"I should say so! The Black Wolf has been up to his gallant exploits. Seems he was so bold as to try to take a young American lad off the prison hulk via an empty water barrel!"

  "Tried?" Gwyneth asked, still without looking up.

  "Someone discovered the plan, and the Wolf was forced to abandon it. He got away, thank heavens! Well, then, I'll leave you to finish your work; I know that time runs short, and your handsome husband should be home at any time now!"

  But Gwyneth need not have rushed so. By ten thirty darkness, hastened by the gloomy weather, was settling over the city, and she was forced to work by the light of a lantern. By eleven o'clock the night was fully black beyond her window, and she was beginning to feel a bit impatient and annoyed at Damon for his tardiness. By midnight, when he still hadn't returned, she was growing worried, and as the clock on her mantle struck one in the morning, she was pacing the parlor, wondering what to do, where to go.

  Rhiannon, who had come in earlier to express concern, offered the usual comforting words; perhaps His Lordship had met up with some old shipmates and was drinking away his last night in the navy at some dockside tavern. Perhaps his business with the port admiral or other naval officials was taking longer than expected. Perhaps he too had paperwork to catch up on, and like Gwyneth was hurrying to get it done. Surely, he would be home at any time . . .

  But poor Rhiannon was yawning and bleary-eyed, and at Gwyneth's urging, finally went to bed. An hour later so did Gwyneth, but she could not sleep. She lay in the darkness, listening to the rain outside, the shadows moving up and down her walls as the wind moved the trees, and worried.

  And imagined terrible things.

  Sometime in the wee hours of the night, she must have fallen into a troubled slumber, for when next she woke, a heavy gray daylight filled the room. She lay in bed for a moment, staring at the empty walls, at the furniture whose tops were now bare, her trunk, pushed into a corner and overflowing with clothing, valuables, and sentimental treasures.

  She heard Sophie moving around downstairs; Rhiannon, down in the kitchen, banging on Mattie's food bowl to summon the old dog to breakfast; carriages clattering in the street outside.

  Damon.

  She leaped out of bed, hastily washed her face, completed her toilette, and, garbed in a simple gown of peach satin trimmed with green embroidery, hurried downstairs.

  Rhiannon was just coming around the corner. Her face mirrored the same worry that snaked through Gwyneth. "Gwyn, maybe we ought to go down to the waterfront and see if anyone knows anything."

  "Yes, I'm going now. You wait here in case anyone tries to contact us —"

  As if her words had summoned it, there was a sudden knock on the door. Gwyneth froze, exchanging a frightened, paralyzed glance with her sister. The knock came again, sharp, hard, and businesslike, bringing Mattie charging out of the kitchen at a dead run, growling and barking, with Sophie right behind him. Gwyneth and Rhiannon ran to the door.

  Gwyneth reached it first, and, as Rhiannon grabbed the dog's collar to restrain him, yanked it open.

  Her heart flipped over. Two men stood there, one a naval lieutenant, young but well seasoned by duty, the other a scarlet-clad marine. Gwyneth took one look at their grim, emotionless faces, and suddenly couldn't breathe.

  "Lady Morninghall?"

  She swallowed hard against the rising sense of dread. "I am Lady Morninghall," she whispered, nearly cracking the doorknob with the force with which she gripped it. "Has something befallen my husband?"

  "May we come in?"

  "Yes — yes, by all means."

  The two men entered, though neither made any move to make himself comfortable, standing just inside the small foyer and looking vaguely ill at ease. The blue-and-white clad officer introduced himself as Lieutenant Whymark. "I come on behalf of Admiral Edmund Bolton, commander in chief of His Majesty's forces in the port of Portsmouth," he said, his voice coldly official and lacking any vestige of human emotion. He produced a sheet of paper from his pocket and, holding it out before him, proceeded to read it, head high, his words droning on and on as the three women stared at him in horror.

  "In short, Lady Morninghall," he said flatly, "your husband is being held under close arrest and faces charges of espionage, treason, neglect of his duties, and holding communication with an enemy —"

  "Treason!" Rhiannon cried angrily, staring from Whymark to her benumbed sister. "This cannot be so!"

  "— which are all severe crimes as defined by the Articles of War, specifically those articles pertaining to offenses against the executive power of the king and his government," Whymark continued, as though Rhiannon had never spoken. "There will be a court-martial, of course, which shall convene immediately." He rolled up the paper and returned it to his pocket, his trained, emotionless gaze meeting Gwyneth's. "I should prepare you, my lady, for the inevitable fact that these are all crimes deserving and punishable by nothing less than the death penalty."

  Treason . . . espionage . . . holding communication with the enemy . . .

  The death penalty.

  The color drained from Gwyneth's face and she staggered back. I will not faint, she thought, taking deep breaths to calm herself as she met the officer's steady, pitiless gaze. She felt Rhiannon's hand supporting her elbow. This is not happening!

  Very calmly, she said, "And where is my husband being held?"

  "Aboard the port admiral's flagship. Lord Morninghall has sent word that he wishes to see you —"

  "I shall go to him now."

  "We will wait outside, then, until you sort yourself out."

  He turned abruptly, the marine following just behind, and began to walk down the steps.

  "Wait!"

  He paused, and looked back at her patiently.

  "What has my husband done to have such terrible charges brought upon him?"

  Whymark looked at her in disbelief — a disbelief that quickly turned to pity as he realized that she truly was ignorant of her husband's treasonous doings. "Did you not know?" he murmured, his eyes softening in sudden understanding. "Your husband was caught last night, engaged in the very act for which he has been charged. I am sorry to inform you, my lady, but the Marquess of Morninghall is the elusive Black Wolf."

  ~~~~

  "Impossible!" Gwyneth said coldly, as Admiral Bolton met her at the entryport of his massive, beautifully turned out flagship. He looked down at her angry, militant face and flashing eyes with unshakable aplomb. "Utterly impossible! You have the wrong man, I tell you — my husband cannot be the Black Wolf!"

  Bolton allowed a cold, patient smile. He took the marchioness' elbow and, nodding to a brace of Royal Marines to follow them, slowly led her aft. "My dear Lady Morninghall," he murmured cavalierly, "Your husband is indeed that notorious criminal, and 'twas one of his own officers who apprehended him. There were many witnesses. I am sorry, but our proof is irrefutable."

  "I told you before, and I shall tell you again," Her Ladyship returned in a hard, forceful voice that a lesser man might have found intimidating, "my husband is not the man you seek. He cannot be, as he has been with me at our home in the Cotswolds for the better part of the last month and I happen to know that in his absence, the Black Wolf struck the prison ship Surrey and tried to take off a young American. Even the Black Wolf cannot be in two places at once. My husband was with me, and I am not sorry, but I too have irrefutable proof!"

  "I'm sure you do," Bolton allowed condescendingly, "but be that as it may, I can only tell you that the man who surrendered himself to us last night — while engaged in trying to rescue that very same lad, I might add — is the Marquess of Morninghall."

  "I will go straight to the top about this, I swear it!"

  "My dear lady, I am the top."

  She flushed and tried to jerk her elbow free of his hand, impaling him with a look that could've melted glass. They stood there, the slight young woman facing down the glittering, all-powerful admiral who ruled over every officer and seaman who served in Portsmouth. "You will not murder my husband," she vowed. "I will stop at nothing, do you hear me, nothing in order to save him! The Marquess of Morninghall is innocent!"

  "I do believe the court-martial will decide that. In fact, it shall convene tomorrow with my flag captain presiding over a panel of twelve other officers of highest rank, including captains and admirals. It will be a fair trial, Lady Morninghall, but I advise you not to hold out for any hope for a reprieve."

  "You cannot do this."

  "I will do it. And I will see the sentence carried out, quickly and efficiently."

  "I will not let you hang my husband!"

  "Lady Morninghall, your husband is an officer. We do not hang our officers; we give them the dignity of a firing squad. Now if you'll please follow me . . ."

  Seething, she glared at him, her pulse pounding angrily against her temples.

  "Come," he was saying, "I have had your husband taken from the wardroom and placed in solitary confinement so that your visit with him might be more private. Let it not be said that Admiral Bolton does not have a heart, hmmm?"

  With an arrogant sweep of his hand, he directed her down another ladder, and there, on the deck below, were cabins set in dim, long rows built into either side of the flagship's massive hull. Lanterns were hung from the beams above, but they did little to penetrate the oppressive gloom, which was even thicker within each of those tiny compartments. Bolton, bent nearly double to move beneath the deck above, led her forward, the two marines following at a discreet distance.

  There, standing at attention just outside the last, most forward cabin, was another Royal Marine. His stance was ramrod straight, his musket poised at his side, his eyes staring straight ahead.

  "Lady Morninghall has come to visit the accused," Bolton murmured, directing her forward. "See that she does not get into any trouble."

  "Aye, sir."

  One of the other marines moved ahead to unlock the door, then stood back so Gwyneth could enter. She shot Bolton a look of promised battle, but he was already moving back down the corridor, the remaining marine in his wake.

  Gwyneth turned and looked into the shadowy depths of the cabin.

  "Damon. Oh, my —"

  He was sitting on a wooden bench, looking as contrite as a schoolboy caught in some devilish prank, an endearing half-guilty, half-hopeful little smile touching his lips. He rose at sight of her, every inch a nobleman despite the fact that they had confined him like an animal, despite the fact that he'd most likely die like one as well. But Bolton had not lied; he was an officer, and they had allowed him every courtesy. His hair was combed, his face shaved, his clothing a clean, snowy shirt tucked into snug white naval breeches. Gwyneth looked at him and thought him too magnificent to die. Too beautiful, too vital, too full of unused years. Her teeth sank into her trembling lower lip, and then with a little cry, she went into his outstretched arms.

  "I am sorry, Gwyneth. Indeed, I am."

  She felt his strong, warm embrace closing about her shoulders, the comforting thump of his heart beneath her ear. "This cannot be happening, Damon. Someone, somewhere, made a mistake, you cannot be the Black Wolf!"

  "Gwyneth." His hand was stroking her hair, calming her as he might a frightened young child. "Dear, loyal Gwyneth. Do you not remember what creatures guard the Marquesses of Morninghall as they sleep? Do you not remember what creatures stand watch from the very gates of Morninghall Abbey?" His voice was patient, resolute, resigned. "Think, dearest wife — and then think upon my surname."

  "Wolves," she whispered brokenly. "Oh, dear God . . ." But even as the truth stood starkly before her, she refused to believe this. To believe it meant to believe in his mortality, his guilt, and that they could, and would, put him to death no matter how strongly the heart beneath her ear beat, no matter how valiantly she fought for his life. "No! I cannot believe it!"

  "Believe it, my love, for it is true. The wrong man was not apprehended and arrested last night. I am the Black Wolf, and I have no regrets, except that you must learn of it in such a cruel and shocking way."

  "But why?" she asked, pulling back to touch his cheek, to gaze beseechingly into his strangely beautiful eyes. "Why, Damon?"

  He gave a sad, faraway smile. "Revenge mostly," he finally admitted with a guilty little shrug. He pulled her to the bench, made her sit down. And as she gazed up at him, her eyes misty with confusion and denial, he told her the truth, starting with how the Black Wolf originally had been Connor Merrick, who, upon his escape from the prison hulk, had adopted the alias as a direct way to mock Damon deWolfe, its apathetic captain. So apathetic was that captain, so full of twisted fury and self-pity and hatred, that he'd knowingly allowed the rescues to go on right beneath his nose.

  "But why?" Gwyneth asked, shaking her head and not understanding any of this.

  "It gave me great pleasure to see Bolton getting his just desserts. I loved seeing someone make a laughingstock of him and the navy, and as I had no respect for myself, and was so far gone in despair and anger, I didn't care that I too was being humiliated."

  "But if Connor's really the Black Wolf . . ."

  "Connor is not the Black Wolf. I am. He started it, but after you forced me to see how terrible things were belowdecks, I became ashamed of my apathy and desperate for a way to atone for it. I needed to prove something to myself. That I too could do something brave and good for someone else. You'd done so much for those prisoners that I felt I could do no less."

  Gwyneth pursed her lips. "And I suppose that, because it was also a way of gaining your own personal revenge against Bolton, it made playing the Black Wolf all the more sweeter, am I right?"

  Damon smiled, sheepishly. "Well, yes . . ."

  "Oh. . . ." She stamped her foot hard. "Damn it, Damon!"

  He gathered her close, pressing her cheek against his heart and laying his jaw against the top of her head. "I have no regrets, Gwyneth. I would do it all over again. Bolton aside, had I been able to save only one of those wretched, suffering souls, all that I have braved, all that I shall face in the days ahead would be worth it."

  "Five more minutes," the marine called flatly from just outside the door.

  "You should have told me," Gwyneth spat mutinously. "Damn it, Damon, you should have told me!"

  "I could not. I could not take the chance that, if I were caught, you would be brought down with me." He gently grasped her shoulders and set her back, looking deeply into her angry eyes. "Especially as you were so keen on doing things to help the prisoners yourself. You were safer not knowing. Forgive me, Gwyneth, but I love you too much to allow you into the alliance of the Black Wolf."

  "I don't know if I can forgive you," she said sharply. Her tears had dried, and she was almost glaring at him. His heart filled with admiration for her spirit, her courage. Already she was rallying, his little tigress, refusing to sit helplessly by — though of course, there was nothing she could do for him.

  She raised her chin, brave and determined. "So tell me, what will happen now?"

  "There will be a court-martial, of course, to be held here aboard Bolton's flagship and continuing every forenoon until a verdict is reached and a sentence passed." He paused and looked at her solemnly. "It will be the penalty of death, Gwyneth."

  The marine outside called, "Three more minutes!"

  "I will write to Admiral Falconer! I will write to my former brother-in-law, Lord Simms! I will petition the Regent. I will not stop until you are freed, damn it. I will not let you die!"

  He shook his head. "Dearest heart," he murmured, looking down into her face. "Admiral Falconer is on his way to the West Indies; by the time a message could be brought to him, it would be too late. Besides, there is nothing he can do, even if he wished to help me." He looked deeply into her angry eyes, his own gaze pleading. "I beg of you, Gwyneth, do not torture yourself so. There is nothing you can do. Absolutely nothing."

  She got to her feet and faced him, her eyes sparking violet fire. "There is plenty I can do, Damon, plenty I will do. They say you're the notorious Black Wolf, do they? Well then, you tell me who tried to take that American boy off the hulk while we were at Morninghall!"

  "That is not for me to say."

  "Damn it, Damon, the answer might save your life!"

  "Nothing can save my life," he answered quietly, "except a supreme act of God. And given His opinion of me, that, my love, is highly unlikely."

  The marine was there, unlocking the door. "Time's up," he muttered, beckoning impatiently for Gwyneth. "Let's go."

  She swept to the door, eyes blazing defiance. There she stopped, only to turn and point a finger at the man who sat on the bench, watching her. "Very well then," she said tightly, glaring at him, "we shall just have to see what God says about it, won't we?"

  And with that, she picked up her skirts and stormed out, determined to save the life of the man she loved.

  Chapter 28

  The court-martial convened the following morning.

  For Gwyneth, who was excluded from witnessing it, it was the beginning of a week of hell. With a tireless fervor that eclipsed anything she had ever done before, with a frenzied devotion that overshadowed the combined efforts she had made on behalf of all the other causes she had ever embraced, she threw herself into the task of saving the life of her husband.

  On the first day of the trial, she wrote a long, passionately desperate letter to her former brother-in-law, begging him to use his influence in Parliament and in the navy to obtain a pardon for the Marquess of Morninghall. She called together her committee and the wives of Portsmouth's upper naval crust, hoping they could somehow influence their husbands who served on the court-martial to show leniency. She consulted with various naval personnel, she visited with her husband that afternoon, and sometime late in the wee hours she fell into her bed exhausted, depleted from her efforts.

  The following morning and for every morning thereafter, she looked down from her window upon that massive flagship sitting out there in the harbor, and willed her wishes upon those she knew were deciding the fate of Lord Morninghall behind the flat, shining panes of its elaborate stern gallery.