"Be careful," he warned.

  Rebecca's answer was cut short by a sharp crack as the branch beneath her foot snapped. Frantically she tried to catch herself, gasping as the rough bark scraped her hands. Lights exploded inside her head as she slammed against a limb. Then she was in the air and tumbling toward the hard-packed earth below.

  Adam broke her fall, and the two of them went sprawling. Rebecca rolled free and sat up groggily. "Are you all right?" he demanded.

  Numbly she nodded, breathing too hard to speak. Gingerly she touched the back of her head where a knot was already rising. She started to get up, but Adam stopped her.

  "No, wait until your head stops spinning. You're sure nothing's broken?"

  She shook her head. The tenderness in Adam's voice was impossible to miss. He cared. Rebecca looked down at her smarting palms; they were skinned and bleeding, and one hand had a piece of wood lodged in the flesh. Childlike, she held it up to Adam. "Can you get it out?" She felt sick and foolishly happy at the same time. Adam cared, really cared about her.

  "I told you you'd break your neck in that damn tree," he said, his tone belying the scolding words. "You would have if I hadn't been here to catch you." He cradled her hand in his wide palms and deftly pulled the splinter free. Blood welled up in the gash. Adam gently pressed his lips to the wound and sucked it clean, turning away to spit out the blood. "My mother always says this is the only way to clean a puncture."

  His lips brushed her palm again, sending waves of delicious sensation through Rebecca's body. Adam's words were brusque, but she could feel the tenseness of his muscles. I was in his arms; why did I move away? she asked herself. It was where she wanted to be, where she had to be.

  Deliberately she gave a low moan and went limp. Adam caught her head before it hit the ground.

  "Rebecca!" He gathered her into his lap, cradling her against his chest. Fear paralyzed his brain, and his mouth felt dry as dust. His fingers touched the swelling at the back of her head. "Rebecca," he whispered.

  Her dark lashes lay motionless, her lovely features so still they might have been carved of wax. A purplish bruise was rising on one cheekbone. The rose-tinted lips were slightly parted, and her breath was so shallow he could hardly hear it. "Rebecca," he repeated urgently.

  In one fluid motion, she slipped both arms around Adam's brawny neck and pulled his head down to meet her kiss. His shock lasted no more than a heartbeat, and then he was kissing her in return, kissing her with all the pent-up passion of a lifetime. Rebecca moaned and strained against him as hot, tingling desire washed through her. Her mouth opened to receive his deepening kiss, welcoming the intimacy of his tender exploration; her fingers tangled in his hair. "Adam," she murmured in return. "My beautiful Adam."

  She met his gaze and held it, noting instantly the flicker of doubt that crossed the sea of brown. Abruptly, he pushed her away and rose to his feet.

  "You tricked me!" The flushed face darkened with anger. "I thought you were hurt!"

  She raised herself on one elbow and lazily let her gaze travel over him, from the muscular calves rising above the sturdy black leather boots to the muscle-corded neck and broad, sinewy shoulders.

  He stood as solid as the chestnut tree, his legs firmly planted, his arms akimbo and his face as impassive as that of an Iroquois. Rebecca's giggle caught in her throat as a trace of fear sent a shiver through her. How big he is. How wonderful that his bigness no longer seemed strange but right. The sheer maleness of his stance and aura bade her be cautious.

  "I'm sorry as to that," she said, "but not sorry we kissed. I think I love you, Adam. I don't know why you act so coldly to me."

  His eyes narrowed. "You've decided to become my wife, then?" His voice was deceptively light, as if the words didn't matter.

  Rebecca sighed and got to her feet, taking a step toward him. "Marriage has nothing to do with love, Adam. We are too different to be happy together for a lifetime. We are of different worlds. We do not want the same things. I love you, but..." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "But I cannot marry you. It would be a lie."

  Adam's big hands curled into fists at his waist. "You would have me dally with you, but you will not be my wife." He shook his head. "No, you can't have it that way. I want you, but I won't betray Thomas again. Your price is too high, Rebecca. Choose another man to torment."

  She took another step. "I don't want to hurt you." Tears welled up in the sea green Bradford eyes. "I feel hurt as well."

  "A marriage between us would work if it wasn't for your damned stubbornness."

  "Would it, Adam? And what happens next year when I want to go back to my people?" It took every scrap of her self-control to keep from flinging herself into his arms. Her fingers ached to smooth the lines from his brow, to trace his stiff upper lip and roam through the dark mat of hair on his chest. "Can't we just share a little happiness while we're together?"

  "No, we can't. I'm not an Indian, Rebecca. If I make you my wife, I'll never let you go. I'll hold you close and protect you." He ran a hand through his hair, and his voice cracked with emotion. "I want my wife to give me children and to lie beside me in the darkness and listen to the wind on a stormy night. I want to be able to trust her completely with all my worldly goods... and with my life, if need be."

  He took a deep breath. "If you marry me, Rebecca, you give up all thought of going back. You must take your rightful place as the mistress of Sheffield and as a highborn Englishwoman. "

  "You are the one who wishes to marry!" she cried in exasperation. "I only wished to share pleasures with you." Liar, her heart cried. Her back stiffened, and she forced her tone to frosty aloofness. "If we cannot share that together without fighting, how could we share anything more?"

  "Then we have nothing more to discuss, have we?" Adam caught the reins of her mare. "They're waiting for you back at the house. Can you ride?"

  In answer she vaulted onto the bay mare's back and jerked the reins from his hands. "Let them wait," she cried. "I'd be no fit company for the high sheriff and his lady wife. Tell them they can wait until tomorrow to see the Shawnee squaw. Maybe I'll shock them all and come to the celebration in paint and feathers."

  Adam grabbed for her arm, but she wheeled the mare in a tight circle, then dug her heels into the horse's sides and galloped away.

  "You can't run away from who you are!" he called after her, but his only answer was the cry of a swooping hawk. In tight-lipped fury, Adam swung into the saddle of his own mount and rode back toward the manor house.

  * * *

  Rebecca stared in awe at the huge gathering of people in the market square. Never had she seen so many human beings gathered in one place. Men, women, and children, black faces and white, and even a few of copper hue, mingled and pushed their way good-naturedly through the streets of Annapolis.

  They had all come, rich and poor, free and indentured, to witness the sailing of the tobacco fleet, Grandfather had explained. "This is a general holiday. Only the stingiest of masters would expect any work from his people today." He pointed to the harbor, filled with boats of all shapes and sizes. "Our fortunes all rest in the holds of those vessels."

  Rebecca couldn't suppress a gasp of wonder. The ships seemed like great white spirit birds, with their sails billowing as they skimmed over the sparkling surface of Chesapeake Bay. Tiny dugouts and rowboats bobbed amongst the larger anchored vessels, carrying last-minute passengers and letters. The flawless blue of the tidewater sky made a perfect backdrop for the colorful panorama; it was a sight that Rebecca knew she would never forget. Even the seagulls swooping down for bits of food seemed louder and brighter on this crisp morning.

  The smell of freshly baked gingerbread wafting on the breeze drew her attention back to the market square. Wedged among the wagons and carts and stalls were pie sellers and gingerbread women and vendors of all manner of food and drink. There were dogs and horses and even a stray pig, squealing and rooting amid the crowd.

  The sound was deafening; everyone seemed to be shouting at once. Babies were crying and oxen bawling. So loud was the din that the military band practicing at the top of the hill could hardly be heard.

  The family of Thomas Bradford had no need to compete for a clear view of the festivities. As honored guests of the ranking government official, they had been ushered to chairs in a roped-off section of the dock beside the high sheriff and his party. From the safety of their privileged position, they could see and be seen without the annoyance of rubbing elbows with the common people.

  At first Rebecca had been ill at ease, unsure of herself in the midst of hundreds of staring eyes, loud music, and booming cannons. She felt strange and uncomfortable in the rose gown and many petticoats. The hateful lacing pinched her waist and cut off her breath until she thought she might truly faint. She would have gladly given the matching rose slippers to any tavern maid had she been offered a pair of worn moccasins. Adam, she was delighted to note, looked every bit as ridiculous, in his curled wig and square-toed shoes with the red heels, as she did.

  Last night she had deliberately stayed away from Sheffield until she had seen the strange carriage roll down the rutted lane toward Annapolis. She'd been in no mood to be exhibited like a prize cow, not even by her grandfather. And when she did finally return the bay mare to her stall and slip into the house, it was well after the hour of the evening meal. She had snatched a bit of bread and cheese from the kitchen and gone straight to her room.

  It had been a sleepless night. For hours she'd sat by the window watching the slow procession of the full moon across a cloudless sky. She had thought about Adam, but she was no closer to an answer today than she had been yesterday when they'd parted so bitterly.

  He had not spoken to her at breakfast, and the words they had exchanged on the sloop that took them to Annapolis might have been between polite strangers. He had placed his hands around her waist to help her ashore at the dock, but his touch had been cold and emotionless. The pain had run deep. She would rather have had sharp words than cool acceptance.

  At the moment, Adam was devoting all his attention to the daughter of one of the ship's captains, Mistress Jane Trimbull. The young woman was reed thin, with an upturned nose and barely a hint of a chin. Her hair was the color of straw and so sparse that she had to hide it under a wig. Rebecca had seen her hair when a passing child had given the wig a swift tug as Mistress Jane was joining the sheriff's party.

  Rebecca stifled an urge to wiggle in her seat as she watched Adam and the Trimbull woman out of the corner of her eye. Adam looked so smug she wanted to smack him. How could he sit there and pretend to be interested in what that stupid Englishwoman was saying?

  "...the very latest mode. Father brought it on his last voyage from home. I do miss the shops and tradespeople. One is so limited here, don't you think, Master Rourke?" The china blue eyes blinked rapidly, and she continued her endless chatter. "Father says..."

  Adam squirmed and tried to look interested. His wig itched, and somehow a damned pebble had worked its way into his left shoe. And damn, Rebecca was beautiful. The rose-colored gown was a perfect foil for her tanned skin, and her cheeks sparkled with natural color beneath the emerald green eyes. Her dark hair hung loose, secured only with a bit of rose ribbon. A single strand had worked its way free, and he wanted to tuck it back behind her ear so badly that his arm ached from his locking it in place.

  There were stares aplenty, from the gentry as well as the common folk, but Rebecca sat there like a queen on her throne, accepting their tribute as her rightful due. He'd been mad to suggest they marry, Adam thought bitterly; she could have a title for the asking. He had nothing to offer her except his bare hands and an out-of-date honor that she had scorned. Damn, but the girl was maddening. If she'd been anyone but Thomas's granddaughter...

  "I said"—Mistress Jane cleared her throat loudly—"I said you must miss home as much as I do."

  Adam blinked. What had she said? Something about home? "Sheffield?"

  "No, not Sheffield, your real home in England." She tapped him sharply on the knee with her fan. "You weren't listening, Master Rourke."

  Lord, why wasn't he sitting next to the sheriff's wife? The woman weighed seventeen stone, but at least she had some sense in her head. This wench was a goose. "Sheffield is my home," he answered smoothly. A warm feeling of satisfaction washed through him as he realized it was true. Home had been where his mother's laughter had brightened the shadows of dark stone hallways. She'd brought the love with her to make a home of the tiny servant's cabin they had shared in their first days at Sheffield. And later, when they had gone to live in the manor house, her laughter had spread through the rooms and stairways to make them familiar.

  Adam's gaze fell on Thomas Bradford. The old man held himself erect with a rigid pride that would not permit the frailty of his health to infringe on his dignity. If the lines of pain around his lips were evident to those who loved him, they were balanced by the snapping vitality of his eyes. An aging falcon, but still fierce and proud. A trace of a smile curved Adam's lips. Disloyal to his own father or not, he could not deny the truth. I love Thomas Bradford as well as any son ever loved a father. A sharp twinge of guilt twisted his heart. Thomas had raised him up from servant to heir, had taught him all he knew about being a planter and had made a man of a foolish boy. And how do I repay this gift? By seducing the woman who means more to him than any other living person.

  "Adam!" The fan clipped his knuckles. "You aren't paying the least bit of attention to me, are you?"

  Rebecca caught sight of the flush spreading up Adam's neck and cheeks and she giggled. For just an instant, their eyes met, and he felt the full sting of her mocking amusement. His fingers closed over the fan, and the wood and paper snapped effortlessly. "My apologies, Mistress Jane," he said with glib insincerity. "I shall see that your fan is replaced, since this one seems defective."

  Mistress Jane's indignant gasp became a strangled choke as Adam turned away from her to rise and bowed gallantly to a towering blond woman in a starched white cap.

  "Mistress Kate," Adam called. "Are you well?"

  Big Kate's laughter matched her frame. "Well enough, Adam." Her eyes danced merrily as she approached the sheriff's party. "I see you've got a prime spot from which to watch the goings-on!"

  "That we have. Would you care to join us?" Adam offered a hand. "I can have another chair brought."

  Big Kate put her hand on her hip, threw back her head and roared. "I believe you would at that," she managed to sputter when she could finally speak. "But I'll decline your offer today. There's so much business at the Merry Widow, I've no time to dally." She dipped a graceful curtsy. "Good day to ye all, lords and ladies, and God speed our ships." With a wink, she turned and strode purposefully away.

  Jane Trimbull's voice was a squeak. "That woman! I know her. She's... she's..." Jane's face was beet red, and her eyes seemed close to popping. One hand clutched her throat, the other the remains of the broken fan. "I can't believe you..."

  "Mistress Kate is an old friend," Adam said, easing back into his chair. "She's a sensible woman, Mistress Jane. One you would do well to emulate."

  Rebecca made no effort to hide her own low, throaty chuckle. She didn't know who the big woman was, but anyone who could upset Mistress Jane merely by stopping to speak to their party had her sympathies.

  Thomas Bradford paused in his conversation with the sheriff and covered Rebecca's hand with his. "There are many young gentlemen here who are anxiously waiting to dance with you tonight at the ball. Adam and I will have to keep a sharp watch lest one of them sweep you away."

  Rebecca hid her uneasiness under demure lashes and murmured something in reply. She wasn't looking forward to the evening at Kentwood. Aunt Isabel had told her that the cream of Maryland society would be there and that they would all be watching her, waiting for her to do something strange and uncivilized. She would be expected to dance and to talk about foolish things, things that meant nothing to her. She would have preferred to explore Annapolis or to watch the ships. She would have preferred anything to being stared at.

  When Rebecca looked back at Adam, she saw that Mistress Jane was gone. A slow, lazy grin spread over Adam's face. Was he watching to see if she would do anything wrong too? Would he abandon her to strangers tonight at Kentwood?

  A unit of soldiers in bright uniforms moved up the street before them, stepping precisely to the beat of the military drums. All eyes turned toward them, and Rebecca pushed back her fears to take in the colorful performance. She could not stop the night from coming, but she would face it only when the time came. For now she would savor the unexpected pleasures of the day. It was a strength she had learned from the Shawnee, and one that would serve her well for the rest of her life.

  Chapter 13

  Rebecca's hand rested lightly on her grandfather's as he led her down the grand staircase to the splendid hall of Kentwood Manor. Her head was held high, her eyes were wide and sparkling in the light of a hundred candles, and her movements were as graceful as any dancer's. No one watching could have guessed she was so terrified that her breath came in shallow whispers and her skin felt cold and clammy.

  "Steady, child," Thomas murmured proudly. "No other woman here can touch you for wealth or beauty." He smiled, nodding to this acquaintance and that as he escorted her through the swirling mass of aristocracy to greet her host and hostess.

  The people. There were so many people. Rebecca swallowed hard, smiling woodenly. It took every ounce of courage she could muster to keep from turning and fleeing this house and those staring English eyes.

  Her Shawnee father had told her tales of running an Iroquois gauntlet. His arms had been bound and he had been forced to run between two lines of enraged, screaming Iroquois. Men and women had beat him with clubs, tripped and stabbed him, and sliced at his arms and back with steel knives. Rebecca thought now she would rather run such an enemy gauntlet than walk through the crowd of these hard-eyed English.