he?” Sadie asked, craning her neck into the surgery. “Is he gonna make it?” Doc snorted. “Sure, he’s gonna make it. I’m his physician, ain’t I?” Sadie wrapped her shawl closer around her satin gown and sidled closer to the door. “Can I go sit with him?” she asked, turning to look back at Doc with hopeful, little-girl expectancy. “Don’t you go bothering him,” Doc commanded. “If you want to sit in there, I reckon it’ll be all right. Just don’t go pestering the man, you hear?” “I hear,” Sadie grumbled. She went into the surgery and walked over to where Sinclair lay. For a moment she stood there, staring down at his sweat-glistened face, then reached out to push a lock of hair away from his eyes. A gentle smile slipped into place over the harlot’s hard mouth and she bent forward to place a soft kiss on the sleeping man’s lips. Sinclair stirred, groaning as his eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t wake. His flesh was hot to the touch and clammy, and Sadie looked around for a rag to wipe the sweat away. When she found one, she wet it, wrung it out and went back to blot it over his forehead, down his cheeks and under his chin. Once more he groaned and his eyes came slowly open. He seemed to be having trouble focusing as he sought her identity for it was a face she knew he was having difficulty placing. “My name is Sadie,” she told him, pulling a chair up to the bed. “You’re in Bainbridge. Do you remember what happened?” Sinclair tried to lift a hand to his aching head but he gasped, feeling the pain in his right side. Instead, his hand shifted toward the wound, but Sadie reached out to stop him before he could, gently taking his hand in hers. “Uh-huh, sugar. You don’t need to be touching that,” she cautioned. “You got stabbed at my place, but the woman what done it is in jail and is gonna be there a while, I reckon.” Sinclair’s eyes narrowed with confusion then seemed to clear. “Cullen,” he said on a long breath. “You was fighting with him,” Sadie acknowledged. “Harriet? She was the woman what tried to do you in? Well, she’s his woman, you see. Don’t excuse what she tried to do, though.” “Is he dead?” Sinclair swallowed hard, for every breath he took was a burning fire in his right side. “Is he dead?” he asked, struggling to stay awake. “Did I kill the son of a bitch?” Sadie bit her lip. “Nah, sugar. He…” She looked around as the two sheriffs and the Thompson boys came into the room. She sprang up from the chair as though propelled.

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“Whatcha doin’ here, Sadie?” Ellis grated. “Get yoself on home, woman, and leave that man alone.” Sadie slipped quickly around the men, casting Bud a saucy look as she did. “You know her?” Elijah asked his younger brother. Bud grinned. “Hell, Lij. Every man in five counties knows old Sadie!” “And been with her too, no doubt,” Elijah snapped. “You stay away from that highslippers, you hear me?” “Ah, Lij,” Bud complained, sidestepping the smack on the back of his head his older brother tried to deliver. “You two discuss your Christian morals at another time,” Ellis Boyett snorted. “Come on over here, Lij, and see if’n you know this gent.” Elijah Thompson cast his brother a meaningful look then went over to the bed. He looked down at the man lying there, blinked, then smiled into the dark amber eyes looking back at him. “Well, how ya doin’, Cap’n?” Lij asked. “Cap’n?” Buck Cole repeated. “You do know him, then?” “Sure, I know him!” Elijah said proudly. “He and me was up at Camp Douglas together!” He looked at Sheriff Cole. “What you got here is a genuine war hero!” Sinclair thought the man hovering over him looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him. His vision was blurring and he was feeling hotter than a forest fire inside his body so he just closed his eyes and went back to sleep. “I see he married his Miss Ivonne,” Elijah remarked, pointing to the wedding band on Sinclair’s left hand. “That’s all he talked about when we was rottin’ in that hellpit up North—getting home and marryin’ his Miss Ivonne.” “Ivonne,” Doc Hinton repeated as he came into the surgery. With all the noise, he’d given up trying to get any shuteye. “He kept calling that name when you first brought him to me.” “Do you happen to know where this fellow hails from, then, Lij?” Ellis asked. “Reckon we ought to let his woman know he’s been hurt.” Elijah took off his cap and scratched his head, thinking. “I don’t rightly recall, Sheriff.” He thought a moment then shook his head. “No, sir. I just don’t rightly recall where he said he was from. He’s a Georgia boy, though.” “Well, we’ll just have to wait ‘til he’s able to tell us, I guess,” Ellis sighed. He hated lose ends and there were two that were unraveled where this man was concerned. “When he wakes up, I’ll send for one of you,” Doc Hinton mumbled. “Until then, leave a body to get some rest, will you?” He motioned the men from the room, shushing Bud and Elijah who had started arguing about Sadie again. Closing the door behind them, he caught a flash of crimson skirt out of the corner of his eye and sighed. Sadie was hiding behind a dressing screen at the far end of the room and no doubt didn’t want to be seen. She would wait until everyone was gone before coming out to pester him again. As soon as he’d locked the door behind the four men, he turned. 202

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“All right, come on out, Sadie,” he grated. “If you’re determined to stay with that boy, then go do it. I’m getting me some sleep before old lady Wixenstead shows up on my doorstep come morning to complain about her Arthur Itus!” Without bothering to say another word, the old physician went into his bedroom and slammed the door. Sadie hurried from behind the screen and went to Sinclair’s bedside. She ran a hand over his forehead, frowning at the heat there, then pulled up a chair to sit by him. She took his hand in hers and sat there, crooning softly to him as he slept.

***** Just before dawn broke, Sinclair woke, feeling about as bad as he ever had in his life. His side throbbed unmercifully and felt hot and sticky. When he tried to move his left hand, he couldn’t and turned to see why. “Good morning,” Sadie said. “How you feeling?” “Hot,” he managed to say, and tried to swallow only to find his mouth devoid of spittle. “You want some water?” At his nod, Sadie got up and poured him a glass, brought it back then lifted his head to help him drink. “Thanks,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “Whatever you want, it’s yours, baby,” Sadie replied. She wiped his face again and would have started on his chest above the bandage, but he caught her wrist to stay her. “Cullen,” he said hoarsely. “What about Cullen?” Sadie knew she shouldn’t tell him. The man was in no condition to do anything about it anyway. When she hesitated, his grip on her wrist tightened. “Cullen,” he insisted, his eyes feverish. “Like I said, you didn’t kill him,” she told him. A wide grin pulled across her painted lips. “‘Though you did your damnedest to.” “Where is he?” Sinclair demanded. Despite his condition, his grip was hard and unrelenting and becoming painful. Sadie pried at his fingers, wincing. “Honey, you ain’t able to go after him. If’n you got kin, I would—” “Where is he?” Sinclair repeated, cutting her off, ignoring her whimper of pain as his fingers ground the bones in her wrist together. “He went to Savannah,” Sadie gasped, managing to twist her hand out of his grip. She held the injured wrist with her free hand, rubbing at the pain. “He said there was gonna be an eye for an eye done ’cause of what you did to the Drake boys.” The images of Leland, Conor and Brendan flashed quickly across Sinclair’s mind and he knew those men didn’t stand a chance against a mad dog like Cullen. They wouldn’t even know he was coming and wouldn’t know whom to look for if they did. “Help me up,” he said, flinging the covers aside.

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“No, sir!” Sadie stated, her face set. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere. You climb up on a horse and you’ll pull them stitches loose.” “Help me up!” he snarled, grabbing her arm and pulling himself from the bed. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his side, he held on to her until the dizziness passed then told her to find his shirt. “You are gonna bleed to death!” Sadie accused, but she recognized a hardheaded man when she saw one. It would do no good to argue with him. “Give me my damned shirt, woman!” Sinclair hissed. “I don’t know where it is!” she snapped back at him, then jerked away from his hold. “Give me a chance and I’ll go get you one from my place.” If he were determined to try to make it to Savannah, she’d go along to make sure he didn’t die in the trying. “I’ll get your horse from the livery too.” She pointed a finger at him. “You stay here until I get back, you hear?” He searched her eyes, saw her willingness to help and decided not to argue with her. He simply nodded, knowing he didn’t have much choice in the matter. There would be no way he could saddle his horse by himself, anyway. Hell, he thought with dismay, he might not even be able to swing up into the damned saddle in the condition he was in. Doc Hinton slept peacefully on until the clock struck seven that morning and the loud, impatient knock of Louvina Wixenstead jostled him from his slumber. Cursing the aged crone who had a penchant for laudanum and a tongue clove in twain like most mean old serpents, he staggered to the door to let her in for a morning teaspoon of pain relief. “What took you so long, old man?” Louvina grumbled as she pushed rudely past him. “And what’s this about a stabbing taking place down to that whorehouse last night?” She bustled past the sleep-eyed surgeon and strode to the surgery, sticking her head inside. “And where is your patient? Did he die? Will he be buried here in Bainbridge? What’s his name, anyway? Does he have kin around here? How’d he know those evil Drake men?” Doc Hinton ground his teeth, ignoring the prattle as he poured Louvenia her daily medicine. When he walked over to the surgery to tell her to leave his patient alone, he was surprised to find the room empty.

***** Matildie O’Brien shielded the sun from her eyes, trying to pick out who her visitors were. She didn’t recognize the woman sitting on the little gray mare and she couldn’t see the face of the man who was with her for he was bent over in the saddle. A concerned frown replaced the look of inquiry on Matildie’s face when the man

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suddenly slid sideways and fell from his mount. “Lord!” Matildie cried out then turned toward the house. “Nell! You and Vonda come help me!” She started toward the strangers. Sadie threw herself off her mare and raced to Sinclair. She knew he’d been getting worse the last two miles and had begged him to stop, but the ornery cuss wouldn’t listen. Now, here he was sprawled on the ground flat on his back with a crimson stain blossoming on the side of his shirt. “Damned fool man!” Sadie snapped, kneeling down beside him. “Now look what you done went and done, Sin!” “Is he hurt?” Sadie barely glanced at the old woman who had come to join them. “Well, he ain’t laying down here just for the hell of it!” she snapped, lifting Sinclair’s head and putting it in her lap. “You got a mister ’round here to help us get him up to the house?” “He’s a’bleedin’,” the old woman said in a matter-of-fact tone as she squatted down on the other side of Sinclair. “What happened to him?” “A damned mean woman stabbed him is what,” Sadie growled. She looked up in the woman’s heavily lined face. “You got a man here or not?” Matildie shook her head. “No man.” She peered closely at Sadie, recognizing the woman for what she was. “The law after you, gal?” she asked. “No,” Sadie grunted. “The woman what done this to him is behind bars back in Bainbridge. We wuz on our way to Thomasville to catch the train and his stitches done went and popped open.” Her shoulders sagged. “How the hell we gonna get him up to your house?” Matildie looked at the young man and her heart softened. He looked a lot like her Jamie who had been killed at Stone Mountain. The girl with him might be a fallen woman, but that shouldn’t be held against the lad. She made up her mind. “Well, I reckon a’tween us I think we can get him put to bed and get them stitches closed up again.” Sadie stared at the slight woman. “Oh, you do, do you?” she spat. “I reckon he’s about one hundred and sixty pounds. How we gonna carry him? You can’t weigh more’n sixty pounds soaking wet!” Matildie smiled slightly. “There’s three of us and one of you. I think the four of us can carry him,” Matildie replied dryly. She stood up, turned to watch the women she’d called as they came toward her. Two black women were running ahead of a white woman who was walking at a brisk pace toward the new arrivals. One of the black women looked as big as a lumberjack with beefy arms that cast off an ebony glow in the sunlight. “What’s happened, Miz Tildie?” the large woman inquired. “Man’s hurt and we need to get him inside,” Matildie responded. “You girls take his arms and me and this one will take his legs.”

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“You’ll do no such thing, Aunt Tildie!” the white woman snorted as she finally reached them. She hadn’t looked at the man on the ground, her astonished gaze was on the painted harlot. “We have a Christian duty to help those in need, missy,” Matildie reminded her niece. “But Aunt Tildie, look at her!” Sadie felt the steady stare and looked up at the woman glaring at her. Upon seeing the condemnation on the other woman’s face, Sadie’s hackles rose. “Ain’t nobody ever told you it’s rude to stare at a person?” she challenged. “Don’t pay no never mind to my niece. She’s been outta sorts ever since she arrived.” Matildie declared, switching her stern visage to her niece but that woman’s attention had gone to the man on the ground. “Sweet Mother of God!” Matildie heard her niece whisper. “What’s the matter with you, girl?” Matildie asked, reaching out to steady her niece, for the woman looked as though she would faint. “Y’all move and let me pick this boy up ’fore he bleeds to death out here!” Vonda Dempsey barked. The big black woman bent over and scooped Sinclair up as though he weighed no more than a child and swung him around and—mindless of the seepage of blood that began to mushroom on her clean white apron—started toward the house with him. Matildie’s niece was glad for the support of her great aunt’s hand. If it hadn’t been, she would have keeled over for sure. She was staring at the blood soaking into the red clay and feeling sick to her stomach. “Are you all right?” Matildie asked. “What is he doing here?” Sadie heard the woman whisper. A suspicion began to form in Matildie’s mind and her aged eyes went from her niece’s white face to the man being carried into her house. “Is that him?” she asked. Sadie saw the woman nod at the old lady’s question. “You know Sin?” she asked, not liking this sudden turn of events. “I know him,” the woman said quietly, and eased away from her aunt’s grip. She squared her shoulders and headed for the house. Matildie turned to Sadie and gave her a penetrating look. “What are you to that boy?” she asked, her eyes hostile as they dropped from Sadie’s bright red hair to the red leather boots on her feet. Sadie’s chin came up. “A friend,” she said. “A friend,” Matildie echoed in a flat, emotionless voice. “We ain’t sleepin’ together if that’s what you want to know!” Sadie mumbled, although she wouldn’t mind it one little bit. “I was trying to help him get back to his wife in Savannah.”

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Matildie stared at her for a long moment then nodded crisply. “That’s good, ’cause I don’t think my niece would like it if ‘n you was a’sleepin’ with him!” Sadie’s mouth dropped open. “That’s his wife?” she asked incredulously. “That’s Ivonne?” Matildie stopped, turned and looked at the harlot as though she’d taken leave of her senses. “Ivonne Delacroix is dead!” she snapped. “My neice is named Leonie.” She turned and started away again. Confusion puckered Sadie’s painted face and she ran to catch up with the old woman who was moving faster than a woman that age should be able to. “Then what is Sin to your niece?” she called out. Matildie never broke her stride. “You never mind what he is to her!” Sadie half expected not to be allowed to enter the house where they’d taken Sinclair, but no one seemed to notice her presence as they went about taking care of him. She stood in the corner of the bedroom as the two black women undressed him and cut away the bloody bandage that covered his side. “Miss Leonie ought not to be in here, Miz Matildie,” Vonda complained, exchanging a look with Nell. “Ain’t proper.” “There’s nothing there she ain’t seen afore,” Matildie remarked as she darted a look to Leonie’s strained face. “Here you!” she said to Sadie, shoving a basin at her. “Make yourself useful and go heat me some water so I can stitch this boy up!” Sadie’s lower lip thrust out in a pout but she scurried away, casting a quick look at the chubby woman who was standing at the foot of Sinclair’s bed. “He was trying to get to Savannah to warn his family,” she said. Leonie turned to her. “Warn them about what?” “A man named Tim Cullen,” Sadie replied then headed in the direction she thought the kitchen might be. Leonie followed her. “What about this man?” she demanded. “Sin nearly beat him to death,” Sadie replied. “Would’ve if’n one of my gals hadn’t taken a knife to him.” A flash of anger went over Leonie’s wide face. “What the hell was he doing in a whorehouse anyway?” Sadie grinned hatefully at her. “Whatcha think he was doing there, dearie?” She let her gaze roam insultingly down Leonie. “’Course, you wouldn’t know about a man like Sin and the kind of itches he sometimes gets, now, would ya?” When all the other woman did was narrowed her eyes, Sadie grew bold and her grin became vicious. “I gave him more pleasure in my bed than any woman ever has!” The slap that rocked Sadie’s head split her lip as well. The force of it knocked her against the sink, making her grunt with the pain of it. With a shriek of pure fury she spun around—fingers curled into claws—and would have gone after Leonie’s face if Matildie hadn’t stepped in the way, shoving her back against the kitchen door.

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“I know better than that!” Leonie screamed as loud as she could. “Sinclair would never touch a disease-riddled hag like you!” Sadie straightened up, wiping her torn lip on the sleeve of her gown. “And he’d touch a fat cow like you?” “Damned right!” Leonie spat, trying to step around her aunt who splayed a hand over Leonie’s chest to keep her from attacking the harlot. “That’s enough,” Matildie warned, her eyes boring into Leonie’s. “Don’t make me laugh!” Sadie threw at Leonie. “If’n you pleasured him, it would have been on your knees!” “That’s enough!” Matildie yelled, her face infused with scarlet. “She wants me to think there’s something a’tween her and Sin,” Sadie scoffed. “There is something between us!” Leonie flung at her. “I’m carrying his child!”

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Chapter Twenty-Three Sadie was unnaturally quiet as she accepted the money from the old woman. Her painted lips were tight as each coin was laid in her palm and for once being paid good money for her services didn’t have the appeal it normally did. “That should cover any expenses and inconveniences you may have suffered in bringing Mr. McGregor to us,” Matildie grated as she laid the last gold piece in the harlot’s outstretched palm. “I didn’t bring him here,” Sadie snapped, wishing with all her heart she hadn’t seen the smoke coming from the chimney of this particular house and led Sin’s horse this way. “If you leave now, you should get back to Bainbridge before sundown,” the old woman commented. Sadie glanced through the door of the bedroom where Sinclair lay and frowned deeply. “I don’t know that I ought not to stay.” “You will leave!” Matildie said firmly, putting a reluctant hand on the whore’s shoulder and turning her toward the front door. “You have done your Christian charity and we certainly appreciate it.” She ushered the woman to the door, opened it and gave her no chance to protest as she pressed her out onto the porch. “I am sure Mr. McGregor appreciates it as well, but we will take care of him from here forward.” “What if he don’t want you to care for him?” Sadie protested, knowing it was going to do her no good and any chance she might have of ever getting the good-looking man into her bed was rapidly vanishing. Matildie drew herself up. “You have been told of the relationship between my niece and Mr. McGregor, young woman. That is all the explanation you either need or will receive from us. Good day!” Sadie stood there as the door was shut in her face. A part of her—the part that had been raised a decent, good girl from a hardworking, decent family—took umbrage at being summarily “shown the door”. But the part of her that made her living on her back, at the beck and call of any man with the money to buy her time for the evening, understood well how these people felt toward her. She opened her palm, looked down at the gold nestled there then shrugged. With a long sigh of frustration, she walked off the porch and to her tethered mount. “It’s not like I stood a snowball’s chance of ever having him as my own, anyway,” she mumbled to herself as she pulled onto the saddle. After one last longing look at the house, she swung the horse around and put heels to the mare’s flanks. The sooner she got back to Bainbridge the better.

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From her place at the bedroom window, Leonie watched the harlot leave. She too heaved a heavy sigh, but it was one of relief that she and her great aunt were able to get rid of the slut as easily as they had. Letting the curtain fall back into place, she turned and went over to Sinclair’s bed and sat down beside him. Putting a hand on his forehead, she frowned deeply. He was burning up with fever, restless, mumbling incoherently from time to time as the slight infection in his side sent poisons through his body. He had yet to wake fully, but that was just as well. He needed rest and she aimed to see he got it. “We need to send word to his family,” her aunt said from the door, “if that Cullen person is heading there to do harm to his cousins.” Leonie looked around. “If I telegraph Willow Glen, his grandmother will find out and send men to come get him.” She turned back to Sinclair. “That is not what he would want.” Matildie came into the room. “You know him that well, do you?” She cast her gaze over the young man and wondered just how much he knew about his grandmother. “I know he would never have married that Hardy woman if his grandmother hadn’t made him do it,” Leonie grated. “He can’t be much of a man if he lets his grandmother dictate his life, missy,” came the accusation. Leonie dug her nails into her palms. “With Ivonne in jail for murdering her husband, Miss Grace Vivienne would have had leverage to use against him, Aunt Tildie. He would have thought he was saving her from the gallows.” Her face softened. “Little did he know how Ivonne would take his marriage to that Cajun trollop.” She reached out to lay a hand on Sinclair’s scarred cheek. “How he must have suffered when he found out she had hanged herself.” Matildie sat down in the rocking chair beside the bed. “Such evil there has been in that family,” she commented, and when Leonie glanced at her in surprise, she waved a hand. “Oh, I know all about the McGregors and the Brells and the Delacroix, child. You forget I was born and raised in Savannah. I used to baby-sit Maeve McGregor.” She cocked her head toward Sinclair. “He has her dark eyes, I see, though his father’s looks now that I think on it.” “Sinclair’s mother?” Leonie questioned. “I thought her name was Felicity.” Her aunt nodded. “Her father insisted she be named after his mother Felicity, but Grace Vivienne always called her Maeve because she hated her mother-in-law.” She laid her head along the rocker’s back. “But I notice on Maeve’s tombstone it reads Felicity.” A knowing look came over the old woman’s face. “I guess that’s because after her daughter died, Gracie disowned her.” “I never understood that,” Leonie remarked. “Not many people did,” Matildie responded. “Few people know the story of what happened to Devon and Maeve that day.” She closed her eyes. “Or what caused it.” 210

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“Well, I know he wouldn’t want me to telegraph either his grandmother or that tramp of a wife of his,” Leonie sighed. “But I do need to get word to Lee.” The old woman opened her eyes. “Is there a mutual friend you can contact who would deliver the message?” Leonie snorted. “No one I’d trust except…” She stopped, her gaze troubled. “Yes?” A dull red flush spread over her niece’s cheeks. “There’s a…ah…person I could send a message to and she could…ah…tell Leland.” Matildie studied the blush staining her niece’s chubby cheek and decided not to delve further into the identity of this person. “Well, then I would certainly have Nell hitch up the buckboard and take you into Thomasville to the telegraph office.” Leonie ducked her head. “She isn’t a lady.” Her aunt held up a hand. “I don’t care what she is or how you have come to make her acquaintance. Just go take care of the matter and be careful. This is not a good time for you to be out and about.”

***** Samuel Biggins was reed-thin with bulging eyes behind thick spectacles that made the large orbs appear even bigger. He walked with a hitching little jerk—lanky arms swinging, head bobbing and long legs pumping—so the townsfolk had nicknamed him The Praying Mantis. As the town’s telegraph operator, he enjoyed a certain amount of respectability, but people still giggled and pointed at him when he walked past. With his long leather apron slapping at his knobby knees and his arms moving like pistons as he walked, he was quite the sight as he hurried to Evangeline McGregor’s buggy, waylaying her as she was about to helped aboard by her driver. “Miz McGregor!” Biggins called out, waving a telegram in his hands as though it were a flag. “Miz McGregor, hold up!” Evangeline turned, arching one delicate brow at the ugly little man and waited impatiently for him to join her. “Yes?” she inquired haughtily. “I have a telegram for you,” Biggins announced as he reached her in a breathless rush. He extended the paper. “Came just a few minutes ago.” A crease formed along Evangeline’s smooth brow and she searched the man’s bulbous eyes. “Is it bad news, Mr. Biggins?” she asked, aware of the sudden increase in her heart rate. “I don’t believe so, but one never knows, does one?” Biggins inquired, thrusting the paper toward her again. Carefully, Evangeline reached out to take the telegram, steeling herself for news that could conceivably ruin her life. With trepidation, she looked down at Biggins’ precise handwriting. Her brows drew together in confusion. She looked up at the lanky man. 211

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“This missive is addressed to someone named Dorrie Burkhart,” Evangeline protested, handing the paper back to Biggins as though it were contaminated. “I believe you’ve made a mistake.” Biggins shook his head. “No, ma’am,” he stated. “I think the mistake was made at the other end.” He pushed the telegram toward her. “It was sent by Miss Leonie Emerson, the lady who use to—” “I know who she is, Mr. Biggins,” Evangeline snapped, wondering why in the world a woman like Leonie would possibly be sending a telegraph to the town’s most notorious madam, but not caring enough to read the note. “Well, she must have thought it was Dorrie…ah, Miss Burkhart who married Mr. McGregor, not you,” Biggins said. “Though I can’t imagine anyone mistaking a lady like you with someone of Dor…ah, Miss Burkhart’s status.” “What has this to do with me?” Evangeline hissed, her eyes flaming. Did the Emerson woman equate her with the likes of the Burkhart whore? Biggins backed away from the look in the blonde woman’s eyes. “Well, since the telegram is about Mr. McGregor, I thought you ought to know about it.” Evangeline snatched the telegram away from the stick of a man and read it, drawing in her breath at the message. Dorrie: Sinclair gravely wounded. Stop. Man responsible is on his way to Savannah. Stop. Leland needs to be warned. Stop. Man’s name is Tim Cullen. Stop. Have Leland contact me immediately in care of Matildie O’Brien, Thomasville. Stop. Leonie. A hard shudder ran through Evangeline. Gravely wounded? Her Sinclair? “Are you all right, Miz McGregor?” Biggins inquired, jerking a hand toward the woman but too afraid to touch her so that his hand only moved back and forth between them like a darting fish. Evangeline didn’t bother to answer. “Help me up,” she ordered Biggins, and ground her teeth against the man’s sudden blazing fear. She shoved him aside and climbed into the wagon herself, not bothering to wait for her driver to step to her aide. “Home, Wilson!” she commanded. “As fast as this damned nag can move!” Samuel Biggins stood in the dust of the woman’s buggy as it moved quickly down the street. He scratched under the brim of his visor then shrugged. Sometimes the gentry had strange notions.

***** It had taken Cupie, Evangeline’s personal maid, only a few minutes to pack a portmanteau for her mistress. She had run down the stairs with it and practically thrown it at Wilson. She cast a fearful look at the white woman as Mrs. McGregor

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stormed out of the house and got into the buggy for her trip to the ferry. “You be careful, ma’am,” Cupie advised. “You ain’t been feeling all that well.” “I know how I feel!” Evangeline snapped. She’d been having attacks of nausea for over a week and everyone at WindLass was giving her knowing looks that said they thought she was pregnant. If that were only true! she thought as she settled back in the seat. Instead, it was that damned jar of mayhaw jelly she’d eaten that had caused her such distress. She made a mental note to throw the other jars out. The ferry ride from Savannah to Doctor’s Town was the longest of her life, Evangeline knew. Fearful she would miss the Atlantic and Gulf train that would take her to Thomasville, she was on edge, wishing the ferry would move faster across the water. As it was, she barely had time to get settled in her seat before the whistle blew and the train lurched westward. “Be all right, Sinclair,” she said—a litany she had been repeating for the last two hours. “Please be all right!” What was he doing in Thomasville? She wondered. And with Leonie Emerson at that? Not that she had anything to worry about where that mousy, overweight old maid was concerned. Although she supposed she should be grateful to the hag for caring for Sinclair after he was attacked. That was it! It had to be! The man Leonie was warning Dorrie about had to be one of the men responsible for the attack on Sinclair! Was that where he had been all this time? Looking for the men who had beaten him and left him for dead. Well, she thought, it was one way to deal with his grief over Ivonne. But she had been worried sick over him. Having hired detectives who could not seem to find her missing husband, she was beginning to think he had done away with himself. Not that she would have put it past him to do something so dramatic. Or final. She had seen the stricken look on his face that day when he’d learned of his beloved Ivonne’s fate, and no man had ever looked so unbearably hurt or irrevocably lost. She had feared for his frame of mind. Her own grief as she worried about him had given the town of Savannah—a romance-inclined hamlet, at best—a new way of looking at her in an entirely different light. If anything, Sinclair’s disappearance had garnered her sympathy that she found amusing when she bothered to think of it at all. People who had shunned her up until then, could not be solicitous enough now. Those who would never have dreamed of coming to WindLass to visit, now showed up on a regular basis, inquiring after news of Sinclair. Not that all of it was done with her or Sinclair’s wellbeing in mind, she thought spitefully. A lot of it was just plain nosiness but that was all right too. At least she was being accepted on some level and that fit well enough into her long-range plans. There would be time enough to win them all over when Sinclair was back at home. If he survived, she amended in her mind. 213

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The thought of him hurt, suffering, nagged at her like a bad tooth. Wouldn’t he be shocked to learn she had come to love him as she never had another? That she dreamt of him at night and thought of him during every waking hour of the day? That she saw his brown eyes before her in every sunset and his smile in every creeping color of dawn? That she imagined his strong body atop her own and his hands caressing her flesh? His soft breath in her ear and his steel-like manhood thrusting into the core of her? She shuddered, aghast over her feelings for a man she had never wanted to marry in the first place! If his vicious shrew of a grandmother had not insisted, a joining between she and Sinclair would never have crossed her mind. And she would never have known the bliss of having a man like him beside her. Or the fear of losing him. “Hurry!” she whispered to the side-to-side shifting, clack-clack-clack of the wheels on the rails. “Hurry!” She turned her head and looked out over the passing Georgia countryside and began to do something she hadn’t done since she was ten years old. She began to pray.

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Chapter Twenty-Four He was dreaming. The sky was a bright azure sea upon which an occasional schooner of cloud passed with white sails furled. Gulls careened along the thermals and dipped their blacktipped wings in greeting. The sweet scent of gardenia broke over him where he lay in the lush green grass, teasing him with its wonderful aroma. He breathed in deeply and smiled for the warm sun beat down upon his body to chase away the chill of winter past. All was right with his world and he was content simply to lie where he was, his head cradled in the lap of the woman he loved. “Are you comfortable, Sin?” He opened his eyes and looked up into hers. “Aye,” he whispered, and reached up to cup her head and draw her lips to his. The kiss was soft and deep—the kind of kiss a man gives only to the woman to whom he has pledged his heart and soul. It tasted of summer wine and sweet Georgia peaches left to ripen in the sun. “I love you,” she said against his mouth, pulling back a little from the plunder of his thrusting tongue. “I will always love you.” “Then why did you leave me?” he asked, tears gathering. “I had to set you free,” she replied. “I had to give you your freedom.” “But I am not free,” he protested, and the tears fell slowly down his cheeks. “Yes, you are. You are free of me.” The words were a death knell that turned the sky to gunmetal gray where violent swirls of clouds eddied to lash brutally at the seagulls. The thermals became an icy blast of winter oblivion and the scent of gardenia sickened into the putrescence of the grave. The lovely face before him altered to a grinning skull with gaping eye sockets and yellowed teeth. He screamed and sat bolt upright in the bed, his eyes wild and fixed upon some hideous sight only he perceived. “It’s all right,” Leonie said, and sat down beside him to take him in her arms, pulling his head to her shoulder as she rocked him back and forth like a child who had awakened from a troubled sleep. “It’s all right, baby.” He clung to her—not knowing who she was—but needing the comfort of her arms around him. He buried his face against her neck and sobbed, his heart breaking. “Here,” Matildie said, handing her niece a cup. “Make him drink.”

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He did not protest the bitter liquid she held to his lips. Instead, he drank it down gratefully knowing in some wayward part of his soul the nectar of forgetfulness was housed within that tin cup. He savored the waters of Lethe as they flowed down his throat then lay back down, turning his body so that his head rested in her lap. Leonie smoothed the dark curly hair, running her fingers through the thick locks, crooning to him until she was sure the laudanum had claimed him. When he was sound asleep, she eased his head onto the pillow, tucked the covers around his chest and blew out the lantern beside his bed. Creeping quietly from the room, she went to her aunt’s room and climbed into bed with the old woman. “Is his fever still high?” Matildie asked. “Not as high as it was this afternoon but he still seems to be hallucinating. I don’t think he knows what is happening,” Leonie sighed. “He doesn’t want to know,” Matildie suggested. “It is easier for him to dwell in the darkness than to light the candle of memory.” Leonie didn’t reply. She turned to her side and stared into the shadows, listening to every sound coming from Sinclair’s room. Her hand crept to her belly where his seed was growing and asked herself again if it would be wise to tell him about the child. “He has a right to know,” her aunt had advised. “Perhaps,” Leonie had replied, “but not now.” As she fell into a troubled sleep of her own, Leonie’s last thought was of the babe and the name she had chosen for it—Arden. “Arden McGregor,” she whispered, and smiled in her sleep. Matildie heard the name and shuddered. The truth needed to be told if Leonie was to ever know happiness in her life. Sinclair McGregor needed to be told about the child. She made up her mind that if her niece could not find the courage to tell him, she would.

***** To find Evangeline Hardy—no, Leonie corrected—McGregor—standing at her door two days later was the stuff of the older woman’s nightmares. The saucy little hat perched daintily upon that gleaming blonde chignon, the fur-trimmed emerald green traveling suit and highly polished leather boots were a distinct contrast to Leonie’s own homespun gray wool trousers and rough cambric shirt beneath a man’s woolen cardigan. Leonie put a hand up to her own messy graying hair and would have dropped through the floor if given the chance. “Good morning, Miss Emerson,” Evangeline snapped, coming into Matildie’s front room without benefit of an invitation. She stopped in the center of the room, looking about her with disdain then drew off her black kid gloves. “Where is he?” “How did you know he was here?” Leonie slammed the door behind her visitor. She turned around, her hands clenched into fists at her side. “How did you find out?”

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Her eyes flashed brown fire into the pale violet orbs of the one woman in all of Georgia Leonie hated the most. Evangeline waved a dismissive hand. “That is of no import,” she replied haughtily, and looked toward the hallway. “Back there?” Again without invitation or permission, the blonde woman shrugged off her wool coat, flung it across the settee and started down the hall. “Wait just one damned minute!” Leonie snapped, hurrying after her. “Nobody told you, you can just enter a person’s house and make yourself to home!” “Sinclair?” Evangeline called, poking her head in one room only to find a wildhaired old woman staring back at her, mouth agape. “Pardon,” Evangeline mumbled, and tried the door across the hall. “Ah, there you are, dear!” Matildie came to her door, questioning her niece with a gaze that was full of surprise. “His wife,” Leonie grated, and followed Evangeline into Sinclair’s room. Sinclair was startled out of a fitful doze by a cold cheek against his own, lips grazing his, and looked up into worried violet eyes he didn’t recognize for a moment. When he did, he closed his eyes again, wishing himself back in his dream world. “Go away, Vangie,” he said hoarsely. “How are you, dearest?” Evangeline asked, laying her hand on his forehead, ignoring his flinch away from her touch. She clucked. “Too warm,” she pronounced, adjusting his covers. “Entirely too warm.” “Why don’t you just wake him the hell up?” Leonie snarled as she reached out and pulled Evangeline away from the bed. “The man was trying to sleep.” Evangeline jerked her arm from Leonie’s grip and turned on her, her pretty face a mask of savage fury. “The man,” she stressed, “is my husband!” “So that gives you the right to bother him while he’s trying to rest?” Leonie threw at her. “I can do whatever the hell I feel like doing with him!” Evangeline tossed back at her. “No, you can’t!” Leonie disagreed. “Watch me!” Evangeline declared. She would have pushed Leonie out of her way, but the older woman got in her face, her lips skinned back over clenched teeth. “You push me, bitch, and I’ll shove you right through the damned window!” Leonie threatened. Matildie came into the room to find the two women toe-to-toe, glaring at one another like enraged cats. Trouble was brewing and before it could boil over, she stepped up to the two and took both their arms. “Not in my house!” she stressed, pulling sharply on both women. Evangeline rounded on the old woman, lifting her hand to slap the face of anyone who dared lay hands to her, but there was something so mean, so vindictive on that 217

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wizened visage, she thought better of it. Lowering her hand, she jerked her arm out of the old woman’s steely grip. “You people enjoy manhandling folks, don’t you?” “Step outside and I’ll show you what else we enjoy doing!” Leonie hissed. “No, hell, you won’t,” Matildie stated. She nodded toward Sinclair. “You want him to see what kind of fools the two of you really are?” Sinclair had turned his face to the wall. He had no idea where he was, who the old woman was and couldn’t imagine why Evangeline and Leonie were arguing over him. He stared at the faded wallpaper beside the bed, knowing full well he had never seen the stuff before and was keenly aware that he hurt from his head to his toes and back again. A painful stitch in his side as he tried to shift his body into a more comfortable position brought the stabbing back to him in a flash and he turned his head toward the women, his eyes confused. “Where am I?” he asked. “You two get out and let me see to my patient,” Matildie said, ignoring his question. When both women made to protest, she shook her head. “He don’t need you two in here confusing him all the more. Get out until I can change his bandage.” She gave Leonie a stern look. “Make some coffee, missy, and mind your manners. This lady is—” “This isn’t a lady!” Leonie interrupted. Sinclair sighed. “She’s my lady, Leonie,” he said softly, drawing each woman’s eyes to him—Evangeline’s in triumph, Leonie’s in despair and Matildie’s in narrowed speculation. “See?” Evangeline flung at Leonie. “And Leonie is a dear friend, Vangie,” he stressed, holding his wife’s shocked look. “As such, you will afford her the respect she is due.” “You heard the boy, now get! The both of you! Out!” Matildie firmly pushed both women to the door and closed it behind them, shutting out their surprised faces. “And no bitchin’ and moanin’ out there, either! I don’t wanna hear it!” She shot the bolt on the lock then turned back to Sinclair. He looked up at the old woman, wondering who the hell she was. He must be in her house and she must be a midwife or healer of some sort. “How long have I been here?” he asked as she folded the cover away from his chest. “Longer than you should have,” Matildie muttered. She plucked at the end of his bandage and when he winced, she nodded. “You need to sit yourself up so I can redo the wrapping.” There was something very intimidating about that fierce gaze slanted down at him and he tried to push himself up in the bed, but the pain was too much and he gasped, bringing a hand to his side. He shook his head. “I can’t.” “Not much of a man, to my way of thinkin’,” Matildie proclaimed.

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Before he could react, the old woman marched to the door, unlocked it and yelled for someone named Vonda and the panes in the window shook as footsteps sounded beyond the room door. The woman who entered his room was as black as ebony and as big as his Bossie. Her dark face glistened with sweat as she came up to the bed, bent over him, shoved her thick arms under his back and legs and hefted him up in the bed as though he weighed no more than a feather pillow. Just as quickly as she had entered his room, she exited, closing the door behind her. Sinclair grunted with the surprise of it and stared at the old woman who was bustling about with a basin of water to which she was pouring some kind of liquid from a dark blue glass bottle. “Would you mind telling me where I am?” he asked. “You remember Gertie Emerson?” Matildie queried. Sinclair nodded, putting his hand to his throbbing side. “Leonie’s mother.” “My niece,” she told him. “You’re in my house.” He grunted again. No wonder the old woman looked mean as hell, then. When she came back to his bed—scissors in hand—he looked up at her with concern. “You gonna stab me too?” he asked. “Should snip off your dangly,” Matildie barked, clicking the scissors together, “but I don’t think them two out there would appreciate the justice of it.” Sinclair blinked, amused despite himself. “Ah, I don’t think I would enjoy it, either.” Matildie’s lips quirked. “Know you wouldn’t,” she pronounced. She clicked the scissors again. “Damned things ain’t all that sharp. Probably would do more chewing up than actual cutting.” She looked into his eyes. “Probably hurt like the dickens.” He smiled at her. Considering his weakness, the pain in his side and the ache in his head, he knew he was at her mercy and needed to try to get on her good side. “Then I’d just as soon you not use them on me, ma’am,” he said. “Besides…” He held her gaze. “’Sides, what?” she said, arching one thick white brow. His eyes twinkled with more than just the fever that had ridden him for several straight days. “I’ve already had one woman try to do me in with the business end of a blade, I’d really rather you not finish the job for her.” “Humpf,” Matildie snorted. She sat down on his bed and eased the blade of the scissors under the knot tied around his chest and snipped it. “Lean forward, boy,” she ordered. Gritting his teeth to the pull in his side, he bent as far forward as the pain would allow, feeling the sweat popping out on his forehead from the strain. “Am I allowed to know the name of my physician?” he inquired, panting a little. “Tildie,” she answered, unwrapping the bandage, “since you seem to like giving your women nicknames.” She pulled the bandage free. “Lean on back now.” 219

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“One of my women?” He grinned at her as she lifted her head from her task of inspecting his wound. “Why, I’d be honored to have you in my harem, Miss Tildie.” Matildie’s eyes flared. “Why you young guttersnipe, you!” she said, laughter exploding from her lips. “You couldn’t handle a woman like me!” “I’d sure as hell try though,” he returned, wagging his brows at her. The old woman reached out a gnarled hand and patted his cheek affectionately. “I was prepared to dislike you, boy, but who can resist eyes the color of yourn?” “Why would you want to dislike me, Miss Tildie?” he asked as she began to wring out a compress in the water basin. “’Cause of what you done,” she answered, her smile fading. “Weren’t right.” Sinclair thought she was referring to the men he had killed. “No, ma’am, it wasn’t, but it was necessary if I was to ever have any peace. I needed to do it.” Matildie stared at him, shocked. “You needed to do it?” she asked. How could Leonie inspire passion in a man who looked like this boy? “It was a fire burning in my blood, Miss Tildie. An ache I had to scratch.” He stopped when the old woman held up her hand. “You better stop right there!” she demanded. “Else, you’ll have me finishing that job that harlot started if’n you don’t!” A loud crash from the front room brought both their attentions to the door. A shriek and a howl followed and Matildie hopped off the bed as though shot out of a cannon. She flew to the door and had unlocked it before he could say a word. Another yowl came and Sinclair struggled to get up, knowing the two women causing the earsplitting screeches that were now coming from beyond his door needed to be stopped before they could hurt one another. But the pain of his injury was too great and he slumped back against the pillows, breathing heavily and feeling something ooze down his side. Craning his head, he sighed heavily with frustration as he saw the trickle of blood running down his side. His head went back and he stared with helplessness at the ceiling. “Evangeline!” he managed to shout, flinching at the pain. “Leonie!” When no one answered his call and no further sound came from the nether reaches of the house, he lay there—head turned expectantly to the door—and listened. It was quiet, too quiet, and the absence of sound was worse than the nerve-shattering yelps from before. “Evangeline!” Vonda poked her head in the door. “They’s all right, Mr. Sinclair. Miz Tildie took care of it. You hush up and rest. She said to tell you she’d be back soon as she gets them women settled.” “Settled?” he questioned, but the black woman’s head disappeared from the doorway. “Hey!? Wait a minute! What does that mean?” 220

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It was absolutely still throughout the house. Not a sound could be heard. Whatever Tildie had done had put an effective stop to the catfighting that had obviously taken place. When the old woman came bustling in—a bowl of steaming broth in her hands— she grinned lopsided at him. “Did you know your woman can peel a mighty mean spud, boy?” she inquired, setting the bowl on the bedside table. She looked at his side, frowned then shook a finger under his nose. “You tried to get up, didn’t you?” “Evangeline is in the kitchen?” he asked, astonished. “Peeling potatoes?” He gawked at her. Matildie nodded. “And she’ll be washing the dishes after dinner for breaking my best ewer,” she replied. If finding out his haughty wife was in the old woman’s kitchen peeling potatoes shocked him, Matildie’s next words stunned him even more. “They know ‘cause I told ‘em, any more shit outta the two of ‘em and I’ll send ‘em both packin’,” she proclaimed. She began to wash the blood from his side. Sinclair just sat there, completely confused by this little old lady. She had the tact of a bull elephant, the nerves of an Irish dynamite layer and all the authority of the very best drill sergeant. Yet staring down at the top of her dry white hair, she seemed fragile and completely vulnerable. Her arthritic hands trembled as she smoothed some salve on his wound. “What were they fighting about?” he asked, drawing in a breath at the slight sting of the ointment. It smelled like horse liniment and he wasn’t altogether sure it wasn’t. Matildie snorted. “What the hell do you think they were fighting about, boy?” she asked. “You!” She helped him sit up so she could wrap a fresh bandage around him. “Must make you mighty proud to have two gals clamoring after your precious hide.” “It doesn’t,” he snapped, annoyed at the thought. Matildie chuckled. “So you say.” “’Tis the gods’ truth,” he returned, and when she looked up into his eyes, he held her stare. “I don’t appreciate it one damned bit.” Matildie shrugged. “Better get used to it, boy, ‘cause them two love you more’n they do their ownselves.” Evangeline, he knew loved him, she had said as much. Leonie, he suspected had feelings that went beyond friendship, but he hardly knew the woman. She had cared for him when he had been hurt and that was as far as their contact had gone. Yet, something about that night still nagged at him and he wondered if he had said or done something to make her think there could ever be something between them. “Don’t frown so, son,” Matildie told him. “You got more to worry about than two lovesick women.” It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him about the baby, but she decided to bide her time and give Leonie one more chance to tell him on her own. She picked up the broth and started to spoon-feed him.

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“I can do it,” he said, wanting some time alone to think. Ivonne was gone and his marriage to Evangeline could be terminated. His grandmother had no hold over him anymore. He didn’t want women fighting over him, women telling him what to do, women making demands on him and running his life. What he wanted was to be free of them all and simply go where no one knew him and he could start over. Matildie gave him the bowl. She wondered at the fierce look that had suddenly come over his handsome features. “Them what don’t remember their mistakes are doomed to repeat them, lad. You know that, don’t you?” Sinclair nodded. How well he knew! And the biggest mistake he’d ever made was in the other room, and he had every intention of correcting that stupid mistake as soon as he could leave his bed and find a lawyer. He looked up at Matildie. “Where am I, Miss Tildie?” “Thomasville.” His brows drew together. He thought a moment and then remembered the hellish ride from Bainbridge as he and…what was her name? He couldn’t remember and it didn’t matter. Whoever she was, she was one more women who had held his fate in her treacherous little hands. The last thing he remembered was that woman guiding him to Thomasville and the train. Obviously, he hadn’t made it. But how did Leonie find him? How did she get him to her aunt’s house? How did Evangeline find him? Why was she here? There were so many unanswered questions, but his head was throbbing and he was getting tired again. He handed the bowl back to Tildie. “God, my head hurts,” he said, closing his eyes. “I feel like I gotta throw up.” “I can take care of that, son,” Matildie replied. She reached into her pocket and took out a small brown bottle. She uncorked it and poured a small amount onto his soupspoon. He didn’t question the elixir, just took it. And the pain went away.

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Chapter Twenty-Five Leonie adjusted the beefsteak on her eye and sat down to glare at Evangeline. The woman Leonie privately called “The Strumpet” was nursing her own bruised face where one good slap had left the firm imprint of Leonie’s hand against the peaches and cream complexion. That the bitch had landed one lucky fist to Leonie’s right eye was ridiculous—who would have thought such a delicate-looking woman could pack such a mean punch? “You let him sleep now,” Matildie commanded the two women. “He’ll be snoozin’ for most of the evening.” She squinted at the sock she was darning. “Best you two talk over your grievances and get on with it.” “I have nothing to say to that heathen,” Evangeline sniped. “Tart,” Leonie spat, her good eye blazing. “Cow!” Evangeline threw back. “Would the two of you like to clean out the privy?” Matildie asked, not looking up from her sewing. Evangeline opened her mouth to protest but the old woman’s beady eyes fastened on Sinclair’s wife with purpose. “You have somethin’ to say to me, missy?” Matildie inquired. Thinking better of antagonizing her hostess, Evangeline snapped her mouth shut and shook her head. “Didn’t think so,” Matildie chuckled. She cut the darning thread then laid the mended sock aside. Putting her arthritic hands on the arms of her rocker, she set the chair into motion. “Reckon we ought to talk about all this while he’s a’sleepin’,” she suggested. “Talk about what?” Leonie grated. She turned a malevolent stare to her enemy and started to speak, but stopped when Evangeline’s face paled and she jumped up from her chair and rushed from the room, flinging the front door open so hard, it slapped against the wall as she stumbled out to the front porch. Leonie’s brows drew together at the sound of vomiting. “That,” Matildie sighed. She leaned her head along the back of the rocker. “And which of you plans on telling him first that he’s gonna be a pappy.” Leonie blinked then slowly turned her head to stare at her aunt. “She’s pregnant too?” she whispered, a part of her dying inside at the possibility. Matildie nodded. “Looks that way to me, gal.” She gazed sadly at Leonie. “She’s been a’pukin’ ever since she got here. Ain’t you noticed?”

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Deep, abiding pain went through Leonie’s heart. “Sweet Mary and Joseph,” she groaned. Slowly, she lowered the beefsteak from her black eye and laid the meat in her lap as she stared at the door behind which Sinclair slept. “Well, as I see it,” Matildie put in, tiredly. “Unless he was a cavorting with her afore you and him done it—” “I know he wasn’t!” Leonie grated. “Then, it’s yourn that will be his firstborn.” Leonie drew in a long breath. “Aye, that it will,” she agreed. That was a consolation, at least. “But,” Matildie added, “hers will be the legal heir and, as such, the lad will be able to claim it to the world whereas yourn won’t be nothing but a bastard.” She shrugged her frail old shoulders. “You see the way of it, don’t you, missy?” All too well, Leonie thought bleakly. Any child born of the union between Sinclair and The Strumpet would have his or her father’s name, the child that came from one night of illicit passion between her and Sinclair would be nothing in the eyes of polite society. The thought of the precious being growing inside her being denied its right to know its father and to be claimed by him broke her heart. “I’m of the opinion the boy will do right by you, Leonie,” her aunt told her. Leonie shook her head. “He isn’t to know, Aunt Tildie,” she said fiercely. “He must never know.” “Know what?” Leonie flinched, unaware that Evangeline had re-entered the room. She glared at the woman, hoping the floor would open up and the hand of the devil would reach up to drag the slut to hell with him. “What isn’t he to know?” Evangeline snapped. She stood there—her hands on her ample hips—and glowered at Leonie. “Tell me!” “You go to hell,” Leonie snarled, and flung herself up from the settee. “I ain’t telling you nothing, whore!” With a hiss of breath, she pushed roughly past Evangeline who stumbled back from the vicious shove and went into the room she shared with her aunt. “Insufferable pig!” Evangeline brayed. “Why don’t you sit yourself down and let’s talk a spell, missy,” Matildie advised. She flung a hand toward the settee. “Reckon there’s a thing or two needs discussion’.” “I am tired,” Evangeline protested. “When are you due?” Matildie interrupted. Evangeline’s brows drew together. “Due?” she repeated. Matildie sighed and lifted her head from the back of the rocker. “You’re carrying his bairn, girl. I’m asking when it is you’ll be dropping the bundle.”

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A dark red flush spread quickly over Evangeline’s face and she stared at the old woman. Such language was not used in polite company and it embarrassed her. “Madam,” she began, shaking her head, “I assure you, I am not enceinte.” When the old woman merely gazed back at her with arched brows, Evangeline sighed. “I am not in the family way,” she amended. Matildie frowned. “You was a pukin’ like you are,” she accused. Evangeline waved a dismissive hand. “A case of a jar of bad mayhaw jelly,” she explained. “Nothing more.” “Then you ain’t carrying his bairn,” Matildie wanted clarified. “No,” Evangeline said, then seeing the speculation forming in the old woman’s eye, added, “At least not yet, anyway.” Leonie’s aunt nodded thoughtfully. “How old are you, missy?” Evangeline bristled, her violet eyes turning frosty. “I don’t see how that is any of your business, madam!” “And you been married how many times is it?” the old woman asked, trying to remember what her niece had told her about Sinclair’s wife. “Three? Four?” “Madam,” Evangeline stated, clearly and succinctly, “I see no reason to divulge the particulars of my personal life to you.” “Can’t have any bairns, can you?” Matildie queried, latching her rheumy attention on the young woman. Evangeline knew she was treading on very thin ice here. The old biddy was far too astute than a woman of her advanced years should be. The look on the wrinkled face said there was no doubt in the crone’s mind that her guest was barren. To lie would achieve nothing more than a knowing nod from that grizzled old head. Instead, Evangeline decided honesty might be worth using at that moment. “I have had no luck until now conceiving,” the young woman admitted. “That could be in part due to the—” she arched an insulting brow “—the ages of my previous husbands.” “Could be your plumbing don’t work, neither,” Matildie threw at her. “Reckon that might the cause of it, missy?” Evangeline lifted her head, gaze narrowed. “What concern is it of yours, Miss Tildie?” Matildie stopped rocking, planted her feet firmly on the floor and leaned forward in the chair. “I’ve known Grace Vivienne Brell all my life,” she said in way of explanation. “I know more’n I ever cared to know ‘bout that conniving old witch.” She lifted a hand and pointed a crooked finger at Evangeline. “Know some things I’m a’thinkin’ that boy in there ought to be made aware of afore he has the bad luck of getting a child off’n you!” The insult flared Evangeline’s eyes and she shot to her feet. “Bad luck?” she echoed. “Why you waspish old bat!”

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“If’n you can’t have his bairns,” Matildie snapped in a voice that cut off Evangeline’s words, “it would be a blessing to him and you, girl!” Stamping her foot with vexation, Evangeline turned to go but the old woman was quick and was out of the rocker and blocking her path. “She made it a condition of marryin’ him, didn’t she?” Matildie snapped, reaching out to grab Evangeline’s arm, holding on tightly although the younger woman tried to jerk free. “Wasn’t that the way of it, missy? She made having his bairn a condition of the joining?” Evangeline tried to pry the crone’s grip from her arm and was surprised at the strength in the twisted, gnarled fingers wrapped around her flesh. “What if it was?” she threw back at the old woman. “What does it matter?” “Can you have his bairns?” Matildie said, emphasizing each word with a tug on Evangeline’s captive arm. “No!” Evangeline spat, managing to yank herself free. “You satisfied?” Matildie stood there watching the young woman rubbing her arm. She tucked her bottom lip between the few teeth she had left in her puckered mouth and thought for a moment. Her eyes followed the young woman as Sinclair’s wife returned to the settee and flopped down on it in a fit of pique, glancing up now and again at Matildie with suspicion. “She’s an old bitch,” Evangeline said at last. “I figured she wouldn’t last all that long.” “Grace Vivienne will outlive us all, as mean as she is,” Matildie corrected. “Meaner than a rattlesnake, I do believe.” She returned to her rocker and sat down, wincing at the pain in her knees as she did. “Meanest woman in the entire state of Georgia if you ask me.” “I won’t argue the point with you,” Evangeline mumbled. She looked down at her arm and frowned at the bruises already beginning to form there. “So,” Matildie mused, “you were to produce an heir for her. Was that it?” Evangeline nodded, bored by the subject. There would have been a time—when Ivonne was alive—that it was imperative to keep up the charade of getting pregnant by Sinclair. Now, it no longer mattered. “She’ll not rest until he gives her a great grandchild, I’m thinkin’,” Matildie suggested. “One who would inherit that plantation.” “That was the plan,” Evangeline admitted. “And what was to happen to the boy once that chore was done?” Neither woman was aware that Leonie had opened her aunt’s bedroom door and was listening to the conversation. Neither had seen the triumphant gleam that had entered her dark eyes at the revelation that not only was Evangeline not carrying Sinclair’s child, she never would. Evangeline looked down at her lap. “I don’t understand what you mean.” 226

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“Yes, you do,” Matildie said quietly. “What was to happen to him once he’d done his stud service?” The old woman was more astute than Evangeline had given her credit for being. Sin’s wife shrugged. “I could divorce him if I was so inclined,” she answered. There was no way she would tell the woman Grace Vivienne had given her leave to murder her husband once he’d performed his duty. Matildie smiled. “But that ain’t what you want, is it?” Evangeline raised her head and looked the old woman in the eye. “No, it is not.” Leonie saw her aunt tilt her head in question. “And do you think he’ll be staying with you if’n you don’t give him a bairn, girl?” The thought had been uppermost in Evangeline’s mind. If she proved barren, Sinclair would have grounds to leave her. Fear of him doing just that was a nightmare she’d been living since she began to realize she had fallen in love with her husband. “He loved Ivonne Boucharde,” Matildie said in a kind voice. “You know he did. She’s gone and he’s at wit’s end.” She set the chair rocking again. “Reckon he don’t care one way or t’other whether he lives or dies, but if’n he had a reason…” She let her words hang in the air like thistledown floating on a breeze. Evangeline frowned. “I don’t follow.” “What she’s saying is if he knew there was a baby,” Leonie snapped as she came on into the room, “he’d stay with you!” “Keep your voice down, missy,” Matildie warned. “You don’t want the boy to hear you.” “I know what you’re thinking, Aunt Tildie!” Leonie accused, “and I’ll have no part of it!” Evangeline looked from one woman to another. “Part of what?” “Do you think I want him to stay with her?” Leonie flung at her aunt, ignoring the other woman. “I’d rather that whore in Bainbridge had plunged the knife into his heart than see him stay with this slutty bitch!” Evangeline sprang from the settee and made a grab for Leonie, but once more, Matildie moved with a speed that stunned the other two women as she put herself between them. “Your bairn needs a father!” Matildie hissed at her niece. “He needs his father!” Evangeline’s brows shot up and her gaze shot down to Leonie’s belly. “You’re with child?” she questioned, humor lighting her face for a moment before the thought of who in the world would bed the cow sent her into chortles of laughter. “Oh, lord, that’s rich!” Leonie tried to reach around her aunt to grab a handful of blonde hair, but Matildie blocked her, speaking in a voice that got the attention of both women. “You want something to happen to Sinclair’s child, Leonie?” Matildie barked. “You wanna take a chance of losin’ his bairn?” 227

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The laugh that had been about to erupt from Evangeline’s throat came out in a gasp that choked her. Coughing wildly, she couldn’t deny the ugly lie the old woman was trying to perpetuate. The thought of Sinclair lying with that fat Emerson pig was enough to make her start gagging again. Fanning her hand in front of her heated face, she fell back on the sofa, shaking her head vigorously, wanting breath to come back so she could give the old woman a piece of her mind for even daring to suggest such a thing. “I hope you choke to death!” Leonie flung at her enemy. “Think, girl!” Matildie encouraged, taking Leonie by the arms and shaking her. “Think of the opportunity here!” “I won’t have it!” Leonie shouted. “Do you hear me? Don’t even suggest such a vile thing!” “The child is his,” Matildie stated, her aged eyes hawklike on Leonie’s face. “It would be raised as his, with his name.” “No!” Leonie denied. “I’ll not have it!” Evangeline had regained her breath and was partially reclining on the settee, glaring up at the other two women. It was on the tip of her tongue to yell at them to stop their playacting when she began to realize it wasn’t playacting on Leonie Emerson’s part. The woman was practically bristling with indignation and her eyes had flared with a fury that could be nothing more than real. With a gasp of realization that sent her into another spasm of coughing, she had to face the truth. Leonie Emerson would give Sinclair a child.

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Chapter Twenty-Six The pain in his side woke him from his restless slumber and he opened his eyes to a muted gray sky from which fell a steady, cold rain that raked at the windowpane. He turned his head, feeling slightly nauseous, and looked about him. The house was still— unpleasantly so—and he wondered where everyone was. Beside him, on the bedside table, a steaming cup of coffee lent its aroma to the faint scent of cedar emanating from the tall wardrobe across the small room. He licked his dry lips and tried to push himself up in the bed, needing the coffee to still the slight movement of the room around him and the heavy feeling within his head, but the attempt brought a gasp of pain and he stilled, his hand going to the pain in his side. “Do you need help?” Sinclair swung his head to the opposite side of the room and found his hostess sitting in a rocking chair. “I don’t think I can do it on my own,” he replied. Matildie chortled lightly as she pushed up from the rocker. “Most gents can’t, but they’ll be damned afore they’d admit it, boy.” She walked to the door and called for Vonda. “He’s awake, girl. Bring a basin so’s we can bathe him!” “I can bathe myself,” Sinclair protested, knowing he was lying, but hating to have to depend on these strange women to care for his needs. “Humpf,” Matildie commented. “I’d like to see you try.” She reached down to feel his forehead. “Fever’s ‘bout gone, but you still don’t look none the better for wear.” She smoothed a recalcitrant lock of dark hair from his brow. “How you feelin’?” “Like a stuck pig,” he returned, eyeing the coffee. He cocked his chin toward the cup. “May I have a sip of that or did you just put it there to torment me?” Matildie grinned. “Nah. I just put it there to torment you.” Sinclair returned her gesture. “That’s what I thought.” Vonda waddled in with a large white porcelain basin and plopped it down on a writing desk across the way. “You gonna stays in here whilst I bath him, Miss Tildie?” Matildie arched a white brow at her patient. “Wouldn’t mind viewing his manly attributes, but I’ll pass.” She winked at the immediate stain that passed over Sinclair’s face at her words and then looked around at Vonda. “Help me scoot him up in the bed so’s he can take a swallow or two of your coffee, girl.” Between them, the two women managed to prop Sinclair up in the bed well enough—and without too much pain—so he could take the cup in his own hands and sip the scalding brew. “Good coffee,” he commented, looking up at the big black woman. 229

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“Yankees didn’t leave us much in the way of stable goods when they sashayed through here a while back,” Matildie complained, “but leastways we hid some of our coffee beans and gave them chickory.” “Serve them right too,” Vonda snapped. “Stole ever’ pig we had and most of de chickens!” “God will chastise them all in due course, Vonnie,” Matildie stated. “All in due course.” She headed for the door. “Be easy on that wound of his’n when you take the bandage off. I’ll wrap him up again when you’re through.” “Yes’m,” Vonda replied, rolling her eyes at the unnecessary command. Walking out to her front porch, Matildie braced her aching hands on the rail and looked out across the pasture. She was sheltered from the chilly rain by the deep overhang, but now and again, a stray wisp of moisture hit her lined face. Autumn had always been her favorite time of year and a cool, refreshing rain never failed to invigorate her. But it also held a sorrowful reminder. The smell of leaves and pine straw burning, the taste of fresh-pressed cane juice, the sight of frost crinkling the grass all combined to remind her that not only was winter fast approaching the last day of the year, but her own last day lurked just beyond the sunset. It was a time she was both dreading and looking forward to. Just to see her son Jamie once made her sigh. Matildie closed her eyes and compared the two men—Jamie and Sinclair. How much they resembled one another she thought. At first, she had resented the young man she had been forced to help. He had survived that wicked war where her own child had not, he had flirted with death and Jamie was lying somewhere in a cold, lonesome grave. It wasn’t right to blame Sinclair McGregor for surviving, but she had blamed him nevertheless. Until memories of the boy’s mother had come unbidden to remind her of things that had immediately softened her heart toward the boy. Things she knew she would have to make him privy to before he left her home and went back to Savannah. Things he should have been told long, long ago. Opening her eyes, she gazed unseeingly across the pasture, failing to see the rider who was hunched forward against the chill rain. It wasn’t until he was nearly at her porch that she shook herself into awareness and held up a hand to shield her fading eyes from the harsh gray light. “Edison?” she called out. “What in tarnation are you doing out in this muck?” “Telegram, Miss Tildie,” the local post rider announced as he drew in his mount then climbed down to lead the animal forward. “You got somebody here named McGregor?” Matildie frowned. “Might,” she replied. “Who’s the telegram from?” Edison Worthy trudged through the thick red clay of her front yard and dipped his hat, rain cascading off the brim before him. “Conor Brell of Willow Glen plantation over Savannah way. You know him?” 230

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“Aye, I know of him,” Matildie said, holding out her hand for the telegram. “Kin to McGregor, I reckon.” She looked down at the missive then back up at her visitor. “Wanna come in and dry off a spell?” “Thank you kindly for the offer,” Edison answered, shaking his head to send water droplets flying. “But I got another two telegrams to deliver.” He dipped his hat again and then turned to mount up. “Y’all stay warm now, you hear?” “You take care,” Matildie cautioned. “And tell your ma I send my best.” The postal rider lifted a hand in acknowledgment of her request and then turned his mount’s head to lead it back toward the road. Matildie watched Lorna Worthy’s son cantering away and felt the keen loss of Jamie even more. Of the same age, both boys had been born in the waning summer years of their mother’s lives. Lorna was fifty-two when Edison had been birthed— Matildie, fifty-five when Jamie had come along. The town had shaken its collective head at the unseemly notion of old women conceiving at that advanced age and had held its breath worrying if the two would survive the ordeal. Both had and the boys had become as close as brothers. When the war came, Jamie and Eddie had ridden off to join up together. One had come home. The other had not. “He’s having his morning meal now, Miss Tildie,” Vonda said from the doorway. Matildie nodded to let the black woman know she’d heard then looked down at the telegram, wondering if it was bad news. She wanted to open the envelope, but her sense of right would not allow it. Instead, she stuffed it in the pocket of her apron, dragged her shawl closer around her frail shoulders and then went back into the house. He was shoveling grits into his mouth when the old woman came into his room. Something in her face made him pause with the fork almost to his lips. “Is something wrong?” he asked, putting down the fork. Matildie waved a hand toward the tray on his lap. “Eat your food, boy, before it gets cold.” She went to her rocker and sat down wearily. “Bad day out there,” she commented and set the chair to rocking. “What did you do to Vangie and Leonie, Miss Tildie?” he asked, picking up a piece of crisply fried ham steak. “It’s so quiet in here, you could hear a hairpin drop.” Matildie snorted. “I got tired of hearing them two going on at each other,” she replied. “Don’t need that kind of grief, let me tell you!” Sinclair had to agree—he didn’t need it either. But he was surprised neither woman had been in to see him that morning and said as much. Matildie stopped rocking and gave him her full attention. “That’s cause they ain’t here,” she informed him. Sinclair blinked. “They’re not?” He turned his head toward the window where the rain had increased in intensity. “Where are they, then?”

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Matildie ignored his question. Instead, she rested her head on the rocker’s tall back and began to hum quietly. A small, niggling alarm bell rang in Sinclair’s mind and he thought of an old ghost tale one of the elderly black workers had once told him long, long ago. It had something to do with a crazy old widow woman murdering her family and serving them up to a visitor for breakfast. Matildie was watching her patient and when she saw the blood drain from his face as he looked down at the food on his plate, she cocked her head to one side. “What’s the matter?” Sinclair’s earlier nausea returned and he swallowed hard, feeling the lump in his throat refuse to go down. His mouth flooded with moisture and he gagged. “Bit off more than you could chew?” Matildie asked, about to heave herself up to pound him on the back, but his hand shot out to keep her at bay and she reseated herself, watching him spit out a chunk of ham into his napkin. The green color of his face had replaced the stark white and she wondered if he wasn’t sicker than she thought. “You better drink something, son. You don’t look so good to me.” Sinclair took up the glass of milk from the bed tray, but paused with it halfway to his mouth. If the crazy old woman had killed Leonie and Evangeline, might she not poison him too? He set the glass down carefully, trying to remember just how much of it he had drank. “We need to talk, son,” Matildie told him. Oh, Lord! he thought. She’s gonna tell me she murdered them and they’re out back in the garden. “Your woman is gonna give you a child,” Matildie said without preamble. Sinclair stared at her. “What?” “You heard me, boy,” Matildie stated. “She didn’t want you to see her get all fat and ungainly so she took herself off to have it.” That was partly true, Matildie reasoned. Leonie hadn’t wanted him to know and she certainly didn’t want him around to see her grow big with his bairn. Totally unprepared for such a revelation, Sinclair just sat there, stunned for a moment, then he squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. “Not what you wanted, eh, son?” Matildie asked quietly, correctly interpreting the look of dismay on her young patient’s face. “No, ma’am,” Sinclair replied, feeling more trapped than he had before. “I reckoned as much,” Matildie said. “You were planning on leaving her, weren’t you?” “I’d already left her,” Sinclair said miserably. “Well, a child needs its father,” Matildie reminded him. “You do know what it’s like growing up without one, don’t you?” Sinclair flinched. Indeed he did know. 232

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“Reckon you ought to be around to see it brought up the right way, don’t you?” He opened his eyes and looked at the old woman. “Where’d she go?” Matildie shook her head. “Don’t want you to know and I won’t be telling you so’s don’t ask.” “What am I supposed to do, then?” he asked, his voice hard. She was prepared for that question. “Go on back to Savannah when you’re mended,” Matildie responded. “Take care of the plantation and wait until they bring the bairn home to you.” “They?” he snapped. Would he ever have a time in his life when women did not run his life for him? “Your woman and my niece.” He blinked again, as shocked by that reply as by learning Evangeline was pregnant. “They’re together?” he asked, his voice thick with surprise. “You know that gal loves you, don’t you?” Matildie inquired. “If you don’t, you gotta be blind, boy.” Sinclair knew she was referring to Leonie. “I have done nothing to encourage her, Miss Tildie,” he explained. “I swear to you, I didn’t.” Matildie cut him off. “I know you didn’t, boy.” Evangeline McGregor had made Leonie tell them everything about that night in Sinclair’s cabin. Finding out her niece had practically seduced the helpless man had not set well with Matildie, but looking at the boy, she could well understand how the woman could have taken advantage of the situation if she’d been in love with Sinclair McGregor as long as her niece had. Surprisingly, the man’s wife hadn’t condemned Leonie for her actions. “Why would Leonie go off with Evangeline?” he asked, his brow furrowed with worry. “Those two hate one another.” “Well, let’s just say Leonie wants to make damned sure nothing happens to your child. She’ll take good care of it,” Matildie replied. She arched a brow. “Do you think your woman is capable of taking care of a child on her own?” “Hell no!” Sinclair said from between clenched teeth. He knew he should apologize for his language, but was too upset by this shattering news to react clearly. “When the bairn comes, they’ll bring it home to Savannah and Leonie will stay on as its nanny. She’ll raise it for you,” Matildie told him, gaining another shocked look from her patient. “And Evangeline agreed to that?” he gasped. Matildie assured him she had not only agreed to the plan but had been the author of it. “They worked it out between them so you ain’t got nothing to worry about.” I don’t? he thought, his mind tumbling with unanswered questions. What if the two of them murdered one another in a moment of spite? What of the child? His child?

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“But the birth of that bairn ain’t the biggest of your problems, son,” Matildie said gently. “You got far worser troubles than that.” To his way of thinking, having Evangeline pregnant was as big a problem as he could have. He didn’t love the woman, would never love her. Her being the mother of his child was not only inconvenient, it was a burden he had not wanted to ever bear. With the loss of his beloved Ivonne, he hadn’t even wanted to live, had courted death with his single-minded pursuit of the men who had beaten him, hadn’t given a damn whether he lived or not. “A child’s a mighty big responsibility,” Matildie said, gauging his feelings. “You gonna do right by it or not?” “What choice do I have?” he snapped. “I don’t want a child of mine to grow up being raised by a shrew like my grandmother!” “And rightly so,” Matildie agreed. “She’s an evil old witch.” “More evil than you know,” Sinclair mumbled. “No, more evil than you know,” Matildie returned. “More evil than you can even begin to understand, boy.” She sat forward in her chair. “But you should be told so’s you can keep harm from coming to that bairn when it comes along.” Sinclair laughed hatefully. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about my grandmother coming anywhere near my child, Miss Tildie! When I return to Savannah, I intend to see she never steps foot on WindLass land again!” “She told me that’s where she intends to be buried,” Matildie commented. A rude, angry snort came from Sinclair. “Not on my land, she won’t be!” he grated. “Sounds to me like you hate her, son.” Sinclair’s jaw clenched. “I tried all my life to love her, Miss Tildie,” he replied, painful memories making his eyes bright with unshed tears. “I did everything I could to make her love me, but she never would. She never let any opportunity pass to remind me that she loved my brothers and only tolerated me.” “Did you not wonder why that was?” Matildie queried. “Yes, ma’am, but it doesn’t matter a tinker’s damn to me now,” he returned. “Might be of use for you to know why and to understand just how wicked Grace Vivienne Brell really is,” Matildie told him. “That’s all in the past,” he replied. “I have no intention of having anything further to do with her. If my cousins want to come visit, they will be made welcome.” His eyes narrowed. “But if she steps foot on McGregor land, she’ll be escorted off at gunpoint if necessary.” “That would be wise of you, lad, but it ain’t in the past,” Matildie stated firmly. “It’s very much in the present.” There was a chilling look in the old woman’s eye and Sinclair knew she was itching to tell him something he instinctively knew should be left alone. The hair on his arms

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stirred—a warning that he shouldn’t go on with this conversation—but there was a part of him that wanted to know why his grandmother hated him so much. “Did you know she was the last person to see Ivonne Delacroix alive?” Matildie asked. He hadn’t, but he didn’t know why that should surprise him. No doubt it had been something his grandmother had said that had caused Ivonne to kill herself. The very thought of that set his blood to boiling, but there was nothing he could do about it now. The pain would be there with him for as long as he lived and—with it—the guilt he felt at being the cause of Ivonne’s death. Matildie studied her patient’s cold expression. “Do you wonder what she might have said to her to make the woman do what she did?” “She probably told her about my marriage,” Sinclair said, his voice breaking despite his effort to control it. “Ivonne wouldn’t have understood.” “Could have been that,” Matildie said, her voice full of speculation, “but it might have been something else.” He stared at her for a moment then drew in a long breath. He exhaled slowly and braced himself. “All right, Miss Tildie. Out with it. Tell me what you think I should know.” “You sure you want to hear it?” “Most probably not,” he replied, “but you seem to think I need to.” “Aye, son. You do.” “Then tell me.” Matildie leaned back in her chair and set it to rocking again. “Mayhaps I should start with your granddaddy Daniel, Gracie’s husband.” Her eyes took on a glazed look as her mind went back to her girlhood. “He weren’t known for being what you call a amiable man. Some say he was the devil incarnate and that may be closer to the truth than most realized.” “I never knew him,” Sinclair replied. “He died when I was about two.” “You were three,” Matildie corrected. “I went to his wake along with most of the white folk of Chatham County and there was those what said it was the biggest social event in South Georgia.” “I’m surprised so many people went to his funeral if he was disliked.” Matildie chortled. “Honey, we all went to make sure that SOB was really dead!” She twisted her head so she could look at him. “Some say he sat up straight on his cooling board and grinned like a madman ‘cause he knew he was on his way to hell.” “Rigor mortis,” Sinclair explained. “So they say,” Matildie replied. “I ain’t got a doubt in my mind he went to hell, though.” “That seems where most of my family is bound,” Sinclair grunted.

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“As I remember it,” Matildie interrupted, “your mama and daddy had been a match made ‘tween Dyllon McGregor, Dev’s father, and old Daniel. Gracie didn’t approve of the joining and at the time was real vocal about not wanting her daughter Maeve to marry Devon McGregor.” She paused. “You know your granddaddy called your mama Felicity but your granny called her Maeve, don’t you?” “Yes, ma’am,” he replied, wishing she’d get on with her story. “Maeve was a pretty little gal,” Matildie commented. “Every beau within a hundred mile radius came to court her and she was the belle of every ball, but Daniel Brell wanted only the best for his oldest daughter. He picked Devon McGregor because the McGregors had money and property and Dev was an only child so should anything happen to him, his wife would inherit the whole shebang.” She licked her wrinkled lips. “And should anything happen to the both of them together, your granddaddy knew his family would eventually get rule of that entire plantation and all the McGregor wealth.” “There isn’t any wealth left,” Sinclair mused. “And the McGregors don’t own WindLass anymore.” “Well, now, by rights you do, son,” Matildie reminded him. “When you married Evangeline Delacroix, you became owner of her lands. Don’t you know that?” He shook his head. “Grandmother made me sign papers relinquishing all claim to my wife’s property, Miss Tildie.” At the time, he hadn’t cared. All he been able to think about was Ivonne and the predicament she was in. Matildie ground what few teeth she had together. “Mean old woman,” she spat. “I should have known she’d pull somethin’ like that!” “She won’t get her hands on it, Miss Tildie,” he grated. “Don’t worry.” Matildie wagged her grizzled head from side to side. “The things that woman is gonna have to account for to her Maker just boggles the mind, it does.” She sighed heavily. “The lives she’s ruined, the pain she’s caused, the sin she’s caused to happen.” She shuddered. “If I didn’t believe in the devil, all I’d need do is look into Gracie Brell’s eyes and I’d see him leapin’ around in there!” Sinclair waited for the old woman to continue. His side was hurting, but he knew that whatever she had to tell him was likely to be even more painful than the wound. “Well,” Matildie said, seeming to collect herself. “On the day your parents were to marry, Gracie came down with one of her migraines and couldn’t go to the wedding.” She snorted. “Everybody and their sister knew that was just a convenient excuse for her not to go since she didn’t want your mother marrying Devon in the first place.” “Was there someone else she wanted Mama to marry?” he asked. Matildie shrugged. “I don’t think there was. She just didn’t want her to marry Dev.” “Why not?” The old woman stopped rocking. “Do you remember what your daddy looked like?”

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Sinclair had a vague memory of a tall man with light brown hair and twinkling blue eyes. He could remember being lifted onto his father’s shoulders so he could pick hog plums from the top of the tree, of being taught to swim in the pond out behind the house, of traveling once to some far-away city where the two of them had eaten crawdaddies until Sinclair had gotten sick. But he could no longer remember his father’s face and said as much. “Well, that Devon,” Matildie sighed, “had to have been the most handsomest man in the state of Georgia. Every gal around lusted after that boy.” She twisted her hands together. “Even some old women who were married and had grown kids of their own.” Sinclair’s lips slowly parted. “Grandmother?” Matildie nodded. “Me too, if it’s the truth we’re telling here. But leastways I had sense enough not to tell the man.” The thought of his grandmother having sexual feelings for her daughter’s husband made Sinclair ill. “What did he say?” “Dev must have thought she was out of her mind,” she replied. “He was already engaged to your mother and tried to make light of the whole thing. He really loved your mother, worshipped the ground Maeve walked on. I don’t know what he told Gracie when she persisted with touching him and kissing his cheek and all but whatever it was, it made her turn on him. Things got real bad there for a time then Duncan was born and she kinda let the matter drop.” She sighed. “Nothing like an old fool woman though. She never forgave him. It was a mighty blow to a woman like Grace Vivienne’s self-esteem to be passed over in favor of her own daughter.” “I’m glad my parents loved one another,” Sinclair said. At least the father—if not the son—had known some marital happiness. And a small part of him was glad his grandmother had known a bit of the hopelessness he’d felt at losing Ivonne. “I didn’t say that,” Matildie replied. “Didn’t say that at all, boy.” Sinclair’s brows came together. “Mama didn’t love him?” That was news to him. “No, she did not.” He pushed himself a bit higher in the bed, wincing with the pain the movement caused. “Are you sure?” “Maeve went to her wedding day as unhappy about the match as her mama was,” Matildie explained. “Maybe even more unhappy about it if that were possible.” When he went to speak, she held up a gnarled hand. “Wouldn’t have done her no good to protest the match, if that’s what you were gonna ask. Back then a woman did as her daddy told her. Maeve once told me she hated Devon for agreeing to the joining.” Sinclair let out a confused breath. “I remember them laughing and touching one another, Miss Tildie. I remember them kissing. How could she have hated him and me not know it.” “Oh, I suspect there were times she might have enjoyed the man, son. A woman has needs just as a man does and your mama was no different than most. I know things

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changed between them after you was born and maybe she did begin to love him a little—I don’t know. All I’m saying is she was one unhappy woman up until you came along.” Sinclair didn’t say anything for a moment, allowing the old woman to gather her thoughts. He could tell she was coming to the bad part of her story because her hands had started to tremble and there was a slight sheen of sweat on her upper lip. “Is it that bad, Miss Tildie?” he finally asked, drawing her gaze to him. “Is what you have to tell me really that awful?” “Pretty awful, son,” Matildie whispered. “I wish I didn’t have to tell you.” He lifted his chin. “Then don’t. Maybe I don’t want to know.” “You have to be told, Sinclair,” she responded. He studied her eyes for a moment and then took a deep breath. “Then tell me and be done with it, all right?” Matildie seemed to sag against the chair. “Mayhaps that would be best.” She wiped a shaky hand over her face then fused her gaze with his. “Devon ain’t your papa,” she told him. He sat there—not as stunned by the old woman’s revelation as he might have been. Her words dredged up old memories of the hateful attitude his grandmother had always shown him and the memories went a long way in explaining why. “I can see the wheels a’turnin’ in your noggin’, boy,” Matildie put in. “You’re thinkin’ it was because your mama shamed her parents, but that ain’t it. No one knew about your mama’s affair and no one was gonna know. I only know of it ‘cause your mama confided to me in a letter right before she died.” The clock in the front parlor continued to tick. The rain outside continued to scratch at the windowpane. The world was going on as it was meant to, but Sinclair’s life had suddenly take a swerve that he could never have imagined. He wondered why he felt more numb than anything else and had to mentally shake himself before he could speak. “Who was he? Did he know about me?” Matildie stared at him for a long time and then lifted one thin shoulder. “I doubt he does.” “Does?” he echoed and began to feel the blood pounding in his head. The man who had sired him was still alive? Was it someone he knew? “Aye,” Matildie replied as though she had heard his silent question. “You know him.” He wanted to forestall her telling him his father’s name for the time being. He was afraid if he heard it at that moment, he’d scream. “Did my father know I wasn’t his?” “He learned of it right afore he died,” the old woman answered. “The letter your mama sent me had been written the day she told him. In it, she says he took it real bad and had hit her, the first and only time he ever did.” She lowered her head. “I can’t

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swear to it, but I believe he was responsible for killing himself and your mama that day.” Sinclair flinched. A long forgotten memory of his grandmother screaming at him that he had been the cause of his parents’ death reared its ugly head to stare at him. Could it be true? Had finding out his wife had been unfaithful driven the man to murder and suicide? The realization that he was in part to blame for his mother’s death drove a red-hot iron of agony through his heart. He hung his head, squeezing his eyes shut to the torment already beginning to prickle at his vision. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “Don’t you go taking on the blame for all that too, son,” Matildie warned, once more reading his mind. “You had no part in what happened.” He wasn’t listening—he just wanted to get this nightmare over with. “Who is he, Miss Tildie?” he forced out. When she didn’t answer, he opened his eyes and looked over at her. “Who? Who is my real father?” Matildie couldn’t hold his gaze, she had to look away. To tell him this would not only hurt him deeply, it might well destroy him. But the boy needed to know because he was no longer the only one being hurt by the secret. “Miss Tildie?” she heard him insist. “Who is he?” “Jean-Claude,” she whispered. “Jean-Claude Delacroix. Edward’s father.” She paused then lifted her head. “Edward and Evangeline’s father.”

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Chapter Twenty-Seven The old woman quietly closed the door behind her, shutting out the sight of the pale, stricken look that had overcome her patient’s face, but she took with her the vision of him sitting there—his mother’s letter in his trembling hand. “I saved it,” Matildie had explained. “I don’t know why, I just did.” She wondered how he would take his mother’s confession of guilt. Walking to the fireplace, she stooped over to add another scrub oak log to the flames. A shower of sparks erupted up the chimney, sending a few sparks popping out onto the brick hearth. With some effort, the old woman straightened, turned and hiked up her skirts to warm her backside. Unconsciously, she turned her head toward the closed bedroom door and hoped his mother’s letter would not hurt the boy too much. A long sigh escaped her puckered lips and she resolutely turned her gaze from the door. “What will be, will be,” she said. Sinclair stared down at the beautiful writing on the envelope and remembered that his mother had been convent-educated, her handwriting a product of many hours of demanding practice by the nuns. The delicate swirls and elegant flourishes gave evidence of the loving care with which the address had been penned. How long he sat there with the envelope in his hand, he would never know for he was loath to open it and read his mother’s confession. But Sinclair McGregor had never been a coward. Even as a child when he had been forced to withstand his grandmother’s calculated cruelty, he had gone to his punishments without protest. He had learned early on that to cry was to endure a harsher chastisement, a longer period of duration, a heavier application of the peach tree switch to his naked backside. Now, he might well come to understand why those punishments had been so severe and delivered with such satisfaction. Slowly, he extracted the letter from the envelope, opened the yellowed parchment and had to squint to make out the hastily scrawled words emblazoned across the page. In direct contrast to the precise writing on the envelope, the missive itself seemed to have been thrown together with haste. It was all he could do to make out the salutation. With some effort, he stretched out his arm and turned up the lantern on the bedside table, casting away a small portion of the storm-swept shadows invading his room. Panting with pain, he dragged the lantern a bit closer—himself edging over in the bed a little more so the light would shine more brightly on the aged letter. A light sheen of sweat dotted his upper lip from what to him had been a Herculean effort as he settled back against the pillow and began to read.

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My dearest Matildie, I am writing this to you in the hope you will keep my secret and not tell it to another soul. I have all the trust in the world in you, dear friend, for there is no one else to whom I may turn in this hour of dire need. It has been no secret between you and me that I did not wish to marry Devon McGregor. Good man that he is and loving father to our sons that he has been, he was not my choice of mate. The wedding was my father’s idea as you well know, and it caused a terrible rift between my parents. She will never forgive him nor will I. Matildie, I dread telling you this for fear of losing both your friendship and your respect, but I have to tell someone else. There is no one here at WindLass to whom I may confide. Leastways, no one who would understand as well as you. Please try not to think too badly of me when you read what I have done. With heavy heart and trembling hand, I confess to you my sin. There is a man here in Savannah to whom I lost my heart long ago. He is all that I have ever wanted in a companion and he has shown me he cares for me just as deeply as I care for him. We tried for years to ignore our passion for one another, but—try as hard as we did—it came to fruition in that little cabin on the road between Willow Glen and WindLass. It happened only the once, for we both realized there were too many people who would be hurt by our illicit liaison.” Sinclair looked up from the letter. The cabin on the road between Willow Glen and WindLass? he questioned. The cabin his grandmother had instructed he use? How fitting, he mused, his eyes darkening, to send him to live where he had been conceived. With a muscle jumping in his jaw, he returned to his mother’s words. A part of me died that day, Matildie. After a lifetime of watching this wonderful man and aching to feel his arms around me, I had to bid him farewell and watch him ride back to his own wife and child. Despite all the bad things I have been told about him, I know his love for me is as true and eternal as mine is for him. I shall love him ‘til the day I die. Like mother, like son, Sinclair thought. She had had her unrequited love as he had had his own. It was history repeating itself. I have always known Devon has had his own “relationships” outside our marriage bed. He is taken with one particular Negro woman who works at Willow Glen. There is never a Sunday that passes he does not sneak off from my mother’s house to visit this pagan siren down in the still. As for as I know, he is her only lover and she is not infected with some vile disease. As long as that remains the case, I wish him well of her, for it is all I can do to abide his touch. I am telling you this so you will not think my husband entirely free of guilt in what I have done. “If you had shown him affection, Mother,” Sinclair whispered to the dead woman, “perhaps he would not have resorted to the arms of a mistress.”

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But Devon’s relationship notwithstanding, I fear there was a consequence of my own indiscretion and now it has come back to haunt me. It was never my intention that anyone learn of what happened that day in the cabin, but somehow or another, my mother has either gleaned the truth from careful inspection or else has surmised what happened perhaps from the way I find myself looking at the gentleman in question. How she learned is perhaps not as important in this as what she did with the knowledge. Sinclair could well imagine his grandmother’s reaction to learning her daughter had committed adultery. He remembered being forced to sit at the old woman’s feet as she lectured him about the consequences of bodily sin. It was a wonder he had not been mentally scarred by her Fundamentalist attitude. Mother sent word to me that she wanted to see me at Willow Glen immediately. My sister Letty has been ill for several weeks and I feared she had taken a turn for the worse. I flew to Willow Glen, scared out of my wits for dear Letty, only to find her up and about, though possessing a fearful look. She informed me our mother was in high dudgeon and pleaded with me to be very careful in my discourse with her. It was with some trepidation that I knocked on the door of Mother’s sitting room. Her strained voice long before I saw her angry face gave me pause, I assure you. He knew that strained voice very well, indeed, Sinclair thought. There was a tone of voice his grandmother used often that could make the servants tremble before her even when she was not shouting. It was the timbre in that hateful voice, the way the old woman pronounced each word that could cut just as sharply as any knife. I was told to sit and not to speak when I entered the room. With my spine straight, hands folded in my lap, ankles crossed demurely, for that is the proper way one must sit when in the presence of my mother, I was made to bear the whiplash of her tongue as she began a tirade that had me in silent tears before she was through. He could picture his diminutive mother sitting there, cringing before the waspish sting of his grandmother’s wrath. In his mind’s eye, he could see the crystal tears easing down her pale cheeks and the tremulous movement of her lips. His own hand clenched the letter tightly in unconscious imitation of the grip his poor mother’s hands must have made against one another that day. There was no preamble to my mother’s accusations, Matildie. She simply stated that she knew I had sinned with a man of our acquaintance and that I had borne a child of that adulterous union. Aye, Matildie. There was a son born of that glorious moment when my love and I were joined—if not in the eyes of God and man, but in our hearts. Can you not guess which of my sons it was?

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How long had his grandmother known? Sinclair wondered. He lowered the letter and tried to remember just when it was that the old woman had begun to show her active dislike of him. There had been a time when she had held him, bumped him on her knee—he could still remember that, although he didn’t know how he possibly could. He had to have been very young—three? Four? His earliest memory of her wrath directed at him had come only a few days before his parents’ untimely death so she couldn’t have known for very long. Despite the viciousness of my mother’s verbal attack on me, the brutal slap that knocked me from the settee, I would not admit to her the name of my child’s father. How she knew, I have no idea, but I would neither confirm nor deny her when she said his name. It was not until she threatened my child that I found the backbone I had lost ten years earlier when I was forced to marry Dev. “He is a child of Satan” my mother accused. “Born of the adulterous sin of a heathen father and a whorish mother! He should be smothered in his sleep and buried in the unhallowed ground from which the little devil sprang!” Horrified at my own mother’s words, I somehow fastened onto the courage to stand up and flee the room, ignoring her ranting as she followed behind me. I can still hear her snarls of fury as she condemned my poor, sinless child for the crime his father and I had committed. “The sins of the father will be visited upon the child,” my mother insisted as I made haste to climb into the buggy I had driven to Willow Glen, myself. “The bible says, ‘Condemn the wicked and punish him for his conduct. 1 Kings 8:32!’” I yelled at her that my son had done nothing, that he was blameless of what had transpired between his natural father and me. It was a wonder no one heard us that day, but there was not a solitary servant in sight. As I took up the reins to the buggy, Mother stepped in front of the horse and stared at me with a hatred so virulent, I was taken aback. In a voice filled with venom, she said, “The High Priest tore his robes and said, ‘What further need do we have of witnesses? You have heard the blasphemy. What is your verdict?’ They all concurred in the verdict ‘guilty’, with its sentence of death.” “What are you saying?” I asked her, my heart pounding and the chill of her smile made my blood run cold. “He is the devil’s spawn and you have rightly named him after that which you have transgressed against Our Lord and Savior. Because of what you have done, you unrepentant harlot, the child will know great suffering!” She stepped back, folding her arms as she glared at me, and her parting words took away my breath. “The adulteress shall be put to death. Leviticus 20:10. Since you have utterly spurned the Lord by this deed, the child born to you must surely die. 2 Samuel 12:14. That is the Word of the Lord!”

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I could not get away from her fast enough. I drove like a maniac, fear for my precious Sinny uppermost in my mind. When I reached WindLass, I ran in search of Devon, terrified of what my mother might well do to my son, what she might say to hurt him. I had to stop this evil as best I could. “But you didn’t stop it, Mama,” Sinclair whispered, his eyes filling with tears. “All you did was bring about your own death.” He could barely finish the third page of the letter for his heart was breaking and his soul numb as he realized his mother had tried her best to protect him from her own mother’s wrath. Devon was stunned by the revelation of my sin and before I could finish, had swooped down on me and added his own fiery imprint to my cheek where my mother had placed hers. Immediately contrite, he gathered me into his arms, holding me to him so tightly I could hear the thunder of his chest. We cried, both striving to forgive the other—he, my adultery and I, his heavy hand. Long into the afternoon we spoke and at long last vowed not to speak of it again. Dev insisted on confronting Mother and warning her not to bandy this tale about. He did not ask to know the name of my lover and—in all honesty—I did not think to confess the thing. Now, I wish I ‘d told him before she did. He left just before supper and was gone long past the midnight hour. When he entered the room we shared, he smelled strongly of drink and was clearly the worse for having imbibed a vast amount of the brew. Without preamble, he fell upon me and took me with a devilish intent that left me bruised and aching. Not one word passed his lips, but there was no need. His body punished mine and that was what he had intended. With the dawn, I awoke to find him standing at the window, fully dressed and with a sharp frown on his face. He turned to look at me and when he did, I felt the chill of his anger. “Get up and get dressed, wife,” he commanded. “You will accompany me into town.” I dared not disobey and was quick with my toilet. He is waiting below, having been waylaid by an unannounced visit by our neighbor, Mr. B. Carlton. Matildie, I do not know why I feel compelled to write to you, but I could not deflect the need. Forgive the sprawl of my words and any misspellings you may find. Know this is the musing of a woman in torment and who can well imagine why she is to accompany her husband into town. Sinclair lowered the letter once more. “You were going to disinherit me, weren’t you, Papa?” he whispered, knowing full well that had been the case. After learning the child he had thought of his own belonged to a man he detested, it would be the natural thing to do. “What made you change your mind?” Poor Sinclair! He is the innocent in this. Through no fault of his did he come into this world. He is my favorite—and if truth be told—Devon’s favorite as well. 244

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How this knowledge will affect my poor child, I can not begin to guess. Dev has assured me he will not take my sin out on the boy, but how can I be sure? If my own mother, the boy’s own grandmother, can wish him such evil, how then might the man who he believes is his father eventually react knowing now I have deceived him so wickedly? Will there come a day when he will torment Sinclair with this knowledge? I pray not, but I cannot be certain that will not be the case. I intend to talk most earnestly with him on the trip into Savannah. Perhaps I can deflect him from the course he has set. I am heartsick, Matildie, as I sit here. Please add my son and me to your nightly prayers. I fear we are in need of Divine protection. More than you knew, Mama, Sinclair thought. There was no doubt in his mind though, who was responsible for his parents’ death. As angry as his father no doubt was, he would not have killed the woman he loved. Forgive me for unburdening myself on you, old friend, but I believe you will understand. I have one request that I hope you will think long and hard upon before denying. I hesitate to ask, but there is no one else to whom I might turn. He knew what was coming, but seeing the words only made the tears lurking in his dark eyes fall gently down his cheeks. Should anything happen to me, would you please come and take Sinclair to live with you? I know it is a lot to ask and might well be a terrible burden for you, but you are the only one I would trust with my precious child’s life. I fear Mother would insist that Devon allow her to raise him and that I could not countenance. Please come and get him and raise him with your wonderful Jamie. I would not worry about him then, and would know he would be safe and lovingly cared for by you. I… The letter ended there and Sinclair correctly surmised his father—or the man he had thought was his father—must have called for his mother. In her hurry to seal the letter, she had folded the letter haphazardly and one page had torn at the top right corner. She must have sealed the letter to keep it safe from prying eyes and given it to a trusted servant to mail for her. By late afternoon, both she and her husband were dead. A quiet knock on the door drew Sinclair’s attention from the letter. “Come in,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. Matildie came in, a questioning look on her lined face. “I’ve read it,” he whispered, reaching up to wipe away the telltale moisture trailing down his cheeks.

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The old woman nodded then turned to leave. He asked that she stay, but she told him she wouldn’t be long and was gone before he could speak again. When she returned, she brought with her a tin cup. “Here, lad,” she said gently, extending the cup to him. “Drink.” He didn’t question her, but meekly took the cup of bitter liquid and drained it, barely wincing at the taste for he was growing accustomed to the bite of laudanum. Matildie sat on the bed, gathered him into her arms and held him, crooning softly as the narcotic took full effect. She smoothed the hair back from his brow and absorbed his sobs as they broke quietly. “I don’t want you to think I didn’t try to do what your mama asked of me, son,” the old woman said. “I made the trip home and went to see Gracie, but she wouldn’t let me take you back with me, Sinny. She threatened to have the sheriff arrest me if’n I didn’t get the hell off’n her property. I had no choice. I had to leave you there. I am sorry, lad. Truly I am.” He could hear the elderly woman talking to him, even understood her gentle words, but nothing mattered now. All he wanted to do was sleep. And forget.

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Chapter Twenty-Eight It had been a month since Sinclair had awakened to find himself an unexpected guest of Leonie Emerson’s great aunt. In that time, he had gained back all the weight he had lost since heading off to war. Despite his protests to the contrary, he didn’t mind the extra fifteen pounds he’d put back on and the slight double chin under his thick brown beard was fairly well hidden. “If I stay another week, I won’t be able to fit into these clothes, Miss Tildie,” he told the old woman a few days after New Year’s as she watched him buttoning his shirt. “You needed to add some fat to that skinny frame of yours, boy,” Matildie snorted. “I don’t like my men so thin.” “You sure you won’t come back with me to Savannah for a visit?” he inquired, reaching for the gun belt Matildie had retrieved for him. As he slung it low across his lean hips and shot the buckle, he saw her frown. “What’s wrong?” “That reminds me,” she said. She fished in her apron pocket and pulled out a sealed envelope. “This came for you a while back, but I forgot all about it.” That wasn’t exactly the truth, she thought, but at the moment it didn’t matter. She’d long since steamed the envelope open and knew its contents. Sinclair took the envelope, glanced at her then ran his thumb along the seal. The old woman had hoped he wouldn’t notice it had already been opened and he didn’t. She watched his face as he read the telegram from his cousin Conor. “Bad news?” she inquired. He read the telegram again then put the page back in the envelope, folded it and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “You tell me,” he responded. “You read it.” “I most certainly did not!” Matildie sputtered, coming to a halt when he looked at her, one thick brown brow raised in challenge. She clamped her lips shut and shrugged nonchalantly. “Didn’t want you gettin’ no more bad news,” she finished as though that was explanation enough. And apparently it was. He let the matter drop. “You didn’t answer me,” he said. “You gonna come with me or not?” He bent over and plucked his hat from the foot post of the bed. “Maybe I’ll come ‘round Eastertide,” she replied. “If’n it ain’t all that cold.” She eyed him carefully. “Surely I’ll come when the bairn is brought home.” He nodded in acknowledgment. “I’ll look forward to it.” Matildie cocked her head to one side. “Me coming or your bairn being brought home?”

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Sinclair settled the black hat on his head, tugged down the brim and then looked at her, his hands on his hips. “The child isn’t to blame for this, Tildie. I have no intention of allowing my son or daughter to suffer the same hurt I did. Evangeline couldn’t possibly know that she and I are—” He stopped, lowering his head—not in shame, but in an attempt to calm himself. He stood there for a moment and when he finally looked up, his face was carefully blank and without hint of emotion. “I’m not looking forward to telling her.” Matildie could well understand that. He had not wanted to discuss his relationship with Evangeline Delacroix. When she had broached the subject, he had cut her off firmly. At first she thought it had to be immense guilt that had frozen his lips on the subject, but then she began to realize it wasn’t guilt but savage anger. Anger directed solely toward his grandmother. “If I never see that bitch again, it will be too soon,” was the last thing he’d said concerning his grandmother and Matildie had let it rest at that. “At least that Cullen fella won’t be causing you no trouble for a time,” Matildie stated, nodding toward the telegram. “Lucky thing for your family he got caught trying to rob that there banking fella.” Sinclair snorted. “He may be in prison at the moment, Tildie, but he won’t be there forever.” He shifted his left hand to the butt of his holstered gun. Aye, Matildie thought, and the day that sonny boy walked out of prison was the day Sinclair McGregor would go hunting for him. Her frown returned. “You remember you got something to live for now, son,” she reminded him. “A little something you didn’t have when you set out to find that man.” “I’ll be around to teach him how to shoot the feathers off a jaybird, Tildie,” he scoffed. Matildie sniffed. “Won’t do to be teaching a girl-child that.” “I don’t know,” he replied. “Sometimes I think a woman needs to know how to take care of herself just like a man.” He thought of his beloved Ivonne and the rape that had made it impossible for the two of them to be together. Had Ivonne shot Edward Delacroix the day he had savaged her at the lake, she and Sinclair might well be together now instead of her in her grave and him mourning her. Matildie saw the dark emotion come and go across Sinclair’s handsome face and couldn’t help but wonder what had caused his warm eyes to turn cold and his sensual lips to harden into thin slits. “I’d best be going,” she heard him say, and stood up from her rocker. “You’ll be careful?” she asked. He went to her, gathered her gently into his strong arms and rested his cheek atop her wiry white hair. “Yes, ma’am. I most certainly will.” He tucked his index finger under her chin, lifted her face up to his and planted a soft kiss on her wrinkled brow, her nose then finally her chapped lips. At her fiery blush, he chuckled and touched the

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tip of her nose with his finger. “You brazen hussy, making me do that,” he accused, his brows wagging. “Shame on you.” “Godawful flirt,” Matildie mumbled, and she wasn’t speaking of herself. She followed behind him to the door, watching as surprised as Nell and Vonda were to see him stoop down to kiss the black women’s cheeks. “Thank you, ladies, for taking such good care of me.” Nell threw her apron over the lower part of her face, her eyes twinkling, and giggling, ran back into the kitchen. Vonda, on the other hand, stood were she was, her massive build quivering as she silently bawled. It wasn’t every day a man as nice as Mr. Sin came along. There was a touch of sleet in the air when Sinclair walked out to the stable to saddle his horse. The gelding wasn’t too happy to be pulled away from his hay and let his protest show in the reluctant drag of his hooves. As he swung the saddle over his mount, Sinclair cocked his head toward Matildie. “When do you think the babe will arrive?” “Near’s I can figure, somewhere’s around the middle of spring,” Matildie replied. He stopped, his hand on the cinch. “You don’t think she’ll have any trouble, do you?” He knew enough about delivering horses and cows to know there could be complications. Matildie contemplated whether to tell him the truth or not, but from the look on his face, she reckoned he understood there could be risks. “First births and one’s to women the age of your bairn’s mama take a goodly while,” she answered. He thought about that for a moment then turned to tug hard on the cinch. “I wish you’d tell me where she went. I should be there.” “Didn’t want you there,” Matildie reminded him. It certainly wouldn’t do to have him hunt the two women down only to find out it wasn’t his wife but Leonie who was having his child. “I told you.” “I know,” he snapped, a little angry with the old woman. “All the same, I have a right to be there.” “Normally, I would agree with you, but you ain’t taken into consideration just what you need to do afore that bairn comes home,” Matildie said slyly. “Do?” he repeated, his foot in the stirrup. “If’n you don’t want that poor bairn to go through what you went through, you’d best make damned sure that old witch ain’t gonna try to cause it no problems.” “I’ll strangle her with my own two hands if she tries!” Sinclair swore. He swung himself up into the saddle. “I’ve endured all I intend to endure at my grandmother’s hands.” “You let the Lord deal with the likes of her, Sinclair. Do you hear me?” Matildie advised.

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His eyes softened. “Yes, ma’am, I hear you. You take care of yourself, Miss Tildie,” he asked. “You too, boy. You too.” Matildie had to dig her nails into her palms to keep from crying. She managed to smile as he tugged at his hat brim in respect and turned his mount’s head to the roadway. She stood on her front porch and watched him kick the horse into a light canter, throwing up a hand to bid her good-bye as the horse’s pace increased. “May the Wind be always at your back, son!” she called after him. The old woman watched until she could no longer see him. Sniffing, she dragged her shirtsleeve over her eyes then turned to go inside, praying as hard as she could that nothing would ever hurt Maeve’s boy again.

***** Conor grunted with relief when the big gelding came prancing up the lane to the plantation house. He looked to heaven, said a silent prayer of thanksgiving, a quick Hail Mary then stepped down to the oyster shell driveway to meet his returning cousin. “You sure know how to make a person age, cuz!” Conor grumbled. “Things look none the worse for you having been the one to look after them,” Sinclair returned as he reined in. He bent forward, resting his crossed wrists on the saddle horn. “Everything’s still standing and I don’t see a ‘For Sale’ sign on the front door.” “Bastard,” Conor snorted. “Do you know how worried we were about you?” “We as in you, Tina, Lee and Brenny?” Sinclair asked. Conor nodded. “Tina’s gonna have your hide.” “She’s welcome to it,” Sinclair returned, straightening up and throwing a leg over his horse’s head before sliding to the ground. “It ain’t worth much, but she can have it if she’s inclined.” He tossed his reins to a small black boy hovering close by and winked at the child. “Welcome home, massah,” the little boy said shyly then led the horse away. “Can’t seem to break them of that habit,” Conor sighed. “It just don’t sound right somehow, you know?” “Aye,” Sinclair agreed, looking after the child. “Well, you gonna stand out here all day or are we gonna go inside and find us some of that expensive French spit old Eddie was hoarding away?” Conor inquired. Sinclair’s jaw clenched at the mention of the man who had taken this land away from his family. He looked up at the house, not having set foot inside it since the day he left for the war. “Sin?” Conor queried.

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“Aye,” Sinclair said. “Let’s go in and drink every damned bottle the son of a bitch bought!” “I don’t know that Tina would like that,” Conor quipped, “but we can make a dent in the collection.” He threw his arm around Sinclair and hugged him. “Just don’t tell Grandmother. She wouldn’t like it one little bit.” Sinclair turned so he could take his cousin’s shoulders in a firm grip. “I want to make something clear right here, right now, Conor James,” he said, his eyes locked with Conor’s. “That woman is not welcome on this land, in this house, or in my life or the life of my wife and child.” He shook Conor. “Do you understand that?” “Child?” Conor echoed. The rest of what Sinclair said hadn’t really registered, but the part about the child had. He hadn’t paid all that much attention to the servants’ gossip concerning Evangeline’s state of health, but now he realized that what Bossie had reported to him might well be true. “Child?” he asked again. Sinclair released his cousin. “She’s due in the spring,” he replied without inflection in his voice or expression on his bearded face. “Holy Mary, Mother of God!” Conor whispered. “You, a father?” “Well, it’s no worse than you being one,” Sinclair grunted. At Conor’s happy grin, Sinclair arched a brow. “You’re joking!” “Nope,” Conor said, shaking his head. “We’re figuring sometime in April.” “I’m thirsty,” Sinclair said. “We gonna get pickled or what?” “Aye,” Conor agreed. “We are!” From her place in the front parlor where she had been dusting the pianoforte her beloved Ivonne had so enjoyed playing, Silky Benedict watched the two cousins stomp down the hall and into the study. Her cinnamon-brown eyes sharpened with ire and the burnt umber hand holding the dusting cloth tightened. The black woman’s inconsolable grief had made the other servants wary of her and the majority of them left her alone. She came and went as she pleased since there was no one there to deny her. They all wondered what would happen to their dead mistress’s maid when Mrs. McGregor returned to WindLass. Silky walked out into the hallway, her lips clamped tightly together as she heard the hearty laughter coming from the study. She stood there, gripping the dust cloth fiercely in her hands, twisting it viciously as the laughter rang out once more then she stepped back into the front parlor and quietly shut the door.

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Chapter Twenty-Nine His hair was white, but thick and lustrous. He was tall and possessed broad shoulders, lean flanks and a flat belly. His broad face was given to smiling and when he did, his dark brown eyes danced with good humor. As he spoke to his workers, his English was heavily accented with the French influence and speckled with the occasional Cajun patois word or two—the most commonly heard expression being “Mon Dieu!” Sitting upon a big gray stallion as he watched pine logs being loaded onto the barge that would take them down the Savannah River to the sea, Jean-Claude Delacroix was a very imposing man. Sinclair reined in his mount a few hundred feet from the pulp wood operation Delacroix ran and sat watching the man. It wasn’t his intention to speak to Delacroix, he just wanted to get a look at the man who had been half the equation of his existence. Even from the distance at which he sat, Sinclair realized he would have to have been blind not to notice the striking resemblance between him and his mother’s lover. He wondered how many others had compared the two and turned a blind eye to the obvious relation. Why, he wondered, as he sat there, had no one ever mentioned to him the possibility that he was this man’s son? Had Edward known? If he had, that would explain the brutal animosity Delacroix’s son had always exhibited toward Sinclair. But all during the time the two boys were growing up, Edward never once hinted at there being a connection between them. If he had known, he had taken that ugly knowledge with him to the grave. Sinclair tried to remember a time when he had reason to converse with Jean-Claude Delacroix, but for the life of him, he could not remember even once when he had done so. Never having been invited to Belle Rivière, the Delacroix family home, Sinclair had never had reason to be in the man’s company. Looking back on it, he thought of the occasions when he had accompanied his grandmother to Savannah and Delacroix had shown up at the same time. The old woman had bustled them out of town quickly, her scathing words condemning the “heathenish ways of certain transgressors” making her grandson wonder what terrible crimes the man could have committed to make his grandmother so angry. As he grew older, he thought perhaps it was because JeanClaude Delacroix was very wealthy and his grandmother despised anyone with more wealth than herself. A shrewd businessman with a head for enterprise, Delacroix had extended his holdings from a good-sized plantation to numerous profitable ventures that seemed blessed by the gods of commerce—whatever he touched, thrived. Scraping by as they were, Sinclair’s grandmother must have envied Delacroix almost as much as she hated

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him. And when the man’s son had been able to buy the home in which she had been living since Sinclair was eight years old right out from under her that envy and hatred had mushroomed. Which made Sinclair wonder why his grandmother had advised Ivonne, her grandson’s fiancée, to marry the son of a man she loathed. “To hurt you,” a voice whispered to him on the breeze. Sinclair closed his eyes and tried hard to push that invading thought from his mind. So hard was he concentrating on doing just that, he failed to hear the arrival of the horseman until the man was no less than twenty feet away. Glancing up with surprise, he looked into a version of his face, twenty some odd years into the future. “Bonjour, Sinclair,” Jean-Claude Delacroix said softly. “Comment allez-vous?” Sinclair swallowed before he could speak. “Bein, merci, et vous?” Jean-Claude shrugged. “Comme se, comme sa.” He smiled gently. “Qu’y a-t-il pour votre service?” What can I do for you? Sinclair translated in his mind. His French was rusty, yet he understood the words well enough. He was trying to remember how to phrase an explanation of his lack of expertise in the language when Jean-Claude solved the problem for him. “Who told you?” Sinclair would later swear he felt a heavy thud go through his chest at those three simple words. From the look on Delacroix’s face, he knew perfectly well why his visitor was there. But there was no accusation in those three words. No condemnation that Sinclair might have been at least partially responsible for Edward’s death. No animosity whatsoever. Just gentle curiosity. He had to look away from those eyes so like his own before he could reply. “Matildie O’Brien. She was Matildie Emerson.” Jean-Claude’s head came up at the mention of the last surname. “Ah, qui. I remember her. A most formidable baby-sitter, I can assure you!” Sinclair looked back at him and saw laughter lurking in the man’s gaze. “Aye?” “Aye,” Jean-Claude repeated, rolling his eyes. For a moment, neither man spoke then Jean-Claude climbed down from his mount and tied its reins to a nearby live oak sapling. “Would you walk with me, monsieur?” he inquired. Sinclair dismounted, tied up his own mount and fell into step beside Delacroix as that man made his way toward the riverbank a few hundred yards away. “We are to have a cold snap this evening,” Delacroix commented as he thrust his hands into the pockets of his sheepskin jacket. “I hate the cold.” “I was in New York before the war and it snowed heavily one night. I remember thinking it wasn’t nearly as cold up there as it can be down here when the temperatures drop,” Sinclair replied. 253

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“It is our blood, mon fils,” Delacroix sighed. “It is thin and easily chilled.” Mon fils. My son, Sinclair thought. A simple endearment this man might speak to any man younger than himself. He wondered if Delacroix had spoken the words unconsciously or deliberately. As they reached the riverbank, they stood watching the barge being loaded and were content to let the silence play itself out. Each was very conscious of the other, but neither knew how to open the conversation they both knew they had to have. “I tried to stop the wedding,” Jean-Claude said at last. “I knew Ivonne did not love Edward.” The older man hunched down into the warmth of his coat. “Everyone knew how she felt about you.” There seemed nothing to say to that so Sinclair remained quiet. He was enjoying listening to the deep, heavily accented voice speaking to him and was surreptitiously studying Delacroix’s profile, a carbon copy of his own. “When I learned she was enceinte, I understood, of course.” Sinclair turned so he could look directly at Delacroix. A deep sadness had entered the man’s voice. “You know about the rape?” he inquired and saw the other man flinch. “Oui,” came the whisper. Delacroix closed his eyes. “My son was not an honorable man. I had known that long before, but I would never have imagined him capable of such evil.” It had to be said. “If I had been here, I would have killed him, Monsieur Delacroix.” A slow nod was the older man’s acknowledgment of those words. “One of you killing the other was something I feared all your lives,” he sighed heavily. It had to be asked. “Did he know?” Sinclair tore his gaze from the other man. “That you were his brother?” Delacroix inquired gently. “No, he did not know.” It had to be mentioned. “And Evangeline, does she know?” “Non, mon Deux, non!” Delacroix cried out, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut. “Quelle horreur!” He drew his hands from his pocket and covered his face. “My wife nearly went insane when Edward died. She loved Ivonne very much, but the circumstances of her only child’s death affected her so greatly, I knew she could not remain here should a jury sentence Ivonne to death. I took Marie to Roberte to stay with her sister—she will be there until I go back for her in the summer. “I did not learn of what had happened to Ivonne until after my return and was horrified that such a thing could occur. Yet the most horrible news was yet to come when I learned that Evangeline, with whom I do not share a close relationship, had married you. When I learned what that evil old woman had done, what she had allowed to take place, I could have strangled her!” The lower part of his face covered with his fingers, he turned to Sinclair. “I raced to Willow Glen. I had to make her tell me where the two of you had gone. She would not receive me and when I tried to gain entrance, your cousins threw me out. Did they not tell you this?”

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“Conor told me, but he didn’t know why you were there. He thought it was because you hadn’t wanted Vangie to marry me because of how Edward had died.” “Vangie,” Delacroix echoed, his face filled with pain. “Mon Deux, the burden of this lies on me.” He beat a fist against his chest. “On me!” Sinclair shook his head. “No, monsieur, it lies solely upon my grandmother. She knew Evangeline and I were…kin.” He couldn’t say brother and sister. “She knew and yet she made it impossible for either of us to do anything but join.” At that word, Delacroix seemed to crumble in on himself. His look was stricken, ill. “Have you…? Did you…?” There was no sense in prolonging the inevitable. “The marriage was consummated, aye,” Sinclair told him. “Mon Deux!” Delacroix gasped, his face turning pale. “I had hoped it would be a marriage of convenience only—that it would not have been consummated!” He forgot himself and reached out to grab Sinclair’s arm. “Forgive me, mon fils! Forgive me for never having the courage to come to you and tell you the truth!” There was nothing to forgive. It was not this man’s fault that one of the worst sins of nature had been allowed to happen because of one old woman’s simmering hatred. “I hold no blame for you, monsieur,” Sinclair replied. “No doubt you were honoring my mother by your silence.” “I loved her,” Delacroix stated. “With all my heart I loved your mother. I would never have allowed even one shred of gossip touch her name.” “I believe that,” Sinclair answered. “What are we to do, mon fils?” Delacroix groaned. “If news of your relationship to Evangeline gets out, your lives will be ruined!” “If I know her, that’s what my grandmother is counting on will happen,” Sinclair said through clenched teeth. “She’s already threatened me.” Delacroix’s dark eyes flashed demonic fire. “How? How has she threatened you, mon fils?” “I’ve been back about a week now, and she’s sent word every day for me to come see her. This morning, I received a letter warning me if I weren’t there by the midday meal, she would make me sorry I wasn’t. I sent word back to her to leave me alone— that I had no intention of ever stepping foot in Willow Glen again until she was dead. With the gauntlet thrown back in her face, it’s only a matter of time before she herself ventures onto WindLass land, and when she does, I intend to meet her on the road and let her know she is not welcome on McGregor land and never will be again.” “Delacroix land,” Jean-Claude corrected. “You are a Delacroix as much as a McGregor.” Sinclair held the older man’s gaze for a long time, looking into a face so much like his own it was eerie, then nodded slowly. “Aye, I guess I am.”

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“If it were not for this situation,” Delacroix waved his hand in frustration and helplessness, “I would claim you to the world.” “I understand,” Sinclair replied. “But you have to be prepared in case my grandmother decides to wreck her vengeance by letting it be known that Evangeline and I are…kin.” He still could not make himself say the words. How would he ever be able tell Evangeline if he couldn’t force the words from his lips. As though reading his son’s mind, Delacroix reached out once more and put his hands on Sinclair’s shoulders. “Perhaps there is a way for me to atone for the sin I committed long ago against Devon McGregor.” He took a deep breath. “Do you wish for me to tell your sister this? I think it must come from me, not you. There is no question the marriage must be annulled.” “It’s too late,” Sinclair said quietly. “You have fallen in love with her?” Delacroix whispered. His eyes grew sad and melancholy. “I believe you will understand, monsieur, when I tell you there will be only one woman in my life whom I will ever love and she is no longer here,” Sinclair answered. “Qui,” Delacroix said on a long breath. “I know précisément what you mean, mon fils.” He smiled wanly. “Please call me Jean-Claude. Monsieur sounds so formal. I would prefer mon Père, but that is not to be, eh?” “I don’t know that I can ever do that,” Sinclair replied. Delacroix pulled the collar of his coat closer against his throat for a chill wind had blown up from the river. “So, do I go to her and tell her? The sooner, the better, non?” Sinclair looked away. “I would appreciate it because I don’t think I can.” He bit his lip then turned back to his father. “But it’ll have to wait until she comes home.” A frown drew Delacroix’s thick brows together. “She is not at WindLass? Where is she?” “I have no idea,” Sinclair stated. “Matildie wouldn’t tell me where she and Leonie went.” “Leonie?” Delacroix questioned, even more confused. “Leonie Emerson? Why are they together? I do not understand this.” Sinclair inhaled deeply, needing to get this over with. “Evangeline is going to have my child.” Delacroix’s eyes flared wide and his mouth dropped open as he gaped at his son. He stood there like that for a long while then a hard shudder went through him and he stumbled away. He went to a rock beside the river and sat down forcefully, a small grunt of disbelief coming from him like a blast of hot air from hell. All he could do was stare at Sinclair. His mouth opened and closed, but no words would come out. Finally, his shoulders slumped and he groaned miserably.

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Sinclair walked to him, hunkered down before him and put his hands on the older man’s knees. “There’s nothing we can do about it now. The harm’s already been done. As you say, there is no question of Evangeline and me continuing to live as husband and wife. But an annulment is impossible and divorce is out of the question.” “Why?” Delacroix questioned, shivering. “Because the moment I file those papers, my grandmother will tell the world about the relationship between Evangeline and myself. I don’t give a damned pig’s ass what people think of me and I doubt Vangie would care either, but I’ll not have our child the object of scorn and ridicule for something he could not help!” Delacroix hung his head. “And now you know why you were never told about your mother and me,” he said. “Papa,” Sinclair said, shocking the older man, whose head shot up. “Help me destroy Grace Vivienne Brell.” His hands tightened on his father’s knees. “Help me make it impossible for her to tell anyone about Evangeline’s relationship to me.” “How?” Delacroix covered his son’s hands with his own. “What can we do to stop her?” “She’s counting on a child of this unholy union,” Sinclair grated. “That was one of the prerequisites of the joining. Once a child is born and Evangeline deeds WindLass over to that child, she and I are free to go our separate ways. She thinks to take control of the child.” “Take control of WindLass at the same time,” Delacroix stated with a sneer. “As she did with you.” “Aye,” Sinclair agreed, “but if Evangeline places WindLass into a trust for our child, making you the trustee of the trust, grandmother won’t be able to touch it should anything happen to either me or Evangeline.” “You think that is her intent?” Delacroix was quick to ask. “Do you think her daughter’s death was an accident?” Delacroix shook his head fiercely. “Non, I never did, but it could never be proven that it was not!” Sinclair’s gaze grew hard and locked on his father’s. “Do you believe for one moment she would hesitate to rid herself of me if I got in her way?” “Non, I believe she is evil enough to murder you with her own hands,” Delacroix replied. “But how will this help the situation? If we make her angry by placing WindLass out of her reach, will she not retaliate by spreading the truth about you and your sister?” “Not if there is a clause in the trust which states if word of the child’s paternity ever becomes public knowledge, WindLass and the entire estate will revert back to the Delacroix family.” Sinclair’s voice grew intense. “Grandmother wants WindLass back in McGregor hands and that will happen—I want my son or daughter to inherit what is rightfully theirs. Grace Vivienne wants to live there again, but I will damned sure

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disabuse her of that notion! Until the lands are back in her family, she won’t be satisfied, but she’ll think twice about letting something slip that will lose the lands for the McGregors forever.” Delacroix thought about it for a moment then grinned. “You are a devious man, mon fils.” “I am a mean man, mon Père,” Sinclair laughed, giving in to the need to call this man father.

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Chapter Thirty Grace Vivienne Brell was about to learn just how mean she had made her grandson. Sitting primly in the buggy as her grandson Leland drove her to WindLass, the old woman was furious. So furious that Rory Sinclair had ignored her repeated commands to present himself to her that she had gouged grooves into the backs of her heavily veined hands. Her spine straight as an arrow and her lips pursed so tightly together there was a white line above and below them, the matriarch was seething with vicious rage and heartily looking forward to reducing her recalcitrant grandson to a quivering mass of subjugation. Leland could feel his grandmother’s icy stare riveted on his back and wished he’d had the opportunity to warn Sin they were coming. Ever since he’d learned his cousin had returned to WindLass, Lee had been trying to get over to see him but there never seemed to be an opportunity until this morning when he had volunteered to drive their grandmother. Not only was he anxious to see Sinclair, he wanted to be there to at least try to act as a buffer between his grandmother and the man Lee felt sure the old witch had every intention of hurting any way she could. He’d often wondered about Sinclair’s childhood. Growing up at Willow Glen, Sin at WindLass with their grandmother, Leland had not been privy to the abuse heaped upon his cousin, but he had long suspected it. There had been telltale signs Sin had tried to conceal, yet Leland had seen the way his cousin winced when he sat down, limped when he walked, flinched when he leaned his back against something. When he had mentioned it to his mother, there had been a stern warning to mind his own business. “Rory Sinclair is a hardheaded boy and sometimes Mama needs to give him a talkin’-to.” Leland couldn’t help but wonder if those “talkin’-tos” his mother had spoken of had been rougher on Sinclair than anyone realized. “Who is that standing in the road, Leland?” the old woman asked, bringing her grandson’s mind back to the present. “Is that your cousin?” It was, indeed, Sinclair, Leland thought as he pulled back on the reins to slow the horse. What in God’s name was the man doing standing in the middle of the road? “Hey, Sin! You takin’ tolls out here or what?” Leland chuckled, halting the horse. Sinclair was blocking the road, standing with his legs apart, his arms folded across his chest. There was no answering smile, no expression at all on his face. His horse was grazing a few feet away, apparently uninjured.

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“You are always welcome here, Lee,” Sinclair said, his voice carefully devoid of inflection, “but she is not. Turn the buggy around and take that woman back to Willow Glen.” “That woman?” their grandmother gasped, sitting forward to clutch the back of the seat upon which Leland sat. “To whom do you think you are referring, young man?” Sinclair ignored her. His attention latched on Leland and there was steel in his voice when he said, “Turn the buggy around and leave. She is not welcome on my land.” “Your land?” Grace Vivienne shrieked, her shrill question scaring away a flock of scavenging birds in the bushes nearby. “Your land, boy?” She was fairly quivering with rage as she poked Leland in the back. “Help me down, Leland.” “No,” Sinclair denied, the one word as hard as granite as it dropped from his mouth. Leland tied the horse reins to the buggy’s footrest and got down clumsily, his wooden leg paining him and hobbled forward with a confused, worried look on his face. “What’s going on here, Sinclair?” He looked back at his grandmother. “She wants to talk to you.” Not once had Sinclair looked at Grace Vivienne. He was looking directly at Leland, his face cold and immobile. “There is nothing that woman can say that I wish to hear,” he ground out. “Get back in the buggy and take her back where she belongs.” “You listen here, young man!” their grandmother shouted. “I will not stand for this insufferable behavior. Leland, get over here and help me down.” “You do, Lee,” Sinclair promised, “and you will no longer be allowed at WindLass.” Leland’s eyebrows shot up into his thick blond hair. “You don’t mean that,” he said, searching the steely gaze staring back at him. He lowered his voice. “What the hell is happening here?” “Leland!” Grace Vivienne barked. “Come here!” “Get back in the buggy,” Sinclair repeated to his cousin, “and take that woman home. Now!” “Who do you think you are, Rory Sinclair McGregor?” his grandmother threw at him. “I will not stand for this disobedience. I demand you show me the respect I deserve!” “You don’t demand anything from me!” Sinclair said, his voice as brittle as glass. For the first time, his attention jerked from his cousin to the old woman. “You don’t have the right to demand anything from me! As for respect? It’ll be a cold day in hell before I ever show you anything but contempt from this day forward!” “How dare you speak to me in that manner!” his grandmother bellowed, her face as red as the Georgia clay around them. “You apologize this instant!” “Like hell I will. You want to talk, Grandmother?” Sinclair growled, pushing Leland aside and striding angrily to the buggy. He stopped about three feet away and

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glared up at her with hatred. “All right, how’s this for talking? You are not welcome on this land. You are not welcome in my home. If you step one foot on WindLass land ever again, I will have you arrested for trespassing.” Leland winced, his grandmother’s gasp of outrage scaring away another nest of birds. “Sinclair, you can’t be serious,” he said, limping up to his cousin and putting a calming hand on the younger man’s shoulder only to have his Sinclair shrug it away savagely. “I’ve never been more serious in my damned life, Leland Brell!” Sinclair shouted at Lee. “I will not have that bitch on my property!” “Now, see here, Sin—” Leland started, but his grandmother’s voice stopped him. “Si un homme prend sa soeur, fille de son père ou fille de sa mère, s’il voit sa nuditè et quelle voi la sienne, c’est une infamie; ils seront retranche’s sous les yeax des enfants de leur peuple! Lèvitique vingt: dix-sept.” Leland frowned, trying to make sense of the biblical passage his grandmother had just quoted. He’d never been that good at French and all he’d really understood was Leviticus 20:17 but, not being a biblical scholar any more than he was a language expert, it made no sense to him. What was she talking about? He made a mental note to look it up when he got back to Willow Glen. Obviously Sinclair understood her words though, for a tight, hateful smile pulled at his lips and he stepped closer to the buggy, his hands clenching into fists at his side. “And whose fault is it that I have sinned, Grandmother?” he spat, his eyes flashing. “Il a dècouvre la nuditè de sa soeur, il portera la pience de son pèchè!” Grace Vivienne flung at him, her face victorious. “You know,” Leland heard his cousin say in a low, throaty growl, “I’ve wondered all my life why you always called me by my full name—Rory Sinclair.” He cocked his head toward Leland. “Lee, C.J., Brenny, you never had any problem calling my cousins by their nicknames when you weren’t demanding something from them, but me—” he shrugged disdainfully “—me, you always used my full name.” He came as close to the buggy as he could go without climbing inside. “Now, I know, don’t I, Grandmother? Now, I know why you wouldn’t call me Sin.” “Because you were the devil’s spawn,” Grace Vivienne threw at him. “Child of Darkness, child of evil! Wicked, wicked child!” “No,” Sinclair responded, shaking his head. “I wasn’t a bad child. How could I be? Every chance you got you beat me until I bled. Until I could no longer stand up and when I fell down, you continued to hit me until some sick part of you was satisfied that you had crushed my spirit. But you know what? You never broke me. God knows you tried, but you never did and you never will!” Leland watched in shocked surprise as their grandmother leaned forward and slapped his cousin as hard as she could. The fiery imprint of her hand was emblazoned on Sinclair’s left cheek. With mouth hanging open, Leland was further astounded to see 261

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Sinclair turn his face and hear him say, “A celui qui te frappe sur une joue, prèsente encore l’autre. Sain’t Luc six: vingt et neuf.” Lee Brell had no trouble translating that. If a man strikes you on one cheek, turn to him the other. And he wasn’t surprised when his grandmother obliged Sinclair with a slap even more vicious than the first one. Sinclair’s head snapped to the side with the hit and when he slowly looked back at his grandmother and she tried to slap him again, he caught her wrist and held it, his lips drawn back over his teeth as he snarled at her. “That is the last time you will ever hit me, woman,” he spat, pulling her wrist downward and making her groan with the pain of it. “You’ve laid your hands on me for the last damned time!” “You are hurting me!” Grace Vivienne whimpered, trying to break free of her grandson’s grip. “Let her go, Sinclair,” Leland said, coming up to lay a restraining hand on his cousin’s taut shoulder. Sinclair squeezed the old woman’s wrist tightly, making her whine, then let it go, stepped back and ran his hand down his pant leg as though the contact with her had soiled him in some way. Before Leland could say anything, Sinclair turned on him. “Take her back to Willow Glen and don’t you or anyone else ever bring her back onto my property again, do you hear me?” Leland was becoming alarmed. “I wish you’d tell me why you are acting like this.” “Get her out of my sight, Brell!” Sinclair shouted, shoving Leland toward the buggy. “She is dead to me!” “All right!” Leland shouted back. He climbed painfully back into the buggy and took up the reins. “You will regret this day, Rory Sinclair,” Grace Vivienne threatened. “I promise you, you will and I do not make idle threats!” “Nor do I, old woman,” Sinclair snarled. “And if you do what you’re thinking of doing, the McGregors or Brells will never again have title to WindLass plantation.” Grace Vivienne’s chin came up. “I have it in writing that any child born of that vile coupling between you and Evangeline Delacroix will inherit WindLass. There is nothing you can do!” “Aye,” Sinclair cut her off. “You have that in writing and there is a child from our coupling already on the way.” Triumph blazed in his grandmother’s hard eyes. “So, you proved to be a man with her, did you?” “I suggest you go speak with Jean-Claude Delacroix, madam,” Sinclair suggested. “I most certainly will not speak with that sinful man!” his grandmother gasped.

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“Evangeline will set up a trust fund for our child and, in that trust fund, JeanClaude will be named trustee. Should anyone ever learn of the circumstances behind the conception of our child, the estate will revert to the Delacroix family and neither the McGregors nor the Brells will ever set foot on the land again,” Sinclair told her. “You would not dare do such a thing!” Grace Vivienne breathed. “That is your child’s birthright! How could you throw it away?” “It won’t be me throwing it away, Grandmother,” Sinclair replied. “It will be you.” Leland’s forehead was crinkled with confusion. He had no idea what they were talking about, but from the stricken look on their grandmother’s face, whatever it was, was serious indeed. Her face had gone pale and she was trembling. Her breathing was shallow and rapid and he feared for her health. “Are you all right, Grandmother?” he asked, concerned. Grace Vivienne looked at Leland as though becoming aware of his presence. She drew in a shuddery breath and then lowered her head. “Take me home, Lee,” she asked in a defeated voice. Leland clucked at the horse, snapping the reins lightly. The horse started forward. “One more thing,” Sinclair said, drawing his cousin’s attention back to him. “What more do you want?” Grace Vivienne ground out. “Only this,” Sinclair replied. “When you die, you’d better make damned sure you have a burial plot on Willow Glen land because you will never be buried at WindLass.” The old woman lifted her head and looked at her grandson. There was no mercy in his hard, cold eyes—no compassion nor love. Only the brutal glint of victory that shone back at her with unrelenting finality. “My only wish is to be buried beside my daughter,” she stated. “Fine,” Sinclair agreed. “Then you can be buried beside Aunt Leticia if Leland will allow it.” “It was always understood that I would be buried at WindLass,” she began only to have her grandson cut her off. “Good-bye, Grandmother,” Sinclair said, turning his back on her. He started toward his horse. “It was always understood!” Grace Vivienne shouted. Sinclair untied his horse and vaulted up into the saddle. He glanced at Leland’s worried face then turned his horse around and dug his heels into its flanks, sending it galloping back toward WindLass. “It was always understood!” were the words that followed in his wake.

***** Leland pulled the old bible down from the shelf in the library at Willow Glen and tried to remember exactly where Leviticus was. He couldn’t remember if it was in the

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Old Testament or the New. Leafing through the pages, he finally found it and ran his finger down the twentieth chapter until he came to verse seventeen. Quickly scanning it, the frown he’d had on his face all morning grew even harsher. When he closed the book, his confusion greater than ever, the verse remained with him. If a man shall see his sister, his father’s daughter or his mother’s daughter and see her nakedness and she see his nakedness, it is a wicked thing; and they shall be cut off in the sight of their people; he hath uncovered his sister’s nakedness, he shall bear his iniquity. “What the hell is going on here?” Leland muttered. Sitting down before the blazing fire, he stared into the leaping flames and tried to make some sense of what had happened on the road to WindLass that morning. The more he thought on it, the more perplexing the problem became. It wasn’t until the tall hall clock began to strike the witching hour that Leland Brell finally thought he had the answer and the nausea that accompanied it made him reach for the bottle of brandy on the table beside him. Long after the bottle was empty and Leland was snoring fitfully, the image of Evangeline Hardy McGregor kept intruding in the nightmare he was experiencing. “He hath uncovered his sister’s nakedness…” When he woke the next morning, stiff and sore from a night spent sitting in the chair, Leland knew he had the answer and the answer was straight from the bowels of Sinclair McGregor’s own private hell.

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Chapter Thirty-One The pristine cemetery behind the elaborate wrought iron lacework fencing was dotted with simple white tombstones laid out in concentric circles away from a beautiful marble statue of the Blessed Mother. He opened the waist-high verdigris gate that barred his way and ventured inside, closing the gate behind him. In his left hand, he carried a bouquet of flowers from the solarium at WindLass but even though he inspected each individual tombstone, he could not find hers here in the Boucharde family plot. She had not been buried at WindLass—he had already checked when he had gone to pay his respects to his mother and the man he had thought was his father. Where had they buried her? In town? Surely not, but that seemed the only other logical explanation if he could not find her here among her relatives. “McGregor!” Sinclair turned and found Robert Boucharde, Ivonne’s brother, glaring at him from beyond the iron fencing. “Robert,” he acknowledged, taking in the angry visage glaring back at him. “I was looking for—” “You won’t find her here,” Boucharde ground out, snatching the gate open. “And I would be obliged if you would leave. Now!” Boucharde’s anger did not surprise him. There was no way he could deny the feelings of most of the workers on WindLass and if they were any indication of the general feeling of Chatham County concerning him, everyone blamed him for Ivonne’s death. Letting out a weary breath, Sinclair walked to the gate. “Is she buried at Saint—” The gleam in Boucharde’s eyes became a barely tamped conflagration as he pulled the gate to behind Sinclair’s exit. “She hung herself,” the man snarled, turning his back on Sinclair. “The Church does not allow suicides to be buried in hallowed ground, McGregor.” Sinclair flinched. He had not thought of that. His hand tightened around the flowers. “Then where is she buried, Robert?” “Haven’t you caused enough trouble for my family, McGregor?” Ivonne’s brother spat as he spun around to face Sinclair. “Why the hell didn’t you stay away? If you hadn’t come back here, Vonnie would be alive!” “Robert, I—” “Get the hell out of here, McGregor, and don’t come back!” Boucharde shouted. “If I see you at Oakdale Hill again, I’ll shoot you right between your betraying eyes!”

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Sinclair stood where he was as Ivonne’s brother strode angrily away, his massive shoulders hunched into the protection of his wool coat. He saw the man glance back at him only once before mounting his horse and galloping away as though the hounds of hell were at his heels. He looked down at the flowers still clutched in his hand then threw them away. The last thing he had wanted to do was ride into Savannah but he knew he had to. He had to find her grave—he had to talk to her, to beg her to understand why he hadn’t been there for her. With one last look at the pretty little cemetery where generations of Boucharde and Luz family members had been buried, he pulled himself into his saddle and rode away.

***** Leland was sitting in the front parlor, warming his hands at the fireplace when Sinclair came home. Brell looked around, finding Sinclair standing in the doorway. “Nasty day out there, eh?” he inquired. “Why are you here?” Sinclair asked suspiciously. “If you’ve been sent by that old bitch, I don’t want to hear it!” “You want to tell me about you and Evangeline?” Lee cut him off. Sinclair’s eyes narrowed. “No.” “Do it anyway,” Lee demanded, his voice sharp. He turned around and jutted his chin toward the door. “Shut the damned door and come in here and make me understand why you eloped with that whoring tart while the woman you professed to love was sitting in a jail cell awaiting trial!” “I don’t owe you an explanation, Brell,” Sinclair snarled. “Son,” Leland said, “as I see it, you got maybe six people in the entire state of Georgia who don’t think you’re a son of a bitch. You wanna make that five?” A muscle in Sinclair’s cheek jumped with irritation but then he sighed tiredly and came into the room, closing the door firmly behind him. “All right,” he said. “What do you want to know?” “Why?” Leland took a seat on the settee and stretched out the stump of his injured leg. “That’s all I want to know. Why?” Sinclair took off his hat and gloves and laid them on the writing desk by the door, then shrugged out of his leather slicker. “I wasn’t given a choice,” he replied. “The whole thing was her idea.” Lee didn’t need to ask whom. He mulled the answer over in his mind for a bit then nodded as though his suspicions had been confirmed. “So, to protect Ivonne from the hangman, you were to marry the Hardy woman and then what?” Plopping down wearily in the chair across from Leland, Sinclair sighed heavily then laid his head along the back of the chair and put his hands up to rub at his tired face.

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“Produce an heir to inherit WindLass. After that, when Ivonne had returned from a protracted stay in Roberte, she and I would be free to go wherever we wished.” “Were you just shooting the old lady a line of bull or is that bitch really gonna have your child?” Sinclair closed his eyes. “She’s really gonna have my child.” He said it as though it had taken every last ounce of strength in his body to get the words out. “Sweet Mary and Joseph,” Leland breathed. “How could you have allowed that to happen?” A snort of dark humor pushed out of Sinclair and he opened his eyes, lifted his head and pierced his cousin with a disbelieving stare. “And just how the hell was I supposed to keep it from happening?” “My God, man!” Leland barked. “A decent man doesn’t go around sleeping with his own sister!” He wasn’t about to ask how Leland knew. The man had been there the day before when their grandmother had been spouting bible verses at him. Lee might not be the sharpest tack in the chair, but he wasn’t the dullest, either. He would have figured it out and the conclusion had not set well with the man if the condemning look on his face was any indication. “Do you really think I would have lain with her had I known she was my…kin?” Damn! he thought. I still can’t say it! “Hell, Leland. I didn’t even know about JeanClaude until Leonie’s aunt told me!” “Leonie?” Leland questioned. “What the hell does she have to do with this? She left Savannah two months ago!” “She’s been living with her great-aunt in Thomasville,” Sinclair informed him. “It’s a long story, but I bumped into her down there. Miss Tildie took care of me while I was laid up with a knife wound.” At Leland’s open mouth stare, Sinclair waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll tell you all about it later.” “You’ll tell me now! Who the hell stabbed you? Was it one of the men you killed?” Leland snapped. “Coni said you found the men what beat you and you shot two of ‘em.” “Aye,” Sinclair acknowledged. “All but Cullen and I’ll get his ass as soon as he gets out of the penitentiary.” He frowned. “How did Coni know where to send that telegram to me about Cullen, anyway?” “That bitch you married left word that Cullen was on his way here and asked Coni to look after WindLass while she went to join you. She didn’t say nothing about Leonie or you being wounded or I’d have gone with her.” “I’m surprised Leonie telegraphed her instead of you anyway,” Sinclair responded, unaware of the true circumstances behind the message Leonie sent to Savannah. “Unless she didn’t want Grandmother to know where you were,” Leland suggested.

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“Could be,” Sinclair agreed. “Leonie doesn’t think much of the old bat.” “So Miss Matildie told you about Jean-Claude,” Leland stated, still shocked by the revelation that Devon McGregor hadn’t been Sinclair’s father. “I swear to God I never noticed a resemblance between the two of you.” “Then you weren’t looking very hard,” Sinclair replied. “I went to see him.” “Did he know you were his son?” Leland interrupted. “Aye, he knew,” Sinclair answered. Leland’s face turned hard with disgust. “Then why did the bastard allow you to marry his daughter? Your own sister?” He shook his head. “That is sick, Sinclair. Sick!” “His wife Miss Marie took Edward’s death hard, Lee. Jean-Claude took her to Roberte immediately. He was kept busy trying to take care of her so he didn’t hear of the wedding until he came back two months later. By then Ivonne was dead.” He stopped and looked earnestly at Leland. “Where is she buried, Lee? I went by Oakdale Hill but Robert drove me off.” “Robert is not in a good frame of mind right about now, Sinclair,” Leland reported. “She’s not buried there in the family plot and Robert reminded me she couldn’t be buried on hallowed ground. Where did they lay her, Lee? I have to know.” Leland shrugged and looked down as he plucked at a loose string on the settee arm. “I don’t know where she’s buried, Sinclair. Her family wouldn’t claim her because she’d disgraced them by killing herself so Grandmother sent some men into town to get the body. They buried her somewhere, but it wasn’t in the plot at Willow Glen.” He looked up to see his cousin’s stricken countenance. “I’ll see if I can find out for you if you like.” Sinclair hung his head. “She won’t tell you just to spite me, but if you ask the men, maybe one of them will have the courage to tell you.” “I’ll see what I can do,” Leland said gently. “God,” Sinclair breathed, burying his face in his hands. “My life is such a damned mess!” Leland felt the other man’s despondency but didn’t know how he could help. Yet someone needed to set the young man on the right course. “What are you gonna do now, Sin?” he asked. “You can’t go on living with that woman.” Sinclair looked up. “If I leave her, the truth is bound to come out, Lee. I can’t have that happen. We can live here together, in separate rooms, and raise our child. It will be a marriage of convenience only. I won’t touch her again. God knows I won’t ever touch her again!” His words were like self-inflicted wounds. “So, you plan on taking vows of celibacy then, do you?” Leland said, grunting. Sinclair clucked his tongue with annoyance. “Sex has been the last thing on my mind, Lee Brell. Leave it to you to bring it up.” Leland chuckled at the unconscious pun his cousin had made. He laid his arm along the back of the settee. “Well, there’s good old Dorrie,” he said on a long breath. 268

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“She’s a bit enamored of you, cuz. Hell, if what I hear is true, every time you’ve visited her gentleman’s club, you ain’t had to pay for her favors.” “Leave off, Leland,” Sinclair warned. “I’m too damned tired and angry to even think about that sort of thing.” “I think of nothing else,” Lee admitted. “Then you ought to get married,” Sinclair threw at him. “The woman I want done up and left,” Lee sighed. “Otherwise I would have.” “She’ll be back,” Sinclair said. “No,” Leland corrected. “She sold her mama’s house.” “She’ll be coming back here to be our child’s nanny,” Sinclair told him. Leland sat bolt upright on the sofa. “Hell’s bells, Sinclair! Did you get Leonie pregnant too?” “What?” Sinclair asked, staring at him. “That night in the cabin,” Leland ground out, his face a fiery red. “When she took care of you after the beatin’. Did you—?” “Hell no!” Sinclair barked, although something passed like a shadow across his mind and when he tried to grab it, it floated away like the specter it was. He shook his head vehemently. “I didn’t lay a hand on that woman, Leland!” “Then what the hell are you talkin’ about?” Leland demanded. “She is with Evangeline, helping to take care of her until the baby comes. After that, she’ll return here to help take care of the child. Why the hell she’d want to do anything for Evangeline is a true wonder, but the two of them figured it out between them and I wasn’t consulted.” “She’s coming back,” Leland said, ignoring the rest of the conversation. “Aye, she’s coming back and when she does, you ought to ask the woman to marry you,” Sinclair said firmly. “Huh?” Lee asked, pulled out of his momentary elation. “Marry her? You know I can’t marry her, Sinclair.” “I don’t see why the hell not,” Sinclair snapped, ready to do battle with his cousin the moment Lee mentioned his amputation, but that wasn’t the argument the man made. “Because she’s in love with you,” Leland said. “Helluva lot of good that does any woman,” Sinclair snapped, shooting to his feet. “Love Sinclair McGregor and it’s a surefire way to ruin your life!” He started pacing in front of the fireplace. “Give your heart to Sin McGregor and sign away your soul!” “You need to blow off some steam, son,” Leland said dryly, watching his cousin pounding a fist into the palm of the other hand. “Get yourself ripped or go take a long nap.” He thought about it for a moment. “Doing one would lead to the other so that would be my suggestion.”

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“Getting drunk is your answer for everything,” Sinclair accused. “Works for me, it does,” Leland sighed. “What else I got to do?” Sinclair stopped and pointed a rigid finger at his cousin. “When Leonie gets here, I’m gonna sit her fat ass down and tell her how you feel and I’m gonna ask her to marry you myself!” “That’s fine with me,” Leland said, further surprising Sinclair by not disagreeing with his plan. “You do that. If she slaps you silly, don’t say I didn’t warn you. If she laughs, don’t tell me. If she says yes, then you’ll be the best man at the wedding.” He held out his hand. “Agreed?” Sinclair stepped forward, gripped his cousin’s hand in a steely grasp and jerked the man up from the sofa to embrace him. “She’ll say yes,” he prophesied. “Dream on, sweet prince,” Leland chuckled, clasping Sinclair in a bear hug. “Dream on!”

***** Long after Leland had been carted back to Willow Glen, three sheets to the wind from the imbibing he and Sinclair had done in the front parlor, Sinclair sat staring morosely into the fire, more sober than inebriated, but suffering from a vicious headache that was pounding in his temples. He lifted his snifter of brandy, drained the last of the fiery Spanish brew then rested the snifter on his thigh. He was restless, but he didn’t want to drink any more. The liquor was only underscoring his restlessness. He was lonely, but he didn’t want the company of WindLass’ servants, for most of them had been cold toward him if not downright testy. He was miserable, his conscience and his sense of Catholic guilt eating away at him. He was hurt, yet there was nothing he could do about it. He longed for Ivonne’s arms around him, her breath against his face. He wanted to lie with her and hold her to him as night gave way to the rosy fingers of dawn. He wanted to bury himself in her sweet body and lose his loneliness in the wondrous release of their passions. But he could do none of that. Ivonne was gone and he could never touch Evangeline again. Leonie crossed his mind and he wondered where that horrible thought had come from. That left Dorrie. He lifted the snifter to his lips, forgetting it was empty, and when he noticed it was, he sighed. As empty as his life, he thought. But there was Dorrie. “Damn you to the abyss, Leland Brell, for putting the thought in my mind,” he mumbled.

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Yes, there was Dorrie. He pushed himself up from the chair, took up his coat and hat, and went out into the night.

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Chapter Thirty-Two She liked to watch him sleeping. It had become one of her favorite pastimes. His dark curls were tousled on the pillow, his right hand lay beside his head, the fingers curled inward. The ebon sweep of his lashes fluttered now and again as he dreamed. On his wide forehead, one recalcitrant lock of brown hair beckoned her attention and she stared at it, knowing well the silky texture. Just beneath the muslin sheet and wool blanket, his bare chest moved gently with his deep slumber and she ached to run her hand across the sparse mat of hairs between his dusky nipples, to feel them against her bare breasts. Such an extraordinarily handsome man, she thought, as she studied the elegant profile of his nose and chin. From her place beside him, she could see the wicked scar that bisected his left cheek just below that delectable little mole and it disturbed her that his manly beauty had been marred by some stranger’s blade. But the scar, she decided with a certain degree of experience in appreciating the looks of men, did nothing to detract from his overall appearance. So intent was she on studying that faint white jagged line, she failed to see his eyelids slide slowly open. “You’re staring again,” he said. Dorrie reached out to lay a hand on his bare shoulder. “I like looking at you.” Sinclair turned to face her. “As much as you like touching me?” he challenged. “Almost,” she agreed, and ran her hand beneath the top of the sheet to touch his chest. “What time is it?” he asked, yawning. The stroking of her hand was nice but he wasn’t interested. Dorrie withdrew her hand. After sleeping beside this enigmatic man for four nights in a row, she was coming to know his moods well enough to sense when he didn’t want her pawing him. She turned her head to look at the ormolu clock on the mantle. “Half past nine, sleepyhead,” she informed him. He blinked, frowned then sighed. “I’m a lazy son of a bitch, ain’t I?” “A tired one, perhaps,” she returned as she pushed her covers back and climbed out of bed. “You want me to have Justine fix you some breakfast or will you eat when you get back to WindLass?” He watched her flinging a silk peignoir around her nakedness and turned to his side, pushing himself up on one elbow to study her. “I’ll wait.” Dorrie went to her dressing table, sat down and began to brush the tangles from her long blonde hair. “Did you sleep well?” she asked, running the brush under her hair at the base of her neck and pulling it down the silky length. 272

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“Well enough considering you did your damned best to drain me dry last night,” he snorted. He flung the covers back, padded over to her and took the brush from her hands. “I’m lucky I can walk this morning, woman.” He drew the brush through her hair. “Umm,” Dorrie moaned, closed her eyes and arched her neck as he dragged the bristles from her scalp to the ends of her lush waves. “I like that.” He didn’t say anything for a moment and when she opened her eyes to look at him in the mirror, she found him watching her. She smiled at him and he returned the gesture. “I have a question for you,” he told her, looking down at the long lock of hair he held in his left hand as he drew the brush through it with his right. “Like the one you asked me the other night?” she teased. He looked up again. “Which one was that?” “How soon they forget,” Dorrie sighed. She leaned back until her shoulders were resting against his naked hips. “Think about it, Captain.” Sinclair’s hand stilled in her hair. “It’s too early in the morning to think, Dorrie,” he reminded her. “You came in,” she began, reaching behind her to clasp his lean legs, “and caused nearly every female in the place to have palpitations.” “Nearly every female?” he questioned. “Not all of them?” “Well, Raja isn’t all that fond of men to begin with,” she replied. “Ah, Raja,” he grunted. “I’d just as soon not arouse anything in her.” “Don’t worry, you don’t. Anyway, as I was saying before you rudely interrupted, you came in and I met you at the stairs.” “You asked if I was slumming, I believe,” he commented. “Yes, and you asked if I was available for the evening.” She ran her hands down the sides of his calves. “And you answered ‘anytime, anywhere’ if I remember correctly.” “To which you gave a very challenging reply.” She fused her gaze with his in the mirror. “Right now, upstairs,” he chuckled. He bent over and planted a light kiss on the crown of her head. “So, is that your question, Captain? Wanting to know if I will be available when you return?” She squeezed his legs. “You know I will be.” “Well, it’s more a proposition than a question,” he said, handing the brush back to her and placing his hands on her silk-clad shoulders. “One I hope you will look upon with favor.” Dorrie reached up to cover his hands with hers. “Anything you want, all you need do is ask and I’ll move heaven and earth to give it to you, Sinclair.”

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“Be my mistress,” he replied. “Available only to me.” She was shocked by his proposal. For years, she had been wanting to get out of the business she had been in since her eleventh birthday and had often hoped a wealthy man would take interest in her and set her up as his paramour. But no wealthy man ever had. What little money she had made as a prostitute in New Orleans before the war had been saved to buy The Thorn and Rose Gentleman’s Club from an old acquaintance. Not getting any younger, fearful her looks would soon not be enough to bring men to her bed, she had been putting out feelers for a buyer for the club. “What brought this on?” she asked, her hands tightening on his. Sinclair shrugged. “I’m not a saint, Dorrie, and I’ve never professed to be one. I have the same needs most men do and I prefer to have one woman satisfy those needs.” “You have a wife,” she reminded him, knowing full well a woman like Evangeline Hardy McGregor would not tolerate her husband having a mistress. And there were things she could tell Sinclair about that woman if he ever asked! “Let’s just say my wife and I will not be sharing a bed when she returns to Savannah,” he declared. He searched her eyes in the mirror. “Are you interested?” It was on the tip of Dorrie’s tongue to ask where he intended to get the money to support her, for she knew damned well he had none of his own. That was partly the reason she never charged him for her favors. The other reason was she simply enjoyed having the man put his hands on her. “In having Evangeline slit my throat?” she countered. “She won’t be a problem,” he replied. Dorrie arched one beautiful brow. “No?” “No,” he repeated. He slid his hands down her arms. “Are you interested?” “That’s a silly question, Sinclair,” she said. “You know I am.” “Enough to move out of here and into one of the cabins at WindLass?” Dorrie stared at him. “Are you serious?” She shuddered. “Do you really think Evangeline will allow that?” “You let me worry about her.” He clenched his jaw. “I’ll take care of her. Will you do it?” How many women in Savannah would jump at such a chance? she wondered. Despite the ill feelings a lot of them had for this handsome man, she seriously doubted there were many who would turn down his offer. Even to live in sin with a man like Sin, she thought with amusement, was something most women would kill to do. And she had no thought of refusing him anything he wanted. “Give me a few weeks?” she asked, and when his frown marred the beauty of his face, she twisted around on the bench and took his hands in hers. “Not to think about it, sweeting, but to find a buyer for the club. After that, I will go wherever you want me to go.” She smiled at him, bringing his hands to her lips to kiss each one. “Is that fair enough?” 274

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“Aye,” he said on a long breath. If truth were told, he had held reservations about asking her and even more concern that she would accept his offer. They got along well enough—she was beautiful, talented and more than an armful in bed. They were well suited in temperament and he found her to be more intelligent and well-read than most “good” women of his acquaintance. She could provide for him the satisfaction of his needs and he could provide for her a safe place from which she would not have to suffer the brutalities of men who paid to use her. His only concern was where the hell he was going to get the money to “keep” her, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. “Then it’s a deal, Captain,” Dorrie stated. Sinclair bent down to touch his lips to hers, sealing their bargain with the gentle invasion of his tongue. When her arms came up to lock around his neck so she could press her mouth more firmly to his, he thought perhaps he was interested after all.

***** Silky eased back into the shadows cast by the tall pine trees as the young boy ventured behind the cabin to relieve himself. For the last half hour, she had been watching the men off-loading the woman’s belongings and taking them into the little cabin. The woman herself was sitting bundled in a rocking chair on the front porch, watching the movers. The black woman knew who this woman was—most of Savannah knew the infamous madam of the Rose and Thorn Gentleman’s Club. It didn’t take an educated white person to know why the whore was there on WindLass land. Or who had given her permission. And an out-of-the-way place to live. A savage glint of hatred shot through Silky’s cinnamon brown eyes and she dug her nails into her palms as he came out of the cabin, paying the movers with money he had no doubt pilfered from WindLass coffers. Silky dragged her wool coat tighter around her shoulders as the movers climbed back on their sturdy buckboard and left, leaving the woman and her bastard lover alone in front of the cabin. The black woman eased closer so she could hear the two talking. “I’ll send a meal out to you tonight, but tomorrow I’ll bring out some stable goods,” Silky heard him tell his whore. “Justine can make us something,” the woman answered. “Anyone you send out here will tell whoever they see I’m here, Sinclair. I don’t know that that is such a good idea.” “Everyone’s gonna know about it sooner or later anyway,” he said, shrugging. “It’s not as though anyone gives a damned rat’s ass what Sinclair McGregor does, Dorrie.” Silky stiffened as the slut threw her arms around his neck and pressed her filthy whoring body to his. A low growl of pure rage came from the black woman’s throat.

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“We’ll make do tonight,” Dorrie assured him. She glanced behind him to see the young Negro girl who had accompanied her from town and who would be living there as her maid and companion. She disentangled her arms from Sinclair’s neck and smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. “Don’t worry about us.” “You have a gun?” he asked, looking around him. The cabin was fairly isolated and he was cognizant of the danger of two women living this far out on their own. “I can shoot the eye out of a rattlesnake at fifty paces,” she told him. Sinclair chuckled. “Remind me never to piss you off, m’dear!” He adjusted his hat and turned to go. “You won’t be back out tonight, then?” she asked, following him to his horse. “C.J. and Tina are coming over for supper,” he said, untying his horse. He jammed his booted foot into the stirrup then swung up on his mount, controlling the eager beast with his lean thighs. “I’ll be out tomorrow morning to check on you though.” Silky snapped off a fingernail as she saw the whore lay her dirty hand on his thigh and caress him. “I’ll be here,” Dorrie promised. Sinclair bent low in the saddle, cupped her chin and kissed her, unaware of the virulent hatred his action caused in the watcher who was glaring at him from the thick copse of trees. “Take care, sweeting,” he said, straightening up. He looked at Justine. “You take good care of our lady, you hear?” “Yessir!” Justine agreed. She was all too glad to be out of town and away from the pawing hands of the blacksmith’s helper her daddy wanted her to marry. “I sho will!” He rode right past the spot where Silky was standing and her fierce gaze followed him until horse and rider could no longer be heard or seen. When she turned her gaze back to the cabin, the whore and her imp had already gone back inside. With a heart filled with black, icy rage and an overpowering need to destroy the man she held responsible for her mistress’s death, Silky set out for Willow Glen and the help she knew she’d find there.

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Chapter Thirty-Three Grace Vivienne looked up from her reading to find one of the kitchen girls standing hesitantly in the doorway of the library. The young mulatto was wringing her hands, her nervousness apparent in the trembling that shook her body from head to toe. “Well, what is it?” the old woman demanded, marking her place in the book with her handkerchief. “There be a woman axsin’ after you, Miss Gracie,” the girl stuttered. “What woman?” Grace Vivienne snapped. She was not expecting company. “Her name be Silky,” the girl reported. “She was Miss Ivonne’s girl.” A dark scowl spread over the old woman’s pale face. She sniffed, laid her book aside and then dusted lint from her skirt. “What is it she wants?” “Her say to tell you it be right important, ma’am. Don’t wanna tell me nothin’ ‘bout it.” Grace Vivienne drew in a long, annoyed breath. “Where is Bossie? Why isn’t she seeing to the matter?” “Don’t know where Bossie be, ma’am,” the girl answered. “Ain’t seen her, but I reckons she be up wid Miss Tina a’seeing to all that pukin’.” “Enough!” Gracie Vivienne hissed, more annoyed than ever at the girl’s indelicate explanation. She jerked her wool shawl closer around her shoulders and cocked her head toward the fire. “Put a log or two on the grate then go fetch this person. Does she expect me to tramp out to the kitchen to see what she wants?” The young black girl hastened to throw two fat oak logs on the fire. “I’s don’t think dat was what her wanted, Miss Gracie,” she was quick to assure the old woman. “You tell her I don’t have time to listen to any foolishness if that’s what she wants and you make sure she understands there will be no work for her here if she is dissatisfied with the way things are being done at WindLass now that that heathen is running things over there!” “Yes’m,” the girl replied, hurrying to the door. “And you tell her I don’t intend to sit here listening to any complaints she might have either!” “Yes’m!” Bobbing a sketch of a curtsy, the girl fled the room. “Damned niggers,” Grace Vivienne muttered to herself. She set her foot to tapping impatiently on the rich Aubusson rug under her slipper toe.

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When the young girl returned, she was about to announce the old woman’s visitor as she had been taught to do, but an imperious wave of the mistress’s hand sent her scurrying out of the room. “Do you make a habit of calling upon your betters, girl?” Grace Vivienne snapped, her aged eyes raking Silky. Silky lifted her chin. “I ain’t here for work, Miz Brell, and I ain’t here to ask you for nothin’.” Her small face turned hard. “I come here to tell you about what dat man’s done went and done.” Sensing a kindred soul, Grace Vivienne relaxed in her chair. “You are referring, I take it, to Rory Sinclair?” A vicious gleam entered the black woman’s eye. “He put a whore up in that cabin down by the bend in the river.” Grace Vivienne’s left eyebrow shot up. “A whore?” She leaned forward, her sharp gaze latched on the black woman. “The same one he goes into town to consort with?” Silky nodded. A long moment passed then the old woman sat back. She steepled her arthritic fingers and braced her bony elbows on the chair arms. “Well now,” she said. “This is, indeed, interesting news.” “I heard tell of what he said to you on the road out there, Miz Brell,” Silky stated. “Ain’t nothin’ to me what you do ‘bout it, but if’n it was me, I’d make him pay for his disrespect.” The old woman’s head twisted slightly to the right. “Really? And just how would you do that, girl?” Silky took a step into the room from her position just beyond the library door. Her eyes glowed with vengeance and her body was rigidly held as she met the old woman’s intense stare. Lowering her voice, the black woman put every ounce of her newborn hatred of Sinclair McGregor into her voice. “There be ways to make a man mighty sick, Miz Brell,” Silky said, her voice low and intense. “Ways to make him regret ever doin’ wrong by a body.” “By a body,” Grace Vivienne smiled, “you mean, Ivonne Delacroix.” Silky’s nostrils flared with indignation. “He might just as well have put that noose ‘round my baby’s neck! He be the cause of her death sure as I’m standin’ here!” Grace Vivienne knew the loyalty most black women had for the white children they raised. Maids such as this one were deadly loyal to their charges and what harmed one of them was likely to be avenged. “You blame him for what happened to your mistress,” Grace Vivienne stated. “I do!” Silky hissed. A mean smile eased over the old woman’s wrinkled lips. “And you would surely like to see him punished for his part in poor Ivonne’s death.”

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Silky took three quick steps into the room, her face alive with lethal desire. “I want dat man molderin’ in his grave, Miz Brell!” Deep-seated pleasure shot through Grace Vivienne. Here was an ally who could, and would, help her exact the revenge she had been dreaming of all week for her recalcitrant grandson. There was, indeed, a God in the heavens smiling down on Grace Vivienne Brell. “What precisely do you want from me?” the old woman inquired. “Surely you have a means at hand at WindLass.” She grinned brutally. “To make him quite ill.” “I got dis,” Silky said, reaching into the pocket of her long wool coat, a Christmas present the year before from her beloved Ivonne. She pulled out an amber-colored bottle. “I needs to know how much to give him to make him sick as a dog but not kill him.” Grace Vivienne blinked. “And you think I would know such a thing?” She frowned sharply. “If’n I kill him right now,” Silky said, “folks will look to us livin’ at WindLass.” She gripped the bottle tightly. “But if’n I wait ‘til that slut comes home wid his baby, folks will look to her as the murderer.” Two snow-white eyebrows jerked upward on the old woman’s forehead. The girl was not only an ally—she was an intelligent ally with a plan that would kill two birds with one spoonful of poison. “Evangeline,” Grace Vivienne whispered. Silky nodded. “I heard tell there was some talk of her having done in her other husbands,” she explained. “Oh she did,” Grace Vivienne, agreed. “I have that on good authority.” “She ain’t got no business livin’ at WindLass,” Silky stated. “WindLass was my baby’s home and ain’t no other woman got no right to live there!” I do, Grace Vivienne thought to herself, but did not voice her designs on the McGregor mansion. Instead, she crooked a finger to the black woman and motioned her forward. Silky came to the old woman’s chair and stood there, straining to hear the words being spoken, for Grace Vivienne had lowered her voice so no one else would hear. “It’ll be some time before Evangeline comes home with his brat,” the old woman stressed. “I am not of the mind to allow him to keep gallivanting around enjoying his harlot and his pleasures during that time. He needs to be punished for his stubbornness as well as his unpardonable betrayal of poor Ivonne.” She watched the agreement flicker in the black woman’s gaze. “But we have to be very careful that no one will suspect he is being poisoned before that tart returns to WindLass.” She held out her hand for the bottle Silky was clutching. Once it was in her own hand, she nodded sagely. “Aye, I know this powder well, it’s called tenerse.” She turned fierce eyes up to the black woman. “Here is what you need to do.”

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***** Sinclair stood looking at the bed where Ivonne had slept as mistress of his ancestral home. He had only been in this room twice since coming back to WindLass and each time he pushed open the tall oaken door, he was overwhelmed with the pain her death caused him. It was almost as though a heavy rock had been placed on his chest and he found it hard to breathe. A crushing loneliness would settle over his heart and he would find himself sinking to the floor beside her bed, pressing to his lips the silken coverlet that still smelled of her lavender perfume. The tears would come then, hot and scalding, draining from him even the slightest pleasure he might have had during the long, long day. Tonight was no different. He had been restless all day, going from room to room, never staying long in any one of them. Taking down a book, he would stare blindly at the title—not really seeing it—then return it to the shelf, having forgotten why he had taken it down in the first place. His food was tasteless and no amount of liquor seemed to dull his senses. He would drink until he passed out and would wake to find himself in bed, undressed, never knowing who had carried him up the stairs. And not caring. The servants still avoided him, being barely civil to him when he asked anything of them. Their looks of displeasure and mistrust were not lost on him—he knew they blamed him for Ivonne’s death. Just as he blamed himself. His days were dark and passed so slowly he would often catch himself watching the clock, thinking it had stopped. His nights were darker still and stretched out into one long bleak, bitterly lonely pause between sundown and sunup. Lying awake during those times he did not consume an entire bottle of brandy after his evening meal, he would stare at the ceiling and wish himself in the grave with his beloved Ivonne. Only his impending fatherhood—and a healthy, intense desire to see the product of his own loins—kept him from placing his gun to his temple and pulling the trigger. He lived an endlessly bleak existence that kept him a virtual prisoner of his burgeoning grief, but he knew himself too much a coward to end his own life. His only trek into the world of normalcy came when one of his cousins ventured over to check on him or when he rode to the cabin where he had installed Dorrie and her servant. He looked forward to those brief interludes of peace much as a drowning man reaching out for a rope thrown to him. Between them, Conor, Leland, Brenny and Dorrie kept him as sane as he would ever be. On this night, he closed the door to Ivonne’s room and twisted the key in the lock. He wanted no one intruding on him here in this chamber he had made a shrine to his lost love. Evangeline had had Ivonne’s things removed and stored in the attic, but he had had them brought down again, placed exactly as they had been when Ivonne was 280

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alive and dared anyone to come into the room to rearrange even one hairpin on her vanity. A light rain ticked at the windowpanes as he sank to the floor beside the big bed and leaned his head against the pristine lace bed skirt. Try as he would, he could not stretch out on the bed as he so longed to do. Each time he tried, a grief so terrible it nearly drove him insane rose up to prevent him so he had to content himself with merely touching the covers upon which Ivonne had once lain. Sitting on the floor, his fingers hooked in the lace, his cheek pressed tightly against the fabric, he hummed an old tune he and Ivonne had often sang together as children. “Where are you going, my lady, my love? Where are you going this day? Said she to him, ‘It shall not take long For I go but a very short way.”’ The song wove its way through his heart as he sat there, singing softly, tears gathering but refusing to fall until he came to the verse… “He mourned for his lady, his lady, his love He wept for her night and day Said he, ‘I will go to meet my sweet love For I believe I have found the way.’” He stopped singing, a wretched sob tearing from his throat. The gallant young prince from the song had chosen death to life and had been reunited with his Lost Lady, but death was not an option for Sinclair McGregor. At least not for a while. He armed the moisture from his face and turned so that he was leaning against the side of the bed, his head thrown back along the coverlet. Staring out into the darkening shadows of the room, he listened to the pelting of the rain on the windows and thought it the loneliest sound he had ever heard. So intensely was his listening to the tick of the droplets hitting the glass panes, he did not hear the light tapping on the boudoir door until it became a bit louder and more insistent. A deep scowl shot over Sinclair’s face. Who would dare intrude on him here? “What?” he barked, turning mean eyes to the offending knock. “I brought you something to drink, Captain.” He recognized the voice and knew its owner was as devastated by Ivonne’s death as he. Although she had been avoiding him since his return to WindLass, he knew there would have to come a time when he sat her down and tried to explain why he had done

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what he had. She would understand and she would forgive him. And she would always have a home at WindLass with him. “Captain?” When had she taken to calling him that? he wondered as he wearily pushed himself up from the floor. Was she a bit angry with him or was it just a show of respect for the grief she knew he was experiencing in this hallowed place? Sighing heavily, he walked to the door and twisted the key in the lock, opening the portal to find Silky standing there holding a silver tray. On the tray was a bottle of brandy and a snifter. Silky’s forehead puckered as she saw the redness of his eyes. He was pale and drawn and the scar on his cheek stood out in sharp relief. His hand trembled as he lifted it and plowed it through his tousled hair. A tiny portion of her heart went out to him, but when he smiled—that devil-may-care smile that had turned many a young woman’s head over the years—the tiny shred of compassion shriveled in her breast and she thrust the tray toward him. “I thought you might need somethin’ to help you get through de night,” the black woman said, nodding toward the window. “You know how much—” She stopped, her own eyes welling with unbidden tears. Shaking her head deliberately to rid herself of the telltale sign, she finished, “How much she loved the rain on a winter night.” The smile slipped from Sinclair’s face. Aye, he knew well how much Ivonne had loved the rain. How often had he dreamed of holding her in his arms in their marriage bed while rain pelted the windows of this very room? “Silky,” he began, but the black woman held up a staying hand. “Ain’t de time,” she stated. Her gaze fell briefly to the amber liquid in the brandy decanter then snapped back to his face. A strange smile touched her dark lips. “Time now for somethin’ else entirely.” Before he could say anything else, the woman was gone, her skirts swishing furiously as she tramped down the hallway and out of sight. Sinclair took one last look at Ivonne’s room then closed the door behind him and, with lightning beginning to light his way down the darkened corridor, made his way back to his own room. Placing the tray on his desk, he unbuttoned his shirt, sat down on the bed to pull off his boots and socks then went over to the desk to pour himself a full snifter of the brandy. Taking the snifter with him, he padded barefoot to the window, threw aside the curtains one of the servants had closed for the night then stood there staring out at the wicked lightning forking across the sky. The flare of the light lit his face, the boom of thunder closing in made him flinch now and again. He took a sip of the fiery Irish brandy and then licked the droplets from his lips. He took another sip then another, leaning against the jamb to watch the fireworks streaking across the sky, trying hard not to hear the patter of the rain as it hit the glass. Each time the sound broke into his consciousness, he lifted the snifter to his lips and drank. Until the snifter was empty. 282

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Sinclair drew in a long, troubled breath then walked back to his desk. He stared at the decanter for a moment then snatched it up and refilled his glass. Carrying the brimming snifter to the window, he took up his silent vigil once more. He stayed that way until a nasty ache began just above his right eye and made him flinch with the pain the intrusion of the flaring light from the storm caused. Turning away from the window, feeling slightly sick to his stomach, he nevertheless filled his snifter once more and took it to bed with him. Stretching out on his back with his head propped against the brass headboard he closed his eyes. “Ivonne,” he whispered, his heart and soul aching. “Oh, God, Ivonne. How I miss you, milady.” Her beautiful face flashed through his mind and he thought if he listened real hard, he could hear her laughter on the wings of the storm. Was she calling to him? Was she waiting for him to come to her? “Soon,” he said quietly. “Soon, milady.” Then he lifted the snifter and drained it.

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Chapter Thirty-Four “How long’s he been like this?” Leland asked, frowning as he bent over Sinclair and felt his forehead. “Two days,” Dorrie replied. She was seated in a chair by her bed watching Sinclair as he slept fitfully. Her porcelain features were tight with concern. “He threw up so much yesterday, he strained his throat and could barely talk.” Leland straightened and cocked his head around to look at Dorrie. “Did you send for Doc Doorenbos?” Dorrie smiled tiredly. “He wouldn’t let me.” A snort of derision came from Leland Brell. “Damned fool,” he stated then flicked his glance to his youngest brother. “Go fetch Doc and tell him it looks like this poggleheaded twit got into some bad liquor and got himself poisoned.” Brendan blinked. “You think that’s what’s wrong with him, Lee?” He stared at Sinclair. “Well,” Leland grunted, flopping down on the bed beside his cousin and then stretching out his artificial leg to relieve the pain where the harness was rubbing into his thigh, “the idjut hasn’t eaten nothin’ to speak of in a couple days but he sure as hell’s been drinkin’ his fill.” He nudged his chin toward the bottle atop Dorrie’s night table. Dorrie looked down at her clasped hands. “I tried to keep him from doing that, but he’s not an easy man to divert from his intended course of action. He got absolutely infuriated with me and I thought at one point he was going to strike me.” She tossed her blonde hair. “If he had, he’d be lying here by his lonesome, I can assure you!” “Humpf,” Leland agreed. He glared at Brendan. “What are you waiting for, boy? An engraved invitation to mount up and fetch Doc?” He waved a dismissive hand at the younger man. “Get yo ass on down the road, Brenny, a’fore Sinclair kicks the bucket.” Brendan’s eyes flared. “You think he’s gonna die?” “Nah!” Leland chuckled, shaking his head. “Just go on and do what I told you, will ya?” Dorrie hid a smile as the younger man rushed from the room, his face stained with embarrassment. When Leland heaved a long, drawn-out sigh, she lifted her head and looked at him. She matched his weary sigh with a pleasant one of her own. “I appreciate you sending for us, Miss Dorrie,” Lee said quietly. He laid a hand on Sinclair’s knee. “This one sure as hell don’t look after himself so it’s a good thing he’s got you to look after him.” 284

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“I know there’s talk in town,” Dorrie said, “but that’s all it is—talk.” “Well, it ain’t nobody’s business ‘cept his and yours,” Brell finished for her. A slightly uneasy expression flitted across Dorrie’s face. “When his wife returns, there may well be hell to pay, Mr. Brell.” Another derisive snort puffed from Lee’s smiling mouth. “Oh, I don’t think I’d worry your pretty little head about what old Evangeline might or might not do when she comes back to WindLass.” He looked around at Sinclair. “I do believe he’s gonna have the upper hand in that situation.” He nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I do believe he will.” He patted Sinclair’s knee. “And there won’t be a damned thang that whore will be able to do about it.” Dorrie knew it was only a matter of time before she’d be forced to go back to town or, worse yet, leave Savannah altogether once Sinclair’s wife found out he was keeping her on WindLass property. The thought of giving the man up to Evangeline rankled, but she knew there was nothing she could do about it. “It seem like it’s getting darker to you?” Leland asked, looking toward the window. Dorrie followed his gaze and then shrugged, not caring one way or the other. “Probably another storm brewing off the coast,” she commented. “Been a bad year for storms,” Leland mumbled. A groan from Sinclair made him turn back to his cousin. He leaned over and laid the back of his hand on his cousin’s flushed cheek. “Lord Almighty, he’s hot as a Florida sand dune.” Dorrie pushed herself up from her chair and went to the bed, reaching into the basin on her night table where a folded rag was soaking. “He was so hot last evening, I could barely lie beside him.” She wrung out the cloth, fluffed it then laid it on Sinclair’s hot forehead. “Where’d he get that liquor anyways?” Lee asked, feeling a slight shiver of pleasure go through him as Dorrie’s leg brushed his own. The ex-madam glanced at the bottle on her night table. “He brought it with him,” she replied. “I don’t drink and I don’t have any spirits here in the cabin. Whatever he wants, he brings with him, although he remarked that he was going to bring a case of brandy over and keep it here.” Leland’s mouth tightened. “Ain’t no telling where he got it, then. It ain’t got no tax stamp on it so he might have got it from some ‘shiner.” Dorrie started to tell Lee about the old man and his two sons who were running a still back up in the woods when Sinclair began to choke. “Shit!” Lee snapped, pushing the woman out of his way as he staggered painfully to his feet and slipped an arm under his cousin’s back, levering him up so he would not aspirate his own vomitus. He moved back as far as he could against the night table as Dorrie thrust a chipped porcelain pan under Sinclair’s chin just in time. A particularly foul smell came from the sickness and both Sinclair’s helpers gagged.

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“What it the name of God did he drink?” Lee demanded. Where Sinclair’s naked back touched his cousin’s arm, there was great heat and drenching sweat. It was all Leland could do to keep the man erect, for Sinclair was shivering badly although he was unconscious. “You think that ’shiner cut the liquor with kerosene?” “It smells like it,” Dorrie commented as she stood there holding the pan and trying not to stare down into its contents. “Damned fool,” Leland spat, and Dorrie knew he was referring to his cousin. “Well, this shit’s gonna stop right now.” Dorrie saw Sinclair’s eyelids flutter open so she laid the pan in his lap and reached for the rag that had fallen to the counterpane. She rewet it then bent over to wipe his sweaty face. “You’re a sick little boy, you know that, sugar?” she asked him. Sinclair’s eyes were glazed, his pupils dilated. There was a bluish tinge around his trembling lips and he didn’t seem to be hearing her words all that well. His head lolled against Leland’s side and then straightened as another bout of sickness burst from him. “I want you to drink some more of that witch’s brew, Sinny,” Lee snarled, bracing his younger cousin against him. “Maybe next time it’ll do what you wanted it to.” Dorrie cast a look up at the older man. Lee’s face was set and hard, a tight line pressing his lips together. “Wasn’t trying to—” Sinclair tried to say, but Lee’s bark cut him off. “Just shut the hell up and get through puking!” Lee demanded. “You’re killing my damned leg with me havin’ to stand like this and hold yo ass up!” “God, I’m sick,” Sinclair moaned, and tried to lift a hand to his head where the headache from hell was pounding at his temples. “We know you are, baby,” Dorrie told him. She reached for a glass of water on the night table. “Here, sweetie. Drink you some water and rinse out your mouth.” Sinclair allowed her to hold the glass to his lips, clinking his chattering teeth against the rim as she tipped it for him to get a swallow. The water felt good in his mouth and he did as she suggested, trying to rid himself of the godawful taste that seemed to permeate his entire system. “Who the hell did you buy that shit from?” Leland snapped, reaching out to with his free hand to snatch up the bottle and thrust it under his cousin’s nose. “This come from old man Swanson’s still?” Sinclair managed to shake his head. “It was some of Papa’s,” he whispered. “Some of his good stuff.” “Good stuff my ass,” Leland snorted. “Damned near killed you!” He put the cork up to his mouth, bit into it, pulled it from the bottle with his teeth and then turned his head to spit the cork away. He sniffed it, wrinkling his nose at the overripe cherry smell. “Cherry brandy,” he stated as though it were a sin unto itself. Without further ado, he poured the contents into the pan on Sinclair’s lap then tossed the empty bottle on the bed. “No more, you understand me, boy?” he grated. “No more!”

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Sinclair nodded feebly. He closed his eyes, feeling worse than he ever had in his life. Even when Lee lowered him as gently as he could to the bed, Sinclair’s head felt as though it had slammed into a rock as soon as it touched his pillow. He winced with the pain and brought a shaky hand up to touch his lips, groaning. “Doc’s on his way,” Lee pronounced. “You got yourself some kinda poison off’n that stuff.” “I think he realizes that,” Dorrie said, taking away the pan. “No more,” Leland repeated. “And I mean it.” “No more,” Sinclair agreed. If he never had another drink as long as he lived, it would be too soon. He made a mental vow to never touch another drop of liquor—just the thought of the fumes made his mouth water and brought bile rushing up his throat. “And I’m gettin’ sick to death of you goin’ ‘round moanin’ and groanin’ all the time about how life’s been a bitch to you,” Leland said, throwing himself into Dorrie’s chair. He winced, reaching out to rub at his thigh. “I ain’t been doing that,” Sinclair defended himself. “Might as well have been,” Leland snorted. “Act like that’s what you’re thinkin’.” “Why don’t you let him rest, Mr. Brell?” Dorrie suggested. “Much more of that shit and he’ll be resting permanently,” Lee reminded her. He eyed his cousin. “‘Course, sometimes I think that’s what the little peckerwood wants.” “I don’t believe so,” Dorrie replied, fluffing Sinclair’s pillow and catching his eye as he looked mournfully up at her. She put her hand on his cheek and caressed it. “I think he just needs a bit of understanding, don’t you, baby?” Sinclair nestled his cheek into her palm and closed his eyes, hurting from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. “Stay with me, Dorrie,” he asked. A low boom of thunder shook the windowpanes as Dorrie answered. She was barely aware of Leland pushing himself up from the chair and trudging to the window. When he spoke, she was washing Sinclair’s hot face. “Sky’s getting mighty dark,” Lee said worriedly. “I don’t like that there yellow cast up there.” “Tornado weather,” Sinclair muttered as he began to drift off. “Think I see Brenny and the Doc,” Leland put in, moving away from the window to the front door. As he opened the portal, a gust of cool wind came through the cabin. He squinted, looking up past the porch roof to the tumultuous sky. “Yep, you’re right little cousin—it’s tornado weather.” “Might want to hitch up that buckboard, Brendan,” Dorrie heard Doc Doorenbos order. “Looks like we might be in for some bad weather and I’d like to get my patient up to WindLass.” Leland nodded as he stepped aside to let the doctor into the cabin. “My thoughts exactly.” He turned to look at Dorrie. “Best get yo gal and the two of you come on up there with us.” 287

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Dorrie’s forehead puckered with worry. “You think it might get bad?” Lee shrugged. “Better safe than sorry.” The ex-madam tucked her lower lip between her teeth. Her eyes darted back and forth as she thought. When she finally looked up at Lee, he was sure he knew what she was going to say. He wasn’t wrong. “People will talk if I go up to WindLass, Mr. Brell.” “Let the bastards talk,” Leland interrupted. “Ain’t gonna leave you and yo gal out here with a twister comin’. Get your shawl or whatever the hell else you women need to drag along with you and let’s get goin’.” He looked past her to where Doc Doorenbos was examining his patient. “He gonna be all right, Ray?” “I think so,” the doctor replied, but he didn’t like the looks of Sinclair. “It is poisoning of some kind.” He cast a look at the bottle lying on the other side of Sinclair’s leg. “Is that what he drank?” “Yeah,” Leland agreed, and saw the doctor take it up and slip it in his medicine bag. “You gonna test it?” “Naturally,” Doc said, offended at the query. He was more concerned with Sinclair’s inability to stay awake to be examined thoroughly though, than piqued at Lee questioning his professionalism. “I got the buckboard ready,” Brendan said as he came into the room, his hair tousled wildly. “Damned wind is kickin’ up somethin’ fierce.” “Can you carry him, Brenny?” Doc asked as he got up from the bed. “He’s not going to be able to walk himself out of here.” He tossed back Sinclair’s covers, frowning at how wet they felt. “I can try,” Brendan replied, knowing full well he could lift his cousin. He went to the bed, thrust his arms under Sin’s back and legs and hefted the man as easily as he would have a child. “We’re ready,” Dorrie said as she and her servant girl joined them at the door. She pulled the door to behind them and was immediately struck with the chill of the wind and its strength. Worry settled on her lovely face as Doc helped her onto the buckboard seat. With Brendan sitting beside Sinclair and Dorrie’s girl in the bed of the buckboard and Doc driving the mule, which would pull it, Brendan tied the reins of Lee’s and Doc’s mounts to the tail hitch of the buckboard and then climbed on his own horse. He had to grab for his hat as a particularly harsh burst of wind blew over them. Squinting into the discomfort of the blow, he followed closely behind the wagon as Doc flipped the reins, setting the mule into a brisk walk toward WindLass. In the copse of trees just to the south of the little cabin, Silky was digging her nails into the bark of the pine tree beside her. Her jaw was set, her teeth grinding as her narrowed eyes followed the procession of riders headed away from the cabin.

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It was bad enough, she thought, as she peeled away a long section of bark, crumbling it in her hand, that the bastard wasn’t near as sick as he should have been. The tenerse she’d been surreptitiously feeding him in his liquor had made him ill, but not as ill as she had wanted it to. Now the doctor would make him better and she’d have to start all over again, giving him the poison in something other than the liquor she was afraid he would keep well away from now on. “Son of a bitch,” Silky spat, her eyes flaring. And there he was taking that whore with him to Ivonne’s house! “Son of a bitch!” she exploded, arching her hands and digging her nails down the pine bark, embedding tar under her nails. With a shriek of pure fury, she tore at the bark, peeling away large sections until her fingertips were bleeding. Unable to peel away any more, she slapped her open palms then her doubled fists against the trunk, wishing with all her being that it was his face she was smashing. With a final expulsion of angry breath, she sank to the ground, barely feeling the buffeting of the wind as it pushed against her. Her fury had not subsided, but her strength and stamina had. Closing her eyes, she laid her head against the trunk and began to sob with frustration, turning her forehead to and fro against the rough bark, keening to herself. As the wind began to howl around her, she opened her eyes and stared unseeingly at the cabin. For a long time she sat where she was, her gaze intent on the place of evil where the demon had brought his harlot to live, where hell’s spawn housed his witchy consort. “Son of a bitch,” Silky whispered, hating him more than ever and hating this place where he had brought his slut and used her body to satisfy his demonic lust. The cabin became a focus for her hatred as she stared long and hard at it. It became a surrogate for the loathing she held for the man who owned it. And it began a roaring conflagration that would take twenty men to extinguish before the afternoon was through.

***** Grace Vivienne hissed when she heard the news. She crumpled the missive in her hand and threw it at the wastebasket, cursing the fool who had allowed such a thing to happen. “Dere gonna be a reply, Miss Gracey?” the black boy who had brought the note hesitated to ask. “You can tell them all to go straight to hell!” the old woman spat. The boy nodded, backing away. Miss Gracey’s face was a strange purple color that scared him. “Yes’m,” he said respectfully, twisting the brim of his hat around and around as he backed toward the door. “I’ll tell her what’s you said.”

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“He will burn in hell’s everlasting flames!” Grace Vivienne stated, her head bobbing up and down in accord with her prophesy. “As sure as there is a God in heaven, that little bastard will burn in hell’s everlasting flames.” “Yes’m,” the young boy agreed. When he was out of the door, well away from the crazed look on the old white woman’s face, he heaved a long sigh of relief. “What she say tell that Silky?” one of the maids inquired as the boy headed out the kitchen door. “Told her to go straight to hell,” the boy announced. “Best place for a uppity nigger like her,” the maid sniffed. “Whole town gonna be talkin’ ‘bout dis,” the boy said, hating to go back outside lest someone corner him to help pick up the pieces the tornado had caused down in the still. It was only by the grace of God that no one had been killed when the twister had roared over Willow Glen. “Let ‘em talk,” the maid told him. “Ain’t like it be the fust time dat man done went and done somethin’ folks didn’t cotton to.” “Reckon he got the right if’n dat’s what he wants,” the boy suggested. “That wife of his’n gonna whack it off when she come back and finds dat white trash woman in her house!” the maid stated firmly. “Where else she gonna live?” the boy inquired. “Dat cabin be nuthin’ but cinders now.” “Anywheres but up to WindLass,” the maid snapped, her big lips thrust out in a disapproving pout. “Ain’t right and I don’ts blame Miz Gracey for being mad.” “Don’t sees what right she gots to be mad,” the boy muttered to himself. He sighed and went out into the rain-drenched evening. Maybe if he skirted the three cabins that had been flattened by the storm, he could sneak down to the creek until it was time to go to bed. As he passed the window of the library, he happened to turn his head and saw the old white woman standing there glaring at him. A shiver went through his young body and he ducked his head and hurried on. If a person had to make an enemy of someone, they didn’t want it to be that hag. He almost felt sorry for Mr. McGregor.

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Chapter Thirty-Five Sinclair stretched out across the bed, his face pressed into the silk of the coverlet and tried to quell the nausea that had been riding him off and on all month. As a result, he had eaten hardly anything in the last few days and had one hell of a headache. As another wave of sickness struck, he squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his teeth to the terrible pain in his temples. At the light tap on his door, he groaned with frustration. The mere sound of his own breathing hurt him—speaking would be an agony he wanted to avoid. The tap came again. “Sinclair?” When he did not answer her call, Dorrie opened the door quietly and ventured inside, not surprised to find him lying on the bed, one knee crooked up toward his chest. She sighed, seeing the back of his white shirt discolored with perspiration and sticking to his flesh. “Are you sick again, baby?” she asked him as softly as she could for she knew the headaches he’d been having of late had gotten worse. He didn’t answer her, couldn’t, but he heard her pouring him a glass of water from the decanter on the bedside table. “Dr. Doorenbos left you some stomach powders,” Dorrie told him, and the sound of her hand brushing against the fabric of her skirt as she delved into her pocket for the packet of powder was almost more than he could bear. Another rap at the door made Sinclair wish the devil would pop up out of the netherworld and snatch away whomever it was who had come to bother him. “I’ll see who it is,” Dorrie said. There was the overly loud creak of her footsteps—muffled as they were by her soft slippers and the thick Aubusson carpet—on the floorboards then the hideous shriek of the well-oiled hinges as the door screamed open. The boom of voices whispering took away his breath with the excruciating pain of it and he rolled over into the fetal position, slamming his hands over his ears to blot out the cacophony. “He’s no better?” Leland asked as he and Conor came into the bedroom. “No,” Dorrie said worriedly. “He was up most of the night.” “Are you sure he isn’t sneaking liquor?” Conor inquired. “There isn’t a drop in the house,” Dorrie replied, her nose going up at the suggestion that she wasn’t taking care of her charge. “Well, he’s sure as hell taking something,” Lee griped.

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The thundering footsteps that advanced on his deathbed made Sinclair moan with pain, for even the bed on which he lay was trembling beneath the weight of those heavy steps. “Sinclair, what are you taking?” a voice bellowed at him. “Gawd!” Sinclair groaned, pressing his hands so tightly to his ears, he felt as though his temples would implode. “Leave me alone, Brell!” Conor took up the glass into which Dorrie had earlier poured water, brought it to his nose and sniffed, thinking it might well be the clearest moonshine he’d ever seen. At the scent that greeted his nostrils, his forehead puckered. He extended the glass to his brother. “Here,” he insisted. “Smell this.” Leland’s lips quirked. “Shine, huh?” he snorted then took the glass, sniffed then blinked. “Cherry juice?” He held the glass up to the light before smelling it once again. “Damned if it ain’t cherry juice.” “Wasn’t that cherry brandy he was drinking at the cabin?” Dorrie asked, her heart aching at the loss of the little cabin that had apparently been struck by the lightning that had come with the late April storm the month before. “Aye,” Lee sighed. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear this here stuff was cherry wine.” “It is water,” Dorrie told him. “Silky fetched it from the well for him a little while ago.” “Go away,” Sinclair pleaded with them. The sound of their voices was killing him. Lee nudged his chin toward the door and Conor and Dorrie led the way out into the corridor. Lee eased the door shut then put his hands on Conor’s and Dorrie’s shoulders to lead them away from Sinclair’s room. “You remember that old woman who lived down in the hollow?” Lee asked his brother. “Ma Hummell, I think her name was?” Conor’s nose wrinkled. “The one what whacked her old man in the head with the skillet when he was bathing?” Lee nodded. “Aye, then she held him under the water until he was good ‘n dead before sawing him to pieces and scattering the remains over four counties.” “Obviously she wanted to make sure she was rid of him,” Dorrie commented dryly. “Well, she’d been trying to blow out his candle for a year or two before she finally done it,” Lee replied. He glanced around then lowered his voice. “Doc said they found seven different kinds of poison in her bureau drawer when they went out to question her ‘bout his disappearance. One of them smelled just like cherry juice when it was mixed in water.” Conor’s eyes flared. “Great Lord Almighty!” he exclaimed. “Tenerse!” Lee nodded. “I’d bet my damned nag that’s what’s in that glass of water.” Dorrie looked from one man to the other. “Tenerse? What’s that?”

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Lee plowed a hand through his thick blond hair. “Poison of the worst kind, Miss Dorrie,” he answered. “Island magic, the darkies call it, ‘cause the grain they make that stuff from comes from somewhere near Jamaica.” “But how?” Dorrie asked, her face white with shock. She looked back toward Sinclair’s room. “More important—who?” “Could be any one of these darkies, ma’am,” Conor said, his jaw set with anger. “I’ve heard tell they ain’t been all that generous with Sinclair since he moved in here.” “But to try to kill him?” Dorrie protested, feeling the same intense anger flooding her she could see in Conor. “Who would want him dead that badly?” Lee knew the answer to that and he knew why, but he didn’t reply. He suspected Conor knew as well, for the young man was clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. “So, what are we going to do about it?” Conor ground out. Lee knew the answer to that as well. He laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Tit for tat, little one.” He squeezed Coni’s shoulder lightly. “Tit for tat.” “You know who it is, don’t you?” Dorrie asked, not feeling in the least sorry for the person she knew would soon be on the receiving end of the vicious look in Leland Brell’s cinnamon-brown eyes. “We’ll take care of it,” Lee replied. He hitched a thumb back toward Sinclair’s room. “You stay with him and make sure nobody, and I mean nobody, gives him nothing until we get back. Understand?” Dorrie nodded in reply. “At least tell me who so I can protect him,” she begged. Lee thought about it for a second then sighed heavily. “My guess is Silky,” he replied. “She was over to see our Granny just before Sin started getting sick.” “But why would she try to kill him?” Dorrie stopped. “She blames him for Vonnie’s death,” Conor stated. “You stay with him, Miss Dorrie,” Lee ordered. “We’ll find her and bring her here to confront her with this perfidy.” With a last look at Sinclair’s closed door, Lee cocked his head for his brother to accompany him then the two brothers strode purposefully down the hall.

***** Tina looked up as her husband came into the sitting room. From the look on Conor’s face, she knew something was wrong. She put a hand to the massive mound of her stomach, feeling the child within her stir. “What’s happened?” she asked. “You remember when Silky came over here that day to see Granny?” her husband snapped. He was standing in the center of the room, his hands on his hips. “Yes,” Tina replied slowly. “Why?”

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“She’s been poisoning Sinclair,” Conor said through clenched teeth. “We found two bottles of tenerse in her room at WindLass.” Tina gasped, her hand going from her stomach to her lips. She stared wide-eyed at her husband. “No,” she said through the constriction of suddenly trembling fingers. “Oh, Lord, Coni. Is he all right?” “He will be. We’ve looked all over WindLass for that lying piece of baggage, but she’s nowhere to be found,” Conor grated, his right foot beginning to tap out a dangerous rhythm on the carpet. “You’re sure she’s been doing this?” Tina asked. “There’s no mistake?” “There’s no mistake,” Conor answered. “Somehow she found out we suspected her and she’s up and took off.” He ground his teeth together to keep his murderous rage under control. “But we’ll find her.” Tina didn’t like the look in her husband’s eye. “And when you do?” she prompted. Conor’s eyes gleamed with malice. “We’ll see how well she takes to cherry juice!”

***** It was slow going up the slippery riverbank, but she made it without too much trouble. The hem of her gown snagged on a piece of driftwood, but she snatched the material away, plucking the telltale fabric from the branch lest someone find it. It would not do to leave behind even a small piece of evidence that could link her to the body that was now floating out into the Savannah River. She’d done a lot of things in her lifetime, but she’d never killed anyone before. This had been necessary, for the darkie had posed a threat to everything her murderer wanted out of life. There was a posse out looking for Silky, nearly everyone knew by now what had been going on at WindLass. Had the wrong people caught the Negress, justice would surely not have been served. Her murderer had not been about to leave things in the hands of the Savannah constabulary. Too many secrets needed to be kept quiet in Chatham County. Silky’s bloated body would be found many miles from WindLass plantation and her death would be officially registered as an accidental fall into the river—there would be nothing to link her death with Sinclair McGregor. Or to the woman who had slammed a piece of stove wood into the back of the darkie’s head, caving in her skull. It had been easy to send word to Silky, for she had known where the darkie would go to ground. A sympathetic shoulder, an offer of money to get the Negress out of the country, a few words of caution and Silky had turned to go, never suspecting she was about to meet her fate at a white woman’s hands. The look of absolute surprise that had entered—and died—in Silky’s cinnamon eyes had almost been worth the risk she had taken to murder the treacherous bitch.

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Pausing to catch her breath, she looked down at her hands in the moonlight and thought she saw blood. With a grimace of distaste, she wiped her palms down her skirt, even though there was nothing on her hands save the sweat her exertion had wrought. Looking up to the heavens, she imagined a frowning face of the Benevolent staring down at her with disapproval, but that could not be helped. Allowing Silky to live now that nearly everyone knew the nigger had been systematically poisoning Sinclair was unthinkable. As far as her murderer was concerned, the darkie’s life was forfeit the moment it was learned she had been trying to kill Sinclair. “If lust is the father of all creation and love is the mother, then surely revenge is the firstborn of the family,” she sighed as she trudged slowly home.

***** The headache had almost gone away and the nausea had fled, but Sinclair was still weak, feeling as though he were trudging through mile after mile of swamp mud. He was sitting in bed, his face pale and his eyes clouded with the residual effects of the poison when Lee poked his head through the door. “Up to some company, cuz?” Brell asked. “Would it stop you from annoying me if I said no?” Sinclair returned, smiling wanly. “Nope,” Lee humpfed. He came in and dragged Sinclair’s desk chair over to the bed, swung it around to face him, straddled the seat then sat down with a bit of difficulty to lean his chin on the tall back, his hands clutching the twin knobs at the top. “How you feelin’?” “Weak as a day-old kitten,” Sinclair reported. He pushed himself up farther in the bed. “But getting better. The headache’s all but gone.” Lee smiled. “That’s good.” He clucked his tongue. “They found Silky this mornin’.” Sinclair had already been told. “She’d want to be buried on WindLass land,” he said quietly. “Not a snowball’s chance in hell,” Lee said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Granny’s already arranged the funeral.” A twist of irritation attacked Sinclair’s lips and then just as quickly left. “I’ve got no say in it?” Lee shook his head firmly. “Not a single say, boy.” He cocked his head to one side. “The darkie tried to kill you or have you forgotten that?” Sinclair looked down at his hands. “No, I haven’t forgotten, but I think you’ve forgotten why she thought she had to.” Lee opened his mouth to berate his cousin and then decided against it. There were more important matters to concern themselves with. “Well, that’s a matter we’ll discuss at another time, Sinny. Right now, I’m afraid you got yourself some visitors downstairs.” 295

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Sinclair looked up. “The law?” Lee sighed. “Aye, but they ain’t here about Silky.” “Then why?” Lee squirmed on the chair, looked abashed. “It’s the mayor, Sinclair, and his secretary. A few of Savannah’s more prominent men.” “I know exactly why they’re here,” Sinclair snapped, his eyes flaring. “And you can tell those lily-livered, Holier-than-Thou-art holy rollers to go straight to hell!” Lee winced. “Now, Sin, don’t you go getting your mad up.” “She’s responsible for this!” Sinclair spat. “Sure as there’s a God in the heavens, that old bitch is responsible for this!” “Well, I have to agree about Dorrie staying here, Sinclair,” Lee protested. “It don’t look right.” “My sister!” Sinclair threw at his cousin, taking some pleasure in seeing the flinch that turned Leland’s normally placid face a sickly green. “And you’d damned better remind that old hag about that, Leland! Unless she wants me telling the whole of Chatham County about the relationship and who instigated it!” Another flinch made Leland push himself painfully from the chair. “Now, Sinclair, calm down.” “She stays,” Sinclair said, temper flaring with amber sparks of fire dancing in his expressive eyes. “And I want somebody to go out to the cabin and see if that fire wasn’t deliberately set!” Lee rolled his eyes heavenward. “Lightning from the storm hit the cabin, Cuz. Don’t go borrowing trouble.” Sinclair cut him off by pointing a rigid finger in his direction. “Have someone go out there and see if it was set!” He doubled his fist and pounded it into the mattress. “And tell those bastards downstairs to get the hell off my property!” “What is all the yelling in here?” Dorrie asked, hurrying through the doorway. She glanced at Lee then went to Sinclair. “What’s going on, baby?” “Those sons of bitches downstairs want to tell me what to do on my own goddamned property!” Sinclair stopped when Dorrie put her fingertips to his lips. “Hush now and don’t go getting all upset,” she said lovingly. She reached down to adjust his covers. “I’m sure Mr. Brell will handle it.” She looked around. “Won’t you, sir?” The woman was becoming far too possessive of his cousin, Lee thought as he watched her fussing over Sinclair. There she was washing his face, lifting a glass of water to his lips when the man was perfectly capable of doing a simple thing like that for himself. He watched her seat herself beside Sinclair and reach up to push a stray lock of hair from his cousin’s forehead. “I won’t have them coming here telling me what I can and cannot do on my own property, Dorrie,” Lee heard Sinclair protest. “I won’t have them insulting my woman!” 296

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“Oh shit,” Lee whispered to himself, shuddering at those words. “Please see to Mr. McGregor’s guests, will you, Mr. Brell?” Dorrie asked in a soft voice. She was looking right at Lee, daring him to speak up in front of Sinclair. Lee swung his gaze from the ex-madam to his cousin. “I hope to the gods you know what it is you’re doing,” he said in a stern, cautionary tone. “Leave it be, Leland,” Sinclair warned. He would have added something else but running footsteps down the hall made all three turn as Brendan came racing into the room. “It’s here!” Brendan whooped, yanking off his hat and throwing it into the air. “Whoopee!” “Boy or girl?” Dorrie asked, stunning both Lee and Sinclair for neither had a clue as to what Brendan was so excited about. “A boy!” Brendan shouted. “Eight pounds or thereabouts Doc figures!” Sinclair smiled. “Tina’s little boy.” He exchanged a look with Dorrie, who asked if mother and child were all right even though she kept her gaze steady on Sinclair. “Right as rain and sleeping,” Brendan reported. He rushed over to Lee and grabbed the man’s arm. “Come on and let’s go see your nephew!” Lee was grinning from ear to ear and turned to share his delight with Sinclair, to ask why the man wasn’t up and getting dressed to go see his new little cousin when the reality of the situation hit home, wiping the smile from his face. “Ah hell, Sinclair, I—” “Go on,” Sinclair said, waving a hand of dismissal. “They’ll bring him over for me to see before too long.” Lee’s mouth turned hard. “You ought to be able to come on over there and see him for yourself!” “She won’t live forever,” was Sinclair’s matter-of-fact answer. “No, she won’t,” Dorrie said so softly only Sinclair heard her. She reached out and took Sinclair’s hand, the gesture not escaping Lee and Brendan’s notice. On the ride back to Willow Glen, both men would look at one another and voice their concern. Dorrie Burkhart was getting far too possessive of their cousin.

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Chapter Thirty-Six He stood at the window, staring out at the light mist of rain falling from the lowering sky. The side of his forehead was pressed against the coolness of the windowpane, his breath fogging the glass. He idly traced a random pattern on the wooden sill with his right index finger, for his thoughts had strayed beyond the physical boundaries of WindLass Plantation. A deep sigh frosted the windowpane, fanned out and then slowly disappeared. “Conor Sinclair,” he said on a hushed breath of sound then closed his eyes, sighing deeply again before pushing away from the window and going back to his bed to sit down. He was still weak, a little achy. Although his appetite had returned and the nausea had fled, he just wasn’t in the mood to eat. He knew the lack of adequate nourishment was part of the reason he didn’t feel like going downstairs, but he was too self-aware not to know the real reason he preferred to stay in his bedchamber. “Depression is very dangerous thing, Sinclair,” Doc Doorenbos had told him. “It can crush the very life from a man if he allows it to rule him.” Aye, he thought, I am depressed, but don’t I have a damned good reason for being that way? The woman I love is dead, the woman I’m married to is my own sister, without a doubt, the woman who raised me took an active part in trying to have me murdered and ninety percent of the townsfolk think I’m a reprobate. Sinclair’s shoulders slumped as he sat there. This is getting out of hand, he thought. Here he was sitting in his room like a damned whipped dog with its tail between its legs while Coni and Tina’s bantling was being christened at the Cathedral. Everyone in his family—even the old hag who would rather see him moldering in his grave than forgive him for something he could not help—was in Savannah attending the christening. “I wish I could ask you to be our son’s godfather, Sinny,” Conor had said with a great look of shame on his handsome face. “But…well…you know.” Brell shrugged. “The people are talking,” Sinclair had finished for his cousin. Coni had looked down at the floor. “The bishop said he couldn’t allow you to because of what you’re doing out here.” Bright red had infused Conor’s face. “I am not cohabiting with her, Coni,” Sinclair had said quietly. “I understand the ramifications of Canon Law and I am not sleeping with her in this house.” Conor had been unable to look up at his cousin. “Even so, the bishop said you would not be allowed to stand up for us.” The young man had finally lifted his head,

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his eyes filled with tears. “Ah hell, Sinclair. You know Tina and I don’t care about any of this. We want you.” “It’s okay,” Sinclair had lied, hating himself for not having the courage to get angry. “I understand.” “We’re going to name him Conor Sinclair, though!” Coni had stressed, his jaw set. “Brendan and his Lida will be the godparents, but I had wanted you.” “Will I at least be allowed to attend the christening?” Sinclair had asked, hurting inside, for he knew who Conor had started to name as godmother to his and Tina’s firstborn. Conor’s face turned redder still. “Maybe it would be best if we brought the baby by here after Mass.” He had shrugged helplessly. “Granny is going to be there and she swears if you show up, she’ll have them throw you out and she’s given so much money to the Church that I’m afraid there’ll be men more than willing to do what she tells them to.” “I see,” Sinclair had whispered. So, here he was sitting on the edge of his bed, his hands tucked between his thighs, his head bent, and feeling like the last man on the face of the Earth. Even the melodic strains of Chopin, his favorite composer, coming from the pianoforte downstairs could not reach into the barrenness of his soul, could not touch that lonely core of him that was devoid of warmth and companionship. He didn’t know how long he sat there, staring as sightlessly at the rug beneath his booted feet as he had stared out the window earlier. Even when the music stopped and there were loud voices to replace the beauty of Chopin’s compositions, he remained as he was, lost to everything around him. Not even when the door to his bedchamber opened and heavy footsteps advanced on him, did he break his solitary contemplation of his own misery. It wasn’t until something hard slammed into his shoulder and he was knocked sideways on the bed, did he pull himself out of his reverie and look up, blinking at the enraged woman standing before him. “What the hell is that harlot doing in my home, Sinclair McGregor?!” Evangeline was fairly quivering with fury as she glared down at him. Her lips were trembling and she stood there, arms akimbo, sending poisonous darts of pure spite at him. “Did you hear me, mister?” Her shout was loud enough to set the prisms on the bedside lamp to tinkling. Sinclair blinked again, lowering his gaze to her belly—as flat and shapely as it had ever been—before looking up into her hostile violet eyes. “Are you all right?” he asked, his heart beginning to pound. “Hell no, I’m not all right!” Evangeline screeched, balling up her fist to slam into his shoulder once more. “I want to know what the hell you were thinking having that trollop living in my home?”

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Sinclair winced, for her hit was hard enough to raise a good-sized lump on his biceps. He put up a protective hand to keep her from hitting him again. “How is the baby?” Evangeline opened her mouth to berate him again, but she had been apprized of what had transpired. Her husband’s pale face was enough to convince her he had been—if not knocking at death’s door—at least paused on its threshold. And having been told of his being banned from attending the Brell brat’s christening today, she was loath to heap any more punishment on his dark head. “Vangie?” he asked, coming slowly to his feet, for her silence had put a terrible thought into his mind. “The baby? Is he all right?” “She,” Evangeline sighed, flouncing down on the bed. “Arden Elayne McGregor.” Sinclair’s heart lurched in his chest and he drew in a deep breath. “A baby girl?” he whispered. If truth were to be told, he had hoped his bantling would be a girl child for he was partial to little females. “Born a week ago yesterday,” Evangeline said. “And you are up traveling this soon?” he asked, his worry evident in his eyes. “Oh poo,” Evangeline said, fanning the air in dismissal of the question. “I am perfectly fine and so is Arden.” “You should still be abed, Vangie,” he told her. He reached for her hand and held it. “You needed to rest.” “Darkie women drop a baby in the field and keep right on chopping cotton,” Evangeline scoffed. “There’s nothing to it.” Sinclair was amazed at her resilience. He would have taken odds that Evangeline would have stayed in bed for an entire month, accepting the sympathy of everyone around her for having suffered the pains of childbearing. Once more he looked at her flat belly and shook his head with surprise. “You amaze me, Vangie,” he said, meaning it. “Any other woman would have taken a month to recuperate.” “You didn’t answer my question,” his wife said, pulling her hand from his light grip. “Why is that whore in my home?” He had the grace to blush. “Her cabin burned down.” “One of our cabins?” she growled. At his nod, her eyes narrowed. “Why was she living in your cabin, Sinclair?” Evangeline grated, her temper rising again. Not even the tremor in her husband’s hand could forestall getting things out in the open. Now was not the time to tell her, he thought. Not about Dorrie, not about the terrible secret that had been kept from the two of them by his grandmother. He wanted nothing more than to see his child. “Where is she?” he asked. “Downstairs playing my pianoforte!” Evangeline snapped, misunderstanding his question. “I came in to find her sitting like the proverbial queen of the keep!” “I meant the baby,” Sinclair interrupted her. 300

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“What baby?” Evangeline stopped, frowning. “Oh, our baby, you mean.” “Aye,” he said, unease prickling his scalp. “She is with you, isn’t she?” “No, I came on alone. Leonie is going to raise her down in Jacksonville.” She stopped, seeing the horrified expression on her husband’s face and laughed. “Of course she is here, Sinclair. Where else would she be but with her mama?” He breathed a sigh of relief. “Lord, don’t scare me like that, woman,” he breathed. “I’ll do more than scare you, Sinclair, if you don’t give me an adequate explanation for that slut’s presence here,” Evangeline said sternly, all humor vanishing from her face. “If I thought you were sleeping with her, I’d make damned sure you never slept with another woman this side of hell!” “I have not slept with her under this roof,” he said, painfully aware that he’d slept with Dorrie just about everywhere else at WindLass except in the main house. “If I find out you’ve slept with her anywhere since our marriage, I’ll make you good and damned sorry, Sinclair,” Evangeline proclaimed sternly. Her ego was such that she had no doubt at all that her husband had been faithful to her, but she felt he needed to be warned just the same. “We’ll talk about Dorrie later,” he said, forestalling his wife’s growl of distaste that erupted at the mention of his mistress’s name. “May I see my daughter first?” Evangeline hated to share this glorious man with anyone, even his own child—a child he mistakenly thought she had strained to bring to life. He must never know she was not the child’s biological mother or find out that Leonie was. Not only was it of vital importance to her, Leonie felt the same way. The Emerson woman never wanted Sinclair to find out she had borne him an illegitimate child. “I want her out of my home immediately, Sinclair,” Evangeline sniffed, speaking of Dorrie. “For the life of me I have no idea why you would have rented her your cabin, but I will not have her on WindLass property. The woman is a common prostitute.” Sinclair’s eyebrows drew together. Was that what Dorrie had told her when Evangeline had found the ex-madam in the front parlor playing the pianoforte? That he had rented his cabin to her? Apparently so, but it wouldn’t take long for one of the servants to tell Evangeline the truth. The sound of a baby crying brought Sinclair’s head around and he stared out the open doorway of his room. “Sweet Merciful Alel,” he whispered, his eyes misting. “Aye, well, she does that a lot,” Evangeline said with a heavy sigh. “All night long, she does that. She cries and she shits, she shits and she cries. All night long.” “She’s probably hungry,” he said, walking like a man mesmerized to the door, following the sound of the crying as though it were a siren’s song luring him downstairs. “Leonie will feed her,” Evangeline said, and bit her tongue when Sinclair turned to look at her. She and Leonie hadn’t thought about the problem of the baby being fed and Evangeline not being able to produce milk for the brat. It wasn’t until they were almost

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to Savannah that the problem raised its ugly head and the two women had had to scramble to find a wet nurse to drag along with them to WindLass. She forced a smile to her lips as she took in the puzzled look on her husband’s handsome face. “It appears I don’t have enough milk to satisfy our baby, Sinclair, so I had to engage a wet nurse.” Many young Southerners, like himself, from well-to-do families had been given over to the care of Negro wet nurses because their mothers had found the idea of breast feeding distasteful, so Sinclair did not question his wife’s explanation. Instead, he just nodded and held out his hand to her. “Shall we go see the little sweeting?” he asked. Jealousy tugged at Evangeline’s pride but she pushed it firmly away. After all, he belonged to her and not even the birth of a child could alter that. She got up from the bed and went to him, fully intending to put her arms around his neck and kiss him in such a way he would forget about the squalling brat downstairs, but he caught her wrists and pulled her arms down. “We’ll talk later,” he said, dreading the moment he would reveal their relationship to her. A slight niggle of worry trilled through Evangeline. There was something distant and forbidding in Sinclair’s eyes and it concerned her. She would have voiced her worry but Leonie took that moment to enter the room, the brat cradled in her arms. Sinclair stilled, his gaze going immediately to the wrapped bundle Leonie held so protectively against her bosom. He barely looked at the woman—seeing only the slight movement as the babe moved within the blanket. “We were coming downstairs,” Evangeline said sharply, her hawklike stare cutting into Leonie. “I was bringing her up to the nursery,” Leonie snapped. “Louvenia said the captain had the room prepared for her so that was where I was taking her.” Sinclair felt the women’s animosity toward one another and sighed inwardly. This was not going to be a good arrangement and he wondered how long he would be able to allow Leonie to remain with them. The last thing the child needed was to grow up in an atmosphere of hostility. “Well, you could have waited until you were invited!” Evangeline grumbled. “I was under the impression that this was to be Arden’s home,” Leonie shot back. “I didn’t think she needed an invitation in her own home!” “Listen, you brazen…” Evangeline began, but Sinclair held up a hand to quiet her. “Ladies, please,” he said wearily then stepped away from Evangeline to go to Leonie. “May I?” he asked, holding out his arms. Leonie’s face softened for she could see the longing in Sinclair’s eyes. She smiled at him, pleased when he briefly answered that smile, then extended her child toward him, settling it lovingly against his broad chest.

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Sinclair took the baby in his arms, marveling at the lightness of its little body. All he could see was small, dark fuzz on a silky smooth little forehead, for the blanket covered the infant’s face. He glanced up at Leonie, willing her to remove the material hiding his daughter’s features from him. Evangeline would have had to be blind to miss the tender look that passed between her husband and the mother of his baby, although he did not know the woman had given birth to his child. She had to bite her tongue hard to keep from screaming when Leonie pushed back the covering to allow him to see the child and in the process ran her hand lingeringly over his. “May I present your daughter, Captain?” Leonie said in a soft, hushed tone. Sinclair drew in a deep breath as he beheld his child, his firstborn. The dark brown eyes that peered up at him seemed to be crinkling with humor. Her little mouth was pursed and when she wrinkled her little button of a nose, he chuckled. “My God, but you are a beauty,” he told his daughter, and put up a trembling finger to touch her smooth cheek. “She has a very sweet disposition,” Leonie said. “When she’s sleeping,” Evangeline mumbled. Sinclair turned to look at his wife. “Thank you, sweeting,” he said, his heart in his eyes. “Thank you for our daughter.” He looked away. Evangeline shrugged. “It was nothing,” she replied, wondering at the strange look that had come over Sinclair’s face. Leonie had to dig her nails into the palms of her hands when Sinclair shook his head and replied, “You have given me something very precious, Evangeline, and for that I will be eternally grateful. We must protect our child no matter the cost to either of us.” Evangeline exchanged a look with Leonie, neither woman happy with the other, then went to her husband and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Let Leonie put her to bed now, Sinclair,” she ordered. “If she doesn’t sleep, she’ll keep us up all night.” Sinclair hated to give his daughter into anyone else’s keeping, but he understood the wisdom of Evangeline’s words. Hesitantly, he extended his precious burden to Leonie. “Take good care of her,” he asked. Leonie locked her eyes with his. “As though she were my very own,” she answered.

***** It was well past midnight when Leonie woke to the sound of Arden’s cooing. The baby’s cradle was just across the room from her, protected from the draft of the windows and hidden from the low light of the lantern on the bedside table by the gauze of the mosquito netting hanging from the four-poster bed. Sitting up, Leonie turned up the flame on the lamp and then threw back her covers. She swung her legs from the bed and was about to reach for her wrapper when a soft voice spoke. 303

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“She’s all right, Miss Leonie,” Sinclair said. He was seated in the rocking chair beside the cradle, holding the baby against his shoulder. When she came over to him, he looked up and smiled. The gentleness and pride in that smile was easy to see before he lowered his head to look down at his daughter again. Leonie’s heart swelled with love for this man. The product of that great love lay in his arms and she wished with all her aching heart that she could tell him who had given him this wonderful gift. “She’s probably wet,” Leonie said. “That she is and so am I,” he chuckled softly, holding his arm away from the tiny body. The sleeve of his shirt was dark with stain. “Oh, Lord,” Leonie giggled, and reached for her child. “Give her here and I’ll change her.” He reluctantly allowed her to take the baby from him, getting up to follow her to the bed where she laid his daughter down on the mattress to change her diaper. “How much does she weigh?” he asked, leaning against the footboard. “About seven pounds now,” Leonie said, easing the wet diaper out from under the infant. “She has a good appetite?” “Yes, she does,” Leonie agreed, grinning. “I think she’s going to look just like her mama, don’t you?” he asked, stretching out his hand to run a finger down the baby’s soft cheek. I hope not, Leonie thought with dismay. She caught a glimpse of herself in the cheval mirror across the room and looked away. To have her precious child fat and dumpy and frumpy like herself would be a sin. She shuddered, saying a quick prayer that Arden would be as beautiful as her father was handsome. “I’m sure she’ll outshine every lass in the county, Captain,” Leonie replied. “I’ve no doubt she will,” he returned. The door of the nursery opened and Leonie and Sinclair turned to see Evangeline framed in the doorway, a lamp in her hand. Her long blonde hair hung in one long plait over her right shoulder, the paleness of it contrasting sharply with the dark emerald green silk of her wrapper. “I thought you were coming straight to bed, Sinclair,” Evangeline accused, giving Leonie a quelling look. “I must have fallen asleep waiting for you.” Sinclair had no intention of lying beside this woman ever again. He had not wanted to ruin her first night home so he had not broached the subject he was dreading to open. Purposefully waiting downstairs until he thought her well asleep, he had come up to the nursery to stand and look down at his child, feeling the love for her welling in his heart.

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“I wasn’t sleepy,” he said. “Why don’t you go on back to bed and I’ll see you in the morning.” Evangeline blinked. “You aren’t coming to bed?” “No.” Leonie cast him a sidelong look. That one word had a note of finality to it that did not bode well for Evangeline and she knew the woman realized it. She expected an explosion that would frighten Arden, so she quickly picked up the baby and held her protectively to her chest. But the explosion did not come. Instead, Evangeline turned quickly and strode from the room, her long braid whipping against the doorjamb as she rushed from the room. “I don’t think that was wise, Captain,” Leonie warned him, having experienced the wrath of Evangeline’s ire on many occasions. Sinclair snorted in a self-deprecating way. “I’ve never been accused of being wise in my entire life, Miss Leonie,” he responded. “Nevertheless, I’d go on in to bed if I were you, Captain,” Leonie advised. “I can’t, Miss Leonie,” he said. Leonie was patting the baby on the back, jiggling it up and down, for the child had begun to fret, nuzzling its mouth against Leonie’s bosom in search of the milk she usually found there. As much as she loved being with him, she wished he would leave so she could feed Arden. Her breasts were aching with the need to be drained and the front of her wrapper was slick with oozing milk. She had to keep bending over the baby to keep him from seeing the wetness on the cotton. “Well, if you don’t want Mount Vesuvius to erupt, you’d better go in to her, Captain. That woman has the temper of a cornered badger,” Leonie remarked. “I’ve been on the receiving end of that temper, Miss Leonie,” he told her. “But I won’t be going to her bed ever again.” Leonie turned her head to stare at him. Oh, sweet Lord, she thought, it was true! He was carrying on an affair with Dorrie, of all people, and right here under Evangeline’s roof! The servants had been slyly whispering about it all evening and thank goodness Evangeline hadn’t heard the talk. Come morning, that was all bound to change and there would be hell to pay. What was the man thinking to having done something so stupid? “Why don’t you go ahead and feed her, Leonie?” Sinclair asked softly. “You have to be uncomfortable by now.” “What?” she stammered, her heart slamming painfully against her rib cage. “She’s our child, mine and yours,” he answered. “I realized that the moment I saw her.” “How?” she said, not bothering to try to lie. “Did you really think I couldn’t see you in her face?” he asked. He shook his head. “I know why you did it and I understand.” 305

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“But you thanked Evangeline,” she protested. “I’ve a notion that had she not pressed you, Leonie, you would have stayed in Bainbridge and I’d never have known about Arden. I would imagine she made you a bargain and for Arden’s sake you accepted it. Am I right?” he studied her eyes, knowing he was. Leonie let out a long breath. “No one can ever know she’s my child, Captain,” she told him. “To have people know she was conceived out of wedlock, born a bastard would be a terrible thing for our child.” “Better than being born a product of incest,” he interrupted her. “True,” she said, not caring for his analogy. “I knew you could give our daughter everything I could not.” She ducked her head. “Including her rightful name.” Arden began to whimper with hunger, pushing her little face tightly against her mother’s breast. Leonie straightened up, no longer able to hide the telltale moisture seeping from her bosom. She walked past him and settled in the rocking chair where he had sat holding their child. As decorously as possible, she pushed aside her gown and gave her nipple to the infant. Sinclair sat down on the edge of Leonie’s bed, gathering in his mind what he was going to say to her, how he was going to explain about him and Evangeline. He had already began to formulate a plan in mind and he knew both women would have no choice but to go along with it—Leonie to protect their child and see no vicious gossip ever attached itself to Arden’s sweet name and Evangeline, whom he thought wanted nothing more than to remain mistress of WindLass plantation. But there would be time for all that. For the moment, he was content to sit and watch the mother of his child feed their daughter. Content that this beautiful little one was not sullied by the terrible sin that had marred his happiness of her before now. Thankful he had a healthy, vigorous child. And wondering what Evangeline and Leonie would do when they found out Dorrie would soon give him another.

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Chapter Thirty-Seven Sinclair smiled as he stepped from the porch. “I didn’t really think you’d come.” Jean-Claude Delacroix shrugged. “Why would I not?” he asked. His engaging smile was a mirror image of his son’s. “Talk,” Sinclair suggested. “I’m not exactly on the receiving list of most of Savannah’s society at the moment.” Delacroix rolled his eyes. “As if I give a rat’s ass what they think!” he snorted as he climbed down from his big roan gelding. He dusted off his breeches then looked up to find Sinclair standing before him, hand outstretched in greeting. “Welcome to WindLass, monsieur,” Sinclair said. Jean-Claude batted his son’s hand away and reached out to clasp the young man in a bear hug. “Merci, mon fils,” he said softly, clapping Sinclair firmly on the back. “I am glad to be here.” Sinclair felt a lump lodge in his throat and had to clear it before he could speak. He gently disengaged himself from his father’s arms, seeing the flare of humor crinkling the older man’s dark brown eyes as their gazes met. “So,” Jean-Claude stated. “Where is my granddaughter?” He draped a companionable arm over Sinclair’s shoulder and the two of them climbed the steps to the mansion’s front door. “What is it you have named her?” “Arden,” Sinclair reported. “Arden Elayne McGregor.” He heard his father grunt and cast him a sidelong glance. “You don’t approve?” “Celtic names have no beauty in them,” Jean-Claude responded. “Ah, but French names—Yvette, Chantal, Eugenie? Those are beautiful names.” He sniffed. “Arden sounds boyish to me.” “I like it,” Sinclair said, ready to defend his daughter’s name. “Then that is all that counts,” his father acknowledged. The interior of the house was beginning to grow warm for the late spring day had brought with it an early misting of rain that had left steam rising from the Georgia red clay. The humidity was high and although the windows were all open to any errant breeze that might drift by, the atmosphere inside WindLass was becoming a bit uncomfortable. “Bonjour, mon Pére.” Jean-Claude turned to find Evangeline standing framed beneath the arch of the library door. He smiled uncertainly for he and this woman had never been on good terms. “Evangeline,” he said, bowing his head to her. “You are well?”

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Evangeline’s eyes were swollen from crying, her face pale. She stood there nervously twisting a handkerchief in her hands, her lower lip trembling. Her attention shifted from her father to Sinclair and held. “No, mon Pére, I am not nor will I ever be again,” she answered softly then turned back into the room, shutting the door firmly behind her. “She knows?” Delacroix asked, turning to search his son’s face. Sinclair nodded. “I told her this morning.” One thick white brow crooked upward. “And?” Delacroix prompted. Sinclair looked down at the floor. He swallowed uncomfortably in a bid for time to find a way to best explain what had happened when he had informed Evangeline that they could no longer be husband and wife. “Sinclair?” Jean-Claude insisted. “What happened?” Sinclair closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly together, his face showing his inner turmoil. He cocked his head to one side, remembering the screaming, the incriminations, the charge that he was lying just so he could keep Dorrie Burkhart as his mistress, the fists that had pummeled his chest, the vicious slap that had followed. “It was not good,” he said, opening his eyes, finding his father’s locked on him. “Did you expect her to blithely accept it and go on as though nothing had happened, mon fils?” Delacroix inquired. When his son lowered his head once more and looked down at the floor in shame, Jean-Claude put a hand on Sinclair’s shoulder. “It will take time, but she will learn to live with this disappointment.” Sinclair looked up. “It is a bit more than a disappointment, sir,” he said. His eyes misted. “For as long as I live, I will see the horror registering on her face when she finally realized I was telling her the truth.” “What is done, is done, Sinclair,” his father said gently. “Neither of you are to blame for this. No sin has been committed.” When Sinclair would have made to protest that comment, Jean-Claude shook his head. “Non, no crime nor sin was committed. The old woman engineered the whole of it, knowing full well the relationship between you and Evangeline. If there is a sin for which one must atone, it is hers and fully on her ugly old head!” Sinclair smiled despite the agony in his heart and the feelings of guilt that rode him unmercifully. He knew neither he nor Evangeline were to blame for unknowingly committing incest, but the stain of that cardinal sin was still on both their souls. “Is that my granddaughter I hear screaming at the top of her lungs?” Delacroix asked, interrupting Sinclair’s moroseness of spirit. The elder was listening intently, his face crinkling with amusement. “She has a very uncompromising standard when it comes to being catered to,” Sinclair laughed, despite his depression. “Her mother spoils her rotten, I’m afraid, for she picks her up every time she lets out a wail.”

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Delacroix looked to the closed library door, wondering why Evangeline did not venture out then, if that was the case. He looked at Sinclair in question. A faint smile touched Sinclair’s lips. “There is more to the story than I have time to explain right now, monsieur, but at least that part of the sin which Evangeline and I committed did not extend to the child.” That enigmatic answer intrigued the older man, but Delacroix was content to let things unfold as easily for his son as they could. The child had stopped bawling and he could hear the strains of soft guitar music coming from down the hallway. “Dorrie Burkhart,” Sinclair explained. “A very talented woman,” Jean-Claude finished. “I marvel at her ability with musical instruments.” He had been informed within minutes of the madam’s leaving Savannah where she was going and with whom. It wasn’t exactly that he disapproved of his son’s choice of bedmate. How could he when he himself had bedded the buxom blonde beauty on many occasions? It was just he thought Sinclair could have chosen someone the town’s male population did not know quite so “well”. Sinclair gave his father a probing look and when he noticed the slight tick that pulled at Delacroix’s left cheek and saw the gleam in the dark brown eyes, he sighed. “Well, hell. This ain’t good, I guess.” Delacroix laughed, slapping his son on the back with hearty force. “Not to worry, Sin. It’s has been many months since I have seen the lovely Dorrie or heard her play the pianoforte.” He slipped his arm firmly around Sinclair’s shoulder, hugging the young man to him. Lowering his lips to Sinclair’s ear, he went on. “I believe the last time was the day before you carted her off to that little cabin of yours.” Shock spread a crimson stain over Sinclair’s face and he looked up at his father, the man being several inches taller than he, and winced. “Do not worry about it!” Delacroix chuckled. “He worries about everything,” Evangeline said from behind them. The men turned, surprised to see her standing there for she had been so quiet in her approach. Although she was ghastly pale and still red-eyed, there was a calmness to her. She went to her father, further surprising him by linking her arm through his. Though she said nothing more, seemingly needing the support of her parent, both men could feel her inner torment as she walked with them down the long hallway. Leonie glanced up from her place in the rocking chair and quickly covered herself with the soft rag she was using to wipe Arden’s dribbling as the three came into the sitting room where she was feeding her child. To give Delacroix his proper due, he did not so much as blink at the obvious implication of this unmarried woman feeding his grandchild. His agile mind quickly made the connection, filing it away for later examination. He nodded at Leonie, smiled at her and then hunkered down beside the rocking chair. “May I see her?” he asked quietly.

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Leonie glanced up at Sinclair and then lowered the rag just low enough for modesty’s sake while making the baby’s profile available for her grandfather’s perusal. She heard the soft inhalation of the older man’s breath and then met his eyes when he looked up at her. “She is beautiful, mon chér,” Delacroix whispered. “Yes, she is,” Leonie replied, seeing full understanding in the elder’s eyes. She answered his smile with one of her own, filled with pride. “I think she has her father’s good looks.” Delacroix craned his head around and looked up at Sinclair, seemingly judging him. “Non, I think not,” he said with a teasing look. “That one is too melancholy.” “Don’t you feel he has reason to be melancholy, mon Pére?” Evangeline asked bitterly. Jean-Claude didn’t answer. He turned back to his granddaughter, put out a gentle hand to cup the infant’s head and then pushed himself up from the floor. He walked to his daughter and stood looking down at her for a moment, knowing she would not look away from his scrutiny. “Do you,” he asked, cocking a head toward Sinclair, “love this man?” Sinclair would have interrupted but Evangeline held up a hand, forestalling him. She never looked his way, only kept her father’s gaze. “With all my heart and all my soul,” she answered. “As a brother or as a husband?” Delacroix pressed. Evangeline’s chin came up. “As a husband.” Sinclair groaned, lowering his head, his shoulders slumping. They had gone over this earlier, he and Evangeline, and she had finally fled the room, locking herself in the library despite his attempts to get her to come out and confront their problem. “But you know he has never truly been your husband,” Delacroix stated, holding his daughter’s defiant look. “And never will be.” Evangeline’s lips trembled but she did not give in to the scream of denial those words caused. “Nothing has changed for me,” she said. “For him…” She tore her eyes from her father to give Sinclair’s bent head a glance before resuming looking at JeanClaude. “For him, everything has changed.” Her mouth grew bitter and hard. “He has taken a mistress behind my back, he has acknowledged this woman—” she pointed a rigid finger at Leonie “— as the mother of his child and he has given me leave to make my own life without him.” The laugh that came from her was just a bit mad. “Leave to take a lover, if I so choose.” “Do you wish the whole of Georgia to titter about this behind their fans and handkerchiefs, Evangeline?” Delacroix snapped. “If you try holding onto this man, that would be a grave mistake.” “Oh, I have let him go,” Evangeline grated, waving her hand in dismissal. “What choice did I have but to set him free?” She turned to stare hard at Sinclair. “I will love

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him to my dying day and will speak his name with my dying breath, but I have released my claim to him.” When his head came up and he looked at her, misery apparent in his dark amber eyes, she shook her head slowly, mocking his pain. “You do not know what grief is, Sinclair McGregor,” she whispered. “You do not know!” With that said, she turned and made her way from the room. Leonie heard Sinclair sigh deeply and felt so sorry for the man. No one had been hurt as badly by the whole sordid situation as he, yet he was striving to go on with his life, taking it as it came, day by day. Their gazes met and held, their understanding as perfect as though they were old married folk. “May I hold her?” Jean-Claude asked, seeing the baby moving in Leonie’s arms. Leonie tore her attention from the man she herself would love with her own dying breath and nodded. She could find no modest way to detach the child from her breast and was relieved when Sinclair stepped forward, bending down to take the baby from her, hiding her bare bosom from his father’s gaze with his broad back. He winked at her, grinning at her blush, as he lifted Arden from her and turned to give his daughter into Delacroix’s keeping. “Mon Pére, may I introduce you to Mam’selle Arden?” Sinclair queried. Delacroix felt his eyes misting at the term of affection his son had used. That was the second time the young man had called him “Father” and Jean-Claude reveled in the hearing of it. With care, he took the proffered bundle of squirming infant from his son’s hands and nestled it against his broad chest. With a smile that creased his entire face, he looked down at the baby and exhaled a satisfied breath. “Bonjour, mon petite,” he said. “Je suis votre grandpére.” From the doorway, Dorrie watched the two men. She saw Leonie glance her way, saw the immediate frown and knew the middle-aged woman hated her now. In the past, before Sinclair had entered the picture, the two had been, if not friends, at least pleasant acquaintances. All that had changed the moment Sinclair had informed Leonie and Evangeline that Dorrie would be staying on at WindLass, leaving no room for doubt about his future relationship with her. “She is carrying my child,” he had told a stricken Evangeline when the woman had demanded the ex-madam be made to leave. “She is my mistress and she will stay.” Leonie had been just as shocked as Evangeline by the revelation. Not by the pronouncement that Dorrie would be staying on at WindLass—she had already assumed as much—but by the announcement of the impending birth. She had turned horrified eyes to Dorrie and exchanged a look with the woman that told her Dorrie had planned this pregnancy carefully to ensnare Sinclair McGregor. Now, watching Dorrie standing there as though she were mistress of WindLass, Leonie felt a resentment rising up inside her that bordered on the murderous. Not even Tina’s arrival with Little Conor Sinclair failed to dispel the hatred growing within Leonie Emerson’s breast. She intercepted a look between Sinclair and Dorrie and the hatred bloomed.

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Along with a blossoming wish to put Dorrie Burkhart in a grave beside Silky.

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Chapter Thirty-Eight Tina sat down beside him and laid her head against his shoulder. “Penny for your thoughts,” she whispered, threading her arm through his. Sinclair reached up to cover her fingers with his own. “It wouldn’t do for anyone to be privy to my thoughts, sweeting.” He lifted her hand, kissed the palm then pressed it once more against his arm. “That bad?” she inquired softly. “That bad, Miss Wiseacre,” he responded, his gaze on the sparkling river that swept before them. “Want to talk about it?” “No.” Tina nodded and turned her head to watch a pelican flying low over the water. Hating the sight of death, she looked away when the ungainly bird swooped down to scoop a fish into its ugly maw. Used to one another since childhood, Sinclair and Tina were content to sit on the riverbank in silence—he, gently rubbing her hand, she, giving his biceps a squeeze now and again. When he broke their self-imposed quiet, she looked up at him with loving eyes. “A man can certainly screw up his life without really trying, you know?” he asked softly. “I suppose you’re right.” He fell silent again, turning his face to rest his chin on the top of her head and her cheek was pressed against his shoulder. Her hair smelled of gardenias and he inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent. He eased his arm from hers and put it around her, nestling her securely to his side. “What troubles you so, Sinclair?” she asked. He closed his eyes. “My whole life,” he responded. Her hand now rested on his thigh, where she caressed him in a consoling way. “What can I do?” “There’s nothing anyone can do, Tina,” he told her. “The only person who can get me out of this mess is me.” She craned her neck so she could look up at him. “You mean Evangeline.” He shrugged. “Her. Leonie. Dorrie.” His mouth took on a hateful twist. “Grandmother.”

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“What do you want to do?” When he looked down at her, she searched his eyes, seeking the answer, but he turned away, once more casting his attention to the rolling river. “Truthfully?” he asked her. “Aye, Sinclair. Truthfully.” He took a deep breath then shrugged again. “Get on my horse and ride as far away from Georgia as I can get.” He clenched his teeth, speaking through the obstruction. “And never look back.” “And you think that would solve things for you?” she queried. “No.” “Isn’t that the coward’s answer—running away?” He snorted. “Aye.” “That is something you have never been,” she reminded him, “and I don’t think you’re going to start now, do you?” “There are things you don’t know,” he answered. “Godawful things I’ve done, Tina, that I am too ashamed to tell you.” “You don’t have to tell me.” He looked down at her, wondering if someone had made her privy to the hideous truth about him and Evangeline, but her gentle smile told him she had no knowledge of that cardinal sin and her words only confirmed it. “Go to the priest,” she suggested. “Tell him.” She lifted her hand and cupped his cheek. “Lay your burdens before the One who will always understand.” “And what if He has forsaken me because of the things I’ve done? The sins I’ve committed?” he asked. “Sinclair,” she said, pushing back from him so they could look one another in the eye. “He will never forsake you. He is the only parent whose love never wavers no matter what we do. He knows why you did those things and only He can ease the pain you are suffering because of them. Go to Him, lay your problems at His feet and let Him show you how to deal with them.” Sinclair hung his head. “I wish it were that simple, Tina.” She put her arms around him and drew him to her breast, this man—if truth were told—held the greater part of her tender heart. She loved her husband and could not imagine ever living without Conor, but long before she had given her love to that man, she had given it to this one. When he hurt, she felt the pain of it. “No matter what you’ve done, know that you are loved beyond all measure, Sinclair McGregor,” she whispered against his dark hair. “Those who love you will stand by you no matter what.” She looked out over the river. “Those who do not love you can go to hell.”

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He smiled against her bosom, hearing the militancy in her soft voice. “Gonna poke ‘em in the eye for me, Wiseacre?” he asked, remembering a time in their childhood when she had, indeed, slammed her little fist into the face of a boy who had jumped him after school. He could still see her straddling the boy’s back, shoving the fool’s face into the loose gravel of the roadway and yelling at the top of her lungs that “nobody better hurt her Sinclair!” Tina sniffed, knowing he was thinking about the time the Cowart boy had punched him out in the schoolyard. “He got what was coming to him, Sin,” she replied. “So did you if I remember correctly,” he reminded her. Tina squirmed on the riverbank. “Well, Lou-Lou may have switched me for fightin’, but at least she didn’t tell Mama.” She shuddered delicately. “I’d have gotten another peach tree switch on my fanny for sure!” The crunch of gravel behind them made them both turn to see who was coming. Seeing Monsieur Delacroix striding purposefully toward them, Tina tensed and lowered her voice. “He doesn’t look any too happy, Sinclair. Is he gonna get onto you about somethin’ you’ve done to his precious daughter?” Sinclair shook his head. “Not likely.” He stood up, brushing loose sand from his breeches. The look on his father’s face concerned him. “Is something wrong, mon Pére?” Tina stood up as well, frowning a little at the term of respect Sinclair had extended toward Jean-Claude Delacroix. Even though Sin was the man’s son-in-law, hearing him call Evangeline’s sire “Father” rankled. She nodded at Delacroix, who gave her a short, sketchy bow in return. “Excuse the intrusion, Madame Brell,” Jean-Claude greeted her before turning his full attention to Sinclair. “May I speak with you, mon fils? It is a matter of utmost urgency.” Another sharp frown pressed into Tina’s face and she dug her nails into her palms. “Is something wrong with the baby?” Sinclair asked in a rush. “Non, she is fine,” Delacroix was quick to say. “Sleeping in her mother’s arms when I looked in on her last.” He reached up to wipe his sweaty face. “This has nothing with the child.” “Then what?” Sinclair could tell his father was greatly perturbed about something and his next incautious words proved the point. “Since Leonie and the baby were sleeping and you were gone, Evangeline didn’t want to stay in the house with Dorrie so she had Ezra drive her into town to speak with the priest about baptizing Arden,” Delacroix explained, unaware of the warning look coming from Sinclair to mind what he said or the puzzled expression on Tina Brell’s lovely face. “Ezra saw one of the darkies from Willow Glen and started talking with him while Evangeline was in the cathedral.” “I don’t think—” Sinclair started to say, but his father’s words stopped him.

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“Ezra asked, on your behalf, of course, if the man knew where Ivonne was buried,” Delacroix continued. He wasn’t looking at Sinclair or Tina but rather looking past them, his eyes squinted with the harsh sunlight. “The man said he’d tell Ezra for a price, but all Ezra had on him was a single silver dollar and the darkie wanted more.” He found Sinclair’s gaze. “He wants to leave Willow Glen because he despises that old hag.” “Who doesn’t?” Tina mumbled under her breath. Sinclair turned to Tina. “I think you should go back to the house, sweeting. I would imagine Little Conor is up from his nap by now.” He cast his father a strained look. Delacroix was either too upset or too oblivious to the situation to heed the unspoken warning. He started to pace, his hands clutched behind his back. “When she came out of the cathedral, Ezra asked Evangeline for the price the darkie wanted for the information, but, as you can well imagine, once she found out what the money would go to find out, she balked like a stubborn mule and shouted at Ezra that under no circumstances would she be a part of you ever finding out where Ivonne is buried.” He stopped pacing and looked around at his son. “She said she would not have you making a pilgrimage to the site every day for the rest of your life!” “Stupid woman,” Tina hissed. “Where is the man now?” Sinclair asked. “Still in town as far as I know,” Delacroix replied. “He was getting a wagon wheel fixed at the smithy’s.” Sinclair nodded slowly. “Thank you for telling, mon Pére. I’ll see if I can’t find him.” He started to turn away but Delacroix reached out to stop him. “There is no need for you to go.” “Aye, there is,” Sinclair responded. “I have every right to find out where my lady was laid to rest.” “Non, non, you misunderstand!” Delacroix interrupted him. “There is no reason for you to go into town. I’ve already spoken to the man myself.” Tina felt Sinclair stiffen beside her. “You know where they buried her?” Delacroix thrust his hand through the thick white gleam of his hair. “I’ve sent for Leland,” he said in way of answer. “He will go with us.” “I don’t need anyone to go with me,” Sinclair snapped. Tina was watching Delacroix’s face very carefully and she could see the great agitation showing there if Sinclair could not. The older man was nervous—far more nervous than the situation warranted. When he turned to her, his eyes imploring her for help, she reached out to touch Sinclair’s arm. “I don’t think he wants you to be alone when you see her grave, Sin,” she said softly. It was on the tip of his tongue to remind his father and Tina that he was a grown man, fully capable of handling his own affairs, but the worried look on Jean-Claude’s face told him the man wasn’t about to tell him where the grave was and had every intention of accompanying him there.

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“Is it necessary for Lee to—” he began, but Delacroix cut him off. “It is quite a ways from here,” his father responded. Tina blinked. “How far?” she asked. “Two, three days’ ride,” Delacroix answered, looking at Sinclair. Sinclair’s jaw clenched. Well why the hell not? he thought. Between the Bouchardes and his grandmother, no doubt the decision had been made to make damned sure he didn’t find the grave. Anywhere in Chatham County would have been far too easy lest they lay her in an unmarked grave and he doubted Robert Boucharde would have allowed that for he had dearly loved his sister. “This darkie from Willow Glen helped bury her?” Tina asked, her own pain at the loss of her best friend still a fresh wound in her soul. She too had wanted a place to lay flowers in honor of the girlhood confidant who had left her life too soon. Delacroix did not look at her. “He was there when she was taken from the jail and carried to the undertaker’s.” Jean-Claude could feel the young woman’s hurt and had no desire to see the grief and sorrow on Tina Brell’s pretty face. “He drove the wagon carrying the coffin up to Milledgeville.” “Milledgeville?” Tina repeated. “Why on God’s green Earth did they take her there?” Sinclair let out a long breath. “Because there are generations of Bouchardes buried up that way,” he said quietly. “I should have known that would be where they’d take her.” “I told Evangeline we were going,” Delacroix said. “She wasn’t happy about it, but that doesn’t matter. I asked one of the women to pack you some clothes and had Ezra saddle your horse. As soon as Lee gets here, we’ll leave.” “You don’t have to do this,” Sinclair said, thankful his father wanted to ease his pain. “You think the Bouchardes will give him some trouble, don’t you?” Tina asked, her face mirroring her concern for Sinclair. Delacroix nodded. “I know they are going to.” He looked at his son. “As soon as that old hag realizes you’re on your way up there, she’s gonna telegraph Ivonne’s kin and they’ll be waiting for you.” Sinclair didn’t say anything for a moment then his eyes hardened to chips of ebony ice. “Let them,” he said and started to walk away. “What are you going to do?” Tina asked, hurrying after him, not liking the look she’d seen in his eye. When he didn’t answer, she hitched up her skirt and ran after him, calling his name. “Sinclair!” With his long-legged stride, it was easy for Sinclair to outdistance the running woman, but his father fell in beside him, keeping pace with him as they skirted the garden and headed for the back of the mansion. “Do you have a gun, Papa?” Sinclair queried. 317

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Delacroix shrugged. “I don’t carry one as a general rule, but I would imagine you have one you can loan me.” Sinclair didn’t break stride, taking the steps up to the kitchen door two at a time as he answered. “I’ve a spare Colt Walker. You want it, it’s yours.” Leland was waiting in the hallway. He exchanged a look with Delacroix that said more than words could have then swung his attention to Sinclair. “Are you ready for this?” he asked. “Are you?” Sinclair returned, pushing past his cousin and going into the study where he kept his revolvers. “They’ll be waiting, Sin,” Leland advised. “Then I won’t disappoint them.” He took a key from the pocket of his britches and unlocked the gun cabinet, reaching up to take down the black leather gun belt hanging on a hook inside. Swinging it around his lean hips, he buckled the shiny brass buckle then settled the holster firmly against his left hip before reaching down to tie it in place around his thigh. As his father and cousin watched, he pulled the gun from the holster with his right hand, sighted down the barrel then turned it in his hand to slap it back in the holster, handle facing outward. He took another gun from the cabinet and passed it to his father. “Let’s ride,” Sinclair said, and snatched his black felt hat from the stand beside the gun cabinet. With his father and cousin bringing up the rear, Sinclair McGregor walked purposefully from the house and headed for the stable. From her place at the window of her room, Evangeline watched the three men mount their horses and ride off into the advancing afternoon. In her hand, she clutched a rosary, which she had not prayed in many, many years. As she worked her fingers along the jet beads, tears spilled unheeded down her face for she had been made privy to a piece of news Jean-Claude Delacroix had not told his son, her brother. “Oh, Sinclair,” Evangeline wept, barely feeling the presence of the two other women who had come silently into the room. Together, the three watched until the road dust from the hooves of the three horses had vanished. Like the hopes and dreams of the three women left behind.

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Chapter Thirty-Nine The old woman threw the vase across the room, the crystal shattering as it struck the hearth. Her insane shriek of fury made the birds outside the window flee to safety in a tree far from the mansion of Willow Glen. The house servants slunk away, Bossie left her kitchen domain and simply started walking and the black man who had caused the irrational screeching coming from Grace Vivienne Brell’s front parlor dug his heels into his mule’s ribs and sent the animal galloping as fast as it could travel down the road and away from the mansion. “No!” Grace Vivienne screamed, reaching up to tear tufts of her elegantly coifed white hair out by the roots. She rent her clothing and scratched her nails down her arms, blooding herself. Delicate figurines joined the demolished vase to clutter the floor and an ornately carved ivory letter opener slashed silk pillows to ribbons. When the pillows were in shreds, she stabbed the letter opener into several expensive oil paintings, destroying them beyond repair, all the while screaming in fury. “She done gone mad!” Bossie told one of her grandsons as he hitched up the buggy for her. “Mad as a rabid dog.” She shook her head, grunting as the young boy helped her up into the buggy. Once upon the creaking seat, she shielded her eyes to get a look at the horsemen thundering down the lane toward the house. She shook her head again. “God help us.” Conor and Brendan were already gone in search of their brother and cousin, to lend their aid. Even before they had ridden out, Bossie had known trouble of the murderous kind was brewing for the quarter was abuzz with speculation. Ezra had returned to Willow Glen with a shiny gold piece clutched in his sweaty black hand and had made the mistake of bragging about how he’d earned it. A few black men slapped the fool on the back, congratulating him, but there were those who weren’t so pleased at Ezra’s good fortune. One of the servant women had gone to the old woman to tell her, hoping to take some of the air out of the man’s sails—she had not been prepared for the old lady’s reaction. All hell had broken loose and a rider had been sent thundering toward Oakdale, the Boucharde place, before either Conor or Brendan could stop him. “Do you know what you’ve done?” Conor had yelled at his grandmother, whose insane eyes were glittering. “They’ll shoot Sinclair down on the road if they catch him before he gets out of Chatham County!” “Best they do before he reaches Milledgeville!” the old woman had chortled. “They will kill him, Grandmother!” Brendan had cried. “I hope to the good Lord they do!” had been the old woman’s fervent answer.

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But news had come that the Bouchardes had been unable to intercept Sinclair. After that, it was only a matter of time before the telegraph had gone out from Savannah to Milledgeville to warn the Boucharde kin that Sinclair McGregor was on his way there. Grace Vivienne had gone wild with the news that Sinclair had not been summarily stopped. Her shrieks of frustration and anger had made the young men fear for her safety, but her pleas to God for Sinclair’s death had turned both men away, their hearts hardening to any peril the old woman might be in. They had ridden from Willow Glen, hell-bent to catch up with Lee and Sinclair, knowing their guns would be needed. “You little son of a bitch!” the old woman screamed, pounding her frail fists against the cheval mirror until the glass broke, oblivious to the blood streaking the shards as she continued to pummel the frame. Even when Robert Boucharde pulled her away, she still jerked in his arms as though she were striking the broken glass. “Miss Gracie, be still!” Boucharde ordered, turning the old woman around and shaking her until her head bobbled on her thin neck. “Be quiet now and listen!” She hissed at him like an adder and tried to claw his face, spitting out a stream of gutter French he understood all too well. Even when her teeth clicked together as he shook her once more, catching her tongue and causing a thin mix of drool and blood to dribble down her shrunken chin, she fought him, allowing her knees to buckle and forcing him to hold her up. “Miss Gracie! It’s me, Robert. You gotta stop this ’fore you have a stroke!” As his men watched, the old woman kicked out at her captor, catching him high on the shin and making him let go of her. Before their startled eyes, Grace Vivienne skipped away, chortling with glee and snatched up the poker to take a vicious swing at Boucharde’s head. Had the man not leapt back out of her way, she would have caved in his skull. As it was, the air whistled with the unbelievable force she’d use to wield the weapon and the tine of it buried itself in the wallpaper by the cheval mirror. Thankfully though, pulling with all her waning strength, she was unable to get it free and Boucharde was able to snake a hand around her waist and pull her away, spinning her around and slamming her—none too gently—into the wingback chair beside the fireplace. “Goddamn it, woman! Stop this!” Boucharde bellowed, lashing out with a quick slap that rocked the old woman’s head to one side like the crack of a whip against flesh. Morgan Boucharde would later say it was like watching a demon turning to face them that day. The old woman’s head had come slowly around, her eyes narrowed into thin and malevolent slits, her shriveled lips drawn back over yellowed fangs that passed for teeth. The wrinkles cut deep into the aging face were livid with the imprint of Robert’s palm but otherwise the old woman’s face was stark white, almost glowing in the late afternoon light from the window. But the slap had brought back some semblance of sanity, and though the face that glared back at them showed pure rage stamped upon it, at least there was intelligence once more in the raspy voice that spoke to them.

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“You’d better make sure they catch up with him, Boucharde,” Grace Vivienne warned. Robert hunkered down in front of her. “It’s too late, Miss Gracie. My brother Kamerone won’t lift a hand to stop him once he gets to Milledgeville.” He flinched, thinking the old hag would attack him again, but she just sat as still as a stone, staring at him as though he were slime beneath her shoe. He counted twenty ticks of the clock’s pendulum before she answered. “Get out of my house,” Grace Vivienne demanded, her teeth gnashing together audibly. “Get out of my house!” “We tried to prevent him.” “Get out!” she shrieked and spat full in his face. Robert’s eyes flared with fury before he shot to his feet, wiping at the bloody spit sliding down his cheek. He looked at Morgan, who silently shook his head in warning, then spun on his heel and stomped from the room. “Are you more of a man than your brother, Morgan Boucharde?” Grace Vivienne snarled, her beady eyes latching on Robert’s youngest brother. “It’s over, Miss Gracie,” Morgan repeated his brother’s words. “Kamerone has always said we did wrong by bringing her up there. He may not lift a hand to help McGregor, but he won’t stop him, either.” “Cowards,” the old woman pronounced. “All of you are cowards.” Morgan’s jaw clenched. “No, ma’am, but we know when to stop beating a dead horse.” Slowly, Grace Vivienne pushed herself from her chair. She stood there wavering, her head throbbing mightily. “You want him to find her, do you, you little prick?” Morgan blinked at the vulgar term, but he managed to shake his head. “No, I don’t, ma’am, but it ain’t in my hands no more.” With that said, he tipped his hat to her, turned and left the room, barely missing a step as something shattered on the wall behind him. The old woman’s shoulders slumped in defeat when she could find nothing else to hurl into destruction. Her head was beginning to hurt even more so she stumbled back to her chair and sat down. Within an hour’s time, she was unable to talk without slurring her words. Another hour would see her unable to rise from her chair. By nightfall, the massive stroke had left her paralyzed and talking out of her head.

***** They met him at the railroad station. As Sinclair stepped from the train, he recognized Kamerone Boucharde and his brother Drewe. Behind them were at least five other men who bore the unmistakable dark looks of the Boucharde clan.

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Before Sinclair’s hand could go to the gun at his hip, Kamerone Boucharde held up a staying hand. “We want no trouble with you, McGregor.” Jean-Claude stood poised on the upper step of the train, his hand resting on the butt of his Colt. Leland was at the train’s window, his Winchester braced against the frame. Boucharde swept his dark gaze toward the two men and held up both hands. “We ain’t here to cause you no trouble.” “Then why are you here?” Sinclair snapped. Boucharde lifted his chin. “Wasn’t right what Robert and the old woman decided needed to be done.” Behind him, the other men mumbled their agreement. “I told my brother that it was just downright mean and spiteful, but he wouldn’t listen.” “Where is she?” was all Sinclair wanted to know. He didn’t care why Robert had done what he had or give a tinker’s damn if his kinsmen had agreed with the decision or not. “I just wanted you to know we had no part in this,” Kamerone insisted. “All right,” Sinclair grated. “You had no part in it. Now, where is she?” Boucharde looked down at the ground. “Up to the asylum.” Although he could not see his son’s face clearly, Jean-Claude did see the color drain from Sinclair’s flesh. The young man’s tortured voice made him wince. “You buried her in that hellhole?” Sinclair cried. “It’s not like she knows where she is, McGregor,” one of the Boucharde men spoke up. Jean-Claude shot down the rest of the steps, getting to Sinclair before that one could snatch his gun out of his holster and drill the man where he stood for saying such a wicked thing. Had he not grabbed Sinclair’s arm, Sinclair surely would have murdered the man in cold blood. “You fucking bastard!” Sinclair shouted, jerking his arm from his father’s grip. “How could you have done that to her? How could you have buried her in that evil place?” “We visit her every day, McGregor,” another Boucharde put in. “She don’t know we’re there, but we do go to visit her!” Leland looked out over the men’s head and saw several women standing about, knowing instinctively they must belong to these men. A couple of them were crying, but one was standing at the end of the platform, her toe tapping out a dangerous rhythm on the floorboards. He began to watch her, wondering why she was so furious. When she opened her purse and drove her hand inside, his eyes flared. “Sinclair!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. Sinclair turned in time to see his cousin leveling the Winchester. Before he could say anything, his father had pushed him and had brought up his own gun, pointing it toward a group of women off to the left. 322

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“No!” Kamerone Boucharde shouted and dove for Jean-Claude, knocking his arm into the air. The explosion of the bullet leaving the chamber shattered the early morning air and made men dive for cover. “What the hell are you doing?” Sinclair bellowed, spinning around to look at Lee. “Gun,” Lee said, pointed toward the girl. “She ain’t got no gun!” one of the Boucharde’s grumbled, seeing where Lee was pointed. The girl pushed aside the restraining hands of the women around her and advanced like a tornado on the group of men, shoving some of them out of her way as well. She came toe to toe with her husband Kamerone and punched a rigid finger in his chest. “Tell him the truth, Kammie!” she demanded in a thick Irish brogue. “Bridie, you mind your own business,” her husband began. “Tell him the damned truth man or I will!” Boucharde’s face turned red. “I was going to.” Bridget Boucharde made an ugly hissing sound then spun around, latching her eyes on Lee before thrusting her hand in her reticule once more and pulling out an envelope. “This,” she said, waving it under Sinclair’s nose, “was written months ago, but none of these amadáns was man enough to send it to you!” She thrust the letter against Sinclair’s chest. “Read it!” Sinclair looked from husband to wife and back again before taking the letter she held against his shirt. With one quick look to his father, he slit the envelope open and pulled out the letter, his forehead creasing as he unfolded it. Lee had a clear look at Sinclair’s face as his cousin read the letter. He would later tell Conor and Brendan that the world had stopped at that moment for Sinclair McGregor. As the single page began to tremble in Sinclair’s hand, Lee caught JeanClaude’s eye and the older man moved closer to his son, trying to see what was written on the parchment sheet. Just as he did, Sinclair lowered the letter, folded it carefully and placed it back in the envelope. He tucked the envelope in his shirt pocket then stood there, his entire body shuddering as though with ague. “Oh shit,” Lee whispered, and pushed painfully from the window and hobbled as fast as he could from the train, wincing as he came down the steps and gained the platform. “Sinclair?” Jean-Claude questioned, seeing tears welling in his son’s eyes. “Show me,” was all Sinclair said, his eyes intent on Boucharde.

***** She was sitting in a wheelchair by the window, her head cocked to one side as though she were contemplating the sky beyond the pane. When he hunkered down in front of her, she didn’t move.

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“I am here, Ivonne,” he said, and reached out a trembling hand to cover the ice-cold ones lying in her lap. “I am here to take you home, my love.” Very, very slowly her eyes moved away from the window and settled on the face of the man kneeling before her. Though no other part of her moved, a light flickered in the windows of her soul and then began to glow as it had not glowed in a long time. He lifted one of her hands to his lips and kissed the knuckles, placing the cold, limp flesh of it against his wet cheek then turned his lips into the palm to place a kiss there as well. He smiled and knew in his heart had she been able, she would have smiled too. He reached out his free hand to cup her cheek. “I love you,” he said softly. Then he rose and stepped to her side, bending to slip his arms under her knees and back. Very gently he lifted her into his arms, cradling her protectively against him and carried her from that place of the living dead.

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Chapter Forty Twice now she had murdered for Sinclair McGregor. First Silky, now the old woman. It had been easy to place the pillow over the bitch’s face and press until there was no more life left in the vile old hag. It had been the look of sheer terror on the crone’s face when she realized she was going to die that had made it all worthwhile. “She died peacefully in her sleep,” Doc Doorenbos has proclaimed and truly believed his pronouncement. Which was just as well. Had the truth come out, the good Lord knew Sinclair might well have been questioned for the crime. As it was, he was safely tucked away at WindLass, the woman he had loved since childhood sleeping peacefully each night at his side. Not that the townsfolk knew that, she thought as she sat rocking. As far as the good people of Savannah knew, Sinclair slept beside his bride Evangeline while the Emerson woman cared for his child and the reformed madam tended his house. And wasn’t he a God-fearin’, wonderful man for bringing home that poor, poor girl from that crazy folks’ place where she didn’t belong? Isn’t it a shame the rope broke the poor little thing’s neck and paralyzed her for life? Lordie, but she can’t even raise a hand, the dear child. But doesn’t she look so sweet sitting out there on the veranda every day while he reads to her? Four women in that house, she thought as she continued to rock, and all four so deeply in love with the man that they would give their lives for him. Or take one. Or two. As did I, she thought. “Don’t nobody ever better mess with my Sinclair,” she said to her baby son then Tina Brell smiled.

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Author’s Note I love the old saying “American by birth, Southern by the Grace of God”. I am very proud of my Southern roots. It is who and what I am. Born in Florida and raised in Georgia, I laughingly refer to myself as a Sunshine Cracker. I love fried okrie, collard greens with hot pepper sauce slathered on them, grits, baked ham with a big wedge of cornbread and boiled peanuts. The strains of Dixie make my heart swell. To me, it isn’t a fighting song. It isn’t a song meant to insult any race or creed. It is a rousing song of my homeland and carries with it no prejudicial feelings of any kind. In this novel, you met the character of Private Elijah Thompason of the Miller County Wildcats. Both he and the Wildcats really did exist. You see, he was my greatgrandfather and I grew up in Colquitt, the county seat of Miller County. Elijah and many of the men of his company—including the fictional Sinclair—were captured at Cumberland Gap, Tennessee and were shipped to the prison camp at Fort Douglas, Illinois. In letters written home to our family, he states that he and his men existed off parched corn while trying to survive the rigors of that brutal time. Many years later, a church—Thompson Town Free Will Baptist Church—was dedicated in his honor. My parents and I attended that church and when I was a young girl, I went with my mother the day she purchased the cedar Remembrance Table for the sanctuary. When I was fifteen, my mother and father took me and my best friend Martha Conley to Savannah for the weekend. It was then I fell in love with that city, losing my heart to it as I have to no other I’ve ever visited. We visited Fort Pulaski, a Civil War era fort, and it was there amidst the violence of the past that the first imaginings of a story began to take root in my fertile mind. Many years later I returned to Savannah to do a book signing for my first novel—The Keeper of the Wind—and I returned with respect to Fort Pulaski. This time, my dyed-in-the-wool, New York Yankee husband Tom was with me. As we walked through the old fort, the beginnings of that long-ago story came back to haunt me. That night, I dreamt of Sinclair and Ivonne. Also in this novel you will remember Tina referring to a black woman named LouLou who switched her for fighting. Lou-Lou was the nickname of a wonderful lady named Louise Rainey who was a second mama to me. She was not only the woman who was my mother’s maid, she was my best friend, my confidante and my instructor in the womanly arts of taking care of a house and learning how to cook. That switchin’ really took place and to this day, I remember the tears falling down Lou-Lou’s face as she laid that cherry laurel strip to my bare legs. It hurt her more to whip me than any switch ever hurt my young flesh. She died several years ago and my husband and I were the only white folk at her funeral. Her family thought enough of us that we rode in the family limousine and my name was listed as one of her children on the funeral pamphlet. I had buried both of my parents earlier that morning in Albany, Georgia then 326

In the Wind’s Eye

drove down to Colquitt to bury Lou-Lou that same afternoon. They were the last connection I had to my Southern roots. As a side note… It was not uncommon for first cousins to marry in order to keep money and treasured property such as WindLass in the hands of its original owners. It was not considered incestuous and in some cases even expected so the right of ownership remained with the family. Today, the state of Georgia along with many other Southern states still allow first cousin marriages. Although such unions are frowned upon with the assumption that it produces abnormal children, researchers now know that happens far less often than believed. Genetics researchers estimate that twenty percent of marriages worldwide are between relatives who are first cousins. I hope you enjoyed In The Wind’s Eye. It was a true labor of love.

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About the Author Charlee is the author of over thirty books. Married 39 years to her high school sweetheart, Tom, she is the mother of two grown sons, Pete and Mike, and the proud grandmother of Preston Alexander and Victoria Ashley. She is the willing house slave to five demanding felines who are holding her hostage in her home and only allowing her to leave in order to purchase food for them. A native of Sarasota, Florida, she grew up in Colquitt and Albany, Georgia and now lives in the Midwest. Charlotte welcomes mail from readers. You can write to her c/o Ellora’s Cave Publishing at 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502.

Also by Charlotte Boyett-Compo Blackwind: Sean and Bronwyn Blackwind: Viraiden and Bronwyn

If you are interested in a spicier read (and are over 18), check out her erotic romances at Ellora’s Cave Publishing (www.ellorascave.com). Ardor’s Leveche Desire’s Sirocco Ellora’s Cavemen: Legendary Tails I anthology Fated Mates anthology Longing’s Levant Lucien’s Khamsin Passion’s Mistral Pleasure’s Foehn Prisoners of the Wind Rapture’s Etesian WyndRiver Sinner

Cerridwen, the Celtic goddess of wisdom, was the muse who brought inspiration to storytellers and those in the creative arts. Cerridwen Press encompasses the best and most innovative stories in all genres of today’s fiction. Visit our site and discover the newest titles by talented authors who still get inspired—much like the ancient storytellers did, once upon a time. www.cerridwenpress.com