“Henry has wonderful taste, has he not? To think this was my wedding gift. And he let me choose all the furnishings. He’s such a dear.” Every time she spoke of her husband her face made it clear she was deeply in love.

  Besotted, Elizabeth thought. The fool. But then, given Louisa’s looks, Henry had only to be polite for her to tumble into marriage.

  Louisa called to Mandy for the ratafia, then showed Elizabeth to cool water to bathe her hands and face. All the while she chattered of her honeymoon in London and Paris, the noble palaces, the rustic ruins, the styles, the balls.

  Elizabeth answered for the most part in monosyllables, relaxing in the relative coolness of the house. As she sank into a drawing-room chair and took a glass of the cool fruit and almond liqueur, though, she realized Louisa had switched topics to gossip of the neighborhood. A name pricked her ears. “Fallon?” she asked with studied casualness. “Is that Michael Fallon?”

  “His name is Michael. Do you know him?”

  “Why, yes. He was in my father’s business for a time.”

  Louisa dismissed Mandy with a wave of her hand, leaned conspiratorially. “Mrs. Hopkins would just eat him up, my dear. Every last scrap of him. If she could.”

  Elizabeth frowned and set her glass down sharply. “I don’t understand, Louisa. Who is Mrs. Hopkins?”

  “Caroline Hopkins. Mrs. Caroline Hopkins. The widow Hopkins.” She seemed ready to go off in laughter.

  “Widow Hopkins? That doesn’t sound very thrilling.”

  “Oh, my dear, La Caroline is criminally beautiful, though somewhat obvious, if you know what I mean. Her husband left her Hollandia with no executor, no restrictions, so she does what she pleases and doesn’t care what anybody thinks. Half the women on the river would like to give her the cut direct, but somehow she appears at every ball. And the men all fall over their feet trying to dance with her.”

  Elizabeth’s stomach churned. “And this widow Hopkins”—she couldn’t keep a touch of acid from the name—“is interested in Mr. Fallon?”

  “Interested?” Louisa hooted. “I was there, a party at Oakview, the first time she saw him. It was like a dog catching sight of the fox. Though I must admit he didn’t run very hard. In fact, it was almost the fox chasing the dog. They say he’s got as much clothing at Hollandia as he does at Tir Alainn.” Her eyes flickered to the door and her voice dropped. “Henry and some friends, out riding near Hollandia, saw them down by one of the creeks, naked, swimming—and more.” She nodded significantly and leaned back.

  Elizabeth didn’t feel the churning anymore. In fact, she didn’t feel anything. It couldn’t end like this. “I, I suppose they must be very close to marriage.”

  “Certainly not. Listen, Elizabeth, Fallon is the kind who won’t stand for any nonsense.” She smiled. “Like my Henry. And Caroline will not marry someone who has a stronger will than hers. Not that there aren’t a lot of women around here who’d love to see her made to toe the line. I’d even send him a bundle of switches myself.”

  Louisa was beginning to look at her thoughtfully, Elizabeth realized. She’d better change the subject. “Tell me about Henry. Does he really not stand for any nonsense, or do you just let him think he doesn’t?”

  That evening, exhausted by the journey, Elizabeth fell off to sleep without time to think. With the day came alertness, and more thought than she wanted.

  In her mind she saw Michael. Michael and a woman. The woman had a thousand different faces, all of them, as Louisa had said, criminally beautiful. They were naked, always naked, in a hundred different places, writhing in an obscene tangle of limbs. God, why had Louisa ever brought it up?

  Louisa. What was she thinking? Elizabeth watched her like a cat. She was shown the house, the gowns bought in London and Paris, the stables, the horse set aside for her to ride. Never once did Louisa mention Michael Fallon. Never once did that suspicious, thoughtful look come back. She’d be suspicious after tonight, for sure. But after tonight it would be too late.

  “Elizabeth, I still think it’s too late for you to go out riding. Oh, why isn’t Henry here to dissuade you?” Louisa looked at the lowering sun, then turned worriedly back to the girl on horseback. “At least let me send a groom with you.”

  “No, Louisa.” Elizabeth firmed the reins competently and shifted herself on the side-saddle. “In the city I always must have someone with me. It is such a pleasure to be alone.” She smiled and appeared to relent a little. “If dusk comes before I get back, I’ll stop at a plantation house along the river and send a message.”

  “But, Elizabeth—”

  She whirled her horse and galloped off. Downriver. Toward Tir Alainn.

  Darkness was just beginning to fall when she turned up Michael’s drive. It hadn’t looked so far when she’d sneaked a look at her father’s map; she breathed a deep sigh of relief. As her feet touched the ground before the steps, Michael came out on the portico, shirtsleeves rolled up and long clay pipe clutched in his teeth. “Are you in need of assistance, madam?” She moved into the light, and he almost dropped the pipe. “Elizabeth? What are you doing out, alone, this time of night? What are you doing on the Santee? Where’s your father? What’s wrong, my darling?”

  “I got lost,” she said with a meekness she didn’t have to fake. There’d been noises out there, and as it grew darker they’d grown louder, and closer. And the shadows moved strangely, as if they weren’t shadows at all. “Michael, could I come inside? Please?”

  “Of course! What am I thinking of!” He tossed the pipe away and run down to put an arm around her. “Jubal! Jubal, get out here!”

  The black butler appeared before the shout was finished. “Yes, Mr. Fallon?”

  “Tell Sarah to prepare a room for Miss Carver. I’m afraid it’s too late for you to leave tonight, Elizabeth. Then, Jubal, you get somebody from the stables for the lady’s horse.”

  “My saddlebags,” she murmured.

  “Have the saddlebags brought in and put in her room. Then go tell Esther to whip up something hot as quick as she can. Go on with you. You’re shaking, lass. Are you sick? Is that it?”

  The tenderness in his face almost took her breath away.

  “I’m all right, Michael darling. Just a little frightened.”

  “There’s no need. I’m here to protect you.” He resisted the urge to carry her, and merely tightened his arm around her till he could seat her safely in the drawing room. “Now then, darling, what on earth are you doing here?”

  “I told you, I was lost. I was out riding, and I couldn’t find my way back, and it got dark, and then I saw the lights, and, and—” Her lower lip quivered, and it was only partly an act. “I’m so glad I found you.”

  “I’m glad too, love.” He kissed her hand and smiled reassuringly. What a child she still was. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to stay the night here. Lord! Spending the night in a bachelor’s house! If that isn’t a fine brew. Well, at least I can send a message you’re safe. Who is it you’re staying with?”

  “There’s no need for that,” she said lightly. “I’m not afraid anymore, with you here. And I feel perfectly—”

  “You let me be the judge of what’s needed. They’ve likely sent search parties out already. Do they find you without you sending word I wouldn’t blame them if they locked you in your room till they can ship you off to your father.”

  Elizabeth suppressed a small sigh. She knew they needed to send a message, but it would’ve been nice not to. “I was visiting the Richardsons at Fairhope.”

  “I’ll send word you’re safe, then.” He pulled her to her feet, and she came up ready for a kiss that didn’t come. “And now I’m afraid it’s off to bed with you. Angel will bring you your dinner.”

  “What? Michael, I won’t be sent to bed like a naughty child! I’m a woman!” She snuggled in closer and wet her lips.

  Michael swallowed hard. “That convinced me, sweetling.” Suddenly her wrist was swallowed up in his grasp, and she was pulled behind him out into the hall and up the stairs. “I’m putting you in chaperonage right away. Sarah!”

  A neat black woman hurried out of one of the bedrooms. “Here I is, Mr. Fallon.”

  “Elizabeth, this is Sarah, Sarah, Miss Elizabeth Carver. I want you to sleep in the trundle bed in Miss Elizabeth’s room tonight. No one shall think ill of her just because she had to spend the night under a bachelor’s roof.”

  “Don’t you worry, Mr. Fallon,” Sarah smiled. “I take good care of this sweet child. You come along, Miss Elizabeth. I show you your room. It pretty. You like it fine.”

  As soon as they were gone Michael hastily poured a brandy and gulped it down. The thought of her under the same roof for the night brought a sweat. She was just a child in so many ways. It probably never occurred to her that her presence might bring thoughts to him, thoughts of her readying for bed, baring that pale, satin skin until—God, he had to stop that, to blank his mind. And no more brandy, else he might lose what little control he had.

  He hurried to his study. There was work there. He’d work until he was too tired to think of anything but sleep.

  Upstairs, Elizabeth simmered with irritation. If she couldn’t have time with him, the whole thing would be impossible. And this fool woman kept talking like a mauma to a ten-year-old. “Hush,” she said, and brushed past Sarah into the room.

  Sarah followed, blank faced. Several times as she helped Elizabeth undress she made a hesitant comment about how pretty the lace was, or how fine the silk, but Elizabeth met each with silence. Fretfully she ate the dinner Angel brought, and fretfully she threw herself on the bed in her shift, listening to the grunt and scrape as Sarah dragged the trundle bed out, the rasp of her shoes as she extinguished the candles, the rustle as she undressed in the dark.

  “Good night, Miss Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth stared at the bed’s canopy in silence. She’d planned on spending hours with him. Here there’d be no other woman. Only her.

  She twisted painfully She’d simply have to go to him cold, risk all on one turn of the cards. Well, it still might work. It must. It must. Tormenting images ran though her mind. Her, in Michael’s arms, without the stifling cloth between, skin against skin. Her nipples were tight and hard against the cotton of her shift, and there was moisture on her that had nothing to do with the heat of the night. A dozen times she rose and peered out at the light spilling from the front of the house. Each time she sighed and padded back to bed. How long would Michael stay downstairs?

  Sarah’s bedclothes rustled as she stirred, coughed, stirred again. Wouldn’t the fool woman ever go to sleep? She made her journey to the window again. Darkness. Michael was on his way to his bedchamber, or already there.

  She turned her back on the window.

  “I can’t sleep with you in here.”

  The trundle bed creaked as Sarah sat up. “I sorry, miss. Maybe some warm milk—”

  “It doesn’t work for me. You’ll have to go.”

  “But, ma’am, Mr. Fallon, he said—”

  “I don’t intend to spend the night awake, no matter what Mr. Fallon said.” She tried to modify her tone. Damn it, she couldn’t antagonize this slave woman, or make her suspicious. “We both know why you’re here,” she said smoothly. “We both also know there’s no need for it. Mr. Fallon is a gentleman. I need no protection from him. You go on back to the quarters, so I can sleep. I said, go back to the quarters.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But Mr. Fallon, he said—” Elizabeth took one step toward her. Sarah got up. “I going.”

  Done. But there was no time to waste. Rummaging in the saddlebags, she took out a small package. And a thought struck her. What if Sarah had gone no farther than the hall? What if she was out there now, asleep across the door, perhaps? She stalked to the door, tongue ready to flay, eyes ablaze, and flung the door open. The hall was empty. The way was clear. Hurriedly she discarded the shift, and hurriedly she sponged with cool water from the pitcher. Then there was the package. In seconds she was covered again, and moved to examine herself in the mirror by moonlight. Dim as it was she saw enough to be satisfied.

  It was a gift, she’d told Madame Marie, for a friend who was marrying. And she’d described it in the terms an innocent girl would use. The worldly modiste had been amused at a blushing young lady ordering such a thing. She called it “a gown a man will tear off.”

  Two bows on the shoulders held it on. From there the sheerest silk fell to cling to her breasts, then touched nothing more till it touched the floor. It was more transparent than she’d remembered. She felt more naked than she’d ever felt before. Yes, he’d want to rip it off, all right. He wouldn’t be able to help himself.

  She entered the hall shaking with nervousness. She had to calm herself. There’d been a decanter at the head of the stairs when she came up. If only it was still there. It was, and glasses. The first glass, she slopped as much on the floor as she got in the glass. The second went better, though. The third better yet. Suddenly she didn’t know how many she’d drunk. Only four glasses, she thought. Or five? The decanter had gone down considerably. She fitted the glass stopper back in place. However much it was, she didn’t feel nervous any longer.

  The door to Michael’s room swung open without a sound, and there he was by his bed, naked, ready to blow out the last candle. Funny that she’d never realized a man’s body could be beautiful before, all the tight roundnesses of it, the hard, flat planes. And that hardness that grew harder the closer to him she came.

  Michael froze as an apparition floated in. It couldn’t possibly be Elizabeth gliding toward him, round breasts caressed by silk, hips swaying gently, the dark triangle between her thighs alternately revealed and obscured by the swinging, shimmering folds. Not until she put her arms around him did he move.

  “God in heaven! What are you doing?” He tried to push her away, but she clung tightly. “Go, go back to your room. You can’t know—”

  “I know I love you,” she said. “I know I’m tired of waiting. Please.” She went up on tiptoe to kiss him on the neck and under the chin.

  His head spun, and his voice seemed foreign. “What are you, Elizabeth, child or witch?” His hands shook as they went slowly to the bows on her shoulders. “If you’re playing a game, darling, then God help us both, for I’m playing games no longer.”

  She trembled as the silk fell to the floor. He swept her up in his arms then, and kissed her as he knelt to lay her on the bed.

  “Darl—”

  He put a finger to her lips. “Sssh. I’ll be gentle, darling. My little innocent. Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.”

  Elizabeth smiled at him and relaxed. He called her innocent. He was the innocent. He insisted on a gentleman’s tenderness when she wanted a roughneck’s forcefulness. But at least he held her. And then, his kisses set her breasts a flame.

  His head moved, and she tensed in spite of herself. Was this it, the moment when she’d no longer be a virgin girl, but a woman? His kisses trailed down her ribs onto her stomach, and she almost moaned in disappointment. What on earth was he doing? His fingers were in her nether curls, parting, then his mouth followed.

  She gasped and started to protest, when suddenly her lungs couldn’t seem to get enough air. Oh, God, what was he doing? That feeling! Nothing ever like it, nothing even close. One hand went to his head, her fingers gripping his hair, unsure whether to push it away or pull it tighter.

  Her free hand twisted blindly, one minute tangling in the sheets, the next groping in the air, for what she didn’t know. She couldn’t breathe except to pant. Every part of her felt tight, especially her belly. There was a knot there, growing tighter and tighter, closer and closer to pain, but never quite reaching it. She wanted to cry because it might end, and also for fear it might not. She was going to burst if it didn’t. She was going to explode. She was—She bit on a trembling hand to stifle her screams as the knot tore apart, and she with it.

  She never knew how long she lay bathed in ecstasy. At long last she became aware of the sheet against her back, her sweat-slick body. Of Michael lying beside her, a tender smile on his face.

  “I, I never dreamed—” she managed.

  “Of course you didn’t, love,” he said, moving over her. “But there’s more.”

  A momentary panic took her as the spear in his groin brushed her thigh. It was even bigger than it had been. It was too big. It’d never fit inside her. She tried to close her legs, but he was already between them. Then his mouth was on hers, his hand was parting, guiding. There was a slight stretching sensation, a filling. She tried to form a protest, tried to push him away. She could’ve been pushing at stone.

  A sudden burst of pain flared. She groaned and fell back waiting to be split asunder. And she realized he was still kissing her, his tongue insistent at her lips. There was no more pain.

  Then his hands were roving over her body, and he was moving in her, and the tightness was coming again. It was different this time, slower, not as rushed. She put arms and legs around him, writhing against him instinctively. Her mind was clouding again. She couldn’t think, didn’t want to. Her nails dug into the tensing muscles of his back as a bass rumble started in his throat. And then she was coming too, biting his chest to stifle her cries, spasming against his hard body.

  After, she realized he’d moved off of her, and she was lying with her head on his chest. There was a strange taste in her mouth, salt and brassy. Her eyes touched the teeth marks among the silky hairs on his chest, and she knew what it was. His sweat and his blood. She smiled lazily. It was good she’d put her mark on him. Hers.

  Michael reached down beside the bed and fingered the silk negligee. “Do you usually carry this in your saddlebags, poppet?”

  She looked up at him. He looked strange. “You’re not angry with me?”

  “Angry? Lass, I’ve been gritting my teeth to keep from making a woman out of you, and here I find, virgin or no, you’re a woman already.” Suddenly he laughed and lifted her onto his chest, her head at a level with his. “Damn me, no, I’m not angry. There’s not a man worth the name wouldn’t give his soul to be loved by a woman like you. What worries me is the thought of stretching that silky belly of yours with a baby before we’re wed.”