Lion's Folly

Elizabeth Mayne

ISBN 1-891020-39-0

Rocket eBook ISBN 1-58608-113-6

© copyright Kaye Garcia 1998

cover art by Rickey Mallory

New Concepts Publishing

4729 Humphreys Rd.

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

OTHER NCP TITLES BY ELIZABETH MAYNE:

The Rose of Lorraine

BOOK I

"A lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing."

Shakespeare

CHAPTER ONE

September 16, 1850

River Road, Louisiana

The road twisted into a haunted wood, two ruts on a mud-choked path. The trees closed in and wild
briars further narrowed the passage. Feared locally for its wooded menace, the spot was called Tucker's
Turning. Unwary travelers knew it only as River Road. Dangling veils of Spanish moss welcomed no one
and menaced all.

Three horsemen waited beneath a canopy of yellow-leafed cottonwoods. The air was cool, the nip of
early fall assaulting it. Far off smells of tended fires, bacon and beans wafted up from the levee mixing
with the dank smells of the swamp and oily river.

"It's coming." Troy Templeton nudged his strawberry roan forward.

"Aye, Squire Tucker's due a surprise!" warned his twin, Robert, the elder by the grace of five whole
minutes.

"With his new carriage to boot!" Both tied their identical grins behind white handkerchief cloths of finest
cotton.

"We'll teach the laggard to let his woods become so dense on a public road," the third rider, their cousin
added scornfully.

"It's to our benefit that he's such a swine." Robert edged his horse closer to the road.

"We do it?" Troy peered from under the dark brim of a battered hat. His clear blue eyes sought the only
confirmation necessary, the agreement of his brother.

Robert cupped his hands to his mouth and trilled a hooted bird call, paused a moment then repeated the
call.

"Now!" The third signaled the charge, all facial features hidden from view by cap and red
bandanna--save the startling color of emerald green eyes.

The approaching carriage was a fine one. Painted cream and enclosed by stained and molded mahogany
trims, its four-horse team was bred for strength as well as beauty. A pleasant ride through the countryside
was all the occupants of the conveyance expected.

It came into the turn unaware of ambush. The three young horsemen charged, brandishing pistols and
yelling like banshees. The smallest skillfully captured the head of the team, steering it to a rough collision
in the rockbound briar patch.

The stop was harrowing. Two black grooms crashed to the dirt off their perch on the back of the
carriage. Their eyes were quick and their movements covert. Rolling as they landed, they scrambled into
the heavy brush and dense undergrowth. Their escape was covered by the stamping feet of one twin's
gelded bay and the melee of ambush.

The abused carriage rattled to a jarring stop. Its liveried driver lost his seat and bounced onto the road.
The confrontation was over in seconds. One pistol pinned the cowering driver. Another poked inside the
carriage window. A woman's scream pierced the air.

"Your gold, driver!" demanded the largest of the boys.

"What's the meaning of this!" A stentorian voice bellowed out of the confusion within. The door swung

open. Silver head and broad shoulders emerged.

"We want your gold," Robert repeated. "All that you carry."

"We've not got any gold. We're travelers, suh," said the driver as he got to his feet, sweat glistening on
his ebony face, wary of the stamping hooves of two big horses. He was not surprised by the ambush,
though he didn't show it. To all outward appearances, he was an old black man, trembling in fear of what
bandits would do.

"Then we'll take your greenbacks. You have that, I'm sure," Troy backed up his brother's demand.

"What I have, I'll not give to you!" The silver haired man descended to the ground and faced his
attackers squarely. Though his height was minimal, he was powerfully built. His clipped accent and
dandified clothes identified him as a Yankee. "What's the meaning of this? How dare you ambush me on
my own land!"

"It's highwaymen!" a hysteric voice shrilled from inside the rocking carriage.

"You'll give it, or I'll shoot your woman." The rogue on horseback nearest the Yank decreed. His twin
yanked open the carriage door, brandished his pistol at the passengers and ordered them to the ground.

A young woman in fine clothes tumbled out and threw herself on the silver-haired man's protection. A
second woman--a golden-skinned mulatto--poorly dressed, and barefoot, came next.

"You'll do nothing of the kind," the Yank responded with reddening color to his face. He swung about,
seeking the two slaves that were his guards as well as footmen, discovering they were gone. With
deceptive agility for a man of his girth, he recovered the carriage whip from the dirt.

"I wouldn't try that, squire," warned the smallest horseman from the head of the team. He cocked the
hammer of his pistol and aimed its barrel between the Yankee's eyes.

"Shoot the bastard!" the barefoot woman declared. She moved rapidly, rattling iron chains that dragged
beneath her tattered skirt.

"Gladly," snarled the smallest ruffian. Cold green eyes sighted the bore of his pistol with deadly accuracy.

"What is this? A beauty trapped in chains? Have you no honor, sir?" The largest bandit gallantly
intervened. He put out one hand and offered the golden woman his boot as means to gain a seat on his
horse. "I'll settle for a wench of color, then."

"She's my slave!" the yank shouted. "Althea, stand aside!"

"Althea?" The youth wagged a threatening pistol in the Yank's face, his bold laugh a lusty insinuation. "A
rare beauty, sir. She'll suit our needs, eh mates? We'll take her in lieu of gold."

"And I'll gladly take you." The chained woman did not hesitate a moment to accept the hand and steady
boot offered her. Her dragging irons made her mounting difficult and the gelding skittish.

"Father, help us!" the hysteric screamed and clung to the Yankee's arm, hampering the man from
untangling the whip and laying it to use.

Squire Tucker viciously shoved his daughter aside and drew back on the whip to send it cracking toward
his nearest assailant.

A gun exploded at the same instant the whip cracked. Robert's horse reared, enraged, his front hooves
pawing at the stinging tangle of whip that laid about them.

In the shouts and screams, the woman in leg irons cried. "Run! Go! Don't tarry!"

"I'll track you down," Tucker threatened, "flay every inch of your golden hide from your back, Althea!"

"You'll forget her." The green eyed boy with the smoking pistol decreed and drew from his waist a purse
heavy with gold coins and threw it in the muddy dirt at Terrence Tucker's feet. "Keep that in exchange
for the wench's services. I've a fancy for her."

"What the devil is happening here?" a new voice shouted, commanding in such a way that it dominated
above the confrontation.

A powerful rider charged around the back of the carriage, hampering escape of the mulatto slave and
gallant twin. Reigning his horse up short, the newcomer warily took sight of smoking pistols, masked
faces, unarmed gentleman, screaming lady, chained mulatto and old servant before an emptied carriage.

"Trouble, sir?" he lazily addressed the gentleman.

"None that I can't handle!" The Yank stood his ground, looking fierce and forbidding on his own,
determined hands maneuvering the whip free to strike again. "Though I won't refuse your assistance, my
good man."

"Then you have it," the traveler decreed and let his bold eyes take stock of the three surprised
highwaymen.

Impressive as the glistening black stallion was, the rider on its back was of greater interest. Seated with
the born horseman's ease, a wide brimmed hat shadowed his face. Broad shoulders were enclosed in the
finest of doeskin jackets, fitting his long arms and open to reveal not an ounce of extra flesh surrounding
his waist. Long, muscled legs guided the horse with ease, while well booted feet urged the elegant steed
forward into the fray.

On the horn of his saddle was draped a holstered gun. He made no move to unsheathe it. The riding crop
in his right hand looked menacing enough to quell a riot. >From the shadow across his face, piercing gray
eyes swept the scene, narrowing from gunmen on horseback to injured driver.

In shocked recognition the largest of the trio uttered a curse.

"Uncle Lionel?" the second twin gasped in a choked whisper that only the mulatto slave could hear. The
shock of being recognized showed in Troy's large blue eyes.

"Get us out of here!" Althea hissed.

Desperation turned her fingers into talons that dug into Troy's waist and jarred him from his stunned
fright. Taking matters into her own hands, she slapped the gelding's rump and sent him charging.

Althea's gallant savior needed no more urging. He dug in his heels, hauled on the reins and was the first of

the highwaymen to flee by charging into the gorse. Rattled by their flight, Robert routed as rapidly,
charging after his brother's steed.

Only one highwayman remained to become victim to Tucker's skill with a horse whip. The leather snaked
through the air, connecting with the youth who'd brought his carriage to a halt. Rattled by the unexpected
intruder and the skill of the Yankee's whip, that youth lost his pistol in a pain-filled lunge that nearly cost
the smallest bandit his seat.

"Hold back your whip!" the traveler commanded. The authority in his voice stopped Tucker from laying
on his lash a second time.

Abruptly, the last bandit abandoned the dangerous game. Having seen the direction his accomplices
went, the youth wheeled the bay mare the opposite direction, hurdling over the brambles and galloping
into the wooded swamp.

"I say. Do you know those ruffians?" Terrance Tucker called out. "And who are you, sir? I owe you a
debt of gratitude."

"Nay." Lionel Templeton straightened his spine, his bearing more erect and prouder than the Yank's.
"You owe me nothing, sir. See to your woman and injured driver. I'll run the ruffians down if I can."

Squire Tucker's expression hardened. "I'd rather regain my slaves."

Templeton was gone before the complaint registered.

Unable to follow, Tucker cursed aloud and bent to snatch the heavy purse from the ground. The gold
pieces within it did not feel near heavy enough to replace the value of the woman he'd lost. A vile curse
that shocked his wailing daughter into silence echoed in the turning.

CHAPTER TWO

His decision made, Lionel Templeton's heels dug into King Hiero's ribs. The stallion surged forward
effortlessly clearing brambles and boulders, charging after the littlest bandit.

Dense trees and marshy land below River Road slowed the fleeing horse. Lion soon had the lone youth in
sight as he fled through a cypress thicket covered with brackish water.

Aware of the powerful man and his stallion's pursuit, the young rider urged the bay to its speediest
charge. A glance backward proved the stallion gained momentum in its heated pursuit. The bay lost more
advantage, slipping on the embankment out of the swamp.

The rise was steep. The bay breached the top as the stallion took the climb with sure-footed ease.
Above, the ground was firmer. On more solid bracken-covered ground, the bay regained its sure-footed
stride and charged into a cottonwood gorse nowhere near as thick or protected as the ancient cypress
swamp.

The race was only just begun. The bay mare's rider had two objectives. The first, to not to get caught.
The second was just as important, to lead the pursuing tracker as far from the scene of the ambush as
possible.

Following became a consummate challenge, drawing Lionel Templeton into dangerous and unfamiliar
territory. He thought the mare was tiring, most likely spent from a long day's ride before this chase began.
His stallion had the advantage. Templeton reached out with his long right arm to unseat the boy.

The youth was slight, no match for a fully grown man, yet his riding skills were admirable. Dodging
Lionel's hand, the bandit swung like an Indian out of the saddle, clung to the mare's side and wheeled the
bay about then charged freely into Bayou St. John, the pursuing stallion thundering close behind.

Dodging dangling moss and low hanging branches, Lionel followed into a primal swamp of the likes he'd
never encountered, crowded with thickset trees and razor sharp palmetto underbrush.

Templeton could have brought the chase to certain end by firing his pistol, but he deemed that
unnecessary. He didn't shoot boys nor unarmed men. A physical lesson might be fitting, though he
doubted it would take more than the cuff of an open palm to quell this rebellious youth. Bringing his
stallion even with the pony was all that was required, and that he did.

He grasped the mare's reins and ripped them from the youth's gloved hands. The high pitched curse that
action caused, confirmed the whelp's tender age.

Captured, the mare shied from the stallion, parting their sides. The youth bolted out of his stirrups,
electing to escape on foot. Lionel released the bay's reins, turned it away and slapped its rump to send it
running to whence it belonged. He steered his stallion to the denser woods, following the foot trail of the
youth.

They commenced a crude game of cat and mouse. Through dense, primal woods, the youth ran hard,
darting fearlessly around and behind trees with lightning agility. But, there was no escaping Templeton.
No hiding place, secure enough. No brush thick enough, nor tall enough to provide adequate cover for
more than a hasty, breathless moment.

Within minutes young lungs labored to breath and quick feet bogged down in the mire. Lionel chased the
bandit down twice only to see the brat twist away, dodge capture and escape again. The game exacted
its price, wearing out the quarry, while all Templeton had to do was keep the pressure on and duck his
head to avoid low branches.

"Had enough?" Templeton roared in a dispassionate voice as he used his stallion effectively to trap the
youth against a tree.

Feverishly bright eyes flashed above the bandanna, seeing the trap. Gloved hands slapped against the
stallion's rump as the boy leaped over massive cypress roots. Again, the boy fled into the trees.

Lionel wheeled his horse again, tracking the youth one last time. Now he was angered. He ran the brat
down in a muddy clearing amongst twisted trees.

This time, instead of wasting good breath, Templeton reached for the dark wool jacket, secured the
collar and captured the boy.

The coat was of good quality, as were the boots and buckskin breeches on the youth. The garment
tightened, pulling sleeves and shoulders up, taking running feet off the ground, making all but ineffective
fluttering and kicking of limbs impossible.

"I asked if you've had enough?" Lionel demanded, all signs of neutrality eliminated from his voice with the
second question.

The bandit floundered against the stallion's flanks. King Hiero backed up at the slightest compression of
Templeton's knees. The youth's flaying boots were rendered useless, no longer touching the ground.

"Enough!" The right answer came out with a ragged gush of air. "I yield."

"Damn right you do!" Templeton swore as his grip on the coat collar increased. He pulled his stallion to a
stop, dismounted and with his left hand looped the reins securely over a low hanging branch. Then he
turned all his attention on the youth. "Now, young ruffian, I'll see your face and hear your name."

Determined fingers yanked on the red bandanna, ripped the close fitting cap from the youth's head. With
it, went the bindings that held a yard or more of lustrous, curly black hair hidden from view. It tumbled
down in tangled disarray across Templeton's arm and hand still clenched fast to the youth's collar.

It was no boy's face scowling furiously at Lionel Templeton. No, indeed. This was an outrageous,
green-eyed vixen, not a boy.

"By the gods!" Templeton swore and to be certain of his verdict, he ripped apart the coat concealing
young breasts of exquisite shape and form, heaving rapidly in exertion in fright.

"Sir!" Laura Madeline Dunois exploded with outraged dignity. Her gloved hand slapped her captor's
face soundly. "How dare you!"

"How dare I?" Templeton's shock at his discovery wasn't altered by her postured dignity.

"Unhand me!" Laura Madeline Dunois demanded, outraged by the man's tenacity. "You have no cause to
detain me."

"Not so fast, my beauty." Having set out to capture and tame an unruly boy, Lionel found he had snared
the prettiest woman he'd ever seen! Full red lips and coal black curls quivered before him while she
struggled against him frantically.

"Release me at once!" she demanded.

"Release you! I'll be damned if I'll release a criminal!"

Never a criminal as fetching as this green-eyed vixen. He would go to his grave swearing he saw
fireworks explode in the depths of her eyes as she took exceptionally long in summing his appearance up.
Her eyes swept over him from head to toe. An uncommon woman, she was instinctively forward and as
ripe and luscious as she was beautiful.

"I'm no criminal!" Laura defended herself.

"Aye, you are. Or would you have me believe my own eyes deceive me? You've been caught
red-handed committing highway robbery."

Laura kicked him viciously, trying to get away. He countered with bodily picking her up and pushing her
back against the nearest tree.

His size and incredible strength made Laura gasp. Having captured her, he now set out to aggressively
control her. One muscular thigh split her own, penning her hips hard between a tree and his forceful
body. The push of his chest flattened her completely. She could hardly breathe as her frantic hands were
caught and contained against rough bark. Outside of ineffective writhing and useless kicking of her feet,
Laura Dunois was rendered helpless.

"What a viscous she-cat you are!" He chuckled, clearly enjoying Laura's discomforts. "You need taming,
my beauty."

"Let me go, you brute!" Laura said in a desperate tone. She renewed her struggles painfully aware of
how intimate his invasion was.

"Nay, I'd rather subdue you!" Laughing at the wench's pseudo-distress, Lionel twisted her wrists together
above her head, gripped both in one iron bound fist and his freed hand caught her jaw and held her face
still.

Laura split the air with a frightened scream. Then the most horrible thing in the world happened.

The man's mouth covered hers, silencing her completely. Hard, punishing lips slashed across Laura's
own. She jerked her head, hissing, and was punished further by the grip of his fingers to her face. His
hand was large and forceful, thumb and extended fingers dug into the clenched muscles of her jaw,
forcing her teeth apart.

He took immediate possession of her delicate mouth, thrusting his tongue inside, stroking virgin
tenderness with ruthless masculine aggression.

Shocked, Laura knew not what she should do. A mewing whimper like that of a kitten sounded in her
throat. Though she tried to withdraw her tongue and escape the fiery thrust of his, there was no escape.
She forgot about kicking and fighting, unable to concentrate on anything except the overwhelming
sensations his mouth caused on hers.

Fear evaporated in the rapid escalation of her heart. She could hear his hard drawn breath and her own
frightened panting. Smelling wet earth and his lime tainted man's scent, she tasted tobacco and mint.
Electrifying sensations shot through her as his tongue sought and found her own. It awoke unknown
emotions within her and she filled with an urge to curl completely around him.

Nothing in his kiss bore any remote resemblance to the chaste, sweet kisses of Laura's admirers. No
youth that she'd teased outrageously had ever captured or kissed her with such devastating intent. At
once her blossoming woman's nature responded with slackening jaw and decreasing resistance.

There was no defense, she realized intuitively. She felt on fire, heat rose on every nerve channel within
her body. A wave of sharp, pleasured-pain emanated from her breasts and entrapped mouth, spreading
warmly outward surging to some here to fore unrecognized center of her being.

His so forceful hand on her slackened jaw was a brutally rough caress, allowing the continued plundering
of his tongue and mouth. His hand slipped down her throat and the knowledge that he would touch her
intimately became shocking reality. Her entire body launched a revolt that threatened submission.

Lionel Templeton knew when a battle was over. The young woman's resistance melted all at once and he
no longer held her trapped, instead he found himself drawing her deeper into his embrace. Her body was
supple and firm as it returned his pressure and her mouth was the sweetest crevice he'd tasted in years.
Set out to punish and subdue a hellion, he wound up welcoming and taking a wanton.

Laura Madeline's mind worked on two different planes, the first caught up in the sensations rising from
her awakening sexuality. The second remained more rational and acknowledged that his assault was
domination. That portion of her mind believed that no man had the right to treat her so improperly.

She realized belatedly that her hands were free.

Her first reaction to that knowledge came as a restless, troubling urge to embrace him. Mentally, she
prevented that with alacrity, before the traitorous act was completed.

Doubling her hands into fists, she pummeled his head. She bit hard at the same instant and tasted blood
when her assailant drew back. She hit him freely from there on, fighting to escape first, defend her honor,
last.

It was a hard and vicious struggle of short duration. She bit his hand as he wrestled the kerchief from her
neck. She kicked and punched and screamed to no avail. He used the bandanna to bind her hands tightly
behind her back.

"What a little bitch you are!" His words were as harsh as his grip upon her rebellious hands as he drew
his weight back and put his right hand to his mouth to remove the blood she'd drawn.

Panting against the support of a tree, Laura's knees buckled. Her shirt and camisole were torn, her
breasts rising and falling in panic. Blood pounded in her ears so fiercely she could hardly hear his words.

The game begun with two cousins an hour ago was no longer so innocent. It was deadly. She didn't
doubt the menace of the man.

"Your name?" Yanking her forward, he demanded that.

Though Laura was wont to collapse on legs that trembled too much to bear her weight, he did not allow
her to fall. Towering above her by more than a foot, he anchored his hand to her hair. The grip was tight
and painful.

Laura glared at him, confused by her body's reactions, yet seeing through her anger the alarmingly,
handsome visage he possessed. Nor did she miss the cruel twist of his sensuous lips as he lowered his
blood stained hand from his mouth.

"Still want to play games?" His voice was as harsh as the fingers that gripped her hair. "I asked your
name, wench. Give it, or I'll hurt you."

"Then hurt me!" she declared rebelliously, kicking one boot solidly into his leg. "I'll not tell you anything."

"You'll tell!" His leg swept her feet out from underneath her. Laura went down, hard, tumbling to the
leaf-covered forest floor. The man was astride her at once, pinning her legs uselessly beneath his own.
One hand gripped her jaw and held her head still. "Do you know what happens to girls caught alone in
the woods?"

I do, Laura thought, unable to believe her luck. Her own maid, Mattie had been dragged into these
woods and brutally raped two months ago. Mattie had come back different, jittery, spooked, jumping at
the slightest noise and shadows, never to be the same again. Laura knew, a lady like herself was not safe
around a man as primitive and elemental as this man. Fear made her moisten her lips with the pink edge
of her tongue and swallow hard.

His free hand slid inside her coat and torn shirt. Pure panic rose as one callused hand touched her
camisole and then her breast. Blindly, she knew this was the touch she'd wanted when he'd kissed her,
yet she was terrified now. She screamed as her nipple hardened into a knob he could fondle. Using all
her breath, she sent the birds screeching from the trees.

"I'll tell who I am!"

Where were her cousins? Why hadn't they doubled back to save her? Surely they hadn't deserted her!
Her second scream was cut off by the pressure of his hand over her mouth.

His gray eyes flickered with calculating assessment, waiting for her to calm. She realized too late he'd
used the threat of touching her intimately to make her surrender.

Ceasing to struggle, she eyed her handsome captor more critically, thinking maybe the threat he posed
wasn't as great as her fears made it appear.

"Your name." Lionel Templeton took his hand from the girl's mouth so she could speak. Getting a hold of
her own panic Laura saw help arriving. She focused her eyes boldly on his, holding his harsh gaze and
inhaled to calm herself.

"If all you want is my name to report, then let me up and I'll tell you."

"Tell me, now." He refused to relinquish the upper hand. It was taken from him by the violent lowering of
a split oak club. Laura even flinched as the blow landed against the back of his finely formed head. He
collapsed heavily across her chest, knocking the wind out of her, obliterating the towering hulk of the field
hand that had come so quietly upon them.

Few seconds later, Laura was able to breathe again as the man's heavy inert body was tossed aside.

"Is you alright, Miss Laura?" Arlo lifted her up from the grass and set her on her feet, his fingers nimbly
untying the knots in the bandanna that held her hands imprisoned. "Did I do right by you?"

"Yes, yes," Laura breathlessly exclaimed. Her eyes remained fixed upon the slumped man in his fine
clothes. Relief made her knees buckle and bless Arlo's kind heart, he kept a steadying hand upon her
elbow supporting her. All at once her hands were free and she rubbed her wrists. "I thought for a minute
it was all over but the crying. Thank the Lord you were around to help."

"Mmm, ummph." Arlo put one knee to the damp ground and his large, capable hands felt the stranger's
head to better examine the rising lump. "Wasn't sure I should do anything, Miss Laura. He being a fine
looking gentleman by the looks of dat horse and dese here clothes."

"Not much of a gentleman," Laura muttered as her numb hands righted her shirt and hastily fastened the
few buttons that remained on her jacket.

Arlo very gently laid the man's injured head on the grass. He shrugged his massive brown shoulders
negligently then looked at her with some confusion in his face. "Miss Laura, you shouldn't be out here
chasing round the swamp in those clothes. What would your daddy say?"

"That's the least of my worries," Laura said decisively. "You didn't kill him, did you? Will he be all right?"

"He be a'right," Arlo chuckled. "After his headache goes away."

"How long will he be out?"

"Depends." Arlo shook his head, his powerful shoulders moving like a mountain as he rose to his feet.
He didn't say it out loud but the crumpled, fine looking gentleman was trouble. Real trouble. He twisted a
straw hat onto his head. "Missy, a man like this un's goin' to be powerful angry when he wakes up. You
best skedaddle out of here."

Laura clapped her hat back on her head, stuffing her disheveled hair beneath it. "You're right."

She looked at the black stallion, considering taking the animal, but he would be an impossible to explain
possession. "Aren't we close to Prudence's?"

"Yessum." Arlo turned to the deep woods, leading the way.

Only once did Laura allow herself to look back at the man she was deserting to the bayou's vagaries. As
she looked at the unconscious man, a shudder worked down her spine. She couldn't shake the feeling
that it was wrong to leave him unprotected. Not when she knew full well disease carrying mosquitoes
could attack his inert body with their rapier-like stingers. Hell, in Bayou St. John, the water snakes were
no more vicious than the alligators.

"Arlo, I can't leave him," Laura protested quietly.

"Miss Laura, you hav' to. I'll see to him," Arlo promised. "Soon as you's away from here an' safe."

Reassured, Laura pushed her conscience aside. They both knew exactly where she was headed, to
Prudence Mellonbruch's farm up Bayou St. John. It was the safest house in a ten mile radius. Laura
wasted no time. She just prayed she would get there before the noon meal was over.

CHAPTER THREE

"Templeton, I tell you they were boys!" Terrance Tucker's boots scattered the gravel on Clairmont's tree
shaded avenue off River Road. "Three of the little bastards, all riffraff run out of New Orleans!"

"Then it is not the same bandits," Steven Templeton, the owner of Clairmont Plantation, reasoned in a
strong voice. "It wasn't a pack of boys who attacked my niece's carriage and stole her jewels."

"They are one and the same!" Tucker raised his voice. "It is time this menace was routed once and for

all. I tell you they are boys from Mellonbruch's mission! Why, two of them are nearly the same size as
your oldest sons."

"Would you suggest my sons are involved?"

That wasn't spoken as a question. Laura Madeline paused on the fieldstone walkway up from the
landing. Her curiosity had the best of her, bringing her up the lawn to better overhear the gentlemen's
disagreement. She gasped at the chilly intensity of her uncle's English accent.

"I've said they were of the same size, perhaps a similar age," Tucker went on in a harried voice. "Save
one, one was young, a half-grown whelp. If you would go with me to Mellonbruch's farm we could nab
the bounders. It must be stopped. This endangers our womenfolk."

"My very words, how they do come back to roost."

Again, Steven used biting wit to drive home a point. Laura suppressed the urge to shout, 'Bravo, old
man.'

"You gave no support to the Parish Jury, Tucker," Steven continued. "When it was your woods that
needed to be searched for the criminals."

"Now see here, Templeton. You head the jury. I need your help to get my slaves back!"

"And I need collaborating testimony to act in the name of the law and you know it, Tucker."

Ah, the fatal arrow, Laura exhaled with relief. Tucker would be dead at his feet did but Steven
Templeton's verbal fencing actually draw blood.

"I tell you I have witnesses," the Yank argued heatedly. "My daughter and my driver!"

Laura settled her parasol on her shoulder and let her string of catfish dangle from her other hand. Her
face was a mask of Creole indifference as she mentally mimicked her uncle's towering English acedia
which she knew by heart.

"A slave, sir, and a female," Templeton replied coldly. "Both chattel in the eyes of the jury. I'm sorry.
The Parish Jury cannot assist you in this matter."

Foiled, Tucker stamped his feet more and cursed fluently, unaware of Laura's avid interest. "God damn
it, man, I struck one boy with my whip. I don't need to rouse the whole jury. All I need is you to
accompany me to Mellonbruck's. Back me up when I demand each boy in that house sheds their shirts.
If none has a mark, I'll withdraw my charge against them."

"Tucker, keep a civil tongue in your head." Steven motioned to his niece to make Tucker aware that a
young woman approached. Now, there was an improper miss if there ever was one. The hoyden should
have shown better sense the moment she came up from the river and gone inside the house.

"Good afternoon, Uncle Steven, Squire Tucker." Laura

offered a curtsy and testimony of her own. "I couldn't help overhearing. No one went missing from
Prudence's schoolroom this morning."

"What would you know of that?" Tucker turned on her, scowling, looking her up and down with little
disguised disdain. In the past he'd made it quite clear he had little use for Templeton's wards outspoken
ways.

"A great deal, Squire Tucker, since I spend my mornings at Miss Mellonbruch's mission teaching reading
to her boys. As I was there this morning, I can assure you, all of Miss Mellonbruch's charges can be
accounted for this morning and this afternoon."

"You allow Miss Dunois to spend time among that riffraff, Templeton?" Tucker sputtered.

"My work is a charity, sir." Laura felt perfectly capable of defending herself. "The purpose of which is to
use education to bring those poor boys up from ignorance and provide them skills that will take poverty
out of their futures. Miss Prudence Mellonbruch has had great success in rehabilitating her charges...."

"That's quite enough, Laura," Steven interrupted her before she got a full head of steam going by cutting
off her words and stepping between her and Mr. Tucker.

"I would see these petty criminals removed from the vicinity," Tucker said in rebuttal. "Thereby
re-establish peace and safety in the parish."

Laura's idealism wasn't coshed so easily and she continued in her usual forthright manner. "Bosh, it's not
boys who act the highwaymen and plunder the parish. Would you clean out your own woods along River
Road, there'd be no trouble. I would point out, there have been no vandals or highwayman elsewhere, on
cleared and cultivated land."

Steven Templeton's large hand pressed against the small of Laura Madeline's back, steering her toward
the house. His color ran high and his expression narrowed. "Laura Madeline!"

"That's the gospel truth." Laura staunchly defended her bold words in the most innocent tone. "I do but
repeat what you and Monsieur Jeanneau have said many times."

"I will not torch my game preserve!" Tucker sputtered in outrage. "Not on the charges of one chit who
had no business traveling unescorted!"

"I was not unescorted," Laura Madeline countered. "I had my groom and my maid with me. And it
wasn't once that I was robbed, it was twice. At exactly the same spot, your turning!"

"Why, you impertinent...."

"That's quite enough, Laura Madeline." Whatever word Tucker had to follow was lost as Steven
Templeton deftly set his niece moving in the direction of the house. Laura took one quick look at her
uncle's face and knew instantly he was livid. Not at Tucker, but at her for speaking out of turn.

However, she was patently certain Steven's innate civility would prevail. A gentleman of her Regency
born and bred uncle's ilk did not loose his temper over a few provoking words an insignificant young lady
might say. She began to leisurely stroll toward the verandah steps, her parasol twirling on her shoulder.

"Now see here, Templeton." Tucker raised his voice again. "I have hart, quail and boar for sport within
those woods and many guests who come to visit specifically for the pleasure of enjoying the hunting in my
woods.

"I tell you, the fiends are at Mellonbruch's. We have the proof of it this time--do we act immediately.
You give the thieves time to dispose of the gold and jewelry they stole from me."

"Gold!" Laura sputtered, outraged by that patent lie. She spun around, knowing full well she'd gone
white in the mouth then flushed a bright red. Before she gave herself away any further, she declared,
"You didn't care a wit how much jewelry I lost to your villains!"

"They are not my villains!" Tucker screeched. "Templeton! You give time for my slaves to join up with
that damnable Underground Railroad. I say we torch that farm, turn it inside out, burn those
thief-harboring dormitories to the ground. Now!"

"That would be a gross violation of the law, Uncle Steven."

Again, Laura Madeline stuck her nose in where it wasn't wanted! Steven scowled and cleared his
throat--another signal his ward deliberately ignored. The brat needed a muzzle.

"A warrant would have to be issued first by Monsieur Jeanneau," Laura stated commonly known fact.

"We are aware of that." Templeton's words accompanied the presentation of his back to his contentious
neighbor as he dealt with Laura in tones that implied no more argument. "Go inside the house. This
discussion isn't for your ears."

The willful girl looked him squarely in the eyes, declaring, "Prudence Mellonbruck is my friend. I will not
see her harmed."

"Hells bells, man, I haven't time to waste. I want my slaves back!" Tucker shouted. "I'll go after them with
without the damned jury!"

Laura stood her ground. Her parasol spun as she dared to glare at Terrance Tucker. Templeton's palms
itched to strike her. Instead he rounded on Tucker, saying, "That would make you a vigilante, Mr.
Tucker, and subject to being declared a criminal under the laws governing this parish."

Where Steven Templeton was at a complete loss in dealing with the minute menace of his wife's niece, he
was not hobbled in dealing with Tucker. One step outside of the law and Steven would have the man
bound over for trial.

Opinionated Laura Madeline Dunois was a different matter. No matter how tautly he held the reins, she
continued to take the bit between her teeth and test the boundaries of social practice. A budding radical
that most unbearable sort of female, a blue stocking, Steven could cheerfully choke the girl with his own
hands. Thank the Lord he had only days left to serve as her guardian. Did she but know of her impending
nuptials, the brat wouldn't be out fishing and dreaming up ways to start trouble. She'd be up in her room
throwing a temper tantrum over wedding plans. And Bethany would have to deal with that, not he.

Warning her of his fraying patience, Templeton said, "Run along now, Laura. You've voiced your
opinions, now you will remove yourself from the lawn. I'm certain Bethany requires your assistance with
Sarah Jane. She was most upset."

Just once, Steven wished he had free rein to discipline Laura Madeline Dunois in the most effective way
possible. Her shenanigans would have been put paid to five months ago. He was hobbled in that by his
wife, Bethany, who believed a girl of Laura Madeline's years too old to be turned over her uncle's knee.

Laura hurried up the steps to the porch. Out of the glare of the sun, she folded her parasol, lingering
briefly to hear any further exchanges between the two men. She was satisfied Tucker's vociferous
complaints would come to naught and smiled on entering the petite salon where Sarah Jane Tucker
staged her fit of vapors.

"There you are, Laura Madeline," Bethany Santiago Templeton said with some relief the moment Laura
swept indoors from the lawn. "Come, Sarah, sit up, dear. Here is Laura. You must tell her of your
adventure. You really are none the worse for the wear."

"Why, Miss Bethany, how can you say that? Those men were horrible. Mean, cruel villains who
frightened the life out of me! We were robbed at the turning, Laura Madeline. Father was so brave,
standing up to the villains all by himself. He shot one, I think. I'm certain he did."

"How dreadful, Sarah Jane. Were they men? I think I heard your Papa say they were boys." Laura
inquired mildly.

"Oh, no, why they were huge, horrible brutes. Boys!"

Sarah tittered, putting a soft hand over her mouth to hide the wide gap between her two front teeth.
"What would you know, Laura Madeline?"

Sarah sat upright for the first time in an hour and preened prettily, smoothing ruffles in her voluminous
pink skirts. She eyed Laura's spectacles, unadorned jacket and plain bombazine skirt with obvious
distaste. "You've been traipsing around in the swamp again, Laura Madeline. Your hem is caked with
mud."

"Aye, so I have. Fishing," Laura answered, offering as proof a string of catfish that she held up along
with her bedraggled parasol.

It was a fine string of channel cat, Arlo had insisted on putting in her hand when she'd climbed ashore
from his skiff at the landing. Laura's eyes twinkled behind her gold-rimmed lenses as she wagged the fish
before Sarah Jane.

"Must you put smelly fish in my face!" Sarah gasped. Her lacy scented handkerchief fluttered with a scent
more overpowering than mere fish. "Why, you've gone without a bonnet again, too. You will have the
most terrible complexion very soon, Laura Madeline."

"Balderdash!" Laura scoffed. She turned to her aunt, inquiring, "Are the twins back from the city, Aunt
Bethany? Did they have any luck finding the books I put on my list?"

"No, dear, they haven't returned." Bethany sighed. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece then
back at Laura. "I believe Steven gave them till four to return from New Orleans. I grant they'll be home in
time for supper."

"Lucky them," Laura said with genuine envy. Her twin cousins Robert and Troy were granted immense
liberty and freedom to come and go unsupervised at the ripe age of fifteen. While she was theoretically
never allowed outside Clairmont without a chaperon. "Has your company arrived?"

"No. They too are delayed."

"Miss Bethany." Sarah wouldn't tolerate not being the center of attention of any conversation. "How

much longer must Laura Madeline wear mourning clothes? They are so unflattering on her. Hasn't it been
longer than a year?"

"It's been a year and a half since my mother died, Sarah, but only six months since my father followed
her into the tomb. I would not dream of doing less for Papa than I did for my mother."

"Oh, that long. Well," Sarah wasted the lifting of her pretty shoulders on Laura. "I've never seen you
wear any other color. It makes you look sallow."

Laura had no interest in discussing fashion or color with Sarah Tucker whose taste in clothing went to
ruffles and furbelows and pastel shades that gagged Laura's sense of style and elegance. To put paid to
this discussion she said firmly. "It doesn't matter what I wear, not when I'm as rich as Croesus."

Sarah's jaw dropped at the mention of Laura's fortune, but she recovered quickly enough. "How can
you say it doesn't matter, Laura? Why, all the gentlemen in town already think you are a confirmed
spinster. And who would blame them? You haven't had a season yet and you are so set in your ways.
Papa says without your fortune, you'd never find a husband."

"That didn't stop him from asking," Laura reminded the girl.

Sarah raised a scornfully negligent shoulder. "Are you going to present Laura in society this season, Miss
Bethany?"

"Steven has considered letting Laura come out at Christmas Cotillion." Bethany cast a quelling look at her
niece in an attempt to subtly deflect Sarah Jane's rudeness. "Laura is to be commended, not criticized for
adhering to wearing black. One does not cast off one's mourning clothes because they are boring, Sarah
Jane."

"It isn't just that they are boring. They could be stylish. You could have some new ones made, Laura."

Laura countered, "That just proves how little you know about Creoles, Sarah Jane. Being a Yank, you
probably can't trace your ancestors past the revolution. While I, on the other hand, know my bloodlines
all the way back to the Merovean kings of France. So if it's all the same to you, I'll honor my father the
full year and I have no intention of coming out at this year's Christmas cotillion. Perhaps the year after that
I might consider it."

"You'll be too old to get a husband then. Why, you'll be twenty-one before you're ever presented." At
seventeen Sarah couldn't imagine any girl waiting a day later than necessary to be presented.

Laura laughed. There was no reason for her to explain herself to Sarah Tucker. Reaching age twenty-one
was Laura's most ardent goal. The terms of her father's will emancipated her completely, from all
domination, provided she reached that birthday as a femme sole.

"You wouldn't understand, dear," she told Sarah lightly, and a touch of wickedness made her add a dash
of chicory to Sarah's cup of envy. "I don't have to go on the market to be sold to the highest bidder.
Uncle Steven is besieged with letters of inquiry and proposals for my hand. How many have you
collected since last Christmas?"

"Laura!" Bethany scolded, not pleased by Laura's too frank tongue. "A bath and a change of clothing
would be in order. You have two hours before dinner."

"Yes, Aunt Bethany," Laura said mildly. She wouldn't dream of provoking her aunt in the same manner
that she relished needling her autocratic, died-in-his-chauvinism uncle. "I'll see to it as soon as I skin and
gut these cats."

"Ooh!" Sarah flopped back onto the couch, her scented hankie fluttering again. "You're such a hoyden!"

Before she left the petite salon, Laura shared a private smile with Aunt Bethany. Sarah Tucker's vapors
were legend in St. John's bayou.

Excusing herself, Laura took the catfish to the kitchen then ran up the back stairs, calling to her maid,
Mattie, to fetch a bath. Shortly, Tucker and his obnoxious daughter departed Clairmont.

Soon after, Robert and Troy rode up the drive from River Road. Before she had a chance to speak with
them, they were summoned to their father's study.

As she sat in her tub, washing the smell of the swamp from her body, Laura listened as best she could to
the muffled discourse that came in her open windows. Her uncle's study was directly under Laura's guest
room on the second level of Clairmont's main house. She heard her uncle demand in acerbic tones, a full
accounting of his eldest sons activities this day.

Laura winced each time Steven raised his voice--a rare occurrence in and of itself. Twice definitely gave
grounds for alarm. Neither Troy or Robert were any good at telling outright lies. For that matter, Laura
had never been adept at that particular skill either...until lately. But desperate times did call for desperate
measures. Laura shuddered as she rinsed the soap off her extended arm, thinking how narrowly they'd
escaped terrible punishment.

Helping slaves escape was a far more serious act of civil disobedience in Louisiana than merely stopping
a carriage and demanding gold.

"Miss Laura!" Mattie turned round from the inlaid rosewood bureau her arms full of fresh lingerie.

"What is it, Mattie?" Laura looked up, her soapy sponge poised above the bend of her knee. Mattie's
button eyes were round with alarm and glued to Laura's bared back.

"What happened to your back?"

"Oh." Laura groaned, she'd forgotten about that. "A mark from my reckless riding. You know how the
tree limbs snap back the way I ride."

"That ain't no tree switch." Mattie dropped her bundle to kneel by the tub. Not wanting to be reminded
of the day's disastrous outcome, Laura flinched away from any touch. "Miss Laura, you ain't been out to
Tucker's Turning, has you? Yes, you has. Tucker said he'd laid the whip on one of them boys. It was
you!"

"Mattie, hush!" Laura put her hand over Mattie's blabbering mouth to obtain silence. "You forget you've
seen that, you hear?"

"Massa Templeton will kill that man for laying his whip on you!" Mattie hissed furiously. "Why that lying
pole cat, how dare he strike a lady!"

"Mattie!" Laura ground out through clenched teeth. That and her stern expression obtained silence.

Mattie sat back on her heels, her brow knotted with indignant anger. "He didn't know he was striking a
lady. I was dressed like a boy."

"You wasn't!" Mattie's empty hands slapped over her gaping mouth. "Oh, Miss Laura, you wasn't..."

Dressing like a boy when one was an almost twenty year old female was a greater sin than adultery in
the sultry bayous above New Orleans. Laura shook her head. "Yes, I was. And you can't tell anyone
about that mark on my back."

"Why?" Mattie demanded indignantly.

"You know good and well why. Steven Templeton would skin me alive if he found out I was riding here
and there dressed like a boy."

"And right he should!" Mattie's head nodded a violent agreement. "Explain to me why you was doing
such a thing? Why, your momma must be turning in her grave."

"I can't tell you why."

"Well, you just better!"

Laura wasn't about to be intimidated by her own maid. She stepped out of the tub, wound a soft length
of toweling around her body and said coolly. "I know what I'm doing."

"No ma'am. I don't think you does."

"Will you stop arguing with me, please," Laura said rather desperately. "The die has been cast and there
is no turning back. I have thrown my lot in with the Underground Railroad and I will continue to support
their efforts in the future. On top of that, Althea is my half-sister, I don't care what color her skin is. I love
her and had to help her."

Mattie shook her head, unable to believe the words coming true from her tiny mistress' mouth. "Support
and sympathy is one thing, Miss Laura. Doing the rescue work is another entirely. Parading about the
countryside in britches is..."

"There's no arguing it, Mattie. Jethro, Jeb and Althea are now free of Terrace Tucker's evil service. I've
no regrets for my actions. I've also concluded that to remain at Clairmont is utter foolishness. We're going
home to Coeur de Terre. Pack my overnight bag."

Laura turned from her most trusted servant, her brow puckered with the depths of her worries. With all
the important and serious problems she had on her mind, why was she being plagued by the sight of a
man, crumpled and limp, defenseless at the edge of the swamp? A man who'd had the audacious gall to
kiss and fondle her.

No one was supposed to have gotten hurt.

A cold shiver of dread worked down Laura's spine. Why, suppose the man came calling upon her uncle!

That thought was enough to send her off in a fit of hysteria surpassing any fit of temper Sarah Tucker
could stage. Shaking her head free of insensibility, Laura began dressing for dinner with utmost care.

Mattie sulked in a worrisome manner.

"Don't go pouting on me, Mattie. I'll need your help."

"You's acting like you don't need anybody's help, Miss Laura."

"Nonsense. Get my small bag and pack for an overnight visit. I'm going to talk to Aunt Bethany while I
have the chance. Be ready to leave when I come back."

"Yes, Miss Laura." Mattie sighed and didn't question her mistress. She assisted Laura in dressing, tying a
massive crinoline around her waist, settling the drapes of an elegant bombazine overskirt over that.

A tucked and fitted silk blouse with puffed sleeves, neat collar and priceless cameo broach at her throat
and snug bolero showed off Laura's petite form nicely. The somber black clothing covering her from
shoulder to toe actually lent a maturity to Laura Madeline's appearance she would not have otherwise.

Mattie shook her head, resenting the restraints placed on her tiny mistress. There wasn't another girl of
nineteen in all of New Orleans as beautiful as Miss Laura Madeline Dunois. That the plague and sickness
had robbed her mistress of all the joys of being nineteen and beautiful was something Mattie regretted
with all her heart.

When she was done braiding and coiling Laura's thick hair into a somber chignon, Laura took another
pair of gold framed spectacles from her trinket box and settled them on her face.

"Ain't nobody fooled by them glasses," Mattie grumbled.

"Oh, yes they are," Laura said very firmly. "Now, you see to packing. I'm going to soften up Aunt
Bethany."

CHAPTER FOUR

Bethany Santiago Templeton was in the salon, half the house away from the alarming caterwauling
coming out of Uncle Steven's private study. Laura tiptoed past the closed door in dismay. Clearly,
Steven had ferreted out some sort of inconsistency in the twins testimony. More determined than ever to
get clear of Clairmont, Laura hurried into the petite salon. Aunt Bethany looked up from her stitching and
smiled distractedly.

"The twins are in trouble again, aren't they?" Laura curtsied respectfully then sat at a stool near her aunt's
feet. She put forth her best effort at looking innocent as a new born lamb. "What is it this time?"

"These youths that attacked the Tuckers, what else?"

Bethany sighed. "Steven wanted to be doubly certain our boys were not involved and had them remove
their shirts. I fear his lack of trust has put both Troy and Robert's backs up."

"I see," Laura sympathized. "Then you must thank God neither twin has a cut of a lash across their
backs. It would be the death of them if they'd been in on the game."

Aunt Bethany's concerned eyes lifted from her stitching to intently study her niece's face. "How did you
know that?"

"Oh, that's obvious from all the yelling."

"Yes, well, Tucker's a very dangerous man with a whip in his hand." Aunt Bethany returned her attention
to her tapestry. Plying a needle soothed and calmed her nerves.

Laura winced internally, too aware of how lightly she skirted around the truth. Could she trust Mattie not
to say a word? Her fingers tightened in her lap affirming that what she'd done today was right. Althea was
as much her blood kin as Bethany.

Laura leaned close to her aunt to put in her request.

"On my way upriver from Pro's, Lelanie and Patricia waved to me from the levee. I've been invited to
Millabar for the night, Tia. They're having a small party for their strings instructor. It's an appreciation
supper and small do, nothing extravagant, but he is about to return to Boston. I was invited and I
sincerely want to go. Would it be all right if I have Andre drive me over before dinner?"

"Why, Laura Madeline, you have said the strings instructor is a boring man."

"I know, but I truly admire Woodrow and Maurice's accomplished efforts. They have talent. May I go?"

"Well, I can't see that it would cause any harm." Bethany had more worry about her sons than Laura's
plans for the evening. She tried to smile and Laura hugged her.

"I just knew you'd say, yes. This way, I won't upset Uncle Steven. You know how testy he is once his
temper is roused. Everything I say sets him off."

"You need to be more sensitive to him, Laura Madeline. I sometimes think you provoke him
deliberately. Vamanos mijita. Pack your things and run along. I don't want you on the road at dusk. Not
even if Andre is with you."

"I'll be gone in a minute's time. Thank you."

Laura bounded up and ran back upstairs. Mattie had her overnight case packed. Rifling through all her
drawers, Laura removed every secret stash of money she had tucked away for rainy days. She filled a
small reticule with the gold coins and greenbacks, tied it to her belted waist and signaled Mattie it was
time to leave.

Downstairs, she again stopped in the petite salon and kissed her aunt good-bye. "I've decided to ride
Juniper rather than go by carriage."

"Well, that makes sense. It will get you to Millabar quicker." Aunt Bethany studied her for a moment,
inspecting Laura's gown and hair. "I know Steven has some special project with the horses only Andre
can handle, so tell him to bring your horses back to Clairmont. There's no need to put out the Jeanneau's
grooms."

That put a kink in Laura's plans, but she didn't acknowledge it openly. Her aunt would know soon
enough what Laura had done. Laura's confidence in her own inviolate and invincible power within the
boundaries of her own estate, propelled her to continue with the deception. God willing, Althea was
already there.

"Give the Jeanneaus my best regards." Distracted by another shout from the study, Aunt Bethany
absently patted Laura's arm as she accepted her hug.

Laura rushed to the stable and found Andre culling mares from Steven's thoroughbreds to put to stud.
She had to wait until he finished before he saddled three horses so she and Mattie and he could be off
post haste to Millabar. The sun was setting as they mounted and left Clairmont's stables.

Millabar Plantation bordered Clairmont on River Road. Just a little further east, no more than a half
hour's ride, lay Bettetrois Landing on Lake Pontchartrain. It was there, Laura Madeline Dunois was
really headed with her maidservant and groom.

"Miss Laura, you's riding past the gates at Millabar." Big Andre protested when Laura galloped past the
open gates at the neighboring plantation.

"I know." Laura glanced to the quickly setting sun.

"We're going home, Andre. I've had it with Clairmont hospitality."

"Oh, Miss Laura, you'd better think about that twice." Andre reigned up his horse and stopped in the
middle of the road. Mattie stayed close to him, afraid to travel one foot closer to Tucker's Turning at
dusk without the huge, competent groom.

"Andre, come on! We can't waste daylight," Laura insisted. She was as leery of traveling River Road at
night as Mattie. Even Andre's protection was no guarantee of safety once dark arrived. Bandits could
and would shoot a servant, slave or freeman, without batting an eye.

"I've got to get to Lake Pontchartrain for the last ferry to Mandeville before darkfall. We'll be home by
midnight. Think of that, home at Coeur de Terre."

"Un-uh, Miss Laura." Andre shook his head solemnly. "We might could be there by midnight if'n no
cutthroats come out of the woods to slit me and Mattie's throat and steal you away to some white slaver
down in N'Orlean's. If'n we get to Coeur de Terre, come sundown tomorrow, Massa Steven gonna be
there, too. He'll give me forty lashes with the cat for not stopping you."

"Andre, he can't do that! You're no longer a slave," Laura Madeline protested. "Besides, I'm mistress of
Coeur de Terre. I won't allow that."

"Jess how you gonna stop it?" Andre asked disbelieving her. "Don't you know there be slaves gone
missing from Tuckers? Listen, girl. That be hounds we kin all hear, howling in the bayou. An' I'm a tellin'
you, Massa Steven ain't goin' to take kindly to no upset comin' outta Clairmont."

"All the more reason for the three of us to get ourselves back to Coeur de Terre right this minute. Andre,
you know all I've got to do is say 'don't let Steven Templeton inside the house' and every man on the
plantation will keep him out."

Andre remained unmoved, unconvinced of Laura's bold assessment of the staff at Coeur de Terre's
temerity. In his mind, Steven Templeton was one intimidating man. Why or how it was Miss Laura
couldn't see that, wasn't his problem. Getting her safe to Millabar was.

"Andre," Laura sought any reason that would convince Andre to help her. "Steven's made plans to marry
me off to some heathen Englishman just like him or worse. A sea captain I have heard. A beast of a man
who wouldn't give a second thought to keel-hauling every manjack at Coeur de Terre. He is bound to be
some awful, disreputable person who will make us all suffer grievously. You know as well as I do, that if
I get to age twenty-one and inherit Papa's estates, I can't be forced to marry.

"I'll be twenty in eleven more days. I know I can last out a year at Coeur de Terre. At least I'll have
access to my own money and can have some control over my estate. I've vowed to go my own way. I
cannot marry this person Uncle Steven's chosen. I'd die first. Please, let's not sit here wasting daylight.
Come on."

"I heard about all that." Andre still shook his head, refusing her. Laura sat straight in her saddle and
glared at Andre's placid and near expressionless face. That got her nowhere.

"I'll take you and Mattie to Millabar like I's supposed to, then I's taking the horses back to Clairmont,
jess like I been told to do," Andre decreed. "That's all I'll do."

He turned his horse and shoed Mattie ahead of him, leaving Laura alone on River Road to fend for
herself or to come along.

Laura shamelessly fell back on years of tradition. Going home was that important to her. "You're still my
servant and have to do what I want to do!"

"No, I doesn't!" Andre said proudly. "I's a free black man. You's a nineteen years old girl whose got no
pappy and no massa and no good sense. I does what Massa Steven says to do till the next Massa comes
to Coeur de Terre."

"Andre, I'll give you papers to go to New Orleans, and gold to take with you. Gold, enough for the best
house for coloreds in town. You'll get to see Althea. She escaped today."

"Gold won't put skin on my back." Andre turned on his mount, scowling at her. "Althea's either. No
tellin' if she'll live till the morning. Go on, Mattie, Miss Laura is goin' to Millabar."

"Sho' nuff," Mattie whispered. Her eyes ducked back at Laura, huge as saucers, imploring Laura to have
a care. But Mattie knew the one truth in life--neither she nor Andre could force Miss Laura to do
anything.

Being alone on River Road at dusk took more courage than even Laura Madeline imagined she had. She
had been robbed twice coming back from New Orleans at this very time of day. And when she added to
the fear those memories caused, the howling and baying of Tucker's hounds searching the bayou, her
bravado faltered.

At the gates of Millabar, Laura reluctantly caught up with her escorts. It was full sunset when she
dismounted from her horse and gave the reins over to Andre.

"You could have saved my life if you'd helped me escape," Laura grumbled with little grace. "You just
think about the fact that you're a free man for the rest of your days, Andre Benton. The day Steven

Templeton marries me off to whatever bounder he's come up with, is the last day of freedom I'll have for
the rest of my life."

"Marriage ain't the same as slavery, Miss Laura." Andre told her.

"The hell it isn't," Laura argued.

"Don' know why you's so afraid of it. Ain't you never heard about love?"

"Love?" Laura choked. "Well, I might could have heard about that, Big Andre. That's all it will be,
something I heard about. It damned sure won't be there in no forced marriage that suits Mister Guardian
Steven Templeton. I'll probably have to call him out for a duel and shoot him before this next year is out."

Andre chuckled. He could afford to, now that Laura and Mattie were standing on the ground and he
was leaving Millabar with Miss Laura's horses. "I reckon you could go ahead and shoot him if'n you was
of a mind to. Don't seem like to me anybody's gonna harm a hair on your pretty head, Miss Laura, no
matter what deviltry you do."

"You better be right." Laura wasn't certain of that fact at all. Her groom turned the horses and trotted
down the oak lined avenue.

Mattie shuffled her feet and shifted Laura's bag from one hand to the other. She watched Andre turn onto
River Road then cast a wary glance at her mistress' set face.

"Andre'd appreciate what you done if'n he knew about it, Miss Laura," Mattie whispered. "Nobody
knew Althea'd be in chains."

"You ever tell him or anybody about that, I'll skin you alive," Laura warned. "And that's a fact."

Mattie might be cowed by words like that, but Laura knew she was just running another bluff. Again, she
heard the bloodhounds ripping up the bayou and a shiver worked across her neck. She prayed Althea
had gotten across the lake. Laura hated the uncertainties she was left with this night.

Nothing had been certain or fact since she'd waylaid a carriage that afternoon. It wasn't the carriage that
haunted Laura's conscience so badly. It was the dangerous man she'd purposefully left stranded in the
swamp. Did he show up to name even one of them, all holy hell was going to break out in St. John's
Bayou. That was all the more reason to be safely across the lake to St. Tammany parish where the Gulf
of Mexico was a wide open gateway enabling her to flee any direction necessary to escape an unwanted
marriage.

She shook her head to clear her thoughts as the front doors of Millabar swung open and the Jeanneau
sisters greeted her.

"We expected you back hours ago!" Pattie Jeanneau proclaimed, welcoming Laura with an exuberant
hug that almost brought tears to Laura's eyes. Lelanie and little Cecilia were just as cordial though more
reserved.

The supper was most enjoyable and the recital was as boring as it always was in Laura's estimation, but it
gave her plenty of time to flirt outrageously with Woodrow and the Jeanneau's second cousin, Maurice,
who had come to visit for the summer. Both young men were twenty-one and finished with their studies
at Loyola. They were leaving at the end of the month for the Grand Tour of Europe. Laura envied the

young men their opportunities with all her heart.

Later, when the small party was over, the girls went upstairs to the big shared bedroom and took off their
dresses and exchanged gossip.

"We're going to Madame Livesay's tomorrow to order Lelanie's trousseau," Pattie exclaimed when she
was undone down to her chemise and petticoats and collapsed on pillows on the tester bed. "I can't wait.
We have so many gowns to order. Have you decided on your dress for the Christmas ball, Laura?"

"No. I never even had a chance to think about it." Laura exhaled a melancholy sigh. Talk of fashion,
even with Pattie, wasn't going to cheer her up. "What's the use of really planning for a season? Uncle
Steven's on a warpath about how much everything costs and there was trouble today and company due
tomorrow. Some suitor he's considering. I think Templeton's Scots blood gets up every time he tallies up
the cost of investing in a season."

"I don't think that's the reason," Lelanie said wisely. "You have a taste for life the English find particularly
hard to accept. You'll never last a season, Laura. It can be tedious. After all, what it's about is a good
marriage. If he finds you a suitable husband without the bother, you should be thankful to him."

"Lelanie!" Laura groaned.

"Well, have you seen him?" Pattie was much more practical. "What does the suitor look like?"

"I haven't any idea." Laura morosely admitted. "He's probably another chinless wonder like that foreign
investor Steven dug out of the Bank of New Orleans. That one didn't stick around long. When I told him
a Creole was half-black, half-white that sent him packing back to the city."

"You told him what?" Lelanie gasped, insulted.

"Well, he was ignorant!" Laura justified. "Everyone who comes to New Orleans ought to learn quick that
we Creoles are a mixture of French and Spanish. Some of them are so stupid and most can't speak
anything but English. How limiting!"

"What terrible things will you make up to scare off the current suitor?" Lelanie sparked with indignation.

Laura batted her eyelashes and grinned wickedly, "What ever it takes, Lelanie."

"What about the latest one? Did you see him?" Pattie insisted on hearing a straight answer. "Who are
Clairmont's guests?"

"I didn't meet any of them. Things came up. Trouble with the Tuckers again."

"What trouble?" Cecelia asked shyly.

"Oh." Laura evaded answering that truthfully. "How should I know? You know how Steven is. No one
under the age of consent is allowed to hear what really happens at Clairmont."

"Pauvre petite." Lelanie clucked her tongue in mocking sympathy. "Mon enfante terrible, you can hardly
be trusted not to snap at the hand that feeds you in polite company."

"I don't," Laura insisted. "Steven's just so rigid!

I mean he is nothing like my Papa. I didn't realize how far thinking, unique and avant garde my father
was until I lost him."

"I know, mon petite," Lelanie gave Laura a consoling hug for her loss. "But that was no guarantee
Monsieur Dunois would have ever found a husband for you that was of his same mind. And we all know
he was entertaining offers for you when your mama took ill."

"That's the point," Laura said quite desperately. "Papa always said I would have my choice where as
Steven only looks at Papa's estate and wonders how to ensure it lasts a millennium. He does not care
one whit about my happiness or my...."

Interrupting, Lelanie laughed, "I know, I know. We've heard the litany, Laura, darling. The point is,
Steven Templeton is a fine man whose taken the responsibility for you and your inheritance to heart. You
can try to fault him, but methinks thou does protest too much."

"I'll never accept being told to marry someone I don't love. Everything would have been perfectly fine if
Steven would have just let me stay at Coeur de Terre."

"A young woman of quality does not take on the duties of manning a plantation and factory on her own,
Laura Madeline," Lelanie said very firmly. "And look at you. I swear you haven't grown another whole
inch since you were twelve years old. You're still hardly more than a child. Worse, though, you still think
and act like a spoiled child."

"Really? A child, am I?" Laura snapped at the clear opportunity to tease Lelanie. "What if I told you the
most handsome man ever, kissed me with passion today?"

"Wicked girl!" Lelanie flounced in a scolding tone. "You know nothing of kissing!"

"Now, I do!" Laura replied smugly. Then in hushed whispers, she told her friends her latest adventure up
to including how the dangerous man who'd captured her had been tricked at last, and left in the distant
back fields to wander for days.

"Laura, I'm ashamed of you!" Lelanie gasped when all was told. "What if he dies, or worse is maimed by
an alligator?"

"He's too tough for that. A gator would spit him out!" Laura laughed nervously. She honestly wished that
bold lie true. Then she wouldn't be so worried. "You should have seen his face when Arlo coshed him on
the head. Anyway, I would swear it wasn't me. Aunt Bethany thinks I was at Mellonbruck's all morning
and fishing the afternoon away and we won't tell her anything different."

"You're a deceitful brat, Laura Madeline," Lelanie scolded. "No wonder poor Steven is turning gray."

"Tell me about this kiss he gave you." Pattie was all ears to hear specifics of the tale again. The two
younger girls put their heads together and Laura told Pattie the really shocking truth. How the man had
discovered she was a girl, by tearing open her blouse and touching her.

"He didn't." Pattie gasped.

"What's it matter?" Laura shrugged. "If Steven has his way, there will never be another adventurous day
in my whole long life."

A tap on the bedroom door interrupted the discussion. One of the maids told Lelanie her fiancee had
come to pay a call.

"Thank the Lord," Lelanie hurried to put her dress back on. "A few more minutes of this tres jeune filles
small talk, and I'd be asleep from boredom."

"Don't be wicked." Pattie stuck out her tongue at her sister and they both laughed.

"Your day will come, ma petite." Lelanie smoothed the neckline on her dress as it was hooked and
fastened by her maid.

Lelanie Jeanneau looked exceptionally beautiful with her pale gold hair piled in curls atop her head. Her
sheer lavender tissu de soie gown was cut in the latest style. Its artfully draped and flounced skirts were
supported by layers and layers of taffeta petticoats. The deeply dropped shoulders were so very elegant,
its tiny waist giving full measure to Lelanie's lithe young body.

"I wish I had her figure and she had a wart on her nose," Pattie said without heat or malice as Lelanie
swept majestically from the boudoir.

"It's just baby fat. You'll be just as slim when our season starts," Laura promised her friend.

"I never eat," Pattie said wistfully and went to stand before the tall cheval mirror.

It was very kind to her, reflecting back the golden hair that crowned Patti's head and her tall lush figure
that Laura deeply envied. The two of them could not be more different. Laura Madeline was small and
dark-haired and full of boundless energy. Pattie Jeanneau gave new meaning to the Creole standard of
languid grace.

Laura laid back on the bed gazing starry eyed up at the muslin canopy. Sighing, she said, "I wish I was in
love!

But I don't think I'm ever going to be. Every man who meets me will only think of dollar signs and money
in the bank."

"Did he really, really, touch you?" Pattie turned with her hand at her breast, still not ready to believe
Laura's tale entirely. Laura's eyes danced deliciously.

"Yes, and he kissed me with his tongue."

Shock showed in Patti's innocent face. "He didn't!"

"Yes, I told you. He was absolutely ruthless...a villain. Why, he could have taken complete advantage of
me. I was powerless."

"You did not tell Steven Templeton of this assault, Laura Madeline? We are none of us safe if such a
brute rides in the vicinity."

"I would hardly tell Steven! I quite enjoyed it."

"Laura, that's sinful!"

"Heavenly days, it was not. It was a pleasure...of sorts."

"You'll confess it?"

Laura shrugged. "Maybe. It wasn't a sin....to me."

Pattie rushed back to the bed and sat down in front of Laura taking hold of her hands. "You must
confess it," she said urgently. "It is a sin...a mortal sin and if anything should happen to you, you'd never
see the face of God."

There was too much lighthearted joi de vivre in Laura to be compelled religiously as strongly as Pattie
was. Laura's coloring might have come from the dour and religious Spaniards of her mother's people, but
her outlook on life was all French, sultry and impetuous. Offhandedly Laura said, "If I live till Sunday, I'll
repent."

"Eh bien, now, tell me, what does this bold foreigner look like?"

Her friend's interest launched Laura into a description of the devil, himself, adjusted to include wintry
gray eyes and the determined angle of a very strong chin. She did not exaggerate the stranger's strength
for if she had not been rescued, she'd have never gotten away from the man.

"Ohhhh!" She sighed, having made the man more human than was safe for her own mind. She frowned
deeply at Pattie. "Do you think we should send someone to search the estuary and Tucker's Woods?"

"Perhaps we should." Pattie also voiced concern. Both their brows puckered with separate worries when
Lelanie came back in unannounced.

"I thought you and Alexandre were going for a carriage ride in the moonlight," Pattie said.

"All in good time, mes enfants." Lelanie found a shawl to cover her shoulders. "Laura, your uncle has
come to take you back to Clairmont. I just overheard him speaking to father. I think it might be wise if
the two of you made yourselves more presentable. Mattie, help Miss Laura with her dress."

"You are joking, aren't you?" Laura sat up straight, scowling even deeper. "But I'm staying the night so
you, Pattie and I can get some work done on the paper."

"Not this night, ma petite." Lelanie shook her head, ruefully. "I thought you were making up big tales
again to turn Patti's head, but it seems you were not. Andre told Steven that you were heading to
Bettetrois Landing instead of coming here to spend the night. I'm not surprised Steven has come to
retrieve you. He is not pleased and all things considered, I'd prefer it, Laura, if we didn't have a scene at
Millabar while Alexandre is visiting. Understand?"

"Mon Dieu!" Pattie exclaimed.

"Tell me you're joking." Laura blanched. Lelanie solemnly shook her head. A moment passed, then
Laura rose to her feet.

"Well, what can he do in public?" She shrugged her shoulders with philosophical acceptance and slipped
her arms into the sleeves of the blouse Mattie held open. "The worst that could happen is that he'll kill me
with his bare hands."

Jokingly, Laura raised her hands to her delicate throat and pantomimed a strangling that sent Cecelia and
Pattie into peals of laughter.

Lelanie tapped her foot impatiently...tres annoyed.

"Miss Laura," Mattie whispered, concern furrowing her brow. "This be serious."

"Not likely." Laura stood still so the last hooks of her bombazine skirt could be fastened. More than ever
she wished she was safely across the lake, at Coeur de Terre, where she could order her own people
about with impunity.

Last, before departing from the boudoir, Laura put her delicate gold frame glasses very carefully to her
face. The mourning clothes, glasses and severe hairstyle lent her small frame a maturity that she could
never have claimed if she was dressed in debutante's styles of Lelanie and Pattie. Lifting a shoulder, she
said, "So much for getting any real work done."

Pattie Jeanneau linked arms with Laura, and followed Lelanie down the circular stairs.

"You'll come visit again," Pattie suggested earnestly.

"Of course," Laura said confidently. "Probably tomorrow."

"You won't be riding tomorrow, I'll wager." Lelanie cast a warning over her lovely shoulder. "Not
without a thick pillow on your saddle, mon enfant terrible."

"Will you stop that!" Laura hissed. "We're not children anymore."

"Excellent advice. Grow up, Laura Madeline!"

Lelanie imparted a lasting word of caution as the three stepped onto the Persian carpet gracing the
gallery.

In Millabar's grand salon, Laura's uncle was having refreshments with Monsieur Jeanneau and Alexandre
Bringer.

"Les enfantes," Lelanie introduced the girls and both curtsied respectfully to the standing men.

There were a few moments of polite conversation while Steven Templeton finished the fine brandy in his
crystal glass.

Time in which Laura had opportunity to again study the exceedingly handsome fiancee Lelanie had won.
Alexandre Bringer was the epitome of New Orleans elegance in Laura's mind. His bloodlines came near
to rivaling hers, which made Alexandre in their society, the catch of the season. For if there was one thing
passionately revered in New Orleans, it was one's ancestors.

Alexandre's chestnut hair swept back from his face in deep waves, revealing his handsome features.
Perfectly attired in lawn shirt, snowy cravat and diamond stickpin, a cutaway coat revealed his trim waist
and powerful thighs encased in sleek fawn colored trousers.

Laura and Pattie issued collective sighs that told it all from their observant corner of the conversation

group. Both felt the welling of important events to come...soon...they would be as free as Lelanie to
entertain a fiancee and go for moonlight rides.

Steven Templeton finished his brandy much too soon. With firm, but impeccable politeness, he refused a
second glass. That was followed by the usual regrets at the end of a visit to a Creole home. Short visits
by any guest were routinely deplored on a Creole host's part and Monsieur Jeanneau more than typified
Creole hospitality at its best.

Well assured she was welcome back anytime, Laura left Millabar. Mattie hopped onto the back seat of
the open carriage. Steven guided Laura onto the upholstered bench beside him. While the last good
evenings were exchanged, Laura tried to settle comfortably against the squabs, swatting at the pesky
mosquitoes that swarmed in the damp night air.

Steven let the team have its head on the open road back to Clairmont, which eliminated the constant
need to bat away a host of Louisiana insect predators. Beside him, Laura was acutely aware of his
towering temper. A shouting and livid Templeton male Laura could handle, but a silent one, boded no
good. She knew at once it was better to provoke him and get his anger out in the open.

"Was it necessary to embarrass me like that?" Laura waited deliberately to strike the first verbal blow as
they neared the arch over Clairmont's gate. "Really, Uncle Steven, how rude! Coming and getting me in
the middle of the night. Surely I could have stayed until morning."

Steven refused to take the bait, barring further scolds of Laura's with a bland, unresponsive profile.

"My, my," Laura drawled innocuously. "Is something wrong at home?"

The carriage turned onto Clairmont's stately oak-lined avenue. Steven Templeton expertly handled the
leathers, and slowed the matched team to a trot. He looked down at his niece, one brow raised over her
deliberate attempts to manipulate him. "You tell me," he said frostily. "Should there be something wrong
at home, Laura Madeline?"

CHAPTER FIVE

Laura thought long and hard about how to answer her uncle's question. With any luck, by the time he
stopped at the steps of the main house to let her and Mattie out, she'd have a suitable rebuttal ready.

Shadows bathed Clairmont. Two coach lights glowed on either side of the front door. An oil lamp shined
behind the louvered window of Steven's office in the west wing. Elsewhere, the house was dark,
indicating all within it were sound asleep.

The garconaire, that separate two-storied structure built specifically to house the sons of the house,
bachelor relatives and visiting gentlemen, was ablaze with light. That was unusual for this time of night.

Laura worried the corner of her mouth, weighing very carefully the consequences of telling the truth

against the benefit of letting everything ride on the thready hope that nobody would ever know or
discover what she'd done.

Again, that man she'd left in the bayou haunted her thoughts as she tried to make a quantum leap scrying
into the future. Who were Clairmont's unnamed, unknown guests? Guests for which every lamp and
candlestick was lit in the garconaire? A nagging pulse under Laura's ribs began to thrum when Steven
didn't stop at the big house to let her down.

She swallowed as her uncle guided the team onto the fork in the drive that lead round to the carriage
house and stable. There, too, lights blazed, dispelling the darkness.

"Tio," Laura made up her mind. "I have a confession to make."

"Do you?" he asked as he drew the reins taut, halting the team before the massive archway of the
carriage house. Two solemn grooms came out to unhitch the horses and store the coach.

Steven climbed down from the high seat and handed one of the grooms the harness leads. Mattie jumped
from the back of the trap. Laura's satchel slapped against her skirts. Steven put out a hand to steady
Mattie so she didn't stumble in the dark or on the gravel.

"Mattie, you go on upstairs. Unpack that bag and put it back in the attic where you got it from this
afternoon. Then you get your nightgown and clothes for tomorrow out of Miss Laura's room. Go
downstairs to Willa's room next to the kitchen. You'll be sleeping there from here on out."

"Yes sir," Mattie bobbed her best curtsy to him. The whites in Mattie's eyes flashed Laura a look that
said, 'the cat's out of the bag. He knows.' Laura nodded, silently acknowledging Steven Templeton's first
offensive ploy in their ongoing mental chess match always began with isolating Laura from her loyal
Coeur de Terre servants.

"Go on, girl," Steven ordered in a firm voice. Mattie hurried off. Steven turned to Laura, extending her his
hand to disembark from the carriage, ever the gentleman. "Now, Laura Madeline, you were saying you
had a confession to make...."

A commotion inside the stable distracted Laura. A massive black stallion screamed and reared as a half
dozen men tried to ease it into a stall. It lashed out furious front hooves, howling with pain, then one of it's
powerful hind legs buckled underneath it. The huge creature went down hard, thrashing on the stable
floor.

"What's going on?" Laura asked, shaken, because she definitely recognized that beastly animal. She
looked back at her uncle. His hand remained extended to her.

"Nothing that should alarm you, Laura Madeline." Again his voice retained that benign undertone that was
ten times more terrifying than any shout. "We have a snake bitten thoroughbred, the new stud I
purchased from the Duke of York's stable in England. Are you going to sit in this carriage all night?"

"No." Laura shook her head. Somehow she did manage to get her shaking knees to cooperate. Steven's
hand felt steady as a rock as she put her fingers in it. At the edge of the carriage, he caught her waist and
lifted her to the ground.

"I can explain," she offered lamely. Lelanie's prediction on the stairs at Millabar came back to haunt her.

"You might could have ten minutes ago, young lady. In fact, at four o'clock this afternoon, when you
came up from the landing and stuck your nose into my business, I would have gladly listened to an
explanation. Now, I'm not interested in any words you have to offer. I believe I have all the facts
necessary.

"Know this, Laura Madeline, you've taken your little vendetta too far. You've endangered my heir and
my second eldest son. Were charges to be actually brought against the three of you, you'd all be hung.
Frankly, I might let Monsieur Jeanneau hang you for the crime of aiding and abetting slaves to escape,
but I draw the line at sacrificing my own flesh and blood for your petty schemes.

"No, I'm going to take a strip off your hide that isn't ever going to grow back. When I'm done, I'm
certain my brother, Lionel, will more than gladly remove another patch or two. Then, come sunrise, I'm
taking you to the Ursuline Convent and locking you up in their cloister, pro bono publico. I've had all I
can stand, comprendez vous? Ils est finis."

Lionel sensed the vixen's arrival. Hence, he had no need to turn and watch Steven escort the last
missing member of unique bayou banditry into the stable. Lion wasn't the only man instantly aware of a
woman's arrival. Each of the accused males standing before Lionel tightened, reacting to Laura
Madeline's presence.

Robert and Troy's untested mettle immediately cast their shoulders upright and locked pride into their
spines. Twin jaws set in identical angles, though their eyes darted sideways communicating without words
being spoke. More proof to Lionel that they'd lie to the bitter end to protect the young woman.

The black man's shoulders rippled underneath a lightweight linen jacket that passed for livery in this
semi-tropical land. Andre Burnett, Lion understood, was a free man of color. Emancipated by the
probation of Armand Dunois' will. Two thousand slaves were freed at his death in accordance with his
daughter, Laura Madeline's wishes.

The tensing ligaments in the former slave's neck and on the backs of his capable hands, told Lionel that
Andre would be a more serious foe than the twins, were anyone to lay a hand on Laura Madeline
Dunois.

Lionel had already toured that vast estate in St. Tammany Parish, before taking the ferry across the lake
from Mandeville this morning. He was, after all, the next owner of Coeur de Terre.

His three day visit had proved most illuminating. Of two thousand freed slaves, less than a hundred had
left the plantation. Cane and cotton fields were still being worked, the house and grounds maintained in
splendid order and the sugar mill had not missed a single day's production since the funeral following
Armand Dunois' untimely death.

A high yellow quadroon, educated at university in Paris, managed the sugar mill. His books withstood
Lionel's rigorous audit. The overseer at the plantation, a Creole native, did not do so well. Lion had fired
the Creole and appointed his own man, a Scot kinsman of his mother, in charge instead.

The most important thing he'd learned about Coeur de Terre and its people boiled down to their utmost
loyalty and devotion to the remaining member of the Dunois family, Armand's daughter. Lion counted
four Coeur de Terre groomsmen in the stable right this moment.

Counting the Clairmont men of color still up and about the stable, Lionel rightly assumed there would be

a riot on Steven's hands were his anger to get the better of him and he actually attempted to beat the girl.
A dark current ran under the surface tensions of all of these varied black men, warning Lionel of the
inadvisability of that action.

This wasn't the first time his unwanted sight and pre-cognition had forewarned Lion to tread lightly. Down
through his twenty-eight years, Lionel's unique abilities to read minds and predict the future had often
given him an edge that might otherwise have seen the early and unplanned demise of the seventh son of
the earl of St. Ives.

Lionel wanted to know the reasons fueling the dangerous mood mounting in the stable...the cause of it.
Surely, not each of these fools, his fifteen-year-old nephews included, had fallen under a woman's spell.

"We're here," Steven announced to Lionel's rigid and powerful back. "Let's begin."

Lionel chose the exact moment to turn, examine and confront Armand Dunois' daughter. He expected
to encounter the curiously untamed, wild little hell-cat of the forest. But as he completed the turn, his
expectations were contradicted by a delicate and exquisitely gowned lady in mourning.

Black silk modestly swathed her throat and continued downward in elegant folds, covering her to her
toes in femininity. The soft rustle of petticoat linens and the demur tuck of her chin belied the vixen of the
woods. To whit, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles parked on an elfin face to aid her vision, invested her
with a sense of vulnerability that was as touching as it appeared genuine.

The young woman was frightened, as well she should be.

"This is your niece, Laura Madeline?" Lionel demanded of his elder brother.

"Aye," Steven answered curtly, momentarily shaken by Lionel's curt demand. "Is she not the woman you
met in Tucker's Woods?"

Lionel's blood thrummed in his ears. In a heartbeat he had to make a decision. His eyes narrowed. His
acutely sharp hearing detected, rustling straw as every manjack in the stable shifted his attention to the
tableau at the open door of the tack room.

A muscle on Lionel's cheek flexed. He reached out his right hand, slipping strong fingers under the girl's
quivering chin, lifting her perfect face.

God, but that mouth of hers was the most splendid pair of lips he'd ever seen in his life. Beneath the
shadow of her downcast lashes, green eyes stared at his boots. Rarely would those eyes vary in color
from the summery color in them right now. In his mind's clear eye, he saw them darken in passion and he
knew he wanted her more than he wanted her properties or the fortune that went with her. He saw, too,
that she would resist coming to his hand with every fiber of her being.

Her mouth betrayed the pleasure he'd taken from her with swollen, tender, pulsating lips. A towering
sensation of possession took hold of him, confirming for him that he was the first man who'd ever dared
to kiss her. Beyond and above the warning of his gift of sight, he vowed then and there to be the last and
only man to possess her. Lionel came to his decision.

"No, Steven, this is not her. You've made a mistake."

"What?" Steven shouted. His fingers tightened painfully on Laura's arm, drawing her up on her toes.

Laura Madeline raised her downcast eyes to the stranger's cold, handsome face. Her heart hammered in
her ears, dreading the beating that was coming just as surely as she lived and breathed. She couldn't
believe her ears.

"I said," the stranger repeated. "This is not the same woman as the one I captured in Tucker's Woods."
Abruptly, his hand dropped from Laura's chin. His eyes swept downward over her in rude assessment.
"This is not the female I described to you."

"She most assuredly is the woman you described," Steven argued.

For an alarming heartbeat, the man's gaze lingered on Laura's modestly clothed breasts, then he
dismissed her completely and looked at his brother. "The third bandit was--" he paused deliberately
"--voluptuous. I was quite explicit in describing our encounter to you, Steven. This is not the girl. You've
made a mistake."

Laura Madeline scowled, fairly certain she'd just been insulted. She'd be sure to remember that word,
voluptuous and look it up in her dictionary.

"Right!" Steven Templeton snapped. "Now I suppose you're going to tell me you've changed your mind
and it wasn't Robert and Troy you met at Tucker's Turning, either."

"No." Lionel turned to his errant nephews, his manner as toweringly forbidding as his elder brother's.
The twins were man enough to take the blame for this escapade. "Both Troy and Robert were there as I
have already testified. This other gentleman, the groom from Coeur de Terre, Andre, was not part and
parcel of the affair."

"And just how do you know that?" Steven countered.

"Simply put, my dear brother," Lionel drawled. "The man who drubbed me was a field hand. I caught his
scent just before the club struck. Had this man been the one, I'd have smelled horses, not honest sweat
and you might note the evidence on his shoes. There is no mud or slime from the bayou adhered to them.
I offer my own boots as evidence."

Steven looked to the groomsman's boots then at Lionel's Hessians. To whit, Andre had also been
vouched for by Steven's head groom earlier as never having left his work in the stables that morning.

"Very well," Steven dismissed Andre. "You may count yourself lucky, sir, that you came immediately to
me, informing me of Laura's plans to flee to Coeur de Terre. Escort your mistress to the house. Willa is
waiting for her at the back steps."

"Yes, sir, Massa Templeton." Big Andre accepted the order. He put out his hand to Laura Madeline,
saying, "Come on, Miss Laura. This ain't no place for a lady."

Laura glanced at the twins and saw their grim fate etched on their identical faces. As she lifted the front
hem of her skirts, she bobbed a curtsey and made the mistake of looking at the stranger. Their eyes met.
He held hers intently. By them she realized he'd deliberately lied to Steven. That frightened her more.

Yes, I know you are confused, say nothing, Lionel sent his strongest signal to her mind. Immediately an
image formed in his mind of a portcullis, securely closed and locked, guarded. She was strong-willed,

defiant, protected against his intrusion, a rare trait for a woman of her age. Most had few barriers that his
good looks and charm had not already penetrated.

Lion watched Laura Madeline depart, escorted by the tall black man Lion had sensed would give his life
to protect her. Neither were willing to surrender their minds to his intrusion. As he blinked his eyes and
cleared his head, Lionel turned to his nephews and back to the issue at hand, the punishment two
reckless boys deserved.

It was gone two o'clock in the morning when Steven and Lionel finally quit the stable. King Hiero had
settled at last, the poisonous venom of a cotton mouth water moccasin drained from his leg. They had
done the best they could to save the animal. Moses and skilled Andre had promised to keep a close
watch on the beast the balance of the night.

Inside Steven's dim study, the haggard-looking planter poured his brother a drink then fixed one for
himself. Lion accepted the brandy and folded onto a chesterfield sofa. He'd shed his coat several hours
ago, so had Steven.

Both of them had cast off their cravats, rolled up their sleeves and gotten to work and done what was
necessary to save King Hiero.

Lionel swished the brandy in his mouth to remove the aftertaste of poison and blood from his tongue.
The potent brandy did not affect the numbness in his lips or tongue.

Steven folded onto the opposite end of the sofa, bent forward and clasped his own glass between his
knees. He stared into the shadows, his jaw flexing, anger still ruling his emotions.

"Let it go, Steven," Lionel articulated precisely, so the words came out clear from his deadened lips and
tongue.

"That's damned easier said than done, isn't it?" Steven snapped. "What were those boys thinking?"

Lionel tasted the brandy a second time. "Surely, you know that answer. The slave was an
unquestionable beauty. Isn't it obvious she appealed to their sense of chivalry...a woman like that...in
chains. It was deplorable. Had this been done anywhere except in Louisiana, we would both be
applauding their efforts."

"That's the point!" Steven swore. "This is Louisiana where slavery is accepted. How dare they endanger
what I've spent my life accomplishing."

Lionel saw Steven's rage for what it was, fear. Robert and Troy's participation in the rescue had put
them both in grave risk before the law. Of eight Templeton sons, Steven, as the second eldest, was the
most conscious of his position in life, nearly a match for Edward, the earl of St. Ives' consequence.

Steven took a healthy sip from his drink, then leaned tiredly against the squabs. "I suppose this tears it. I'll
never get that brat off my hands. I doubt even you would have her now. What prospects I had became
more limited day by day, since Laura Madeline decided abolition is a cause she must personally
champion."

"Did I say I would not marry her?" Lionel asked blandly.

"Spare me, Lion. I know the truth. You took the honorable route to save her a hiding. A hiding she'd
damn well earned and deserved. There comes a point when even the most chivalrous must stand fast
against further calumny. Laura Madeline won't stop interfering. Not when Northern Abolitionists continue
to stir the hotheads and the zealots until the whole country is embroiled in outright war over slavery. It's
going to be the ruin of all of us."

"Tell me this," Lionel looked hard at his brother. "How many slaves do you own?"

"Two hundred came with the estate when I bought it in forty-three. That number has decreased
somewhat in seventeen years. Most are pretty old now. If I freed them it'd be like turning them out
because they're too old to go anywhere else and work a full day."

"So you keep them. Admirable way to go about pensioning your long standing, loyal retainers. What
would you do if, God-forbid, Edward and his heir died and you had to return to England to take the
earldom? Would you bring all two hundred back to Cornwall and pop them in the cottages there?"

"That's preposterous. It's not going to happen."

"It could happen. You're next in line. You've known that all your life. Heavy responsibility. Glad I'm
second to the last. Don't think I could live with my conscience if the day came I actually owned a slave."

"Now listen here, Lionel, I live here in peace, coexisting with the system in place. I'm not going to be one
man of a thousand criticizing the social order. When the time comes to cut my losses I'll do so. I won't
have that foisted on me by two headstrong, foolish boys."

Steven tossed the balance of his drink down his throat and stood up, agitated and restless.

"You've totally missed the real point," he thrust his fingers through his hair, disturbing the neat lay of the
blaze of white in his dark brown hair at his temples. "Laura Madeline's the real issue here. I've got too
much to handle between Clairmont and Coeur de Terre. There is also Armand's sugar mill and his
investment portfolio which takes the skill of an financier to manage and administer.

"To whit, I've found not one other suitor that I could tolerate as a full partner. Nor could you. May I
point out, that if we fail to come to terms with that particular probable, our only solution will be
purchasing outright Armand's interest from his estate prior to her twenty-first birthday. Else you and I will
have that opinionated little woman sitting opposite us on the board of Templeton Shipping for the rest of
our miserable eternity on this earth. "Lionel, she's perverse. She practices opposition for the sake of
opposition. She'll vote against us at every turn. We have to buy out Armand's fifty percent or we're
doomed."

"That would bind me." Lionel scowled. "My assets are all tied up in cargoes enrollee to South America
and China. It will be a full year before I will be able to assist you in a buy out of Armand's shares."

"My status in a nutshell only I am waiting for indigo to ripen and cane to be harvested," Steven
concurred. "However, Laura Madeline's cash reserves are staggering, inviolate and untouchable."

"The one thing about this I don't relish is taking on a female whose fortune is greater than mine." Lionel
admitted.

He took a cigar from Steven's humidor, clipped the end and touched it to a taper. "I suppose we'll both
wind up begging Edward's assistance if it comes to a buy out."

"Perish the thought," Steven said appalled. "Then we'd have to put up with his ownership of fifty percent
of our holdings."

"Consider our alternatives. An in-law you cannot stand, a chit of a girl sitting in a directorship, or
Edward? Which would you find the most, the least palatable?"

"Do you want my honest opinion?" Steven went to his desk, rifling through papers scattered there. The
question went without answer as he looked for the latest letter from their eldest brother to whom their
father's title, money and entitled properties had passed recently. "St. Ives's offered to sponsor Laura
Madeline this season in London, do I decide to send the chit there."

"Are you tempted?"

"Yes and no. I fear Eddie's wrath when he discovers a blue stocking nesting in his castle. He'd see to it
that I was hauled before the House of Lords and tried for high moral crimes, somehow. I'm still a cit, you
know."

Lionel chuckled. "Well, that's an amusing thought. Can't you just imagine how Eddie would respond to a
chit engineering a debacle like today's under his nose? She is a most uncivilized young lady. She's
seventeen, is it?"

"Nearly twenty."

"Good Lord!" The girl's age suddenly clarified in Lionel's mind. "Nineteen is far too old for such
hoydenish behavior, riding about the swamp like a wild Indian, staging such deviltry. Really Steven, you
must put a stop to it."

"You speak as if I haven't tried."

Lionel stood for a while gazing out over the quiet countryside. Clairmont was now at peace, all lights out
and everyone save he and Steven gone to their beds. Lionel allowed his mind to wander, to float upward
seeking the girl. He jerked when he found her so very close at hand, sleeping peacefully in a net covered
tester bed directly above where he stood. She stirred against her pillows, eyes opening and immediately a
door slammed in Lion's mind. She'd shut him out.

He turned around blinking, stunned by the powerfully strong will he'd felt exerted.

Steven was standing at his desk, grinding out the coal of his own cigar with a vengeance. "What?" he
demanded when he saw Lionel's blazing expression.

Casually, as if he wasn't bothered in the least, Lion flicked his ashes into a crystal plate. "I'll save us both
the trouble of a buyout. I'll take the wench."

"You don't mean it?" Steven gasped.

Lionel gave in to the need to touch the sore spot at the back of his head. Odds were good his brain had
been addled. "I can't see that we have any other choice. I'm not interested in surrendering my ships to a
woman, Steven.

And you are not interested in surrendering our profits from them to Edward. Hence, I would say, our

hands are tied. The only way to untie them is to marry the chit."

For the better portion of the next hour, the brothers talked frankly, settling the terms of the betrothal,
coming to mutual agreement over when and how to effect the marriage. Soon, Lionel requested, and
considering the seven months that had passed since Armand's death, they both agreed it would be done
quietly, without the attendant hoopla of the usual society weddings in Louisiana.

Terms agreed, they turned back to the issue of the events of that afternoon. Certain things would have to
be done in order to keep Robert and Troy from swinging at the end of a rope.

Unlike Laura Madeline, Steven knew how to deal with his sons swiftly and effectively. Come sunrise,
they'd be regretting their impulsive and dangerous behavior and that foolishness would never be repeated,
ever.

Tucker's Turning would be cleared once and for all by the back breaking effort of Robert and Troy's
energies. The menace of the narrowed road would be removed entirely and made safe for all travelers. If
it took the twins a month of working like slaves to clear the land, they'd do it.

Reparation and restitution could be made to Terrance Tucker for the slaves stolen from him. Steven's
rigid code of honor required he absolve his sons and his ward's involvement in the only civil way possible.
Tucker would accept cash payment. He was an avaricious man.

"And that," Steven added, "Brings me back to my most eminent worry."

"Which is?"

"The reaction we're going to get when we tell the little hellion she's being married with all due haste. It's
going to go down with the ease of castor oil and bitters. She won't be pleased, mark my words. Andre
told me quite bluntly this evening, the reason Laura was heading to Coeur de Terre is she'd gotten wind
of the fact I had a suitor coming."

"Suppose you let me handle that," Lionel suggested. "I could charm her. I've been known to do that a
time or two."

"Well, good luck there. You'd be the first to charm her into doing anything. She's not like most young
women fascinated by fashion, teas, and embroidery. Bethany cannot seem to interest her in a woman's
natural functions. Do I allow it, Laura would spend every hour of her day in the quarters teaching slaves
to read or continuing her missionary work with Mellonbruch's social misfits."

"How admirably socialist." Lionel temporized.

"What she is finagling for is a newspaper. She nearly got her father to purchase the Sentinel when it came
up for sale two years ago. Christiana's death put a crimp in that plan. However, after a decent interval,
Laura renewed her request. Armand was looking for a paper to purchase at the time of his death. I have
been able to refuse thus far on the grounds that the estate is in trust the way it stands. That hasn't
squelched her ultimate desire to own a paper in order to influence thought, ideas, mores. She's a clever
girl, our Laura Madeline."

"You have no intention of indulging her whim."

"None." Steven's fingers curved over his smooth cheek and the strong bones of his jaw, his gaze distant.

"I have wondered if given her head, what the outcome would be, mind you, I'm not endorsing suffrage.
Still, times do change, radically over given periods."

"Don't fade into your attachment for history, Steven."

Immediately the unfocused appearance of Steven's blue eyes vanished. His skin flushed and he stood up
abruptly, blustering, rattling papers on his desktop. "Well, scotch that."

"Leave the girl to me." Lionel smoothly suggested. "You straighten out those hellion nephews of mine. I'll
see that Laura Madeline Dunois learns her place."

CHAPTER SIX

"Confined?" Laura stood as tall as her limiting five feet allowed and scowled at the stern-faced Negress.
"What exactly do you mean, I am confined, Willa?"

"Jess that!" Clairmont's housekeeper didn't bat an eyelash or show sign of wavering before the young
woman's wrath.

"I have a class to teach at Mellonbruch's."

"Canceled."

"By whom?"

"Massa Steven and you know it."

"I have dresses to order from Madame Livesay."

"Not today."

"Where is Uncle Steven?"

"Out." Willa gathered up the soiled linens from remaking Laura's bed and swung round the bedpost
determined to go out. She was a mountain of a woman, tall, stately, overwhelming a dainty girl like Laura
Madeline. From the pocket of her wide apron, Willa drew up a key on a ribbon and notched it into the
door, saying. "Praise Jesus that you be alive this morn, Miss Laura. They's some in this house that are
suffering the misery of the damned. You should be one of them. You's a wicked, deceitful girl. I knows it.
Poor Massa Templeton knows it too, only he's jess learning how wicked you is."

"Go ahead and lock me in, you old witch. See if I care." Laura fumed. She stomped to the chaise lounge
and threw herself onto it, damning Steven Templeton to hell and back for forcing her to live in the only
room on the second floor of Clairmont that did not have direct access via French doors to the upper
verandahs. "Go on, gloat! Lock me in!"

Willa did exactly that, locked Laura inside her room. Not one minute later, Laura stood at her tall north
facing windows. Her lower lip trembled as she stared at the massive pecan rustling its drying leaves
before her, each of its sturdy limbs far beyond her reach. Laura took a deep breath and leaned out the
open window.

The morning breeze lifted a wayward curl off her brow and fluttered it like a long, curly flag as Lionel
studied the young woman leaning out the bedroom window. By the pucker fluting her brow and petulant
twist of her full mouth, Lion knew she'd gotten the word she was restricted to quarters for this day.

However, he judged it didn't appear that an order to remain indoors would be obeyed as she leaned
further out and stretched her arm downward trying to touch the highest level of the rose trellis attached to
the back wall of the house.

She withdrew from the window at that point and Lionel chuckled. Maybe she would stay put. He
returned to his dresser in the garconaire's guest suite and fitted the studs in his shirt, fastened his collar
and began the slow process of artfully tying and draping his cravat. From the clothes horse, he picked up
a tailored jacket, a navy blue superfine wool crafted by his London tailor. As he settled that on his
shoulders, tugging the sleeves down to his cuffs, he glanced outside again, his attention drawn
magnetically to that upper window.

Damned if he didn't see an oxford and argyle sock clad foot and ankle snaking down the white painted
wall, seeking a toehold on the lattice.

Lionel stooped to see more clearly. "Why, that little minx!" he said aloud, shocked at the wench's tenacity
and daring. "She'll break her bloody neck."

He stamped into his boots as quickly as he could and exited from the garconaire by the only entry door,
a hallway to the very rear of the separate residence. The screen door slammed at his back and he took
the steps two at a time, turned onto the brick path and hurried up to the dog run between the buildings.

By then, Laura Madeline was tangled in the rose vines, diligently tugging her sleeve free of tenacious
thorns.

Her brown oxfords were buried in a wealth of blossoms.

Tan and black argyle socks clung to her shapely calves. A pair of wool knickers encased slender thighs
and sprightly bottom and a nondescript coat of questionable tailoring managed to obscure the fact that a
woman was climbing down an out-of-the-general-view wall of Clairmont.

Lionel stepped into the ivy border and flower bed from which the climbing roses drew their nourishment
and though his boots made some noise, the artful dodger making the downward descent was oblivious to
his noise.

He was tempted to clear his throat to let her know her escape was foiled. Fearing that any sudden noise
might cause her to disengage her grip, he remained silent and prepared to catch her at any time, did she
fall.

Her brogues came level with his chest and he eyed that curvaceous bottom completely revealed in its
covering of brownish tweed. The first temptation, of course, was to deliver a stinging slap to her delightful
derriere, but no sooner had that thought occurred than another impinged.

Where was she off to? What was the purpose of her disguise as a newspaper boy?

Lion knew he wanted to know the answer to those questions and many others. Her hips dropped to his
eye level and her head, encased in a hair-concealing cap, was turned to study the lay of the rose bushes
and how best to extricate herself from their thorns without being scratched.

When Lionel realized in this unguarded moment, she'd given him a tiny glimpse into her mind, he decided
to allow her to escape Clairmont, even to aid and abet in that escape. He reached out with his long arms,
snared her waist in a firm grip and neatly plucked her off the trellis, out of the harm of some very aged
and thorny briars.

"That's enough of that," Lionel murmured softly as he maneuvered her onto his shoulder, turned in the ivy
and strode purposefully back down the same pathway he'd come up to catch her.

Laura's belly bounced on the man's broad shoulder. She slapped her hands over her mouth, so she
wouldn't yelp or scream. It wouldn't do to alert anyone in the kitchens that she had actually made it down
and outside of Clairmont's main house.

She knew who had caught her, but as it wasn't her uncle, or any of his hundreds of stoolies, she kept her
mouth shut until she knew this brother of Steven's purpose. He hadn't ratted on her last night.

He turned abruptly behind the garconaire, his boot heels crunching on pea gravel. He stopped abruptly
and set her on her feet before him. As she caught hold of the hem of her jacket to tug it down below her
waist, he clicked his heels and bowed to her.

"Miss Dunois, you never cease to amaze me."

"Do I?" she asked rather caustically, yanking on the cloth, righting the twist and discomfort of too tight
sleeves. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced, sir, and I take great exception to the liberty you
continue to take with my person."

An amused smile touched Lionel's lips at her ability to summon on proper etiquette when her behavior
and mode of clothing was completely improper. "Why, then you must forgive me for the slight, my dear. I
am Lionel Kenneth Mackenzie Templeton, at your service, my lady."

"Would that you were." Laura Madeline flashed him a heated look that was as endearing to Lionel as it
was fetching. "I suppose you're going to rat on me."

"Rat on you?" Lion asked, curious as to the origins of her slang. "Where is it that you think you are
going, dressed like a street urchin?"

"If you must know, I have a reading lesson to teach at Mellonbruch's mission. I go there every weekday
morning to teach orphans to read. They depend upon me and Steven knows that."

"Just where is Mellonbruch's mission? In the city?" he deducted that by her choice of clothing. She had
an easy task to disguise herself as a boy, given her size and the neatness of her figure.

"Hardly," Laura replied airily, raising a hand to indicate a direction to the east. "The mission is five miles
down River Road, a mile and a half east of where we met yesterday morning in Tucker's Turning."

"I see." Lionel nodded. "That is too bad, then. You will have to return to your confinement inside the
house. Your uncle is at this moment, working a chain gang consisting of his twin sons at that very turning.
It has been decided that the road will be cleared of its menace by those who most recently used it to
cause mayhem. Did you travel down River Road, I'm certain you would be immediately conscripted to
join the gang of perpetrators."

Laura Madeline studied the man's face intently as he gave sound reasons to dissuade her from leaving
the premises. Oddly, she felt no threat from him this morning. He certainly did not act as if he was about
to turn her in to Willa. Would he let her go? She decided to find out.

"It wasn't my intention to ride down River Road at all. I was going by boat."

"I see." Lionel's eyes hooded, assessing her as thoroughly as she assessed him. He had to drag his eyes
away from hers to glance at the river and Clairmont's landing. "I take it one of those pirogues is yours?"

"Heaven's no." Laura cast a dismissive look at the crude cypress canoes the slaves poled alongside of
the river banks to fish. "The red bottomed dorie is mine."

This time Lion used his gift, not on her but on the dorie, to tell whether or not she spoke the truth. He
caught a glimpse of Armand Dunois teaching a very young pigtailed miss to sail the craft on Lake
Pontchartrain. Intrigued, Lionel lifted his hand and gestured for her to proceed him on the walkway.

"I shall accompany you."

There was something about the way he said those words that made Laura question just where he
thought he might be accompanying her to. The answer evaded her. A protest rose in her throat, but
something told her not to argue. "Fine," she said briskly. "I'm late enough as it is. Let's go, sir."

"Lionel," he prompted.

"Lionel," Laura Madeline repeated absently. Before she stepped out into the open, she peered around
the corner of the garconaire, wary of being sighted from Willa's kitchen windows.

All was quiet. Laura took the lead, hurrying down to the levee. "I don't really want you to come with
me."

"You have no choice," Lionel replied. "That is if you still wish to go."

She looked at him over her shoulder, her expression telling him that in no ways did she consider needing
his permission to go anywhere. Lion just smiled.

The dorie was a shallow hulled craft. Laura Madeline quickly proved that she knew what she was about,
hoisting and cleating the sail, tossing off the lines and guiding the craft into the current and the wind.

Lionel settled aft, to the high side of her cockpit, and rested his arms across the gunwales. The shallow
well provided little room for his legs. His boots crowded her in the pit as she steered the helm.

"Nice morning." Lion offered a pleasantry as the lazy, current pushed the boat more effectively than the
soft morning breeze coming off the Gulf.

Laura glanced around at the lingering mist. The sun made a poor effort to burn it off the wide river. The

Mississippi was already crowded with traffic, steamboats and barges which her little boat could easily
maneuver clear of. "Least it's not raining, yet."

"Rains a lot here, does it?"

"Yes. Usually every day." Laura pressed her lips closed, asking herself what was he doing here on her
boat, going with her to Mellonbruch's.

Several times as she adjusted the mainsheet, she glanced at the man...Lionel...she repeated his name in
her mind, and wondered how old he was. That troubled her, his age. "So, you're Steven's brother are
you?"

"Aye." Lionel answered, gazing across the mile wide distance of the great river. It was nearly as muddy
and ruddy in color as the Nile. A tangle of tree debris from up river flooding, stuck to a sandbar ahead.
As they came closer to the barrier, Lion saw that it wasn't broken limbs, but a whole great ash tree,
roots, limbs, leaves and all, dying, awash in the mud and current.

"You're the earl?" Laura Madeline asked.

"The earl? No, of course not. That's Edward, he's near twenty years my senior. Then Steven. I'm down
at the bottom of the order, second to the last."

"How many brothers and sisters do you have?"

"Oh, well, just two sisters. Seven brothers, though."

"Seven?" Laura gasped in surprise. Her father had always envied Steven his ease at getting another
healthy child born year after year. Each time her mother had lost another baby, Armand Dunois had told
Laura, selecting a good breeder was the most important trait to look for in a mate. "There's eight of you
and two sisters? Seven more boys like you and Steven?"

"Boys? No. We're all grown men now. Frightening thought, eh? Cornish men are all devilishly fecund."

"Cornish? I thought you were Scotch-English."

"Cornwall is on the southernmost tip of England. Some say we're more a law unto ourselves than the
Scots, but we'll never admit that before the queen's counsel."

"Watch the boom," Laura cautioned as she tacked. She ducked underneath the swinging boom, turning
against the current for the short sail up bayou St. John.

"You've got the hang of that," Lionel complimented, surprised at her competent handling of the skiff,
tacking at precisely the right moment to stay with the wind and use it to propel the skiff up the tributary's
current.

She tugged on the battered cap covering her head and her hair was completely hidden. From a distance
she would look like a boy. So Lionel inquired dryly, "How many different boys costumes do you have?"

"Costumes?" Laura Madeline frowned. "You mean for Mardi Gras?"

"Apparently for everyday," he countered, eyes studying her knickers.

"I only wore this to get out of the house, climbing the trellis."

"I see. And yesterday, your bandit attire, that wasn't a costume either?"

"Well, not really. Both are outfits the twins have outgrown." As his eyes lingered on her legs, she shifted
uncomfortably and looked ahead.

"That's the boundary marker between Millabar and Tuckers." Laura pointed to a stone marker raised
upright on the river's edge. "Tucker's land is mostly swamp, doesn't produce much cane which is
probably the reason why he is a crook. Round the next bend is Mellonbruch's corn and wheat bottoms.
The Quakers don't have a dock, so expect to get your boots muddy and wet."

"It's not a problem." Lionel dismissed any concern over boot polish.

"I don't see why you wanted to come. You're going to be bored to tears."

"Really. That would be a first, Miss Dunois." Lionel's attention was riveted to the swamp surrounding the
freely flowing bayou. He recognized it as the impenetrable forest he'd chased her through yesterday
morning.

A smile tugged the corner of his mouth, reminding him how pleasantly that chase had ended with a spitfire
trying to escape his arms. For all her lack of size, Miss Laura Madeline Dunois was a lusty handful. He
wondered what would happen if he released the lock on her mainstay and dropped her sail. Would she
struggle again not be kissed and surrender just as thoroughly as she had the day before?

"I smell bacon." Laura scowled into the primal woods, "Don't you?"

"Bacon?" Lionel searched the tops of the thickset trees above the swamp for signs of a fire. "Possibly,
there's something else."

"Beans," Laura told him. "I smelled that yesterday at the turning, too. There's a cabin in that jungle
somewhere, well-hidden."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because I've been robbed twice at that turning. So have many others. It's got to be close enough for
them to see the road. Look, that way, to the left." Laura pointed to a break in the dense swampy
woodlands where the antediluvian bottom lands formed. "From right here, I can see River Road and any
carriage or rider on it."

She turned back to gaze into the dense growth again, but she shook her head, seeing nothing but trees
and the deeper darkness inland that made the swampland so menacing.

"What were you robbed of?"

"Jewelry and some gold coin." Laura compressed her lips, not saying anything further. Andre had nearly
been killed he'd been beaten so badly. And Mattie...well, she didn't want to think about what had
happened to her.

Lionel probed the barrier she erected, a new one, solid and reinforced, covering a deep hurt. He

wondered if she also had the gift of sight or some other talent for delving into minds or across time.

"We're here." she announced, guiding the dorie between two cypress stumps standing in a backwash of
stagnant water. Dragonflies looped above the gunwale, buzzing past Lionel's extended arms, batting into
the sail as she dropped it and tied her boat to one weathered stump.

"You just leave the boat here with no one to watch it?"

"Can't very well carry it on my back, can I?" she asked contrarily. "It's safe. No one will steal it. This is
Louisiana, not London."

"Humph!" Lionel snorted. He'd seen more crimes committed in New Orleans than he'd seen take place
in London. Robert Peals men were cleaning up that city. No one made any effort to do the same in
wicked New Orleans.

By the time he was upright, standing in the rocking boat, Laura had leaped nimbly onto a limestone rock
and skipped from stone to stone to the muddy bank.

Lionel followed.

A manmade levee protected the lowest bank of the river bend. They had to climb that to see the large,
plain farmhouse, flanked by numerous barns and outbuildings. In the yard and massive garden at least
two dozen boys scattered about, intent upon morning chores.

Laura Madeline moved forward with a brisk step. Lionel sauntered after her, allowing her some lead time
so that he could look the place over and form his own opinions and conclusions about Mellonbruch's.
According to Steven's testimony last night, this was the hotbed of all recent parish troubles.

If anarchists were being trained here, they were being lessoned using hoes to rout weeds and turn soil.
Some boys learned the fine art of revolution over boiling wash tubs and scrub boards. Those leading the
farm animals waved and said, howdy to Laura Madeline.

All stopped what they were doing and stared at Lionel, silent, with suspicion and distrust in their
collective eyes. None appeared to bat an eyelash over Laura Madeline Dunois' outrageous clothes,
proving her attire commonplace.

Laura Madeline's lively steps ended at a good-size cabin behind the farmhouse. There, a handful of
ten-year-olds fiddled with fishing poles on the grass verge between the buildings. A Shetland pony trotted
down from the barn, burdened by as many shouting and waving urchins as could scramble onto its
sloping back.

"Good morning, Jonesy, Peaches." Laura grinned. "Put away the fishing poles. I'm late, but I'm here."

"Oh, no, will ya lookit that!" One howled a complaint then dramatically threw up his hand and stamped
his bare feet on the grass. "Jess when we wuz goin' fishin'."

"Sweet Jesus!" The second complained even louder. "Ain't you got someplace else to be, Miss Laura?
Couldn't you find a tea or a social to go to?"

"Cor! Not in those clothes." A carrot-topped lad of twelve or so stood up, hitching his suspenders onto
his shoulders. "Damn if'n you don't look like my sister all dolled up for the musical, treading the boards."

The boy had the audacious gall to saunter around Laura Madeline like a bantam rooster with his thumbs
stuck under his suspenders. "Not bad, Miss D. Like those legs."

"Watch your mouth, Jonesy, or you'll be eating your teeth." Laura warned the boy good-naturedly.

Lionel was not amused when Jonesy gave her what passed in London for a rake's ogling stare. His
efforts fell short of the mark when Laura Madeline cuffed him, saying, "Mind your manners. We've a
guest observing us this morning."

"Huh?" Jonesy spun around on a bare, dirty foot and looked Lionel up and down with squinting eyes.
"Cor! Look at the size of him. A right swell, too!"

"Whoa." Another boy shouldered his way through the gathering pack. "Be a great day for shoppin' in
Nawlens, Miss Laura."

Peaches cut him off, "I'd drive ya. Take yer carriage down Bay Street nice and slow, make the circle
round about the Cablido and St. Looey's an up to Chartres to get some pies from Antoine's. Got a friend
that can filch us some. You and the swell, that is."

"Is that so?" Laura inquired mildly, her back to Lionel, completely ignoring him. "Some of us ladies have
more important things to do than riding about the city buying ribbons and baubles just to be seen."

"Couldn't think of what that'd be. Ain't no fine looking dandies 'round here dancing their attendance on
their prissy feet for you." Peaches wide grin showed broken teeth. He'd lived on the street since he was
six years old, until the law had nabbed him and a judge had sent him to Mellonbruch's. "You ought to
make the best of when you have one, Miss Laura."

"It's a better day for reading. Jonesy, go ring the school bell. Daylight's wasting. I'm late as it is."

"You can't teach us nothing dressed like that," One boy challenged. Peaches and Jonesy both hooted,
slapping their dusty britches with their hands. Quick as he blinked his eyes, Lionel saw Laura Madeline's
hand snake out and catch the mouthy boy by the ear, twisting hard and leading him to the schoolroom.

"Good Morning, Laura Madeline." Prudence Mellonbruch stepped out from her back porch drying her
hands on the white apron she never seemed to be without. "Boys, you heard Miss Dunois. Fetch the
others."

"Aw, Miss Pru, we wuz goin' fishing."

"A fine idea, after your lessons." Prudence said firmly. Her gaze then settled on the stranger in her yard.
"Laura, did the gentleman come with you?"

"Oh!" Laura turned about, a grip still on one howling lad's ear. "Oh! I'm sorry, Prudence. Forgive me.
This is Steven Templeton's brother, Lionel. Sir, Miss Prudence Mellonbruch. Pru, could you take him in
the parlor and give him tea. I've got lessons to start."

"Certainly, my pleasure, Mr. Templeton. Do come in."

Lionel took off his hat to greet the lady. He was very tempted to follow Laura Madeline and see just
how exactly she was going to manage all these undisciplined, outspoken boys.

The way Lionel saw it, too many had more inches on her than she did on them. All were street-wise,
hardened criminals off the Back streets, the docks and the levees of New Orleans. One did not need to
be a native to see that.

As Miss Mellonbruch was taking off her apron and smoothing the folds of her plain gray gown, expecting
to offer him tea, Lionel found that here was a much easier mind to probe. Her smile told him Prudence
Mellonbruch would tell him anything about Laura Madeline Dunois he wished to know. That settled
things. He followed her into the farmhouse parlor.

Laura rounded up her charges and hustled them in the schoolroom. Shortly, slates rested on laps and
boys parsed verbs, read haltingly word for word, and valiantly turned pages of worn McGuffy Readers in
the attempt to decode the written word. That was pure music to Laura Madeline's ears.

They were a very lively lot this morning. Class with Pru's boys was unlike any of the schooling Laura had
enjoyed at the Ursuline Academy in New Orleans. The boys tried their best to frighten her off the day's
lesson, always.

Most had met their match with Laura Madeline. She was immune to snakes and bullfrogs. Crickets and
spiders didn't raise a hair on her head. Abruptly closed books didn't make her jump. Not even the sight
of blood could make her faint.

"It just ain't fair," one disappointed snake handler stuffed his pet back in his pant's pocket at the end of
the day's lesson. "You're supposed to howl over something, Miss Laura. Even Miss Pru don't like my
snake in her bed."

"Well I don't think I would like that either." Laura hugged the seven year old new to Mellonbruch's. His
only parent, a drunken father, was serving six months in jail. "I'd probably have to take your garter snake
outside and turn him loose in the rose beds. But think how many words you and that snake learned
today, Peter. And promise me, tonight you'll read to Prudence the whole Lord's Prayer. She'll like that."

"Fathers in heaven don't do any more good than fathers in jail," Peter said glumly.

Laura knelt down to his level, taking his hand in hers. "Don't say that, Peter. My father's gone away, too.
He died and has gone to be with God and the angels. I'll never see him again in this world. But, six
months from now, your father's going to come back and get you. And I promise you, if he will come to
Coeur de Terre, where I live, he'll have work, and he won't ever have to leave you again."

"Aw, ain't nobody gonna trust a jailbird with no job, Miss Laura," Peter said. "Pa don't know nothing
about cane or farming. He's a stevedore, only the boss laid him off 'cause he hurt his back."

"Then you tell him to go down to Bay Street and see Mr. Steven Templeton's factor. We'll get him a job,
one way or the other. And that's a promise."

"Thank you, Miss Laura. I'll tell him."

Laura sent Peter out to play with the rest of the boys.

Three hours was the most the boys could sit still for reading and writing. By then lunch was due anyway.
Laura put away the slates and books and went to Pru's kitchen. Lizzy had seven golden loaves of bread
piping hot from the ovens and the smell of fresh bread filled the kitchen air.

"Land's sake, Lizzy, your bread tempted me all morning."

"Why, Miss Laura, I didn't recognize you. I thought you was one of the boys."

"I've joined their ranks as a runaway. Where's Prudence?"

"Still in the parlor entertaining your Mr. Templeton.

They've been talking up a blue streak since I put the tea tray down for Miss Prudence to pour."

"Really?" Laura said, wondering what Prudence and the Englishman had to talk about for so long! Laura
sat on a stool pushed up against the large center table and peaked under damp cup towels spread over
several bowls. There was a huge crock of carrot salad, an earthen bowl of steaming new potatoes with
some of their jackets split and a rasher of corn on the cob swimming in butter. "When did you have time
to take them tea? Looks like you've slaved all morning cooking up this meal."

Lizzy kept one eye on the flour browning in the meat drippings. "Ain't often we get fancy folks for tea,
Miss Laura. English men expect a good cup of tea."

"The one I know best likes French brandy better than tea."

"We don't have none of that here. Brother Martin don't truck with it. Neither does Miss Prudence."

"I'm only teasing, Lizzy." Laura Madeline propped her chin on her hand and yawned. Her lack of sleep
the night before was catching up with her. To stay alert, she asked the first thing that came to mind.
"Lizzy, what would you do if you were my age and didn't want to be married?"

Laura's question made the big busted woman laugh. She dropped her wooden spoon in the skillet and
turned around catching a crock of fresh milk up from the table. "Well, now, that's a question!"

Laura watched as the cook poured milk into the thickened drippings. "No, really. I'm most serious."

"Why, you ought to be chomping at the bit to get married."

"Maybe I would be if Uncle Steven had any taste. You wouldn't believe the men he's come up with.
Why one was a banker, oh, I cannot describe how odious he was. He had a big nose and used snuff all
the time and in five years, he'd be fat as a hog. Disgusting!"

Again Lizzy laughed, her spoon in hand, the gravy turning round and round beneath it. "Appearances
ain't everything Miss Laura. What about the gentleman in the parlor?"

"Oh, him? He's a relative by marriage. So he's out. As for the others, I've met, two have been slavers
and think it preposterous that Coeur de Terre employs workers. The banker did allow that I may keep
my plantation as it is, but informed me he would sell the mill and invest in his own portfolio of interests.
The nerve of some people. All think women frivolous creatures with no understanding of finances, credit
and profit margins."

"Hmmm." Lizzy nodded listening with only half an ear to Laura's words while she kept her eyes on the
many pots simmering above the coals.

"I've concluded I have two options."

"And what would they be?"

"Keep up the good fight to be a spinster or marry a man of my own choosing."

"Is that right?"

"Logically, yes. I could select someone younger than myself, say Bruce, for example. Of course, I would
have to elope and the marriage would have to be consummated before Steven caught up with us. Do you
know of any place to elope?"

"No, I don't." Lizzy tapped the spoon on the rim of the big skillet then hoisted it with both hands and
poured the smooth gravy into a stoneware boat. "'Cept Mexico."

"Mexico! For heaven's sake, Mexico? If I could get that far away from Clairmont, I'd go all the way to
New York or London."

"Well, think of something else, then." Putting aside the heavy skillet, Lizzy looked at Laura Madeline's
serious face. "You wouldn't really do something so stupid as to marry an ignorant no account whose
future lies with the parish chain gang? Bruce is the worst of our lot."

"True, but he is eighteen. State law does allow boys to make marriages at eighteen without parental
consent."

"Why, if Miss Prudence or Brother Martin thought you were entertaining such thoughts, they'd not allow
you to continue teaching. You got to marry your social equal."

"I don't want someone socially my equal. I don't want a husband at all. But if I had to have one, I'd most
certainly want someone who won't interfere with my doings."

"But not that boy! He'll never be reformed."

"But someone like him. Inexperienced in the ways of the world."

"Bruce Jenkins is too experienced in the ways of the world."

"All right, not him. Mind you, I've considered his past and wouldn't hold it against him. He's passably
handsome in a pale way. I would hope that with plenty of money for his needs, he'd give up his interest in
picking pockets and petty larceny. Of more importance to me is that he is uninterested in owning slaves
and would support my efforts with the newspaper."

"Hmmm." Lizzy shook her head. "You'd best seek Miss Prudence's advice."

"Why? What's wrong with yours? You're experienced, you've been married."

"Aye, to a drunk who beat me and made our children's' lives a misery."

"Another good reason to avoid marriage completely."

"Were I you, Miss Laura, I'd let my uncle do the picking. Massa Templeton won't do you wrong."

"Were Steven to allow me the freedom to travel to London and Europe, I'm certain I'd find someone
suitable. He thinks I'll fall prey to fortune hunters. Of course, there remains my other option, remaining a
spinster. Steven's going to do everything he can to force a marriage upon me before I inherit. That's the
crux of the trouble."

"Hmm." Lizzy wiped her hands on her apron. "That leaves you in a quandary, don't it?"

"That's why I need to talk to Prudence. She survived the pressure to marry. I need more advice."

Laura helped lift the heavy bowls and take them into the refectory for the midday meal. Soon the dining
room was crowded with hungry boys and Brother Martin brought in the huge pork roast to carve. After
prayers were said, they sat down to eat informally, family style with several tables filled with chattering
boys and an adult to the head of each table to see to manners.

Lionel Templeton relaxed at a table of his own choosing with six of the oldest youths pestering him with
questions about his business and travels.

They hadn't much more than passed the biscuits when a dozen men rode into the yard. Martin
Mellonbruch stood, telling everyone in his quiet voice to remain at the table. He went outside alone to
greet Terrence Tucker and his odious overseer, Whitaker. Laura swivelled around in her chair to look
out the window. Lionel got up from his seat, told his boys to keep their seats and began walking to the
front door.

One minute the farmhouse was peaceful and calm and the next it was in an uproar. The crack of a rifle
exploding ended the meal. Laura bolted from her seat, but was trampled by boys rushing out the doors
ahead of her. She followed, naturally, to discover what the trouble was.

"Mellonbruch, don't tell me any lies." A wisp of smoke curled out of Tucker's pearl-handled pistol. "I
know this house is a station for the Underground Railroad and I know you assist runaways. I'll search
your farm and if I find any trace of my slaves, by God, I'll burn this pestilence of misbegotten orphans to
the ground."

"You'll do nothing of the kind!" Lionel Templeton moved in front of Miss Prudence and her brother. Pru
yanked off her apron to staunch the blood flowing from Martin Mellonbruch's left arm.

"I'd advise you to stand back, sir." Tucker's overseer, Frank Whitaker trained a rifle on Prudence in a
dangerously understated threat. "This ain't any of your business."

"Well, I'll be damned," Tucker growled. "If it ain't the dandy Englishman. Fancy finding you here. You
didn't stir up my Althea last night, did ya? She'd probably cotton to a man like you. Spread out boys.
Turn this damned farm inside out!"

"You'll have to get past me to harm anyone on this farm," Lionel boldly stepped forward again. His size
and demeanor was enough to cow some of Tucker's thugs.

Whitaker wasn't one of them. He squeezed the trigger of his rifle, sending another shot over the porch,
making boys and women scream and duck for cover. But not Lionel Templeton. Laura's jaw sagged.
Was he crazy or what?

Brother Martin stepped forward, clasping Lionel's arm.

"I pray thee, Lord Templeton, let the men pass. We have nothing in our house that cannot be exposed
before God to judge. We will not fight, nor raise our hands against a fellow human being. Please, in the
name of God, let them pass in peace."

Lionel simmered for the impulse that had urged him out of his rooms bearing no weapons of his own.
Tuckers thugs wouldn't have constrained him for one minute had he his own pistols at hand. But the
Quaker's beliefs bound him to hold his peace. He would, only so long as no one else was hurt.

"Get all them brats in line, Mellonbruch. Strip the shirts off every boy. I'm looking for one with a whip
lash on his back. I find him, I'll leave the rest of you in peace. Go on, get on with it!" Tucker ordered.

With no less than ten guns pointed at them, no one was arguing. Half of Tucker's men dismounted and
stormed the farmhouse. The rest remained at guard with triggers cocked.

Peaches and Jonesy pushed Laura to the back of the porch. "Boy, are you in the wrong place at the
wrong time." Jonesy hissed.

"Damnation, yes." Peaches agreed.

"That man sees you dressed like this, he's liable to put two and two together and come up with
yesterday, Miss D." Jonesy cast a worried look over his shoulder, then shoved Laura off the porch and
jumped down, covering her.

"Somebody has to go to Clairmont!" Laura ducked below the floor line, checking who was where and
doing what. Lionel Templeton was fit to be tied, unarmed and surrounded by twenty frightened little
boys.

Brother Martin's wound was a flesh wound. He had already tied his handkerchief around his upper arm
and Prudence tightened it for him. He would do nothing to stop Tucker, nothing more than he'd already
done, refused him entrance. For his quiet, peaceful beliefs blood ran down his arm and clotted on the
back of his hand. Laura wasn't so constrained. The blood she wanted to see run, was Tucker's.

"Right," Peaches sneered. "It'd take the rest of the afternoon to run there and back."

"Not if we use my boat."

"You came up the river?"

"Yes. Come on." Laura ran down the side of the house. The boys stayed with her. As they ducked
under the windows of Prudence's parlor, they could hear Tucker's men smashing their rifle buts into Pru's
furniture, kicking open doors and smashing and breaking all the china.

Lizzy had collapsed on the back porch, surrounded by the smallest and youngest boys. She wept into her
apron, and tried to cover the small bodies with her arms, lest they too be shot.

Terrified, Laura and the two boys ran to the bayou. They left a mashed trail through one wheat field and
trampled corn stalks in their wake.

Out of breath by the time she reached the boat, Laura frantically set her sail, casting off as Jonesy
pushed her deep into the current. "Get in," she hollered, "I can't go running to Steven in this get up. He'll

waste the whole day skinning me alive."

"Girls!" Peaches hauled a dripping Jonesy over the side. The boat rocked dangerously as the sail caught
the wind.

In minutes they reached Millabar's elegant landing on the Mississippi River. But it was the wrong time of
day, noon, and no one lingered in the steamy heat beside the flowing water. Peaches jumped ashore the
moment Laura eased close enough to the bank. He ran like dickens, screaming at the top of his voice
every command and alarm Laura had told him to yell.

By the time she reached Clairmont's well-maintained dock, Millabar's warning bell was pealing loud and
clear, summoning everyone in the fields to the house.

Three elderly slaves dropped their poles as Laura's boat drew up to Clairmont's dock. Their eyes
widened and mouths dropped open in shock as Laura stood up and tossed a mooring line to them.

"Where is my uncle?" Laura screamed, panic holding her in its tight grip now.

"Why, Miss Laura," sputtered Thomas. "What you doing in dis here boat dressed like a boy? We done
been tol' you's staying in the house all day."

"God help us! Where is Uncle Steven? Did he come home for lunch? I've got to find him. Now!"

"Miss Laura, he ain't here." Silas shook his silvered head, trying to calm her. "Why this morning, he was
up in a fury with the sun itself, routing them boys of his out of their beds. They's all down at Tucker's
Turning."

"Thas right." Thomas remembered. "He eben took Mr. Lindsey's whip, saying he was going to flay the
skin over those twins hides if'n they shirked their duty once."

"What duty?" Laura demanded. "Oh, no. Jonesy, run to the house! Tell my aunt what's happened. Tell
the overseer. Tell everybody to get to Mellonbruch's now!

"Why, Miss Laura, I ain't never seen you so upset. Tell me, what's happening?"

Laura groaned, unable to pull herself free of the old man's grips. "Jonesy, run to the house, quick. Fetch
my aunt, tell her Miss Pru is in danger. Run, boy! Do it I say."

"Yes ma'am!" The boy was off like a shot, running.

"What be the problem, Miss Laura?"

"Tucker!" Laura heaved, too frightened and excited to breathe and talk normally. "He's gone to
Mellonbruch's looking for Althea, Jethro and Jeb. He shot Brother Martin and is holding Miss Pru and
the children at gunpoint while her house and the barns are searched. Steven's brother is there and the
damned fool is acting like he's going to take on twenty armed men all by himself. Tucker's going to burn
the farm to the ground. We must find Steven, please."

"Lordy!" Thomas wheeled around, his big feet clattering on the planking of the dock as he ran for the big
house.

"An' here's you right in the middle of it, again!" Silas scolded.

"Where's Andre? I've got to have my horse saddled right now."

"No ma'am." Silas kept a firm grip on Miss Laura as he shook his graying head. "You done enough. Go
on, Willie, take dat boat and go down river to the turning. Find the massa, boy. Don't worry 'bout Miss
Laura. She's going to sit right here with me on the dock and do some fishin'. Then when all the 'citement
settles at the big house, I'll see she gets upstairs to her room, safe and sound."

"I am going to get my gun and go back there!" Laura vented her anger and fury. "This time that bastard's
gone too far. I'll shoot him myself."

"Now, Miss Laura, best you think twice 'bout that.

Andre ain't here. He's helping t' fell trees and dig up briars in your place with them twins. Top of which,
Massa Templeton's in a foul mood and everybody from here to eternity is saying you's to blame."

Such an accusation out of a slave ought to have made Laura see red, but knowing that every word of it
was true, she stood at the edge of the dock with Silas blocking her path, reduced to sputtering useless
protests.

"Silas, I won't allow Tucker to burn down the Mellonbruch's farm. I don't care if I do hang for murdering
the likes of him."

"He ain't going to burn that farm, either. We all hear the bells at Millabar. Massa Steven will get there in
time. Now, here, you take hold of this pole and sits with me. I'll take care of you."

"Who says I need somebody taking care of me?" Laura complained. Old Silas wasn't arguing.
Something told Laura this time the old black man was right as rain. She wasn't going to do any good
going back to Mellonbruch's. She sat and dangled her feet over the water, holding a pole over the water
in badly shaking hands.

Scant moments after she sat, a commotion started in the house and the stables. Squinting against the glare
of the sun on the river, Laura saw her aunt climb into the driver's seat of an open landau, Willa at her
side. They set off racing down the oak avenue to River Road. Riding out with her was Mr. Lindsey,
Clairmont's overseer. Laura's cousins, with everyone of their black caretakers on their heels, ran
screaming after the landau as far as the whitewashed fence bordering River Road.

"Now's the time." Silas dusted his hands on his britches and he laid the poles aside, took up a string of
fish and ambled up the path from the river. Laura followed. "You best stay in my shadow, Miss Laura."

"Think so?" Laura wasn't arguing, just making conversation.

"I shore do." Silas kept looking toward the straggling servants whose curiosity had pulled them outdoors,
following three of Massa Steven's four curious daughters and youngest son.

"Why?"

"Cause, ol' Willa done been lookin' for you. All da house servants knows you is missing."

"Oh. So?"

"So. Obviously you ain't never felt Willa's peach switch on your legs." Silas amended.

"She wouldn't dare touch me."

Silas shook his big head. He looked at her, then down to the fence, over to the river then grinned broad
as could be at Laura, showing an impressive set of intact and white teeth. "Althea done looked right
pretty last night before da preacher man, Miss Laura."

Laura's head snapped up and her eyes narrowed on the old man. "What did you say, Silas?"

"I says...last night down in the quarters we had us a wedding celebration...thanks to you being out where
Massa Steven had to be gone a few hours to get you. Yes ma'am, that's true. Andre's a pretty grateful
man this morning. He be telling you so himself soon as the turning's cleared."

Laura snapped her yawing mouth shut and stopped walking. So that's why Andre had told on her! Bless
his heart, she turned, staring at the rows of small, brick houses circling the garden patches in the quarters.
There wasn't a soul about, not even a wandering toddler. Right that moment, Clairmont was the quietest
it had ever been in Laura's recollection.

"Is Althea still here?"

Silas gently tugged on Laura's arm, leading her on up the path toward the big house. "Be better if you
don't know the answer to that, Missy. You done what's right and we's all thankful."

Silas's plodding step never stopped until they'd reached the back of the house and were sheltered by the
empty kitchens. A dog run separated the main house from the garconaire and formed the small niche of
flower beds beneath Laura's bedroom windows.

"I reckon this is the way you come down, seeing as to how the ivy is torn up a ways. Come on now, I'll
be here to catch you if'n you fall."

He laced his hands together, giving her a foothold and a boost that brought her high enough to escape
the thorny roses and get a good hold on the trellis. It was a straight up climb, harder work than coming
down. Laura scrambled up, stretching for her window ledge. She wiggled and kicked her legs, landing on
her belly on the sill for a moment or so, stuck half in and out. Then her strength came back and she
dropped inside the room, safe.

She snatched her cap off then leaned out the window to thank Silas.

"You stay put!" He wagged a finger at her from the ground some dozen or more feet below. "I'm gonna
sit an watch to make sure you do."

"Thanks, Silas, I owe you one."

"Humph!"

The man took up his string of catfish and ambled to the kitchen. Laura let the drapes fall back into place
and wiped the sweat off her brow, feeling some relief.

"Stars!" Complained an obnoxious voice from behind her. "Lookit what the cat dragged in."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Caught red-handed sneaking in the house, Laura spun around with her hand pressed against her heart.
Then she exhaled in relief. "Oh, it's only you."

"Well, you needn't say it like that." Nine-year-old Honoria Templeton shook her prissy red curls.

"Mind telling me what you are doing in my room?" Laura stepped away from the drapes, calm now, the
fright settled.

"Reading your journal."

That answer brought Laura up short, glaring at the girl. Honoria ranked high in the Templeton family
structure. She was the family informer, the snoop, gossip and disseminator of all tattle-tale information.
Her vice gave the girl remarkable power because everyone of Honoria's siblings feared her. Laura fared
no better than her cousins when it came to protecting secrets and placating Honoria.

Consequently, Honoria was the cousin Laura liked least. Her dark-red sausage curls bobbled beside her
ears, too perfect for words.

"Reading my journal is a likely story, miss." Laura went to her wardrobe and opened it, dismissing the
girl's claim. Laura didn't leave her journals out where anyone could find it and read of her private thoughts
and doings, least of all snoopy Honoria. "Why aren't you out gathering information about what is
happening down River Road? That's more your style."

"I've already been to River Road to see how my brothers are being punished. You ought to be there,
too, working like a slave to the snap of a lash. It's all your fault. Mother would have taken Anna and I to
the city this morning except you had to go and ruin everything."

"If you don't mind, I'd like some privacy."

Laura took out a dyed muslin frock. Honoria studied her even more intently. "Where did you go?"

"Fishing. It helps clear my mind."

"You've been down to Mellonbruch's starting more trouble. I already know that for a fact."

"Honoria, there is the door," Laura said as patiently as she could. "Kindly let it hit you where the good
Lord split you."

"Oh! How rude! I'm going to tell Willa you said that!" Honoria stomped to the door, a clash of pink and
white muslin and flaming red hair. No less than a dozen fat sausage curls bounced all over the back of her
head. "Just you wait till I tell Papa you went down to Mellonbruch's and stirred up trouble again."

Laura smiled. "And I will have to tell him that you peep through the parlor windows when he and your
mother are alone. Maybe then he'll catch you with your perfect nose pressed against the windowpanes."

"I told you I was looking for my cat." Honoria spun in the doorway, her freckles flooding with the hot
red of mortification. She stomped her foot but not very prettily. "I wasn't doing anything wrong. It's my
duty to learn everything there is to know about everyone and every thing. I'm going to be a newspaper
reporter when I grow up. Just like Mr. Horace Greeley!"

"You are?" Laura considered her cousin seriously for a few moments, wondering where and how exactly
the small young lady had formed that goal. It certainly wasn't one her father would ever approve. "If you
would broaden your reading patterns to include more worthy papers, Honoria, you might just discover
that Mr. Greeley's political views ride highly suspect on the conservative side. The day hasn't come that
Horace Greeley will give a reporter's job to a budding southern belle."

Honoria's brow puckered suspiciously. She never trusted anything Laura claimed was truth until she'd
investigated it thoroughly. "What would you know of that? What have you ever tried to do, Laura
Madeline, except cause trouble?"

Out of patience, Laura said, "Go pull the tail off your cat or whatever wickedness it is you do during
daylight hours, you little witch."

"Oh!" Honoria yelled down the stairs, "Willa!" Then she stuck out her tongue at Laura and said, "I'm
telling!"

The child slammed the door viciously. Laura shrugged aside the temptation to chase the little hellion and
give Honoria a hair pulling she wouldn't soon forget. More intriguing was the fact that when Laura had
left, her door had definitely been unlocked. Who had unlocked it?

Since Mattie wasn't available to her, Laura wiggled into the muslin dress and fought with her own
fastenings. Dressed decently, she went downstairs, testing the limits of her so called confinement.

Laid upon the dining room table was the day's post which told Laura her uncle hadn't returned for the
noon meal. The hard and fast rule of this house was the post remained undistributed until Steven
examined, censored and distributed it.

Without thinking, Laura put on her spectacles and sorted the mail. As Steven wasn't there to stop her,
she removed her pamphlets and subscriptions. Laura left the usual assortments of invitations to social
events for Steven to disseminate. She didn't care if he read those. She did care that he read her
correspondence before she did. The pamphlets he would never pass on to her, ever.

As she walked back upstairs, she thought Clairmont quiet enough to pass for a house where someone
was gravely ill. That alone made her uneasy.

Midway through the afternoon Mattie surfaced as Laura finished copying her final draft of La Voz's
editorial. "Oh, Mattie, any news?"

"No, Miss Laura. I jess found out you was back here. There's bad trouble down at Mellonbruch's."

"I know. I was there."

"I was afraid you'd say that. I can stay till we hear Willa comin'." Mattie sat and took up Laura's
mending. She didn't ask any questions Laura wouldn't answer.

"Today's mail had some good reading in it. I took it out of the post. That means Ambrose won't have to
go through Uncle Steven's waste basket for me today. You'll tell him, won't you?"

"Yes, Miss Laura."

Laura returned her attention to the editorial and underlined several passages so her typesetter would
know to use italics. "Mattie, didn't I order Mr. Dickens latest book?"

"Quite a while back, Miss Laura."

"What do you suppose became of it?"

"I couldn't rightly say, Miss Laura. Sometimes the post is most contrary."

"Yes, but letters from my relatives in Cuba seem to make it through." Laura fussed just to fuss, feeling
driven to keep doing things to keep her mind busy. "And there's no lack of Latin books arriving or
packages of embroidery floss and ribbons for Aunt Bethany. Uncle Steven is undoubtedly censoring my
mail. If this keeps up, I'll have to speak to Aunt Bethany about it."

Laura blotted the paper before her and folded it. She made a package containing her editorial, the
pamphlets and her letters to women she had never met, but corresponded with monthly. "Let's not take
chances with this one." She melted sealing wax onto the folded paper and fixed her small seal to it,
saying, "Hand deliver it to the post master."

"Of course." Mattie laid aside the sewing, took the package and slipped it inside the bib of her apron.

"See what news there is."

"Don't I always?"

"Yes, you do," Laura said anxiously. She couldn't say when she'd ever felt so on edge and uneasy. What
was taking so long at Mellonbruch's? What if Mr. Templeton had gotten shot? Did she care?

"You may as well send this down to Jonas, too." Laura had a second envelope, money. Paper needed to
be purchased for the press. La Voz was not sold for profit, it was given away, spread generously
throughout the city of New Orleans and surrounding parishes. Still, paper and ink was not cheap.

"Mattie, I'm worried." Laura agonized. "Everything's gone wrong. I can't believe I must sit here idle,
doing nothing whatsoever, while all around me others are taking enormous risks."

"Yes ma'am." Mattie didn't criticize. She knew her mistress meant well and that was what counted the
most.

"Well, next time I'll make certain everything is better planned." Laura removed her spectacles and
rubbed her nose.

"It don't hurt to let other's more capable take the risks," Mattie suggested. "You done enough, Miss
Laura."

"No, I haven't, Mattie. Don't you see, that's the real trouble." Laura stood as Mattie got ready to leave.
"In the cause of personal liberty and freedom, all good things do not come to those who wait. That's all
I'm doing."

"I'll try not to be long," Mattie promised. Laura waved her out. Then sat and rubbed her temples,
worrying over what could be happening at Mellonbruch's. Imagining Lionel Templeton laying injured on
the ground while Tucker's thugs burns the farm. What was wrong with her? She ought to be worrying
about the children and Prudence, not grown men who could take care of themselves!

The low clouds and steady rain allowed no view of the distant farm. An hour passed then Mattie rushed
back into Laura's room with momentous news.

"Miss Laura, it's terrible downstairs. They's all tiptoeing about. Ambrose won't countenance nobody
speaking. James just come running, saying there's smoke down the road and Miss Bethany and Willa are
gonna be here any minute now. Them twins ain't come back and its been pouring rain. They cain't be
hauling logs and brush, digging brambles in the pouring rain. Massa Steven ain't that cruel."

"No, he isn't." Laura resumed pacing the floor.

"I cain't stay. I'm sorry, Miss Laura, but I be looking out for you, every chance I get."

Mattie ran back out. The temptation run downstairs right after her, avail herself to one of her horses and
go investigate was strong, but Ambrose guarded the main hall like a bloodhound. Down below her
windows, old Silas spaded Aunt Bethany's rose beds, wearing a yellow slicker against the rain. Laura let
the curtain drop back into place.

What was she going to do?

Pace the floor and wait.

She tried keeping her thoughts focused on the latest advice from militant east. There, a call upon women
in every state had been issued to begin letter campaigns to all congressmen and to deluge the editors of
local papers on many social issues, from temperance and the abolition of slavery to the emancipation of
women. Laura had passed that pamphlet to La Voz with the order to print it in its entirety.

Just as she was giving up on the vigil, her bedroom door opened. "Laura Madeline. I am told you are
here."

"Tia?" Laura quickly turned and dropped a respectful curtsey as her mother's sister swept inside the
bedroom. Bethany's gown was sodden, ruined by the weather, so was the normally peaceful expression
on her aunt's beautiful face. Bethany came to a resolved stop, dripping before Laura.

Her aunt was taller and fuller-bodied. Bethany's angry eyes swept Laura in a scorching brush from head
to toe. "Do you have any idea of the trouble you have started?"

"Trouble, Tia?" Laura said cautiously.

"I can hear Christiana crying in her grave!" Bethany's anger was too great to make a lengthier scold.
Given the chance to draw a breath, Bethany knew her niece could outwit her before Bethany had ten
words spoken. This time, she wasn't giving Laura Madeline that chance.

Without a moment's hesitation, Bethany stripped off her glove and slapped the girl's face as hard as she
could with her open palm. "I am ashamed of you! How could you? How could you do such a terrible,
terrible deed?"

Laura reeled, too stunned to move as her aunt turned about in a swirl of wet bombazine, creaking stays
and sodden satin. At the door, Bethany paused, seething, furious with each word she had to say. "Don't
you dare leave this room again! For the love of God, I cannot imagine what I have done for you to have
deliberately caused me such pain!"

The door slammed in Bethany's wake. A crack of thunder promised the day's storms weren't going
away.

Laura's glib explanations died in her throat unsaid. The sting of Bethany's hand upon her cheek wasn't so
awful, but the fact that her aunt had been driven to strike her in the face, quite took the last of Laura's
daring away.

Things must have gone very, very bad at Mellonbruch's. Somehow, the knowledge that Althea had
escaped and married Andre last evening, didn't compensate for the possible harm done the Quakers and
their orphan boys.

Feeling full of failure, Laura couldn't come up with a believable explanation for the events of the past
twenty-four hours. It was just too much to explain. She had reasons. Right reasons and just causes, but
Bethany was never going to listen to them. Not, when she was hurt.

Thinking she had never felt less worthy of anyone's respect, Laura took off her dress and petticoats. She
hung them up and put on a dressing gown. Laura knotted the sash over her chemise and pantalets and
climbed into bed. Troubled sleep came almost instantly.

The nap hardly lasted long enough. Tossing and turning, twisted in the sheeting and the folds of her robe,
Laura came awake with a start as thunder rocked the house.

Her room was ensconced in twilight. Laura sat up, feeling a strange, unaccountable distress. Past the
gauzy netting draping her bed, hardly any daylight remained in her close and stuffy room. She could not
guess the time nor see to read her clock on the mantelpiece until she pushed back the netting as she slid
off the bed.

Standing, she wiped her hand over her moist face and began to remove her robe to discard it.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you."

CHAPTER EIGHT

"What!" Laura shrieked. Squinting, she could just make out the man seated in her brocade chair in the

shadows. She clutched her open robe with frantic hands and pulled it closed. A man was in her
bedroom. Oh, God, it was that man! "What are you doing in my room?"

"Watching you," Lionel Templeton replied.

Then he stood, filling Laura's eyes, making her head tilt to keep his eyes in view. Laura's breath caught in
her throat at the fierce expression on his face. A shudder ran down her spine. Whatever was he going to
do? She jumped when he snapped a riding crop against boot leather.

"What are you doing in here?" Laura almost screamed. With no place to retreat except her high bed, she
struggled hard to find any of her courage.

"I have told you what I was doing." He came to the bed and halted, taking great interest in the manner
that Laura's chin rose.

His first words echoed in her mind...watching her...as she slept? To what purpose?

"Why?" She forced her body to stop shaking as he lifted one hand and put his fingers under her chin.

"To discover for myself how the bitch of Clairmont can be the same person as the beloved angel of
Coeur de Terre."

"I don't understand." She shook her head against accepting his words, an insult and a compliment,
neither wanted or willed by her.

"You don't? Well, more the pity, Miss Dunois. Here in your luxurious and ample bed you have slept
away an eventful afternoon, missing completely the near destruction of a Quaker farm, the terrorizing of
more than twenty orphans and an uproar of the local constabulary of incredible proportions. I thought it
should be of interest for you to learn that you now own a quadroon slave whose beauty well rivals your
own, and two runaway males. All have come to you at a dear and severe price. No doubt, you'll never
see a single day's work from any of them."

"Steven bought them all?" Laura's mouth dropped open in shock. "Althea, Jeb and Jethro...all three?" A
flood of actual relief surged into her veins. That would end it then. "Oh, thank God."

"Thank God?" Lionel abruptly dropped his hand. "Best you thank Steven Templeton instead!"

Laura dashed her hand across her face and sagged onto the edge of the bed, shaken. "Yes, of course, of
course, I will thank him. You couldn't be telling me better news. I have prayed all along that would be the
result, but I feared he would never think of that solution."

"You expected less from him?" Lionel demanded, insulted by her assumption. "As the executor of Coeur
de Terre and master of Clairmont, Steven had no choice except to purchase their indemnity from
Terrence Tucker since you are the one responsible for stealing his slaves from him."

Laura compressed her lips together, swallowed then said, "Believe it or not, I asked Steven do exactly
that four months ago when Tucker purchased the Hamilton estate. I even suggested Uncle Steven
reimburse himself the expense out of Coeur de Terre's accounts. He refused to accommodate me, saying
he would buy no slaves of any planter, no matter the price."

A dark brow rose above Lion's left eye, disbelieving her. "Then why didn't you tell Steven the true

reasons you wished to emancipate Althea and her half-brothers from bondage?"

That question caused Laura to draw in a sharp breath. "You know?"

Lionel let go a blunt laugh. "That the quadroon, Althea Burnett is Armand Dunois' eldest daughter, four
years your senior, yes, I know it." The hardness in his voice softened. "You have played a most
dangerous game, Laura. To which I may be the only man of my color in this parish to count your motives
laudable, possibly even honorable, but your means fail to justify the end.

"Hence, we have come to the second reason for my visit here to your sanctuary."

Lionel turned his back to her, striding purposefully across the room to her desk. He laid his crop upon
the scattered papers, took hold of the chair and moved it to face the brocade upholstered armchair.
"Come sit down, Miss Dunois."

Laura swallowed. Her hands tugged at the sash at her waist. It wasn't proper that he be here, in her
room, while she was in such flagrant dishabille. She couldn't imagine why he'd been allowed to enter, by
Mattie, by Willa, by her aunt and uncle most of all.

Nonetheless, she hurried to her desk and took up her spectacles, placing them on her nose. Immediately
the haze in the shadows sharpened. So did all of the fine details to one intimidating man. Lion
Templeton's coat was wet about his shoulders and his sleeves. His hair, too, had not fully dried from a
drenching in the day's rain.

Laura sat on her desk chair, while he settled his large, intimidating form onto her comfortable damask
armchair. She tried to take control of this discussion by asking the questions. "Do explain to me the
reason you are here in my bedroom?"

He pressed his hands together before him, forming a steeple with his fingers before his chin.

"Very well, I shall tell you all of the reasons I am here. The first being that I have sat here this past half
hour gazing at your enchanting face, while you slept, asking myself why the mud of your misdeeds doesn't
color you? In truth, mistress, since I am the husband to whom you will answer to for the rest of your
days, I am sent here to beat you."

Laura's hand darted upward to cover her mouth and stop her gasp of shock from becoming audible.
"You can not be," she whispered. "You're the sea captain Steven summoned?"

"Aye, lady, I am." Lion paused deliberately to let that truth sink in before he continued. "The time has
come to end your reckless and dangerous games and manipulations. So that you will know your future, I
am the man to do it."

Laura swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat. She searched for any sign of compassion or
mercy in the man. She saw none.

"You can not do such a thing when you know the truth behind my actions. I was right to act, to use any
means I could to save my sister from the cruel fate to which she was forced to live. She is my blood."

"I am not here to debate the issues with you. I am here to tell you how your actions have been perceived
by all others in this household, aye, even in this neighborhood. What you convinced two sons of this
house to do was unconscionable. Both of my nephews could have swung from a hangman's noose for

their crime. That alone has cost you all favor and courtesy in this household.

"Last night, I intervened on your behalf to prevent Steven from making a gross mistake. Bloodlust and
tempers were running very high last evening in that stable."

"And--" he paused for the effect his harsh words would have on her "--I had good reason to believe that
if I did not act to protect you in some small way, my brother would have come close to killing you before
he laid his strap aside."

Not one muscle in Laura Madeline's body moved. She believed him. Why, or how it was that she knew
he spoke exactly the truth, she did not question. She looked desperately about for Mattie, saw her
closed bedroom door and knew it was locked and the key most likely in this villain's pocket.

"That is correct," he said smoothly as though he had the power to read her mind. "Your maid has been
sent away. It was she who informed me you'd never been turned over a knee. Be that the case, this
lesson when we come to it, will be a lasting one. Do you have any grain of common sense in that head of
yours, you will never cause me to repeat it."

"You have no right to touch me," she said, not yet recovered from the shock of learning he was the
bridegroom. "My father never countenanced the beating of women or children. You, sir, will not lay a
hand on me."

"Aye, you were the apple of Armand's eye. I see that very clearly. A scolding word from him had been
enough to crush you as a child. Lady, you are no longer a child. The game you played with two cousins
was vicious and deadly and could have cost two youths of ten and five their lives. For that alone you
must bear the consequences."

"Troy and Robert were in no danger. Arrangements were made in advance that the squire was unarmed
when he left his city abode."

He cast aside that defense with a wave of his hand.

"The moment you convinced them to ride with you the damage was done. Both committed a capitol
crime under the laws of this state. I and my brother could be cutting them down from the hangman's rope
this very moment.

"You, Laura Madeline Dunois, took the law into your pretty hands to bend it as suits your whim. No
excuse you offer exonerate you or eases your culpability."

Sitting straight and righteous, Laura returned his cold-blooded look. The man had no heart, none!

"Very well, I will apologize for the distress I caused you and make restitution for any injury done to
others. I admit that events quickly got out of hand...unintentionally. It wasn't my purpose to be malicious
or to hurt anyone. I was merely trying to see a justice done."

"My nephews have been whipped raw and sentenced to more than a month of backbreaking labor. No
grounds exist that you should be spared what they are not. That, Laura Madeline Dunois, is justice."

"No sir." Laura vehemently shook her head. "That is battery, the unlawful use of force on a person
without his or her consent. Assault, sir. Cruel and unusual punishment --expressly forbidden by the
United States Constitution."

Clever girl. Her mind was as sharp and well trained as a London barrister. Privately, Lion gave her one
point in the debate, even as he grimly shook his head. He could not in good conscience allow her to
retain her perverse view of the law.

"Wrong, my lady. There is an overriding law in existence here, long-revered and held superior by civilized
society--written eons before you upstart American penned your declaration. 'A fool's lips lead him into
strife, and his mouth provokes a beating,' Proverbs 18;6. You, my lady, are the fool.

"To that end, every man, woman and child on this plantation waits and listens to find out if justice is
applied equally to all involved in yesterday's folly at Tucker's Turning."

"They do?" Laura believed him. Her courage faltered. Maybe she wasn't as strong as she thought she
was. She looked to the door, wanting desperately to scream for help. She could not sit still for this
discussion and bolted out of her chair, putting it between the two of them.

Reluctantly, Lionel rose to his feet. He saw that hurting her in any way would put unwanted and
unnecessary barriers between them in all of their future dealings. Yet, the truth was, her games had gone
too far afoul of the law.

Someone had to stop her before her next zealous act ended in bitter tragedy. Now would it do for his
wife to openly express and act on such radical views. He was, after all, an English peer with a seat in the
House of Lords to uphold. Cautiously, Lionel followed her retreat.

"Screaming will do you no good whatsoever. No one will come through the door to rescue you."

"You can't do this." Laura backpedaled but could not gain any distance from him. Much too soon, her
back touched the far wall and space no longer an impediment between them.

He put out one hand, fencing her in to one side, penned by his body and the solid wall behind her.

"You mustn't...you can't do this," Laura repeated.

Reasonably, Lionel answered, "You have left me no choice." His right hand touched her chin and
caressed her soft cheek soothingly, to allay her fears. "I promise you I will not hurt you overmuch. You
are much too precious to me to be damaged in any way."

"Precious to you?" she twisted her face away from his hand. "You sir, don't even know me."

"Now you injure my pride and vanity. Can't you be satisfied that you have already sullied my honorable
name? What satisfaction can your resistance now give me? None. Have you no understanding of what
honor means to a man?"

"I understand it." Laura pushed away the stiffened fingers, reaching out to touch her again. He was too
damn close again, like he'd been in the woods. "I have a good concept of it, considering how you trashed
my honor in St. John's Bayou. I'd say we were even."

"Not exactly," Lionel intoned. He paused, chiding himself. When he had entered this room, he'd been in
no mood to malinger further over this issue. What must be done, must be done. She was the root of all
the trouble, the cause, the catalyst, the instigator but she was so beautiful, so fresh, so earnest in her
beliefs.

What, pray God, was wrong with him?

Lionel had entered her room, bent on hauling Laura out of bed, tossing her over his lap and whipping her
until she'd screamed for mercy. One look at her sweet, angelic, face so innocent in her sleep had
destroyed his anger. Now he only felt a great sadness at the duty facing him.

She was exactly as all at Coeur de Terre described her, an idealistic child with a heart of gold wrapped
up in the minute package of a strong and courageous woman.

He hadn't expected to catch her laying on her bed before his burning eyes, bare-legged, uncovered with
pale skin, pink cheeks, midnight hair and troubled, contrite brow. Spellbound, he'd collapsed in the chair
opposite her bed and could not take his eyes from her. He had fought wave after wave of desire down
into the bilious depths of his stomach.

Never had he looked upon such a fey enchantress, shrouded by yards of gleaming, ebony curls, spread
across milky satin sheeting. Hair that he wanted to feel crushing in hands, the silkiness of it adhering to his
sweat-soaked body as he made love to her. She was so virginal, so pure and guilelessly innocent his
blood boiled.

He couldn't believe the ill luck that now cursed him. She would hate him till the end of his days if he
raised his hand against her.

Sensing she had come up with some unknown advantage, Laura held her place against the wall holding
her breath. She was unable to tear her eyes from the mesmerizing entrapment of his.

How deep those gray eyes probed into her soul she could not guess. A flush pushed through her, raising
her body temperature. She tried to quell it by steadying her breathing. She blurted out, "You said the next
time we met, you would kiss my mouth."

"My God, you're diabolical," Lionel marveled shaking his head. "You would do anything to manipulate
me."

"Oh, no, I wouldn't. I'm not." Laura shook her head hard. "I can't think. I keep staring at your mouth,
oh!"

She slapped her hands over her own mouth. "What am I saying? Oh, God, let me die now."

She closed her eyes, mortified. Lionel watched the heat rise into her cheeks and flood brightly over her
forehead. Heartbroken tears blurred those green eyes that shined will all the passionate idealism of youth.
Lionel couldn't summon the callousness necessary to crush her spirit.

He couldn't will his arm to strike her. Damn his brother for bringing him into this vixen's trap!

"For the love of God, if it's a pound of flesh your Shylock heart has to have to feel vindicated, get it over
with!" she pleaded.

"Shylock?" Lionel's eyes darkened, shutting out all reflective light. "You think this is about money? Nay, it
is not! A farm has been burned. Four men shot, women threatened and orphans beaten and put out of
the only home they know!" Anguished himself, Lionel declared, "People have been injured, harmed, and
hurt because of your deeds. Why have you deliberately caused such havoc and pain in this household?"

"I haven't." Laura shook her head, trying to deny his words. Yet she knew each horrible charge he'd just
spoken was a result of her deeds. "I don't want to talk about it."

She gave up then and there. Raising both hands to press against the pounding in her temples. Her fingers
plowed into the sleep-tangled disorder of her hair. There was a point when all the white lies and little
deceptions created greater calumny. It was out of hand, way, way out of hand. Let the devil take his due,
she was too oppressed by her own conscience to fight.

For the first time since he'd met her, Lionel felt the door open a small, minuscule crack inside her mind,
bathing him for a moment in the warring emotions she experienced. The great and heavy guilt of a grand
plan gone horribly wrong bore her down to a low she'd never before touched in her young years.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, abruptly dropping her hands. The door in her mind slammed shut. "Nothing
went the way I'd planned it."

"Don't." Lionel whispered as he leaned closer to her.

"Don't what?" Laura whispered. Heat rose off of him and beckoned to her as he came nearer and
neared. His thighs touched and singed her own, then his hips, the flat of his belly and last his chest
seemed to crush her breasts.

"Don't shut me out, Laura Madeline." His mouth hovered above hers. Laura's neck lengthened, raising
her head in an effort to be at a level with him. It could not be obtained. Her tongue nervously tripped
across her parched lips. She was afraid of him and she wasn't.

Words failed her and she couldn't swallow. His head inclined, turned, then his lips touched hers.

Expecting the raw, savagery he'd displayed the day before, the gentleness he bestowed shocked her
more. A kiss so faint it was hardly there, the flicking tease of a moist tongue stroking and parting the dry
adhesion of her lips. She blinked, astonished as a fire erupted in the pit of her belly. She wanted him.

"I can give you a choice, my beauty." His words were spoken against her mouth.

"Choice?" Laura gasped. Her lips formed the words against his own. It was the most maddening torture
ever imagined. "What kind of choice?"

The scorching heat of his lips seared a fire so intolerable inside her, her body ached.

"The choice is simple, my lady." Lionel soothed the trembling in her body with the sure stroke of his hand,
drawing her more closely against him. He caught her chin, lifting it and said, "Neither I, nor your uncle will
raise our hands against you, do you willingly accompany me down-stairs now, and repeat all the vows of
marriage before Justice Monsieur Jeanneau."

"What?" Laura jerked backward only to be caught by his arm. Her sense of betrayal was complete. "Is
that what this is about? I'm to be duped! You've played upon my emotions to bring me to this?"

Laura's mouth ran dry, the words choked her, still she managed to say them. "No. I'll take the beating."

"Would you?" Lionel did not believe her denial for a moment. He tightened his hand upon her waist,
pressing her supple soft body against his. As he took her lips, he commanded, "Open your mouth. I want

inside you, Laura Madeline."

The air hung about her in oppressive stillness. Obeying him, her lips parted. Laura inhaled sharply, able
to taste his breath as it was expelled.

Then the full brunt of his mouth plundered hers, sweeping her away once more. This time, his silken
tongue eased past her teeth and sought deepest entrance within. Captured in his arms, he lifted her,
settling her more comfortably against him. She shivered as the hard ridge of his manhood surged against
her belly.

Confusion swept through her. The moist heat building in the closed room rose beyond oppressive. Her
whole body became drenched in fire at once. Her fingers slid into the silken waves caressing the back of
his head, lifting herself against him as the kiss lengthened between them. She did not want it to ever end.

Her breasts tingled as though flames fanned them. An undulating wave of pleasure surged through her
belly. It ignited some heretofore unknown center in her being. It was as though her whole body became a
furnace melting with her own heat. Still his kiss went on and on and on.

He could crush me, Laura thought. Yet the pressure his body exerted against hers was welcome. She
slackened her jaw completely, greedy for this heady kiss to never end.

It did. When he withdrew he left scant inches between them and she ached to draw him back or to go to
him, closing the gap. He allowed her neither, his hands firmly keeping her at the same even distance from
him.

"Well, Mistress Dunois, which is it to be? Do you submit to the pleasure of marriage your body so
desperately wants, or do you take only the beating your guilty conscience needs to rectify your soul?"

Laura groped for reason and found herself lost. Never in her life had anyone so wickedly confused her.
"What are you, the devil incarnate?"

Her question caused Lionel to pause. His intuition proved right, that she had felt the same stirring he had.
He wanted more proof. Again his sight failed him. He couldn't see into this temptress's soul to know all
that he wanted to know. He smiled, but the light of it did not reach his eyes. "I might ask you the same
thing."

Laura tried to clear her thoughts. His expertise at seduction drugged her. "I'm opposed to marriage
completely. I want no man." "That is a lie. You want this man." His hand moved skillfully down her arm,
following the line of her forearm to the sash belted at her waist. His eyes swept hungrily down the
chemise that hand uncovered. "You want me."

The proof of that was evident in the hardened thrust of her breasts against the delicate cloth of her
chemise. Boldly, Lionel stroked his fingers across the proof that she couldn't deny. Temptation drove him
to obtain more proof. He had to expose those exquisite orbs. He plucked the bow loose from the ribbon
tie.

Laura shuddered as her breasts rose involuntarily, jutting outward to meet his gaze, stretching against the
silk clothing her. His insolent fingers dropped to the drawstring that held her pantalets secure at her waist.
She trembled, her whole body quivering and vulnerable. Never had she been so aware of every waiting
and aching inch of skin quivering across the whole length of her body in anticipation of his next masterful
touch.

Somehow, reason came to her rescue before it was too late. She caught hold of her robe, closing it,
holding it secure.

"Stop!"

Lion took one deep, calming breath of his own. His desire for her had gotten out of hand. Seducing her
before their nuptials was not the reason he'd come into this room. His own code of honor commanded
she be his to touch, his to hold forever before he took her.

"Very well. Make your choice," he commanded. "No decision is the same as making the wrong one!"

"It's no choice you've given me at all! Marriage or a beating. And your means to convince me of one are
unfair and unrelated to the other. One lasts for a lifetime, the other is but momentary pain."

"Nay, not momentary by my hand. That I promise you." His eyes glittered. "Both will last you in good
stead a lifetime. The later will teach you never to play such dangerous games again with other peoples
lives. A most important lesson you must learn. While marriage to a strong hand such as mine, will keep
your future foolishness under firm control."

Laura struggled to free herself. "No! I'll never marry you!"

"So be it. Justice you've earned. Justice you'll receive." He regretted her choice deeply and told her so
with his thoughts. She wasn't listening.

"It's wrong of you to strike me. Tucker is the most vicious of slave holders. Anyone can verify that if you
will but ask Uncle Steven's people. I would have told you this, yesterday, if I'd had any indication of your
sympathies."

"My sympathies for or against slavery has no bearing in this. The road was public. The act you engaged
in, a crime. Do you not understand the seriousness of such acts?"

"We knew the danger. Everyone does. I judged it worth the risk."

That was the last straw in Lionel's book. He caught hold of her shoulders, shaking her, glaring at her
unrepentant face.

"No. It was not! You did not think beyond your first impulse to see the consequences of such an act. To
compound your sins, the people who love you the most and would be hurt the most by you, are treated
as imbeciles. Steven deserved to hear the truth, to be told the facts straight out. So he could know best
how to calm the hornets nest you stirred up."

"I can not take him into my confidence. The risk of exposure to the underground is much too great.
Yesterday, I couldn't have told you anything. Too many lives are at stake. I am but a fraction...a mere
pittance of the people involved in the business of freeing all peoples of slavery and bondage. Truly, I am
the most insignificant advocate of that cause."

"And the risk you took upon yourself, mistress? The risk you encouraged two boys to take? You had no
right to endanger my brother's sons, indeed, everyone within this house."

"I've told you, it wasn't supposed to go as badly as it did," she cried.

"It shouldn't have been done in the first place, you little hellion!"

"Someone has to do something! The whole country debates the issue back and forth. Those for and
those against and in the meantime, people die or are maimed beyond belief by those very people who will
not act in any way. I have seen with my own eyes the misery caused by men like Tucker. I am not wrong
to have done what I did. Not the method I used, nor the means. I only regret that it was not instantly
successful. And if that causes you to beat upon me because I am smaller and weaker than you, then you
sir are a bastard and should be dammed to hell."

"You don't learn, woman," he argued, pressed almost beyond his control. "I am not here to argue the
rights and wrongs of this way of life and the means of using or abusing one's fellow man. The damage that
you caused with your ill thought acts goes beyond what any rational man can tolerate. To whit, you are a
woman and it is none of your business how the men of this land make their living."

"If the men about are blind to injustice, we women cannot be. But if women are also blind, then sir, it is
the duty of the children to correct the wrongs. I know, that my generation will see this bitter blight
ended."

"Give me strength." Lionel raised his eyes heavenward, praying. Such a headstrong woman he'd never
seen the likes. She quailed in the face of righteous fury only to refuse to back down or be cowed. Now,
she audaciously turned the tables against him, making him the villain of the piece. By God, he swore,
silently understanding the demonic temper that pressed Steven to want to beat her to death.

"The question of slavery, woman, is not the issue between us," he said abruptly. "Do I bend you to my
will by brute force or do you make up your mind to come willingly to me for the pleasure I will give you?
Either way, now that I've seen you, I'll not let you pass to another man."

That declaration stunned the both of them. She shook her head, panting, frantic to catch her breath, to
stall, to think of something that would turn his purpose. "You can't mean that! You don't even like me."

Lionel also shook his head to clear it. She twisted and squirmed against him. Silk clung to her panting
body, outlining every inch of it, tormenting his eyes. He held her fast, refusing to let her escape. "Yes, by
the gods, I do mean it."

What she saw in his eyes Laura knew was desire of the highest order. She felt it, too, a strong
maddening force that surged to life within her veins. She shook her head and it wouldn't clear. His power
over her wouldn't abate. "Would you take me here in my uncle's home?"

"I'll take you, here, anywhere, now, and every time it pleases me, just as you know I'd have had you
yesterday had that bastard in St. John's woods minded his own business."

The full import of his words struck her.

"I think you are too bold and confident. I hate you."

"I think you are a very foolish woman. I am not so blind that you can hide your reaction to me."

He moved with such powerful purpose that once it was unleashed, Laura stood no chance against
stopping him. She found herself crushed against him, and kissed so ruthlessly, the strike of her fists to his
shoulders and arms was of no import.

Wild hands touched and stroked her until she cried out with an abandoned scream that she could stand
no more. "I have principles I will not compromise just because I like to be kissed."

"That is not the issue at hand, lady. Do you agree to the marriage or do you force me to take only
revenge?"

"That's no choice!" Laura sputtered.

"You still don't get it, do you?" Lionel thundered, over her feeble protests. "We will marry! The terms
have been dictated by your own actions. As far as bayou society is concerned, yesterday noon in the
woods at Tucker's Turning, Laura Madeline Dunois lost the one thing that would have insured her fine
Louisiana marriage. I've been challenged to a duel by my own brother for dishonoring you. Now, do you
understand, wench?"

"What? Laura shook her head, refusing to believe such a thing. "No, no! Steven wouldn't do such a
thing!"

She watched in fascinated horror as Lion tugged off the cravat that had come loose at his throat then
deliberately shed his coat. Revealed was a dark twist of curls inside the opening throat of his shirt. He
was the most dangerous man she'd ever met. All the power she'd sensed within him yesterday lay
exposed beneath the thin linen of his sweat-damp shirt.

"I will tell him nothing happened. I'll tell him I don't want to marry you." Laura sputtered. "I'll swear to
Steven you never laid a hand on me."

"What good will that do you when my brother has heard from my own lips that I have touched you
intimately." Lionel caught her shoulders to keep her from fleeing. "It's too late for protests. Steven's
summoned a man of the cloth to see the marriage between us performed this very night. You've no one to
blame but yourself. You caused the fury and the uproar and by the gods, you will pay the price!"

"Never!" Laura vowed, meaning that with all her heart.

Lionel took one step back and dropped his hands to his sides. His heart raced inside his chest. Blood
pounded in his temples. Never in his life had any woman provoked him to such temper. Did he lay his
hands back upon her, he knew he would hurt her in a way that no rational, honorable man could live with
afterward.

An iron-bound coat of pure will settled over him, narrowing his eyes to gleaming, cold gray slits,
hardening his jaw and the sense of purpose building inside him. He stalked to her wardrobe, threw it
open, and dragged out the first gown his fingers touched. It mattered not what she said or did from that
point on. He'd dress her himself if he had to. "Get dressed!"

Laura yelled when he threw the gown at her. "By God, I won't marry you. Never! Do you hear me?"

"So be it." Lionel's voice dropped decibels with the intensity of his final threat. "Best pray you enjoy your
confinement."

BOOK II

"She's a woman and therefore may be woo'd,

she's a woman and therefore may be won."

Titus Andronicus

CHAPTER NINE

Ursuline Convent, New Orleans

November 20, 1850

"Enjoy your confinement! Enjoy your confinement!" Laura grumbled

heartily as she shoved a staggering stack of greasy, egg-spotted plates

onto a wet wooden counter.

"Not so loud, Laura!" Abby Murray's rolled up sleeves revealed smooth white arms, elbow deep in hot
soapy water. When her hands came out to dip and rinse the clean china, they were as red as Laura
Madeline's. "Does the race begin today?"

Laura Madeline removed her spectacles and wiped a dull gray sleeve over her brow. As she put them
back in place she grimaced at the stack of filthy plates. "Today's the day. Tell me there aren't any more
dirty dishes."

"There aren't any more," Abby lied.

"Ha, ha!" Laura barked. It was not much past daybreak and the convent kitchen had been a hub of
activity for hours. "The rumors I heard claim there are four clippers preparing for the race around the
Horn. The press gangs are working hard. Would that I were in California."

"Imagine." Abby dunked another stack into the hot water bath. "Panning gold in a mountain stream. They
say the gold dust clings to your shoes at the end of the day. Imagine that, Laura Madeline."

"Indeed!" Laura laughed and put forth her plain brown shoe with its common laces. "We could be
dressed in Chinese silks instead of cotton serge if we had the passage. The painted whore who came
yesterday, said it was only three hundred dollars for steerage. She'd planned to earn her fare last night,
then join the Gold Rush. How I envy her."

"You're a wicked girl." Abby giggled.

"Wicked, indeed!" Laura laughed then quickly toned down her voice when Sister Teresa Rose raised her
head from the market list she was preparing.

Abby turned her grin to the soapy water, no more wicked than Laura. They silently washed and dried
another pile of dishes. The work was hard, but both had volunteered for the civic duty for private reasons
unknown to the nuns.

The one meal a day that was served to the poor, the destitute and the down trodden of New Orleans
was a means for both girls to maintain contact with the teaming life in the seaport city.

Thus far a month of strictly guarded confinement had not prevented Laura from passing her editorials into
safe hands to be printed in the next issue of her newspaper or daunted her flow of uncensored mail from
outside the convent walls.

Her contacts with Coeur de Terre remained inviolate, despite all efforts at cloistering her.

It was all over by eight o'clock, the kitchen put to right and the huge pots and utensils stored.

"I'll need help at the market, today," Sister Rose said to her three novice assistants. "Get your baskets
and come along. Laura and Abby, you're dismissed, now."

"We're not quite done," Abby deferred. There was the massive tub of spoons and knives still soaking.
She and Laura dipped cloths in sand and began the abrasive rubbing that would put a polish back on the
metal.

Sister's hand disappeared inside her surplice and brought forth her only vanity, a pocket watch. Her day
was ordered by that watch. Time marched rigidly in Sister's estimation. "I must be to the market at
precisely eight fifteen. Finish your work then return to your lessons and don't dawdle or waste time!"

"Yes, Sister," both girls chorused obediently and scrubbed harder.

The nun and her white veiled novices swept out of the hot and steamy kitchen. It was exactly the
opportunity Laura and Abby awaited. They had been washing dishes for weeks waiting for the chance to
be alone near the closest gate of the convent walls. The two girls exchanged glances and kept on
scrubbing, lingering over the work to be done, until all had left the kitchen save them.

"Now, for the hard part!" Laura straightened and put both hands to her waist and stretched her back.
The tubs of dirty water had to be carted to the gate and disposed of in the sewer. Sister Portress would
glare at them, but she was too old to manage the slops herself. With any luck, she would let them pass.

"How far do you think we'll get in these clothes?" Abby took time to primp. Her golden hair was swept
under a white kerchief just as Laura's was. Their gray skirts were nondescript, highly serviceable, but
very unattractive. The blouses had no collars, buttoned to the throat and unadorned.

Over that they wore starched white aprons whose bibs covered back and front, sashed at their waists
and draping down to cover the most of their cotton serge skirts. Aside from exposed forearms, no part
of their bodies was revealed.

The uniform they wore hid their many physical attributes very well. Nothing the nuns could provide
altered the striking beauty of their faces. Abby tightened her sash to give the shapeless outfit some kind of

form. Laura didn't bother.

Together, they hoisted the heavy oaken tub and struggled outside with it. At the portal, the jangling bell
was ringing. The portress was as deaf as she was old. Laura nudged her awake and pointed to the
jangling bells being rattled by the rope that went outside the door.

"Land sakes, why didn't somebody tell me the bells were ringing!" Sister Portress came upright with a
dazed old woman's start. "Leave the slops, I'll see to it."

"Oh, we'll do it," Abby insisted.

"Nuh, nuh, it's too much for you. Leave it." Sister swung her aged bulk up from her stool. "Ach! It's only
another poor beggar." She let the wicket open, admitting two tattered children through the convent gate.

Laura and Abby exchanged a determined look and hoisted their bucket of slops. While the young
beggars hounded the old nun for bits of biscuit the two girls struggled with the large tub, maneuvering it to
the curb.

Laura removed her spectacles, tucking them safely in her pocket. She didn't need them for distances,
able to take in what she hadn't seen in over a full month. "I can't believe it! We're outside the walls!"

"Hurry!" Abby was the one to act sensibly. She bent her narrow shoulders to the task of tipping the
heavy tub, sent the slops and soiled water rolling into the gutter and with a deliberate kick of her plain
shoe, the wooden tub careening into traffic.

"Abby, look what you've done!" Laura knew her cue. She darted into the street, faking running after the
wobbling tub and once around a heavy delivery cart and horse, she ran off...to freedom. Abby, right
behind her. In seconds, the two of them crossed the road, racing, smiles on their faces at their easy
escape. Ignored were the shouts and wails from old Sister Portress for them to return at once.

Luck had it that the Barracks Street Car lumbered through the corner. Dragging pennies from the deep
caverns of their skirt pockets, the two girls bounded up and away, laughing gaily as the horse-drawn
conveyance took them away from the Mississippi River levee where the convent and school enclosure
stood in the heart of wicked New Orleans.

It was to the wharves and docks that their wanderings took them mid-afternoon. Sitting on the
battlement behind Chalmette Park, Laura gazed at the gray waters of the Mississippi Sound. Her feet
dangled on the brickwork and next to her, Abby leaned over the balustrade, her elbows and hands
propping up her pretty face. Occasionally, the brisk wind ruffled Laura's dowdy skirt around her ankles
and sent tendrils of loosely braided hair swirling around her shoulders.

"Have you ever seen so many boats?" Abby sighed.

"Never. Only here." Laura shaded her eyes with her hand and gazed at the crowded harbor. There were
more boats here than upriver on the Mississippi levee where they'd wandered that morning.

Laura pulled a confection from her pocket, pealed off its sticky wrapper and turned the cherry-flavored
sweet on a stick in her rosebud mouth. That and a wicked crimson ribbon now bedecking her hair was
the only color to her outfit.

The few pennies and coins she and Abby had managed to keep hidden from the sisters eyes had nearly

all been spent. "We must look as colorless as the gulls."

"Compared to the color down there, I'd say so." Abby's eyes swept the dock.

The four massive clippers were a sight to see. The most impressive of sailing boats, the clippers made all
other boats look insignificant. Hundreds of men swarmed about the riggings and decks, readying the
boats for sail. Dock gangs sweat, hoisting the sails, using brute strength against winches and pulleys to
raise tons of heavy canvas. "The race begins at high tide."

"Aye." Laura had noted all there was to see.

All around the docks, banners proclaimed the race to San Francisco. The carnival atmosphere
surrounded the quay with a fast growing merry crowd on hand to send the racing clippers on their way.
Venders threaded in and out hawking their wares, while nimble-footed beggars and dock whores
meandered among the well dressed and affluent and the ordinary people.

Fine carriages clattered back and forth onto the wooden planking and banquettes. Passengers of every
sort were boarded and an unending flow of trunks and luggage was being taken onto the decks of the
boats.

The most colorful boat of all was a sleek Zouave corsair with sea-bleached paint of red and turquoise
blue embellishing its prow. Its crew was a dark-skinned shirtless mob, in strange blowzy trousers and
barefoot. Needing less than a quarter the number of men needed to man the clippers, the Arabs
scrambled up the corsair's rigging, nimble as spider monkeys. "What flag is that?" Laura asked.

"I've no idea." Abby shook her head and peeled paper from a twist of taffy. "Moroccan, do you think?"

"Bound for Casablanca, possibly?" Laura wondered, her curiosity piqued. "What's it doing in New
Orleans?"

"A slaver, maybe." Abby frowned as she made a guess. Laura rolled her eyes and laughed. "Well, why
not? My brother, Charles, told me about them. Not that we see many boats like that hereabouts. Not
since the clippers came. We'd best not stray near enough to find out," Abby said primly.

To Laura's view they were safe on the embankment, distant enough to avoid scrutiny of any roving sailors
eyes, yet close enough to have a pleasant overview of the proceedings.

"In truth we should not be here, so near to the dockside alone and unprotected," Abby continued. "I've
no wish to wind up in a sultan's harem. We've been cautioned about the dangers of being on the docks."

"I don't believe it's true." Laura tossed her head haughtily. "That white slavers come here, boldly, all the
way into New Orleans. Why, if it were true, wouldn't we have known of at least one girl who had
disappeared in all our years in this city?"

"My brother said they mostly steal women and girls who walk the streets unprotected and those whose
families can't ransom them. Those that can, pay the ransom and hush the scandal."

"Bosh!" Laura responded in disgust. "If you'd ever paid any attention in our history lessons, Abby, you'd
remember that our very own Navy sailed into Tripoli years ago and put an end to the Barbary Pirates.
There's no such things as sultans anymore. It isn't the Middle Ages. Women like you and I travel freely
the world over, to stand before the Sphinx and explore the ruins of Troy and Babylon. You have listened

to fairy tales and taken them as truth. Are you afraid of adventure? Yes, you are. All because of a plot by
men to keep women ignorant and subservient."

"You really must stop taking those foolish pamphlets to heart, Laura." Abby sighed tiredly.

"My father told me there was naught for a woman to ever fear except her own ignorance. I am not afraid
to walk down to the docks unescorted. It is no harsher here than on the levee. There are the same burly,
backward louts loading and unloading the cargo and the same mixture of humanity. For that matter, what
is the difference between the field hands who cut the cane that I have lived around all my life and these
burly men right here?"

"Quite a lot." Abby reserved her own opinion. "This isn't your plantation! Here one would have to speak
a hundred languages to understand half the gibberish bantered about. Look, do you see the woman in the
flame colored dress? She must be wearing a corset of iron to have a waist so narrow."

Laura would have rather continued the debate, but she knew Abby would never hold up her end of the
argument. She looked to the lady mentioned caustically, seeing a lush, buxom woman whose blond hair
was striking and whose parasol kept the sun from marring her expansive show of bosom. "She'll split her
stays if she takes a deep breath."

"Ah, but see how the men admire her."

"Who wants to be admired by longshoremen and riffraff?"

"They look at her respectfully. She's a lady, Laura Madeline. Would that I could be wearing a dress like
hers."

"Then you certainly wouldn't want to be near the docks." Laura taunted.

"I think that huge brute escorting her must be her husband. He's a captain, I'll wager, with all that navy
serge and epaulets twined with gold braid on his sleeves. A sea captain's woman," Abby added
admiringly. "She moves with grace and beauty, unafraid of her surroundings."

"Now, you sound envious."

"Well, I am. Look at our clothes, Laura. We look like sparrows. I'm tired of being cloistered. Soon the
parties and the fetes will start. I pray my brother relents before the season begins."

"Well, he might, but I've no such wish. I'll keep to the convent grease for another year without no regret.
Then I'll show Steven Templeton what metal I am made of. He'll rue the day he crossed me."

"Oh, Laura, who could last a whole year in the cloister?"

"I'd rather that than the lifelong prison Steven's got in mind for me." Laura shuddered, remembering the
dark and powerful man waiting impatiently for her to change her mind.

Lionel Templeton was so cocksure certain she give in. Little did he know!

A wicked smile curved her lips as she thought about what dear Lionel Templeton would have to say if he
knew she was on the battlement above his warehouse right now. He would have a fit even though she
and Abby were perfectly safe from treacherous and lecherous pirates, brigands and sailors. Their drab

clothing assured that.

Deep in her own thoughts, Laura scowled at the four clippers. "Suppose one of those boats is mine?"

"What?" Abby asked.

"You heard me. They are magnificent. See how their masts tilt and the carving of the figureheads!
Imagine where they are going, all around South America to San Francisco!"

"What of it?" Abby turned her face to the cooler breeze that denoted the lateness of the hour. In a short
time high tide and sunset would sweep over the land covering the greenish water.

"I should like to go sailing," Laura said.

"Oh, me, too." Abby sighed. "'Twould be wonderful to do again. If we'd the money we could have hired
a boat on the levee and sailed to our hearts content like we did that time we took the excursion from
school. You are so lucky that your father taught you how to sail on the bayous."

"I'm not talking a dingy on the lake." Laura pondered her situation most carefully. "I'm sick of
imprisonment."

"You've only been confined two weeks longer than me."

Laura grumbled, "Six weeks under Reverend Mother Elizabeth Mary's hawkish eye is fifty-four days too
many."

"She is determined."

"I should like to take a long voyage--all the way to Canton or California--at the least. A lark for free,
even. I'm going to become a stow away!" said Laura brightly.

"Bite your tongue!" Abby's deep blue eyes rounded with shock and she turned squarely to confront
Laura. "You can't be thinking of such a thing!"

"Suppose one clipper yonder is owned by Templeton, Templeton and Dunois?" Laura pointed to one
mighty ship. On its port side facing them was emblazoned the name, Neptune's Spirit.

"Suppose there was," Abby Murray asked suspiciously, "What good would it be doing you?"

"I could stow away. I most certainly could!" Laura swung her feet over the battlement wall and dropped
to the cobblestone walkway beside her friend. For a long moment, her eyes stayed on the active and
busy harbor...deep in thought. "I'll not be going back to the convent to do penance for one day of
freedom."

"It was never any question, but that we would go back before day's end," Abby protested. "You know
Reverend Mother must have people searching high and low for us. It wouldn't surprise me to discover
my brother already informed of my latest misdeed."

"Nor my uncle." Laura freely admitted.

Knowing word would have been sent immediately up the river to Clairmont did not sway Laura's resolve

in the least. The ships were sailing at high tide, well before the long arm of Steven Templeton could deter
her escape. She needed some outlet for her anger. Her tantrum at the Bank of New Orleans four hours
ago had only been a spark. The real blaze burning inside her had yet to ignite.

"Even so, I won't go back. No, I'll stay here and bide my time, quiet and unobserved and when the
crowd is the thickest, I shall sneak aboard one of those boats and pray for high tide and the weighing of
the anchor. With a race on, and a money prize of unnatural dimensions, I'll not be put back to shore."

"Laura Madeline, don't be absurd! There are terrible punishments levied on stowaways."

"Bosh. I'll wager I can work my passage scrubbing the decks of a boat as well as I can scrub dishes and
oak floors at the convent. If I am lucky, I'll get onboard a boat that I own part of. Then I'll travel in style,
having the captain's berth all the way."

"The sea is not a fitting place for a lady, Laura Madeline. We're unhappy, yes, but our life at St.
Ursuline's can't last forever. I am certain we shall both be released well in advance of the Christmas
Cotillion.

Else my brother and your uncle cannot hope to find us suitable husbands acceptable to our families."

"That is precisely what I won't ever accept. Not now!" Laura said vehemently.

Laura had not forgotten the wintry gray eyes and mocking laughter of the man who'd condemned her to
the convent walls.

"Suit yourself, my beauty," Lion had said when she had refused and refused and refused again. "Cut off
your nose to spite your face. You'll change your mind in time."

With her aunt and uncle's full approval, she'd been immediately escorted to New Orleans. There had
hardly been enough of a fight either to satisfy Laura. Being trapped inside a closed carriage with Lionel
Templeton wasn't conducive to more combat. Not when the man thought blistering a woman's derriere
satisfactorily ended all argument. Her three hour carriage ride had been painfully silent. Laura had glared
out the window the entire journey, refusing to acknowledge the man's presence.

The convent had seemed a sanctuary at first, but it was not that by any stretch of her imagination. The
doors leading in and out were all locked. The rule of silence, chastity and obedience was charged to her.
Only one of the rules did Laura keep and that was because of lack of opportunity to be anything other
than chaste.

Laura blamed one person for her imprisonment. Lionel Templeton. Every morning, when she rose in the
tiny, uncomfortable cubicle that was her newest home, she vowed some day she'd make the bastard pay!
Dearly!

So, here she was. On the battlements above New Orleans' harbor, an escapee from a convent, a
penniless heiress contemplating the worst kind of escape ever... stowing away on board a clipper ship
bound for the terrifying trip around Cape Horn.

"You cannot do it." Sweet Abby read Laura's thoughts.

"Oh, but I can," Laura resolutely replied, and with firm purpose began walking down the wide steps that
lead from the park onto the quay.

"Laura, you mustn't." Abby trailed her only so far.

The crowd on the docks had grown coarser. Even their plain gowns made no difference to the roving
eyes of toughened sailors. Abby pulled back, unwilling to take such danger upon herself, while Laura
sallied forth into the crowd, her dark head raised high and her back as stiff and proud as could be.

"Oh, no!" Abby wailed, sensing danger on all counts. Within seconds, her friend was lost in the sea of
pressing humanity.

High tide was not far off and the four clippers' sails were raised, waiting for their captain's calls to be
trimmed and sheeted into the rising wind and tide. With alarm growing in her heart, Abby whirled about
and ran back up to the park where sedate policemen patrolled and kept the dockside riffraff from
polluting the citizen's overlook of the harbor.

CHAPTER TEN

Reverend Mother Elizabeth Mary rarely ventured down Bay Street or the seamy wharves of New
Orleans, regardless of the time, day or night. When two of her young charges were reported absent
without permission by old Sister Portress, Reverend Mother had sent for the police at once.

Immediately after discussing the girls flight with the temporal powers of the city, Mother Elizabeth faced
the unpleasant duty of penning appropriate messages to their guardians. Abigail's brother resided within
New Orleans. Mother Elizabeth thought the best way to make contact with Steven Templeton would be
through his brother, Lionel, Laura Madeline's fiancee at the shipping firm. It was there that she sent her
written message of Laura Madeline's escape.

Well before noon, she had the unpleasant experience of having none other than the fierce British shipping
magnate within her office, demanding a full explanation. Despite years of training, Lord Lionel Templeton
intimidated Mother Elizabeth more on this second meeting than he had the day he'd delivered Laura
Madeline Dunois into her safekeeping.

It wasn't just his size, though Mother Elizabeth hardly reached his shoulder. The man had let his beard
grow. His jaws and cheeks were covered by the thickest, blackest, most diabolically wicked beard she'd
ever laid eyes upon.

Formidable Lord Templeton was not a man to be trifled with. He demanded answers Reverend Mother
didn't have. How did one explain how that a mere slip of a girl marched right out the convent door? How
could sister explain that prayers and penance hadn't altered Laura Madeline's temperament?

"It is obvious to me that your diet of penance and prayers make not one whit of difference in Laura
Madeline's intractability!" Lion charged heatedly. His mouth was a displeased slash in the blackness of his
beard.

"She is a very headstrong girl," Mother responded. What did the man expect her to say? Laura Madeline
was and would always be, Laura Madeline. Those of the bayous knew that and Creoles like Mother
Elizabeth, herself, didn't try to change what would always be.

Lord Templeton left in the most disgruntled of tempers, enraged by dear old Sister Portress's mistakenly
opening the gate and allowing his betrothed to exit.

Still, what was done was done in Mother Elizabeth Mary's opinion. At times God worked in unusual
ways. She could do no more than await news from the police or the network of poor souls that came to
the convent kitchens for daily food. Laura would be found, Mother Elizabeth felt certain, when Laura
Madeline wanted to be found.

Such were her thoughts until late that afternoon. Two sturdy policemen arrived with a very contrite
Abigail Murray in tow. Alarmed for her friend's safety, Abby spilled the whole story and told of Laura's
intent to stow herself away on any of the clipper ships she could.

With such horrible news at hand, Reverend Mother had rushed to New Orleans harbor accompanied by
the convent's Jesuit priest. At the warehouse office of Templeton, Templeton and Dunois, she squared
her shoulders under the ample covering of her habit and veil and went inside to inform the formidable sea
captain of his fiancee's intentions. She did not relish the task.

"Laura Madeline is doing what?" Lionel Templeton's voice thundered to the topmost rafters in his
warehouse. The small Creole nun backed up two more paces from him.

"I said," she repeated. "To the best of my knowledge, Laura Madeline intends to hide herself away on
one of the clipper ships bound for San Francisco. There is no time to lose, my lord, I've been informed
the ships are sailing at high tide. We must get to the docks and search every boat for her."

For a moment, Reverend Mother thought the man's rage had made him deaf. His eyes unfocused and his
vision was somewhere very, very distant from this uncomfortably hot office in his warehouse. He stood
stroking his beard, motionless.

The spell lasted nearly a full minute, then his gaze came back to Mother Elizabeth and he smiled. She
thought it a very wicked and gruesome smile were it really directed at her, but it wasn't. Perhaps he was
mentally relishing what he would do with Laura Madeline when he captured her. Mother Elizabeth did
not doubt for a moment that he would find the girl, and in short order, too.

"Sister, I thank you for bringing me that word immediately." Then as if he'd read her mind, he added. "I
know exactly how to handle this."

He turned about and strode from his office, bellowing like a raging bull. Mother Elizabeth had rarely seen
such a display. Within minutes, every man in the caverns of the massive warehouse had surfaced, grinding
to a halt outside the Englishman's office.

Few terse words were spoken and fewer questions asked and answered. Then Father Bernardo and
Reverend Mother were summarily dismissed.

Almost as an after thought, the Englishman abruptly asked what clothing exactly had Laura last been seen
wearing.

"Why, the novitiates habit, of course, without a veil."

"Can you not be more specific than that?" Lionel demanded tersely.

At a loss for words, Mother Elizabeth paused a moment. "It is a gray serge skirt, ankle length, of the
color of old pewter. The blouse is of cotton twill, the same color. It is buttoned to the throat, pleated for
fullness on the shoulders. Both girls left the convent wearing bib aprons front and back with a square
neck opening, belted very simply at the waist. Abby told me Laura had purchased a length of red ribbon
and tied it with a bow to her right temple. Miss Laura is of very fair complexion, green-eyed and just
exactly five foot tall. Her hair is black and extremely curly."

"Thank you." Lionel added tersely, "And prone to disguising herself with gold rimmed spectacles."

Thus armed by that precise description, he sent every man he had out to the docks with orders to search
the Clippers from stem to stern.

Earlier in the day, Lionel had concentrated his efforts on the city, sending men to scour the shops and
parks of New Orleans. None had returned with Laura Madeline in tow.

During luncheon at Lionel's club, Monsieur Bonnehomme of the Bank of New Orleans had recited a droll
tale of Miss Dunois' irritation at his teller's window. As Lion returned to his warehouse via Canal Street,
Alexandra Livesay had stopped Lion's carriage to figuratively slap his wrists for allowing his fiancee to
parade through New Orleans in the dowdy uniform of a convent girl.

Lionel Templeton found the audacity of Miss Laura Madeline Dunois to be more than a challenge. The
chit hadn't the sense God gave sparrows. His game with her had gone on long enough. Now, it was time
to act, forcefully and resolutely.

Stepping onto Bay Street Lion remained rooted to the door stoop surveying the crowded scene before
him. Finding one small woman in the sea of humanity crowded upon the quay would be no easy task.

Ale and spirits had now flowed freely for several hours. The festivities were in full swing with a raucous
band playing a lively tempo. Several horns blared from the bandstand in that curious manner found only in
New Orleans.

The mayor and other dignitaries clustered around a podium, their speeches just beginning. One hour
remained before the tide reached its peak. Each of the Clippers leaned into the wind, their sails raised
though not fully trimmed. Still the ships strained the thick ropes that held them to the quay.

Lionel marked the remaining time like sand in his palm, an hour could slip through his fingers. He could
get no fix on Laura Madeline because his sight failed him in huge crowds.

Though he had more than fifty men out searching, he didn't know which section of the milling throng to
begin searching. and that irked his methodical mind. A throaty rumble behind Lion caught his attention.
He turned to find his head longshoreman roughly clearing his throat.

"Begging your pardon, your lordship." Harry Wendles gripped his cap in massive work-scarred hands.
"We've searched the quay and there's no sign of the lady."

Wendles shook his large head, his flattened nose preceding his bulldog-jawed face from side to side. "It
might be too late to do any good on the dock, sir."

"What are you saying?"

"There's a Turkish ship berthed on C-quay, opposite the Neptune." Again Harry twisted his cap
between his hands and looked about him as if the noisy crowd had suddenly hushed and waited on his
next words with baited breath. "Word is that the Turk's are slavers, sir."

Lionel stiffened. "Here? In New Orleans?"

Harry's massive shoulders moved. "Facts, sir. It docked late last night and the crew came ashore. They
didn't head for the taverns or the whorehouses, but went uptown. Rumors have been flying all morning,
speculating. They been loading crates and were raising sails when I took the last cart down to the Regent.
I might be wrong, your lordship, but I'd bet a week's pay on what the cargo is--if you catch my drift."

For a moment Lionel forgot where he was, what he was about, damn near everything as he let his mind
sweep down to the ship. He recoiled instantly when he made contact with powerful fear and sorrow.
"We haven't a moment to lose! Masri, Wendles, get in the carriage."

Lionel paused only long enough to shout where he was going to his factor before bolting onto his open
carriage. He sat back in time not to be knocked for six as the team broke into a run. The trap clattered
onto the banquettes, literally flying down the wharf.

While his manservant, Masri ben Hazzar, negotiated the crowded quay, Lionel's eyes darkened to a
winter black, stormy and forbidding.

So the little chit wanted an adventure, did she?

By all the gods, Lionel thought darkly, Laura Madeline would have a taste of adventure big enough to
satisfy a hundred lusty wenches for years to come if she was on that corsair!

Wendles had been absolutely right. The Turkish boat was definitely set to sail. Its gangplank was
withdrawn, the sails all raised and its crew actively tying down the last of the topside cargo, nearly ready
to cast off. Lionel had barely made it in time.

Lionel recognized the boat. It was a different color from the last time he'd seen it, but there was no
mistaking the Ma sha la.

"Salaam...hello," he called out in Arabic to a dark skinned, shirtless sailor near the railing. "Is Ali Ben
Souq still captain of this heathen apparition?"

The small man skillfully coiling a rope looked down at him and a grin cut across his face. "Allah be
praised, who would suspect this water bound pesthole would send a desert prince to taunt a true
believer? Amir Bedawi, you do us honor!"

Lionel laughed at the greeting from Selim Souq. The youth grinned and hailed his uncle down from the
brig. Immediately, a plank was shoved across the water. No sooner had it touched the quay, than Lionel
and his manservant strode onto the deck.

The ruddy crew, all hail and hearty men from Tarsus and Antioch, were Moslem to the last man. A finer
crew of sailors were hard to find. Lionel was greeted warmly as he came on board.

"Salaam aleakum Lord Templeton, Amir Bedawi, you do me honor gracing the deck of my boat." Ali
Ben Souq bowed and moved his hand in a graciously, formal bow, greeting Lionel by his honorary
Arabic title as well.

"Salaam, Ali Souq, Allah be with you." Lionel returned the greeting in kind. Then both men embraced
forearms and clapped each other roughly on the back.

"Come, sit with me on the brig, it is good to see a friend again. You will join me for a smoke, we sail
soon."

"You are too kind. Though I must tell you, I have little time. I've come begging a favor."

Ali's eyes clouded shrewdly. He was a businessman second only to being a sailor. His friendship with
Amir Bedawi went back fifteen years to their boyhood, though there were no obligations to either party
in that timely association. "A favor, Amir? You wish to be indebted to me? That does not sound like
you."

Ali strode to the bright blue awning shading his boat's wheel. There two hollowed out barrel chairs were
set beside a short stave barrel serving as a makeshift table. In spite of the rudeness of the furnishings,
Ali's hospitality was gracious. Waving Lionel to the most comfortable seat, padded with a silk tasseled
cushion, Ali ordered his cabin boy to bring coffee.

Lionel made every effort to relax and assume the unhurried measure of the Arab. It was a completely
different pace than that with which he pushed through his morning. Finally, Ali Ben Souq sat back upon
his plump cushion and inquired. "What is this favor you seek, my friend?"

"A woman."

Ali grinned broadly. "I did not think the leopard had changed his spots."

"Nor will he. Truths remain inviolate. However, this woman is from Louisiana."

"Why come to me? The fine houses of this city must be bursting with women that appeal to your eye. By
Allah's beard, I have never seen so many beauties dashing to and fro in open carriages."

"It's a different world than the one we know on the Mediterranean, yes?" Lionel concurred.

"A veritable feast for the eye of an enterprising man. One would hardly know which delight to choose,
were he so inclined. Alas, I no longer traffic in such trifling matters. You see before you an honest
merchant, nothing more."

"Would you have me believe you have lost the eye for beauty, Ali?"

The Arab laughed softly. "No, Amir. Only believe that I am less enterprising now than in my younger
days. Times have changed. The world has developed a conscience, more is the pity. Then the market is
not what it used to be. I am much more selective now."

The cabin boy came forth with a tray bearing cups and a steaming pot of rich Turkish coffee. Ali filled
two cups, ceremoniously handing Lionel the first and grinned as they both tasted the strong sweet brew.
"Good, yes?"

"Excellent," Lionel said appreciatively. No one made coffee like the Turks, scalding, thick and sweet.
"The girl I am seeking came down to the docks not long ago."

"We have been here a short while, Amir, not even one full day."

"Yes, I know you docked last night and that you sail shortly. However, the time I am referring to is very
recent. She was unescorted on this very quay less than two hours ago."

Very cautiously, Ali clucked his tongue. "What kind of father would allow his most precious daughter to
come here? Tut, tut, Americans!"

"A deceased father can offer little protection." Lionel proceeded carefully.

"Ahhh, I see, but surely there would be another to replace the father's patronage....an uncle, possibly?"

"Yes. The young woman I am speaking of has been under the full protection of my brother and therefore
falls also under my wing. There is a Christian convent here in New Orleans, she has been living there for
a time."

"A convent?" Ali considered that. He sipped his coffee, ruminating over it, then filled both Lionel's and
his cup to the rim. "How fortuitous. She is a virgin, yes?"

"Aye, and she is betrothed," Lion said succinctly.

"Ahhh, then her family would pay a ransom?"

"Yes," Lionel said simply.

"Have you seen this girl, Amir?"

"I have," Lionel said the truth.

"You would recognize her?"

"Yes."

Ali paused, motioning for Lionel's cup. While he refilled a third time, as was the custom, he sighed
deeply. "What specifically is this favor you wish from me?"

Accepting the last cup of coffee, Lionel paused, thinking how exactly to phrase his request. It was tricky.
For if he insulted Ali Ben Souq, the Turk could throw him off his boat and sail away without so much as
glancing backward. Ali would be within his rights.

Lionel had no authority to have the boat searched. No one did. "Suppose a traveling man lost a valuable
jewel."

"Jewels are the impossible things to identify. Their beauty is individual, unique, they do not lend
themselves to identification, brands or marks of ownership," Ali said.

"Suppose a merchant found it." Lionel posed another hypothetical question.

"Such a windfall would be a blessing. Would the merchant not be entitled to toss such a jewel into his
trunks and travel on to his next destination, selling as he always does?"

"He would," Lionel agreed. "One does not have to question manna that falls from the sky."

"Then a value could be set. If the man who lost it, wanted it back, he could purchase the jewel." Ali ben
Souq possessed sublime reasoning. "At the next showing."

"That could be arranged most easily by the merchant displaying his wares, now, yes?" Lionel suggested
shrewdly.

Ali's face became sober. "Time is against such an arrangement. The tide is high. My business in New
Orleans is concluded. I wish you luck, my friend, in finding this jewel you have lost."

"A private showing could be arranged."

"Private showings are very troublesome. Suppose the jewel you look for is not here?"

"A quarter hour is all I would need. That would not delay you overlong."

"You do not know what you ask, Amir. You have seen my cargoes displayed many times in the most
perfect settings, after all the refinements have been made and the polish added. Everything I have
gathered below the decks is raw, uncultivated. It is like the cotton baled upon the dock. What seamstress
would buy it? No, it must be changed into the proper cloth, woven into exquisite fabric. A man such as
you, striding below the Ma sha la's decks would upset the balance. I cannot allow that."

Lionel looked away to the dock where Harry Wendles waited with his carriage. "Would you allow the
man waiting with my horse and carriage to stride through your holds?"

The request was unusual enough to take Ali Souq by surprise. He looked in the direction of Amir
Bedawi's gaze and saw a roughly dressed longshoreman of massive size. The difference between Amir
and that man was like night and day. Where Templeton's dashing, handsome looks would send every
captive woman into shrieks and pleas for assistance, the man holding the horse and carriage would make
them hide in terror.

Ali laughed. "A man like that would not recognize the jewel you seek, Amir Bedawi."

"I believe he will," Lionel replied.

"And if he does? What then?" Ali scoffed.

"We will negotiate a price," Lion replied.

"Not here," Ali said resolutely.

"Where then?"

"Havana is the only market I trust on this side of the Atlantic. I will give showing there on the 20th of
your month of December."

"Ali, do not misunderstand me. I shall not wait that long." Lionel informed him with deadly certainty.

"You want this woman for yourself?"

"Yes."

Ali frowned. That put a different light upon Amir Bedawi's request. "She is more to you than the charge
of your brother?" he asked concerned, now.

"Yes. She is my betrothed."

"I see." Ali did not want to make an enemy of the powerful shipping magnate. That would hurt his
business and his reputation. Though he rarely sailed across the Atlantic, in the Mediterranean, it was
impossible to avoid Amir's boats. Ali considered the dilemma a moment longer as he finished his second
cup of coffee. "Amir, I have one question."

"Ask it." Lion bit out his words.

"Why would a woman you have chosen come to this seamy dock of New Orleans?"

The question put Lionel on the defensive. It was near impossible to answer.

"She is foolish," he said simply. "Reckless, fearless, headstrong, and that is in praise to her better
qualities. However, she has eyes the color of the summer leaves, skin like alabaster and lips as deeply
red as rubies. Her hair is as black as midnight with curls in it like Allah's own fingers swirled through it.
She was seeking to run away, hide herself on one of the clippers and by doing so, evade her impending
marriage to me."

"You would marry such a headstrong female?"

"I may kill her when I get my hands on her."

Amir's words rang true. A master at hiding his true emotions, the cool Englishman seethed with a rage
that Ali recognized as a very dangerous threat. It would not be wise to thwart such a man. Ali made his
decision at last.

"Bring your man on board. I will allow him to pass through my holds." Ali stood up, the interview at an
end. Lionel strode to the rail and waved Harry Wendles on board the boat while Lion could do no more
than wait on the deck, agonizing, anxiously smoothing his palm across his beard.

Five, six minutes went by, meanwhile the dock seemed to surge with people crowding ever closer to the
clippers. The din made it impossible to think over the crowd noise. Lion could get no fix upon Laura
Madeline.

Each time he opened his mind to her, he was buffeted back by the surging emotions of the crowd. The
sun dipped closer to the horizon. The tide ran in, as high as it would be this day.

Down the quay a gun signaled the beginning of the race. His Regent's Prize, was the first to break away
from the dock.

Harry Wendles came back then, shaking his large head somberly as he reported, "She's no below,
milord. There's plenty of ladies aboard, but not a dark-haired lass among the lot. These Arabs taste must

run to lighter hair."

A wash of short-lived relief flooded Lionel. He thanked Ali Souq for his help. Before he could leave the
Turkish boat, the last clipper cast off. All four heeled into the wind.

Lionel gripped the railing of the Ma sha la, unable to do anything, save sweeping them with his mind. As
always with Laura Madeline, he was blocked from reaching her.

The race was on and his own Regent's Prize was a sight to see, its prow cutting into the waves, surging
forward lengthening its lead.

Seeing the misery exposed naked and raw on Lord Templeton's face, Ali laid his hand on his shoulder to
comfort him. "I am sorry, Amir. Were this jewel on my boat, I would gladly give her to you."

"I'm sorry I wasted your time, sir," Harry Wendles said miserably.

"Damn!" Lionel slammed his fist onto the rail, swearing in frustration. His gut told him she had to be on
one of the clippers, but which one he could not tell at this moment in time. Maybe once they were out to
sea his mind would clear. "I will have to make ready the Syracuse and go after them."

He swung around venting his frustration on a glare at the boisterous crowd that interfered with his gift of
sight. The multitude cheered exultantly, men waving caps, ladies white kerchiefs. A stirring tribute for the
departing ships, but Lion felt not one ounce of elation. Painfully, his eyes swept down the spectators
crowded onto the wharf, scanning brightly colored dresses and for the most part, somber colors of the
men.

A fluttering white apron caught his eye only because it snapped in the strong breeze at such a radically
different height than the waving handkerchiefs. The clothing under it was gray. Lionel gripped the
gunwale, leaning hard against it.

"Harry!" He hit his man hard on the shoulder, pointing. "Harry, look there, in the crowd. Do you see the
white apron?"

"Yer lordship?" Harry came about slowly, his eyes on the clippers still.

"Look there, Harry! By the six pylons looped with docking ropes," Lion shouted.

"Have you found her, Amir?" Ali turned also, looking where his friend pointed.

"Get down there, Harry," Lionel rasped. "Don't let her get out of your sight."

"Aye, aye, Cap'n." Harry shot away, moving with an agility that was surprising for a man of his immense
size.

"Amir!" Ali caught Lionel's arm, staying him, while he rapidly fired orders to six of his crew, lingering
near the gunwale. "You might need help, my friend."

Ali grinned as his men raced down the gangplank, their bare feet soundless and swift, leaving lumbering
Harry in their wake. "Do not worry, Amir, she will not escape my men and the crowd will keep her right
where she is for several minutes."

"Do not hurt her in any way," Lionel called after them.

His caution made Ali burst into laughter again.

"You are besotted, Amir."

"No, I want the pleasure of killing her, myself," he countered grimly. He started to follow the men then
stopped abruptly.

Lord God, he was furious beyond control. Not even killing Laura Madeline inch by inch would pay her
back for the agony he'd suffered this day. Suddenly, an idea occurred to him, a shocking idea. He turned
back to Ali Ben Souq and said, "Ali, what will you take for this ship?"

"My ship?" Ali's bushy eyebrows knitted together and he laughed bluntly. "What need would a great
captain like you have for an old corsair of the size of Allah's Will?"

"I fear I will need all of Allah's will to pull off the ruse I have in mind, my friend. The jewel we've
discussed is in serious need of having her tempers changed and some lessons learned."

Ali shook his head. "A willful woman's tempers can be changed quickest with bastinado."

What the Turk said was patently true. Lionel added, "But without bringing love. It is not an obedient
concubine I desire, but a wife whose devotion is beyond reproach."

"How can I help you?"

"Sell me this ship. As it sits right now, loaded, ready for departure from this port."

"Sell my ship?" Ali burst into laughter again, the idea so preposterous it was beyond considering. "Why
should I sell the only means I have of returning home? This pest hole of swamps and greenery is not for
me."

"Look across the bay, my friend. The fastest boat ever built by Thomas McKay's shipyard of Boston
lays at anchor in the harbor. It's the Syracuse. I'll trade you that for the Ma sha la. My crew will train
yours to sail it. She's loaded with refined sugar, cotton and wheat, ready this moment to sail the Atlantic.
Ali, you will be the envy of the Mediterranean with such a ship, nay the Seven Seas. In the Syracuse you
will be able to sail from Alexandria to Istanbul in three days time."

"In three days?" Ali said, amazed. "You would give up such a ship for a woman that runs away from
you, Amir?"

Without thinking, Lionel snapped, "I want to possess her, body and soul and I will need more than a
miracle to accomplish that. Do you take my offer?"

Ali Souq was too shrewd to give Lionel Templeton time to think twice. The Turk grinned, knowing
exactly the bend of Amir's mind. Desire thwarted reason. "Aye, I'll take your offer with one exception.
Syracuse is no fitting name for a true believer's boat. I will rename it Kahraman Hizam for the amber
bottom that dips into the water's swells."

"One thing more."

"Anything, Lord Templeton, I am your indebted servant."

"I want an Arabic speaking crew."

"You will need an eunuch if you wish to have your deception work, Amir."

"Yes, I will," Lionel said thoughtfully, his mind racing ahead with details.

Lionel swivelled full about, scanning the shore, the seething mass of people on the quay and lastly his gaze
came to rest upon his own faithful servant, Masri. The elder had had stood patiently aside, waiting his
next order after following Lion on board the ship. Once a eunuch surgeon to the harem of Sultan
Mehomet, the viceroy of Egypt, Masri had served Amir Bedawi, Lionel Templeton faithfully from the day
Lionel had freed him. As was proper in the company of others, the ex-slave's face was devoid of
expression.

Lionel stared at the Egyptian who hadn't aged a day to Lion's eyes in the past decade. All at once, Lion
slammed his hand against his head, shouting, "Great Caesar's ghost, Masri, you will be my eunuch!"

"I, Lord Templeton?" the Arab surgeon asked. "You would honor me with such a task for you?"

"Yes, you can play the part. Who better than a surgeon of impeccable reputation for such a task?"

"Amir, I am yours to command, always." Masri bowed, his loyalty never to be questioned. Lion had
saved his life and given him freedom and respect as a human being. If he lived another hundred years, he
could not repay the debt.

Ali's prodigious brow knotted before his mouth split in a grin that released a belly full of laughter. "You
amaze me with how quickly you revert to the barbarian. I must see this woman who has conquered you,
Amir Bedawi."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The exultant crowd screamed as the signal gun went off.

Tension ran across the quay as everyone leaned forward to see which of the great ships might take the
lead. A brassy band of horns and snare drums fanned the populace to a fevered pitch. Unhampered by
hoops and crinolines, Laura had no impediments in squeezing her way to the very water's edge. That was
as far as she got.

Both the Neptune and the Regent's Prize had snappy, alert crews, drilled to precision, even when they
swung would-be stowaways by their arms and legs, giving them the old heave-ho into the bay before the
ships left port.

She laughed with the rest of the crowd over that, glad that she had changed her mind about doing

anything that foolish herself. In the heat of the moment, her mouth had gotten the best of her. Like always.
Laura really had better sense than to do any such a thing.

No, Laura decided, when the show was over, she would turn herself around and head back to the levee
at Barracks Street. The long walk promised to be daunting. So did the certainty that punishment awaited
her. Still, she deemed her day of freedom well worth any price.

In less than a year, she would be emancipated by time itself. The full terms of her father's will would
come to pass.

Uncle Steven and that hideous brother of his...well! Laura smiled as her eyes feasted upon the trimmed
sails of the Regent's Prize...dear Lionel Templeton...with his seductive eyes and fierce kisses, why he'd
be foxed!

At twenty-one she would marry by choice, not by order! And her choice would never be someone so
autocratic, so dominating and thoroughly unbending as Lionel Templeton.

As Laura dwelled on her pleasant future, the race began and the clippers cast off their mooring ropes.
The crowd screamed. Whatever thoughts Laura had flew out of her mind entirely. She was pressed to
the thick retaining rope as the people behind her surged forward.

God, it was a sight to see! Filled sails on tilted masts, bellowing with the wind! Laura felt the thrill, the
majesty, the power. For a minute, she quite forgot to breathe.

The Regent's Prize heeled hard into the wind, its masts and wood groaning, its passengers' handkerchiefs
fluttering against the hard wind. That clipper skimmed the water, master of it.

Laura couldn't take her eyes from the proud, elegant and beautiful ship despite the fact it bore a hated
Union Jack as its colors.

People jostled all around her, cheering, waving, shouting good luck and God speed, betting on their
favorites, feeling just as she did, excited to be part of such a show. If she'd had any money, Laura would
have placed her own bet on the race, or better, taken bets.

Like every person on the dock, Laura was awed by the sight before her. The sailors of every ship
scrambled into the riggings. The Gulf waters brimmed with a flotilla of small boats, forming an escort.
Horns blew on the steamers and paddle wheelers. Every church bell in New Orleans peeled at once. The
blare of the rowdy band of horns and drums was lost in the swelling noise.

Straining against the rope that held her safe, Laura leaned into the brisk wind, laughing as it lashed her
face and sent salty spray into the air. She waved her own handkerchief, screaming good-byes until she
was hoarse.

Where once, the Regent's Prize had loomed above her head, so large and intimidating, it was slipping
away becoming a small, toy-like leader in the race. "There's the one I'd put my money on," Laura said to
the woman on her right.

"Not me!" The sturdily built matron laughed. "Tis the Neptune I'd bank my gold on. If I had any!"

Laura stood the jostling from behind. The crowd pushed to the front just as they did at horse races when
the pack went into a turn. Bracing herself, Laura gripped the rope tighter, no longer waving her kerchief.

The wet planking of the wharf slipped under her leather soled shoes. Her feet left the ground for
heartbeats at a time. A steadying hand went to her waist. In this crowd, one expected to be buffeted like
a leaf before the wind.

"Oh, thank you," Laura said automatically, thinking it was the stout woman gripping her to make certain
she didn't fall into the surging water. It wasn't the woman. It was a shirtless man whose skin was the color
of coffee. He smelled vile and sweaty.

Laura crinkled her nose daintily, grateful for his assistance in regaining her footing, but put out by his
stench. The thick rope cut into her stomach, stanching her ability to breathe.

"Here, now, lassie!" Another neighbor laid a strong hand on her arm, gripping her so tightly, Laura
winced. "We'll not be fetching you out of the drink. Mind your step!"

"Then stop pushing, yourself!" Laura said sharply.

The man was rude, rough looking. She gave him a taste of her lady-like disdain and turned her attention
back to the ships. She supposed she had to put up with some jostling of the riffraff. Still, it was too much
to put up with being handled so freely.

She became uncomfortably aware there was another shirtless man too near her. What happened next
was deliberate. She felt a push at her locked knees. Both buckled under her and she slipped. The heavy
rope was of no use whatsoever. It was too big for her hands to grip. It went zip, past her, and she was
falling, literally pushed off the dock, by the press of the crowd, itself.

Laura's arm wrenched painfully out of the beefy man's grip. One minute she was dangling precariously
over the bilious water, the next she was falling freely. She hit like a stone, sinking, cotton serge and
leather shoes acting like dead weight.

Though she knew how to swim well, the fall caught her unawares. So did the temperature of the water,
for the day had not been cold in any way, comfortable and sunny, too. Her clothes, never meant for
immersion in water, acted like a ball and chain, limiting her movements immediately. Her face broke
water underneath the pier, gasping to renew her air supply.

The hour was late and the sun slanting, the shadows under the pier long and dark. Laura blinked salty
spray from her eyes and shook her head to clear it. She sought bearings, saw a rough hewn ladder nailed
to one of the massive piers. Treading water, Laura realized she wasn't alone. The shirtless man had
jumped in after her, probably intending to save her not to bathe. Beginning her own swim to safety, Laura
informed him, "I can swim. Save yourself."

The man grinned. It was an odd, devilish grin. He had black eyes in his swarthy face. A better swimmer
than she was, he caught her and held her up where she could catch her breath as the next onslaught of
tidal waves crashed under the piers. The weight of her skirt and shoes made her legs almost useless. The
undertow took them both deep in the wave's curl. For a terrifying moment, her lungs burned before her
head broke water.

Hastily, Laura gulped for air, this time not fighting the man's superior strength. He was lithe and wiry,
unhampered by voluminous clothing. Swinging one secure arm across her chest, stroking deftly with his
other he moved both of them toward the nearest hull to the other side of the pier, using the current
instead of fighting it.

Laura saw the wisdom of that. Sensibility overcame her fright. The weedy, barnacle covered underside of
the pier gave way to open sky between the pier and the ships.

Then, she saw a freely swinging rope and tackle skimming over the water. The dragging weight of her
clothing slowed the raising of her hand against it. A sheet of water splashed in her face, blinding her, and
a dull thud exploded in her head. Stars and the accompanying bolt of pain was the last thing she
remembered.

Fear surged through the crew of the Ma sha la until Selim Souq was safely hauled over the gunwale. His
left arm hung from its socket, limp and twisted, possibly broken where the swinging dock tackle had
cracked into him.

If not for the immediate action of Amir Bedawi, both Ali and the girl might have drowned. Lord
Templeton threw off his coat and dived into the water, surfacing with the woman. He passed her to
strong hands on deck then dived again and again until he'd found Ali and brought him to the surface.

Now as water ran from his clothing, Amir knelt beside the unconscious woman. She lay on the decking,
drenched and limp as a dishrag. Masri checked her breathing, turning her head, feeling the knot above
her ear.

Lionel was shaken by the nightmare that had unfolded right before his eyes. The block and tackle broke
free of its anchoring high above the loading dock and arced across the water at Selim and Laura. No
shouts or warning could avoid impact.

Ali Souq put his hand on Lionel's shoulder. "I will be forever in your debt, my friend."

"I owe you my life, Amir Bedawi," Selim Souq said from somewhere behind Lionel, admiration and
respect sounding above the pain in his voice.

"She is just dazed, Amir," Masri quietly assured them all. He had opened her eyes and examined them,
listened to her steady breathing and checked her pulse at her wrists. It was strong, elevated from the
exertion of her swim.

"Did you have to knock her in the water?" Lionel growled at Selim in Arabic.

"Amir, Allah told me it was the quickest way to deliver her into your hands." Selim explained, chagrined.

"It might have been difficult to bring her screaming and resisting through the crowd, Amir," Ali Ben Souq
added quietly, managing with a reasonable voice to lower the hostility rising in Amir Bedawi. "Selim may
have been the instrument Allah used, but the woman is at your feet. Her destiny lies in your hands."

Checking for himself the lump above Laura's left ear, Lionel had to think again. She was not bleeding.
Her lungs were clear. What Ali said was true. Then it came back to him, what he was doing on the quay,
the humiliating day in its entirety. Laura didn't deserve a single scrap of sympathy.

It was a blessing in disguise that she was rendered unconscious and not by his design. She could raise no
fuss about where she was, what condition she was in, nor where the boat went. Seeing this opportunity
clearly, as Allah's endorsement to his impetuous plan, Lionel spoke to Masri.

"You will see that she is kept apart from the crew and take her well being as your sole responsibility?"

"Yes, Amir."

"Then install her in a suitable cabin. Treat her accordingly. Ali Souq and I will return shortly."

Back at his warehouse bills of sale and manifests were prepared, signed and quickly transferred. Lionel
sent for a hastily packed valise, and dictated a letter to his brother to inform Steven of the days turn of
events and Lionel's intentions.

Ali laughed as they departed for the docks again. "The drenched little package we hauled onto the boat
appeared much too small to be of any value at the slave markets. Are you certain you will get your
money's worth, my Lord Amir?"

"Yes, and then some," Lionel replied in Arabic.

Ali had reservations. Time had passed since they'd first struck the deal. He was ill at ease. "This is too
great a sacrifice."

"How so?" Lionel could see no flaw in his more than generous exchange.

"I am indebted to you for the life of my nephew. That and the boat you have traded to me, it is too
much."

"Ali, don't back out on me, now. I need your boat. It's the only way I'll ever get to that woman."

"Ah, yes, the woman." Ali rubbed his cheek. "One woman is not enough payment. I will give you all my
women."

That floored Lionel. He dragged his fingers through his hair. He'd forgotten about the cargo of Ali's boat
in preparing the manifest and transferring the documents. This was going to be a problem. "I don't need a
boatload of women, Ali. One is sufficient agony."

"They are yours, Amir," Ali said resolutely. "Otherwise, we have no bargain. Sail to Havana. Keep my
arrangements there. A man such as you should never let one female entrap you. Keep them, use them, or
if you want, sell them. You may tire of the one that vexes you."

Lionel wasn't about to sour the deal he'd made by arguing now. "So be it. I'll think of something to do
with them."

"A wise man always does." Ali chuckled satisfactorily. Their bargain complete.

Under the cover of darkness the Ma Sha La sailed next to the Syracuse moored in the open harbor. The
Arabs transferred their belongings to the other boat and Lionel took possession of the Ma sha la.

Releasing the living cargo of Ali Souq's boat was not an activity Lionel Templeton wished to engage in
while the Harbor Master of New Orleans might be privy to the exchange.

Before he could do that, he had to separate the two boats and interview the women first. He went below
decks with Harry Wendles holding a lantern aloft to see them.

Perhaps he'd expected too much, remembering auctions he'd seen in his youth when he'd first sailed into
the Mediterranean. There was not an innocent among the tarts. Each appeared to have spent much time
carousing the streets and docks of New Orleans. Lionel doubted there was a woman younger than thirty
standing before him and each was bold enough to make him bawdy offers. One flat refused to be put to
shore, saying she'd gladly stay after meeting him.

Captain Roberts, late of the Syracuse, found the transaction a little unusual, but he accepted Lionel's
instructions to see the women rowed back to New Orleans, paid well for their trouble and released to
their own recognizance.

Lionel thought it would be several days before any serious sailing by Ali Souq's crew was done at all. He
selected five Arabic speaking men off the Syracuse to join him on the Ma sha la.

Once the living cargo was dispensed with, Lionel wasted no time sailing the corsair out in the Gulf Sound.
The Ma sha la's sails were taut and the swift boat cut a path for the deep, open waters of the Gulf of
Mexico. As the sun rose on the twenty-first of November, there was not a glimpse of land in any
direction.

He weighed anchor in open waters. His first order followed. The Ma sha la would be scrubbed from
stem to stern before Lion decided on his course. They remained at anchor two days before the ship
passed his final inspection.

During that time his hasty plans became more detailed and involved. Masri had installed Laura in a
cubicle cell in the hold for the duration. There, she could see nothing, hear nothing, nor did any of the
crew see or hear her.

Lionel had already made up his mind the only person Laura would see for days was Masri. Until Lion's
tan deepened he did not dare confront her.

The morning he decreed the ship ready to sail, Lionel took the helm in hand and had the anchor raised.
By then his crew had become accustomed to the rules of this voyage, spoke Arabic as if they'd been
born to it, and swaggered about shirtless and barefoot in saffron pantaloons.

Lionel grinned like a cat that had feasted upon many canaries, certain that he could pull off a deception
that would put bold little Laura Madeline Dunois in her place for all time to come. She deserved it.

"Where to, Cap'n?" his first mate asked.

"Veracruz, Mexico, first. The green tea and black pepper in the holds will fetch a good sum there and the
sun on the voyage will be good for my purposes. Then I believe we'll sail to Havana. I've a penchant to
discover who it is that freely sponsors white slaver's there. Once there, I will make up my mind what
direction to pursue. Most likely it will be to the Canaries then Casablanca, Morocco."

"Begging your pardon, your Lordship, but you haven't lost your mind have you? We're not taking up
slave running are we?"

"Nay, we've got a cargo to get rid of and a honeymoon voyage for me to enjoy. We'll knock about and
sail for the fun of it. The young lady taken below is the wench that's refused me so many times."

"Is she addled, sir?"

"Armand Dunois only daughter."

"Oh." Tom Wellen understood then. "Word about New Orleans was that she was the prettiest of the
season's comers...and the richest."

"She's all of that."

"Sir, it's not my business...but shouldn't you marry the girl, first?"

"I have tried, Tom. She's a stubborn one. Armand allowed her to acquire some far-fetched ideas. I've a
mind to change a few of them. We'll play the merry pirates while we do. Are you up to it, lad?"

"We're all dressed the part though, it's been twenty years since the Barbary Coast was shut down." Tom
waved a hand at his yellow pants and scarlet sash. He leaned his head into the wind and laughed heartily
and Lionel did the same.

CHAPTER TWELVE

"You must eat, little gray bird," The words spoken were in Arabic.

Laura's were snarled back in English, "Go away!".

The huge black bully used his hands to make his meaning clear, a monstrous paw gripped her shoulder
and shook her. She retaliated by twisting away and gesturing towards the door. They understood each
other completely in spite of the language barrier.

"The food will make you stronger." A white smile gleamed in his shiny mahogany face, as he offered a
plate of succulent and tempting veal and fruit. Laura had learned his name, Masri, but had not begun to
tolerate him in the least.

Laura had come to on the deck of the ship, drenched and shivering with a pain in her head that was
unbelievable. Opening her eyes and seeing herself surrounded by a mob of shirtless, babbling men, had
rattled her worse than the blow to her head. She knew she was on the Zouave ship.

Insisting she was fine, when she really wasn't, she'd staggered to her feet, determined to get back to the
dock. She had been foiled in that effort by this same huge black man who brought food to her. He had
effortlessly hoisted her across his shoulder and taken her below decks.

Shut away in a tiny, dark, airless cubicle, panic and raw fear nearly strangled her. Abby was right. The
horrible ship was a slaver...a white slaver!

There were other captives. Laura heard their cries for help, their screams, their heart-rending tears.
Throughout that whole first night, Laura had kept one fearful ear pressed to the door, listening to the
rattle of keys, the sounds of locks snapping, doors banging open, orders and shouts...all in a language she

couldn't understand.

More than one woman screamed bitterly as she was dragged from her cell...for what purpose Laura
could only imagine. To be used, of course, as helpless women were always used.

Laura was shocked. Cold, numb and terrified.

When the lock on her own door was undone, panic shot through her. The huge black slave entered with
dry clothes and meal, a pitcher of water. Masri had pointed to the clothes and the food and left her.

Laura's instincts for survival took over. Her clothing was cold and wet, clammy against her skin. The
clothing offered was odd, foreign...like the clothing these strange men wore, blowzy pants and vests.

Her spectacles were gone, probably at the bottom of the bay of New Orleans. Even without them, she
could see that what should have been a shirt wasn't by half. It was completely inadequate, not to mention
scandalous, leaving her midriff and arms bare. However, they were dry and she put them on.

The pantaloons and vest of a roughly woven cotton, made her feel awkward and half-naked. Maybe it
was all the extra clothing they had, she told herself. Maybe she was lucky to have even that offered to
her.

Laura made three assumptions. One, she was well locked within the confines of this small, strange cabin
and she wasn't getting out of her own accord. Two, until someone came forward speaking a language she
understood, she was unlikely to have any explanation regarding her status. And third, if she didn't see to
her own survival it was doubly certain, she wouldn't.

Nursing a sickening headache, she ate the odd food.

It did not sit well on her stomach. Hungry as she was from a day's reckless adventure where she and
Abby had had to settle for sweets that a few pennies could buy, Laura was famished and could have
eaten her weight in potatoes, beef and gravy.

Masri had given her a bowl of seasoned rice and no spoon, fork or knife. It was obvious, she was
expected to eat with her fingers, like a barbarian. That was clearly what he was, including the heathen
that had deliberately shoved her off the pier into the water. Now she knew that push had been
intentional.

The poor candle gutted before the night ended and no portholes allowed light inside her prison. A small
iron grill high on the narrow door let a murky gray light into the cell, letting her know it was day, but it
was so high, she could not see out it, even on tiptoes.

The boat rocked at anchor a long time. In the Gulf, Laura deducted by the waves that were too strong
for inland waters. They could have gone very far from New Orleans in the night, but she prayed she
would be able to swim ashore.

Not long after daybreak, Masri brought her another tray of food, no more appetizing than the first, and a
large pitcher of water and china basin. From the pocket of his pantaloons he produced a carved bar of
sweetly scented soap and grinned like an idiot as he handed it to her with a soft towel.

Laura washed her face and hands after he'd gone, using the majority of the water and the soap to rinse
saltwater out of her convent under clothing. She spread them out to dry. As airless as the cubicle was,

drying would take forever.

The day grew long. The cell became stuffy, hot from lack of ventilation. Laura paced from wall to wall,
fighting the urge to sleep, willing herself to remain alert and awake so when the opportunity came, she
could use the basin as a club.

Frequently, in her pacing, she checked her clothes, impatient for them to dry so she could put them back
on and regain her modesty.

It must have been midday when the locked door was opened by a man as black as Masri. Where Masri
was softly rounded, the other man was just as imposingly large but hard as a rock. They were dressed
identically, in saffron pantaloons, black vests only the second's thick belt held a wicked looking, curved
blade scimitar and a deadly snake-like kris dagger. Laura pressed against the furthermost wall, glaring at
the two of them.

Masri brought in a silver tray. He smiled and bowed formally. The other pulled the door shut and the
outside bolt shot home.

"Get out!" Laura shouted as Masri placed the tray on the narrow bunk. He babbled incoherently and
bowed again, making gracious gestures toward the food on the silver tray. Explaining something, he
picked up Laura's serge skirt and blouse, her shift, pantaloons, chemise, petticoat, and torn stockings.

"What do you think you're doing?" Laura launched from her position at the bulkhead corner. When he
lifted her shoes from the floor, it came clear to her he was going to leave, taking her clothes with him.
Indecency of dress was forgotten in the need to retain her possessions.

Small she might be, but no one on this boat was taking her convent clothes away, period! She wouldn't
allow that. Brushing her aside as if she was no more than an annoying flea, Masri departed. The other
man slammed the door in her face and locked it.

Laura's strung out nerves snapped. She screamed and kicked on the door, demanding to see the captain
of the boat. She wanted out, wanted explanations, wanted home, wanted Uncle Steven's protection,
wanted a gun and knife to kill these bastards that held her prisoner.

One would have to have been dead not to hear her. Her anger increased. Turning to the only thing in the
room that could be wrecked, Laura sent the silver platter and its steaming contents against the wall, then
ripped apart the crude bed.

Tossing a blanket did nothing to alleviate her anger. Heaving the thin mattress onto the floor, laid bare a
rope lattice, no slats.

Masri had left the tray and she used that on the door, battering the chased silver noisily. She pried the
turned edge into the frame. The tray bent, totally useless against the heavy door and lock.

That only frustrated Laura more, for she was bent on gaining her freedom at any cost. All the effort to
pound the door apart with her bare hands and feet exhausted her. She stubbornly refused to give up,
even when the noise the silver tray made was as weak as she was becoming. Her voice rasped, hardly a
croak. She used up every curse she could imagine then leaned weakly against the door, resting.

Without warning, the door suddenly burst open, sending Laura sprawling onto the floor. It was full dark,
both within and without. All at once this great black figure towered over her. The two men at his back

were small by comparison.

Laura's eyes moved upward, taking in black boots, voluminous cloak hiding massive shoulders and no
telling what else. Of his face, only a pair of obscured eyes beneath black as coal brows was all she could
see. His shrouded head nearly touched the rafters. Sweet Jesus, Laura thought.

This was the most terrifying apparition she had ever seen in her life. Scrambling to her feet, she
attempted to restore her dignity. "Are you the captain of this boat?"

Lionel's eyes swept the tornado-like destruction, coming to rest on the small termagant. Showing
admirable courage, Laura Madeline was rattled only briefly by his assassin's appearance. High color
rushed into her cheeks and she unleashed a tirade of hoarse demands.

"I demand you return my clothing and that this boat return to New Orleans at once, sir! You have no
right to hold me on this ship. You will give me your name and I will report you to the Port Authority of
New Orleans. I also demand to see your Letter of Marque and to know which country your colors
represent. Be assured, your license will be revoked and all trade with the United States will be terminated
when I am done with you!"

It was an impressive little speech, delivered regally, her scanty attire not withstanding. Lionel let his eyes
drift downward assessing. That unnerved her probably more than his silence. "Parlez vous Francois?"

Laura's locked, shaking knees almost buckled on hearing the man's throaty question. She'd delivered all
of her bravado in that speech and he hadn't understood a single word! "Oui, je parle francois," she said
precisely.

"Eh bien, mademoiselle," Lionel continued speaking in French, "Before I exercise my right to beat you
senseless, understand that destruction of my property will not be tolerated."

Accompanying his ultimatum, his hand snapped across

her shoulder and sent her sprawling onto the mattress and blanket-strewn floor. It was a push more than
a slap, but one intended to convey to her the uselessness of her demands.

"You struck me!" Laura sputtered, outraged, pushing herself upright. "Coward! Animal! I am half your
size!"

"A condition you had best consider limiting." The horrible man swooped down upon her like a bird of
prey. One second Laura was sprawled at his feet, in the next she was spinning through the air. Her hair
whipped around, blinding her own eyes. He moved too rapidly for the sickening pounding in her head.

Laura screamed, literally terrified of her fate now. She hadn't known there was anyone as evil as this on
board the boat when she'd started her tantrum. She'd have kept damn quiet if she had.

Her head bounced against the hardness of his shoulder.

She breathed the stale, dampness of the hold one minute. The next she tasted salt air and felt a hard
wind whip against her face. She cleared her mouth of loose hair so she could shriek as he said in
understandable French, "I have heard all the screaming I will endure."

"You haven't heard anything yet, you bastard!" Laura informed him. "Why, you motherless son of a pig,

you can't treat me this way! I'm an American citizen! Release me this instant!"

All at once her hair cleared her eyes and she blinked

at a fading watery sunset. Whipping her head from side to side, Laura gulped. There was no trace of land
in any direction. The boat heaved on the choppy sea. The man's harsh grip on her waist cut off more of
her air supply.

"You wish to be released...at once?" His words were guttural, low and threatening in her ear. He had
stopped at a the port side gunwale. As he effortlessly hoisted her higher, his other arm swept her legs up,
high over the rail.

The threat couldn't have been cleared.

Laura screamed in terror as he leaned over the railing, moving his arms as though to throw her into the
roiling waves.

Panic hit. "No! Don't! For the love of God, don't!" She struggled against his seemingly determined motion
to get rid of her. "I'll shut up!"

He held her suspended over the water, testing her words. Laura clutched at his neck determined that if
he let her drop into the water, he was going with her.

The test ended at her silence. She was brought safely back over the deck, then roughly thrown over the
man's shoulder like a sack of grain.

Immediately the pain in her head swamped her and the nausea in her empty stomach made her too dizzy
to keep her eyes open. She clamped her hands over her mouth, shutting her eyes tightly.

He hadn't taken all that many jarring steps, but those steps took them indoors, out of the lash of the wind.
He put her down upon a soft, cushioned surface. Laura's eyes opened instantly. She saw a silk-draped
canopy above her and knew at once she was on a bed. She threw her hands to her sides, pushing
upwards, seeing the man in black turn away from her and storm to the open door.

She knew his rotten maneuvers at the railing was a hideous attempt to intimidate her.

"Coward!" Reverting to English, she hissed at his retreating back. "Brute! Your charade of force leaves
me cold!"

She sat up in a wide tester bed swathed in silk hangings, in a cabin room with closed windows, lanterns
and fittings. Scrambling off the bed, Laura grabbed the nearest thing at hand, a pillow and heaved it at the
monster just as he reached the door.

She looked around desperately for a chair or a piece of furniture to hoist and clobber him. "I'll make you
rue the day you took me prisoner, you barbarian! I'll burn your damn boat to a cinder!"

The black apparition turned to find Laura shinnying up a bedpost. She reached for a swinging lantern,
stretching her arm full out to grasp it. The punched pattern tin was cold. The wick unlit. But it was heavy,
and would do for a weapon.

As he came at her, Laura retreated to the opposite corner. Her feet sank into the soft feather bed. The

boat heeled, rising on a rough wave, giving her more height above his towering frame.

"Don't you come near me!" Laura held the lamp in a way that it would be a club to bash him. "This is the
only warning, you get. You will turn this boat around and return me to New Orleans, or I'll set fire to it."

Lionel halted amazed by her courage. By God, she was a spitfire vision of boldness. Beneath her skimpy
vest, her fair skin glowed in the light from the other lantern that remained hooked to the rafter. Her bare
arms were as white as her belly. He put his hand to her midriff, steadying her as the boat plunged into the
trough of the wave.

"Oh!" Laura gasped, shocked by the heat of his hand on her bare skin. She swung the lantern with both
hands, furiously. He caught the crudely wielded weapon, taking it from her grip, lifting her at the same
time.

"C'est plus qu'il n'en faut!" Lionel exclaimed, telling her that was enough. Coal oil splattered on the floor
as the lantern hit the nearby wall. Her hands turned to fists, pounding at his head and shoulders.

Deftly, he snatched a silken cord from the draping on the bed, forcing her hands together in front of her,
as she screamed, "Unhand me, you cad!"

He wound the strong cord around her wrists, knotting them swiftly and securely. Laura kicked and
screamed shrilly against such brutish treatment.

For an agonizing minute, she fought with all her might against the hard, dominating body pressing into her
on the closest level imaginable, while he raised her hands high above her head and tied them securely to
the bedpost. Her heart raced and her breathing shattered.

The knots tightened painfully when she struggled against them. He pressed harshly against her, enjoying
the frantic twisting of her torso and flaying of her legs. Deliberately tormenting her, his hands slid slowly
down her arms.

"You are unhanded, houri, do you find this more to your liking?" He snapped her open mouth shut with
the flick of a hard finger.

Panting with helpless fury, Laura watched in growing horror as the Arab examined her tautly stretched
body.

"You just wait, you heathen!" Laura found her voice at last, hissing hatefully in revived English. "I want off
this stinking boat! Now! You have no right to detain me!"

The tiny cabin wasn't near big enough to contain Laura's seething temper, much less handle what was
coming to her from this man. He called for his servant. Masri came into the minute cabin, wiped up the
spilled oil and took away the remaining lanterns.

With the shutting of the door, all available light was gone. Laura could barely make out the shrouded
figure, no more. "Well, you've made your point, damn you. Untie me now!"

He came closer, his robes rustling ominously. She could smell him, a dark dusky-scented male,
powerful, possibly deadly. Laura's courage seemed wrung out. Already her shoulders ached from the
strain of being tied too high for her height. His hand came out of the shrouding, reaching out to her. It was
warm, hot on her skin as he touched her bare waist.

"I said, untie me, you bastard!" she said in French.

"And I have said I will have silence from you," he intoned in ominous accents. >From inside the folds of
his cape he withdrew a knife, a deadly looking blade that caught what little light there was.

Laura gasped as he slid the blade between her breasts. Cold steel touched her skin, the edge as sharp as
a razor. He drew it forward, cutting the cotton garment into pieces that fell negligently to the floor. Only
then did he stand back a pace to sheathe the blade and look at her in the dim light.

"Don't you dare touch me!" Laura hissed, outraged at his ability to render her half naked in the blink of an
eye. She shook with fear long before she felt the press of his callused hands upon naked skin. The touch
began at her bound wrists and came slowly down her arm until he'd captured each breast and caressed
them skillfully.

Taunting her, he chuckled as his thumbs circled the aureoles of her breasts again and again. Choking on
the fright welling inside her, Laura whispered, "Please, don't!"

"Ah, now you relent and soften, my little vixen." Lionel crooned into the shell of her ear, using his breath
skillfully to fan the flames of desire in her. She shuddered involuntarily, twisting against her restraints.

"I haven't," Laura cried out. "You have me tied and bound and helpless against you. Unfair odds, you
cad!"

"Tut, tut." Lionel clucked, passing his tongue across the sweet curves of her ear as his thumbs
simultaneously crossed her nipples. She wiggled deliciously, not realizing how she tormented him with her
frantic, wild movements. "So, you like this, eh?"

"No!"

"Ah, but your body does." His hands dropped to her waist, tugging the loose pantaloon down until all of
her belly was bared. "I shall prove how much you do like it."

His hands stroked down her body, stopping short of the crest of dark curls at the tightened cord of her
one remaining garment. Laura stopped breathing, then gasped for air when he cupped her breasts and
began to play with them. She shut her eyes tight, turning her face against one arm, refusing to watch what
was happening to her.

But nothing stopped her from feeling each intimate touch.

Her nipples hardened against his fingers. Her belly quivered each time he raked his nails down to the
crest of her dark woman's curls. His breath fanned a furnace against her ear. Again, and again and again.

She was shivering with heat then, aching in a way she'd only felt one time before in her life, in St. John's
Bayou when Lionel Templeton had captured her. She prayed that he would soon have his fill and leave
her.

His hands tightened on her waist as he put one knee to the floor. She felt his hot breath fan the aroused
flesh of her breast. His fingers pressed into her flesh, drawing her body against his, her breast to his
mouth. The heat was utterly unbearable as his tongue darted out and flicked across her nipple above her
racketing heart.

A bolt of lightening shot through her, jerking her forward against the restraints keeping her hands
imprisoned above her head. He opened his mouth and captured her breast, drawing all of the aureole
inside the hot depths of his mouth. One of his arms tightened around her hips, holding her belly flush
against his naked chest.

His mouth ran a gamut from gentle kiss to rough suckling, riveting her attention to the hardness of his
teeth and palate as he ruthlessly awakened her passions.

At this Laura stared openmouthed at her own body's traitorous reaction. Was she a wanton? Could any
man who touched her make her quiver with desire? She wanted to weep with frustrated humiliation.
Instead she bit her lip, trying to bear up and not give in to this barbarian's mastery.

He took his mouth away, leaving just her nipple wet and throbbing, shivering as it tightened involuntarily,
pebbling from cooling by the drenching of his mouth. His fingers flicked across the chilly nub, idly toying
with it as he turned his attention to her other breast. She jerked to end of her tether, begging him not to
torment her anymore. Her struggle was for nothing. As easily as before he tightened his grip upon her
hips and she was unable to prevent his mouth from capturing her other breast and giving it the same
tutorial instruction.

Laura's legs lost their strength then, turning watery beneath her. Had her hands not been bound, she'd
have sunk helplessly to the floor at his feet. She gasped at the frisson pouring through her as the barbarian
suckled her second breast more deeply and harshly than he had the first. Under such skilled tutelage, she
wasn't aware of the moment that his hand slid beneath the taunt cord holding her scanty pantaloons in
place.

All she knew was that his hand was there, cupping her, in that most private of all places. That place
where she felt a melting need to be touched and fondled.

A barbarian's hand, a stranger, a monster was on the brink of taking her innocence from her.

The burning shame of that brought an audible sob out of Laura's throat. The horrible irony of it all
swamped her. Now she understood that this was the intimacy and surrender Lionel Templeton had
wanted of her and she had refused his honorable offer of marriage. Refused, so that this hideous
barbarian could take her innocence from her instead. A second sob she couldn't control broke lose.

Lion immediately came to his feet. His hand remained on the sweet moist folds her womanhood, one
probing finger deep inside her where only the thinnest membrane of skin restrained him.

"Look at me!" he commanded harshly, his own arousal roughening his French.

Laura shook the tears from her eyes and glared at the man. It was too dark for her see his features, but
she never wanted to put form to them. She hated him. His fingers stroked her maddeningly. She looked
at his eyes, obeying the letter of his command, but she refused to see him.

"In the future, take care that you do not taunt me too greatly, little one. Such will always cost you."

She turned her face away from his, hating him with all her might. Hot breath fanned her ear making her
shiver as his teeth nipped on the sensitive curves. She'd show no fear, not ever!

He caught her head, turning her to enable his mouth to cover hers. Laura clenched her teeth, barring him

from that intimacy. Every sinew in her body strained. His hand between her thighs began to move,
fondling her in such a shocking manner that she grew wet against him. She opened her mouth to beg him
to stop.

Her plea died in her throat as his tongue silenced her. The intimate kiss he'd come to her mouth seeking,
he'd obtained. His black beard abraded her lips and cheeks. His tongue mated with hers, making her
submit even that to him. She had nothing left to fight for. That humiliated her more deeply than his
stripping of her.

She had quickly overcome her fear of harm when he'd threatened to drown her, but this, this...this she
would not recover from so quickly, if ever at all.

How the man knew exactly the means to master her, escaped her. But she could not escape him.

Once before in her life she'd been kissed so well nearly all reason had fled her head. Here she'd met a
man who wasn't bound by the code of honor to which an English gentlemen ascribed. This foul Turk was
deliberately teaching her the uselessness of resistance. She'd not taunt him again to be punished like this.

Either way, passive or struggling, she gave him pleasure. His deep throated chuckles proved that.

To ease the horrible pressure of his so demanding mouth, she opened her lips to him, accepting each
invasion of his probing tongue. She might have bitten Lionel Templeton but she knew better than to bite
this man. He would finish stripping her and complete his rape.

Submitting, only made her internal agony worse. He kissed exactly the way she liked to be kissed. Laura
moaned, whimpering with despair. What was wrong with her? Her body simply couldn't like this...but it
did!

The man finally lifted his head and withdrew his hands from her body. Laura couldn't look him in the
eyes, ashamed of granting him liberties she wouldn't have allowed a husband.

"Eh bien," he said, sounding pleased and satisfied. "So now we know how to silence your tantrums, do
we not?"

Lionel stood back to make adjustments to his clothing, in particular the hood that shrouded his head,
then he caught Laura's chin and tugged upon it. This time her eyes didn't automatically rise to challenge
him.

"I see you have some sense, mademoiselle. The slave who brings your meals and serves your needs is a
gentle soul. You will cease fighting him, comprendez vous?"

Laura jerked her head once, panting, glad for even the narrowest of spaces between her body and his.
He was a potent and virile animal. Was it a commodity that all men contained? Part and parcel of the
natural order that rendered women weak and helpless?

She couldn't begin to think that through. She could only gasp and try to re-assemble her shattered
dignity.

"You will speak only French. Another outburst in your English abuse and my slave has permission to use
bastinado to quiet you. Do you understand what that is?"

"Non," Laura said weakly, her arms straining, with the weight of her own body.

The Arab's eyes swept dangerously down her exposed body. Something about her was not to his liking
and he put his hands to the drawstring of the pantaloons, untying it. He loosened the cord and adjusted
the waist to ride very low across her hips.

Laura was beyond fainting, knowing this man would do any thing he wanted to do.

"It is the beating of the soles of a disobedient houri's feet, little one. A practice that you will find
excruciatingly painful and will not want to have repeated. However, it will not leave a single mark upon
your lovely body...where it matters...you do have a lovely body. Here, at the swell of your hips is where
these are tied. You will wear them to please my eyes."

"When pigs fly," The words were out before she could stop them. Pleasing him was anathema.

"You would prefer to be naked?"

"I want my own clothes," Laura demanded. Lion scowled.

"If you are referring to those unappealing greasy cloths you arrived in, demoiselle, they are being used
for the rags they are, swabbing my decks. From this day forward, you wear only what I provide you.
Until your temper improves and you learn to control your tongue, this is your wardrobe. Be advised that
the door opens into my chambers only. It is guarded at all times. You are a virgin, are you not?"

"What? I don't have to answer that!" Laura gasped.

"If you do not, I will send for my eunuch and have him examine you. A maidenhead is easy enough to
detect to a skilled hand."

"You wouldn't dare!" Laura shuddered, then quickly changed her tone. "Why do you need to know?"

Lionel cocked his head, hearing the desperation in her voice. He had a role to play and took it most
seriously. "Why? Because it establishes your value to me, houri. A virgin's price at auction is very great
indeed."

Laura thought fast. Did that mean he wouldn't take her? She might survive this intact. Without becoming
his toy? Hoarsely, she answered. "Yes, I am."

Her capitulation was so easy to read that Lionel almost laughed. He moved to her side, fingering her
tangled hair. "However, you are not fair-haired, which is a flaw...and, you display unacceptable
temperament. I will look forward to retraining you. I could sell you in Havana, profitably, though most
likely it will be Tangiers, where your value, with or without a maidenhead, will not matter once you have
learned to dance. Yes, you have the body of an houri, high breasts and beautifully curved hips...very nice.
That is what you will be trained to be. Now, answer my question. Have you ever been with a man?"

It numbed Laura to hear his plans for her. Again his body loomed much too close, his hands taking
liberties touching her as he spoke, like she was already on the block and stripped for all to see. Only it
was just him and the room was very dark now. "No. I haven't."

"I am not certain I believe you, little houri. You kiss with a skill that virgins seldom display."

"But I am!" Laura's nerve deserted her, tears filled her eyes and she tried to shake them away and choke
down the constricting ache in her throat. "I was in a convent until yesterday!"

"Eh?" Lionel pretended to be surprised. "What convent?"

"St. Ursuline's in New Orleans. Please, I was there, that is the truth. I want to go back there. I'll pay you
any sum you ask, if you will take me back where I belong."

"Pay me?" He laughed. Behind the swaddling of the kufiyah, it was diabolical to Laura's ears. She
shouldn't have begged. It was a sign of weakness.

"I can pay you! Whatever price you say, I could buy and sell you twice over."

Still laughing heartily the Arab leaned terrifyingly close to her face, his breath fanning on her cheek as she
turned away from him. "You have wealth, little one? With work-reddened hands and not a single jewel
on your person?"

"Jewels aren't allowed in a convent and everyone there must work or be punished for disobedience."

"Ah...that explains the drab clothes and the crucifix pinned to your apron, non? It does not explain how
you learned to kiss. Do not your people use convents to lock away their...how do you say it...
promiscuous daughters?"

"That was not why I was there!"

"Non? Tell me, why were you there? Or better, tell me what you were doing on the dock where any
man with a grain of sense could see your beauty and steal you?"

Laura shivered, his breath burned in her ear. Amazingly gentle fingers stroked her hair away from cheek
and ear, tormenting her.

"It's none of your business why I was there!" Laura twisted as far away from him as she could. "That has
nothing to do with being here on this boat. If you will give me a price and let me write one letter, I swear
to you, you will be paid any sum you ask. I am betrothed to a man who could buy this boat from you at
the drop of a hat."

Lionel found her assessment of him amazingly accurate. "Truly? A ransom? Such things happen
sometimes I have heard."

He chuckled deeply, pretending to consider the idea, then shrugged negligent shoulders. "But what man
would want you back, now, little one? Would this betrothed of yours not object to accepting...shall we
say...damaged goods?" Again, his hands drifted to Laura's breasts, his delicate, but thorough touch
making his meaning clear.

"It wouldn't matter," Laura said forcefully. "He might not marry me, but he would pay my ransom."

"What would he do with you, if he would not marry you?"

"I don't know." Laura tried to think. "Return me to the convent. He is a gentleman. He would honor any
bargain struck to obtain my release from you."

"I see...one of those men," the Turk said. "It would be a waste to place one such as you in a convent,
houri. You were made for love."

"Will you please take your hands off of me."

"You do not really want me to do that," he said knowingly. As horrible as it was, he had guessed the
truth. Her breasts swelled and ached with desire, quivering with each tutorial stroke of his hand. She
clamped her mouth shut, determined to deny the truth.

Lionel thought he'd gone far enough for their first encounter, and knew if he didn't get away from her
soon, he'd go beyond the bounds of his own control. Still, it would hurt terribly to leave her. He sighed
deliberately.

"Very well, little houri, I will take your word that you are a virgin and tell my eunuch to dispense with the
formal examining of you. Your tantrum I cannot forgive. A few hours of staying exactly as you are might
ameliorate your temper. The nuns had no luck in teaching you meekness and obedience?"

"They taught me." Laura's chin tilted defiantly.

"Eh bien. Since you did not learn the lesson from them, I shall see how you retain instruction from my
hand."

His black cloak swirled round his legs as he strode out. The door slammed and locked in his wake.

Laura waited until the only sounds she could hear were the sea washing against the hull and the creaking
of the masts.

"Bastard!" She whispered her worst epithet into the dark. He deserved it. She'd never been so
abominably treated in her whole life. Blinking back angry tears, she fought the bonds on her wrists,
kicked helpless feet against the bedpost. It was bolted to the floor. The only relief she could gain was to
clamber round onto the mattress and kneel there waiting for release. As far as freeing her hands, she
couldn't.

A long time passed before the door opened. This time, Laura said absolutely nothing to the slave called
Masri.

She remained mutinously silent while Masri shot unintelligible questions at her. Taking her silence for
agreement, he cut the bonds loose and she fell onto the bed, her arms aching. He gave her a cup of weak
tea and a biscuit, then departed.

Bread and water, Laura grimly downed both and glared into the darkness. She'd faced the same diet a
time or two at Steven Templeton's hands. Damn all men to hell and back!

If she had been angry when the slave had taken her clothes, she was raging now, raging with sheer
frustration. One confrontation with that man was all any woman needed in a lifetime! She would do
nothing that made him notice her again. He could go torment the other women on the boat.

The placid tempered slave she would just have to tolerate. Not that she had any choice. Laura knew
what a eunuch was, the same thing as a gelded horse. Which meant she was in no danger of being raped
at his hands.

Too agitated to sleep, Laura paced, silently restless until she collapsed in utter exhaustion. When she
woke, she felt as if she'd been beaten with a lead pipe. Her head ached, her arms and legs throbbed, her
stomach was having fits. The ship heeled hard against the wind. The tilt of the bed disoriented her. She
could barely manage to stay on the bed without rolling off.

Since the Arab would not give her back her clothing, she fashioned an awkward toga out of a sheet. It
beat being half-naked when the door might open at any given time. It didn't matter that the room was so
dark in broad daylight she had trouble seeing her hands. She was all too conscious of her own nudity.

Masri came only once that morning. Again he had watered tea and a hard, dry biscuit for her, nothing
more. Laura was famished and thirsty, her misery increased tenfold when she saw how little the silver tray
contained. He set it away from her on a shelf in the cabin wall.

By gestures, the slave indicated she was to give up the sheet and put it back on the bed. Laura refused.
He said, "Ansallah," ate her biscuit and drank her tea then folded his arms across his massive chest and
glared at her.

"Well, if you think I'm convinced to put the sheet on the bed, now, you've absolutely lost your mind, you
fat pig!" Laura said indignantly. "To wit, I will die if you don't feed me and then you'll be the one tasting
bastinado!"

"Oui, bastinado, houri." Masri ominously put his hand on a short quirt poking out from his wide sash belt.
He scowled forbiddingly, as he repeated her one Arabic word with several others.

"Je m'appelle, Laura." She tried French on him.

He shook his head, said, "Houri," and pointed to the bed and motioned at her toga again.

Laura moistened her lips with a very dry tongue. She had to have water. The room was already
oppressive and it was only morning. Very close to real tears, she took off the sheet and threw it at him,
but she wasn't going to make the bed. He did, while she remained in the far corner, defensive arms
crossed over her bare chest.

The eunuch slave finished tucking the silk back into place then patted the high bed. "Amir's."

He touched the wall, repeating the same word. "Amir's." Laid his hand on his own bare chest and
solemnly intoned, "Amir's." Eloquently, waved his open palm, indicating the entire boat. "Amir Bedawi's."

"Amir Bedawi, huh!" Laura echoed sullenly. "He can go to the devil!"

"Houri...Amir's." Masri came to her corner, gripped her wrist and yanked her hand away from her body.
"Amir's."

He caught her hair, tugging on it, growling at her, "Amir's. Tu...houri...slave...Amir's."

"In a pig's eye." Laura stiffened, pushing him away from her.

"Yes, Amir's. You are Amir's," Masri said in Arabic, forcefully, certain the girl understood him. She
trembled, in a rage of anger, her cheeks staining with color.

Laura thought twice about striking out at Masri. Her eyes went to the door. God, the man had told her

the door opened into his cabin and from what she remembered of being brought here, this tiny room was
part of another larger room at the back of the ship. She shuddered and held her tongue, realizing who
was behind her reluctance to argue.

"Good." Masri understood her lack of resistance. He forcibly sat her on the bed, pointed to the
straightened pillows and made a gesture that meant she should sleep.

He said something, some sort of instruction of some kind. Laura didn't even try to follow it. She was
most relieved when he abruptly left.

She waited tensely, thinking he might return with water for her. The door was firmly shut, locked. He did
not come back.

By mid afternoon, when the urge to cry was completely destroying her diminishing supply of courage.
She was too thirsty to waste her fluids on tears. There would be no relief from the semi-tropical heat until
late when the sun went down. By then Laura knew she would be half-dead, weak from lack of water and
food. What good would a half-dead houri be to Amir Bedawi?

That thought made her laugh. What good would she be to herself dead? Discomforted by her own
thoughts, Laura listlessly turned the pillows over and laid down on the cool side and slept. She did not
hear the door open, nor even sense the presence of the cloaked man who came in and stood over her,
while Masri brought in a copper tub and filled it with water.

"Is she all right?" Lionel asked Masri. Masri bent over the sleeping girl and gently pinched the back of
her plump hand to check on dehydration. He opened both her eyes and examined the color of her gums,
then straightened.

"The heat has affected her some, Amir, but no injury is done. I believe she is feeling more exhaustion
from her tantrums, than any effects of deprivation."

"Then I suggest you awaken her, once I leave. See that she has ample water, Masri." Amir turned and
departed from the room, nodding curtly to Abu to close and lock the door. He threw off his cloak and
the hot kufiyah before leaving the confines of his cabin.

It was evening, the best time of the day for sailing in Lionel's estimation. Holding the wheel steady, he
grinned into the brisk wind. It wasn't very long before he heard a comforting sound from the aft cabin.
Laura was being presented with the option of taking a tub bath. Had Lionel any doubts of her condition
they were quickly laid to rest by the strength of her howled protests. He found the brief outburst very
reassuring.

Quite a bit later, as the last remnants of daylight tinted the horizon, Masri and Abu came out with the
copper tub and heaved it soap bubble laden contents into the Gulf. Minutes later, they returned with two
carpets that they spread over the timbers to dry.

Masri straightened from that task and turned to look at Amir, bowed respectfully and touched his brow,
lips and chest in greeting. "Your arousah had her bath, my lord Amir."

"Did she manage to get any of the water on her, my friend?" Lionel inquired, for Masri was as soaked as
the carpets he'd removed from the cabin.

"I could tell you stories of difficulties encountered in bathing newly captured women that would curl your

hair, Amir Bedawi." Masri smiled. "Aside from the length of your chosen one's hair, this was an easy
task, I assure you."

Lionel considered his options, then smiled ruefully. He was as patient as he could be considering how
badly he wanted the woman. "It is too soon for me to risk inspecting the quality of your work, Masri.
We'll give her enough time to become accustomed to us, then, I'll gladly take a hand in the scrubbing
myself."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Mutiny, no matter how small, accomplished nothing.

The days that followed Amir Bedawi's only appearance did not get any easier. They grew longer for
Laura Madeline, filled with tedium.

For three days she ate no more than a biscuits and watery tea. Laura really didn't care what Masri
brought for her to eat or drink. She was sick from the motion of the boat and was certain it was made
worse by the fact she had no fresh air or sunshine to clear her head.

Stubbornly, she reminded herself she'd experienced the effect of a bread and water diet before. Her
uncle Steven held the opinion withholding proper food was the quickest way to subdue rebellion. Of
course, at Clairmont, Laura had the reliable Mattie to squirrel pockets full of fruit and cornbread to her.
Deprivation and hunger weakened her will and mollified her temper.

No longer seasick, the third day of being presented with no more than a hard biscuit and lukewarm,
watery tea following a long, near to unending night, Laura was in no mood to be deprived any longer.
She wanted food, had to have it. The hard biscuits looked dismal on the tray the slave held. Laura came
so close to bursting into tears she had to turn her back on the babbling idiot and quickly snatched one
hand across her eyes.

She never cried. The only recent tears she had any recollection of shedding had been for her parents.
Angrily, she dashed away the evidence and turned back around with fulminating eyes.

"Am I to be starved to death?" she demanded in French.

The slave gave no indication of comprehending any of Laura's three languages. He did understand her
moods and gestures. Disdainfully, Laura waved aside his meager offering and sat herself in the far corner
of the bed, purposefully ignoring him.

He laid the tray on the bed before her, smiled in his idiotic manner and dropped a hand to the voluminous
pocket in his saffron pants. From a twist of paper, he unfolded a wrinkled fruit, of the dried variety.
Laura reckoned it to a prune, though it wasn't, because the color was all wrong.

Masri grinned, holding the date out to her, an offer, a kindness, babbling his odd words to coax her into
accepting it.

Trusting him no farther than she could throw him, Laura shook her head, no, refusing. She would tolerate
no touch, no kindness, no softly spoken words, nothing. If he thought a piece of dried fruit equal to a
decent meal, he was much mistaken.

Masri sighed. The little gray bird was the most stubborn, uncompromising captive he'd ever come
across. Perhaps it was because he was out of practice. He had not served in such a capacity since he
had been rescued from beheading by Lionel Templeton. This little woman refused all overtures. He put
the date back in his pocket. Would she but accept a kindness, he would shower her with it. Another day,
then, he decided.

He left her the biscuit and tea. An hour later, he returned with heated water, fragrant soaps, thick
toweling, and hair brushes.

"Don't you touch me!" Laura came instantly to her feet, eyeing him suspiciously. Her hair was an absolute
disaster, she needed no mirror to tell her that. It was tangled and knotted and even though she'd
attempted to get it into an orderly braid, she knew it was a mess. She didn't do her own hair. That was
Mattie's job. All she had ever been able to master was to brush and braid it and tuck it out of sight.

"Come, come little gray bird," Masri said in Arabic, smiling as he laid out his supplies. "I will wash your
hair, brush it, you will feel better, yes?"

He used sign language to convey his intent. Laura scratched at her neck, where the weight of tangled
curls had left a prickly rash to annoy and torment her.

"I want something to eat," she said sullenly.

"Eat. Yes, eat. You let me do your hair, afterwards, I will bring you food." Masri knew exactly what she
was telling him. He spoke English very well, but she was never to know that. Slowly, making eloquent
gestures that conveyed his own meaning, he held out for compliance from her. A plump orange plucked
from the depths of his pocket tempted her. He held a brush and an orange, urging her to make a
decision, hopefully the right one.

Laura's teeth clamped together, grinding as she kept firm control on her explosive temper. Her eyes
snapped, brightly. "Go, find some other woman to torture. I won't have anything from you!"

Scornfully, she turned her back on the strange Arab. Her decision made. When he'd gathered up all the
tools of the hairdressers trade and departed, Laura swung back around to glare at the bolted door. For a
penny, she'd have screamed her lungs raw. Aggravation, frustration and despair made her throw herself
face down on the bed, smothering her outraged screams with pillows.

She wouldn't give in! She wouldn't, she swore over and over again.

The day dragged on in exhausting silence. The heat rose with the sun. The moist air of the cabin seemed
thick enough to cut with a knife. Several times, Laura heard a deep, resonant voice in the cabin outside of
her own. Amir Bedawi, the cad!

At the same time she heard his voice speaking, she could also smell food, real food, beef and gravy,
buttery vegetables.

Her mind took that further, seeing the heinous brute seated to a fine table draped in linen, a dozen of his
captives pealing grapes and feeding him. She could swear she heard the sound of cutlery on bone china!
She could almost taste hot tea sweetened with sugar and lemon.

She could well picture what he looked like. Arrogant, haughty, a cruel mouth, no doubt an evil scar cut
across his cheek. Black, soulless eyes, full of venom and wickedness, he had to be as dissipated and
disgusting as were Terrence Tucker and his ilk.

Laura shuddered with revulsion picturing such a man devouring a meal, devouring the women who would
slave to please him. He would not devour her! No and never!

Telling her stomach to forget hunger, she made her resolve even stronger. She counted the days,
five....five days since she ran from the convent in New Orleans. She took an inventory and found herself
none the worse for the wear. She had not been ravished, hadn't been beaten.

She could survive on bread and water...the poor sometimes had much less than the hard biscuits and
weak tea she was offered. Besides, that fare had definitely eased her seasickness. So she wouldn't give
in. She would count the days and plan her escape.

Sooner or later, the boat must dock.

Boredom permeated the aft cabin, driving Laura mad. Unrelieved walls, no light, no books, no one to
talk to, no sky or wind or sunshine, no clothes to change, no place to go, nor a single thing to look
forward to whatsoever, took the heaviest toll on her. By the time eight days had come and gone, she
watched the door anxiously, wishing it open.

Masri's thrice daily visits became events. Laura did not even realize how skillfully the slave manipulated
her. His purpose was always twofold, to serve her in some manner and to coax her into compliance with
Amir Bedawi's use for her. She was the most obdurate houri he'd ever encountered, even though
numerous years had passed since he'd tended any himself. She held out for eight full days on a diet of
hard biscuits and weak tea.

The ninth morning at sea, Masri changed tactics. He entered Laura's cabin bearing a steaming breakfast
tray. Eggs, toasted bread, fat, fragrant sausages and steaming plums wafted their aroma through the
houri's cabin while Masri carefully watched her come awake. Reaction came instantly. Laura sat bolt
upright, digging sleepy eyes with her fingers, her mouth watering.

"Baaathe first," Masri said firmly.

"Food," Laura said, her mouth wet with anticipation.

Masri shook his head and passed the tray back to Abu outside the door. Abu handed him a basin,
towels and pitcher of heated water then closed and locked the door. Masri unfolded a towel and placed
it on the floor, the basin over it. He folded his arms resolutely over his chest and glared at the imp. Her
existence was now ordered. She must accept it.

"Baaathe." He repeated, motioning her to come to him.

The houri had no earthly idea how diluted her temper had become as she wavered between want and

need. The stubborn glint in her eyes lacked potency. Her defiance now molded into expediency.

Yet, most important her pride remained intact, revealing an inborn nobility of her nature, unchanged by
any deprivation whatsoever. Much had been achieved. Masri bowed to her, his palms pressed together,
at her service.

Why fight the inevitable? Laura thought. He's harmless, As she listened to her inner voices for a change,
she came forward. What was a bath going to hurt? Lord knows, she needed it, needed her hair done by
somebody. What did it matter, he wasn't a real man, a eunuch was a eunuch. She was willing to
exchange his attentive service for a full meal at last.

She had her breakfast, wrapped in a long length of soft toweling, chattering excitedly over the taste of
each exquisite morsel of food. In that she showed Masri his first glimpse at a sweeter disposition within
her. Pleased, Masri let her enjoy her meal and returned shortly.

For her inspection, he spread out the clothing he'd brought; a sheer, soft silk pantaloon, finer than the
grimy cotton she'd worn for days. The tiniest of vests he could find, for she was narrow and quite small
breasted. He had brought many colorful sashes to wind around her hips, bangles and jewels to enhance
her stunning beauty, other silk cloths of varying weaves and colors to enhance her hair.

It would have been a lie for Laura to pretend she was not delighted by the clothes. Odd they were, yes,
but they were exquisitely made. She was fed up with the rough cotton pantaloons that had been her only
garment for ages. Just because he had said she could have nothing else. Damn him!

Her eyes flashed at the silks and Masri read her as easily as he'd read women the world over. She had
been deprived a long time. Amir had explained to him of her confinement in the convent and the long time
of mourning where she'd honored her parents. Had a shop window stood between her and the garments
Masri had spread upon her bed, her nose would be pressed against it.

More than tempted, Laura fingered the fine silks. They were all so sheer and light she could see the
creases in her hands behind them. She worried her lip momentarily then turned about and submitted to
Masri's ministering. Dressing was a slow and sensuous process, just as bathing was. Laura stood
patiently while Masri fixed the sash properly.

Masri tied the knots firmly, the tails draping to the division of her thighs. A sultan's houri would draw the
long tails tightly between her legs, tuck them through the sash to emphasis the firmness of each of the
globes of her bottom. As of yet, this houri did not know how to dance.

He brushed her hair, braided part of it with the colored ribbons, left half to sweep across her shoulders at
her back. These clothes were very plain. Only one small chased silver broach held the vest closed
between her breasts. Masri was out of her cabin, with the rest of the day ahead of him, to attend other
duties on board ship before Amir's clock chimed nine bells. The little houri in the cabin had the whole day
ahead of her.

Purposefully, the eunuch kept his noon and evening visits very brief.

After having grown used to Masri's frequent entrances, to have the whole day pass with next to no
contact puzzled Laura. She felt punished. That evening a mild storm rocked the boat and rain cooled the
air. The cabin was gloomy when Masri brought supper and evening water.

His tray was generous, but he deposited it on the edge of the bed, bowed to her and departed swiftly. In
the gloomy dark, Laura had no appetite anyway. She had hardly touched the food when Masri returned,
holding a small lantern aloft.

Laura sighed, waved at the tray listlessly and waited for him to take it away.

"I shall brush your hair," Masri said solemnly and procured a brush from his expansive pocket.

"All right," Laura agreed. Her agreement meant she would have light for as long as the eunuch stayed.

She desperately needed something to do. While he brushed out her hair, she knotted fallen strays into a
ball, rolling the bit of fluff between her fingers. Laura sighed as Masri put away the brush and prepared to
leave.

"Why are you punishing me?" she asked in English.

Masri looked at her quizzically, lacking any appearance of comprehension for her words.

Laura paced from corner to corner in the cabin then stopped and looked at the slave. "I am bored,
Masri."

"I do not understand you." Masri answered softly, forcing her to search her memory for the words she
had already learned in Arabic.

"Don't you have a needle and thread?" She made sewing motions. "I could learn to sew." She never had
been able to tolerate doing such things. "Paper, Masri. Letters....I could write something."

Again she used her hands to make her meaning clear. "You could teach me to read your language."

"That is forbidden." Masri shook his head.

"Well, there is nothing to do! I am bored. Bored, don't you understand? Are there books on the ship?
Reading? Anything. Let me keep the light and give me a book. I can entertain myself. Give me something
to do...anything."

About to close the casket that contained brushes and trinkets for her hair, Masri delayed a moment
longer. He shrugged his shoulders. "You are to dance. To please your master, Amir."

These words she understood. They had been said often enough to her in one way or another.

Laura struggled for a moment, her cheeks reddening. Learn to dance in these gauzy clothes? She
remembered what Amir Bedawi had told her, how he'd stroked her body and made her burn at his
touch, made her quiver and ache. She glared at Masri and his shoulders went up and down
philosophically. "You wish to remain ignorant, valueless to your master. You do not scream, but you still
defy Amir. He is too patient with you."

Laura had no trouble understanding each and every word. Masri closed the casket, rising to his feet with
it in his hands. He motioned her aside of the door.

Turning away so that he could leave, Laura resorted to English to mutter her malcontent. "It would be
lewd. To dance in these clothes and he would come and watch me."

"What did you say, Arousah? English is forbidden."

"I said..." Laura searched for words. The only one she could come up with was dirty and that did not
convey her meaning precisely. "I don't know how to say what I mean."

"Then you must try harder." From his pocket, Masri offered a date and a tiny pair of brass finger
cymbals. She had to accept both or none. Laura took the sweet and the cymbals from his palm. Masri
left. The lock shooting home was final. She was alone for the night.

Laura threw herself down on the bed and listened to the rain beat on the windows. She experimented
with the cymbals. The noise they made was minimal. She didn't think they could be heard outside the
span of the bed itself. Curling up with a woven rug to warm her, she flashed the little noise makers like
castanets. Humming fragments of songs she remembered, she found beats she could keep. It passed the
time.

She was not tired. Sleep was her only activity, daydreams and fantasy, her only amusement throughout
the long winter night.

Day followed, more of the same boredom, loneliness, homesickness. Fear of Amir Bedawi returning and
her being unable to resist him, made Laura keep her misery to herself.

The boat docked on her tenth morning aboard it. The now familiar, undulating motion stilled to a barely
discernible rocking. Laura woke to noises that made her tremble at first with fear. As the sun burned on
the locked and shuttered windows the heat rose in the tiny room. She began to make sense of the
sounds. Casks and barrels being unloaded, more coming aboard.

She heard fluid Spanish, plenty of it, a guttural Spanish she had never learned at home. Laura scrambled
to the closed windows, battering them, screaming, "Ayudame, me esta imprionado en la barca!
Ayudame!"

No sooner had she started, than Masri came. She shrieked in terror when the angry man threw her down
across the bed and brought out his quirt to whip her. No chivalrous Spaniard came to her rescue.

Amir Bedawi burst into her cabin. Shouting and furious he took the whip from the slave's hand. Cowering
in fear of both of them, their exchange of heated Arabic went beyond Laura.

Too vulnerable and frightened, Laura clung to the pillows as Amir Bedawi leaned over her and soothingly
stroked her head.

"Do not cry, ma petite," he said in his oddly accented French. "I have told the slave not to whip you this
time. You should not have called for help from the Mexicans. We are in Veracruz. Believe me, there is
no one you would care to be rescued by here, even were I to be so careless as to allow it."

"I want to go home," Laura cried miserably, moving away from the stroke of his hand.

"You will have a new home when this voyage is over." Amir did not see that his touch was repulsive to
her. His hand pushed aside her unfettered hair and plied a course down her back. Laura stiffened as his
hand splayed across her hip, urging her toward him.

"You do not wish to show me any gratitude?"

"I owe you nothing!"

"I see." His hand actually went to her bottom, and lingered there. Where he got his nerve to touch her so,
she didn't know. "You are determined to resist all instruction."

"You have nothing to teach me!"

"You are wrong, little one. It is a long time before we will see the southern shores of the Mediterranean.
You may have great resistance now, but our voyage has only begun. Though I would rather have my
compensation from you before I leave Havana, I am in no hurry. Tangiers is a pleasant place, for a man
to spend his hard earned wealth in the month of February."

"February!" Laura gasped.

"Possibly, it might be March or April. One never knows when the cold Atlantic is the ocean that must be
crossed. Ansallah, time is on my side, always. Allah wills it so."

Amir straightened, preparing to leave her. "Do not plea for help again, houri. Though I stopped my
eunuch this time, I would not do so again."

As abruptly as he'd come, Amir Bedawi departed.

Masri came immediately. He spread a prayer rug on the floor and sat upon it. There he stayed the rest of
the time they were docked.

He was resolute, motionless, his arms folded across his chest, watching her with opaque obsidian eyes in
a mahogany color face. Laura ignored him, preferring her own thoughts. Unknowingly, Amir Bedawi had
told her a great deal.

Laura knew her geography. It was eight hundred miles from Veracruz, Mexico to Havana, Cuba.
Weather permitting, Havana could be reached in as little as fourteen days--no later than the fifteenth of
December. She had no idea how many stops would be made in the Antilles, but if the boat entered the
Atlantic and she was still imprisoned on it, she knew she was doomed.

Leaving port, the Arab sailed due east. Laura had lost a great chance to escape while the boat rocked at
a mooring in Veracruz. The element of surprise had made her panic, act irrationally. She wouldn't be so
foolish the next time. She had to get off the boat in Havana. She had family in Cuba, the birthplace of her
mother. She knew now that she'd never get free of her own accord. Amir Bedawi had to sell her at the
auction in Havana. There was no other way.

They were no sooner on open waters than Masri produced a small drum, proposing again to teach her to
dance. Laura made the barest token protest. She wouldn't have cooperated at all before. Eroding
boredom coupled by desperation had worn away her resistance. The prospect of four months trapped in
this cabin had done the rest.

With compliance came company. Masri would stay so long as she would follow his directions and
instructions.

He had a very pleasing voice. The songs he sang as he beat rhythms on the little drum were unusual, but
in a short time she was accustomed to the different sounds and rhythms. She was a good dancer, having

learned from her mother the wild gypsy-like strains of the Flamenco. Instruction in the waltz and ballroom
dancing had been part of her education. In principle, these lessons were no different.

Masri was an exacting teacher. Though she moved with abominable stiffness in the beginning, he did not
lose patience with her. Her knowledge of his language increased proportionally with the time he spent
with her.

Daily, she learned to stretch and twist, mastering the belly dance with an abandon that was totally foreign
to the restrains of Western custom. Rehearsing the footwork, developing the undulating motion of her
hips to different beats and rhythms eased Laura's horrible boredom.

The finger and hand movements were as intricate as the Flamenco footwork her mother had taught her.
She learned very quickly for the punishment that followed displeasing Masri was too much for her to
bear. Desperate for company, abandonment destroyed her.

It began simply enough with her dressing in the simple cottons Masri brought for her to wear during the
hot days. The exertion of exercise soon had her stripped to a simple twisted loincloth and nothing more.
It was a long sash, nothing more, wrapped first around her hips and tightly knotted, the tails twisted and
drawn between her legs. The binding was for her to push against, to thrust her hips forward and gain
imaginary resistance.

The pull of the sash felt wicked. Laura remembered the feel of Amir Bedawi's hand upon her
womanhood, his fingers parting and stroking her to a fevered pitch. Flamenco was a dance of heat and
passion and this she was learning went beyond that. She danced to arouse a man to a fevered pitch, to
make every man desire her. Her mother would have thought her movements and improvisations wickedly
scandalous.

In the heat of the afternoons, she rested, bathed and relaxed. Well-fed and cosseted she always slept
deeply, awaking to have her body oiled till it glistened in the one lantern's glow that Masri allowed her.

Every move she knew became sensuous, even to rising and stretching her body awake.

Evenings her costumes were elaborate and the details of working skirts or cymbals, or making every bell
match the proper rhythm took hours of practice and training. She could improvise, take basic movements
and elaborate on them.

Masri was very pleased with her and proved that by bringing the copper tub after her light evening meal.
A hot soaking bath followed by oiling her skin and a deep massage ended her day. Laura couldn't say
she minded the care.

To that same purpose, the sheer silks that revealed every line of her body and left nothing to any one's
imagination, should they have seen her, no longer offended her. Now she slept nude.

She reasoned she would forget it all when she was off the boat, if she wanted to. Her body hair would
grow back. She could stand perfectly naked before Masri to be washed or oiled or inspected from head
to toe for any physical flaws.

The Arab eunuch lost his power to shock her by his very familiarity. She was as at ease with him as she'd
ever been with Mattie, maybe more so, because this man seemed able to read her moods and anticipate
them even before she realized how she felt. When her courses came, Masri fixed her potent ginger teas
that eased the discomforts and gave her dates stuffed with a honeyed paste that was sublimely delicious.

Laura had not had a sugar sweet since that day on the dock in New Orleans. Dates were manna from
heaven, but they were never offered very often. She would have liked to have more, but Masri was not
one to spoil her needlessly. The one he offered her at night before she slept was always doped with
damiani and oysters, mild aphrodisiacs.

Her dreams were vivid and pleasurable. Full of images of her taunting Lionel Templeton with her skill at
the belly dance. Dancing gave her pleasure. And in those same dreams she would dance naked before
Amir Bedawi, moving ever closer and closer to him, drawn like a moth beating its wings too close to the
flame.

When she woke from such dreams, she always yawned and stretched and felt tired, languid and relaxed.
Rarely did sleep come again so easily. Her body ached from something else, a burning that had no name,
but she had felt a few times.

Once, in this room with her hands helplessly tied above her head and that horrible man taking even more
horrible liberties with her. Once in St. John's Bayou when Lionel Templeton had kissed the devil into
her.

That same devil of desire poked his pitchfork at her every night. The moon's glow reflected on the slats
of the shutters baring her windows. She looked to the closed door and saw light glow under the sill. She
listened and heard murmuring voices. Amir was in his cabin. What kept him from unbolting the door and
coming in to look at her as she lay naked in this bed? Wanting him. No. Wanting Lion.

Laura tried to bury her head under a pillow and not think such thoughts. Her mind told her, she was
twenty. Years past the age when most girls married and learned the secrets of womanhood from their
husbands.

Templeton would have gladly taught her all the secrets and then some, Laura thought.

Longing for company didn't make the night any shorter.

Having seen the horrible hold, Laura didn't want to go back there. She shuddered remembering her cell.
How could any man be so cold and unfeeling? The poor women, she sighed, unable to imagine their fate.
Her own was hard enough to deal with, but she was being as pampered as a goose being fattened for a
holiday feast.

If Amir had any heart at all, he'd have taken her back to the convent at New Orleans, allowed her to
purchase her own freedom. All he wanted was the gold she was going to bring him.

Havana still gave her hope. She had extensive family living in Cuba. No matter who bought her, she could
plea her misfortune and beg to be allowed to contact her great- uncle, Ricardo Santiago. She knew her
mother's family would stand by her, rescue her and see that she was freed from slavery of the sort she
was bound. Family honor would not stand anything less.

She had come to a hard decision days ago when confronted with the task of becoming a houri. Sooner
or later, the boat would dock and she would be taken to a market to be sold. The sooner the better for
her. She knew that. She knew she had to be ready for such a sale by the time the boat made Havana. If
resistance kept her from being sold, she was lost forever.

But, could she stand an auction? What if she was made to stand, dressed as this Arab kept her clothed?

What if she was told to dance, to show the skills she knew Masri had told Amir she had learned? What if
Amir came, himself, demanding she perform for him? Could she do that?

Lord, but she wanted a man. Never had she felt desire so strongly and comprehended it as she did now.
She had lolled in a sensual, hedonistic atmosphere for so long, her very nature seemed changed.

Her inner needs could no longer be denied. Much of her innocence was gone. In its place was an
awareness of the potency of her own sensuality this night.

She had nothing except a dry mouth and a fluttering stomach and a need that was going unresolved.
When she finally returned to sleep, Laura Madeline was very, glad Amir Bedawi had completely
forgotten her.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Something was different. Laura came awake by degrees. The air about her was warm and breezy. There
was light. Beyond her closed eyelids there was the glow of daylight.

Smells had changed. Gone was the musty dampness of a closed scented cabin. The air was fresh, salty
and brisk.

Very carefully, she opened her eyes to blinding full daylight. Laura's windows were open, the shutters
fastened back against the cabin walls.

The wind came in gusts, wafting over the length of her body, from her face down to her toes. Four
squares of sheer curtain fluttered and snapped directly above her head, like flags in the wind.

Rising, Laura knelt on the bed, reveling in the feel of a hot sun and a strong wind against her utterly naked
skin. As hedonistic as it might be, she was overjoyed, moving her head rhythmically as tendrils of her
flowing hair scooted across her shoulder, teased her breasts then curled and tickled her stomach.

Just awakened, fresh from her dreams, they had an uncommon clarity as she put elbows to the window
ledges and inhaled deeply of the salty air. She was quite awake, but her dreams still filled her......

Sleep had washed suddenly over her. She had dreamed of voices. Deep voices, one resonant speaking
with clipped accents, the other slow and languorous. Opening her eyes it was dark and someone leaned
over her. It took her minutes to make out the form hovering over her. She could see no face in the
shadow of a burnoose. She had shut her eyes tight, not wanting to see him, not wanting to acknowledge
his presence...Amir Bedawi's dark presence.

Her skin burned then cooled, as though a warm, wet and curiously living cloth stroked her. Strong hands
lifted her so that Amir Bedawi's tongue and covetous mouth could seek out each of her secrets and
explore them with slow, resolute deliberation.

She felt the weight of his hands on her, knew when her own hands were lifted and kisses from warm and
alive lips were placed in each of her palms. She drew them closed into fists, but did not strike out at him.

She dreamed of riding a wild stallion through St. John's Bayou, felt a kiss on her lips so stirring it shook
her to her very soul.

She had slept, hard and deep and awoke once again in the night. No coverlet kept the moist night air at
bay. She had felt free of every restraint she'd ever known. She had slept again, deeply, dreamlessly.

Now, it was morning and her windows were open. For the first time in ages she shielded her eyes from
the sun. Her dreams faded slowly, losing their importance as she discovered the wake of the boat, the
heavy carved millwork, and foamy deep green water. She looked for land and saw none, didn't care that
there wasn't any. She hugged her arms, happy.

Her windows were open. When Masri came, she might throw wild arms around his neck and kiss him!

A niggling voice in her mind told her it was not the eunuch who'd opened her windows. She didn't think
about that, refusing to acknowledge what it meant.

The boat was headed east. They had not left the Gulf of Mexico. She knew they hadn't. She was certain
of that.

Examining the cabin as she turned around, Laura saw details her often poor vision had never detected.
Fine ribbon and lace millwork on the cabinetry, the fabulous weaving of colors in the silk draping, the
iridescent sheen of the pristine sheet that covered her plump mattress. Her skin glowed almost as much
as the silks did.

Her nipples were taut as they had been for a few days after she had met her master. The bared cleavage
between her legs was a bit shocking in full daylight, denuded completely. Stroking her own hands up her
legs, she was amazed at the smooth, silkiness of her skin, how sensuous it felt.

Very clearly, she remembered how she'd felt the night before, lying in bed, aching...wanting a man. She
had awakened to the inner needs of her body, understanding completely the ages old primitive attraction
between male and female.

As she ran her finger across her lips, she knew that Amir Bedawi had come to her, held her, kissed and
stroked her. His were the rough callused hands that had touched her, explored and caressed her. She
was wildly disturbed by that. Had he come before? Did he do that often? Come within this room and
look upon her? Wrapping her arms tightly around her, Laura shivered, then her fears left her and a feeling
of power replaced them. It was a heady feeling, as heady as the wind and sunlight.

Amir had deprived her and achieved nothing. She was still her own person. He could not own her, or
control her, nor change her. In her heart she was as free as a bird.

Delighted with her own thoughts, Laura wondered what Masri would bring her to wear. She wanted to
strut about just like she was, free and unfettered, dance absolutely naked, in wild jubilation.

Let any man view her, it didn't matter one wit. She had inner freedom, control, understanding. The
powerful woman inside her had awoken at last. Giving into the urge to dance almost assuaged her needs,
but not quite.

The final element of power, satisfaction, eluded her.

Masri came shortly, interrupting her pleasured dance. He made her sit under a stifling, heavy rug, her
head bowed and hidden while Abu tromped in and out bringing buckets of steaming water to fill the
copper tub. Washed and oiled till her skin was slick and shiny, she had to step into a belt of gold that
fastened tight above her hip bones.

It was a wicked girdle, laced with a myriad of chains twisting like snakes over her hips, between her
thighs, circled with golden coins and bells that made elaborate noise. It was a skirt of gold. Some chains
touched her ankles, others grazed her knees. It was a splendid, shocking piece of the goldsmith's craft.

She wore nothing else all morning, receiving her wish to dance, though not free and unfettered. Till the
sun was hot and its rays shot through the cabin she practiced almost without stop. Masri was very
pleased with her, praising her, applauding his hands.

Wildly, Laura laughed as she told him she wanted to be sold in Havana. She would do anything, wear
anything, so long as Masri told Amir she was ready.

The wild sense of jubilation lasted until evening.

"Arousah." Bride, Masri intoned formally, bowing to her as he entered that evening. He took much time
preparing clothes for her to wear, spreading out veil after veil on the end of the bed. Glistening from her
bath and shampoo, Laura watched passively, waiting as she was supposed to.

She was hungry. He had not brought her any food all day.

He would. She had not done anything to displease him in days and days.

Impatient, she shifted and the belt on her hips tinkled making Masri cast a look over his shoulder to her.
He did not stop what he was doing, taking from a large trunk he'd brought into the room, all the items he
needed.

The deep tray at the top of it was filled with jewelry.

Stones of every variety winked at Laura. She saw gold, highly polished silver, bracelets, armbands,
necklaces, other belts and girdles, but not a thing as elaborate as the one she'd worn since sunrise.

Done with his preparations, Masri turned finally, holding a veil in his hands. He tucked it skillfully into the
belt, adding more and more, turning her round about, making a skirt of shimmering colors. Laura's legs
became obscured by layer upon layer. To her throat, he fitted an ornate necklace. A vest so sheer it was
like a cloud encased her breasts. More veils, attached to the necklace hid them, hid her arms, her hands.

A headdress rested perfectly on her brow, her hair loose, parted in the middle and hanging free like a
black cloud around her, was covered by a sheer veil. Another and another went over that. Carefully, he
fastened the smallest veil before her face. Her kohl lined eyes were very large, trusting, magnificent.

Masri scowled at her fiercely, pointed his finger to the floor and ordered her to lower her eyes. He
slapped his hands together loudly, right before her face, repeating his order severely. She was not to look
up, to look away from the floor. Laura understood.

She began to feel a tremor of apprehension. This was not the Masri she had grown used to in the past
weeks. Not since that long ago day in Veracruz had he spoke roughly to her. Her stomach jumped with
nerves, growled with hunger. Staring at the floor, she watched his bare feet pad on the carpets. He
returned, opening a heavy robe, swept it around her shoulders and fastened it closed at her throat.

The robe pulled the veils in her hair and on her shoulders. Laura felt the jewelry tug into her skin. Shifting
to adjust things herself, the girdle on her hips gave only a muffled sound. Last, the hood of the robe was
drawn forward, nestled onto her head.

Bare toes was all that appeared of her, bare toes and the bridge of her nose and lowered lashes of her
eyes. Laura could not see what Masri saw, the fine beauty of her face made even more innocent by the
sheer veiling. Beneath the veil, she could smell the potent scents of her perfumes, oils of attar and musk.

As he surveyed his handiwork, Masri was well pleased with the outcome. There was no struggle or
protest or complaint from her.

Allah had answered Masri's prayers. His patience in handling the little gray bird like the baby that she
was had been returned tenfold. He praised Laura for her wisdom of silence, thanking her, gave his most
eloquent compliments on her loveliness. He knew she understood his tone and meaning, if not his specific
words. She was calm, unafraid.

Masri sighed. Tomorrow he would have his work cut out for him. He would prepare for storms and
tempers. She might be compliant now, but with eyes the color of the sea, he knew her nature to be
unpredictable.

In his village, a green-eyed woman was regarded as a witch. This one was as enchanting and
spell-binding as any he'd ever come upon. Her innocence was the fact that she was, as yet, unaware of
her powers.

He lifted her chin and smiled at her and told her Allah would be with her and he wished her many sons,
the greatest blessing a Moslem could bestow upon a woman.

Then very solemnly, he found her elbow through the robes and escorted her to the door. Calling an order
to Abu, the door was opened. Masri took her exactly five steps inside the adjacent cabin. There Amir
waited with the Aman and four Arabic speaking men, selected from the crew to witness the wedding.

BOOK III

"Spur not an unbroken horse,

and put not your plowshare too deep into new land."

Sir Walter Scott

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Of all the dirty, low down, rotten tricks!" Laura's voice was not restrained as she prowled the tiny
cabin like a caged tigress.

She had not been so terrified in days. Scared when Masri took her to the cabin door, she hadn't know
what was coming. Eyes on the floor, she saw nothing but men's boots awaiting her, then surrounding her.

The room was full of men, dangerous men, Amir Bedawi smack in the center of it, then beside her. She
remembered his tall boots, black as sin, sinister hard leather, just like he was.

Five minutes! No more, she had stood there, shaking, quaking, unable to come to any reason why she
had been brought there, fearing any minute the order was going to come for her to strip everything she
was wearing and dance before this bloody collection.

Amir had felt under her robes for her hands, brought them out, trembling, for all to see. His didn't
tremble. No, not at all. His were hard, callused on the palms, holding hers captive while someone tied a
golden cord to her right wrist then knotted it loosely over his.

Not a single word was spoken other than in Arabic, except for those few that Amir said to her. He did
not explain what was being said, only fired a question at her out of the blue, interrupting the man who was
speaking. One of the stupidest question Laura had ever heard in her life, he said gruffly in French. "Do
you wish to be married? Answer only, yes or no."

He gripped her hand fiercely, evoking an answer from her. "Yes." Laura blurted out. Fear and more
pressure kept her from saying one word more. Yes, I want to marry, someday, Laura's brain screamed
in her head. Someday when I meet the man I can love.

Masri's harsh warning had intimidated her thoroughly.

She did not look up. By the time the speaking was over, it was too late.

Amir removed the veil on her face, lifted her chin with fingers strong enough to crush it. "Eh bien,
Arousah, Bride of my life. We are married. You are mine from this day forward. You may return to your
cabin."

Then she had looked up. By then it was too late. His mouth was over hers, sealing what he'd just said to
her with a kiss.

Numb shock kept her stupid. Amir picked her up and took her right back inside the cabin. She was set
on her feet, relieved of the heavy cloak and left locked inside.

Back in her safe haven, Laura blinked uncovered eyes at the well known dark. Behind her, outside the
locked door, she heard the voices of the men raised in talk. They made no effort to be quiet and
unnoticed as she had to do.

There were laughs, exchanges of words, chatter, excited congratulations...in Arabic! She didn't know
what they were saying. The words were garbled by the shut door, lost to her in meaning anyway, but not
in their tone.

Was it true? Had what she just been to a wedding? Dear God in heaven! Laura sank onto the floor
where she stood, her legs giving out from under her. She was Christian. She could not be married to a
Moslem. Why? For what purpose? It was a joke, a cruel, diabolical joke. It could not be real.

Twisting knotted fingers together, Laura wrung her hands, pressed her face to the carpeted floor and
beat her fists into the muffled floor. "No! No!"

She wailed, swaying back and forth in despair. It could not be! The man had only seen her twice in his
life, he could not want her for his wife! Mother of God, was there any way out of this? She could think of
none.

Married to Amir Bedawi she would be locked away in his harem, in a country completely foreign to her.
One she'd never see for being guarded by dozens of men like Abu and Masri. How many wives did he
have? How many concubines and women that he took to his bed when the pleasure moved him? She
couldn't live in a desert. She had to have trees and green grass, forests and lakes and rain to make her
happy. She couldn't live her life confined like this, trapped.

Pacing wildly, her agitation grew. Tearing off veils and flinging them at the walls, ripping the jewelry from
her hair, her throat, fighting with the belt on her hips, she cast away all of Amir Bedawi's possessions.

The miserable golden girdled skirt wouldn't surrender the secret of its lock to her. She fought it, pushing it
down hard, unable to budge it past her hipbones. It rattled with every tug she made on it. The intricate
chains resisted her strength. The gold coins and hundreds of bells jangled protests, telling the world what
she was trying to do.

"I want this off!" Laura screamed in English, defying the orders she'd been given and obeyed for weeks.
She didn't care any more. Amir had tricked her. Masri had betrayed her.

Let Amir Bedawi come in now and she would tell him everything she thought of him. What a vile,
despicable man he was! A degenerated slaver, a thief! A man who had not one single principle, a
heathen, destined to roast in hell for all eternity, that is what he was. She would never let him touch her,
defile her.

Beyond reason, Laura stalked to her corner, folded onto her knees and wrapped her arms tightly around
her torso, shaking with unreleased rage. Holding it tight within her, she watched the door and waited.

Amir Bedawi would come, then she would kill him.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Minutes dragged into hours. The late rising moon came out of the water, hovering like a silver dish in a
cloudless sky. Bathed in its radiance, Laura's attention wandered from the door to the open windows. It
was impossible to hold onto her rage, without the presence of the person she needed to vent it upon. She

went from a boil to a frustrated simmer.

The warm breeze and the full moon beckoned to her, made her rise and go to the windows. How happy
she had been to discover the sunlight that morning. Now, here was the moon! The sea looked completely
different under it. The foamy water in the wake silvered and glossed.

She thought she was well prepared for the ultimate crashing open of the door. When it did, she jumped
away from the window to the far corner of the cell and screamed. The glow of lights in the anteroom
formed a golden halo around Amir. Shadows filled her cabin.

Laura's startled scream echoed in her ears. A thousand noisy bells repeated it.

Amir looked amused by her terror. He strode inside, a white robe fluttering from his shoulders to his
knees. A kufiyah draped his brow and shoulders, held in place by two braided crowns.

All she could see of his face was covered by a full black beard. He placed a tray onto the sideboard and
turned to her. His robe split open, revealing a chest swirled with black hair. His skin gleamed like
polished oak.

"Where is your greeting, Arousah?" He demanded in Arabic and receiving no response, repeated the
question in French.

"You expect one?"

"I do." He closed the door and shot the lock into place with a key of his own. Laura's heart hammered
inside her chest.

"Je suis Amir Bedawi--" he spoke again when the key was put away some place on his person and he
discarded the head dress, "--and you are my arousah, bride. That is what you will be called from this day
onward."

Laura's French failed her. He dropped the robe off his shoulders. He wore less clothes than his slaves
did, no vest, nor sash, only close fitting trousers, molded to his taut waist and powerful thighs. His
sculpted chest glistened in the cool moonlight.

He was quite the most beautiful man she'd ever laid her eyes upon. The moon was full. Her eyes were
sharp and clear-sighted, it was only at the closest distances she had trouble discerning details. She
needed no spectacles to know this was the most beautiful man she'd ever seen in her life.

She had expected an abomination, an ugly, misshapen man, twisted by sin and vice, not a straight, tall,
devastatingly handsome man.

He was not old. A thick beard obscured his face and long black hair waved around his head. He looked
like the devil to her. She gaped at him, seeing how high and noble his brow was with his hair brushed
straight back from it. Laura swallowed, searching for her voice and her courage.

"My own name, Laura Madeline Dunois, suits me perfectly well."

The man propped his fists on his hips.

"I have been told your eyes are the color of the Mediterranean Sea. I see no color, only insolence."

"Then you are very astute, Amir Bedawi, for that is all you will ever see in my eyes." Laura refused to
lower her gaze. She wasn't going to play the shy virgin or cower in front of him. One surprised scream
was all the terror she would betray.

She stood tall, needing all of her height to confront him. It was not enough. He was a full head and more
taller than her. She did not waver or flinch as he moved closer to her. Her breasts thrust forward as
defiant as her chin. Every bell was silent.

"You are very beautiful, Arousah. Does it not hurt your eyes to stare so harshly at me?"

"Why should it?" Laura twisted away from the long fingers that moved to touch her. "Don't my eyes tell
you what I think of you? You are a despicable man. One who preys on women, stealing and capturing
and selling them into a lifetime of misery."

Amir shrugged his massive shoulders, unimpressed by her words. "Appearances can be deceptive. Take
your own this moment, do you not stand before me naked, prepared to shed the virgin's wedding belt,
ready to please me in every way?"

"It would be incredibly foolish of you to wager on that."

"No?" Amir advanced closer to her. "You do not intend to please me?"

"No." Laura willed her shock at his pleasing appearance to abate. "You will explain the purpose of that
farce conducted in your cabin. If you intend to convince me it was a valid wedding, be advised you had
not my consent to do such a thing."

Amir sighed. "Did our first encounter not teach you what I think of a bold tongue, Arousah? You should
not speak to me insolently. You are in no position to make demands. Your consent was clear and
audible, heard by each witness present."

"Let me phrase my request differently then, why have you played such a trick on me? You said you
would sell me. It is the purpose you, yourself, declared. If it is my virginity you want, of what use is a
ceremony that makes a mockery of all vows given between men and women through the ages? I am a
Christian and your Moslem ceremony has no meaning to me."

"Should the day come I choose to part with you, Arousah, I need only summon the Aman and repeat
before him, I divorce you, three times. For now, I have married you. It is not my intention to stand this
night, arguing with a woman. Go to the bed and make yourself comfortable."

"There is no comfort to be had so long as an animal such as you remains on this boat. Give me the price
for my freedom. How much gold do you want?"

Losing patience with her, Amir gripped her wrist, dragging her to the windows where a little light added
menace to his hard expression. "Show me this gold you have, houri? Where is it?" Shaking her roughly,
the bells jangled. "The only gold you have is what I've bestowed on you."

"I have more gold than a man like you could imagine. If you had just listened to me in the beginning of
this damned voyage, I would have made you a wealthy man by now, instead of a worthless pirate! I'd
have given you a trunk more full of gold and jewels than that one over there!"

Lionel dragged her against him. "That is nothing! A pittance, you foolish girl! Baubles for decoration,
nothing more!"

"I don't care what your price is!" Laura clenched her hand into a fist and drove it into his chest. "I will
pay it!"

"Yes, exactly." Lionel caught her hand and held her still against him. "The price is marriage, your service
to my needs, wants and desires all the days of my life. When and if I ever tire of you, then I will look to
the markets and judge your other worth. Until then, you will service me."

"I won't."

"You challenge me?" Even in the shadowy light she could detect the rake of one brow upward like the
wing of a hawk, black and sinister.

"I would dare you...even. For you will not take any pleasure from me and I am certain, you will not
please me in the least." Laura saw a glimmer of a smile in the Arab's beard.

"I accept your challenge, little Arousah. We will withhold judgment of each other until we know one
another better."

Laura clenched her teeth together, fighting desperately with the need to slow her breathing. If he touched
her any more familiarly, she might erupt into that horrible temper of hers. She had to control herself. A
tear, she could not stop, cut a track down her cheek and she wrenched free of his grips, unwilling to be
seen crying by him.

He moved away from her. She heard liquid pour and the sound of his throat working as he swallowed.
She raised her chin and opened her eyes. They were dry, clear. Amir Bedawi had finished his drink and
set down his glass.

"It is a small room, Arousah, lacking any place for you to escape from me. Go and settle yourself on the
bed. It is our wedding night and it is the custom that you must eat from my hand."

Laura swallowed hard, realizing how pointless it was to argue. She could delay the inevitable, but not
avoid it. She had no wish to be tied or beaten and brutally raped. She was the one who had to submit.
Doing as he said did not block the sound he made as he disrobed.

He came onto the bed without speaking further. The silk talked as he moved pillows. Her own
perfumes, unlocked by the flushing of her skin, blocked the scent of him. Between them, he place a silver
tray, laden with small covered bowls, a carafe of wine and one glistening crystal goblet.

Looking only at the clench of her hands in her lap, Laura pressed her knees ever so much tighter
together. He moved beside her, settling pillows to his comfort, his hair-roughened skin making contact
with her own. Laura pulled away, reacting as if she'd been burned. He ignored her as he reached for the
carafe and filled the goblet with wine.

His hands touched her hair, first. Together, in unison, they sought an inward course until he found and
captured the bare skin of her shoulders and throat. His thumbs went under her chin and inclined her
head.

"You are trembling."

"I am not afraid of you." She was in fact very afraid, relieved only by the fact that he had within him the
looks of men she could admire. His appearance did not deceive her. Tall, slim of waist and hip, broad of
shoulder and a pleasure to look upon, did not make a man honorable.

Handsome he might be, still, he was utterly despicable and her hatred for him grew. She didn't want his
touch, nor his company. How to convince him of that and live to see the morning, she wasn't certain.

His thumbs notched into her jaw and tilted her head further, then he raised the goblet, drank half of the
wine then placed the rim to her lips. She drew her lips taut in refusal.

"You will drink, Arousah," he said firmly, holding the goblet to her mouth. "For if you refuse, not so much
as a sip of water will ever be given to you."

Laura had no reason to doubt what he said as true. She had experienced already the depth of his
benevolence, spending days on bread and watered tea.

It did not seem to matter that she was unwilling. He stroked the rim across her lower lip then nudged the
edge against her teeth and tilted it. Laura drank as the wine was poured into her mouth, tilting her head to
accept its flow. It was strong and heady, soothing on her parched throat, fiery as it settled in her
stomach.

The cup was empty when he lowered it. His mouth stroked over hers, his tongue taking the residue from
her lips, probing for deeper entrance, not receiving it. Amir did not press further, withdrawing to fill the
glass again. He uncovered the bowls, sat back against the pillows and rolled a mix of rice into a ball,
popped it in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully while he gazed at her.

Swirling the wine in the glass, he paused then drank from it then repeated the same movement, feeding
her, having her drink always after him, always from his hand to her mouth. He repeated the agonizingly
slow ritual until the food and the wine was consumed between them.

"This is the manner of life, Arousah." His deep voice rumbled slowly, languorously. "From my hand to
you. I will feed you, nourish you, protect and defend you. You will never want for anything, so long as I
live and breathe."

Save my freedom, Laura wanted to say, but could not say anything as his mouth covered hers once
more. The potent wine was going straight to her head. This time, he would accept nothing less than
submission from her. "Open your mouth," Amir demanded. "I will enter you."

The knots in Laura's belly tightened, shivers rocking her. Trembling, she parted her lips, softening them.
His hand clenched her jaw, fingers splayed against one cheek, hard thumb pressing on the other, taking
what he would have, the full depth of her mouth to plunder.

Laura steeled herself, as rigid as marble, seeking complete unresponsiveness to him. She vowed he
would get nothing from her. It was going to be a difficult vow to keep. He made resistance, harder work
than submitting. Weakly, she collapsed on the pillows, trembling when he'd released her.

He put the tray and its empty containers away from the bed then drew her to him as he settled against
the pillows.

"You do not like to kiss?"

"I have no reason to want to kiss you."

"Reason? A beauty such as you needs a reason? The pure pleasure of being kissed is reason enough."

Laura inhaled slowly, trying to quiet the tremor inside her chest. His hand flattened on her neck, slid
down her throat and stroked from one breast to the other.

Laura reacted then, catching his wrist, gripping it with all her strength to push his hand away. His
resistance was instant. Corded muscles bunched beneath her fingers turning her push into nothing. Putting
all her strength into her arm, she could not budge him.

"You wish to test your strength against mine, Arousah?"

For a moment, she was frozen, eyes on his hand and her own clutching his forearm. Without warning, his
left hand came forward and slapped both of hers away. "I will touch you, just as I will kiss you."

Laura recoiled from him, her shoulder impacting to the wall, unable to stop the assault that came next. His
hands grasped both her breasts, fingers pressing into soft skin beneath her arms. "These belong to me."

"No, I don't," Laura insisted, she heard the panic in her voice. A tremor shook her stomach. He came
closer, his hands moving surely, circling, fingers splaying across her back, lifting her against him.

"You intend to resist me?"

"You think that I won't? I assure you, I have a very strong will."

A seed of doubt, that she could remain unmoved by his touch, had already sown itself in the throbbing
aches she felt twisting in her loins. Shifting ever so slightly, Laura was aware of the slippery feeling
between her thighs.

"I, too, am blessed with a strong will, Arousah. I will have you. It would be very unwise for you to fight
with me." He had drawn her insidiously close, making passage of his hair-roughened chest across her
sensitized nipples possible. The touch was maddeningly gentle first, becoming progressively firmer.

"I wish to know your response, Arousah. There are many ways of love, from the lightest of touches to
those that sting and hurt bitterly. If pain is the only thing that moves you, I can accommodate you."

Laura ignored the rising awareness his motions were teaching her. Unwillingly, she flinched when his hand
gripped her bottom, pinching harshly, causing her to rigidly jerk into full contact against him. "You are
hurting me, Amir Bedawi."

"For one who has been pampered for weeks by the most skilled eunuch in the Sudan, you are the most
rigid houri I have ever touched."

"Your practices and way of life are barbaric, Amir Bedawi."

"Listen to me, little one, where we are going there are many things you will think are barbaric. You will
forget your past. The only life you have now, is what I give you."

Lionel laid his hand on the apex of her knee and stroked upward, feeling the tightening as her thighs

pressed harder together. His gaze went slowly up the division between them, resting at the noisy girdle
that was all that protected her. He smiled, wanting to touch the sleek mound that was visible through gaps
in the golden chains. It had been a long, long time since he had had a woman prepared in the traditional
way.

"Please, must you touch me? I do not like that."

"Then I am not touching you firmly enough." Lionel pushed his hand deeply into the high joining of her
thighs, cupping her resolutely. "Is this not better?"

Laura gasped again, jerking upward on her knees. Again she reached for his wrist to stop him. Her rise
was the wrong move, giving him space to fully cup and grip her and that was insidiously dangerous to her
resolve. She had no sooner touched his wrist, than his other hand resolutely pushed both of hers away.
That was all Laura was going to take. She struck out, intending to slap his face as hard as she possibly
could.

"I will not tolerate this. Do not touch me, sir!"

He had the reflexes of a devil, catching her hand before the blow could be delivered. His eyes bore into
hers, dark and sinister. Words and visions flooded inside her mind. Raise your hand to me and the
punishment will be swift and painful, Arousah. For every pain you give me, you will receive the same
stroke in return. She saw herself striking him and the back of his hand striking her in return. There was no
contest. She would be the one who lost.

One brow lifted above his obsidian eyes in a question. "Is that what you truly want, Arousah? Pain?"

What power made her shake her head, no? She could not name it. She saw herself kissing him,
submitting to him, accepting his body covering hers. Where the vision came from, she did not know.

"Now, will you come and kiss this ache you have caused to my lips. I hunger for you. Only you."

Terrified to obey him, terrified not to obey him, Laura trembled, unable to move. He drew her forward,
hands circling her, pressing against her back and bottom to lay her against him.

"Kiss me, as I have kissed you."

She was afraid to do that. A surging wave of heat broke sweat out all across her body. It seemed to fire
out of her loins, spreading, intensifying. His hand moved across her buttocks, hot, as hot as her own
flesh.

Shivering as the strong breeze from the windows swept over her, Laura clung to his body's heat. His
hand continued to journey, stroking, turning, following contours, sliding the gold against her. He stroked
lower, down her quivering thighs, came up again, sliding into the crease then pressing her hard against his
thighs.

"Never strike me, Arousah." Amir whispered against her ear, his breath burning on her flesh. "Take a
good deep breath and remember what I tell you. The power in my hand is ten times that of yours. It can
stroke and caress you until you quiver with desire. Or it can cause you such pain you will weep and moan
in misery. Do you understand that?"

Answering verbally was impossible. Still choking back the surprised scream she had not released, Laura

held her breath in shock from the conflicting sensations he caused within her. She nodded her head,
acknowledging his words.

"Now, kiss me, Arousah, your mouth is sweeter than honey to me."

Laura moaned, unprepared for this kind of assault. There was not an inch of space between their lips.
Moving any part of herself, rubbed flesh against flesh. He was hard and firm and solid, molding against
her softness.

Placing her lips to his, she discovered tender flesh, hardly open, soft and gently coaxing more of an
impression from her. The point of his tongue came to meet her lips, stroking maddeningly from corner to
corner, then toying to enter, teasingly did not.

"That was not so bad, was it, Arousah?" He chuckled, proving he was a man of many moods. Laura did
not know what to make of this. She swallowed, still as could be, too aware of all the naked flesh they
had in contact between them. She ached, but not as she had ached before, with anger and rage and
hatred. Confused, she looked at his face, searching it for the first time.

It was too dark for her to see deeply into his eyes. How could this man be what he was? He was too
beautiful physically to be a bully and tyrant. When he could have struck her so hard she'd have flown
across the room, he had not. Laura did not know what to make of him. Before she could come to the
end of her thoughts, he turned her onto her back.

Amir's chest imbedded against her breasts, his mouth finding hers as she struggled to breathe. His tongue
shot inside her, invading.

Laura moaned. She had no defense against him.

Another bolt of heat assailed her, originating from deep within her belly. She trembled, tensing as the
waves increased. His kiss went on and on, softening, exploring, changing tempos and pressures like
quicksilver. His tongue swept over her lips, dipped inside, tormented her like a hot piercing arrow.

Amir swept his hand across the bed, pushing away the pillows, flattening her completely. A length of
Laura's hair caught under his arm as he pillared his elbow beside her. He turned her face and his mouth
touched her ear, tasted the soft flesh below it and came across her cheek, seeking her mouth once again.

He kissed her hard, seeming to want to draw her very life from her. Laura still could not breathe
effectively. Her head spun. She closed her eyes, arching against the stroke of his hand as it swept down
her throat. She strained upward, anticipating his touch upon her throbbing breasts, held back by her hair
pinned under his arm.

God, they were so hot. Never had her breasts burned, or tormented her, like embers shot out of a
crackling hearth. Amir's hand left her throat at the same time his mouth parted from hers. He pulled back,
raising himself above her.

In the faint light, his eyes glowed, crinkling at the corners. His mouth stretched into a grin that revealed
perfectly aligned teeth. Distressed, Laura swept her eyes from his face to his hand hovering above her
breast.

"That's much better." he coaxed and dropped one finger teasingly down, chuckling deeply as the hard
knot of her nipple quivered for contact. She panted so hard, the bellowing action of her lungs brought the

orb to his rough textured fingertip and dropped it, time and time again.

"Ah, little one, do you ache to have me touch you?"

"I am burning all over." Laura whispered, shocked by her own body's treachery. She had not wanted
this and now if he did not touch her more firmly soon, she would scream. She closed her eyes, unable to
watch such intimate torture and missed seeing his fingers spread open and take firm grip of her throbbing,
pulsating breast. The other burned just as badly and stayed neglected.

"I can feel how well you burn." Amir's mouth touched her own, only lightly. "Open your hand and touch
me as I'm touching you."

"I can't."

"Why can't you?" He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm, opened it and bit deeply the
fleshy mound at the base of her thumb. He loved her hands, they were as perfect as her breasts.

"Now, you can." He treated the other to the same regard and when her hands were on his body, Laura
did not dare remove them, for the feel of his flesh under her fingertips was exquisite, warm, hard, alive.
Concentrating on the broad expanse of muscle beneath her fingertips, she tried not to think about how he
touched her breasts, arousing her nipples with firm caresses.

Not content to handle her so, he spanned her waist and measured it, then his hands went behind her and
gripped the firm globes of her bottom and raised her hips from the bed to press hard against her with his
own. She felt the full effect of his arousal, unclothed against her.

Laura gasped and arched against him. Her denuded womanhood sheathed in gold made contact with the
furred flesh his belly. His soft swirling mat of hair tickled her stomach and thighs.

She cried out, demanding he stop, release her immediately.

He laughed, gripping her tighter in strong, controlling arms and his jaw scratched across her breast. Her
nipple stiffened, a shiver shot down her belly. He kissed the taut bud, opened his mouth against it then
tasted her completely. His mouth shocked her with it wet heat.

"What are you doing!" Laura hissed. Ignoring the confusion in her body, she grabbed his hair and yanked
hard to dislodge him. "Stop!"

"Je n'ais pas." Amir chuckled from deep within his throat. It was worth a little hair pulling to capture the
sweet rosy orb. She had the breasts of an innocent, small nipples, firm, and taut. Feeling that corn
kernel-like orb swell and enlarge inside his mouth was an indescribable pleasure. One to be treasured
and savored completely before he tasted the second lovely orb and changed it forever.

Her moan was music to his ears. Her fingers lost their fierce grip in his hair, softening as they dropped to
his shoulders. She was still intent on escaping, her fingers digging into his skin, pushing against him as she
arched backwards to evade his insistent suckling. "Stop that! Why are you doing that?"

His head stayed with her, his mouth greedily clamped to her breast following her attempt to twist away.
She leaned so far back that the ends of her hair dipped off the bed. He held her fast, flat to his body,
compressing her buttocks and the bells jingled rhythmically in accord with his tugging mouth at her
breast.

"My Lord!" Laura gasped, then cried out again when he would not release her. "I cannot!" She let out the
anguish she was feeling in one fretful scream in English. "Lionel Templeton, you bastard, you will pay for
this!"

And with that, the dam burst within Laura. Fighting Amir, she beat helpless fists against him. She had no
nails to claw or scratch him. Now, she knew why Masri pared them to the quick each day....to strip her
of even that means of defending herself.

Her screams and threats were silenced by Amir's mouth plundering hers. She was forced onto her back,
the weight of his powerful body pinning her to the silken bed. She was not going to let him have her
without a struggle, yet his kisses drugged her and the demand of his mouth forced her to yield. When she
bit him, he returned the pain with diabolical swiftness, till she learned not to hurt him, lest he hurt her.

She was exploding with passion, greedy for every stroke of his hands. Miserable when the myriad of
gold chains of the belt kept his touch from the throbbing core of her being. Her breasts throbbed and
welcomed his mouth every time he suckled there. She was out of control, unable to summon the will to
refuse him.

The strong muscles of her thighs parted to the hard pressure of his knee, wedging an inward trench. Her
resistance was nothing, adding only fuel to the fire raging between them, heightening his pleasure at the
conquest and hastening her capitulation.

Trapped beneath him, the golden girdle tormented Laura. He had raised her to a point of unbearable
desire. She was no longer fighting against him, but accompanying him.

Laura whipped her head from side to side, moaning, succumbing to the needs that shot through her.
"Take it off!" She gripped Amir's hand and guided it to the metal now pulsing so hot against her skin. Her
whole body was on fire, but mostly there, where his touch had yet to appease and incite her. "Please,
take this off of me. It is driving me insane."

"It is not the virgin's wedding belt that is driving you insane." He chuckled and kissed her in the most
demanding manner. Holding himself up from her body, he stroked her belly to a quivering frenzy, then
unfastened the belt and laid it open. The strands fell away and bells jingled as his hand smoothed the
mound of Venus then dipped into the moist cleavage, he was there to claim.

Explosions ripped through Laura. Violent, terrifying tremors shook her to her very soul. He did no more
than stroke her, as one would a treasured pet, and she exploded again and again, opening her legs to him
more and more with each passing moment.

With deliberate control, Lionel brought her up from one titillating thrill to another until a violent shudder
shook her entire body and she collapsed, both her hands gripping tightly to his wrist, holding him at bay.

"No more." she begged.

"I have not begun." He shook her hands away, pulled them above her head and he put his shaft against
her then thrust downward. Her scream rent the air as he pierced her maidenhead, and again, when he
thrust deeper to claim it all.

"Damn you, Lionel Templeton!" She cursed in English. Lionel put his hand over her mouth, silencing her.
He remained motionless for a moment savoring the conquest, allowing a fragments of time to accept the

inevitable.

"Who is it you have called upon?" He demanded in savagely possessive French, removing his hard hand
from her mouth.

"He was to be my husband," Laura cried.

"I am your husband. You will only cry out my name, Amir Bedawi."

Laura struggled to wipe the tears from her eyes and glared at the brute who had conquered her. His
mouth descended over hers and ruthlessly pushed all thoughts of Lionel fleeing from her mind.

"Say my name."

"Amir Bedawi."

"Again, with every stroke of my lance, say it."

"Amir Bedawi...Amir Bedawi...Amir Bedawi." Laura swung her arms tight around his shoulders and
clung to him, then sought his mouth of her own accord, to quench the fires she felt surging through every
nerve of her body.

The bells lying loose beneath her hips tingled endlessly and the boat moved in indolent unison to them.

Older than time immemorial, the sea undulated in its own rhythm that merged them into one. Then the
rhythm of the sea and the boat was left behind and they rode the wildest gallop sweet passion could give
them.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The wind died to nearly nothing. The night heat of the tropical sea lay over them like a warm blanket.
Sweat glistened on Laura's body, adhering strands of her hair to her back. She sprawled on her belly
over Amir Bedawi, her cheek rested on his chest. His hand slowly stroked up and down the curves of
her back.

He gripped her hair, twisting it out of his way, loving the thick curls, but more contented with the feel of
her flesh against his hand. The wedding belt jangled from the latch of a window, tinkling as the boat
rocked and the window swung on its hinges.

"Arousah," Lionel called to her and her eyes fluttered open. "The sun rises soon."

"I cannot stop it." Laura made the effort to raise herself to the window to see for herself. Kneeling on the
mattress, she gazed out at the moonlit sea. "Nor can I see the morning star, Amir Bedawi."

"The prow rides into it."

As he sat up, Lion grasped her hips with warm hands, drawing her backward to nestle against his hips.
Her head tilted and the offering of her neck and the soft sensitive tissue below her ear was his to feast
upon and kiss as he desired.

His arms encircled her, one hand taking captive her breast, the other the tender mound of her sex. She
had not closed her knees to him again the entire night. They were parted now, her weight balanced
delicately above her tucked beneath her feet. The length of her back pressed against his chest.

He remembered Tucker's Woods and what he'd intended to do when he found his captured bandit was a
female. Cupping her bottom he lifted her slightly, she straddled his thighs. She rolled her head against his
shoulder, arching with the stroke of both his hands. Her wanton promise was a reality fulfilled.

She was a joy to touch, to stroke, uninhibited enough to curve into his palm where ever he laid it. His
hand had learned what his mind had already decoded. Laura Madeline Dunois's true nature was loving
and affectionate. Her denial of such, was lip service to radical ideas. The reality of her was that she
curled against him, purring like a kitten.

"You have pleased me, Arousah." His breath was hot in her ear.

"Have I, Amir Bedawi?" Laura shivered unaccountably, she pulled her hair over her right shoulder and
let it fall down her breasts and belly. As exciting as his kisses and urgent hands were, a knot of fear had
formed in her belly when he'd woken her up. What would he do with her now that she had no virginity to
barter?

"Have I not pleased you?"

"Yes, my lord." Laura did not think she could address him by any other title. He had told her in the night
Amir meant Prince. Her fortune meant nothing to him. His hands coaxed a fevered undulation out of her
hips and she felt the tumescent growing of his shaft against the warmth of her buttocks. Soon, he would
become more demanding in his touch, she was learning more with each encounter.

"You are not afraid of me anymore?"

"A little." Laura would not lie, she was greatly afraid of what was to happen to her. "Where are you
taking me?"

"To the gates of paradise locked between these snow white thighs of yours."

"I meant the boat. Where is it going?"

"Do not pester me with questions."

"I am only curious." Laura maneuvered across his thigh, capturing one of his hands to hold still against her
breast.

"That has nothing to do with you." he replied as he kissed her neck.

"Indeed?" Laura came round, twining an arm around his shoulders and nuzzled her hips against his belly.
She would never feel dry again, she thought. Waves of desire flushed through her and made her tremble

once more. When he raised his head, his eyebrow peaked, she kissed him, parting her lips to meet his
tongue. "Suppose I were...."

"Be silent, Arousah."

Lionel slid his arm around her waist, containing her, returning his hand to the joining of her thighs, his
thumb hard pressed against the bud of her sex, his longest finger deep in possession of the well he had
forged to fit only himself. A satisfied rumble emitted from his chest.

Laura leaned heavily against him, quivering from the instructions of his hand. Every touch shocked her
once innocent mind, yet her body rejoiced and accepted each tutorial, greedy for it, for the next to
follow. She had to shake this off. Her hands gripped his shoulder and her head hung over him, she spoke
in desperation. "My family will pay any price you ask to have me returned to them."

"Would they?" Lionel took his hand away and gave her a firm smack on her bottom for not obeying his
request for silence. Did she only know it her family had rewarded him handsomely to take her off their
hands. "Good. When they find me and make me an acceptable offer, I will take their gold and keep you
as well."

"That would be unprincipled," Laura said and Amir laughed out loud.

"Do I appear to have any need of principles?"

"A man must have some principles. You cannot be thoroughly unscrupulous."

"Arousah, my eunuch would be most unhappy should I ransom you. He has grown fond of caring for
you, tells me each day of what his little gray bird eats and how she rages and cries."

"I do not cry! I don't like him. Why does he come and annoy me all the time?"

"Who else would I entrust your care to, Arousah? Any other man on board would be driven insane, as I
am, by my own desire. You are very beautiful. Masri will serve and protect you."

"I won't have him! I will care for myself."

"No, Masri will continue to watch over you. He does what I tell him and so will you."

"I will not tolerate enslavement," Laura repeated stubbornly. "I will make you miserable until you free him
as well as anyone else you hold in enforced service. You have not the right. Sooner or later this boat will
dock somewhere and when it does, I will gain my freedom from you."

"Never speak to me of that, Arousah. You belong to me, body and soul. If I cast you out, you will be a
whore in the eyes of God and all men. It is my decision to marry you. My right to do so."

"And my rights? What are they?" Laura asked her questions then watched shutters close off all
expression in Amir's face. Eyes that had grown warm and loving became cold as their conversation
disintegrated.

The fullness of his mouth was now lost in the darkness of his beard. She knew without having to trace the
line with her fingertip, that it had become a grim, harsh slash, as uncompromising as his eyes. He was
intractable, another of those stubborn, self-willed autocratic men. Were there no other kind in the whole

world?

"Well?" Laura made a demand for an answer, employing sarcasm. "If all the rights are for you, what is left
for me?"

Too late she remembered she was not speaking to a fellow patriot. This was an Arab and Laura knew
little about him, except that he had no compunctions against stealing women and enslaving them.

"You may convince me sweetly not to beat you."

It was not a request. It was a command, delivered with an underlying tone warning that the consequences
of not convincing him would be most unappealing. Laura bit her teeth into her lower lip, her expressive
face twisted with concern.

Amir shifted, leaning back against the pile of soft pillows. He reached for her hand, tugging her off
balance, he repeated his demand, harshly, "Convince me."

Laura laid her hands on the sides of his face, his soft beard cradled in her palms and kissed his mouth in
the way she had learned to kiss from him. Drawing him to her, she leaned back to the pillows and plied
her legs around his hips, her motions inciting him.

There was small pain with his entrance, but it did not last through the joining. Nor did it hamper her
desire for him or lessen her need to feel that conquering pleasure of taking him within her.

His hands gripped her shoulders and the ride he took her through this time was for his pleasure, ruthlessly
aggressive and hard, as if this one and not the others before it were to imprint upon her his stamp and
mold.

Soaked with the mingled sweat of their bodies, Laura thought she would die from experiencing such
abandoned pleasure. She would never forget such a night.

A violent trembling over which she could exert no control shook the insides of her thighs when he was
done. That seemed to satisfy Amir in some obscure manner and he kissed each of her knees then placed
his mouth to the soft muscle inside each limb and fiercely suckled and bit, leaving a bold mark like a
brand on each.

"This will remind you of me when you waken."

His chuckle as he straightened above her told Laura he was pleased, greatly pleased.

Dawn was coming over the water when Amir Bedawi separated himself from her body. He dressed
away from her while Laura knelt on the foot of the bed watching the shadow man regain his clothing and
his scabbard and belt in the dark.

"Sleep and eat well for Masri, Arousah. Once the day is done, you will again be allowed to please me
many times. Allah be with you."

"And with you, Amir Bedawi." Laura's eyes stayed on him until he was gone from her sight. She curled
on the pillows and watched the sky lighten and dawn arrive.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The tempo of Laura's voyage changed completely with the nights that followed her wedding. Now she
slept from dawn till noon undisturbed. Masri awoke her to a hearty breakfast and a pampering bath. Her
lessons continued, but now they were focused on pleasing her master.

Amir came to her each night after the sun set. Once he brought a lantern and set it into the hook on the
high rafter. "Come and kiss me," he commanded.

Seated demurely upon the wide bed, nude with her feet tucked under her bottom, Laura gaped at him in
some shock for he was so much more handsome than she'd ever imagined he was. The light, as poor as
one punched tin lantern holding only one candle could be, was still light. More light than she'd ever had
when he was with her. She blushed, suddenly very conscious of her nudity, made aware of it by his lusty,
consuming gaze.

Nervous, she stood and walked under the glow of the light to the shadowy wall where he stood waiting
for her greeting. She had felt his thick beard with her skin and her fingertips, but never seen its true color,
or realized how well trimmed and neat he kept it.

She laid her hands against his robe covered chest and stood on tiptoe to kiss his mouth. Barefooted, she
wasn't really tall enough.

His hand circled her waist, touching the only ornament she wore tonight, a thin gold chain with a ruby
drop that lay between the dimples of her bottom. He boosted her higher, his big hand cupping her and
bent to meet her, tasting her trembling lips.

"Arousah." He straightened, touching her nose lightly with one fingertip. "Do you call that a greeting for
your husband?"

His other hand found the bauble below the small of her back and he leaned forward, looking down her
backside to the glow of ruby fire winking in the light. A flush to match the ruby swept up Laura's body
from her toes to her hairline.

"Ah, a sorcerer's stone. Wicked girl, even your lovely backside tempts me. Masri tells me you dance
very well now. Step back under the light and tempt me. Maybe I will forgive your cold kiss of welcome."

"What?" Laura stuttered as his hand put her back from him into the pool of light. Freezing, Laura stared
at him numbly, his request a stone sinking into her heart. "No, I cannot."

She turned away, leaping onto the bed, grabbing the silk coverlet and wrapping it around her body.
Lionel blinked, astonished by her modesty at this point. It was silly.

"Do you refuse me, Arousah?"

"You bet I do!" Laura caught pillows up, pulling them around her, sinking into a pout of the likes she had

never allowed this man to see. Another man and her uncle once or twice had witnessed the depth of her
ire. "The only time you will ever see me dance, Amir Bedawi, will be the day you chain me to the slave's
auction block in Havana, Cuba."

"What?" It was Amir Bedawi's time to roar in surprise.

His volume startled her, but she was obdurate.

"I believe you heard me, oh great prince of the desert and the sea. You want to see me dance, you're
going to have to sell me."

A loud crack of thunder punctuated Laura's words and a gust of wind put out the light in the stupid
lantern. Lightning revealed Amir looming at the foot of the bed. Laura stiffened as his fingers circled her
ankle, but even if he beat her, she would stand by her word. She wouldn't dance for him. Never!

"Do I tell you I am not pleased?" His voice sounded cold enough to bring icicles to the gulf.

"Think I give a damn?" She taunted in English. She didn't flinch when he yanked her down to the foot of
the bed. She was no match for his strength and didn't fight the pull of his hands. She managed to half-sit,
using her elbows to raise her head and shoulders. In French she taunted him, saying louder than before,
"You call yourself, husband and claim I am your wife. I am not your houri. I will not dance for you."

A crack of lightning showed how angry her words had made him. The whole boat shook with the force
of the thunder clap.

"Are you not needed at the helm of your ship, Amir?"

Cuba could only be days away at the most now. She had to think of that, think of escaping. If she made
him angry, so be it. He would sell her quicker if he was displeased with her.

"There are many men on this boat who can hold the helm steady through a small storm, Arousah." The
bed dipped as his knee pressed into it and his weight descended on top of her. "But, I am the only man
aboard this ship that may do this."

"Amir," Laura propped her head on her hands and gazed out the window at the trailing sea in their
wake.

"What is it, Arousah?" He had a cushion of pillows at his back and she lay across his chest, a feather's
weight, no more, yet each point of contact was warm and thrilling. Her knees nestled under the bend of
his arm. His hand lay on her hip, stroking it languidly.

"Is it always like this between men and women?"

"Like what, Arousah?"

"I cannot describe it. I was never told what men and women do when they are alone and naked
together."

"A mother should explain such things to her daughter."

"My mother is dead. I doubt she would have described anything like this to me. She was...how shall I
put it...aristocratic, a lady."

"Do you feel enlightened?"

"Wicked is more like it. How old are you, Amir?"

"A score and nine."

"You have known many women?"

He stroked her back and smiled at her profile. "I have not kept count."

"Gentlemen always say things like that where I come from, yet I am aware that among themselves they
brag of their conquests. I have heard them."

"You should not have been listening, or in the least, the women of your family should have sent you back
to your nursery with a sound slap on your bottom."

"Inquisitiveness is not something to chastise."

"Impertinence is." Amir chuckled. Laura cocked her head to the side and studied his face.

"You should laugh more often, my lord, you sound human when you do."

"You are very impertinent, Arousah. Did no one ever turn you over his knee and cure you of that?"

"Only one person ever dared, Amir Bedawi, and he did not get compliance or accommodation from me
ever!"

"Are you so certain of that?" Amir continued to chuckle. She squirmed against his chest, her breasts
tortuously brushing across his down of curly chest hair.

"If he had, my lord, you would not have taken a virgin to bed," Laura declared scornfully. "And I would
not be asking you my curious questions to get no answers. For he would have told me what I wished to
know."

"What is it that you wish to know?"

"If every man and woman come together with all this desire? Is the draw between each pair irresistible?
In my culture such things are hidden."

"I do not compare my passions to that of others."

"That is not an answer."

"Arousah, cease your prattling." He kissed her mouth, savoring the taste of her.

Her passions ran very deep indeed. She molded against him accepting again the firing of his mouth. There
was a sweetness to her that Lionel found the most intoxicating thing about her. For once she let her
barriers down, she was as eager and willing as he was.

"Again, my lord?" Laura gasped at the bold urgency of his touch. Would he never sleep? He was
insatiable. She was drawn into a more insistently demanding kiss, lifted onto his lap.

To Laura's surprise, his shaft recovered too quickly. It seemed to her he grew harder and taller with each
new possession. She divined his intent to have her straddle him and held her hands to his chest, putting
him off. "You will tear me in two if you put me astride of you."

"I will not." Amir moved her hips easily, her light resistance nothing to his strength.

"You will!" Laura twisted as she was brought down. She fitted it snugly and with a deep thrust of his hips,
she was seated as he desired. His skilled hands played over her body, directing her motions to mesh with
his, inspiring that heightened thrill that made her weak and wild and insatiable herself.

His rhythm was maddening. She could not get enough of him. Her breasts swung free with each rise and
fall of her hips and she gripped her knees tight to him, taking passions ride for all it was worth.

In the end, he turned her onto her back and nudged her head against the pillows. The spiral of desire
would not stop.

It went higher and higher, reaching dizzying plateaus, only to rise again, more demanding, more
exhilarating, until they both reached a peak from which there was either explosive relief or madness. The
end was an exhausting shudder that swept through their joined bodies in unison.

Amir could hardly breathe. He lay immobile upon Laura for a long moment, unable to gather the strength
necessary to part from her entwined arms and legs. He kissed her damp brow, then her mouth, still so
sweet and pliant and willing. Then he lifted his chest from hers and rolled over, bringing her to rest easily
on his chest.

"You have not split in two, little one."

"Not for lack of trying." Laura audaciously touched her tongue to the center of her upper lip. "Twas my
understanding, my Lord, that the only position a woman was good for was on her back."

"Again, you were listening to things you were never intended to hear. A wicked habit, Arousah." Amir
tweaked a handful of her hair. It was like spiders' webbing, clinging to their damp skin, curling and
teasing with a sensuous life of its own.

"Will my lord sleep now?" Laura laid her own head on his shoulder, too exhausted to go again even if he
should demand it. She could hear the accelerated hammering of his heart beneath her ear. Her own was
likewise disturbed and a lethargic heaviness had attacked her limbs. She wanted no more than to lay with
him and be held while the throbbing slowed to a calmer, more bearable level.

"I may." Amir Bedawi ran his nails across her shoulders, gathering the floating tendrils of hair. He wound
it in his hand, twice and closed his fist then laid his fist between her shoulder blades. "Sleep, Arousah.
You have earned a little rest."

"Why do you hold my hair?"

"It feels like spider webs on my skin. Tickles and arouses me when a rest would benefit us both. Go to
sleep, Arousah." He kissed her eyes closed.

She did not sleep. She closed her eyes and lay against him as the rain splattered against the roof and
splashed off her windows. Under her ear was the resting beat of his heart. Against her cheek was his soft
carpet of chest hair. His eyes were closed and his body at rest. His breathing deep and even. She waited
for his hand to relax or move or for his body to cast her own off by some sleep induced need to change
positions. It did not happen.

Dawn was preceded by a red glow. Laura opened her eyes to find Amir gazing at her.

"You slept, Arousah. Now reward me for allowing you to rest."

"Again, my lord?" Laura implored wide eyed.

"It was your words that brought me to this bed, Arousah. A wife pleases her husband in other ways than
an houri does. Yes, or no?" He moved between her legs, parting them with his hips. "I want you to have
what you seek from our marriage. I will leave exhausted, seeking the nearest hammock to collapse
upon."

"That was not my intent, Amir Bedawi," Laura denied.

"I had not taken you for a coward, Arousah. You defied me until the idea occurred to you that you could
hatch some scheme. Tempt me again with such an audacious demand, and you may get your wish.
Havana is very, very close. Push me far enough and you may just find yourself practicing your skills under
the cruelest buyer I can find. There are many who would have already taken a whip to you. Come, once
more, my little bird. Let's taste each other's pleasures before the sun rises and takes me away from you."

"You have a devil inside you, Amir Bedawi." Laura succumbed to the insistence of his hands stroking so
lightly and temptingly upon her. He dropped his head to her breast and suckled one, then the other and
she slid her fingers into the long hair behind his head, holding him to her breasts, reveling in his urgent
demands. His mouth went lower, lower, kissing her navel, his tongue tortuously dipping inside it.

Hot kisses went across her stomach from one peak of her hipbone to the other. His hands gripped her
ankles, drew them upwards till her heels were pressed into the curves of her bottom. His shoulders held
apart the peaks her knees had formed and his arms encircled her lower limbs, strong hands held her to
the bed. The stroke of his bearded chin across her naked sex made her cry out in shock. Then his mouth
was there, where only his fingers or his thick shaft had been before.

"What are you doing?" Laura gasped, sending her struggling fingers to grip his head and draw him away.

"Be still," he scolded and removed her hands from pulling his hair, gripped them fiercely together at her
belly. Then his mouth again closed over the bud of her sex. She was contained and trapped, unable to do
anything more than twist her hips to escape and cry out that he shouldn't do such a thing.

Where the flames of her desire had been incited before by the strokes of his hand, now he placed his
mouth upon her with the same forceful suckling and toying that he used to make her breasts throb and
swell. A totally different sensation swept through Laura.

Gasping for air, for she could not breathe, Laura strained against his grips and squirmed in the binding of
his strong arms. His tongue dipped inside her then stroked up and circled an organ so sensitive it could
not bear such a caress. He captured it with the hardness of his teeth and his tongue tormented and teased
it.

Deliberately, he drew her out of reality, to a point of being where only the urgings of his mouth mattered.
Not one other thing existed. The experience of such unbridled passion shook Laura to the core of her
being. She was undone, completely thrashing beneath his control, crying out loudly for relief, for release,
she didn't know what.

If the man desired to enslave her completely, he'd found the key. Not knowing where he was leading her,
Laura fought the spiraling sensations then was trapped by them. The explosions that racked her body
were delicious. She no longer resisted, but strained to reach the pinnacle. When it came, she screamed,
her head thrashing from side to side, crying out because he would not release her.

"Amir, Amir, I shall lose my mind! I want you, please, my lord. Stop and come inside me, I beg you."

There was a satisfied smile in Amir Bedawi's beard when he rose above her and slipped his thickened
shaft deep within her. Laura shuddered and wrapped her arms and legs tight around him, clinging as the
thing she most needed to complete herself moved within her. She sighed, satisfied and he made love to
her quickly, bringing a tumultuous end to their labors.

The sun was a sliver in the east when he sat on the side of the bed and put on his trousers. Laura stroked
her hands freely across the sinewy back, exposed to the faintest glow of daylight.

"Would you not stay for one more, my lord?" She enticed him, wishing now to see his face clearly in the
light of day, to let her eyes feast upon this man who knew how to appease and satisfy her to the very
bottom of her soul.

"Don't tempt me, woman." He took her hands and removed them, pushed her back onto the pillows,
gently, but firmly. "After a poor beginning, the night was most enjoyable, Arousah. Do your passions only
rise with the moon?"

"I do not know why I desire you." Laura made the only answer that she knew. She did not understand
this at all.

"It is your nature," he replied astutely and pinched her cheek firmly. "Until sundown, Arousah. Allah be
with you."

"And you, my lord."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The sliver of sunlight at dawn that morning was all that was seen of it the entire day. There were squalls
by the forenoon and turbulent waves by midday. A full blown storm came out of the eastern waters with
a fury that Laura could liken only to a hurricane that had swept onto the coastal lands when she was a
child. The Ma sha la rode it out with only a jib sail double-cleaned against the wind.

Amir Bedawi did not come at sundown. He was at the helm, his crew alert and struggling to survive the
storm. In her cabin, Laura was pitched about most of the day and all through the night. Masri cushioned
her against the worst of it, with pillows against the walls next to the bed, but he was needed badly for
other duties and did not stay with her.

Laura was thrown off the bed time and again when the boat heeled up on end and slammed into the
trough of the next wave.

A rough night followed. A frightening night for Laura, thinking that the next wave could swamp the boat
completely. The noise was deafening. She had never heard thunder so loud. Wood seemed to creak and
shudder with every impact of the waves. She cowered, afraid every time the boat yawed.

Even when her worst fears took over and sent her pounding on the locked door, she had not even a
guard to answer her cries or reassure her. If Amir had come once and held her in his arms, stroked her
head, and told her not to be afraid, she would have been eternally grateful. He did not come at all. She
was terrified, certain that no little boat could survive such torrential destruction on open seas.

By the next morning, the storm had lessened, but not ended. The Gulf was rough and choppy and violent
squalls came in waves, but it seemed peaceful after the terrifying night. Laura slept fitfully, awaking to find
the Ma sha la moored against the dock of a well protected harbor. She was shocked to find land outside
her windows.

There were birds other than the occasional gull cawing and swooping above the wharf. The noisy clatter
of barrels being rolled down the gangplank assaulted Laura's ears as well as the chatter of Spanish of the
people on the dock.

Kneeling to look out the windows at a green hillside of quaint Spanish buildings made of heavy stone,
Laura could not believe her eyes. She drew back, realizing she might be seen naked from the dock.

A sin in her own culture, but one that might cost her life in Amir's. She looked quickly to the locked door,
knowing while they were docked Abu would be right outside it, alert to any noises she made within. He
would summon Masri or Amir if he thought she was up to trouble.

Laura tiptoed to the trunk and rifled through it, finding a pair of pantaloons, a vest and brief to match. She
dressed quickly, easily now, finding the clothing neither restricting, nor confining. The heat in the cabin did
not bother her either. She crawled back up on the bed and leaned to the windows. Fascinated by the
activities she saw, she even pressed her face between the window frames, gaping at the life on the shore.
So many people!

She could see the stave barrels being unloaded from the Ma sha la and recognized the men of her boat's
crew by their bright yellow pantaloons.

A huge ship was docked beside them, also being unloaded. It's beak like-prow rose twenty feet above
the windows of Laura's cabin. A tiny skiff nudged between the moorings of both boats and a dark
skinned native tossed a rope over a post on the pier.

"I should call to him," Laura said to herself. Speaking made her remember Masri. He had not come into
the cabin since she had awakened. She should be screaming for help, yelling her head off with so many
people about. She remembered Veracruz and let no sound escape her mouth.

Surely, here in Cuba, someone would aid her. The phrases in Spanish came easily to her. Hola, hola,
ustedes, amigos, hola! Ayudame! Soy este prisonada en esta barca! Leaning with both elbows tucked
into the narrow sliver of the window sill, Laura propped her chin on her hands and did not say a word.

"Hola, muchacha, diga me!" A swarthy faced man waved to her from the dock. He moved his cap back
and forth, to attract Laura's attention. "Ven pa ca y dame un besso." He laughed rudely and winked in a
leering fashion.

How rude! Laura drew back from the window. The man had called her to come ashore and kiss him. He
was uglier, then, becoming more obnoxious and insistent even though she had withdrawn out of sight of
the window.

One of the crew of the Ma sha la stepped up to him and roughly shoved him back. Horrified, Laura saw
the man crash to the hard planking on the dock after one great sized fist smashed into his mouth. The fight
that ensued was horrendous. It ended only when the Arab was drawn off by his fellow crew.

Laura retreated from the window, deciding, if she were to escape in Havana, she would have to do it
unaided from the shore. She wanted no part of more exploitation.

The day was long and hot, spent indolently exchanging dampened squares of linen for rinsed and wrung
out cooler ones. Occasionally a noise made Laura glance out the windows. It was less active in the
heated afternoon. Music from the nearby cantinas wafted down the pier.

Laura saw many colorfully skirted whores ply their trade. Not only did they strut freely on the wharf, they
came boldly up the pier, hips rolling seductively and invited the Ma sha la's guards to enjoy their delights.
This was much more brazen behavior than the whores of New Orleans displayed.

"I would be afraid to walk on that dock," Laura said out loud, seeing dangers she had refused to
acknowledge in New Orleans.

Laura sighed. No, she wouldn't ever travel without escort again. That is, provided she ever had the
chance to go anywhere.

The larger boat put away from the dock when the tide ran in. Some breeze came through the windows
then and the view of the dock was clear, unhampered. It was too hot to sleep and too hot to move.
Laura kept a laconic watch for the rest of the afternoon for one purpose. She hoped to see Amir Bedawi
return. She longed to see him, clearly without the shadows of night dispelling her vision.

In late afternoon, she groaned with disbelief seeing Masri return. She had wasted the whole day
anticipating his eminent entrance to her cabin! He had not even been aboard the boat! Groaning, she
couldn't believe her stupidity. She had to remind herself she'd not been left unguarded. Abu had been
outside her door all day. There had been plenty of men on the dock. She'd have not made an escape.

Masri came onto the wharf with two sailors behind him toting trunks and baskets. He had a scimitar
strapped to his hip and the fierce expression of a rogue chieftain made the docked beggars and ruffians
scatter away from him.

His assistants, bearing trunks and baskets, followed him like a caravan. Maybe he's brought things for
me! Laura thought excitedly, anticipating treasures and treats in his packages. Candy, possibly, a different
sweet or two, ribbons for her hair, even a comb would do, anything that would lift the heavy weight of it
from her neck and give her release from the heat.

Before very long the huge black eunuch opened the door. He threw a rug over Laura and Abu brought in
the copper tub. It was filled to nearly brimming with tepid water before Laura was allowed out from
under the stifling rug. Being docked, there was water to spare. Laura didn't hesitate one second before
accepting Masri's invitation to soak till her heart's content.

He left her to enjoy her bath and went elsewhere. Laura hoped it was in search of food. The sun was
dipping to the west over the hills of Havana. Dusk was coming and Laura had eaten her fill and donned a
whisper sheer caftan before she returned to her vigilant watch over the pier. Masri had folded onto his
prayer rug, intoned his pleas and blessings to Allah, then settled into a much deserved nap.

Havana was beautiful as night fell. Lights twinkled on the hills, at doorways and windows and the cantinas
music seemed lively and gay. The starry sky was deeply studded and clear.

Under the cover of night, Laura felt cheated, for here came Amir Bedawi, at last, and she had no sun to
provide her eyes the feast they had waited for all day.

What she did see was a pleasure to her eyes. A tall man of a fine figure, striding resolutely towards pier.
Only he was not alone. At his back, two of the roughest rogues Laura had ever seen skulked in the
shadows.

"You are in danger!" She called out when he was no more than twenty feet onto the wooden pier.

He stopped, raised his eyes to her windows. His expression was indecipherable. She thought he smiled.

"Behind you!" Laura screamed, her French high and frightened. "Two men, stalk you. Behind you!"

Amir whirled about, but not in time to stop the attack. Laura screamed as the shadowy hulks descended
on him. She saw no more for Masri had leaped to his feet the moment she had spoken. She was throw
away from the windows.

The slave did not even look to see to whom Laura had spoken. He slammed her four windows shut and
locked them tight. The explosion of harsh Arabic that followed was deafening. Masri lifted the quirt with
its braided rawhide lash out of the scarlet sash belted around his waist and used it on her.

The houri had called out to someone on the pier and shown her face. Amir allowed her the open
windows. He did not allow her to break the law.

Laura screamed as Masri threw her face down onto the piles of discarded pillows. He had both her legs
trapped at her knees and the whip cut across the soles of her feet immediately. "It was Amir! You must
help him, Masri, no!"

Helpless, Laura could neither stop the beating, nor get it across to Masri that Amir was in danger. But so
was she.

The gentle giant's punishing stroke did not cease. Nor would it stop until the houri learned her place and
was submissive as she should be. Masri had indulged her too much, spoiled her and let her go
undisciplined because Amir did.

Her cries were shrill with pain and sorrow when the door of the cabin crashed open and Amir thundered
in Arabic. "Enough!"

"She shouted to someone on the dock." Masri told him as he released the girl's ankles and threw himself
onto the floor in abeyance to his master.

Livid, Amir took the whip from his slave and brought it crashing down across his bowed head and
shoulders. "It was me, you fool! She was warning me of the cut throats at my back! Get out, you idiot!"

Amir threw the slave bodily out of the cabin, cursing him in Arabic then turned to the bed where Laura
huddled in agony, crying from the injury done to her.

"My little one," Amir gathered Laura in his arms to console her, but she would have nothing to do with
him. She fought against his embrace and touch and huddled to the pillows against the wall in a fetal ball,
clutching her feet.

Amir wet a linen and wrung it out, pressed it to the soles of her feet and crooned to her in a soft, loving
voice. "The ignorant fool did not understand you were warning me, my sweet. To him you were breaking
the law, showing your face and speaking to a man other than your husband."

"I hate your law!" Laura struck out at Amir's hand as he held the cooling cloth against her feet. She
would never walk again, of that she was certain.

Amir took the blow without flinching. "Hush!" He scolded, his brow knitting together. Laura did not
knuckle under at his expression. "Your skin is not cut. The pain will go away in a little while. Calm
yourself."

"That's easy for you to say! It's not your bones that have been broken all for the price of speaking. What
does it matter to whom I speak or if that should be another man than you?"

"Your bones have not been broken," Amir responded firmly, she was hurt, but would heal. He had
offered his condolences and sympathy and she had rejected it.

Instead she regarded him with cold hatred in her eyes. If he had not seen the joy reflecting from those
same eyes from her window as he strode onto the pier, he would doubt his own wisdom. She was in love
with him and never was it more clear than in the horrified scream she had let loose to warn him of the
attackers at his back. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding the compress to her feet.

"It stings, that is all. A eunuch may not whip any other part of your body. Only I have that right. Clean
your face and dry your eyes, Arousah."

"You don't have the right either!" Laura ran her fingers across her eyes and glared at Amir. "Would that
those men on the wharf had put their knives into your heart."

"Enough!" Amir roared, but it was his raised hand, poised to slap her that cut off and ended the tirade
she was about to unleash.

Laura sat back, her mouth snapping shut and sullen and waited for the hand to fall. "I came to comfort
you and I find myself abused. You wish to goad me into punishing you, finishing the job my slave began?
What were you doing at the windows?"

Stubbornly, Laura wasn't going to tell him. She dragged her hand across her tear stained face and
withdrew to the corner of the bed.

"You do not have the right, Amir Bedawi," Laura reaffirmed in a voice that was cold as the grave itself.
"For I am a person unto myself. You cannot lock up my soul or my mind anymore than you can control
the wind. Your laws are wrong, an oppression that I will fight to my dying day."

"What were you doing at the window, Arousah?" Lion repeated his question, determined she would
answer true.

"Plotting to leave you, what do you think?" Laura told him scornfully. "Would that your attackers had
better luck. I'd not be here now."

"Would you? Would you like for me to turn you out? Toss you up on the quay where any soulless brute
and his mates would take you and use you worse than the tarts that boldly strode up to my men guarding
the ship? Did you not see the whores plying their trade? Well, did you?"

"I saw them, damn you!" Laura shouted back at him. "What of it?"

"Yes, what of it. You are in better position than any of them, I tell you. Do you lack for anything?"

"My freedom. The right to choose my own company."

"And no doubt you would choose company of the lowest sort, as those creatures who tried to waylay
me were. Scum, vermin," he suggested for her, knowing better.

Anger at her scorn for him made his wits sharpen to attack. He knew she had remained peacefully in her
cabin the duration of the docking. His watch had told him so. Now she lied, wanting to wound his pride.
She had succeeded.

Lionel sighed heavily, for she would not admit the truth even if it killed her. Her worry had been for his
safety, not the henchmen. "Eh bien, Arousah, enjoy your spite."

Amir rose and strode to the door and threw it open, bellowing out it for Masri to come.

"Why are you bringing him back here?" Laura protested.

"Perhaps I'll let him finish the job he started," Amir turned and told her.

"No." Laura would have put her feet to the floor and run for the open door if she only could. "No, you
said a eunuch did not have the right to beat me."

"He will do whatever I tell him to do," Amir responded in a cold, dispassionate voice. "Including beating
you to a more pleasant disposition. Would you rather I turn you over my knee like a father does his
spoiled child?"

"You are unfair, Amir Bedawi! You know I only spoke to warn you! You know I was watching to see
you come."

"Ah, the truth at last, little one," he spoke in Arabic, folded his arms across his chest, glaring at her with
an expression that was at once satisfied and superior. Laura dashed the tears from her eyes, hating him.

Masri came bowing, his face a solemn mask hiding all emotion. To him, Amir said, "Repair the damage

you have done to my lady's feet. Make her a tea that will sweeten her disposition. I wish her senses to be
reeling when I come to her after I have moored the ship away from the dock. I have no wish to have to
beat her into submitting to me because of your bumbling. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my lord." Masri blinked at the orders. He would follow them to the letter. He did not understand
them, but it was not for him to question anything Amir said or did.

"What did you tell him?" Laura scrambled across the bed, scooting over pillows in what appeared to be a
frantic move to burrow into the wood of the hull. "Amir! Do not punish me! I did nothing wrong. I swear.
My warning must have helped you."

"Be silent, Arousah, and learn your place. A man does not have to explain what he does to a woman."

CHAPTER TWENTY

Amir walked out, slamming the door behind him. Masri lit several lamps. The tension was too much. As
brave as Laura had been in the past, accepting the enforced marriage and submission to the Arab prince,
she had been buoyed up by her own reckless nerve. All of that deserted her now.

Masri moved on his soundless feet about the room. He left and came back, sat her up from her
despairing tears and put a silver cup of steaming tea to her mouth. Cowed, she drank it obediently,
disengaging herself mentally from the small cabin.

This is what I've become, she thought, a whimpering, frightened child. Amir was wrong, the whores on
the dock were better off than she. They walked about free and unrestrained, using their bodies for
currency to continue their existence. But, at least, they had hope. Could they not walk away from the
docks, leave their trade and find some existence elsewhere?

They were under no bondage save their own predilection. And she, where was she? A love slave to this
heinous Arab, it mattered not that he had married her. It was bondage no matter how she looked at it.

There was no love in this union. Laura considered all her ideals, her now seemingly silly and childish, no
perhaps not childish, but certainly impossible to obtain goals to live an active and responsible life. Hadn't
she been heir to a fortune and hadn't she planned to use that for the good of humanity?

Laura's thick tongue flicked across her lips, moistening them, gliding on the oil that made them shimmer
and the feel of her own tongue was maddening. Her skin prickled in the rising moonlight from moist sweat
and frissons erupted as the breeze cooled and tantalized her. Her nipples resisted the tight binding of silk
containing them.

On the back of her tongue was the taste of the bitter herb tea the slave had given her. She could feel a
pulsing between her thighs that reminded her of Amir's possessions. Beneath the silken pantaloons she
seemed to swell and throb and the same moisture that was racking her skin, attacked her there.

Her thoughts changed with the awareness of her body's needs. Would he not come now? It seemed he
wouldn't and the boat heeled into the wind, cutting across the water.

Rising to her knees, Laura peered out the window and stared dumbfounded at the undulating rhythm of
the waves. She was going mad, surely. She could not bear the touch of silk between her thighs and on
her breasts, the warm embraces of jewelry at the extensions of her limbs. Would he not come?

The taboos of a lifetime assailed her. She was alone, unguarded, no one would know if she touched
herself. She could not stand the misery any more. Fighting the waves of desire, she dropped her head to
the pillows and huddled on her knees.

Unable to take the maddening feeling of silk stroking her skin, she threw off every garment she wore. The
bracelets and anklets were like manacles chaining her to her emotions. She removed them and clutched
the window frames, hanging her arms out in the cool moist air.

She needed fresh air and rose to her knees, put her face to a window and stayed there. Control of her
hands was achieved by gripping the roughened wood framing. Watching the undulating waters kept her
sane, the hypnotic movement somehow satisfied the urges that raged inside her. From the stars she could
discern they were sailing east. The waning moon had risen. She could see its reflection in a thousand
waves.

She was still kneeling so, enthralled by the sea, when she was joined on the bed. Warm lips kissed the
dimples exposed below the fall of her hair on her back. A familiar hand stroked her bottom and tugged
on the thin silver piece circling her waist.

"What are you looking at, Arousah?"

"The sea." Laura moved one arm to point out the window. "Amir, look, porpoises. They squeak at each
other."

"And dance on their tails." Amir gently turned her away from the windows. She nestled down snugly on
his lap, captured his beard in her hands and tugged on it urgently. "You have good eyes, Arousah, to spot
porpoises under the moon."

"Of what good are eyes, my lord? You do not wish me to use them." Laura didn't want to argue. "Do
women read in your country?"

"Some."

"Can you?"

"Do you think I am uneducated?"

"I think you are a barbarian." Her forehead nestled against the hollow of his throat and her lips sought his
skin, kissing him.

"Did they hurt you, my Lord?" She lifted his robe off his shoulders, smoothing it away and with eyes
hardened to see by force of will alone, examined him closely. There were no knots on his face or about
his shoulders, no cuts or bruises. Only the knuckles of his hands bore any trace of the battle he'd turned
to on the pier. She lifted his hands and kissed them.

"I have found you out, Arousah." He gripped her face and turned it to his lips.

"How so?"

"How so indeed. You shriek like a termagant...a shrew, but it does not hide the tenderness of your heart.
I am sorry Masri hurt you."

"'Twas unnecessary, because of your stupid law. Your law is wrong."

"You cannot change it, little one. Accept your place and be thankful for it. You are cherished above and
beyond description. It is more than most women ever have."

"The power you wield is wrong." With her blood surging so powerfully through her, Laura felt
uncommonly bold in the strangest of ways. Amir's lips covered hers, silencing her. He nibbled against her
sweet tasting mouth and waited for her lips to part. They did so most generously.

His lips left hers to travel down her throat. She was erupting again, this time she could do nothing to stop
the arching of her body as she presented her breast to his mouth. A unsatisfied moan escaped from her
lips. There, he was here, at last. She was keenly aroused, panting at the lightest stroke of his hand.

Kissing her breasts, Amir bit playfully against her, drawing her tightly against his chest. He flicked away
the jewel in her navel, preferring to have that crevice open to his touch and his tongue.

"Half the jewels and clothing you provide me serves no purpose whatsoever...like half the laws of the
Arab world."

"You do not know that." Amir laid her against the pillows and his mouth descended to her navel. "You
taste of honey."

"And feel just as sticky." Laura laughed, she wondered where the laugh came from.

It bubbled up and Amir's fingers nestled into her ribs, coaxing more giggles from her. It couldn't be that
the eunuch had used honey to cement the jewel.

Amir came back to her mouth and kissed her deeply and the sweet flavor transferred from his mouth to
hers. Her blood sang, unleashing her cautions on her tongue.

"Amir, I do not want to be guarded by a eunuch anymore. Have I not proved my trustworthiness today?
I could have made a bid for escape. I didn't. When you were in danger I helped you, didn't I? Can you
not give Masri other duties?"

"That is not possible, my sweet." Amir tasted her other breast and found it just as pleasant. His tongue
licking off the honeyed residue was maddening. Laura squirmed in pleasured agony. Her thoughts were
hard to order, but she was not completely gone. She probed for a better answer.

"Why not?"

"Arousah, be silent. I am busy."

"This is my body you obnoxious Arab. Why can't you send Masri away?"

"Because Masri will defend you with his life if necessary. Do not question me any more. Silence!" He
growled before he kissed her to shut her up. There was no other way.

Laura moaned as his hand slid down her belly and stole into that throbbing center. Explosions were rising
on top of need. Her mind wanted to use the senseless beating to gain advantage. Her body wanted him
to hurry and mount her, showing no mercy in taking her. She couldn't have both.

It did not end. She was wild with passion and desire, need driving her to do outrageous things. Nothing
Amir Bedawi did completely satisfied the ache inside her, except the plunging of his mighty shaft deep
within her. She did not sleep a wink this night between spells of sating and desire. Twice he put her
beneath him and once she rode him like a stallion, unable to get enough of him. They both should have
been exhausted, wasted from the ardent night.

Laura nestled against Amir, fitted like spoons in a drawer, her bottom snug to his hips when she felt his
shaft come to life again.

"Arousah," he said hoarsely and drew her hips tighter to him. "I cannot end my need for you."

"Nor I, you." Laura rubbed her hands down her belly till they caught with his. "I cannot stand the ache
inside me any longer."

Amir bit her neck possessively and turned her to her stomach. She parted her thighs as his knees
wedged between them. He lifted her hips from the bed and fitted her to him, then slowly slid into her
throbbing, hot sheath. Laura arched and shuddered, her fingers clawed the sheeting as he guided her hips
slowly back and forth.

I have no pride left, Laura thought. She closed her eyes, able to concentrate only on what was happening
within her. Deeper and more sensuous than all their other couplings she caught to his rhythm, violently
urging him to frantic motion.

Amir tore away, turning her onto her back, needing to kiss and love her. He plunged inside her and took
her mouth and Laura welcomed him completely. They both collapsed, exhausted and worn, ensconced in
each others arms.

Her nose filled with the scents of their lovemaking, her belly full and her aches should have been
appeased and satisfied. But they weren't. Laura pressed her face against Amir's chest and inhaled deeply
of his manly scent.

His blood had cooled but hers drummed in her ears. His thigh was a hard column between her thighs
and she squirmed against it, unable to be still. Sweat soaked her and she still panted as if in the throws of
deep need. It would never abate.

Lionel Templeton slept. He dreamed of the laziest sail from Veracruz to Havana ever embarked upon.
His intentions were to spread it out and enjoy it all, while his bride was sweet and willing and the weather
perfect. He was in no hurry to leave port again. No hurry to wake from his dream.

Laura raised herself upright without disturbing the sleeping man. The hot, burning fire swelled within her
veins, building tension that shook her limbs and made the whole of her belly contract and quiver. She
could count every follicle of hair in her scalp. Felt the tingling rise of hackles from every denuded pore of
her body.

Amir slept, unmindful of the distress coursing through her body. "Amir."

There was no candle, no moon to illuminate their cabin. His gentle snore, deep and soft against the
pillows was the only sound. From the pit of her belly a wave of heat swept over her body, increasing the
tremors sweeping across her too sensitized skin. "Amir."

He did not stir. He did not wake. He was wrung out, drained completely. She had exhausted him,
drained and emptied him.

Laura flinched as she put her feet to the floor. The pain gave her a separate sensation to focus upon.

Concentrating upon that she could ignore the waves of desire racking her body. Pacing the carpeted floor
she went back and forth in the small space, moaning, arms encircling her body so tightly, writhing against
the peaking desire ripping through her. "Oh, God, help me!"

She dropped to her knees in the corner of the cabin, rocking back and forth in a torment that could not
be quenched nor sated now.

"Arousah, what are you doing on the floor?" Amir's voice startled her, brought her head up from the
pains she was swimming in.

"Amir." Was all she could say, all her anguish, want and need swelled into the plea of his name.

"Come here, you silly girl. Why did you not wake me?"

Amir rose and lifted her from the floor, carried her to the bed as she threw frantic arms around him,
babbling against his throat. He groaned over having forgotten his orders to Masri, to drug her with
aphrodisiacs. Lion eased her next to him, pressing her close. "I am here, Arousah. Do you ache for me?"

"Yes, yes, I ache, Amir. Oh, God, I ache. Love me, please, hold me and love me. I need you so much."

"Tell me what touch you want and I will see that the ache goes away."

Obeying him, Laura placed his hand upon the burning sex, crying wildly at his touch. Out of her mind
with need, Laura could hardly wait for him to rise and satisfy her. His hand only did so much, she needed
his shaft.

Closing the windows to block out the morning sun, Lion stayed with

her the longest he ever had, till the drug had sweat itself from her

system. Laura was sleeping, spent, sore and exhausted by love when he

left her. He was, too, but the silly, sated grin on his face was going

to be there a long, long time.

BOOK IV

"All for love, and nothing for reward."

Edmund Spenser, 1590

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Havana, Cuba

December 21, 1850

Selling Steven's indigo crop kept Lionel ashore overnight. His business completed by mid-morning the
following day, Lionel turned to other more pleasurable pursuits. His thoughts remained fixed on Laura
Madeline. Gods! He was besotted by the girl.

One night away from her and where did he find himself? In Havana's finest shops, selecting Chantilly lace,
satin chemises, nightgowns and silk stocking, petticoats by the frothy ton, hoops, and garters, slippers,
boots, shoes of every sort imaginable. He considered, bought or rejected every gown Havana's legion of
seamstresses had to offer. When he reached England he would take ashore the most beautiful woman the
Isles had ever seen.

He bought too much of everything and he swore to himself that probably half the lot wouldn't begin to fit.
He'd never spanned a waist as narrow. She delighted him in every way. He longed see her dressed in
watered silks and muslin and proudly stroll with her through Regent's Park while every man in England
envied him the beauty he'd captured for his own.

The exotic finery of the women's trunks on the Ma sha la had served their purpose. It kept up the ruse
that Laura was kidnaped, a captive bride, and had awoken in her the recumbent sensuality Lionel had
known from the first kiss was cloaked within his little bride's heart.

He wanted to be done with the deception. The bed had its use, but there was more to Laura Madeline
than the pleasures locked between her thighs. She would take to the freedom of his ship like a duck to
water. He wanted her to join in at his table in his comfortable cabin and on the brig when the weather
was fair.

She'd fit in anywhere in his life, even at the helm where he'd gladly keep one arm tight around her waist
and the other secure on the wheel.

He could not wait to enjoy a windy sunrise or misty sunset with her in his arms. Watch her eyes as she
surveyed the crescendo waves splash over the prow. He half-feared she'd demand a pair of breeches
and the right to scurry into the riggings. She was courageous, fearless.

His desire to spend every waking moment with her tormented him, but he could not cast off his disguise
just yet. Not until his ship was well past Bermuda and into the open Atlantic would he risk the temper

storm Laura was sure to release when he shaved his face and threw off the covering of the dark. He
planned to do that Christmas Day.

Then he could safely reveal his identity to her. He expected trouble, but she would have weeks to get
over his deception. He would use that time well, prove to her how right they were together.

Oh, he prepared for her temper. But how long could she really stay angry? Had he not given impulsive
Laura Madeline Dunois the adventure of a lifetime? That made him chuckle. It was what she wanted,
adventure and love. He could read that much from her well hidden mind.

She would have a difficult time maintaining a sulk when he knew exactly which caress she was most
vulnerable to and what words softened her to the point where she crooned amazing words of love in his
receptive ear. Je t'aime, je t'adore avec tout mon coeur, she whispered. Such words he'd thought he'd
never hear from her lips.

He had presents for her. Candy that she craved and would most likely greedily not want to share the
taste of except with samples from her own mouth. A wedding ring that he'd feared would be too big for
her small hand.

He couldn't wait to slip it on her hand come Christmas morning. Having had one night to miss her terribly
while fighting the storm and bringing the ship safely to harbor, and another lonely, tedious evening ashore
he was now anxious to return to her.

It was another sign of how much in love he was with the girl!

He longed to see her dance. That might be the last act of Amir Bedawi. Say a request, sweetly spoken,
on Christmas eve. He was, in fact, looking forward to revealing his identity to her. One thing he had
come to realize about Laura Madeline it was how unpredictable she could be.

The storms of the Atlantic would be nothing to the storms within the Ma Sha La's most pleasurable cabin.
Anticipating those storms, Lion gave himself free rein to purchase all the things she could ever need or
desire. No woman could refuse the gifts he'd chosen for Laura today in Havana?

Winter in Cornwall would enchant her. Come spring he would present her at court and give her the full
taste of balls and dinners and elegant life. Their nights would be full of loving. Toward the end of summer,
he would bring her back to her precious Coeur de Terre and install her as the queen of her domain.

The long boat rocked in deep waves at the Ma sha la's side. Lionel called up his orders and watched as
the trunks he'd filled to bursting were hoisted on ropes over the sides. Wellen grinned down at him and
threw over the Jacobs ladder.

"Been shopping, sir?" The first mate grinned, his eyes on the three heavy and exquisite trunks Lionel
would not leave to the supervision of another to see brought on board.

"I've pounded Havana's pavement until my bones are raw." Lionel laughed heartily back. "Have you
posted the watch for the night?"

"Aye, Captain, and sent the mates ashore for the night's leave you granted them. Captain Greene of your
ship the Lincolnshire sends his regards and invites you to sup with him. He's given four days Christmas
leave to his entire crew. He put to port this morning to repair the mizzen that was damaged in a storm
east of Colon, it will be the twenty-sixth before the Cuban shipwrights can give him any assistance. He

said to tell you they've made it round the horn in seventy-seven days and would have broke the record of
a hundred and three to New York if not for the damage that caused them to repair to Havana."

"Good news." Lionel accepted the report. "Have the trunks taken to my cabin and securely tied. Send
word to Masri that I've gone to dine on the Lincolnshire. Tell him to have Lady Templeton await a late
supper. I won't be staying another night off ship."

"I'll see to it immediately." Wellen saluted.

"Has there been word of Ali Souq in the harbor?"

"According to a Dutchman, they passed the Arabs marking good time from Colon on eight sails. It takes
some getting used to a clipper, sir."

"Aye." Lionel chuckled. "I'd love to have been a rat perched on the mizzen watching that expedition."

"It wouldn't surprise me, sir, for Ali Souq to give you back the Syracuse and demand the return of this
old rattletrap. She may be ugly as sin, but she sails like a dream."

"Speaking of which," Lionel paused before going below to the captain's cabin, "I ordered paint and
brushes. Shipman's bringing it on the next longboat. I want this heathen apparition stripped and made
respectable before we sail again. Have you kept enough men on board to rid me of this detestable
carnival of colors?"

"I'll paint the ship myself, sir, if you promise me the color you ordered was white."

"You have the job, then, Tom. See to the detail first thing in the morning. I'll probably wield a brush
myself when I rise, though I don't anticipate an early hour."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Laura dumped every single garment within the ornate trunk onto the floor. Masri clucked his tongue at
cross purposes with everything she needed to do. She wanted to wear a pair of harem pants that were
less sheer than all the others. They were of crimson silk, shot through with so many gold threads they
seemed to shimmer. They were only slightly less indecent than everything else in the trunk.

Because of Cuba's fierce heat and Amir's absence from the ship, Masri wanted her to remain in an airy
caftan that would not chaff or bind her skin.

Last night had passed without Amir returning to the ship. Laura could think clearly for the first time in
weeks...a whole month! This morning she had suddenly awoken as though from a drugged stupor and
knew who she was. Who she really was.

At noon a clipper ship had sailed into Havana Harbor and dropped anchor near the Ma sha la. A Union

Jack flew from its standard, reminding Laura of Lionel Templeton. She had sat staring at that flag all
afternoon. Now she knew exactly what she must do.

First, she had to force Masri to leave her. The only way she could think to do that was to deliberately
provoke him. So she hobbled about the cabin on her sore and bruised feet, fighting openly with him,
acting spoiled rotten, sulking and pouting.

Twice he had forcibly stripped her and dressed her as they both knew she should be dressed for the
heat, and twice Laura had torn each caftan to shreds and thrown jewelry about the cabin with a
vengeance, screaming like a fishwife.

She was back in the red pants and the satin vest tied at her breasts. Masri glared at her, his arms folded
across his mighty chest. She folded her arms just as stubbornly and returned his scowl with self-same
vigor. Then a knock on the door summoned Masri to receive a message.

Sundown had finally come. Out her window, the Lincolnshire's port lights twinkled invitingly. It was the
only ship in Havana Harbor within range of the Ma sha la.

How she longed to hear English spoken again! The clipper was less than a mile away. The Cuban
shoreline was a much greater distance. The water was rough. She knew she could swim as far as the
Lincolnshire. If she could just reach the English ship, Laura was certain she'd be saved.

Laura had to get rid of Masri. After sundown, Amir would come. She could not count on another night
alone.

Masri did not tell her what his message was. He turned from the door and padded about putting rights to
the room, fussing as he did so.

Laura scrambled up on the bed and smugly sat with her back to the pillows. The slave railed at her in a
tirade of which she understood the majority. He punctuated his last phrases with volume in his normally,
soft spoken voice.

Laura crossed her arms defiantly, screwed her face into a scowl to match his and stuck out her tongue.
He uttered what she thought was an Arabic curse, she wasn't sure.

This time, he did not make a different selection of clothes for her. He put all the jewels and bangles back
into the trunk's tray, closed it and locked it. Then he came to the windows and pulled them closed, turned
the hasps and locked them shut.

"No, it's hot! I want the windows open!" Immediately, Laura reached to open the windows he had shut.
He caught her hands, fighting with her momentarily over a hasp.

"Arousah, what has gotten into you?" Masri pulled her away from the window. Laura bounced on the
pillows, unhurt and undaunted.

"I want the windows open, you beast!" she declared.

"Amir said I could have them open whenever I want them open...even if the boat is dockside. Open
them!"

Masri understood every word she said. When she wanted to communicate clearly, Arousah's

expressions more than made up for her lack of clear grammar and diction in Arabic. One night without
her husband and she was a shrew!

Masri caught her hands again as she opened a closed window. "We will put an end to this!"

"Don't you dare beat me!" Laura screamed and kicked his stomach. "I will tell Amir! He will flog you!"

Masri didn't waste his breath answering her. He overpowered her easily, looping a silk cord around one
of her wrists and knotted it securely.

"Amir! Amir!"

Masri had both her hands tied then. He put her face down on the bed and tied the cord to a post at the
foot.

"No! Masri, please, don't tie me!"

Masri patted the top of her head and left with some Arabic platitude bubbling off his lips.

"You stupid oaf!" Laura hollered after him, that and as many other unkind names as she could
remember.

The sun went down and Amir didn't come. She had been frightened then, fearing Amir's eminent arrival
into the cabin. Though she knew the Arab would cut her loose, she had no idea if he would be angry at
her.

The peace between them was of a fragile quality. Minutes ticked by and sweat broke out on her brow
and ran cold down her sides. Would Amir beat her? She shivered and stopped fighting against the silk
cord.

Still he did not come and the boat seemed ever so quiet. Quieter than it had ever been. It occurred to her
that the crew might be ashore. Relief seemed to flood every pore of her body with that thought. Calming
herself, she scooted off the bed and knelt by the post and used her teeth to worry the knots.

Determined to have her freedom. She would chew her way through. If it took all night, she would.

Laura didn't have all night. Desperation made her attack the cord long after her teeth had begun to ache.
She tore at it, thread by thread. How long it took her she didn't know, but she broke through one and the
bindings loosened ever so slightly. Tugging and pulling, wrenching her right hand miserably, she managed
to drag it loose, by scraping her knuckles raw.

It was minutes before she recovered from that pain to dig frantic fingers at the rest of the bindings. The
second she felt the wrappings on her left wrist loosen, she tugged with all her might.

The moon rose above Morro Castle's gloomy walls. Amir might crash open the cabin door any moment
and shout to her to come and greet him with a kiss.

Her hand came free in one great rush that sent her sprawling across the floor. Laura froze, fearing she'd
made too much noise. She listened hard. No footsteps sounded outside her door. The boat rocked with
the waves. Her heart racketed in her ears.

"Stop wasting time." She climbed onto the bed, scrambling to the windows. Thankfully, Masri had not
closed them after he'd tied her to the bed.

Laura inhaled deeply, tasting freedom, wanting it so badly. She looked to the door, staying perfectly still,
and heard no movement nearby or on the deck above her cabin. She stood carefully, and looked out the
length of the tall window.

The water was a long way below. The tops of waves had white foam on them. Moonlight reflected in the
troughs. She gathered her courage. She had swum in Lake Pontchartrain and at the sandy beaches of the
Gulf of Mexico, but she'd never tried herself in open waters.

Fear of drowning made her pull back and she knelt on the bed, her hands clasped in prayer. The
lovemaking that happened on the silk sheets beneath her was wonderful. She shivered thinking of the
pleasure of Amir Bedawi's mouth against her breast, the utter abandon she felt when he gathered her in
his arms and whispered sweetly in her ear.

His were the hands of a master of love. His kisses touched her very soul. She loved him. It was wrong
and against every principle she had taken to heart. He had stolen her, forced her to his bed and made her
into his wanton bride. Amir had ravished her and taught her things she was certain no Christian woman
should ever know.

But she would not sail across the Atlantic to his desert home. Her love couldn't see her through the life an
Arab wife had to bear. Doubts halted her.

If Amir loved her would she sacrifice her life to share his? That was a moot question. Amir never said he
loved her. He wanted and desired her, but that was lust not love.

She was not of his people or culture or religion. Everything about Amir Bedawi was foreign to her. She
must leave.

Laura Madeline knew this was her only chance. In Cuba she could seek help. Somehow, somehow,
she'd get back home to New Orleans. She would throw herself on Uncle Steven's mercy, begging his
protection. He would know how to extricate her from the heathen vows she'd sworn. He might even be
able to see justice brought against Amir Bedawi and his pirate crew.

Beyond that Laura couldn't think what would happen to her. She would be content to get home again. If
she had to spend three years in the Ursuline Convent doing penance, she would do it.

Whatever her uncle decided...she would accept. She knew it wouldn't be marriage to his brother. That
much was a far gone conclusion now. No English peer would marry a girl ruined by an Arab master.

If nothing else was to give her satisfaction, that last thought did. She had thwarted Lionel Templeton from
his sworn purpose. He hadn't had her and now, thank God, he never would.

With that last thought in mind, Laura carefully eased her head out the narrow aperture. She was bigger
than she thought. She had to tug and pull to extricate her chest. Even turned sideways, the rounded
firmness of her bottom nearly wedged her half in and out.

She squirmed against the millwork, pushed with her arms and kicked against the bed and she came free
to her legs. She came all the way out the window and hung from the millwork long enough to breathe
deeply then let go and dropped into the cold, wet sea.

The current slapped her against the hull of the boat and rough barnacles snagged her vest. It was badly
torn from scraping her way out the window. Laura wiggled out of it, lest she be trapped by it and
drowned in the strong waves.

The sea was rough. She dashed salt water from her eyes, sighted the Lincolnshire and its night lamps
lining its gunwale from prow to aft. She struck out swimming with well-measured strokes, reminding
herself that she must take her time, not panic and not give in to fear or weariness.

Funny, but her mother had disapproved of her father's teaching Laura to swim. This moment, Laura was
glad her father's wishes had always won out in her upbringing.

Putting her mind to the business at hand, Laura stretched out again and stroked against the waves. It
wasn't long before her lungs burned and arms and legs ached from the hard labor of breaking through the
waves and making progress. The Lincolnshire looked as far away as ever.

I have to make it, Laura imagined herself closer than she was to her goal, and she prayed.

It was Saint Jude, the patron saint of hopeless causes, that gave Laura the strength to paddle the last few
yards within the Lincolnshire's mooring. She had taken so much salt water inside her, that raising her
voice louder than a croak was impossible. Her fingers touched the huge hull, but the next wave swept her
halfway from midships to stern, scraping her unprotected flesh against hundreds of sharp and stinging
barnacles.

St. Jude stayed with her, nudging her into the prow of a long boat tender. It rocked wickedly, smacking
her head and battering her shoulders. Its mooring rope from the Lincolnshire trailed from it in the rough
water. She clutched that rope and floated in the waves, resting, regaining her strength, giving thanks to
Saint Jude for all his aid.

Waves crashed over Laura and she bobbed easily with them, no longer frightened, no longer terrified.
She was home safe. She could feel it in her bones. It would not even be necessary for her to seek the aid
of these Englishmen. When she recovered the strength to lift her body into the long boat, she could untie
it, raise the sail and trim the sheet and be safely to shore and once again ensconced in the bosom of her
family.

Right now she hadn't the strength to heave her body into the boat. That would come. The water was not
unkind only rough and buffeting. Its temperature was tolerable. Looking about more alert, she saw the
Lincolnshire's Jacobs ladder dipping into the sea. The upward climb to the gunwale was daunting.

Then Laura heard voices, English being spoken. She let out a great gulp of air in relief that was followed
immediately by a yelp as she ducked beneath the prow of the long boat to hide her nakedness. Men
moved on the ship. A lantern was notched onto a rope above the gunwale. Its light shimmered on the
water where she clung to her life line.

"St. Jude, don't let them see me, not yet." Laura crossed one arm over her naked breasts.

"My Lord, it will be a pleasure to sail with you again, though I cannot say I approve of the rascally boat
you've picked for hire. Why, the corsair is seventy years old if she's a day and I'd as soon profess to be a
tinker as to own up to being first mate on that frigate's nightmare."

"Is she as bad as that to your eye, then, man?"

"Aye, and then some, Lord Templeton."

"The remedy will be to your liking. The minute you finish your night watch of the Lincolnshire, I'll set you
to painting my Ma sha la, Paddington." Came a laughing reply in a voice that made Laura's blood freeze.

She dashed the salt water from her eyes, caught one hand onto the longboat's hull and raised herself
enough to take a good look at the gunwale of the Lincolnshire.

It couldn't be! Both of the men she heard speaking leaned over the rail. One had a cheroot gripped
between his teeth. She recognized the black beard that covered his jaw. Amir Bedawi and some
Englishman chatted as if they were the oldest of friends. It was not French or Arabic they were talking. It
was the Queen's English.

A chill squeezed her heart.

Amir flicked his ashes into the sea then clamped the cheroot between his teeth, grinning, eyes to the Ma
Sha La. It was him! The lantern near his head clearly lighted all of his face. Amir Bedawi! No, it was not!
The Englishman clearly called Amir Lord Templeton.

The bastard! The dirty rotten, thieving, lying, lousy, unconscionable bastard! Cold rage cost Laura her
grip on the longboat. She sank into the water, choking. Lionel Templeton and Amir Bedawi were one
and the same.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

No wonder there had never been any lights or candles! No wonder he'd forbidden her to speak English.
Had he spoken it, his voice would have been familiar! Laura reached for the mooring rope before she
lost it completely and let the waves take her under the curved prow of the clipper. There she held on and
waited, waited, waited, growing angrier and angrier by the moment.

How, she wanted to know? How had he done it? Why? She had been cowed and beaten and abused
and misused, ravished and tricked by the man into an unholy marriage. Her rage boiled over, heating the
very sea around her. She would kill him, hang, draw and quarter him! The bloody nerve and audacity of
the scoundrel! Shooting him was too easy a death. He'd have to suffer to satisfy her. Suffer a lot!

She ground her teeth so violently she nearly cracked her molars.

Fury choked her, made her swallow water and beat at the ocean. God! She wanted to kill him, strangle
him with her bare fingers, rip his heart out with a dull, rusty knife..

By God, she would fix the man! Make him pay for every second of her journey.

And to think, she had come around to seeing her uncle's planned marriage as what should have been and

her imprisonment by Amir Bedawi the punishment she deserved for her defiance. What a cad! It had all
been a hoax! God, what a sly and cunning fox, Templeton was! Not once had she ever had a glimmer,
that Amir Bedawi was Lord Lionel.

Movement on the deck became more pronounced. Men swung over the gunwale, scuttling down the
Jacobs ladder; six men in yellow pantaloons and one elegantly dressed English Lord with a full beard.

The sailors laughed and grabbed the oars, threw off their rope and bent to the stroke of moving the long
boat efficiently through the rough waters. The long boat passed Laura not more than ten feet away and
she had a very good look indeed at Amir Bedawi by the good light of two lanterns burning brightly on the
longboat.

Every man in the boat spoke perfectly good English.

The depth of the deception played on Laura sank in with alarming clarity. Laura shuddered in
abhorrence, trembled with anger and full blown rage. The game was not over yet, she vowed.

What could she do? She was half-naked in water that was turning cold to her. There would be no aid for
her on the Lincolnshire. Her eyes turned toward the shore--to Cuba. There she could obtain revenge.
Steadying herself against the dipping prow of the clipper, she scanned the harbor and spied a little boat.
One lone fisherman casting shrimp nets via the moonlight. His hair was silvered.

Laura's strength was renewed by a new taste in her mouth, revenge. The current would carry her to the
fishing boat. Another prayer to St. Jude and she let go of the mooring rope. God willing, she'd make it.

Hoping that her sins did not weigh her down, she began the swim she prayed would save her. When her
tired hands gripped the low slung rim of the fishing boat, Laura's prayers were answered. "Viejo, por
l'amor de Dios, ayudame."

Her voice was barely above a croaking whisper, but the old man's hearing was excellent. He turned, eyes
wide in surprise, regarding her as if she were a mermaid coming up from the deep.

"Madre de Dios!" he exclaimed, dropping his nets full of squirming shrimp. "Where did you come from?"

Laura could not explain, it was all she could do to keep a grip on the splintery edge of his boat. He saw
her pale arms and white shoulders.

The little boat bobbed in the water as he stepped over a plank seat and braced himself to haul Laura's
exhausted body to safety.

That she was naked and had real legs and was not a mermaid caused him to make the sign of the cross.
Pablo Ruiz was a devoutly religious man. He stripped off his tattered shirt and covered the naked girl
from his eyes.

She panted for air, needing time to recover. He looked around, glad for the night that prevented any of
the large boats from seeing her as he covered her nudity.

Shivering with the cold, Laura sank to the hull of his boat, too exhausted to speak. The old man had rum
in a jug, poured her some into his own cracked cup and cradled her head as she drank the strong brew.

"What happened to you, mijita?" he asked.

Laura's eyes went to the Lincolnshire and beyond that to the well lit Ma sha la. A long boat circled it,
hung with many lights. Her disappearance had been noted and the search for her begun.

"I have escaped from a white slaver, old man," she said finally. "Please, please, will you take me to a
priest?"

"Si." Pablo looked where she was looking, to the strange boat that he'd never seen before in Havana
harbor. Again he crossed himself.

"They look for me," Laura whispered, her Spanish rusty from lack of use.

"Si, pero...they will not find you," Pablo Ruiz said resolutely. The woman had asked for a priest and
God's help for her soul. He bent to his nets, drawing the small catch onboard. He spread the shrimp in
the pointed prow where he always did, then gathered the nets and hid her beneath them.

"Sleep, you will be safe, mijita. I will take you to a priest."

Pablo Ruiz hoisted his sail, settled back with a cup of rum to fuel and warm him, and turned his boat
toward to his village of Mariano.

It was not quite dawn as the boat came to rest in a protected cove that harbored a sleepy little village on
the Cuban coast. Fishing boats and nets lined its small harbor. Up from the waterfront there was a
modest open air market. A simple missionary church was its most grand building.

On reaching the shore, wading past the waves, Laura discovered she had sea legs and ground that did
not move under her feet unsteadied her. In a rough shirt and coarse blanket covering what was left of her
red silk pantaloons, she leaned gratefully on the arm of the old man. It was to the cross above the church
that she forced her weakened legs and sore, tender feet to carry her.

Dawn was breaking and here and there a rooster made a raucous noise. The sandy ground was sharp
with the raking of crushed sea shells for paving. She was at the church by the time a brown Franciscan
priest opened the door to prepare for mass.

She must have been a horrible apparition to the holy man, for his jaw dropped open in astonishment
seeing her fall to her knees at the door of the church.

"Por el amor de Dios, dame sanctuario, Padre." Laura turned her hands up to the thin aesthetic looking
man and collapsed. "San Jude metrajo aqui. Ayudame."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Padre Alfonso Curiel had never heard a confession of the likes that the girl kneeling on the prie dieu
whispered to his ear.

She was pitifully dressed, exhausted and so proud she would accept no comfort or aid, demanding to
confess her sins immediately that he'd granted her the sanctuary she sought.

Mass was held back for well over an hour while she went way, way back over six months ago since her
last confession to divulge all. She did not spare herself in the telling. Stating how pride and arrogance had
made her thwart the wishes of her guardian, how the devil himself had gotten into her time after time. She
had acted recklessly, defying customs, breaking rules, disobeying those she was supposed to obey and
honor.

Dear God, she'd even been in a convent for several months. What had happened to her after she had
deliberately run away from the convent for one day! Well, Father Curiel sighed, it was up to God to
forgive her sins--not him.

Father Curiel had allowed a veritable Pandora's box to open the minute he'd granted her the opportunity
to cross herself and say, "Ben diga me, Padre, porque he pecado...."

She had been kidnaped from the dock at New Orleans when she was in the act of running away from the
marriage her family had made for her. The man who'd kidnaped her had pretended to be another, but
was in reality her fiancee and he had married her on board ship in a pagan ceremony.

She confessed to sins of pride, arrogance, admitted she had spent night after night reveling in the arms of
the man who had stolen and ravished her. She had become enslaved by her own lust for the man, had
lavished in every wicked, hedonistic pleasure, forgotten all her prayers and the condition of her immortal
soul.

Lord, Father Curiel mopped a linen over his face. Was there no end to it?

"I think you should try to go to confession more often, my child," he suggested very solemnly.

In the end though, he did not know what to do for her. Unless she repented of all her sins and vowed to
sin no more, to return to her rightful husband and see that their consummated marriage was blessed by
Mother Church, then to love, honor and obey her husband henceforth and to hate no more, Father Curiel
could not give her absolution.

She was sorry for her sins of pride and defiance and regretted the disobedience that she'd committed
against her guardian, but repented none of her bitterness and hatred. She refused to return to her
husband, and was determined that she would have full revenge upon him. She would not forgive him until
the last drop of his blood spilled onto Cuban soil.

This was a tougher moral issue than Father Curiel was used to dealing with in his small coastal parish.

Then, the young woman told him she had relatives in Artemisa. Don Ricardo Santiago de Beliz was her
great uncle. Could he, Father Curiel, contact her uncle?

Dios mio, Father Curiel crossed himself again. Don Ricardo and his brother, Don Diego all but ruled
Pinar del Rio, the entire western province of Cuba. They were iron fisted autocrats who had survived
years of civil disorder and revolt. Haciendados who had made the most of their land grants and powerful
connections in Spain.

This waif was their niece? There would be war with England again if this girl's stories proved true.

She was exhausted from her ordeal. A pallet was laid out for her in a backroom of the tiny priory. Padre
Curiel gave instructions to his house servant to let the girl sleep.

A family in the village provided her a simple skirt and blouse and huaraches for her feet. Another had a
skiff and two sons who could be spared from the day's fishing to take Padre Curiel to Havana.

His morning interrupted completely, Padre Curiel said mass. Then he made plans to go to Havana and
speak to his bishop. Far better that he let his senior in the church present the girl's petition for her family's
protection to Don Ricardo Santiago de Beliz.

Sundown did not dispel the building sorrow and grief on the Ma sha la. Lionel Templeton sat on a
half-barrel chair, his head gripped between his hands. His face showed his exhaustion, his anguish.

Ned Paddington stayed purposefully close to the brig as he painted, keeping a watchful eye over his
boss. There was nothing anyone could do except to wait for Lord Templeton to come to grips with his
wife's death. All that had been found in nearly twenty-four hours of constant sweeping of the harbor had
been a tiny, torn silk garment clinging to the barnacles on the Ma sha la's hull.

Every sailor on the ship knew that no woman, not even a very strong man, could have swum the three
long nautical miles to the Cuban shore in last night's rough seas.

It had been a hard night and a very long day. Templeton had opened a bottle of whiskey an hour ago.
Most of that was gone before the ruby sun sank into Cuban water.

Every available man not on shore leave had come over from the Lincolnshire and scuttled about the Ma
sha la, scrapping the blistered paint off her sides, and slapped thick white paint on every wooden
surface.

Captain Greene had hired search boats and dispatched to look for Lady Templeton's body. Ned stayed
close to his lordship, knowing that when the boats returned with their sad burden, every hand would be
needed to prevent Lord Templeton from doing something drastic.

As the first sight of a waning moon rose over the eastern ridge of the Cuban mountains, the Ma sha la
was surrounded by four Cuban patrol boats with their guns leveled squarely at them.

Stepping aboard, the envoy of the Cuban Governor-General, one Captain Enrique Narvaiz, promptly
declared Lionel Templeton under arrest. With the Spanish captain was an old white-haired fisherman,
twisting cap in hand.

The old man testified that he had, the night before, pulled the body of a naked woman from the sea. The
man condemned Lord Templeton as a white slaver.

Outside of a few choice swear words and the most basic cantina vocabulary, Ned Paddington's Spanish
was limited. He wasn't even certain Templeton was in any condition to follow the rapidly fired Spanish of
Captain Enrique. Of the bare bones crew on the Ma sha la, no one else spoke fluent Spanish.

Captain Greene had command of the language, but he was on the Lincolnshire and by the time he was
sent for, Lionel Templeton had been slapped in leg irons and manacles to be hauled to Morro Castle.

The Spaniards had searched the captain's quarters and taken from it, several trunks and clapped Masri in
irons to be taken to prison with Lord Templeton.

There was naught that Captain Greene could do to stop the impounding of the Ma sha la. He, too, was
helpless to prevent the Spaniards from making Lord Templeton their prisoner. Ned and the rest of the
crew were going down to jail on the same charges as Templeton, white slavery.

Lionel was grim faced, ashen, his eyes flinty in their regard for Spanish authority. He listened to the
charges leveled at him, then said only one thing, "Prove it".

"You will have your proof at your trial, Senor," Captain Enrique sneered disdainfully. "We are aware of
your purpose and your intent. Cuba has never been a haven for pirates or English vermin. Rest assured,
the woman is alive and will testify against you."

"You are making a mistake here," Captain Greene tried to explain.

"No mistake," the haughty Spaniard replied.

"Lord Templeton is not a white slaver. Nor was he trafficking in women's bodies. The only woman on
board the Ma sha la was his wife. They've been honeymooning. You cannot hold him in jail. He is an
English peer in the House of Lords and as such holds diplomatic immunity."

"A likely story, verdad?" the Spaniard sneered.

"Sir, why don't you explain?" Greene gasped out his shock to Templeton.

Coldly, Templeton swung around and glared at Greene, fury lining his face. "I'm a damn site better
confined to a dungeon than loose on the streets of Havana at the moment. I'm going to kill that woman
when I get my hands on her."

The coldness in Templeton's voice cut short all further suggestions. "Notify the British consule of my
arrest, Captain Greene. They know what to do."

Lionel would say no more as he was taken away in chains. The whiskey in his blood did not dull the
facts. Such a scare he had had! First to discover the trouble Laura had given Masri all during the two
days he'd been ashore. He heard from the slave how she had deliberately provoked him into one
confrontation after another. On the brink of losing his temper, Masri had tied her to the bedpost and left
the cabin for an hour to calm his temper.

Lionel had discovered Laura had leaped out the open window into rough seas. Fearing the worst, Lionel
had been panic struck, staring at the black water over the sides. And when they could find no trace of
her, save a scrap of cloth, Lionel had sunk into a despair so deep and profound there was no end to the
bottom of it.

That was when the Spaniards had come to arrest him. On board his own ship!

The audacity of that strumpet! To lay quietly in his arms, giving him kisses so intoxicating that he
succumbed to her feverishly whispered desires. Swearing to love him...to adore him...to go anywhere in
the world with him! He was going to kill her...with his bare hands.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

December 21, 1850

Havana

"Bastardo!" Don Diego Santiago swore under his breath as he listened to the conclusion of the incredible
story his brother, Don Ricardo told him. "Is this true, hermano?"

"My brother, every word is true. I have it from Generalisimo Tacon, himself, that the woman every
soldier in Cuba is looking for is the daughter of Armand Dunois and our niece, Christiana."

"This is impossible," Diego muttered, shocked. "Her husband, this Anglais...is a Lord of the Realm?"

"Si." Ricardo brushed his hand through his hair, moving one white wing back against the black. His
expression did not soften. The glimmer in his black eyes that told more clearly of the irritation he
controlled. "And this self-same Englishman has already enlisted the Generalissimos aid in searching the
entire island for Laura Madeline. Acting on the erroneous information that the boat was a white slaver,
the General's adjutant arrested the captain and impounded the corsair. That is how Tacon became
involved."

Diego laced his fingers together, cocking a brow as he stated warily, "I had heard rumors of an auction
to be held this month."

Expelling a tightly controlled breath, Ricardo shot his brother a warning look. "Are there not always
rumors? There were no women on board that corsair. Had there been, the Englishman would not have
been released from the Citadel. He had bills of sale for all the cargo he carried as well duty stamps and
clearances from the port masters of New Orleans, Veracruz and here in Havana. All his documents and
manifests were in order."

"Then what is the truth, hermano?" Having been summoned from his mistress' arms for this family
conference, Diego wished Ricardo would get to the point. "Am I to challenge this Englishman to a duel?"

"Absolutely not!" Ricardo thundered.

"No? Well, then what exactly is the protocol you wish to follow, hermano? We have a compromised
niece, married by the man who dishonored her...albeit in a heathen ceremony.

So he has documents? They could be forged."

"Need I point out to you the man is already a relative by marriage to the both of us? His elder brother,
Steven Templeton is Bethany's husband. Another is the earl of St. Ives, ambassador St. Ives."

"You hadn't told me that," Diego drawled. Sitting back, he smoothed two fingers across the twitching
corner of his mouth. "He sounds more like an outlaw than an in-law, Ricardo."

"This is a complicated dilemma." Ricardo sighed. "The church is involved. Haven't you listened to a thing
I have said?"

"What do you propose we do?"

"I have sent Porfiro and ten vaqueros to Mariano to retrieve her. They will arrive here tomorrow, God
willing. General Tacon has assured me, the order to arrest our niece will not be enforced. The problem is
the Church. She has been given sanctuary."

"I see." Diego ran his fingers across a scar on his cheek, an old wound from a duel completed decades
ago. The only mark he'd ever gained in thirty years of challenges. "And then what?"

"Then what indeed! According to my wife, our young niece is of an impetuous nature. Bethany's letters
are often concerned with anecdotes of the appalling mischief the young woman causes. It is that tainted
French blood of Armand Dunois that is to blame. We must proceed with discretion, Diego. You will
have to request an audience with the Englishman. At all costs, we must see to keeping this scandal
controlled."

"It could not be otherwise," Don Diego replied in a suitably solemn voice that betrayed none of his
amusement. He was in full accord with keeping the gossip associated with their family to a minimum. "I
would like to see this niece, as well as meet this imaginative Englishman."

"She is a slip of a girl, Diego. Of a similar size and appearances to your youngest, Maria Elaina." Ricardo
continued, "It is my understanding the Englishman has deployed his own soldiers in hopes of recapturing
his unruly wife. I have used my influence to have the Governor relent on arresting Laura Madeline for
making false charges against the Englishman and his crew. Tacon is willing to see it as a family matter,
ours to settle as quickly as possible."

"Is this really a squabble we want to get ourselves into, Ricardo?"

"Alas, we have no choice. Laura Madeline is a blood relation. She has thrown herself onto the church's
lap for sanctuary and beseeched my protection. We can not do otherwise than to aid her. I have sent
word to Bishop Flores informing him that we are moving to settle this situation amicably on all accounts.
It will be up to you to make discreet overtures to the Englishman."

"We may have to send for a Cardinal to get to the bottom of this one. Do you suppose the man is
Moslem?"

"If he is, he will renounce it and marry our niece in the Church. Otherwise, he will not live to set foot off
Cuban soil," Ricardo spoke with grim finality.

"Ah, que lastima," Diego said last. Now he knew his purpose in this discussion. The Englishman's blood
was to be his after all.

Laura Madeline arrived in Havana on the morning of Christmas eve. Her first interviews with her Spanish
uncles had been harrowing. They were imposing, formal men of steel, so rigid and strict in their beliefs
and customs that they made Steven Templeton seem like a free-thinking liberal in Laura's mind. Even so,
she was wise enough not going to give either of them, blood kin or not, the highly private details of the
saga she had related in confession to the simple, aesthetic priest.

She told enough of the truth to shock both of them. She waited expectantly for the news that Amir
Bedawi-Lionel Templeton rotted in Morro Castle's deepest dungeon awaiting execution. She planned to
attend his execution waving her kerchief exultantly when the firing commenced.

Her most damning testimony had been given in Mariano to the local constable in the presence of the
simple fisherman who had rescued her. When Father Curiel had returned to the little village the next day,
he informed her the Ma sha la had been impounded.

"Good," Laura had said. It gave her great satisfaction to know that once the women in the holds were
released, and Lionel Templeton would spend the remainder of his numbered days in the darkest, deepest
dungeon in Morro Castle.

There was a complication to her charge of white slavery that Laura's uncles chose not to tell her. There
were no captive women on the Ma sha la. Nor did either uncle wish to inform Laura Madeline that the
Cubans had searched the corsair and found not one shred of physical evidence that could condemn any
man to his death.

Hauled before his superior to explain his rash actions, Captain Enrique produced nothing more than the
trunks found in the captain's quarters containing vast quantities of a lady's extensive wardrobe, the
majority of which had been purchased right there in Havana.

"It was a honeymoon trip, you imbecile!" Governor General Tacon had shouted at the foolish young
officer holding up a sheer, delicately embroidered lady's vest. "The Englishman has the documents to
prove it. You've embroiled the government of Cuba in a lover's quarrel!"

Rumors had begun to circulate in the city immediately. The church was involved. The government of
England was involved. The powerful Santiago de Beliz family was furious. No good would come of it.

So very quietly, with formal apologies made all around, on the twenty-first of December, the crew of the
Ma sha la were summarily released to the captain of the Lincolnshire. In the presence of the English
ambassador, Lord Templeton was removed from the rats and the darkness of Morro Castle's deepest
hole, dusted off and had his chains unlocked. The Cubans gave him back his pistols and set him free. He
had spent seventy-two hours in prison, long enough to sober up completely. Still, Lord Templeton was
not a happy man.

Laura stewed in limbo as the old year came to a close. Only the immediate family of her uncles knew of
her presence in Ricardo's home on the Avenida de las Colonias.

The one thing she had asked of her great uncle Ricardo, passage back to New Orleans, had not been
forthcoming. At least, he had given her no answer on when she could expect to sail from Havana. He had
merely listened to her story, questioned her at great length and repaired to his study to make his own
decisions and arrangements, in his own good time.

To her chagrin, Tio Ricardo was more formal and staid than even Steven Templeton. He was an
aristocrat from the high forehead that graced his face, narrow nose and down to the haughty, grim
expression of his mouth. Nor was he of the new school of thought that embraced personal liberties and
freedom above all else.

Laura thought it to her best advantage to keep a very low profile and to do nothing that would antagonize

or alienate her great uncle in any way, shape or form. She was, after all, dependent upon his good favor
to get herself out of Cuba and back to Louisiana.

The Archbishop of Cuba was invited to dinner on New Year's Eve. The elders had decided to forgo all
festivities and were dining at home. While the younger set was celebrating in their usual manner elsewhere
in the city. Laura was not included in that set. Her status, exactly, was very unclear. As a result, she was
attending dinner that evening with the elders and Archbishop Francisco Flores. He was a Jesuit.

Laura's experience at the Ursuline Convent had schooled her in the differences between Franciscans and
Jesuits. Jesuits were warriors of Christ. Dogma, doctrine and discipline was to the Jesuits' liking. She
would wear one of the solemn black gowns her cousin Sofia had loaned her. It was a trifle old fashioned,
but fitting for a dinner party with a bishop. In truth, she was not much looking forward to the meal.

Leaving her tub when the water turned cold, she rang for a maid to help her dress. The servant was polite
and definitely competent. She did the usual things a lady's maid did, tightening corset laces and smoothing
petticoats efficiently and cheerfully.

The strangest thing was, that Laura could not, by any stretch of the imagination, allow any maid to help
her with her bath or her personal toilette. Her body bore too many signs of her wantonness that she
wanted no servant to see, starting with the fact that she hadn't a hair on her body except her head. And
ending with nipples that had grown hard and firm and jutted against the confines of her chemise. Every
day that she was away from Amir, her breasts grew more swollen and heavy, tender in need of Amir's
expert touch to soothe them.

Tia Dolores had taken one look at her in the peasant blouse she'd arrived in and insisted she wear a
whalebone corset from that moment on. That restrictive garment was pure torture to a body that had
grown accustomed to complete freedom and unrestricted movement as Laura's had.

Something very strange had happened to Laura Dunois. Something she would never admit to anyone
openly. The truth Laura would admit only to herself.

Amir Bedawi had not forced her to do anything. Instead, for the only time in her life, she had been
encouraged to shed all of the confining restrictions of European clothing and the false sense of shame of
the body that went hand and hand with such restriction.

Now that she was safely back in civilized society, her lustrous and wild mane of hair had to be subdued.
It was pulled tight from her brow, tucked and twisted into a chignon that was pinned firmly to her head. It
was just like the dress and the corset her Tia had provided her. Pretty to look at, proper, but so confining
and restrictive, she could not move.

No man would put his hand into her hair and twist her head back so far that her throat was revealed for
his mouth to plunder. No man who laid his hand at her waist and felt the whalebone stiffening would
nudge his tongue into the hollow of her navel and drive her insane with desire.

She could well imagine how indignant Amir Bedawi would be if he could see or touch her right now.
Why, he'd take the knife out of his scabbard and cut the laces and throw the corset away.

Having such thoughts was not helping. Nor did it help that at night, ensconced in a tester bed with fine
linen sheets, she felt so alone and bereft she wanted to die. On one hand she felt outrage at the trick
Lionel Templeton had played on her. In the other hand, her desire to lie with Amir Bedawi came back in
force each time the sun set.

There could be no worse agony. Why had the man she loved turn out to be the man she hated?

The priest, Padre Curiel had said there was no penance he could give her that would absolve her of her
guilt and sorrow if she would not forgive her husband his deceit.

To the Franciscan's mind, her husband had acted in good faith. He had wanted her, desired her, been
betrothed and refused by her. Her marriage had been approved and promoted by her guardian. It had
been her duty and obligation to obey her guardian. The priest reasoned that just because the marriage
had come about in a circumvented manner was not of itself bad. He summed it all up simply, the man
loved her. Father Curiel sided with Lionel Templeton, though Laura never mentioned his name.

Her body sided with Amir Bedawi. She deeply missed the nightly loving she'd grown used to on the Ma
sha la. Why, why, why, had Amir Bedawi been none other than Lionel Templeton? That hurt her deeply.

Her uncles did not know the half of it! She had given them the barest of details regarding her seduction
and her too willing participation in it. Nor did she dare admit to them she had been running away from a
convent, determined to stow away at the time she was abducted.

As the year ended, the revenge she'd had her heart set on obtaining in the water by the Lincolnshire,
Lionel Templeton's death by firing squad, she no longer asked her uncles' to grant. No, all she'd asked
for every day, was passage to Coeur de Terre.

When she had finished dressing for dinner, Laura examined her reflection in the cheval glass mirror. The
altered dress fit well enough. Its long-waisted bodice dipped in a point over her slender waist and the
skirt circled about her hidden legs and ankles in a perfect bell.

Laura supposed she looked acceptable, if one was appreciative of black gowns that were unrelieved by
color. She had a snow white fall of imported lace at her throat and the same ruffs trailed out of the split
sleeves at her wrists. But, she could not shake the impression of sitting astride of Amir's thigh, pressing
her body against his. wearing nothing more than the daintiest thread of gold and a ruby.

With her mind engaged in a war of such monumental conflicting thoughts, Laura felt great ambivalence
towards the visiting church dignitary. She had no interest in attending a meal where the main topic of
discussion would be Cuban theocracy.

It was evening, though not time to present herself in the salon. Sweetly, Laura inquired of Tia Dolores if it
would be all right if she were to walk in the gardens. Her aunt had no objection and Laura went
outdoors.

From the gardens of the house on the Avenida de las Colonias, the northern sweep of the Gulf of Mexico
could be seen at any time of day or night. Laura knew that ninety miles directly to the north were the
Florida keys and the mainland of America. So close, and yet so very far away.

Life assumed a somnambulant pace in Cuba. No one hurried, least of all Tio Ricardo, making Laura
tread the taut wire between dependency and urgency. She sensed that if she didn't soon get away from
Cuba, her days of freedom might end forever.

Sighing, Laura's eyes lingered on the darkening harbor where she could just make out the distant masts
of so many ships. Whatever was she to do? It would be better for all concerned if she were to get away
from Cuba as quickly as possible, but to where?

When she had embarked upon this escape plan it had been with returning to Steven Templeton's
protection in mind. How could she possibly go to Coeur de Terre? How would she ever face Uncle
Steven? Tell him his brother was a convicted white slaver, awaiting his death in Cuba? Oh God, Laura
sighed. Nothing was ever resolved. She went round about in endless circles until she wore herself out.

Rising from her seat on the breezy overlook, Laura tugged at her dress and the binding corset. It was a
warm evening. She had a headache from thinking and too many hairpins. She rejoined her great aunt in
the salon. The Bishop was with her uncles in the study she was told.

"Tia, must I attend this dinner?" Laura asked. "I really don't feel up to it."

"Yes, my dear, you must. Ricardo and Diego are in conference with Bishop Flores now, working out an
agreement about what can and should be done for your ah...situation," Tia Dolores said delicately.

"Both of them are speaking to the Bishop?" Laura paled. It was going to be a tedious evening, indeed.
The time she had spent yesterday being grilled by the severe Jesuit had been the most uncomfortable two
and a half hours of her life. That man thought her as hedonistic as Amir Bedawi. She sighed and sat on a
comfortable chair.

A chair, now that was a luxury. Backs, padded backs, armrests, a room big enough to waltz in, windows
and doors that were open and unlocked. Well, Laura only had to put things into perspective to be
grateful for her great uncle's hospitality.

"I will need to refresh myself before dinner," Laura said restlessly, unable to settle in a patient ladylike
way when she felt such strong misgivings.

"Well, best do that now," Tia Dolores suggested.

Laura left her aunt in the small salon. She was to the top of the stairs, turning to the darkened gallery
when a servant opened the front door to admit a visitor to her uncle's home. Laura hid in the shadows,
lingering for no known reason, curiosity maybe. What her eyes saw made her heart leap, and conversely
made her blood run cold.

Amir Bedawi entered Tio Ricardo's home. Dressed in the formal guise of an English lord, a black cape
swung from his shoulders, thrown back to reveal its red silk lining. He appeared as the very devil
incarnate.

Tall, broad shouldered, unnaturally handsome with a face carved of pure granite, Lionel Templeton swept
a top hat off his head, peeled kid gloves from his hands and handed hat, cape, cane and glove to the
obsequious servant. Wintry eyes above Amir's perfectly groomed full beard swept every open door off
the entry, missing nothing.

"Oh, dear God in heaven," Laura gasped, nearly coming to a faint where she stood.

So that was the way it was. Her uncles were giving Lion Templeton audience with the bishop. She knew
the outcome of such a meeting! That he had come within the Santiago home told her more than enough.

Her Spaniard uncles were going to coerce her back to her husband. That he came as invited guest,
received at the door and bid welcome assured Laura of that. If it were otherwise, the man would have
been shot on sight.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Laura's fumbling fingers wasted precious seconds unfastening the hooks of her dress. Minutes sped by
as she fought with her laces and yanked the detestable corset free of her body. She couldn't get her
clothes off anywhere near fast enough to breathe deeply, calmly again.

Laura whipped about, clothed in chemise and five layers of ruffled petticoats and snatched a skirt from
out of the wardrobe. Over her chest she drew the peasant blouse she had kept. Its gathered neckline
boasted a deep layer of ruffled lace that circled her shoulders and bosom. It was afternoon attire, native
in origin, made for hot days and relentless sun.

She did not bother to change her shoes from the high buttoned, finely polished black patent ankle boots.
They would do very well for the ride she had in mind. If the church would not harbor her and her uncles
would not protect her, she had one last resort as yet untried, the American embassy.

She would need a horse and courage to get there. The courage she had plenty of, too much for her own
good. The horse she was going to have to steal.

Throwing a colorful rebozo about her shoulders and knotting it under her breasts, Laura ran to the
balcony windows of her chamber. The iron railing overlooked the inner courtyard. The drop was a good
twenty feet to the beds of Tia Dolores's rose garden. If the fall didn't kill her the rose bushes were going
to eat her alive. Death held no fear for her now.

Laura tugged on the drapes and found they were stronger than she was. She ran to her bed, stripped it
and knotted the sheets together, tied the end to the heavy drape and threw it out the window. Thinking
only of escaping, she drew her skirt hems between her legs, tucking it inside the waistband. Then,
gripping the sheeting, she threw her legs over the black iron work railing. She slid down, rather than
climbed, and thumped into the roses gaining only minor scratches and tugs on her silken stockings,
nothing more serious. Calming her frantic rapid breathing, she smoothed her skirts and straightened her
shawl.

The torches on the patio had not been lit and as she tiptoed past the open verandah doors of her Tio's
study, her heart hammered so loud in her chest she feared it sounded like a kettle drum, giving away her
presence.

The archbishop's voice, dry and controlled came out the open doors, pontificating, "A Catholic marriage
will satisfy the Santiago honor."

Well, it won't satisfy mine! Laura swelled with anger. She stole a look inside and saw the smug and
satisfied expressions of four men in agreement.

"Damn you, Lionel Templeton!" She hissed under her breath, stamping her booted foot on the earth. "I
won't let you win this time."

She whirled about to run for the stables, ignoring the clatter of her hard leather soles on the cobblestones.
Her uncles' stable was not empty. Above the carriage house was the garconaire where his vaqueros
stayed. Three of the uniformly dressed guards were within the stable tending to the horses. Laura
screeched to a breathless halt as one let out a low, appreciable whistle.

"Buenos noches, chica." A handsome rogue with snapping brown eyes spoke to her.

"Who are you, little one?" a second said before the older of the trio could turn and see who had come
into the stables.

"I need a horse saddled immediately," Laura declared boldly. There was no backing down, she was here
and she wasn't leaving without a good horse.

"Senora Laura?" The silver-haired vaquero recognized her. He was leading a saddled stallion towards a
stall. "A donde vas, encantada?"

"That one will do." Laura boldly ran forward and took the reins from his hand. Allowing the vaqueros no
chance for objections, Laura sprang into the saddle with flying skirts. She turned the strong horse toward
the closed gate to the avenue, demanding, "Open the gate at once."

"If I were you gentlemen, I wouldn't allow the lady to steal my horse," a laconic voice drawled in pure
accentless Spanish from behind Laura. Her spine knotted recognizing the voice.

"If he brought the horse." Laura countered in a scathing voice, "he paid for it with my money. Open the
gates!"

All three of the vaqueros looked at Laura absolutely dumbfounded. The two youngest blinked at the
powerful man making claim to her and stepped back a pace. The elder reached forward and took the
reins gently from her grip and offered his hand to help her down. "Con permisso, Senora Templeton."

"I am not Senora Templeton!" Laura said through gritted teeth.

"Oh, yes, you are, my lady. Without question, you are Senora Templeton." Speaking so, Lionel gripped
her waist ferociously and lifted her off the restive stallion.

"Don't you touch me, you brute!" Laura clenched her fist and swung at his face. "You charlatan, you
faker, you lying, cheating black-hearted dog!"

She was all kicking feet and punching fists as Lionel swung her skyward. "Put me down! Put me down!
Tio! Tio! Ayudame! Tia, somebody, help me!"

Lionel ignored her shrieks, put her on his shoulder, turned from the stable, marched into the courtyard.
At the first bench he hauled her off his shoulder and stood her before him.

"Lady Templeton." Lion's voice was thick and gruff. "Speak to me in a civilized manner! Control yourself
or I'll do it for you."

"You'll do nothing for me!" Laura screamed. She struck out, slapping him roundly in his face.

"That's it!" Lion caught her flying arms, sat to the marble bench, turned her over, and threw her skirts and

petticoats over her head. His open hand connected resoundingly with her cotton and lace encased
backside.

"Don't you dare! Don't you dare! Tiooooooo!" Laura shrieked. "Tio!"

"The choice is yours, Madame." Lionel raised his hand again. "Behave like a lady and be treated like one.
Keep shrieking like a child and get the flat of my hand until you can't sit down."

"You son...of...a...bitch!" Laura yelled, receiving a swat for each syllable she gasped out. "Enough!
Enough! I'll behave like a lady!"

"You certainly will!" Lionel concurred with a final spank to impress upon her how very serious he was.

Laura clamped her mouth shut, gritted her teeth together and had her skirts lowered immediately. Her
face was livid when Lionel set her on her feet.

"You will take my arm and walk back into your uncle's home and cease this tantrum this minute."

"Like hell I will!" Laura kicked him in the shins and pushed him backward into the rose bushes. She lifted
her skirts and ran for the verandah door, nearly knocking Archbishop Flores down as she bolted past
him. "You keep that man away from me!"

She darted across the room to the closed study doors and threw them open. "I won't have him and I
won't marry him again no matter what any of you say. He's a despicable, horrible slaver. A fiend! The
Antichrist! I won't marry him!"

Her ultimatum delivered, she ran for the stairs and clattered up them to her room, threw the doors shut,
dragged a Louis Quince chair to it and barricaded herself inside.

It was Tia Dolores who came later to make the first overtures for peace. She didn't even try to enter
through Laura's barricaded hall door, but came across the connecting verandahs between the wings and
stepped in through Laura's open balcony window. A maid bearing a tea tray was right behind her.

"Ah, good, you are presentable." Tia Dolores waved the maid away after glancing at Laura's recumbent
figure, crying on her stripped bed. "We have to discuss this sensibly, my child, woman to woman. Do you
think we can do that?"

"No." Laura pushed herself upright and drew a shaky hand across her tear-soaked face. "He hit me!"

"My dear," Tia Dolores said somberly. "From where I stood, you struck the man repeatedly for the first
five minutes of the struggle. He is battered and bruised from head to toe. Didn't Christiana tell you never
to strike your husband in the face or to curse at him?"

Laura ignored that question and swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing as she scooted off of it.
"Oh, Tia, how could the uncles bring him here? He should be shot on sight."

"Laura Madeline, one doesn't shoot their in-laws just because of a little misunderstanding."

"Little misunderstanding!" Laura gasped, appalled.

"It's a little more than a misunderstanding. He kidnapped me, held me captive with dozens of other

women and...and ...seduced me!"

"Yes, well, I know that." Dolores Santiago colored brilliantly, but did not lose her composure. She
poured two cups of tea from the service and bid Laura to sit opposite her at the small sitting group.

As she took her own cup of tea to hand, she noted the barricaded door. The elder squared her shoulders
and looked intently at her great-niece. "He also married you, Laura Madeline. Not as we first supposed
he had, in a Moslem ceremony."

"I was there," Laura argued. "I know what kind of ceremony it was."

"No, my dear. You were there and you heard the Anglican service recited in Arabic. Lord Templeton
has brought the minister who conducted the ceremony forward to your uncles. Perhaps the ceremony
was not Catholic as we would have wished had Ricardo been appointed your guardian.

However, your guardian, Steven Templeton, had approved an

Anglican ceremony and your father's will did not forbid it."

"You're not saying I am really married to him?"

"That is definitely a fact."

"But his name was false."

"Not on the certificate. Amir Bedawi is one of Lord Templeton's titles. He has several, Laura, including
that one from a desert principality in Tripoli. If you need more reassurances, the English ambassador will
be happy to verify Lord Templeton's credentials. He has more than satisfied Ricardo and Diego demands
for assurances."

"Then why were the bishop and my uncles and he discussing having a Catholic ceremony?" Laura asked
suspiciously.

"To reassure you, of course. Your peace of mind that your wedding is valid is one of the concerns the
confessor of Mariano brought to the attention of the Archbishop. And...I suppose there is some
smattering of Santiago honor involved. This has been quite a scandal, Laura."

"But then I would be really married to him. For life, Tia," Laura argued.

"Laura, you are really married to him...for life."

"No. I will not be married to a slaver. A white slaver, Tia. He had dozens and dozens of women on that
boat."

"Laura, that isn't true. Governor Tacon himself assures us the boat had no women on it."

"Then he got rid of them. Sold them here in Cuba at auction."

"That, too, has been investigated. Lord Templeton has documents verifying his cargo from the moment
he sailed from New Orleans. He was cleared by custom officers in three ports, New Orleans, Veracruz
and Havana. The auctioning of slaves has been forbidden in Cuba for over fifteen years."

"That doesn't mean anything. I didn't believe there were white slavers either. But I know differently, now.
I won't accept him as a husband."

"Well, you can denounce him tonight, but in a few months time, you may not want to. You could very
well be carrying his child, my dear."

"I am not!" Laura insisted without hesitation. "I refuse to bear that scoundrel a child. I won't!"

Dolores lifted her tea cup and drank from it, making certain she did not roll her eyes in the manner she
was so tempted to do. "Well, that remains to be seen. However, you could tell me what ideas you might
have that would enable you to effect a reconciliation with your husband."

"I will not be reconciled with him!"

Dolores set her cup and saucer on the silver tray, sat back in her chair and regarded her great-niece
skeptically. "Oye, Laura, the time has come to be perfectly frank, entiendez?" she said sternly.

"Yes, Tia."

"Should your husband choose to do so, he could kick down the door, come into this room and continue
where he left off in the garden. Don Diego and Don Ricardo would not stop him."

Laura inhaled sharply, shocked that her aunt would say such a thing. "They would not protect me? They
are my uncles!"

"Laura Madeline, you became the chattel of Lord Templeton some time before you came ashore to
Cuba." Delores took a deep breath then continued. "There are many ways of protecting. For example,
separating the two opposing factions and allowing them a cooling off period. That has been provided you
this very evening. Another way is to negotiate a settlement which both parties can accept. What is it that
you want out of life, Laura?"

"Why, so many things I couldn't begin to number them."

"No, no, be specific with me. What would you demand your husband give you as an inducement to
return to him?"

"Emancipation." Laura's eyes lit brightly with that one word.

"Que dice?" Dolores asked.

"Emancipation," Laura repeated. "My freedom, the same rights as he has. The freedom to conduct my
own business and to come and go as I wish. To make my own friends and to live my life as I choose. I
assure you, Tia, Lord Lionel Templeton will never agree to that. And I will never settle for anything less."

"You must be reasonable, Laura Madeline. If it is diamonds or jewels or ball gowns you desire, tell me
so. If you want a new house, a carriage, thoroughbred horses, whatever your heart desires, I am certain
his lordship will give it to you. You only have to name your price. Why I know a hundred ladies who
would die to be in your position at this moment, to make demands upon their husbands and to have their
slightest whim granted."

"That is my slightest whim, Tia. Tell Lord Templeton I want emancipation."

"Will you change your clothes and come downstairs and meet with him?"

"No."

"I assure you I will stay at your side and I will not allow any argument to escalate to the point of blows
again."

"I couldn't promise you I wouldn't strike him," Laura said heatedly. "If I can get my hands on a gun, I will
shoot him."

Dolores Santiago blinked at the vehemence in her niece's voice. She didn't doubt her. The girl's anger
was palpable, making Delores think the only solution just might be to put the two young people together
inside a locked room and let the fur fly.

Her money would go on the gentleman picking up right where he'd left off in the garden. An event from
which Dolores was certain her spoiled niece would learn the greatest lesson. However, that did not solve
the issue at hand. Delores was there to elicit some sort of cooperation from her niece.

"The longer you put off facing him, the more difficult you make it. For my sake, for the sake of your
uncles honor, will you come down and be civil long enough to hear what needs to be said?"

Put that way, Laura had difficulty refusing. "I will think about it."

Tia Dolores rose to her feet and turned to the barricaded door.

"Would you mind if I went out the door? Climbing balcony rails at my age is a bit awkward."

"Did you really?" Laura asked.

"No, I came through the guest room next door, child.

So can others, including Lord Templeton. It's not really necessary to keep the door barred any longer, is
it?"

"No, I guess it isn't." Laura rose and gave her great aunt a grateful hug.

Though Dolores Santiago returned the gesture and smiled encouragingly at her niece, it was only a mask.
The minute she had stepped out of Laura's boudoir, her expression altered to one of deepest concern.
She knew exactly what outburst she would hear from her own husband over Laura's preposterous
demand. Emancipation, indeed! The roars of outraged husbandry would probably shake every tile off the
roof.

In fact, Dolores thought better of even mentioning it. She chose instead to say that Laura was too
confused and upset to voice any suggestions regarding reconciliation. Doing that would certainly make
dining easier. The meal would be awkward enough after the events thus far that evening.

The gentlemen were still awaiting dinner and Dolores wasted no further time seeing that it was served.
She rather liked Lord Templeton, even though she had been prepared not to like him at all. The first
course of the meal was pleasant enough, inquiries were made as to Laura's current disposition. "She

might do better to have a tray in her room, Ricardo."

"Nonsense," Ricardo fumed. He favored having this affair straightened out, immediately, by decree. "The
girl should come down here and sit to the table and not be coddled further. She has obviously been
spoiled senseless by that Frenchman, Dunois. It ruined her, completely. Imagine putting the notion in a
girl's head of liberty. Leave it to the French to think of such a thing."

"I was under the impression that was a singular trait of the Americans originally," Lionel quipped. His
remark brought a look of approval from great aunt Dolores.

"Lord preserve us from men applauding freedom," the bishop said. "It brings a lack of discipline and a
complete disintegration of morality. What it does to men is bad enough. It would be the ruination of
womankind."

"Why, pray tell me, was my niece not taught the virtues of love, honor and duty?" Ricardo stabbed the
aspic set before him and smoothed it onto a wedge of spiced toast.

"As well as obedience," the archbishop responded. "I do not wish to be critical, but it is quite obvious
that Laura Madeline is incredibly headstrong, not an admirable trait for a woman."

"I find her rather straightforward." Don Diego came to his niece's defense. "She has qualities which are
to be admired and no one will argue that she is an angel to look upon. I am certain Lord Templeton
would agree that she is not completely flawed."

"Suffice it to say, I find her challenging." Lionel smiled. "I don't think it is necessary for me to explain the
reasons why this began. Laura was my betrothed, and when she acted impulsively and endangered
herself, I moved swiftly to see to it that she stayed under my complete protection."

"As was in your right to do so," Don Ricardo affirmed.

The archbishop cleared his throat. "The dangers a woman encounters at the hands of true white slavers
is well known in the port of Havana, Lord Templeton. The trade has not been stopped, though it is not
sanctioned in any way."

"It's a question of markets," Don Diego offered. "So long as there are men who will pay for a woman
with white skin, there will be those who suffer for it."

"Poor hopeless souls. At least, your wife was spared that. She should be grateful to you, Lord
Templeton."

"Laura's sense of gratitude is underdeveloped." Lion told the bishop.

"That remains the fault of her upbringing. The French have been unable to structure their society since the
total chaos of the reign of terror. Mob rule, indeed!" Ricardo put forth another view, which moved the
discussion into politics and colonialism then onto the right of commerce and open seas before the serving
of the main course.

With a rustle of silk and sating, Laura entered the dining room during the next remove. Dolores looked
around to see Laura drop a hasty curtsey to the group in general, flash a half baked smile to Bishop
Flores and lurch for the empty chair at the table. It was her husband who was first on his feet and came
around the back of Dolores' chair to seat Laura.

"Thank you." Laura murmured with downcast eyes and bowed head. Her cheeks flamed positively
scarlet.

"My pleasure, Lady Templeton," Lionel intoned with a bow to her and a sharp click of his heels. He
nodded over her head to Don Diego who rose belatedly, then returned to his own seat opposite Laura
and beside the Bishop.

Laura unfolded her napkin and spread it across her lap.

"I'm glad you've joined us," Don Diego murmured.

"Thank you, Tio Diego," Laura acknowledged the welcome politely then let her hands rest serenely in
her lap. She kept her gaze on the floral centerpiece and the color slowly receded in her cheeks.

The main course was then served and there were numerous compliments over the beauty and appeal of
the meal. It was later than normal for dinner and the men were all hungry, of course. Tia Dolores took
their compliments in stride, fending the more outlandish ones from the bishop as she always did with a
change of topic. "Perhaps we should resume talking about the sea lanes."

Laura deliberately cleared her throat and said, boldly, "I want to know Lord Templeton's reaction to my
suggestions regarding reconciliation, Tia. It is why I came downstairs."

The little minx, Lionel thought, eyeing her as he buttered a soft roll. She was just about as wicked as they
come. Sitting there the picture of innocence, clothed in a formal black dress with yards of ecru lace
spilling across her throat and at her wrists. She was as deceptive a picture as the most studied and
consummate London actress, looking frail and helpless when she could kick a man into the next county
and had the strength of a dozen whores in a cat fight over a diamond stickpin.

Lionel put down the bread and the knife and rested his elbow on the arm of his chair, tucking his index
finger over the neatly trimmed beard at his chin.

"Specifically, which of the litany of demands Tia Dolores brought to us are you referring to, Laura?" He
smiled, engaging her eyes. "The one which turns over to you all the accounts and notes of Coeur de
Terre?"

Tia Dolores cleared her throat, my this was good, she thought. This man is quite up a notch on his little
wife. "Did I mention that?"

"Possibly the most important one is a third control and a voting seat on the board of the shipping line,
hmmm?"

"Por l'amor de Dios, hombre, you wouldn't give her that!" Don Ricardo sputtered.

"Well, it beats parting with my boats themselves. The woman has a ghastly concept of maritime law. She
would have every country adjacent to the Gulf of Mexico at war within a month."

"Are you enjoying yourself at my expense again, Lord Templeton?" Laura inquired icily.

"Sorry." Lionel held up innocent palms. "You were inquiring of my opinions. As I said, your aunt made
many suggestions as to what would help our marriage. A sense of humor, for one. But, that is another

matter."

"A sense of humor?" Laura's eyes flashed fire.

Lionel lifted his cutlery and began carving the generous portion of roast on his plate. While Laura fumed,
he kept his head turned watching what his hands were doing, then he looked at Laura and smiled. An
absolutely devilish boyish smile that took years off his age in Dolores' opinion. The rake! He had no right
to behave as such a scoundrel at the dinner table. Tia Dolores lifted her fan and rapped Lord Templeton
sharply on his knuckle.

"I did not say that," Delores scolded him. "Though it would be a suggestion you both should take to
heart."

Laura rejoined. "I see nothing humorous in the indignities Lord Templeton has put me through. There
were times on that boat that I was in complete fear of my life! That sir, is not a laughing matter!"

"There was not one moment in our tempestuous relationship where I have held a knife to your throat or
pointed a gun at you or forced you to do a single thing you did not want to do yourself, Laura
Madeline."

"Why, you lying, son...." Laura choked, sputtering, her face turning scarlet as she remembered how he
himself had tied her hands high above her head and used a knife to strip her. Lionel smiled, enjoying her
sputtering rage, waiting to see how much or what she'd divulge. Recovering, Laura choked, "That doesn't
make any of what did happen amusing in retrospect!"

"Nor do I find agonizing over your reckless disappearances in New Orleans and now here in Havana,
worthy of a healthy chuckle, Madame. However, if the Queensbury rules are to be followed in the future,
it would behoove the both of us to remember not to hit below the belt. You have damnable aim, Lady
Templeton, whether it be bullets, fists or words you are firing."

"What is this about bullets?" Tio Ricardo demanded.

"Oh? Didn't Laura tell you how adept she is at holding up carriages at gunpoint?"

"Why should I have told them that?" Laura countered outrageously. "You haven't told the truth about
your eunuch slaves."

"Which you never would have met, darling, if you hadn't run away from the good sisters at St. Ursuline's
convent."

"I beg your pardon?" Tia Dolores choked.

"Oh, you tyrannical...." Laura was about to say bastard, but she couldn't, not with one archbishop and
three gaping elders staring daggers at her.

"You shot a man?" Archbishop Flores asked appalled.

"No, I did not!" Laura cried, feeling she was on the edge of an avalanche. "That's something that
happened a long time ago. It has nothing to do with what happened on that boat! What about his two
eunuchs? Why can't they be brought here and questioned about what he did with the other women. I saw
them! With these two eyes."

"Ahem." The bishop looked to Don Ricardo with an upraised eyebrow and murmured a comment about
the eunuch.

"Is there any truth to that?" Tio Ricardo looked to Lord Templeton for an answer.

"Oh, yes, I have two such men in my employ. They make excellent body guards, loyal, devoted, willing
to lay down their lives to defend me...or any member of my family. I never travel without Abu. The one
Laura is refers to was a court physician to the Bey of Ur Ahhagar, a most renown man. In the upheavals
following the assassination of the royal family, Masri came into my service. Over the last decade, I have
had many reasons to thank Masri's skill as a surgeon. Ten years ago the Madagascar and Algerian coasts
were dangerous places for a merchant marine. Pirating was more commonplace than you would care to
believe.

When I bought the Ma sha la from Ali Souq, I brought Masri along on the journey, knowing I would
need a suitable care giver to provide for Laura's safety. It was he who assumed total responsibility for all
of Laura's needs on board ship. He was, perhaps, not the type of chaperone one would normally select
for a young woman on a sea voyage, but he was the only one I had available in the two hours it took to
put a crew together in New Orleans."

"That puts things in a totally different light, does it not, Madame?" Tio Ricardo said warningly to Laura.
Her mouth yawed open and closed, struggling with stating or not stating what the details of Masri's duties
had entailed.

About to contradict Lionel, she said instead, "How was I supposed to know that? You kept me
completely ignorant of the true nature of your despicable deeds."

"Do you not find it unusual that--" Lionel suggested smoothly "--any act, no matter how dangerous,
despicable or destructive you commit is perfectly acceptable, while any deed I commit you label
offensive, heinous and immoral?"

"If the shoe fits, wear it. If it doesn't, don't put it on!" Laura said primly.

"Unfair, my lady." Lionel shook his head, his eyes sparking at her. "This very moment, indeed from the
moment you fled the Ma sha la, you have clung to the societal rules that prevent a man from striking a
woman."

"Ha!" Laura interrupted. "Liar, every one at this table is a witness to your brutality this very evening!"

"Ah, and did they not see the first blows, all of them thrown by your dainty little hands? And those so
attractive boots you wear--they are deadlier than cannon fire. You feel entitled to fight with any weapon
you can lay your hands upon. But I must be handicapped, or if nothing else practice restraint because you
are a lady."

"Cad," Laura muttered, knowing she sounded like a brat. He had hurt her deliberately, not by spanking
her, but by deceiving her and trifling with her affections. She couldn't forgive him for that.

"Lord Templeton," Tia Dolores injected. "All fairness aside, if you struck a woman Laura's size with your
fist, you could very well kill her. So I must agree with Laura. Yes, a man must practice restraint even
when he is provoked. It's the gentlemanly thing to do. Likewise, a lady does not provoke her husband,
nor refuse him in any good measure without sufficient reason."

"Point taken, Madame. My own mother doesn't say it any better." Lion graciously gave that point.

"This chitchat is all very fine and dandy," Laura Madeline took up her own cause. "But it fails to answer
the specific question I asked. Do you agree, Lord Templeton?"

"Agree to what, Laura Madeline?"

"Agree to my one demand?"

"You have only one?" Lion raised a doubtful brow.

"You know I do."

"Then please, darling. Tell me what it is. If it is reasonable and within my power and will allow us to put
aside our differences and resume the placid roles of husband and wife, every one at this table would be
most grateful. I do not enjoy this estrangement."

"Even if you agreed, resumption of the duties of a wife would be out of the question." Laura declared
primly.

"Why is that?"

"Because, I wouldn't agree to it. And with my total and complete emancipation I would not have to. I
would be autonomous."

In the silence that fell after Laura's words, Lionel just looked at her. "Say it again, please."

"What the devil is she talking about, not resuming the duties of a wife?" Tio Ricardo looked to his wife
for interpretation.

"I said, the resumption of any relationship between you and I, Lord Templeton, is out of the question,
because I expect to be completely emancipated from all duties and obligations of a wife."

"Laura, that is preposterous," Tia Dolores advised.

"It is what I want." Laura lifted her chin stubbornly. "You said I could ask for any concession I desired.
Well and I have. I want emancipation. Total and complete emancipation. Do you agree, Lord
Templeton?"

One could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed Laura Madeline's demand. Lionel was the
first to recover as he applied his knife and fork once more to the meal before him. "I certainly would have
to think long and hard about that."

"What is this?" Tio Ricardo asked bluntly.

"Emancipation," Laura explained. "Freedom, Tio. The complete release by Lord Templeton of all chattel
rights of me as his wife, so that I may enjoy each and every right and privilege that he does. That is what I
want!"

"I have never heard of such a thing for a woman! Why, that is a mockery! How dare you! Would you

then renounce all rights as chatelaine to your husband's estates and fortune? No, you selfish little
strumpet! You would keep them, and keep your own dowry and by that, denigrate his titles, bastardize
his honor and emasculate the man."

Ricardo rose to his feet, his aristocratic face suffusing with anger. "I will not tolerate such disrespect at my
own table! Take yourself to your room this instant, young woman! Count yourself lucky that you are
within my house under the protection of Holy Mother Church! Were it by any other authority that you
had come to my care, there would not be a switch left in the garden when I got through retraining you."

Laura blanched. "Tio Ricardo, it is not disrespectful to desire the same liberties as men are given."

"Silencio!"

Laura paled even further, her eyes and mouth aghast at her uncle's livid face. She had gone too far, one
horrified look around the table convinced her that.

"My apologies." She laid her napkin on her plate and very quietly rose from her chair, curtsied and
departed immediately.

Her departure left the room silent, with four somber adults reeling at the outraged wrath that emanated
from the aristocrat heading the table.

It was a long moment before Ricardo Santiago lifted his napkin from the table where he'd thrown it.
Before he seated himself, he said. "I will not apologize for what you each just witnessed. Laura Madeline
is responsible for this disgrace. Were she my daughter another day would not transpire with such ruinous
thoughts unchallenged in her head. Lord Templeton, you have my heartfelt sympathies. I know exactly
what I would do if she were my wife."

"Or mine," Don Diego said quietly.

"Or what counsel I would give you as the aggrieved husband," Bishop Flores intoned grimly.

Tia Dolores swallowed uncomfortably, embarrassed. One look around the table confirmed her greatest
fear. All four men present had reached mutual agreement. That left Delores Falcon Santiago feeling acute
sympathy for her impetuous great niece. The girl had sealed her fate. Not a man at the table held any
consideration for her wishes now.

"Well." Lionel lifted his wine glass and sipped from it. "Advice is easy to give. Let's get on with solving
the immediate problem. When is the earliest your Catholic ceremony be held?"

"Tomorrow afternoon I am free to conduct it at the cathedral," replied Archbishop Flores.

"High tide is at seven. Will four P.M. be acceptable?"

"Yes," Diego agreed after looking to his elder brother for confirmation.

"Very well." Lionel exhaled. "Don't expect Laura to be overjoyed."

"I will speak to her," Tia Dolores offered softly.

"Thank you." Lionel smiled kindly at the older woman.

"You do love her, don't you?"

"Without question, Madame. And, I can honestly say that I hope in time, both Laura and I can look back
on this excursion with the sense of humor you have suggested we approach it with now."

"My lord, that was not my suggestion. It was your own.

If anyone can convince Laura Madeline that it was amusing to engage in such a trick, it will have to be
you."

Tia Dolores' gardens were splendid in the morning when the air was fresh and sparkling cool.
Honeysuckle and thick bougainvillea vied for space on each wall of the enclosed courtyard. Caladiums of
a rich variety of colors encroached the edges of the cobblestone walks and roses bloomed in every sunny
nook.

Under a cluster of four lemon trees wicker furniture was grouped for those desiring to sit and enjoy the
tranquillity of a tumbling waterfall and gurgling fountain.

Laura preferred that shady alcove to the dappled light elsewhere. She had wandered about this secluded,
private garden most of the morning, as she had each day since Christmas eve. Here she had solitude and
privacy.

That privacy had been broken only once when her uncle Diego had come looking for her. In his hands he
had held a small velvet packet. "You look radiant this morning, Laura Madeline."

"And you are a born charmer, Tio Diego." Laura had smiled at her younger uncle. He was well into his
fifties, but he was still a handsome man. Of the two uncles, he was the easier to like.

"I am nothing of the sort, little one." Diego had grinned. He held the small packet out to her. "This
morning I came across a few items that were your grandparents. Actually, they were to have been part of
your mother's collection of mementos. I thought you should like to have them."

Not knowing what she was being given, Laura had taken the small packet to hand, untied the ribbons
and turned back the fold of velvet. There was a string of pearls, two miniatures of her grandparents and
her mother as a child and collection of Spanish coins.

"They are doubloons." Diego took one of the heavy, crudely minted coins in hand and held it up to the
sparkling sunlight. "My brother Paulo had a fondness for artifacts. These are old coins, minted when
Cuba was a very young colony. Much of the gold minted here in Cuba was lost during storms or
shipwrecks or pirated. Paulo was always looking for some way to conquer the sea and harvest the gold
laying along the oceans bottom. He was a dreamer and died for his infatuation with Spanish gold. Still, he
did collect a few little treasures. I want you to have these coins. To remember us by after you have
returned to Louisiana."

"I am touched." Laura had softly thanked her uncle for the gifts. She studied the miniatures. "I can see a
resemblance between my grandfather and you, Tio."

"Perhaps there is some. Paulo was considered the truly handsome one of my brothers and I. Both he
and Anita died young. The good always do. Ricardo became head of the family then, but we both had

the pleasure of raising your mother Christiana and seeing her happily married. Bethany as well. The
Templeton men are good men. Lord Lionel will be a suitable husband for you. I do not think I or Ricardo
could have chosen one better for you had you been placed in our care. Not that anyone has much to say
about whom you should marry now.

"You understand that too much has passed between you and Lord Templeton for there to be anything
except marriage at this point, my dear?"

The question was asked so softly Laura almost missed hearing it. "But..."

"Laura." Diego laid a strong hand on her forearm, and interrupted whatever protest she had been about
to utter. "You must understand, we have no choice. The wedding will take place this afternoon at four.
The archbishop will conduct the ceremony. Ricardo and I are satisfied that this is best. I would be
honored, Laura Madeline, if you would accept the Spanish gold as a wedding present. Who knows,
someday you may have some need of it."

There was hardly anything Laura could say. She was fighting against a tidal wave of insistence. After the
disastrous evening that had passed before, she didn't want to think what the results would be of her
refusing to obey her Uncle Ricardo in this matter. Diego seemed to be the emissary sent to convince her.
"You and Tio Ricardo have been most kind to me. I am grateful. I will accept your wedding gift."

"It's nothing really." Diego brushed off the sentimentality of Laura's response. She took it one step
further, standing on tip toe to kiss her uncle's smooth cheek. He grinned a faded devil-may-care-smile
that Laura knew he was so capable of flashing.

"Thank you, Tio Diego."

"It is I who must thank you, Laura Madeline. It would be a most unpleasant day for you did you decide
to flaunt Ricardo's decision in this. He has vowed that you will be at the church at four this afternoon,
willing or unwilling. All of us would prefer your cooperation. Thank you, my child."

Nearly as quickly as he'd come, Uncle Diego slipped away, leaving Laura stranded in the garden, quite
alone with her thoughts. She put the gifts back in their envelope of velvet and sat down on the cushioned
chaise and smoothed her skirts then let her hands lie idle in her lap.

Malaise swamped her as she considered the importance of her uncle's words. So the marriage was to be
made official and final.

Her eyes fixed upon the grotto of the Virgin Mother in a niche of honor against the high stone wall. She
couldn't summon a single prayer, certain Saint Jude had deserted her.

Lionel stepped onto a balcony to look at the small black clothed figure that had caught his attention out
the windows. He couldn't say that he liked seeing Laura dressed in such a severe color.

These Spaniards thought nothing of putting unrelenting black on every woman in sight. It did contrast
wonderfully with Laura's milk white skin, but she was much too young and too alive for such a
devastating color. It wasn't until he was standing less than four feet from her that she noticed him.

"Hello, Laura."

Startled, Laura rose with a rustling of silk taffeta. She stared at him a moment or more, then dipped into

a perfect curtsey, murmuring, "Good morning, my lord."

The ice in her tone didn't surprise him.

"Have you practiced that daily?"

"No, milord."

"May I join you?"

"You are my uncle's guest. How could I possibly refuse to share the Santiago's private garden?"

"Yes, well, since it is private, this is as good a place as any to have the discussion we must have."

"That is a contradiction in terms, sir. We do not discuss. You state what is to be and I am expected to
blindly agree."

Lionel took the seat opposite her, extending his legs comfortably, lacing his fingers together across the
silk of his weskit. "Would you like to go home, Laura Madeline?"

Warily, Laura looked at him as if he was springing a trap upon her. "Where is our home to be, milord?"

"We're making progress. You are saying 'our', now if we can do something about the milord."

Laura turned her face away. Last night she had been full of fury, today she was simply exhausted. Lionel
watched the rise and fall of her breasts in their tight binding of black silk. She looked stiff and rigid and
tighter than a corkscrew.

"Must you continue with your sport of baiting the little country bumpkin? I've fallen into every trap you've
laid for me. Today's planned fiasco is no different. You're holding all the trump."

"A country bumpkin! You are a far cry from such an unsophisticated rustic, Arousah."

"Don't call me that! It is one thing to be the butt of your joke, but another to be reminded of what a fool
I have been. I could have died swimming for safety, Lord Templeton."

"Do you think I don't know that? Do you not think I felt nothing when I opened that door and found you
gone from my ship? Jesus, woman, do you know what you mean to me?"

"I don't think we need to go into what I mean to you, Lord Templeton. I've had quite enough schooling
in my specific use to you. Pray get on with telling me that as of four this afternoon, I will resume my duties
as they have been so carefully outlined before. Be advised, I will grant you no such willing license over
my body again. You will benefit nothing from this marriage."

"Is that the lay of it?" Lionel challenged.

"Precisely." Laura clipped out her answer.

Lion stood then, pacing round the pool. He thrust his hands into his pockets and stared at the waterfall a
long time. When he turned to face her, he looked like an ordinary man. Casual, with his coat open and
his hands thrust into his trouser pockets, like a young man who didn't quite know what to do with his too

big hands in a woman's presence. Laura felt a dangerous fracture in her resolve.

"Is that your last word on the matter?" he asked.

Uncertainty made Laura hesitate before declaring a cool, "Yes."

At that answer Lionel fastened the waist button of his coat and bowed to her, formally. "Then, do sit
down and allow me to clarify your true position, Lady Templeton."

"Do, sir." Laura immediately matched his cold tone then took a seat under the lemon trees.

"Right then, for your benefit I'll be brutally blunt. Let us go back to that bright November day when you
went down to the Port of New Orleans looking for a clipper ship to stow yourself upon."

At Laura's look of surprise, he stopped just short of the spread of her black skirts. "Yes, my darling, I
am aware of what exactly you were doing on the dock. I have heard the testimony of your good friend,
Abby Murray, regarding those facts. You were spoiling for a fight then, just as now."

"There is no crime involved in going to the dock." Laura declared. "America is a free country."

"Don't start that tack again. You deliberately went after trouble and adventure. Well, my lady, I arranged
an adventure for you. The Ma sha la was there, its cargo holds waiting for stupid girls like you to blunder
into Captain Souq's hands. My men searched all New Orleans and could not find you. Capt. Souq's wily
Arabs located you in the blink of an eye. Had I not intervened, called in every marker I had based on
very old friendships, you would this day be a bound slave of whatever man had the largest purse."

"I don't believe you," Laura said emphatically. "This was all a ruse, one you cooked up to frighten and
intimidate me and to make me look a fool. I will never forgive you for it."

"Your forgiveness isn't at issue." Lionel shook his head. "I've come down here this morning to warn you
of what you may expect henceforth."

"Surely not more night games, Amir Bedawi. That has ended. I may be wedded to you, but I'll never be
your wife."

"Oh, yes, you will, tonight," Lionel assured her. His wintry eyes held hers so intently, a crimson blush
seeped out of the high collar of her gown and stained her cheeks. "And every night, my little love, and
you'll be the one begging for it."

"When America becomes a monarchy!" Laura gasped. She leaped to her feet to run from him. Lionel
caught her tightly corseted waist, preventing her retreat.

"You'll hear what I have to say, my lady, so that you will have no doubts to where you stand. I'm a man
of the sea, and you, lady, laid a death blow to my reputation. Forewarned is forearmed. When I show up
with you at the harbor, every manjack above and below decks expects you to receive the soundest
beating of your life. They will get the performance they are expecting."

"You have the gall to tell me in advance that you are going to beat me?" Laura's eyes widened in horror.

"May you never know how tempted I am to do just that." Lionel gave evidence of the anger he had
managed to control, though not suppress in a sharp flash of his eyes directly at her. "However, I shall rely

upon your incredible ability to play any roll given you. If your performance at histrionics is good enough,
it won't be necessary to smack you. If it isn't, I'll help you along."

"How am I supposed to hold my head up when I walk among them if they think I've been beaten into
obeying you?"

Lionel gripped her chin and lifted it for her. "The same way you show your spirit every single time I look
at you."

He held her chin tight in the grip of his hand and kissed her deeply and thoroughly. "Au revoir, Madame.
I will see you at the church at four."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

New Year's Day, 1851

Archbishop Flores shortened the wedding ceremony to a recitation of vows sans the traditional high
mass. The only thing remarkable to Laura occurred when the bishop said in a dry voice, "You may kiss
the bride."

Lion took the bishop at his word, sweeping Laura up into his arms. She struggled momentarily against
him, until his lips caught hers. He kissed her exactly as Amir Bedawi had always done; deeply and
thoroughly--oblivious to their discouraging audience--Laura's uncles and two dozen stone-faced
vaqueros.

That knocked Laura Madeline off balance. The feel of his tongue making love to the sensitive flesh inside
her mouth made her forget her anger and remember her lover. For the long glorious moments that kiss
lasted all of Laura's resentment and injured pride was cast aside. She reveled in the inexplicable pleasure
of mouths that practiced their art with unerring finesse.

Muzzy-headed after his lips and arms left her body, Laura walked serenely at Lionel's side from the
cathedral to the dock. She couldn't puzzle out Lion's mood because she couldn't puzzle out her own.
Shouldn't she be in fear of her life? Hadn't he threatened her grievous harm the minute she came out from
under the eagle-eyed protection of her Spanish uncles?

That kiss promised no reprisal. Didn't it?

Farewells were brief, especially those given by Tio Ricardo, who told Lion to keep a sure hand on the
reins in the future. Shortly, the longboat put off from the wharf. Laura sat beside a silent, contemplative
husband whose manner didn't radiate an ounce of malice.

So many ships had put to anchor for the holidays, Laura couldn't tell what ship the sailors were rowing
toward at first. Several yachts had festivities happening on their decks, reminding Laura that it was New

Year's Day, a traditional day for reflection and celebration.

That made her ponder very deeply over her future. She was married now. Really married. Only minutes
ago she'd solemnly and sincerely affirmed each vow before God; to love, to honor, to cherish and obey
the inscrutable man seated beside her on this longboat.

Twice she looked up at Lionel, wanting to ask him questions as she had come to easily ask questions of
Amir Bedawi. This longboat was not the place to make Lord Templeton an overture. She wanted to tell
him about the shiver that his gaze had sent skittering down her spine when he'd looked into her eyes and
vowed to forsake all others till death do they part. But this wasn't the time to talk about her feelings and
she knew he would never admit to his own.

That kiss had signified peace, she was certain of that.

Laura's reverie ended when the longboat drew up to three ships moored close together in the west end
of the bay. One was white from stem to stern, the other two were golden oak clippers. All rocked at
anchor without a single sail unfurled.

On close inspection, Laura recognized the Lincolnshire. The smaller, white ship had to be the Ma sha la,
repainted. The paint on the hull beneath its Jacob's ladder still looked wet. When she raised her attention
to the deck, she recognized Masri amid a crew of grim-jawed sailors in regulation striped jerseys
watching from the gunwale.

The Lincolnshire's crew wore the same uniform as the men in the longboat and those on the Ma sha la.
They also lined up on the port deck, making a salute. When Lionel touched his brow in acknowledgment,
Laura realized the formality was for him--as captain and ranking officer-- returning to his post. Ignorant
of what her part in that ceremony should be, Laura diverted her attention to the third ship.

In complete contrast, the crew on the unknown clipper didn't wear regulation anything. Many were
shirtless in the Cuban sun, bronzed dark and black-haired. Some in the riggings wore familiar saffron
pantaloons.

A particularly evil looking man leaned over the clipper's rail and shouted in Arabic. "Allah's blessings
upon the winds that bring us together again, Amir Bedawi."

A rousing cheer from the man's crew followed his greeting. Standing in the longboat, Lionel waved and
called back. "Ali Souq, you are weeks overdue. What caused your delay?"

Laura chewed upon her lip, unable to tear her eyes from the leering clipper captain. He sported a gold
tooth and a pirate's earring looped from his left ear.

"The winds of fortune, my prince. A good wind. I am the most fortunate of men to be captain of
Kahraman Hizam. A swift boat, she is. I have been to Colon and back. My holds are full of rich
Columbian coffee. You must come on board, my lord Amir. Taste my wares, perhaps you would care to
buy a sack or two for your own pleasure. Or, we could trade. I see you have merchandise to bargain."

"Not this merchandise," Lionel negated. He took hold of the Jacob's ladder and extended his other hand
to Laura to steady her rise, saying caustically. "Don't pretend you need assistance climbing on board."

"As if I'd accept it from you." Laura snapped, her suspicions trebling by the second. She put her
well-shod foot into the strong roping, caught hold of the damp hemp and hoisted herself out of the

longboat. Half a rung behind her, Lionel crowded close, his arm circling her back to grip the rope on the
other side of her. Laura interpreted that as a veiled threat, urging her to keep up the pace.

A little less than half-way, Laura stopped climbing to catch her breath. Not for her life would she admit
her corset stays were killing her. She covered her need to pause by asking, "I'm already familiar with
your fine clipper, the Lincolnshire, but do tell me, husband dear, what connection do we have with yon
Kahraman Hizam?"

The leering crew whistled and hooted as the wind played havoc with her hems, exposing her ankles.

"That," Lionel exhaled smoothly, putting his hand to her bottom to boost her higher up the ropes. "Is the
ship I was forced to trade to acquire this claptrap."

The import of that statement caused Laura look over her shoulder and stare. So, the familiar sensation
wasn't her imagination. She had seen that crew before...in the harbor of New Orleans. "You traded that
clipper for this boat?"

Even she could see the inequality of that bargain.

"Quit dawdling, woman!" Lionel punctuated his command with a slap to her backside, not that it did any
good. She was well protected by her layers and layers of clothing, so much clothing she was clumsy.
Stinging humiliation she was not immune to, so Lion's effort to hurry her wasn't wasted.

Hands did reach down to assist her from above. Laura gladly accepted the lift over the ship's side and
through the gateway. She was set to her feet before a sober-faced Masri. "So, we meet again, sir."

"As Allah wills, Lady Templeton," he said in English, then his inscrutable eyes dipped with his
obsequious bow.

Laura ground her teeth, feeling twice the fool again for his knowledge of that language. Somehow, she
resisted the impulse to kick him and settled for giving him her back.

She would not let any of them know how gullible she still was. So what? Masri spoke English. Everything
had been a lie. More the fool she. She glared at the Kahraman Hizam noting details. Details such as a
flotilla of small boats nestled up like ducklings under its shaped bow and Spanish grandees strutting to
and fro on the deck.

Laura put two and two together and came up with a daunting result. The captain's words in greeting
Lionel, his response, the reference she had felt certain was to her regarding 'merchandise to trade'. It
totaled up to one thing. The Kahraman Hizam was the white slaver!

"You bounder!" Laura rounded on Templeton, her last shred of naiveté crushed by enlightenment. "So
that's what you did with the women!"

Lord Lionel Templeton had no sooner gotten himself safely through the boarding gate than his wife turned
on him and kicked him viciously in the knee.

"Good God, woman!" Lionel expounded as he clutched his knee. "Didn't I give you fair warning this
morning?"

"Yes! You demanded a performance. Well, sir, here it is!" She bolted forward, hands flat against his

chest, shoving him backward, in an attempt to push him out the wide open gate. Unfortunately, there
were too many quick thinking men about. Masri got a hold of her. Sailors got a hold on Lionel,
separating the two of them like brawlers at a country fair.

Lionel regained his composure as he regained his footing. Laura didn't quiet until Masri crooned for her
ears alone, "Arousah, please, behave like the lady you are before Amir's men or they will never respect
you."

Laura dropped her clenched fists to the huge arm holding her suspended from the deck. She quit trying to
use her shoes to batter Masri's shins. She wished she was dead.

"Put my wife down," Lionel commanded coldly.

Only Laura was privy to Masri's hesitation and mournful sigh before he set her back on her own two feet.
One good stride put Lionel right in front of Laura. He raised a possessive hand and tugged on her
bonnet, straightening it, then he gave her his arm.

Both gestures were so patently bland they made Laura feel like a shrew. In spite of everything, he
continued to treat her with courtesy in public. Why couldn't he be a bastard so she could hate him as
deeply as her injured pride wanted to? Laura gave her seething glare to the deck as she put her hand in
the crook of his arm.

The first mate called out an order and the crew immediately assembled in a line. Lionel walked her down
the row, introducing each sailor one by one. Then the whole compliment stood at attention for the raising
of the owner's pennant to the ship's highest mast.

The short ceremony ended with Lionel's curtly issued orders. "Hoist the sails and weigh anchor, Mr.
Paddington. Set a course north out of the harbor. I'll be with you shortly to take the helm."

"Aye, aye, captain." First Mate Ned Paddington saluted. "Lady Templeton, I bid you enjoy a pleasant
cruise."

"Thank you, Mr. Paddington." Laura managed through her teeth. She gave Lionel no resistance as he
turned her about and escorted her to the captain's cabin on the quarter-deck.

The cabin was only vaguely familiar to her. Laura had only one good recollection of ever being in it. The
night her pagan marriage had taken place seemed like an event that had happened a lifetime ago to
somebody else, not to her. She stared a long time at the closed door behind the captain's desk,
recognizing that structure all too well.

The captain's cabin was not large, but it was well laid out, furnished with a desk and high-back chair, and
separate table for dining against one bench wall. Numerous cabinets and closets were built into each
bulkhead. A narrow bunk, made neatly with cotton sheeting and wool blankets beneath five oblong
portholes, occupied the starboard wall.

Lionel dismissed the hand that carried his valise and Laura's single trunk into the cabin. He closed and
locked the cabin door for privacy. Laura turned around, removing her bonnet, and confronted him.

"I demand to know the true nature of that ship moored next to the Lincolnshire, and what the cargo is
that is for sale on it."

Lionel met her glare head on. For once her thoughts were perfectly clear to him and they were as
damning as they were malignant. She still condemned his as a slaver. It took all of his control not to lash
out at her and stick to the one issue unresolved between them, who was going to obey and honor whom.

"Coffee, Lady Templeton. Not that it's any of your damned business!"

"Coffee, is it?" Laura snapped. "How gullible do you think I am? Those preening peacocks are not
strutting over that slaver's decks to buy coffee beans on a Holy Day of Obligation."

"And who made you grand inquisitor, judge and juror of morality in foreign ports?" Lionel's strained
patience evaporated. "Laura Madeline, it would behoove you to revert to the bone-chilling silence of
defeat. Sit down and remove your shoes."

"For what purpose?" Laura stiffened righteously.

The last thread holding back the temper he'd kept checked throughout his sojourn in Cuba snapped. He
shouted, "Because I told you to! Did you not just make a solemn vow before Almighty God to obey
me?"

"Yes," Laura shouted back at him.

"Then sit down and remove those bloody boots! Now!"

Laura instinctively jumped back from him. She blinked and then realized that he was nothing like Uncle
Steven when he lost his temper. Lionel would not be controlled. Laura sat to the bunk and dug into her
voluminous skirt, searching for the top of a high button shoe under layers of silk, scratchy crinoline and
endless yards of petticoats.

The shoes needed a buttonhook to undo them quickly. Her fingers trembled too much to be efficient. She
adverted her face to her bent knee, horrified at her own stupidity. Why had she provoked him? Was he
going to send for that barbaric slave to mercilessly beat her feet?

Thinking to ask and know what was coming, Laura stole one look at him, then just as rapidly turned her
eyes back to the fastenings on her shoe. Instinct told her not to say one single word.

Lionel was stripping off his elegant English attire, starting at the cape topping his superfine coat. He flung
that onto a hook inside a wardrobe. One finger at a time, he jerked off kidskin gloves, dropped them into
a drawer and slammed it shut. He unfastened his coat and weskit, shrugging both off at once.

Laura lurched as the ship heeled to starboard. It moved, masts and rigging creaking as sails filled with
wind. No time was being wasted putting out to sea. She bit hard onto her lower lip, felt trapped again,
and powerless.

Swallowing against the panic rising up her throat, she gawked at Lionel as he unwound his cravat and
popped free the stiffened collar at his throat. Another cabinet slammed before he crossed the whole
cabin in five strides to yank out the topmost drawer of a built-in stack as tall as his shoulders. He stood
there, twisting studs from his shirt, dropping them one by one into the drawer. The last to go was the one
above the waistband of his black trousers. As he folded up his shirt sleeves, he looked at her.

"Laura Madeline!" he thundered in a voice that could be heard all the way back to the cathedral. "Stop
gawking at me and take off those damned shoes!"

Laura bent her head and tugged at her shoe until she freed it from her foot by sheer force. She choked
on the urge to shout at him that she'd never, ever, in her whole cursed life, watched a gentleman undress
and she wanted to watch. He had more layers than an onion, changing with each like a chameleon.

In just his shirt and britches he looked like a swashbuckling pirate.

Why, why? She asked herself, why did I kick him? What did it matter to her what was for sale on that
other boat? Hastily, she dashed her hand across her eyes and turned her shaking fingers to the buttons of
her other shoe.

The shoe was new and the leather stiff. It was taking her too long. He didn't say a word. He didn't have
to. She knew how furious her uncoordinated movements made him. Determined, Laura broke two
buttons free and ripped the left shoe off half undone. She dropped it as the ship heeled hard to port,
raising her side of the cabin perilously high.

The black shoe thunked and slid across the cabin. Lionel slammed another drawer shut, bent and
snatched the shoe up into his hand. His boot heels cracked against the wood planks like gunshots as he
strode to her, his shirt billowing open on his chest. Looming over her, he swooped down. Laura ducked,
whacking her head against the wall. He straightened with both of her high button shoes in hand.

His left hand shot forward and grasped the brass latch on the porthole beside her head. His scowl
deepened as he twisted the hasp and slid the inset window down its track.

Laura flinched over the force he exerted throwing both of her shoes out the window. A loud, telling
splash pleased him enough to bark a blunt, sharp laugh. Then the full focus of his wintry gray eyes
centered on her. For once he granted her insight into the scope and potency of his ire. Laura swallowed,
frightened.

His left hand still gripped the brass latch. He bent that arm, bringing his head down to her level. "Have
you ever heard the Scotsman's jibe, 'a shrew of a wife warrants bairns aplenty and shoes none'?"

The deliberately menacing softness of voice now, wasn't a good sign. Laura gulped. "I've heard
something like it."

"Do you ken what it means?"

"I know what being barefoot and pregnant means."

"You'll understand all of it when I'm done." Lion brought both his hands to her throat, gripping the edges
of her neckline. Laura screamed and grabbed his wrists. He yanked on the expensive silk. Her bodice
split, torn from throat to waist.

"Lionel, please, don't!" Frantic, she caught at the torn cloth, covering her exposed underclothing and
breasts.

"Excellent, Laura Madeline. Each ear-splitting shriek restores a gold band on my coat sleeves.
Templeton, Temple-ton and Dunois Shipping isn't going to be destroyed because you have a penchant
for chaos.

Lion dropped his knee to the bunk at her knees, crushing her crinolines. "Don't you ever kick me again.

Understand?"

"Yes." Laura whispered.

"I mean it, Laura. Kick me, and so help me God, I'll kick you back. Bite me, I'll bite you harder. Slap me
in the face and I'll slap you into the next century. We're going to have rules in this marriage. Break the
one I've just given you and you're going to be black and blue from head to toe. From this day forward,
I'm striking back, tit for tat."

Bravely, trying to keep all trace fear out of her voice, she said, "If I have struck out at you, it is because
you have never been forthcoming with the truth on any significant matter between us. Why won't you tell
me the destination of this ship? What is its cargo, and what is the duration of its voyage?"

"New Orleans, Lady Templeton. We dock in eight days if the wind holds fair. The hold contains two
tons of Cuban cigars and for the duration of this voyage you will confine yourself to this cabin. That is rule
number two."

"Very well." Laura tried to match his icy tone. "That will be satisfactory with me."

"Do not deceive yourself, Madame, thinking that your satisfaction has any bearing on the future. After
experiencing the vindictiveness of your temper at full stroke, I have no intention of indulging you again.
Setting a hostile military power down on peaceful mercantile vessel is an act not tolerated under maritime
law."

"It was no more than you deserved at the time," Laura replied stiffly. "I didn't know it was all a joke at
my expense."

"And this, my dear, is no more than you deserve." His powerful hands caught the torn edges of her gown
at her waist, violently ripping it down to her hem.

"Don't you dare!" Laura screamed.

"Don't tell me what I dare!"

Mercilessly, he destroyed every garment she wore with savage ferocity, rending the laces from her
corset, shredding her chemise and petticoats, making rags of her pantalets and silken stockings.

His hands moved like quicksilver, everywhere, assaulting her in the most ruthlessly carnal way possible,
turning the raw emotions smoldering between them into red hot, blazing passion.

He pressed her down onto his bunk, drove his knees between her thighs, opening her to immediate
possession. She wasn't ready for the penetration of his shaft inside her, invading and overpowering her,
ruthlessly driving her into the hard resistance of the bunk.

Defeated, Laura did the only thing she could to turn his rage to the thorough, passionate loving she was
used to. She threw her arms around his shoulders and pulled his head to hers, trying to kiss him. He
jerked his mouth away. His seed exploded, flooding her dry walls with his heat.

Finished, he yanked her hands off his shoulders, pressing them onto the mattress beside her head as he
picked his body up from hers.

"Don't do this to me," Laura begged him. "Don't leave it like this between us, please, Lion."

"You deserve worse, damn you!" Lionel swore as he lurched onto his feet, fastening his britches. "From
the day I met you, you've caused me nothing, but shame, humiliation and dishonor."

After the scene she'd pulled boarding ship, not a man on the Ma sha la would bear Lion so much as an
ounce of respect, had he let her go unpunished. She had to cry, scream and beg for mercy and be heard
doing that above deck.

His own common sense demanded she be unable to sit for a week after the Ma sha la put to sea. Could
he beat her? No. That left him with just one way to prove on the most basic level of all that he was the
man--all that was necessary to dominate her. His hands were tied more surely than they had been when
he stood in chains and was taken into Morro Castle.

He had to get away before his heart ruined this one victory he'd scored against her. He wanted too much
to taste her lips, taste her skin and love every inch of her.

But even that was denied him, for when she raised her tear-filled eyes to his and held out her hand,
begging him to come back to her, he couldn't pull away, couldn't leave her aching for satisfaction. The
heartless little minx was his undoing, completely.

BOOK V

"All for love, and nothing for reward."

Edmund Spenser, 1590

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The social season was in its full, hectic swing when the Templeton's returned to New Orleans on
January tenth. House guest awaited the newlyweds at Lionel's home in the city. Edward Templeton, earl
of St. Ives and his wife, Lady Jessica had brought their seven children and a full staff to New Orleans for
an extended visit.

Laura was stunned to find Lord Edward an exact duplicate of Steven Templeton right up to the
distinguished gray wings gracing his temples. When she remarked on their resemblance, the earl grinned
and told her he wasn't surprised. Steven was his identical twin, Edward's junior by three quarter of an
hour.

No one had bothered to tell Laura Steven had a twin.

In fact, Laura discovered encyclopedias could be written about all the things she did not know about

Templeton men, and one Templeton man particularly, Lionel.

As a small child, Lionel had suffered from chronic asthma so severe he failed to thrive. So his father had
sent Lion to Egypt when he was eight years old. His sick lungs had healed in the desert air. According to
Lord Edward's accounting, when Lion had come home after twelve years in the desert, he was
half-barbarian, more Bedouin than English. Their father had practically had apoplexy over that. So he'd
enlisted Lion in the Royal Navy and sent him to sea to learn English mores and discipline over again.

Laura learned of these spicy tidbits before noon her first morning back in Louisiana. By one o'clock, the
St. John's Bayou branch of the family arrived en masse and word had spread about the city that Laura
and her husband were back in residence.

Carriage after carriage pulled up, as Laura's many friends called to congratulate her and meet her
husband. Mr. and Mrs. Alexandre Bringer were among the first of what seemed like hundreds arriving
unannounced. To Laura's surprise, Lionel was a most solicitous host. All of her friends were green with
envy. Lelanie Jeanneau Bringer even admitted to Laura the news of Laura's elopement, just before the
start of the season, had upstaged Lelanie's wedding completely!

Lelanie brought Ceci and Pattie with her. Pattie nearly swooned when Lionel was introduced to her and
he bent over her hand and put a continental kiss to the back of her fingertips. That was typical of her
friends' reactions. They all went ga-ga over Lion, whispering to Laura that she'd made the catch of the
season and she was certainly the luckiest woman alive to have made such a wonderful match. It was
evident to everyone of them, Lord Lion loved her dearly.

Laura didn't quite know what to say to that, so she wisely kept her mouth shut. As far as loving her to
death if that meant the man might be driven to choking the life out of her, well, then her friends were
absolutely right!

Sometime along in the middle of the afternoon, Abby Murray crept into crowded salon and snuck up on
Laura unawares. She slid the prettiest wrapped package onto Laura's lap. Over the squeals and hugs and
silly scolds, Laura managed to get the wrapping paper off and the box lid removed. Inside on a bed of
tissue and confetti, lay a pair of ugly rubber gloves.

Laura pulled the bulky gloves onto her hands and swore she would cherish them as the best wedding
present ever. The two of them nvy of every friend you've ever made," Masri reminded her.

"On first impression. Tomorrow he'll probably forbid me to see any of them."

"Arousah, I wish you would make up your mind. Need I remind you of the philosopher's words that no
man is an island."

"Yes, well, it remains to be seen if my lord Amir and I can ever find anything to agree upon in the future.
And I'm not convinced this is going to do anything except backfire in my face. He's not very happy with
me."

"But you want him to be happy with you, do you not?" Masri asked pointedly.

"Well, of course," Laura shrugged. "The only time we've ever been compatible is when I am horizontal.
Accomplishing that again will prove nothing."

"You are scheming, little bird." Masri deliberately tugged a long black curl. He was finished and put the

brush down, standing back so she could rise. "It will prove that you are irresistible to him."

"Maybe." Laura wasn't going to commit to that charge. "We'll just have to see, won't we?"

Standing, Laura's robe shimmered to a pool at her feet. She belted the sash firmly, like a soldier checking
his weapons one last time before going into battle. Lion had sent a gift. That counted as making the first
overture toward peace. Laura was making the next move. Who knew what would follow that. "That will
be all, Masri."

"Ansallah," he bowed to her, then departed.

Lionel stared into the fire, his mind turned completely inward, envisioning the future. He saw strife and
troubles in his path. The same dark shapes that had plagued him since he'd first dropped anchor in
Havana. A soft rapping at his chamber door brought his gaze to the solid cypress door.

"Enter!" he barked, abrasive and autocratic.

For a moment his eyes burned into the wide door, willing it to open. It did not. A sound to his right and
fluttery movement caught in his attention. Swinging his head about, Lionel found the connecting door
softly closing.

The noise he had heard was the whispering silk clothing Laura Madeline, a polished robe, rather severe
and plain in style. Its ostentatious fabric was its only beauty. It was crossed over her bosom, firmly
belted, and the sweep of the hem across the Persian carpet hid even her toes. It wasn't something he had
purchased for her.

Lionel was taken aback by her appearance anyway. He rose from his chair, bowed to her formally. She
had a look of Joan of Arc about her, proud chin up and high. She wasn't wearing the diamonds he'd sent
her. In her hands was the heavy casket that had contained them.

"Lady Templeton," Lionel intoned stiffly, stung by her refusal of his peace offering.

Laura glanced to the table set with candles and fine dinnerware, and most probably a very delicious
supper under the silver covers. It was very private, very romantic ...possibly. Very carefully, she placed
the cloisonné casket on a mahogany table next to the arm chair he'd been seated in before the fire.

"Lord Templeton." Laura cast a calculating look up at him and was smitten by the shaved face once
more. He was once again the man she had met in St. John's Bayou. His eyes glinted callously and his
mouth seemed carved of marble. "Your gift was overly generous."

Lionel quelled the urge to strike back in kind for the insult. She had a bloody great lot of nerve to say
that. "I am unaware of any limits I am restricted to, my lady."

"A few you should be mindful of, my lord." Laura scolded softly. "Common decency, propriety, to name
a few."

"Those restrictions apply to indulgences made to kept women, not one's wife."

"Aaah. Would you keep another, Lionel?"

"What are you asking?"

"The nature of your gift implies you are willing to pay for service to be rendered."

"My gift was sent with no bindings on it," Lionel replied. "I requested only that you join me for dinner.
That has gone cold in the wait. If you are hungry, the food will have to be sent to the kitchen to be
warmed."

Laura turned toward the box she'd placed aside, tracing its ornate design with one finger. Maybe Masri
had only meant to suggest she dance for Amir. The tension between herself and her husband was
palpable. It was as bad and as horrible as it had been after their wedding in Havana. Was there any hope
for there to be peace and harmony between them?

Trying to sort out that question Laura moved to the mantle and drew on the bell cord, ringing for a
servant. It was Masri who answered her summons. She and Lionel were still standing stiffly at near
opposite corners of the room when the servant entered.

"Lord Templeton's supper has grown cold, Masri. Would you ask Cook to re-heat it, and allow an hour
before returning the tray," Laura suggested sweetly.

He was gone in a moment's time and Laura turned back to Lionel. He looked miserable, out of his
element. She couldn't place a finger on what was bothering him.

"Are the ovens in Louisiana so slow it will take an hour to re-heat a man's supper?" he asked.

"No, milord." Laura shook her head. "I thought we might need the hour for other things. I noticed you
have champagne. Are you going to offer me a glass?"

"It has probably warmed unsuitably."

"I would like to try it anyway."

"Then by all means, let me pour you a glass."

Laura took a deep breath as he put his back to her. His formality made what she planned to do almost
impossible.

She lifted the lid on the music box while his back was turned and a haunting, exotic melody filled his
chamber with pulsating sound.

Laura watched his back. His head shot up, a quarter of his face turned her way, then returned to the task
he was performing, pouring wine into two glasses. She unbelted her sash and let her wrapper slide off her
shoulders to the floor. Lionel's head jerked up again, hearing the whisper of silk. He set the bottle down
in its silver stand and turned around with two glasses in his hands.

He froze there, with his back to the china laden table. Laura had to give him credit for savoir faire. His
eyes locked with hers and never moved an inch. "What is this?"

"You have to ask?" Laura swallowed. Her nerve was deserting her. She needed a shot of brandy to get
her through this, not a splash of champagne. Never more conscious of her body in her life she walked
very slowly forward until she was within his range and could easily take one glass from his hand.

Lionel glared at her face as she took the fluted stem. Her gaze dipped into the bowl of the glass as she
brought it to her lips. He saw the trembling of her fingers, the quiver on her lower lip, and the deep rose
of the blush that climbed steadily up to her hairline.

While she was so studiously drinking her champagne, he released his eyes to make that slow tortuous
journey over her body. For the love of God, he thought, she was wearing his necklace around her waist
like a belt, like the baubles he'd given her on the Ma sha la. And that was all she was wearing.

She made a funny little sound. Not a cough, not a moan. He was looking at her face when her eyes finally
surfaced to meet with his again. Her eyes were round with surprise, her nose crinkled, her mouth twisted
into a dissatisfied little moue. "It tastes awful."

"What does?"

"Champagne."

"I believe the description is dry, Laura."

"It's nothing like I expected it to taste. The bubbles tickle my nose, but the taste...ugh. Nasty." She
handed him back the glass.

Lionel deliberately tasted his. It was actually quite sweet, and hardly dry at all. He half-turned, lifted the
bottle and refilled her glass. "It is a taste that will grow on you most pleasantly."

Her trusting eyes were wary when he held her glass before her once more. "I'm disappointed. Everyone
says champagne is so wonderful, the very thing to drink."

"This is your first taste of champagne?" he asked.

"Is this your first taste of champagne?" Laura repeated in a gentle scold. "Where was I going to taste it,
my lord? At Clairmont? At the Ursuline Convent? On your ship?"

"Give it a chance, Laura." He ignored her barbs, nudging the glass into her hand. This time he had filled it
very close to the rim.

Her nose wrinkled again as she tasted it. She sniffed it, drank a little more, then surprised him by bolting
the balance like someone quaffing a shot of whiskey. She put the glass back in his hand and said very
firmly, "No more, thank you."

Lionel leaned back and set the flute on the table and rested his hips against the table. The lazy stance
shortened his height over hers, brought their faces closer. He rolled his stem between his fingers, sipped a
taste from the rim then deliberately let his eyes move down her body and make a slow, lingering journey
back to her face.

"I see you have found a use for my gift despite your claim it was too ostentatious."

"Do you like it?" Laura asked. She was most unsure. She didn't know how long the music would last.

"I can not think of when I have seen a woman better dressed." Lionel reached out with his left hand and
hooked his finger into the uppermost strand, tugged it gently and drew her to him. She grazed the edge of

his hip. "More champagne?"

Laura accepted. She put her hand over his as he tilted his glass to her, swallowed slowly, tasting it this
time. When his glass was empty he set it beside hers on the table and he drew her to him, his hand at the
back of her neck, threading into her hair, the other splaying across her abdomen. His mouth covered hers
softly. It was a very gentle and chaste kiss, demanding nothing from her.

When he drew his head from hers, Laura looked directly into his eyes and said, "Thank you for the gift."

"You are most welcome, Laura."

The third time he called her by her given name, she realized something about herself. When he loved her
she was Laura, little one or Arousah. Laura Madeline was the child to be scolded. She did not want to
feel like a child in his arms. She put her hand to his chest and pushed him back a little ways. "I have a gift
for you as well."

"Oh? You will have to tell me exactly what it is since I obviously missed where about on your person
you are carrying it."

Laura wiggled out of his embrace and pushed him toward the chair standing away from the table. "You
will have to sit down."

Her fingers pressed into his chest, backing him up. Lionel grinned and sat at the free standing chair. His
view was even better there for the candelabra on the table cast a warm glow over her skin. She was
exquisitely naked. Her breasts swollen and her nipples proud and erect. He reached out for her, but
could not catch her before she slipped away. Her skin had been oiled till it shined.

Laura saw desire flare in his eyes and laughed that mischievous tinkling laugh of hers Lionel had come to
recognize in the dark of the Ma Sha La cabin. There was a ring of tiny cymbals as she moved her arms
gracefully from her sides.

"Shall I dance for you, my lord? You scowl at me as if I've displeased you, but I have been a most
obedient wife since you last warned me not to antagonize you further."

"Liar." Lionel reached for her and she twirled away, evading him.

The finger cymbals flashed rapidly in her hands, jewels circling her stomach winked like stars at midnight
as her hips rocked in the most brazen of manners, enticing him. The flat expanse of her belly contracted in
waves, beckoning him.

Deliberately taunting him she came forward, twisting inside the reach of his arms, thrusting hardened
breasts forward to tease him. Lionel slid his hands underneath her arms, grasping her back as he drew
her slick body forward between his extended legs.

"No, no, my lord." Laura pressed her palms flat against his chest, holding her distance from him. Her hair
swept across his hands as she leaned back, undulating in a slow arduous motion.

"You audacious witch," he growled deeply, shrugging one arm from the heavy brocade robe, holding her
fast to his side while he shed the garment onto the chair. "I shall have to summon a guard to the door to
see that no one ventures onto this floor during the night."

"Masri has sharp ears to the sounds of my cymbals." Laura laughed, willing to be captured only
momentarily.

"I have wanted to see you dance for a long time."

"Have you?" Laura put one finger to his bared chest and pushed him back into the tall chair.

Lionel let her slide from the encasement of his hands and Laura read each nuance of desire that shot out
of his eyes. There were lights on in the gray depths, many of them. She turned full around for him, flowing
with motion matched to the rhythm of the soft, sensuous music.

The wild curls of her hair spun around her, catching on the dampening surface of her skin and she circled
Amir dodging her breasts near his face, so near she could feel the heat of his breath against them,
sweeping the ends of her hair across his back, his arms and shoulders.

The dance stirred an erotic throbbing deep within her. She felt a flush on her skin, the hardening and
swelling of her nipples, aching to be kissed and fondled.

He felt the rushing of blood into his loins for this half-wild woman he had taken for his bride. Her eyes
slanted boldly, hands up beckoning him, drawing him to her.

"What game do you play with me now, wicked one?" Lionel caught her flying hair and twisted a handful
of it round his wrist. She stroked his shoulder and laughed as she spun away.

"I would play a very wicked game with you, Lionel Templeton," she boldly declared and her hand
stroked a feathered caress across his groin. "I see by the proud showing in your trousers you are up to
my seduction. Do you wish me to stay, my lord?"

"Aye. I want you." He stood up with her in his arm. "Come and stop this tease."

Laura danced away. "I have a question, my lord."

"Say whatever you will." He ceased his pursuit, mesmerized by the twisting, glorious undulations of her
torso. Her hips actually turned in slow, agonizingly blinding circles, the muscles on her stomach rippling
one right after the other upwards and then down.

What her feet did or her hands did or how she kept the beat of her tiny cymbals steady, he didn't know.

Lionel sat down hard on the chair, astounded. He had never seen a performance like this. She turned a
slow maddening circle giving him private view of every portion of her body.

His mouth went dry over the exquisite trembling of her bottom, the long sensuous line of her spine arcing
to the separated movements of her hips and shoulders. She posed before him and her breasts throbbed
wonderfully.

Hypnotized, he put his hand forward and touched the quivering flesh of her belly. She pulled away,
teasing and taunting him.

"My question, my lord. Will you answer it?"

"What is it?" His voice was deep and husky, choked with desire.

"Am I truly your wife, forsaking all others? Or will you cast me aside every time I displease you as I did
in Cuba?"

His head lifted, acknowledging her barb. His eyes were level with hers, intense and open. "I didn't cast
you aside, my lady. I avoided you for your own good, lest I be pressed beyond my control into giving
you exactly tit for tat. There is no honor to be found in striking a woman, not even one who provokes the
blow."

"Do you wish to call us even?" Laura asked audaciously.

"Aye," Lion nodded. "Let's put aside the tempest and begin anew."

"Can we?" Laura asked.

"What do you wish to call us, Laura Madeline?"

"Lovers, my Lord Templeton. Is that possible for a man and his wife?"

"Come here and let us see."

There was no hesitation in the way Laura came to him. Nor in the sure touch of Lionel's hand encircling
her waist drawing her naked body onto his thighs. He laid his hands at her throat and slowly let them ply
downward, caressing her breasts and sublimely rhythmic belly.

Then he circled both his hands behind her, lightly gripping the firm globes of her bottom to draw her
undulating belly against his arousal.

His eyes were locked with hers in a gaze of hunger as memorial as time itself. "You dance very well,
Arousah."

Laura slid her palms up his arms, stroking him, reveling in the feel of his flesh against hers. She rubbed
her breasts back and forth across the swirling hair covering his chest as she straddled his thighs. With her
knees braced in his armchair and his hands tightening on her bottom, she blatantly used her hips and belly
to arouse him deeply.

Lion savored the feel and taste of her full and luscious breasts. She was hot against his skin, searing his
lips when he kissed her. Scented fingers twined in his hair, drawing his mouth to hers. Her lips were
moist, sweet as apricots, parted and welcoming.

A groan of anguished desire shuddered in his throat as she put her delicate hands to the task of
unfastening the belt at his waist. It was maddening pleasure to feel her uncovering his manhood one
button at a time. She drew the sides of his trousers open and gazed longingly upon him.

Had Laura retained any doubts of his desire for her, they were dispelled by the thick, hard shaft that
stood proud before her gaze. She moistened her mouth and looked up at his eyes, waiting his permission
for what she desired most to do.

Almost unable to draw in a breath into his straining chest, Lionel nodded once. Laura put her hands to
the root of him, stroking softly up the sleek sides of this weapon that he had used so many times to please
her, then she gripped him strongly and put her mouth to the tip, kissing away the tiny drop of nectar that

had blossomed at her touch. She showered him with kisses, hearing his groans then opened her mouth
and slid the shaft deep inside, stroking the underside with her tongue.

"Dear God!" Lionel gasped and grabbed her head, drawing her off.

"I hurt you?" Laura whispered horrified.

"No." Lionel reached for her waist and lifted her off her knees. "I cannot stand such torment long, Laura
Madeline."

Laura's arms swirled around his shoulders, catching hold for support. She loved his strength, his size, the
way he could toss her about as if she weighed no more than a feather. He brought her onto his lap, so
slowly that it was pure torment to her as his shaft nudged a hot trail toward her. He stopped short of
penetrating her, holding her hips up, her legs astride of his.

"Where did you learn that trick, Laura Madeline?"

"From you, my lord." She moved her belly slowly, his grip on her hips strong and secure. "You did not
like it?"

"I liked it." Lionel let her drop an inch, no more.

"My lord!" Her eyes opened, shining bright and luminescent. "I must have more of you."

And to prove that she tightened her muscles, drawing him toward her. Lionel pulled her hips down,
seating her against him, deeply rooted inside her. Laura groaned, her whole body tensed with the
pleasure of him filling her. Lionel spread his palm and fingers against the flat of her belly and held her
away from his chest.

"Now dance for me, Arousah." He whispered huskily. Her eyes were bright, heavy lidded. The room
glowed with candlelight.

The contractions of her belly whipped through the both of them like a thunder bolt. Slowly, each wave of
rhythmic undulations swept down her belly. Her breasts quivered, her belly shuddered, but inside her,
where his shaft was seated so deeply it ought to hurt both of them, the contractions were ten times
stronger than the delicate pull that her mouth had made.

It was simply too much for him to take without losing all of his control. He wanted more. He needed to
kiss and cuddle her, to hold her in his arms. He stood and carried her to the bed.

He couldn't find her mouth quick enough, God, how he needed her, needed the warmth of her arms, the
encompassing depth of her walls sheathing him. He could not think of anything except taking her, having
her beneath him, moaning and moving in the most maddening way.

Later when the first heat of passion was relieved, he cuddled her in his arms, stroking every inch of her
rich body, touching all of her, kissing and loving her. They had their dinner, not seated intimately at a
boudoir table, but ensconced in the high, wide bed. Her touch drove him insane time and again. Nothing
she had learned on the Ma sha la had been forgotten.

Tired, satisfied beyond belief, Lionel slept as the sun broke over the city. Laura disentangled herself from
his heavy limbs and silently returned to the room next door, feeling weak and exhausted. She collapsed

as a wave of unstoppable nausea attacked her.

"I drank too much champagne, I'm sick." She gasped, pressing shaking hands against her face. The effort
to hold up her head once the retching had abated was too much.

"It will pass." Masri wiped a cold, damp cloth over her mouth, one by one washed her dainty hands.
Effortlessly he lifted her up and carried her to her bed and prepared an herbal tea to soothe the morning
sickness. She wanted nothing to drink or eat and he had to be quite stern to get the hot liquid down her
throat. It calmed her stomach enough so she could bathe and dress in an English nightgown.

"Sleep." He turned her to her side and nestled a pillow against her stomach for extra warmth, covered her
with the warm eiderdown comforter and stroked her head until her breathing was as even and regular as
a sleeping child.

Masri smiled at the golden globe of the sun just rising over the neighboring city houses. He unrolled his
prayer rug and knelt, placed his forehead to the ground and made his thanksgiving prayers to Allah.

When his prayers were finished he strung a second bead on his strand. In another month Amir's bride
would be past the morning sickness. Her appetite would improve and the raging humors in her body
would adjust to the new life it was growing.

Now that they were on land, he must see to her health with greater care. He put away his prayer rug,
leaving her to sleep away her nights energies. When she woke again, he would have the right foods for
her to eat.

Diplomat that he was, Masri sought out the young black woman who wanted to serve his mistress. He
presented her a silver tray at eleven. "Breakfast for Lalla Bedawi."

"I'm certain he means her ladyship." The Scotswoman, Mrs. Callandar who had been hired by Bethany
Templeton to cook at Lionel's city house translated for Mattie. "Go on, lassie, take the tray upstairs.
Heaven's its almost noon."

Masri beamed happily, for women were simple creatures the world over. The young servant went off
with the tray and the old one grinned at him like they were conspirators, which is exactly what Masri
wanted her to think. That the housekeeper concluded the meal Masri prepared was for Lady Templeton
was not unusual. Pregnant women the world over were fed dry biscuits and weak tea on rising.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

New Orleans was hectic. Night after night of balls and dinner parties and so many people! Decadent
was what Laura thought it was after a month of sleeping till noon only to rise to meet with her
seamstresses and milliners and shoemakers. Shop, lord, she had never spent money so recklessly in her
life!

At the end of a month, the newly wedded couple had been feted and received by everyone there was to
meet. Laura was full up of candlelight dinners and plays and afternoon teas with the ladies.

Laura kept the truth about her so called "elopement" to herself, relishing being wined and dined regally,
dancing until nearly three every morning. Not exclusively in her husband's arms either, for every man in
New Orleans seemed determined to entertain her just as lavishly as her husband did.

Lady Jessica advised her to enjoy it while she could for once Laura's pregnancy advanced, the dancing
was out.

It was not a subject Laura would discuss. She could not come to grips with being pregnant. The last
straw seemed to come when she was dressing for the last Mardi Gras ball and her beautiful rose gown
would not close over her waist.

It was a copy of a dress worn by Marie Antoinette, a gorgeous creation of deep rose colored watered
silk. She had stood for the last fitting of the flamboyant gown only a week ago and it had fit perfectly with
a decolletage that was positively scandalous. Now there was better than a two inch gap in the back and it
wouldn't close.

Laura hadn't noticed the thickening of her stomach when she drew together the strings of her petticoats
and tied them into neat bows.

"This won't do." She said sourly, turning away from Mattie's tugging fingers and the cheval mirror that
told just how far the gap was. "I shall have to wear a corset."

"You don't have one," Mattie answered.

"Yes, I do. I bought three of them only last week."

"Your slave took them, and it is not wise to corset yourself when you're carrying a baby."

"Well, I can't get into this dress without one. Go find Masri."

"Whatever you say," Mattie grumbled. Laura wished Mattie would get over that. She and Masri simply
did not get along. Mattie hardly tried. Her mother, Hattie, was even worse.

Since they had come to New Orleans, Masri only attended her early in the morning and late afternoons.
Though any time Laura left the house, Masri accompanied her. Most everyone thought he was an
ordinary slave like any other. For city-life, he modified his heathenish dress, wearing trousers and a tunic
Lionel had supplied him. Lionel even had him in a pair of spiffy polished shoes, though they came off,
immediately upon returning to the town house.

Since he was always silent, few outsiders had an inkling of his actual nationality.

He came into Laura's dressing room resplendent in a new satin tunic of brilliant red. He had a yellow sash
around his ample waist and black trousers tucked into high boots.

"You look positively barbaric!" Laura laughed in Arabic. "Did you get those clothes from some visiting
Russian prince?"

"A gift from Amir Bedawi. He tells me, this night the whole city masquerades itself." Masri bowed and

crinkled a smile for Laura's benefit. Her hairdresser had piled her hair high upon her head in an ornate
style reminiscent of the French court, sans powder. Black curls dangled over her shoulder from an
upswept chignon that set off the truly lovely curve of her throat. "I am to go with you to the Shrove
Tuesday ball."

"You are?" Laura blinked. If he was going, what was Lionel doing? Did her husband not intend to go?
She didn't know. "Mattie said you took my new corsets and packed them away somewhere. Can you
get me one? This dress needs it."

"Wear another dress." Masri replied.

"I haven't another dress. I've worn everything. This one was just delivered today. See, it doesn't fit."

Laura put her hands to the waist to hold it closed and turned, showing Masri the gap in the back. "Just
get me a corset."

"Arousah, I cannot do that. It would harm Amir's son."

Amir's son was not a subject Laura had ever once discussed with Masri. He might talk about it, but she
didn't.

A baby was an invasion, an unwelcome intruder in her body. She found no pleasure in its presence. She
had absolutely no sense, whatsoever, the minute Lionel Templeton leveled his sensual gray eyes her way.
At least she could come to grips with her passions by considering that he gave her as much pleasure as
she did him. It was maddening to be so wanton.

Yet, this baby...she had no control over that. He had made her ill, made her breasts swell like ripe
melons, made her appetite comparable to that of a horse, and now the little brat had ruined her most
beautiful ball gown, ever.

"Masri, if you don't bring me one of my own corsets, I will send to Lady Jessica for one of hers."

"You must think of Amir's son, Arousah."

"He's not Amir! He's Lionel Templeton! I'm not Arousah! Go away! I don't want to see you anymore!"
Laura waved an agitated hand towards the door, dismissing Masri. She turned to Mattie who was
awestruck, following their Arabic argument in its tones, but not its words. "Oh, don't look like such a
ninny, Mattie. Go ask Lady Jessica to lend me a corset. I'll get into this dress, yet."

Behind her, Masri had walked to the door and opened it. He waved a dismissing hand at Mattie.

"You leave." He said in English as the young maid hurried to do her mistress' bidding. "And don't come
back." His scowl was enough to quell a rebellion in anyone except Laura Madeline.

Mattie bobbed him a curtsey and Masri shut the door, put a key to it and locked it.

"I am sorry, Arousah," he said, in a tone that was soft and gentle. "The time has come for you to slow
down and think of nothing more than the baby within you. You will not go to the ball tonight."

"What?" Laura spun around. "You cannot tell me what to do."

"I am your eunuch, Arousah. I have complete authority over you after your husband. Come, I will help
you into more comfortable clothes and we will have dinner together as we did on the Ma sha la."

"I'm going to talk to Lionel about this." Laura gathered up her skirts and stormed to the door, to find it
locked and the key not in it. "Masri!"

He held open palms for her benefit. "Ansallah."

"The devil take your Allah's will. I won't have it!"

Masri folded himself down onto a portion of the floor, legs crossed, arms folded, an expression of benign
patience on his face. The little dressing room was as good of a place for this battle as any he'd ever
faced.

Laura paced back and forth in the small room for a few agitated minutes then all at once she sat down on
the stool before her vanity. Her voluminous skirt spread out all around her. "Masri, I will wear a different
dress."

"Arousah, you are nearing four months pregnant. It is time."

"Time for what?"

"Time to think of your baby. Western ways are different from my own. I accept this. You must accept
the baby you carry. This is the most important thing you will ever do. To create life, is a gift from God."

"I'll be a horrible mother."

"No, little bird, you will be a very good mother."

She shook her head, unconvinced, then dramatically stood up and let her gown fall in a heap on the
floor. She reached for her wrapper, drawing it around her, knotting the waist with trembling fingers. "It
scares me when it moves."

Masri only barely heard her next whisper and that it was said in Arabic told him how great her fears
were.

"Women die having babies. My mother spent her whole life trying to give my father a son. She died
because of that. I don't want to die. I haven't even begun to live."

Masri rose to his feet and wrapped her gently in his arms, one thick finger taking away the tears that
rolled down her cheeks. "You will not die. I will teach you every thing I know. It is easy to birth a baby. I
have delivered hundreds of babies and never lost a mother, ever. You will be strong."

"Where is Amir? I want to tell him I want to go home."

"We are home."

"No, home, Masri. I want to go to Coeur de Terre. Now."

CHAPTER THIRTY

Neither Lionel nor Laura went out for any of the festivities that evening. They had dinner alone in the
petite dining room overlooking the courtyard garden. Laura only nudged the food across her plate, hardly
interested in it. Lionel was famished from a very hectic day on the docks. He had four ships return from
the Orient and the wealth of cargo they'd brought promised truly excited bidding in New York and
London.

For Laura he had saved a priceless jade bracelet and a carved ivory tusk of the most intricate beauty. It
was an entire Chinese valley from the tip of the horn down to its base. World over he'd never seen skill
of the likes of the Chinese ivory carvers. He had been told by his captain that the horn had taken one
craftsman six years to complete.

He could believe it. He hoped Laura would appreciate it as well.

"Lionel, I want to talk to you."

"We have been talking."

"No, you've been telling me about the treasures that arrived at the warehouse, today. I want to talk,
seriously, between you and I."

"What about?"

"I want to go home."

"Your timing is excellent, darling. I believe it all comes to a grinding halt at midnight tonight. It's as good a
time as any to sail for Cornwall."

"I don't want to go to Cornwall. I want to go home."

"To Coeur de Terre? Impossible, I am much too busy to go to the country. It would inconvenience me
immensely. Haven't you listened to a word I said earlier?"

"I have no intention of going with you to England," Laura said with firm purpose.

Lionel raised his napkin to his lips. He was sitting very erect, not a good sign. Neither was the tautness
around his mouth indicative of a generous mood. She ought to wait till he was in bed, feeling like a king
instead of doing this now while he was out of sorts from his business day. Lord, she would lose her nerve
then.

"I want to go home to Coeur de Terre. Masri says I must be very careful about how I travel and for how
long. And once I reach the seventh month, he wouldn't advise it at all. So, you see, I cannot go to
Cornwall. I would never be able to get back home for the baby's birth here."

"Who said anything about my son being born here?"

"Well, you're going to have to come to grip with the fact that wherever I am, is where your heir will be
born."

"That's exactly right. We are sailing with Edward on Sunday."

"Oh, no I'm not. I have seen the last of your wonderful shipboard accommodations that I intend to see
for a good long while, sir. I am going to Coeur de Terre."

"Woman, do you expect me to drop what I'm doing every time you take it into your head you want to
go home?"

"No. You promised me in Cuba I could live at Coeur de Terre."

"I did nothing of the kind. I remember very clearly what we discussed in Cuba. Coeur de Terre is out of
the question at this time."

"It's my home. It's hot here in the city and the hotter it gets, the more disease and pestilence comes
around. What if I get sick? What if something happens to the baby?"

"Coeur de Terre is thirty miles away by road, twenty-five by boat, the same heat is there, the same
illness. If that's what you're worried about, Cornwall is the place to be for the baby's birth."

"I'm not going to Cornwall! My baby's going to be an American!"

"Don't push me, Laura."

"Please, Lionel."

"No."

That no was final. Laura looked down at her plate as Edward's butler took it away. He brought a
creamed fish next and Laura thought she might do justice to that except for the knot tightening like a fist in
her stomach. The next part of what she had to say had better wait until Lionel was finished with his meal.
He was going to need the energy his meal would provide him, for she wasn't taking no for an answer.

When the dessert was cleared away, a smooth brandy was placed before Lionel. He took a cigar from
the humidor and asked if Laura minded if he smoked the thin cheroot. "It's not good for the baby."

"Then will you withdraw and leave me to my brandy and cigar."

"I want to finish what we were talking about."

"We did finish it."

"No, we didn't. Lionel, I am serious. I have to go home to Coeur de Terre for the birth of this baby. You
may call it what you like, but I do not feel safe here in New Orleans. I don't want to have our baby in
Cornwall. I don't want to have it here in this house. I want my home, my mammy, my servants. And if
you won't take me, you can send me. But, if you won't send me home, you give me no choice except to
leave you."

There, it was said. Laura sat very still and watched the thunder and lightning crash in his eyes.

"Separate residences are out of the question."

"Then take me home, Lionel and don't push me into doing something that I will have to do just to free
myself."

"Free yourself! Here we go again! Woman you are not in bondage."

"I am, sir, and you very well know it. You remember when we first met?"

"I do."

"Well, sir, not a single one of my views has been altered since that time. If anything, marriage to you has
reinforced every fear I ever had of the exalted state of marriage. I told you straight out I did not want to
be a married woman"

"What you wanted and what you were going to get were two different things entirely. We have been
over this before and there is absolutely no need to bring the subject up again."

"Yes there is! If you had let me be, your brother Steven and I would have continued to squabble and
argue, but he would not have found a suitable husband. I would have bided my time, placating him as
best I could and by this coming November, I'd have reached my majority. It was your interference that
upset everything."

"Why do you persist in thinking that you'd have been allowed to inherit a single thing at twenty-one?"

"I would have! Those were the terms of Papa's will."

"Steven would not have granted you residence at Coeur de Terre or autonomy. The only thing you'd
have gained was an allowance to support your spending."

"I could have lived with that!"

"You are living now, much better than you ever were. Will you deny that you have had every thing your
heart desires since we came to New Orleans?"

"The freedom to follow my own counsel."

"Laura Madeline, your own counsel would have you riding about the city astride of a horse and wearing
boots under your ballgowns, just as the Lady Pontalba does."

"She is also doing major work restoring the military plaza and everyone in the city admires her.

"Not everyone."

"Well, I can think of much more worthy things to do with my time than buying bonnets and ribbons by
the dozens in the shops of New Orleans. There is charity work to supervise and someone needs to set up
a decent home for the poor women trying to get out of the dens of inequity that fill the harbor streets."

"Have you been seeing that Mellonbruch woman?"

"Would that I could!" Laura snapped right back. "Who has time for serious thoughts when every day I
must go with Lady Jessica on some social call and every evening there is a play or a party or a ball to
attend? Did it ever occur to you, Lionel Templeton, that I have a brain in my head? That I don't see
myself as your concubine!"

"You, my lady, are my wife and soon to be mother of my child."

"Well, isn't that just grand! Thanks to you, I'm having a child that I neither wanted nor planned. You
captured me, seduced and ravished me! Where was my choice in any of this?"

"I can clearly remember several occasions where it has been your choice and yours alone that brought
you back to my bed. Shall I remind you of them more graphically?"

"I've never had a choice! You can't consider anything that happened on that corsair in the Gulf of
Mexico as being of my choice. No, damn you, from the minute I met you in Tucker's Woods, my choices
have all been forced upon me.

Just like this baby! Well, by God, I do have a choice about where I will give birth. I am going home to
Coeur de Terre, with or without your permission."

"That is enough! I will not tolerate another word on the subject."

"And just like that I'm supposed to be quiet and meekly say, yes, my dear, as Aunt Bethany does. Not
by a damn site!

"Laura, I'm warning you."

"Are you? What will you do? Beat me? I wish you would. A beating might rid me of this child of yours."

Hostility flared between them as Lionel's fingers gripped the edge of the table till his knuckles whitened.
In agitation, Laura realized she'd gone too far.

"Lionel," she softened her voice, pleading with him. "I'll grant you are a charming and lovable man when
you choose to be. It is not that I don't care for you. I do, but I never intended to be a married woman,
chattel and property of a man. I have had nothing to say about anything since the day your henchmen
shoved me off the dock at New Orleans. I've been made a complete fool of time and again.

"I've forgiven you for the deception and I've even forgiven the awful manipulation you did of me in
Havana. Masri can stay at Coeur de Terre with me. I won't go anywhere without him. You could agree
to that. You've had complete and full use of me to your heart's desire. Now, I want to go home. And I
will, by one way or another."

"Are you quite finished?"

"Yes." Laura drew a shuddering breath into her chest and threw her napkin on the table. "Damn you,
Lionel Templeton. I shall hate you till the day I die!"

"You have given a poor impression of a woman consumed by hate, Laura Madeline." His cold tone
stopped her as she rose to her feet to leave the dining room.

"You would throw that folly in my face, wouldn't you, when it is your folly in the first place! I was an
innocent until you came into my life. I won't apologize for the sensual side of my nature. It is a weakness
and I recognize it as such. I've had excellent instruction in the art of loving and I was always an eager,
inquisitive learner of any subject that interested me."

"You'd have been a whore if you hadn't been born to money?"

"Is that not what you Englishmen consider every woman at heart? It was certainly your intention to train
me to pleasuring you in the ways no proper wife would behave. You have what you've paid for, sir."

"Have I?"

"That's insulting! As of this day, my service to you is over. All that is changed, sir. From this moment on,
consider yourself warned. If you force me to go to England against my will, I'll put all my efforts into
securing a divorce from the House of Lords. Think of the scandal there sir! This entire debacle will be
called Lion's Folly.

"I will look forward to standing in the docket, giving my testimony. The things I will state under oath
before a jury of your peers will shock the citizens of London right out of their sinful socks. No one knows
what a true libertine you are, but I do. If telling all will get my freedom, then I will tell every single word."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Lionel, you had better listen to me. Going home to Coeur de Terre is the only thing I have truly asked of
you since you captured me. You could indulge me in this for it is important to me. But, no, you are being
a stubborn overbearing son of a...."

"Mind your tongue. You have provoked me well enough. I may not beat a pregnant wife, but I won't be
abused by her tongue either. Not when there's a bar of soap in my house."

"Bastard!" Laura swept out of the dining room.

Lionel swore as he snatched a candle stick from the chandelier and put it to the end of his cigar. "Lord,
deliver me from pregnant, moody women!"

He stormed into his study with his cigar and brandy and paced there in agitation. Was she serious? Did
she mean she would actually divorce him? There were no laws in Louisiana allowing a woman to divorce
her husband.

But in England, that was another story. Several monumental cases had been heard before the House of
Lords. And the scandals they had caused still left society reeling.

He could be accused of cruelty, deception, practically any charge on the books and likewise not ever be
able to defend himself. For the scandal that would surround Laura's sworn testimony in the docket would
color everything he'd done. It didn't matter that they were betrothed and he had only altered the
arrangements. It was the manner of his altering that would be the juiciest fodder for scandal.

It would ruin him. Lion's folly, indeed!

Damn! Lionel swore. He hated being coerced into anything. Just as he'd hated being manipulated into
that mockery of a wedding in the cathedral at Havana. Hell, he needed no church to tell him he was

married. No law on earth had the right to dissolve the marriage either.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Laura held her self control until she burst inside her bedroom. She flung herself face down on the bed,
crying desperately. The things she'd said were horrible. How could she possibly tell Lionel she practically
hated the baby? She didn't.

How many times, when she was young, had her mother been weakened and injured grievously by
pregnancy? Laura had no true count. There had always been the hope that a little sister or brother would
be born. Then the bleeding would come and Laura and Mattie were kept far from the agonizing moans
and crying in the east wing at Coeur de Terre.

She remembered how ashen faced her father had looked. How once, a priest had been called to give her
mother the last sacrament. She had been brought in to see and kiss her mother while she still lived. The
small frail woman on the bed had looked nothing like the bright eyed, cheerful lady of Coeur de Terre.
Stillbirths, miscarriages, time after time, had so weakened beautiful Christiana Dunois.

When Laura was sixteen, her mother was pregnant again. It was early, she didn't show a single outward
sign of the last pregnancy. It was summer, so hot and Laura was home from the academy for there was
cholera in New Orleans again. They stayed home the whole summer, avoiding traveling, shunning visitors.
Three months into the pregnancy, Christiana miscarried. And then the sickness came. First to die was
Laura's so weakened mother.

Her father was distraught, broken in spirit. There was great love between he and Laura's mother. You
could not be around them and not know how deep and caring their love for one another. The sickness
closed the sugar mill. The cane stood in the field and death stalked Coeur de Terre from the poorest
cottage right up the grand house's staircase.

"Why do you cry, Laura?" Lionel shook Laura's shoulder with a gentle hand.

"Oh, Lionel." Laura turned around and burrowed into his shoulder, needing comfort and reassurance
from someone. "I'm so scared."

"Of what, darling?" Lionel stroked her head, loosening the pins from her hair. He cradled her against his
chest and massaged the ache from her head, patiently waiting for her stormy tears to abate.

"I want my mother." Lionel thought she said. He brought a cloth up and held it while she blew her nose,
wiped her face dry for her.

"She's dead, Laura, a long time ago, now. You're not a child anymore."

"It was the babies that killed her." Laura stiffened against him, fear making her anger surface. The story
came babbling out of her, in heaves and angry gulps. All the babies hoped for and lost and the death of

all those she had loved so dearly at Coeur de Terre. Lionel held her tight against him, shaken.

"It won't happen to you, Laura." He stroked her brow, kissing her, calming and soothing her. "Is that
what all this temper is about?"

"It scares me when it moves, Lionel."

He laid his hand on the rounded swell that pushed past her hipbones and rose high below her ribs. What
he felt was a quiet firmness, a loveliness that went beyond speaking.

"Shhh, be calm. Relax, darling. It's only a baby. Masri has delivered hundreds of them. That is why he
must stay with you."

"I didn't mean all those things I said. I didn't. I love you, Lionel."

"I've had a little advice given me by brothers who've managed to produce prolific families and keep the
loves of their lives, Laura Madeline. I didn't take what you said to heart. Don't be frightened. I won't let
anything happen to you." He hoped to allay her fears.

"Will you send me to Coeur de Terre?"

"Nothing is going to happen to you, Laura. Trust me."

It was obviously asking too much of her. Feeling like a swine, Lionel saw to settling her in bed and had
Mattie come and sit with her. He paced about the house wondering what in the world it was going to
take to commit Laura Madeline to their marriage once and for all.

Half the night, he plied a bottle of whiskey, sulking and thinking. The last thing he wanted was to lose
Laura Madeline. She might have taken back her words, but the sting when they were delivered wasn't
lost on him. Damn, he had been the aggressor right from the day he'd laid eyes on her.

There had to be some way he could commit her freely to this marriage of theirs. Yes, he could be the
swine of an Englishman and lock her in her room. Lord, he could beat her senseless and frighten the wits
out of her as half his cronies professed to do when their wives got uppity. He could stand on his rights to
the fruit of her womb. The child would be his child more than hers under the law of every country
involved.

So what was he going to do?

Lionel thought it was best to stay the night away from her. He would give her till the next evening to
tackle the issue between them.

"Uncle Lionel!" Bertie swung open the front door as Lionel came up the steps. "Not a moment too soon.
There's been all kinds of trouble upstairs."

"Is that anyway to greet a man, with bad news?" Lionel groaned.

"Sorry," young Bert said sheepishly. "Mother did tell me to keep my nose out of it."

"Advice usually not heeded, correct?" Lionel put his hat and gloves and cape into the hands of the butler.

"What is going on, Reeves?"

"Its been a matter of trunks going upstairs and down all day, sir. The servants are a bit overworked as a
result."

"Let me guess. Lady Laura wants to pack and go. My Arab has other ideas."

"I believe that's the gist of it, sir," Reeves said without batting an eyelash. "If I didn't know better I'd think
there was red hair under your ladyship's bonnet."

"She does have a temper." Lionel took his brief case back from the butler. "Could you have someone
bring tea to the sitting room in my suite?"

"Of course, sir. Anything stronger?"

"A whiskey for myself. That will do."

He took the stairs two at a time and walked down the long hall of the east wing. As if he'd needed the
confirmation of seeing four trunks in the hallway outside of Laura's room, Lionel cast a careless glance
their direction. Now for the sulks. He squared his shoulders, tapped on the oak panel of the door and
pushed it open.

"Laura Madeline."

"What is it?" Laura stared morosely out the window at the rose garden.

"It's time for tea, isn't it?" Lionel said pleasantly.

"You will join me in the sitting room. Someone does have to pour."

"I am not interested."

"But I am. You have five minutes to see to your appearance."

"Oh, stuff it!" Laura crankily hissed under her breath. So, he wanted tea did he? He was going to act as
if nothing had happened. He would ignore her ultimatum and discount her day's activities. He even had
that horrible Arab so firmly under control that Laura wanted to shoot both of them. Not that she thought
she could survive five minutes without Masri. She was totally dependent on him, and just as dependent
on that barbarian Amir Bedawi that lurked like a shadow monster in the heart of Lionel Templeton.

No, it would give me great pleasure to shoot the both of them, right between the eyes! Laura told herself
as she changed out of her day frock into a simple gown of the Empire style. She definitely looked
pregnant in this dress.

Of course, every woman looked pregnant in an empire gown, even the dowagers at the balls. Once she
hadn't looked like a misshapen pear.

A scowl creased her brow as she went to their suite's sitting room.

"Ah, how lovely you look," Lionel lied like a dog and planted a kiss on her knitted brow. "Had a pleasant
day, my dear?"

"Not in the least." Laura took the seat he offered by the tea service and commenced to pour. It was just
the two of them. She was relieved at that.

"And what invitations have you accepted for the evening?"

"None. I haven't anything to wear, unless you can have a tent made up for me by Omar and sons."

"Feeling piqued?"

"Here's your tea. Put something in your mouth so I don't have to sit here listening to you prattle on as if
you care about me. You don't give a damn."

"Quite so. I had a wonderful day, too. Tell me, did you ever learn to read?"

"Oh, you jackal! Why are you so determined to torment me?" Laura spilled her own tea on her skirt.
The cup and saucer rattled as she slammed it on the table. Lionel helped himself to a meat pie. He
munched thoughtfully on it while she wiped at the stain on her muslin covered knee.

"Mutter, mutter, mutter. Lady Laura, it hardly becomes you to behave like a shrew."

Green eyes gave him a killing sideways slant. Her humor had not improved in twenty-four hours. The
only thing Lionel thought would improve her temper was a serious bedding. As fetching as she looked all
flustered and angry, she was liable to get that after tea.

"In case you are hard of hearing shall I shout it to the rooftops, I WANT A DIVORCE!"

"What you want and what you will get are two different things."

Lionel slipped his hand inside his coat and withdrew the envelope he'd had his solicitor prepare. It was a
contract, granting his wife complete and total autonomy within her estate of Coeur de Terre. It provided
her the all the rights to make her own decisions regarding the land, the mill, the house and any revenues
produced. In short, it was all the emancipation she could ask for and it came with only three binding
conditions.

The first was the most important as far as Lionel was concerned. It stated that he would have free access
to Coeur de Terre and all its environs all his days, that it was forever entailed to his rightful heirs, and that
the marriage between he and Laura would remain in force as per their stated vows...for eternity.

The second condition was that she accepted into service, the servant Masri, and that he would remain a
part of the household of Coeur de Terre his remaining days, pensioned suitably at Lionel's expense.

The third condition was that she willingly submit her books and records regarding management of her
assets to his accountants quarterly, with no restrictions on how she spent her moneys, only that she
account for them.

Handing the two pages to her, Lionel sipped his drink while Laura read the papers. It was a minute or
two before her pouting irritation disappeared and complete surprise brought her out of her seat, shaking
the papers in front of his face.

Quite coldly she said, "You have given away absolutely nothing with this! It is an insult for you to even

offer that to me. Why, and you think you are quite smug and generous!"

Lionel's teeth ground ferociously as he rose to prevent her from wagging the papers in his face. "Are you
totally without sense, woman?"

"Perhaps that is the problem, if I was a senseless ninny, I would be groveling on my knees kissing your
feet in thanks. My lord, you granted your slave Masri his freedom from service to you without so much
as one condition placed upon him. You ask me to trust you and you cannot give me the same. No, I
won't have it, Lionel. Everything you think you offered me there, I already have. No, take your bloody
contract and go find yourself a mistress. I am going home."

"Like hell you are." Lionel swung her up in his arms and strode into their bedroom. If the only way to
reach inside her stubborn mind was through her senses, he'd leave her senseless. Enough was enough.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Before she opened her eyes, Laura was aware of many things. A sea breeze, strong and scented, warm
enough to throw covers off her shoulders wafted across her brow. The so familiar rocking of a boat was
comforting and reassuring, like being a cradle bound infant. A nagging pain nudged at the small of her
back. How long had it been there? Days, since...since she'd come aboard the Lincolnshire. When was
that? How long ago, yesterday, no....two days ago.

She found sunlight all around her when she finally lifted her eyelids. A bank of open windows, wide and
curtains revealed the trailing wake of the clipper. Laura sat up, pressing hands against fine cotton
pillowcases and gazed at the green water. She could see no land formations and the sun was overhead.
She blinked her eyes, gathering her wits about her, searching for clear thoughts.

New Orleans, tea with Lionel the day he'd agreed to bringing her home. How they had battled...and
wound up in bed, loving, needing each other. He'd relented. What was it? He couldn't leave right then,
but he would divert this clipper to spirit Laura across Lake Pontchartrain. All had been well and fine, and
she was happy. Her trunks were packed and taken to the dock. Happily she had bid all his family
good-bye, the nieces and nephews and in-laws, too.

Going onto the boat was like old times. There were a hundred men climbing the rigging and she was
going for a thirty mile cruise across the lake in the swiftest Yankee Clipper Thomas McKay ever made. It
seemed silly and extravagant, but so much fun. There was champagne being opened and poured into fine
crystal. Lionel kissed her good-bye and promised to come as soon as he could.

She had clung to him, loving him, so thankful he had changed his mind. Oh, the promises she had giddily
whispered to him! She even cried when he went ashore and the boat cast off.

She had stood at the rail waving to Lionel until she could no longer see him. Throwing kisses across the
water to him, she prayed he wouldn't stay long away from her. She would miss him more than she could
ever admit. Why, I love him. She realized all at once. Hard and cold and rigid as he sometimes was, she

did love him. How she wanted to tell him that.

Somehow, on the balmiest spring day, with the calmest waves on the water, the boat lurched as she
stood at the rail, waving back to the shore, sending her love on the wind. Laura fell. She went tumbling
down, down, down, rolling over and over across the hard plank deck as the boat heeled into the wind.

The cabin smelled of potpourri, Masri's doing. Her eyes found evidence of his caretaking about though
he was not within her line of view. She felt safe and secure, knowing she was on board the Lincolnshire.
She knew that, remembered seeing its massive sails and riggings. She didn't remember boarding. It didn't
matter. Masri would take care of her all the way to Coeur de Terre. She was in good hands. Sleep was
the only thing to concern herself with.

There was a heaviness tugging at her belly, but the back ache came and went with the waves. Her head
ached, throbbed. "Did I faint?"

There was no one to answer her question. She didn't feel like getting up or dressing. She felt like being a
cat for a while, snuggling down on her pillows on the comfortable cabin bed. It was narrow and compact,
a polished mahogany bunk. As contented as a cat in a winter sunbeam, she curled up and slept again.

She dreamed vividly. Actually felt herself cradled against Amir Bedawi's chest. He held a cup with a
strong brown syrup to her mouth and it tasted uncommonly strange of ginger and brandy. It warmed her
throat, her belly and the heaviness in her limbs became lethargy. Deep sleep seemed to come with the
finishing of the brew. She dreamed of Amir's arms holding her, stroking her head, her cheek, the curve of
her back. It had begun to ache again, throbbing, yet the warmth of his palm pressed against the deepest
curve seemed to soothe the pain.

She dreamed Amir kissed her brow, her lips with tenderness, not passion. Such a sweet, sweet kiss,
chaste and promising and delicate beyond measure. Best was his hand, circling always in the pained
curve at the small of her back. It wasn't real. She kept her eyes closed and floated on the ocean's
waves.

"Wake up, little gray bird. Come, it's another fine and pretty day." Masri turned Laura over to her back
and held a palm of crushed mint below her nose. The delicate flavoring brought her green eyes open,
slowly, befuddled, misty with sleep.

"Oh, Masri." Laura yawned, dug a knuckle in her eye and looked around her bedroom, recognizing it,
but not knowing how or when she had come to be there. She blinked sleepily. "Have I been asleep for
long?"

"Days." He stroked her head, smoothing back tangled curls. "Allah wills you to recover."

"Allah does, eh?" Laura sank back against a puffed pillow. "How many days?"

"Three." He held fingers up, understanding her question. Gentle hands adjusted her placement on the bed,
neither upright nor flat. His broad hand stroked across the swell of her belly soothingly. "Arousah must
stay to bed, not get up at all. Amir's son holds on to his mother."

She could not remember what had happened. A walk on deck, nothing more, had she slipped or had the
boat only heeled in the wind? She remembered falling, nothing else. Masri offered her the most tempting
meal, fresh pineapple slices, an omelet, frothy cocoa with a dollop of cream swimming in it, muffins and
cream cheese. He babbled about her staying to bed, not sitting up, and resting.

He held a spoonful of thick, strong smelling syrup beneath her nose, ginger and brandy again. She
recognized the odors, remembered the taste as it stayed with her mouth long after the spoon was gone.

It warmed away the backache and the heaviness in her tummy. She made no effort to even sit, preferring
to lay with her hand over her stomach, thinking. Was she to have a baby? She tried to think, what did she
know of having a baby? Nothing.

The day passed slowly, an indolent one. In the late afternoon, she told Masri to take a message to cook
and explain that she was indisposed and could not leave her room to dine downstairs. Masri just bobbed
his head and disappeared out the door.

There was a fuzziness in her head. As he left she saw a hallway beyond the door. Laura saw no yellow
pantaloons of guards outside. She smiled, satisfied, not hearing a lock turn to keep her inside. She was
home at Coeur de Terre. She and a little Amir Bedawi tucked deep within her stomach. The whole idea
made her hug herself and smile as she snuggled sleepily into her pillows.

"I thought we'd best get this confrontation over." Lionel Templeton occupied nearly all of the line of
Laura's vision, filling it.

Laura's jaw dropped to her chin, making her pause as she dictated a letter to Mattie. Mavis Hartley who
had written to the editor of La Voz pleading for funding for the settlement house that was soon to be
closed in Covington. Without church affiliation the children's home was facing foreclosure and
bankruptcy. Laura had listened almost in tears as Mattie had read the woman's desperate letter.
Seventeen orphaned children were about to be put out on the street.

Without a word, Mattie folded the papers inside her lap book and quietly withdrew to leave Laura alone
with her husband.

"How are you feeling?" Lionel sat carefully beside her, minding not to jar the bed.

"Better, I think." Laura wanted to ask of her dreams. Had she longed for his hand to soothe the ache in
her back, dreamed of that, or was it reality? Did he still come to her in the dark of night, holding her in his
arms as he had as Amir Bedawi? Her eyes narrowed considering her thoughts.

"Good." Lionel touched her brow, flinching over the bruising that still distorted her eyes. "You took a
nasty tumble."

"Nothing's broken."

"No. Masri says you're mending nicely. You scared all of us."

"Did they come back to get you? Worry you over a little fall?"

"It was not a little fall, my lady."

"I have inconvenienced you."

"No. In an emergency, business waits. However, I came to tell you I am sailing in the morning for
Boston and New York."

"Will you be gone long?"

"I hope to return before the birth of my son."

Laura considered telling him it might be a daughter. Would he hate her for that? Insecurity made her not
say a word.

"What I think I'm trying to get at, my dear, is that for the next few months, you're going to be on your
own. Masri is staying, of course."

"Of course." Laura nodded.

"And you can expect Steven to look in on you from time to time."

"He'll be made most welcome."

Lionel cleared his throat and for a moment looked away to the wall. Laura thought there was something
bothering him. "I have come to a decision, Laura Madeline."

"What is that, milord?"

"I'm going to give this emancipation thing of yours a trial."

"Would you care to explain that?"

Lionel cleared his throat, then gazed deeply into her eyes. "I think whatever is wrong between us can be
put down to one virtue."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Trust, Laura Madeline."

"You think I don't trust you?"

"Without going into declarations and all that rot, suppose I just tell you here and now, you have all the
freedoms I promised you in your uncle's garden in Havana."

"You weren't overly generous in what you promised there."

"No, but then again, it was a start. I'm not the most flexible man and I was afraid if I gave you what you
were asking for, you wouldn't have me. You did make it perfectly clear you wouldn't be my wife in
anything but name. I loved you too much to risk losing you."

Laura's mouth opened, dumbfounded. "Why didn't you tell me that then?"

"Would a profession of undying love have made a difference and brought you humbly to the altar? Or
wouldn't you have scorned that, thinking it was another trick?"

"Oh, Lionel. You already knew that I loved you."

"No, Laura. You loved Amir Bedawi. You still hate everything about Lionel Templeton."

"But, you're one and the same."

"And when did you come to that conclusion?"

That was a very good question. Laura finally came up with an answer. "I think it was that night I danced
for you."

"A most delectable thought. Would that you could do that right now. Tomorrow, I have to sail for New
York."

"You will be careful, won't you?" she asked.

"Madame, I am always careful."

"Oh? I would have had you for a rather reckless rake, showing up at the scene of highway robbery and
conducting piracy on the open seas."

"The only piracy I've ever engaged in was a matter of heart, Madame. The woman I wanted wouldn't be
convinced any other way."

"I do love you, Lord Templeton," Laura said it clearly.

"And I love you, Laura Madeline. You will stay out of trouble for the next two months. Promise me."

"Did you say you loved me, sir?"

"Yes, I did. Are you going to hold that against me the next time we argue?"

"No, I believe I will cherish this moment for the rest of my life. I never thought to hear you say that."

"Does it make a difference, Arousah?"

"Yes, I think it does."

"I have to hold you. Just for a little while." Lionel gathered her in his arms, ever so gently. "I had kidded
myself that after a week of rest at Coeur de Terre, you'd be craving adventure and the high seas again,
Madame. This time, it seems we must really part. I might not sleep at night without your knees poking in
my back."

"I don't poke my knees in your back."

"You do, Madame." Lionel chuckled and kissed her brow and she raised her face to his and their lips
joined. "Do you think we've become what you asked we could be, Lady Templeton? Married lovers?"

"Lionel, you will make me cry."

"All right. One more kiss and then its back to resting for you. Your physician's orders."

"You're the one who keeps him in bondage to us."

"On the contrary, my dear. Masri stays with you out of love. He has been a free man since the day I
brought him out of Egypt."

"I have one question, Amir Bedawi."

"What is it, Arousah?"

"Are you really a sheik?"

"One of these days I will take you to my desert palace.

You are in for quite a surprise."

Laura chuckled, not intimidated at all as Lionel kissed her, then gently settled her back into bed. "Next
year, possibly."

"Next year. Sleep well, I'll come early in the morning to kiss you good-bye. And as to our agreement,
consider it in force from this moment. You mind the home fires while I'm away to sea."

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Steven Templeton paced across the Persian carpet, made a sharp about face at its fringed edge and
came completely to rest, staring at Laura Madeline with smoldering blue eyes. Laura tugged the edge of
her lower lip under her teeth and scowled right back at him.

The most pleasant of afternoon breezes came in through the open verandah doors and stirred the air
inside Coeur de Terre's salon. It was a lovely room, graced with fine mahogany tables and damask
covered chairs and sofas. It was quite Laura's favorite room within the house. She had thoroughly
enjoyed redecorating Coeur de Terre, sending to New Orleans for fabrics and papers and hiring a
battalion of painters and carpenters to complete her whimsy.

"Do sit down, Uncle Steven. You are making me twist my neck uncomfortably to gaze up at you."

"You are being obstinate and willful as always, Laura Madeline," Steven rejoined. "Wherever did you
get the idea you could tromp around New Orleans flaunting a black eunuch as a personal slave? Do you
have any idea what people are saying?"

"Masri is not a slave, Uncle Steven." Laura folded her hands over her ungainly thickened waist. "He is a
respected physician in his country and a free man. I do not flaunt him and you should not listen to gossip."

"Laura, it has been hard enough to keep the gossip regarding you under control, and you have no one to
blame for it except yourself. You chose to run away from the Ursulines. If you had not published that
detestable article in that despicable paper, I would not be here right now upbraiding you." Steven

scolded righteously.

"It's a gossip column and it's not my paper, Uncle Steven, though I personally wouldn't mind owning a
newspaper. Why are you blaming me?"

"There is only one woman in New Orleans attended by a black Arab physician. It can be deducted who
your Lady Altair is. Lionel should take a carriage whip to you."

"Certainly. I should be flogged or better, keel hauled. Get a rope!" Laura rolled her eyes expressively.
"That would be a sight to see this body dragged over the rail. It might end this interminable pregnancy! I
am all for it."

"That reminds me. Where do you get off with the idea that you can distribute this shocking literature all
about the countryside? Laura, I know it is you. I have just finished going over the books. Your
contributions are scandalously high."

"I see. Now, money sent to charity is scandalous."

"Money that is supporting a press that is tearing apart the basic values of society is a disgrace."

"To which basic values are we referring, Tio?"

"Where is Lionel? I am going to see my brother come to his senses and put a stop to this. Does it give
you some kind of perverse pleasure to know you are ruining the family name?"

"I am doing nothing of the kind."

"Yes, you are. Do not think that I can be so blind as not to see that you are contributing the financing for
La Voz. Senator Bridgemont has been deluged with letters for a custody bill since the last issue of that
damnable paper lined every district in New Orleans. I am telling you, Laura Madeline, that the congress
of this state will not tolerate such unconscionable behavior from its womenfolk."

"As a mother-to-be, I think every woman should have the guarantees I do regarding my marriage. It is
much more than you agreed to settle upon me, Uncle Steven." Laura smiled, quite content with her and
Lionel's workable solution. "Lionel is very forward thinking in some matters."

"He is only indulging the whim of a pregnant wife. He would do no less if you desired chocolates in the
middle of the night. If he will not restrict you for the rest of your confinement, then I am going to step in
and see that your funds are curtailed and your activities put to a stop. You are about to incite a riot in
every household in the state. You are endangering Prudence Mellonbruch as well."

"Uncle Steven, you are being unreasonable. I did not write the article you are talking about. I don't own
a single slave, black, white or any other color and I have not written any letters to Senator Bridgemont."

"Did I say you had written him a letter?"

"You said..."

"What's behind all of this caterwauling?" Lionel asked rather crossly as he stepped inside from the
verandah. He'd just raced home from the city, driven back to Coeur de Terre by a raging sense of
impending alarm. His gift again, the curse of the seventh son. He took a deep breath and smoothed his

hair back from his face, schooling all alarm from his face and his demeanor. Laura looked perfectly fine.

"Steven, ah, good to see you. My dear," Lion removed his riding gloves and dropped them on a marble
tabletop, before bending over Laura's chair to deposit a kiss on her brow. "Had a good day, my love?"

"Until recently," Laura murmured, her eyes sliding toward Steven.

"Have you seen this?" Steven extended a newspaper to Lionel.

"Can't say that I have." Lionel opened the paper, scanned it. "Some literary effort of the ladies club, I
suppose."

"Literary? Ha! Another installment of the harem scandal on its back page, pure rubbish." Steven ranted
at his new audience. "I tell you, Lionel, the men at the club are becoming quite vocal about this
inflammatory press. That piece titled Memoirs of a Sultan's Harem are too scandalous even for New
Orleans! It's my opinion Laura has written those."

"I did most assuredly not!" Laura said unequivocally.

"Keep your seat." Lionel motioned to Laura to remain where she was, feet on a padded stool, safely
ensconced in the cushions of an ample armchair. He poured a whiskey for Steven and himself, then
folded onto the damask covered couch to peruse the newspaper.

There was not a single name mentioned in the entire paper, Monsieur, Madame, Mademoiselle, would be
followed by initials. The romance on the back page was obviously a work of fiction, of the dime novel
variety, and not very well written. Lionel scanned the drama of Lady Altair, then put aside the paper to
read it later. He smiled patiently at his wife.

"Well?"

"Well what?" Laura said huffily.

"What's for dinner?"

"Lamb."

"Sacrificial or stewed? Will you be staying, Steven?"

"Lionel, whether you want to face facts or not, it is my obligation to point out that this disgusting
newspaper has been issued twice as many times, since Laura Madeline returned to Louisiana. May I also
point out, that from November until mid January, La Voz was not published once. Laura is funneling
money into it. She is using that Quaker woman either as a blind or as a go-between. You must put a stop
to this immediately."

"Is this true, Laura Madeline?" Lionel probed her mind. Ah, but her enigmatic doors were forever closed
against him, and it was the mystery of her that held his fascination.

"Steven is spouting conjecture and speculation. I am certain he is mistaken about the dates."

"You do not deny it." Lion knew her words for a lie.

"Did I deny it, Steven still wouldn't believe me."

"Do you?" Lionel asked quietly.

"Yes, Lionel," Laura said, giving him a bland answer.

"Yes what?" Steven barked.

"Yes, this is a ridiculous discussion, that is what. I am at liberty to read what I like, am I not?" Laura
looked to Lionel for the answer to that.

"That is not the issue, darling. Are you funding this nuisance newspaper?"

"If I was, you would have nothing to say about it. I'm in control of my own money, sir. Remember our
agreement."

"Ah, yes, emancipation. Regrettably I have not forgotten that." Lionel sensed a restlessness. Things were
not what they should be. "Still, your accounts could stand the scrutiny of an audit, could they not?"

"By a firm of accountants, of course! By my former guardian I would have to say, sorry, its none of
Steven's business how I spend my money."

"Lionel, how ever do you tolerate such impertinence?"

"I cannot very well beat a pregnant wife, brother. Her belly is much too large to lay her across my
knees."

"The very idea!" Laura said scornfully and received two sets of highly lifted brows in return.

"What would you have me do, brother?" Lionel inquired.

"Well, if you won't do anything else to silence your wife's radical ideas, you could at least see to it that
she keeps such thoughts to herself."

"But, I keep hearing this is a free country."

"Rubbish! Not as far as women are concerned."

"That is precisely my point!" Laura raised her voice.

"Ah ha!" Steven pounced with a warning finger pointed at Laura's face. "You admit it!"

"Now, Steven, would you please not threaten my wife in her condition. Honestly, she will be turning red
with rage and then blaming you for an unplanned birthing all the rest of her days. Give it a rest until
September the first."

"I came here to warn you, brother. When you show up in the city, it will be another story. I am telling
you the men of Louisiana are becoming more hostile by the minute."

"Oh, stuff and rubbish?" Laura put her hands onto the armrests of her chair and hoisted her awkward
body out of the cushions. Immediately Masri came forward from the shadows of the room to help her. "I

am perfectly fine!"

She waddled out of the salon leaving Lionel to deal with Steven's temper. They deserved each other, she
thought. "God, but I am huge." Laura announced when she reached her bedroom and Mattie jumped up
to help her waddle across the floor.

"Yessum, Miss Laura, you is positively the biggest pregnant woman I done ever seen in my life. Why,
you remember how Mabel looked when she was carrying her last one."

"Oh, Mattie, please, spare me." She could very well remember the black woman Laura and Mattie had
spied on in the quarters years ago. The way pregnancies were hidden, poor Mabel hadn't stood a chance
of retaining any dignity.

Mattie anticipated Laura's desire to shed her sweat damp smock. Laura went for a cool tub of water,
just to soak in. "I am either here or there," she pointed to the bed across the room. "When will this end?"

"Not long." Mattie was certain of that. That her mistress was uncomfortable and cranky went beyond
saying. The poor thing was swollen all over, her feet, her hands, even her delicate knees were now puffy
and stretched with fluid that couldn't go anywhere. And poor dear, sleeping was impossible. No matter
how many pillows Mattie fluffed and propped or flattened and took away, Laura Madeline was restless
or the babe pounded her mercilessly.

To be truthful, even in the quarters where women weren't so hidden about birthing and babies, Mattie
had never seen or heard tell of such an active baby as this one soon to be born at Coeur de Terre. Mattie
supposed it was a simple consequence of marrying a man as big as Master Lionel coupled with Laura
being so tiny, herself.

"I think I shall stay here for the rest of the day." Laura tucked a wet towel under her neck and lounged
back in the tub, pretty as you please. Mattie giggled. "Could you do me a favor, Mattie?"

"Whatever you wish, missy."

"Will you take a message to Pru Mellonbruch for me?"

"It'd be best if we send it the usual way."

"I can't wait for that. I need for her not to deliver the next issue of La Voz. It seems our lords and
masters are getting uncomfortable. Perhaps biweekly is better for all concerned."

"Wouldn't know about that. Andre and Althea are squabbling to boot over the last one. He's been
sleeping in the stable the last two nights. I heard tell that down in the city the police have had their hands
full solving domestic squabbles. Why, this morning, there was gossip that Lelanie Jeanneau was seen
going home to Millabar with her trunks and her wedding crystal all boxed up in the back of her landau."

"You are kidding. She would leave Alexandre?"

"That ain't what the kitchen gossip says. According to the Belmont's cook who is first cousin to
Alexandre's chef, Michel, young Mr. Alexandre Bringer, threw his wife out."

"You are joking!"

"Well, that's what I heard."

"Is that a fact." Laura chuckled. Patti's sketches were making an absolutely marvelous addition to La
Voz.

Were the truth to be known, it was the imaginative Lelanie, who had actually penned the installment
fiction of Lady Altair. Laura would bet any amount that Alexandre's criticism of the writing had started
the row.

Well, Laura thought, the state of Louisiana could use some shaking up. Lelanie's imaginative tale was a
far cry from reality, but Laura didn't do the editing, nor even select what fiction was published.

She smoothed a towel over her knees and closed her eyes, doing the best effort at floating her body
allowed. Once upon a time, she'd fit in this tub.

"Ah, here you are, swimming in a tea cup." Lionel announced his presence with a cheery greeting that
brought Laura's eyes open to find him leering at her.

"Did Steven take his leave?"

"Reluctantly. You look marvelous, darling."

"I wish you wouldn't be solicitous. You don't mean it."

"How do you know I don't mean it?"

For an answer, Laura simply stared at him. This kind, overly polite and patient Lionel Templeton was a
bit hard for her to take. Since they'd reconciled and put aside all differences, he would not be baited. He
ignored her barbs, turning them aside with compliments or fond kisses. Nothing passionate, no, there
hadn't been much more than a brotherly embrace from him to her in the two weeks he'd been home.

"Must you stand here ogling me?"

"You look charming. I want to remember this. Pregnant wife in a tub. If I were a painter I would be
moved to getting out my oils."

"Spare me, please." Laura moved to get up and couldn't. Mattie wasn't any help at all. Laughing, Lionel
slid his hands beneath her arms and brought her upright, dripping and naked.

"Massa Lionel!" Mattie scolded. She was never going to get used to this, nor to that slave that never let
poor Miss Laura have a moment's privacy or peace. Why even right now while her mistress bathed, he
was all quiet in his corner, praying to that heathen god, Allah.

Mattie's mother Hattie wouldn't hardly come out of the kitchen no more. None of the blacks at Coeur de
Terre approved of the Arab. Whites didn't either. It was a good thing he kept mostly to himself.

"Well, don't just stand there gawking, girl, give me a towel for my lady," Lionel barked at the servant, but
to his wife he murmured, "You are beautiful beyond description, Laura, my love."

"And you sir, are a blind fool."

"Never. I am a connoisseur of beauty in every form. This--" he laid his hand on her wet, distended
stomach "--is the most beautiful belly I have ever seen in my life because it contains the fruit of our
love--our child."

Then he kissed her, fully on the mouth, passionately and Laura squirmed, her feet in the tub, half
struggling against him, half willing to be enticed again.

Lionel gave up waiting on Mattie to bring the towel and scooped Laura into his arms and carted her to
the bed. He chuckled. "You're heavy now."

"Really?"

"That will be all, Mattie. Run along, now."

"Yes sir." Mattie dropped the towel on the bed and bobbed a curtsey before leaving. Lionel opened the
soft towel, shook it out and blotted it against Laura's skin.

"Well," he said eventually. "I have read the latest issue of La Voz. It would make for interesting chatter
around the dinner table, would it not?"

"Since I haven't read it, I wouldn't know."

"It's hardly necessary for the author of a piece to read their press, is it?" Lionel suggested.

"Lionel, I had absolutely not one thing to do with that scandalous memoir column. It's a piece Le....
Never mind." Laura bit her tongue.

"Go on."

"For heavens sake, will you stop leering at me. Give me a robe."

"I prefer you odalisque."

"What is an odalisque?"

"A woman favored by the sultan, endowed shall we say with the pleasure of her master's bed. You
make a charming picture, Cherie."

Lionel cast off his shirt and joined her on the bed, turning her massive belly towards his own.

"Must you?" Laura asked as his lips touched her navel.

"I can't resist. I just want to touch you again, hold you. Is that too much to ask?"

"No." Laura snuggled into his embrace, comforted. She felt so repulsive. Maybe she needed this. For
certain, his hands thrilled her the same as they always had, his kiss sent her spiraling to the heights.

"Pity there is just no room for either of us between this overbearing child."

"My sentiments exactly," Laura murmured.

"I can't stay long. I am afraid I shall have to go and pull you out of the fire on this one, Laura."

"What do you mean?"

"The newspaper, of course. Prudence Mellonbruch will have to stop printing it. It was one thing to
concentrate on monstrous slave-owners of the Terrance Tucker ilk, but it is a whole different issue to be
printing calls to arms to every mother and young woman in the state."

"Prudence has nothing to do with the paper." Laura repeated.

"Then you should tell me where I am to find the operator of the presses, Laura, my love. Because
Prudence Mellonbruch is about to find herself in serious trouble."

Frowning, Laura said, "You are trying to frighten me."

"Hardly. In your condition I am doing my utmost best to see that nothing upsets you at all." Lionel kissed
her breasts and smiled. "Delicious, absolutely. Will you breast fed my son, my lady, or are you opting for
the wet nurse?"

"I might not have milk." Laura voiced her private concern.

"You will." Lionel assured her confidently.

"It might be a girl." She warned him.

"You would defy me to the bitter end, would you?" He smiled.

"Just so you are prepared."

"It would be an act of mutiny if you produce a girl. I shall have the both of you banished to a desert
island." Lionel promised her.

"I would accept banishment if you could assure me we'll not have to put up with any men invading and
starting a war."

"No guarantees." He teased.

"Then you'll get no quarter when the baby screams at night. I shall have the nurse walk it outside your
bedroom."

"Spare me the dramatics." Lionel grew deadly serious. "Where is the press, darling?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Laura said, holding her ground, refusing to answer that
question. She had shared everything else about her life with him and watched him take over. The press
and news paper was hers, and hers alone, the last line of independence in her life. She would not
surrender it.

"Laura, listen to me. Steven came here for a purpose. He's very fond of Prudence Mellonbruch as a
neighbor and a friend. There is a group of hotheads, not very nice men, mind you, who will make a visit
very soon to the Mellonbruch farm. Do you want the rape and possible murder of one very dedicated
Quaker woman on your conscience? Don't you think it's about time you 'ladies of the club' that formed in

the Ursuline Academy a few years ago, own up to what you're doing."

For a moment she said nothing, merely sat there with her fathomless green eyes fixed to his. Her silence
was confirmation in Lionel's mind. Then she said solemnly, "Wherever did you get that idea?"

"Logic and observation. Possibly a little spying to go along with it." And a heavy dose of intuition,
granted in his wife's languid moments wherein Lion could read her thoughts quite clearly.

"Prudence has absolutely nothing to do with La Voz."

"I know that. Steven knows that. Unfortunately, the thugs we're talking about will not stop to consider
the obvious. A mob doesn't think like that. They only want blood. The only thing Prudence is passionate
about is the issue of slavery. It takes the indulged and educated demi-mode, aspiring to be a woman of
the world, to conceive of bastardizing the social order. Daughters, I would say, of some very rich men.
Girls who had too much time on their hands, too little responsibility, and a whole lot of their fathers
brashness well hidden under velvet gloves. We wouldn't know any young ladies like that, would we?"

"You are speculating." She took another tack, evading the issue. Lionel knew he'd called a spade a
spade. He needed no more confirmation from her.

"Am I? Either way, are you going to tell me where the press is? I will find it. There is not much time."

"You won't find it."

Lionel considered her response. He couldn't take his eyes off of hers, marveling at the strength and
purpose she contained in the bright green orbs. Fascinating, he thought, absolutely fascinating woman, so
complex and yet so completely transparent. Did she think he was born this morning? "Suppose we go
legitimate, have you ever thought of that?"

"Meaning?"

"Everything has a price, Laura Madeline. Even newspapers."

"Lionel, I honestly do not know what you are going on and on about."

"Oh?" He merely raised his brow, mockingly, then decided a kiss was better than an interrogation. He
didn't need her confirmation anyway.

Her previous bedroom in Coeur de Terre revealed much about her. Lionel had found it all. There were
journals and notebooks and papers crammed in every nook and cranny. Her correspondence kept since
they had returning home, definitely married. All of her communiqués sent while in the convent. All put
together, it incriminated Lionel's wife in La Voz up to her beautiful eyes.

Well, he sighed, kissing her, enjoying the depth and fullness of her mouth, if she wouldn't tell him, he
knew where to start. Dear little Patti Jeanneau and her talented sister Lelanie. Laura Madeline had moxie,
plenty of it. Other women did not. He would go to Millabar, after he put Mattie through her paces.

"You will stay to bed, won't you?"

"I'm going to go somewhere looking like a beached whale?"

"Just checking." Lionel chuckled and reluctantly left her on the bed. "A month from now you won't get
rid of me this easily."

"A month from now we have a date a dueling oaks, remember."

"Ah, yes, the challenge, what was it to be...perfumes and finger cymbals at ten paces."

"Bring that. I'll bring my pistol all the same."

"Ah, my darling, I am quivering with anticipation. Until this evening."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

"Masri," Laura sat up, elbows propping her shoulders.

"Yes, Arousah?"

He came from just around the corner in the sitting room adjacent to Laura's bedroom. It was an alcove,
hardly more, but there Masri slept on a pallet to his comfort. He was never out of range of her voice, did
she need him. Her time was close.

"Would you pull the rope and send someone to get me some juice, orange, please."

"A little biscuit with some marmalade, too?"

"Something." Laura sat up fully, at least as fully as she could. She crossed her legs, Indian fashion,
comfortable in a pair of cotton pantaloons slung low below her belly. The lightest of shifts covered her
shoulders and chest. It was loose and full, non binding. While Masri rang for a servant, she sat and laid
both hands low on her tummy.

"You slept well."

"I always sleep well when Amir Bedawi puts me to bed, don't I?"

"He is not back yet, Arousah."

"No. I imagine he isn't--" she replied, absolutely happy about that, adding in English "--and he won't be,
off on the wild goose chase he's taken on."

"Come again?" Masri leaned over her, offering her his arm to help her to rise. "You should walk now. It
is cool outdoors. The garden is pleasant. I will get your shoes and a robe."

She had a beautiful Turkish robe. Where Lionel had gotten it from, Laura could only guess. It was
cotton, sleeveless and made of so many colors of thread it reminded her of Joseph's coat, biblical. Masri

fastened the frogs over her chest and stomach, tucked embroidered slippers on her feet and took her arm
to walk her out on the verandah.

Hattie came with the juice, scowling. "It ain't right not having no midwife staying to the house with us."

"Thank you for the juice, Hattie. Has Mrs. Callandar seen to supper?"

"Course we's seen to supper. Who do you think been running this here house for twenty-five years?"

"You have, Hattie, and you are doing a wonderful job. I really appreciate it."

"You be singing a different tune once them pains come. Ain't no lady hereabouts can deliver her own
baby."

"Masri is a physician, Hattie. He is all I need."

"Harrumph." Hattie snorted and stalked back from whence she'd come. "Damned uppity is all he be."

"Amir should have her whipped," Masri murmured.

"We don't do that here," Laura replied in Arabic. "She is free. You are free."

"Why does she stay with you?"

"I think she loves me."

"As I do, Arousah. Come, we will walk, take my arm."

"The roses are beautiful."

"Lovely."

"And it is cool."

"Yes, pleasant."

"You don't want to talk?"

"I want you to concentrate, think of nothing, just breathe. In and out, relax and be calm."

They walked through the garden. The late afternoon sun was nearly gone when Laura sat down on a
wrought iron bench. Hardly more than a stone's throw away was the calm waters of Lake Pontchartrain.

Laura's father's boat house cast a long last shadow on the water. She gazed at the shadow, thinking of
nothing but the calming water lapping against the shore. Masri knelt before her, taking one foot in his
hands, massaging it and the swollen ankle above it.

"Will it go away?" Laura asked.

"Assuredly, after the baby comes. You will be as slender as before, have no fear, Arousah."

"Does Amir mean it when he says I am beautiful like this?"

"What woman is not? Who is it that fills your heads with such silly thoughts, frightens you so of your
bodies? Do not think such things. Have no doubts, little one. He loves you."

"Sometimes, I still have my doubts."

"You are his first Kadine, his only Kadine. He is a man who could have six wives and hundreds of
concubines. Yet he keeps only you. You have his heart."

Laura sighed, closing her eyes, turning her senses to the breeze lifting the leaves in the bower around
them. She could hear the buzzing of dragonflies and hornets and smell the wet earth by the water, the
dusty path through the rose garden they had walked through. Even the stroke of Masri's hands against
her heel was audible. Something else, too, a heavier tread of someone stepping carefully on the humus
covered ground.

She opened her eyes, alarmed, sensing danger on a different level. Her eyes went to the water and saw
how black it had become. There was no daylight left, the gardens were thick, the moss hanging out of the
trees like shrouding.

"Masri!" She spoke too soon, alarming him. He dropped her foot, sitting up straight as an explosion
sounded so close to them. A gunshot. Laura screamed, jerking clumsily upright as Masri threw up his
hands and caught her, dragging her down hard onto the ground.

Four more shots broke the silence of the little woods, thudded into the dirt, splattering clods into Laura's
face. Her screams sent the birds clattering and squawking out of the trees.

"Masri, Masri!"

At Coeur de Terre every door across the back verandah burst open. No more than three hundred feet
away. Laura screamed, and screamed, and screamed as she was lifted off the ground. She was silenced
as a rough hand smelling of gun grease and blue metal clamped over her mouth.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

"Easy pickings." The man fingered the diamond necklace, twirled it around his forefinger, leering at the
unconscious bundle in the corner. She had a wealth of jewelry on her. Two diamond bracelets, this fancy
choker and rings of emeralds and blood stones. "Damn well better be more where this came from or
they'll never see that piece of baggage again."

His partner was not so open. A rough river man, born and raised barging on the Mississippi, but Ned
was a silent man, not given to talking much.

"I say we get our money's worth out of the fancy piece. Whose to know if we put it in her. She's

unconscious, ain't she?"

"You're a weasel, Stutter." The big man finally spoke. "She's got a baby in her."

"Just means she knows what its all about. Ain't like no virgin."

"We ain't got time."

The big man stood up, adjusting his guns strapped to his hip and he strode over to the crumpled baggage
on the floor. She moaned, twisting against the ropes binding her arms and feet. Her flesh had swelled
around the bindings tightening them. He grunted, satisfied the knots would keep. The gag had loosened.
He knotted it secure.

"Nice of this cabin to be here so close." Stutter rubbed his hands together maliciously. "What you
suppose they use all the paper for and that press? They teaching their slaves to read?"

Ned Talbot grunted, not caring one way or the other. It was enough that the type had been there and the
ink to write a ransom letter. He'd tucked it in the black slave's vest, over the bullet hole. The bullets had
missed the little lady. Didn't matter to him one way or the other.

"Let's go," he said. "Long damn ride to Tucker's Woods."

"Longer riding with a bone on. Give me five minutes."

"Shit, you couldn't get it up in ten. Come on."

"Why you always like that, Ned? All right, come on then! I get me a whore in New Orleans first thing.
Damn lady probably don't even know how to kiss. Half of them don't."

Laura was dimly aware of the sound of horses leaving. She hurt, badly in more places than she cared to
think about. She kept her eyes closed, thinking only of breathing, slowly, in an out, not panicking and
keeping her mind clear. One finger stroked against the palm of her other hand, moving in concentrated
rhythm, concentrating elsewhere than on her pain, as Masri had taught her to concentrate and block any
discomforts.

Dear God, she almost lost it, thinking, remembering. No, she was fine, she was fine, there was no pain,
only contractions, she was fine. Lionel would find her. He would come. Silently, she willed his face into
her minds eye and gazed at him.

"I love you, Lionel," she said out loud in her vision to him.

"What took you so long to admit it?" He laughed, taunting her as his dreamy mouth covered hers.

Althea and Hattie both screamed hysterically when Andre and two grooms bore the eunuch's body into
the kitchen.

"Where's my baby!" Hattie cried.

"Somebody took her." Andre thrust the blood soaked note away from him. From all the cabins behind
the big house, people had come running. Torches had been lit, guns loaded. The dogs were being

unleashed. He and Thomas and Jacob laid their burden on Hattie's wide table. "He's been shot, Hattie.
Get a hold of yourself. Jonas, get the medicines. Quick man. The rest of us, we go looking for Miss
Laura."

"Oh dear God." Hattie swung around to the stove, grabbing the kettle with her apron. "Light every
candle in the house. Where's Mattie?"

"She'll be back soon," Althea whispered in a stricken voice.

Jonas got towels and pressed them into the wound on the eunuch's chest. He still breathed. Maybe, God
willing, maybe, Jonas thought no more. Not until the door crashed open and Lionel Templeton stood
there raging like a bull.

"What the hell has happened here?"

"He been shot, Massa Lionel," Jonas explained.

"They took Miss Laura." Hattie said. "The note says they gonna kill her by midnight if'n we don't send all
the gold here, down fast to Tucker's Turning. Dear God, ain't nobody can get to that turning from here in
four hours. It cain't be done."

"Anybody gone there?"

"Andre took the dogs, two shotguns and Miss Laura's pistol. He gonna kill them." Althea trembled with
fear.

Lionel lifted the ransom note from the counter. It was stiff with Masri's blood, barely readable. He
squinted at it, drew it closer to his eyes, stared harder at it, thinking. The paper, the ink, typeface! He had
seen it before. It was smudged and dirty, crumpled. The words didn't matter. In his mind her saw Laura
and her press, together.

"Jonas."

"He be all right, Massa. The bullet went clean through. The bleeding stopped."

"Jonas, where is Laura's press?"

A look, almost invisible, went from the old servant to the women crying hysterically behind Lionel.

"What, Massa Lionel?"

"God help you, I know Armand Dunois bought his daughter a printing press for her twelfth birthday. I've
seen the ledgers. Don't play games with me. Where is the damned press?"

"I'll take you to it," Althea whispered.

"Woman," Jonas interfered.

"Don't," Lionel told him. He turned to Althea and pulled her out of the kitchen. "Take me there."

"It ain't far. Oh, how many times I told her, I told her. God's punishing us."

"Be quiet. Just show me the way." Lionel threw the woman up into the carriage he'd left standing by the
back door. He turned the horse, slapped the reigns and sent it galloping over the fields.

"Here." Althea tugged at his arm, pointing to a tree shaded creek bed. An overgrown path barely made
an indentation in the dense thicket. It was a trail for people walking single file, not buggies. Lionel raced
down it, not caring. The woods got thicker and denser and more impenetrable. Deep in a minute clearing,
edged by a pool of standing water, he could barely make out the outline of a ramshackle cabin.

Lionel could smell ink and coppery blood as he pushed open the door. It was too dark to see anything.
Disheartened, he groaned, bumping into a bundle on the floor. It groaned.

"Laura!" He dropped to the ground as Althea screamed.

His knife cut the bonds on Laura's feet and hands. The gag he tore over her head, throwing it away.
"Arousah, hear me, speak to me."

"Amir? I knew you'd come."

"Yes, be still, are you hurt anywhere?"

"Everywhere."

"Be brave, let me take you outside. Althea, stop screaming. Help Laura!"

"Oh, they shot that man. Dear God, did they shoot you?"

"No," Laura said weakly, unable to get a grip on Lionel's forearms. "You cannot move me, Amir." She
whispered in frantic French. "The baby is coming."

"Jesu Christi!" Lionel prayed. "Althea, help me. The baby!"

"Oh, Massa Templeton, not here."

"Get some water. Here, see to Laura. I'll look for what we need."

"I's knows where everything is." Althea finally calmed enough to think.

"Oh, Lionel, they took your diamonds." Laura laid her forehead against his chest, weeping softly.

"That you are safe is all that matters, Laura, my bride."

"I love you."

"You are my heart, my love. Don't despair. I will get you out of here."

"No, it's too late." Laura groaned into a powerful contraction. Lionel gripped her furiously, understanding
what was happening to her. He wasted no more time, opening her clothes and removing the blowzy
pantaloons from her legs.

The cabin was primitive, yet it had supplies and a box of clean rags, a tiny wood stove where water

could be boiled. Just knowing that Laura was alive and not injured returned Althea's calm and she built a
fire and put water to boil.

She brought candles and lanterns and they softened the wood floor under Laura as much as possible with
clean papers. She was far into labor, panting heavily and rapidly, closing her eyes as the contractions
came and swelled within her.

The baby was coming quick. Lionel spread a nest of clean rags across his hands and Laura held her
breath as long as she could then pushed and a tiny, delicate little head burst forth from her womb.

"That's my girl," Althea crooned in her ear. "Now rest and when that pressure comes again, get ready to
push again."

A minute later, Lionel gripped the tiny child firmly and laid it inside his spread open coat.

"Laura, it's a girl!" he said with absolute wonder. With his finger he cleaned off the baby's nose and its
mouth. It blinked at him, stared right at him, little arms and fists clenching, tiny, wrinkled feet and toes
spread open.

Althea helped Laura to sit up and see.

"You waits till the cord stops beating, Massa Lionel, then you cuts it." Althea coached him in the best
way to continue. Trusting her judgment, Lionel laid the infant on Laura's belly and waited.

"It's a little girl," he repeated in total wonder. A little girl who looked around her with snapping alert eyes.

"She's beautiful, Lionel. Oh, look at her tiny hands."

Laura gasped as transparent little fingers gripped a fierce hold onto Laura's forefinger.

From the sheath at his hip, Lionel drew out the knife. The cord was still beating, but he judged enough
time had passed. He had done this before with horses.

"You have to get it to cry, Massa Lionel. Spank the little darling so she'll fill her lungs with God's good
air."

"I couldn't possibly." Lionel tickled the baby's chin, amazed at the wizened little face. It choked of its
own accord, then cut loose with a squalling scream that filled its lungs naturally.

In the minutes of absolute wonder that followed the infant's lusty cry of life, help came from the house and
cabins of Coeur de Terre. One of the field hands came to the door with the best quilt his wife had ever
made and gave it silently into Althea's hands. Others brought lanterns and steaming coffee, more blankets
and sandwiches made of coarse bread and cheese.

As the Coeur de Terre people gathered around the ramshackle cabin, the hollow in the swamp filled with
torches.

"Is Miss Laura gonna be al' right?" They all asked.

It was too soon to tell. Lionel thought something was wrong. The second stage where the placenta was
discharged didn't come. Laura's hard, fast contractions had not abated. If this would have been a horse

and not his wife, he'd have already used his hand to probe for the problem.

He was too unsure to take the risk. His wife was still in hard labor. Althea held the baby safe and Lionel
stayed with Laura, afraid to take his eyes off of her.

"Try to calm down, Laura."

"I can't." She gasped. "I got to push again."

In two minutes they all understood why. Another baby's head crowned. Lionel gave a whoop of joy.
The twin came quick then, barely pausing to rotate its shoulders. On its heels came a huge afterbirth.
Quickly, Lionel cut the cord of the second, swaddled it in a long strip of sheeting and placed it in Laura's
arms.

"Put it to your breast, Laura," he coached as he lifted Laura and curved her against his chest for support.
"I heard suckling makes the bleeding stop."

"Where'd you hear that?" Laura whispered.

"Never mind. Let me help you." She was to weak to do what was necessary. The twin swung little fists at
the breast Lionel bared and firmly he turned its face against the nub of Laura's nipple.

"Look at that." He chuckled. "The little thing hasn't got the foggiest idea of what to do."

"They never does. You gots to teach 'em." Althea softly scolded. Lionel knew how to go about that,
tickling the infant's cheek started the rooting. With gentle fingers he held baby and tired mother together,
inserted the nipple and the little babe showed her true colors by clamping down as fiercely as he was
sometimes wont to do.

"Better?" he asked Laura after a moment.

"Oh, yes." Laura had eyes only for the infant.

"They're identical." He very gently laid Laura onto his lap, supporting both her and the baby.

"Give me the other princess," he told Althea. "We've got those sheets torn. Laura's going to need some
packing."

Accepting the first born, he marveled at her, examining her now from head to toe. The baby screamed
like a banshee when he laid her over in the palm of his hand and checked the backside. She was all head
and round chest with a minuscule backside and wrinkled little bowed legs.

"One of these turned out to be you, Laura Madeline."

"Massa Lionel, don't be disrespectful," Althea scolded.

"Hell, she's not even a handful."

"She will be."

"Humph." Lionel righted the lusty baby and for safe keeping, tucked it securely inside his shirt. "Let's see

to her momma."

"Oh, Lionel, look at her. Isn't she beautiful?"

"Not near as beautiful or precious as her mother is."

He leaned over Laura and kissed her mouth in gratitude. He hadn't even had time to make certain Laura
was all right before they began birthing babies. Now he had to make certain.

After both infants had nursed, Althea and her mother, Hattie, took them and carefully bundled them in
cloths given to them by the people waiting outside. Lionel sent the women ahead in a buckboard with the
babies. Laura he wasn't ready to move. He made her as comfortable as he could. She leaned against
him, surrendering to exhaustion.

Someone brought him a steaming cup of coffee in a tin and he downed it, then tried to think how to get
his wife out of this backwoods shack without killing her in a buckboard.

He wasn't certain he wanted to take the chance, not with the insects. "Tell Abner to race back to the
house and bring a mosquito netting and a mattress on the buckboard."

When Lionel finally stepped out into the night with Laura cradled in his arms, he was amazed to the
congregation of people who'd stood vigil, holding torches against the swamps dark and gloomy
oppression. Colored men of all ages doffed their worn hats to his missus. They'd brought the surrey,
stripped of its seats, lined with a mattress and shrouded with the mosquito netting he'd asked for.

Coeur de Terre's finest pair of draft horses were hitched to the front and around the yokes of the horses
harness, the waiting womenfolk had entwined garlands of fragrant gardenia and honeysuckle that grew
wild in the swamp.

Lionel wished his wife was conscious enough to see this show of affection for her. He knew his eyes
misted as he managed to croak his thanks.

"It's al' right, Massa Lionel," one man told him. "You jus' see to Miss Laura. Leave the getting home to
us."

The men surrounded the surrey and went ahead of it, swinging machetes to clear a path, chanting a field
song. Not a wheel bumped on any rock or swell in the ground before shoulders gently lifted and eased it
along.

It took an hour and a half to cover the ground Lionel had flown over at a breakneck speed in ten
minutes. He had nothing but praise for the men, after he laid Laura in bed without her sleep having been
disturbed once in the transfer.

The doctor from Covington had come during the night.

Masri still bled, hurting. Mattie came in ashen faced, terrified and stood by Laura's bed wringing her
hands.

"Is she all right?"

"As near as I can tell." Lionel took away the wet cloth from Laura's forehead. Her eyes fluttered and

found him. "Sleep." He tucked her head to the side, his palm pressed over her forehead.

"I love you," Laura said.

"I love you." Lionel leaned to her and kissed her eyes closed. "Sleep and do not move."

He stood up and handed Mattie the wet towel. "Where did you go? Why weren't you here with her?"

"She sent me to Miss Mellonbruch's."

"Why?"

"To tell Miss Mellonbruch to hold the papers a week."

"Who runs the press?"

"Andre, Althea, me, Jonas, Momma, whoever has time."

"No more," Lionel said.

"Yes sir." Mattie swallowed and couldn't look him in the eye.

"Stay with her."

"Yes sir."

From cabinet in his study, Lionel took out his guns, loaded each chamber and put both in his belt, under
his coat. He saddled King Hiero and rode the horse at breakneck speed to the ferry, leading him onto
the first boat going across to Bettetrois Landing.

Dawn was just crawling over the lake when the ferry docked. To the distance, he heard the baying of
bloodhounds.

It was his second trip to Millabar in less than a day. Martin Jeanneau had half his men and his sons
pounding down River Road after Lionel in ten minutes time. He sent a slave running cross lots to ring the
alarm at Clairmont.

A year ago, his nephews had cleared the menace to the public good.

Now as he rode into the turning, it was hard to believe the land had been cleared at all. The briars had
sprung back up again all around the massive rocks. The tall trees, cut back twenty feet on either side of
the road had grown nearly together in a canopy again. Undergrowth and leafy saplings sprouted where
the old ones had been cut down. Spanish moss dripped out of the overhead jungle as it had before. It
was just as eerie and dangerous a place as it had always been. Primeval and raw.

The dogs he'd heard in the distance he found howling and straining on their leads in the bend of the road.
Big Andre, Jacob and Thomas were marching four men ahead of them at gunpoint. Lionel recognized the
white haired man. Terrance Tucker.

"Now see, what'd I tell you boys," Tucker snarled viciously. "Sooner or later a white man was going to
come along the road and you'd be wishing your black asses was dead."

Lionel reined King up short, looking past the captives to Andre's grim face, then beyond to the fierce
angry face of his brother, Steven, arriving with armed support from Clairmont.

"You want to cut these bonds off now, boys?" Tucker's resonant voice oozed with smug satisfaction.
"Maybe we'll let you off easy, just take the skin off your backs from heel to toe."

"Not this time, Tucker," Lionel said.

"What's this all about, sir? You ain't going to take no word of no slaves against mine? Templeton, good,
you're here. These slaves belong to you or are they the renegades plaguing my woods? We were playing
a little cards on the river and they come attacking us."

"Did they?" Lionel swung down off his horse, stepping onto the dirt to confront Tucker face to face. He
shoved him around and cut the bonds from his wrists. "You have something of mine."

"Now what would that be?" Tucker laughed and the three men he was caught with snickered.

"Suppose you tell me." Lionel unleashed his fist and slammed it into Tucker's vile jaw. The man went
sprawling into the dirt. He pushed himself furiously up from the ground, but not before Lionel's boot
connected with his ribs.

"Like I said." Lionel held himself back, not wanting to kill the man, yet. "You tell me what you took and
what you did with it. Then you tell me where it is?"

"I don't know what in the hell you're talking about."

Tucker screamed in a cowardly wail as the Jeanneaus came riding into the turn.

Forty armed men surrounded the turning, cutting off any hope of escape. More than thirty of the armed
men were as black as Andre, Jacob and Thomas.

"Where's my wife?" Lionel demanded as he pulled Tucker up to his feet. The man's waistcoat had split
open across his belly. When Lionel stopped shaking him a golden chain dangled out of his waistcoat
pocket.

Lionel smashed his fist into his nose, splattering it and the planter went down on his back. Lionel bent
down and drew up the diamond chain, ten strands of pure gold, scattered with a king's ransom in
diamonds.

"I won that at poker!" Tucker screamed again.

"And it was around my wife's throat this afternoon."

"Want to tell my brother what you did with his wife." Steven cocked a pistol in warning and aimed it at
Tucker. "Or do I pull the trigger?"

"Let me get up and give me a gun. Make it a fair fight."

"Like the fair challenge you made to my wife?" Lionel kicked again into the man's ribs, breaking them.
"She's nine months pregnant, Tucker. You better tell me where she is, before I break every bone in your

body."

"Ask them." Tucker rolled in agony, pointing to the three men still tied and bound. "I didn't take her. I
never hurt your wife at all."

"You lying son of a bitch." Stutter growled and lunged forward, kicking Tucker with all his might. "He's
the somabitch that planned it all, and hired us to do the dirty work."

"Shut your mouth!" Tucker sprang to his feet, lunging for Steven Templeton's gun to wrench it away.
"You'll never find that woman, Templeton. This bastard raped her. He even bragged about sticking it in
her."

The six shooter fired and Tucker went down on his knees, blood staining his torn shirt.

"Oh my God," he whimpered, "I've been shot."

Steven shook the vermin's hands off the barrel of his gun with disgust and let his body fall face down in
the dirt.

"Do you want to hear the rest?" Lionel turned round to Martin Jeanneau.

"Is there more?" Martin asked somberly.

"Andre?" Lionel looked to the groom.

"Yassuh, Massa Jeanneau, there's more." Andre nodded.

"These here three are the men what been robbing and pillaging here on River Road. They's the same
men what raped Mattie last year and beat me half to death. Tucker knows they's living in a shack on his
back woods. Althea told me last year he gave 'em gold for any jewels they took."

"You'll swear to that."

"Won't do no good. They's white men."

"I'll testify," Steven said in a clear voice. "That man is the one I routed with my carriage whip a year ago
in this very spot. My niece had been attacked twice going from Clairmont to Millabar. The other two
came to Prudence Mellonbruch's, trying to set fire to her barn, this afternoon. Lionel and I sent them
packing. We should have shot them except Miss Prudence wouldn't have any violence."

"Boys, you're under arrest," Monsieur Jeanneau said to every man's satisfaction.

"If you let me go, I'll show you where the woman is," Stutter bartered.

"That won't be necessary." Monsieur Jeanneau informed him. "The woman in question is quite safe. Take
them away, boys. Messieurs Templeton, you have the parish's gratitude. Au revoir, mes amis."

"Is Laura all right?" Steven turned to Lionel.

"At home. I'm a father, twins. Now that this is wrapped up, I have to get back. Andre, you and Jacob
and Thomas have my heartfelt thanks. Steven, will you see to getting my men some food and water

before they head for home."

"You sure you don't need the same. You look like hell, Lionel."

"I have to get back to Laura." He leaped onto King Hiero and charged down the road to Bettetrois.

Lionel made it home as the doctor finished surgery on Masri. Lionel waited impatiently to consult with
him.

"Your wife's a little shaken, bruised, but other than that, I think she'll be just fine, Mr. Templeton. I've
stitched the slave's shoulder. Missed his lung by a hair, I'd say. Had to dig the bullet out of his leg though.
I gave him some laudanum, to help him rest easier. Might give a few drops of it to your wife as well,
though seeing as to how she's not screaming or hysterical, it might be best to leave her be."

"You will stay," Lionel said.

"Well, I can't see that I'd be much good around here for a while. The babies are fine, but you never
know with a baby. You've plenty of womenfolk around. Send for me if there's anything unusual, of
course."

"You will stay."

"Well, if you're going to be adamant about it, of course, I'll stay, but I could use a bed. It's been a hell of
a night."

"I know."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Masri opened his eyes on the second of August. He did not recognize the room he was in. The bed was
too soft and there was no prayer rug nearby for him to greet Allah.

The great round faced black woman of Amir's Louisiana kitchen leaned over him, put her hands on his
chest and held him down. "You big black heathen, don't you dare move, you hear."

"Do not touch me, woman," he said in clear, coherent Arabic.

"Now, don't go getting uppity on me with that strange lingo of yours. I'll go get me a frying pan to lay you
out cold, half dead or not. You scares the hell out of a Christian woman."

"Now, Hattie, don't badger him." Lionel stepped inside the room and smiled to see Masri's eyes open.
"You are recovering, my friend," he said in Arabic.

"And my little gray bird?"

"A slender little dove at the moment, cooing and preening over two of the sweetest little babies I ever
saw in my life."

"Twins, Amir?"

"Twins, fat little urchins. In a little, I will bring you the squalling brats for your approval."

"Sons, my lord?"

"Candidates for your next harem, old one. You will have to put your energies to getting well soon. I have
two of the prettiest black haired dolls to add to my collection."

"Ansallah, Allah be praised."

"Yes, well, you should have seen their father perform.

I had no idea you would find such a devious way out of fulfilling your obligations to me. Delivering my
own babies was not anticipated."

"Did you walk her through the labor?"

"We'll talk about all the things I did wrong later. Suffice to say, Arousah's tongue is as sharp as ever and
I was reminded several times of my questionable ancestry. On top of which, everything I thought of to
do, she was quick to tell me you would do something else."

Masri smiled. "A woman in labor will berate anyone, in particular, that man that had something to do
with her condition. Arousah is fine?"

"Strong as an ox, today."

"Allah be praised."

"God, too." Lionel grinned. "Oh, and don't let this old woman scare you. Her bark is meaner than her
bite."

"She has the disposition of a cobra."

"She thinks you are the devil incarnate."

"I know. Did she shoot me?"

Amir Bedawi threw back his head and laughed. "No, my friend. But, I think her nursing has saved your
life. You will be in her debt for a long, long time. Allah be praised."

"Ansallah." Masri gritted his teeth and closed his eyes.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

"Did you ever see such a precious, precious little thing?" Prudence Mellonbruch cooed over the darling
baby in Troy Templeton's arms.

"They're both raving beauties." Robert Templeton did everything he could to look comfortable holding an
infant. She had blue button eyes and a rosebud mouth. Troy's had one black ringlet peeking under the
crown of her bonnet. "I think becoming a Godfather is the most important event of our life, right Troy?"

"Definitely." Troy winked at pretty Ceci Jeanneau, the youngest and the loveliest of his neighbor's
daughters.

"Why you were just made to hold infants." Laura chuckled as she lifted Tanya out of Robert's fastidious
grip. "I thought you would drop the poor darling in the baptismal fount."

"And I'd have cut off his head," Lionel said sternly.

"What is this, don't you trust us, uncle?" Robert grinned, glad to be relieved of the duty of holding so tiny
an infant. He watched his uncle smoothly take the other infant in hand, as if he was born carrying babies.
He thought his uncle quite a man, so confident and capable. "So, did you fix it?"

"Fix what?" Steven Templeton asked.

"The boy wants to go to sea," Lionel said bluntly.

"Absolutely not," Steven replied.

"Funny." Lionel shook his head and grinned at Laura.

"I was of the impression a sojourn at sea was beneficial for anyone. Look what I got out of it."

"Both of us," Troy admitted.

"It beats Virginia Military in my book," Laura replied.

"Speaking of books." Steven was reminded of the last visit he'd made to Coeur de Terre. Draping a
conspiratorial arm around Lionel's shoulder, he nudged him away from the family group. "I heard at my
club that the press was found and routed."

"Oh?" Lionel batted not an eyelash.

"Yes, well, much to everyone's relief. Not only that, rumor has it that the Jeanneau girls were deeply
involved in it. You know, it fits, and here I was jumping up and down making a fool out of myself blaming
Laura."

"Well, we all make mistakes. Speaking of which, this little lady in my arms is getting damp. Mind if I
hand her off."

"Girls." Steven laughed and clapped his brother on the back. "Got one on you on that one, don't I?"

"Better send your boys to sea with me. I'll make men of them. They're getting into nothing but trouble
here in Louisiana."

"I'll have to ask their mother, first."

The admission made Lionel laugh out loud.

"Well, it's the truth," Steven said, trying to save face.

"What is so funny?" Laura asked as Lionel laid Chrissy in the bassinet.

"Damp coat sleeves," Lionel replied and swung a loving arm around Laura's waist, pulling her to him.
"Have I told you today how precious you are to me?"

"About seven times and not nearly as many as I needed."

"I have too much competition for your attention. Can you send those squalling brats to their own
quarters, tonight?"

The dimples in Laura's cheeks flashed and she stood on tiptoe to kiss Lionel. "Umm, I might, but it
would take a while. First I'd have to bathe and then be rubbed down with oil and heavens, there's all
those jewels to wear and of course, it takes hours to get all my veils right."

"How about I just drag you outside, abduct you from this christening party for an hour or so?"

"I can see a headline forming...what paper is it in...The New Orleans Bugler...yes, that's the one...that
press that only recently went legitimate...a gossip column. Now it's coming to me...what Lord T...cannot
keep his hands off a certain dark-haired Louisiana matron?"

"Bite your tongue, woman."

"I'd rather you did," Laura whispered.

"My pleasure," Lionel responded and drew her tight against him for a deliberately tortuous kiss.

"Hey, none of that, for crying out loud!" Troy groaned.

"Laura Madeline!" Aunt Bethany scolded and pushed the two of them out onto the verandah and
snapped the French door very firmly closed. "Newlyweds!" she announced properly, and shook her
head then smiled at the family grouping.

"That reminds me, darling," Steven said. "A word with you in private, please."

"But, of course, dear. Boys, mind the urchins."

"Again!" Troy and Robert expounded in one voice.

"Ansallah." Masri rumbled from the only quiet corner of the drawing room.

Hattie flashed a dark look his direction and deliberately chose to have the last word. "Amen."

THE END