“Yes, sir. And I did, for a while, that is. Only, Callie, that’s my wife, she started in to working on me, about how she loved me, and didn’t I love her, and how nice it be for us to have children. Then Mrs. Fallon, she say I immoral and repre-, repre-, something or other. She say I got to marry Callie, and I got to free her first and then ask her if she will.” He shook his head at the unfairness of it all, but a grin crept in. “‘Course, it ain’t too bad all the time.”

  “That’s the secret, lad.” And Michael sprinted up the steps.

  Caesar, the butler, opened the door and froze, staring at him goggle-eyed. He turned toward the drawing-room door, but he was still opening his mouth when Michael entered the drawing room and spilled his packages into a chair.

  “I’m home, Brielle.”

  Gabrielle looked up from her embroidery hoop. With a small cry she was in his arms, kissing him.

  He managed to get the door closed with his foot, then crushed her to him and kissed her as thoroughly as possible. She’d matured while he was away. The pretty child’s face had become a beautiful woman’s. Her figure, though still slim, had filled and rounded. And her ardor!

  Why had he ever left this? he wondered. They broke the kiss, both gasping and swallowing. “If this is the kind of welcome I get,” he said, “I’ll have to go away more often.”

  She had been smiling at him tenderly, her fingers gently tracing the half-healed slash across his forehead. At his words her face blackened. She beat at his chest, pushed herself out of the circle of his arms. “You! You utterly despicable animal. You’ve no feelings at all, have you?”

  He stared at her, completely bewildered. “What are you saying? Have you gone daft?”

  “November! You said you’d be back by November. At the latest, you said. You’d be here for Christmas, you said. Six months! It’s nearly six months since you were due. And in all that time not one word to say you were alive. Only one letter in all the time you were gone.” Tears streamed down her face. Sobs rose, choking off her words.

  He shifted uncomfortably. “I wrote more,” he lied. “The ships must have been taken.” He put his arms around her in spite of her efforts to fend him off. Her tears soaked into his waistcoat. “Brielle, you must believe I’d never hurt you, not on purpose. And for whatever sins I’ve committed against you, I apologize as humbly as I’m able. Come here, girl. Come, see what I’ve brought you. Maybe that’ll bring a smile back to your face.”

  Quickly he seated her, his handkerchief in her hand, and spread out the packages before her. Fans, and gloves, and shawls, and carved ivory figurines. A broad, flat box he opened with a flourish. Diamonds flashed within, bracelets, earrings, necklace, and tiara.

  “I thought of you when I saw them,” he said. “Fit for a queen, they are, and a queen they’ll grace.”

  She touched them hesitantly.

  “Of course, this isn’t all, Brielle. The rest is following behind. A huge bundle of plumes and feathers. Silks, satins, velvets, laces. Everything I ever heard of a dress being made of or decorated with, in every color I could find.”

  She snatched back her fingers as if they were burned. “They say sailors have a woman in every port. How many ports were you in? Ten? A dozen? More? Like the Grand Turk with his harem, I imagine.”

  “God’s breath, woman! What brought this on?”

  “Go ahead, strike me. I can see you want to. If you beat me I’ve no doubt I’ll apologize for being in the right, and say you’re right to be in the wrong. But I won’t mean it.”

  Michael took a deep breath and made an effort to hold on to his temper. “Brielle, I’ve apologized to you. I don’t know how else to do it, except getting down on my knees to beg, and I’m not made to do that. I’ve come home, I thought, to you and our child—”

  “Our child. I was beginning to wonder if you remembered. Would you care to see him?”

  Michael nodded stiffly, and she swept grandly out of the room ahead of him. At the nursery door she stepped aside.

  The child lying there asleep, under a mauma’s watchful eye, surprised him by his size. But of course, James was close on to two years now. And the mark of the Fallons certainly hadn’t passed him by, with his high cheekbones and his small eagle nose. Two years old, and he hadn’t been with the boy for a birthday or a Christmas.

  Gabrielle watched quietly from the door, and slowly the tension went out of her. A tightness came in her throat in its place. He was just the same, indestructible, with that crooked smile on his face. And yet the year past had put its mark on him. The tiny lines at the corners of his eyes didn’t belong on a man of thirty-six. Now, gently, he took a tiny hand in his big, strong one.

  “It’s sorry I am, lad,” he said softly. “I shouldn’t have been gone so long. I’m sorry.”

  Her heart went out to him. She reached out her hand. “Husband.” The joy that swept over his face made her want to sing and cry, all at the same time. And then he swept her into his arms, and he was kissing her. It was all right again. He was home, and nothing else mattered. He was home.

  Michael’s pen scratched as he wrote on his lap desk, piling sheets on the floor beside his chair as he finished. From time to time he looked at Gabrielle. She had her easel set up across the room and was sketching the river view below Tir Alainn. They’d driven to Charlestown so she could show him the finished house on Queen Street, and toured the new fields at Tir Alainn, and the warehouse. They’d also spent a considerable amount of time in bed. When he joked that she’d built up some decidedly unladylike hungers while he was away, she hotly and blushingly denied it, but her ardor hadn’t cooled.

  That wasn’t all he found different about her. Those fields, for instance, and the warehouse. He’d told her to care for the plantation more to give her something to do than from any thought she might really take charge. And now Ames deferred more to her than he did to Michael.

  And her reaction to the letters he was writing. For all he wanted to spend his time with her and little James, he had to see to getting Hussar ready for sea again. He’d expected a display of temper when she found out, perhaps a fit of sulking. She’d patted his cheek and said she was sure it was interesting, dismissing him like a schoolboy who rattled on about the games he played.

  “Another letter to Mr. Petrie,” he said. “It seems they’ll be putting the guns back on board this week, and I want him to arrange for a pair of stern chasers. In another month we’ll be ready to sail.”

  “Mmm,” she said vaguely, and stared vexedly at a tree badly smudged when her hand jerked.

  He frowned. Something didn’t seem right. She didn’t seem interested. “You know, Brielle, you’ve done wonders with Tir Alainn. Everything I expected, and maybe more.”

  Her face lit up. “Oh, and I enjoy it so much. I didn’t think I would, but I do. And I’ve so many more plans.”

  That was the way he wanted to see her, bright-eyed and sparkling. “I see you hired the house servants to stay on. How’ve you gone about replacing the field hands as they’re freed?”

  She tried to conceal a guilty start. Oh, God. She had to tell him. She’d been dreading that question since their first walk by the new fields, and now there was no way to get around it. Just as she opened her mouth the door opened, and Henri and Louis sauntered in.

  “‘Lo, Brielle,” Henri said. “’Lo, Michael.”

  “Sarah said you were in here,” Louis said, “and since we’re family—Hope we’re not disturbing anything. No? It’s good to see you, Michael.”

  Full of relief, Gabrielle hugged them as if she hadn’t seen them for years. Michael, who very nearly hadn’t, shook their hands warmly. They still hadn’t changed from the first day he’d seen them. Except their clothes. They were as somber as Franklin now.

  “What are you lads doing in civilian clothes? I’m told you’re a lieutenant in the First Regiment, Henri. And you a captain, Louis.”

  “Stab me if we’re not mustered out,” Henri chortled. He rubbed his hands together as if at a pleasing prospect. “We’ve come to join this regiment of hussars you’re raising.”

  Michael stared at him. Gabrielle started for the door.

  “Brielle,” Michael said ominously. “Come back here.”

  “I’m needed in the kitchens. I hear Sarah calling.” And she was gone.

  He rounded on the other two. “All right then. Out with it. Talk.”

  Henri shifted under his brother’s glare. “Well, I’m no bloody good at working round to things. Stab me, I’m not.”

  Louis sighed. “We confess. Doesn’t seem much point not to, now that—At any rate, we were supposed to work you round to raising a regiment. No, let me finish. You’re the only shipowner I ever heard of sailing with his own ship. What’s the point? It’ll do as well if you’re there or here. If you’ve been in Charlestown, you’ve seen what passes for cavalry around here. We need that regiment, and we need you.”

  “I’ve seen them,” Michael growled. “Pretty boys, cutting a fine figure for the ladies. They won’t last through the first campaign. And it’d be no regiment, either. You’ll not find six or seven hundred men to meet the standards I’d set.”

  “Does that mean you’ll do it?” Henri asked.

  Michael sighed and looked down at his letter. Gabrielle wasn’t over her fear; that she’d taken all this trouble was proof of that. It would be good to spend a Christmas with her and James. And Hussar no doubt would do as well without him. And Petrie was ripe for command. And—“All right, I’ll do it.”

  Henri grinned broadly and called for a drink, but Louis had been watching him thoughtfully. “Why do you say you couldn’t find six hundred men? Once word gets out you’re raising horse, they’ll flock to ride with you. You could have a thousand men who were born in the saddle.”

  “That’s the trouble. They’re game young fighting cockerels, but they were put in a saddle the day they were born, and shot their first gun the next morning. Because of that, they think there’s nothing they need to learn and nobody they can’t fight. You mark my words, somebody with a quarter their number of dragoons who are twice their age will cut them to ribbons.”

  Even Henri was sobered by the image. Louis nodded. “Then what do we do?”

  Michael brushed aside the letter to Petrie and began writing again. “First, we need a commission from the General Assembly. You, Louis, take this letter to my banker. You’ll buy horses. Two hundred head, though we’ll be lucky to find that many men. You look for mounts with endurance, about fifteen hands high, perhaps twelve or thirteen hundred pounds. Yes, I know the lads in the city favor bigger, but we’re light cavalry, not bloody great dragoons. Now, you, Henri, see Bicaise in Charlestown. He may have some French carbines and—”

  In the hall Gabrielle leaned against the wall weakly. “Thank you, God,” she whispered under her breath. “Thank you.”

  Gabrielle paced the drawing room at Tir Alainn. She’d been waiting for this day—November 25, 1778—till it stood red in her mind. For months Michael had trained his soldiers, and not until today was she to be allowed a look at them.

  Michael entered, and she had to clap her hands. It was the first time she’d seen him in uniform; it was beautiful. His dark green coat with black facings made his broad shoulders broader; the snug white breeches with high cavalry boots made his long legs longer. There was a saber at his waist, and on his head a brass helmet with a bearskin roach across the top and horsehair plumes hanging down the back. She ran to kiss him.

  “Enough of that now,” he said finally.

  She blushed, and remembered the presents she had for him. “And the ladies tell me that when your husband is given command, you must sew him a sash, so he’ll stand out, and his men can see him. So.” Laughing, she unfolded a long sash of scarlet silk. He took off his saber, and she wrapped the sash around his waist herself, taking great care that the ends hung down his right leg just so. He reached for his saber, and she stopped him. “I’ve one more gift. A sword.”

  He made an effort to keep a smile on his face. He knew the sort of sword women bought, fancy dress swords, useless in the field. She handed him her gift, and he grunted when he felt the weight. It had a handle of staghorn and a guard in the shape of a dragon, but the blade was heavy steel.

  “I told him I wanted a sword to bring my husband back to me,” she said quietly.

  Gently he lifted her face with a finger beneath her chin. “I’ll always come back to you, Brielle. No matter what. I promise you, I’ll come back.”

  She turned her head quickly and kissed his fingers, then blushed. “Come along, Michael. I want to see this famous Legion.”

  Mauma Jana had young James on the veranda already. His eyes were bright with excitement. The young bugler stood stiffly on the steps, waiting. Michael nodded, and the boy whipped up his horn to sound attack.

  From out of the trees along the river burst a small knot of horsemen. They wheeled; men dismounted, and took their horses to the rear, revealing two grasshoppers pointed at the house. In an instant they loaded, and the guns roared and leaped back. Martha screamed and ducked, Gabrielle covered her face with her hands, and James howled with glee.

  At the cannon’s roar a line of cavalry burst from the trees, bent low over the saddle, sabers extended, and then a second line. Perfectly formed, Michael thought with satisfaction. Ranks in a slight chevron, and two hundred paces between.

  Wheeling, the lines charged back to the guns. There most dismounted, every sixth man leading five horses to the rear, and formed three ranks on either side of the guns. The carbines and cannon all fired together, and as the smoke cloud rose, James clapped his hands together and crowed with pleasure. He seemed to think it was better than a raree-show. And Gabrielle clapped and squealed and jumped up and down like a child herself.

  The horses were brought forward, the men mounted, and the guns withdrawn to the side. Then, to thunderous applause, the Legion went through maneuvers, galloping by twos, wheeling into line to trot toward the house, then breaking by squadrons and wheeling into ranks. And when it was all finished, they drew up in front of the house in four ranks, guns to the side and officers in front. Louis moved forward, followed by the Legion banner, a gold harp on a green field, and whipped his saber up in a perfect salute.

  “Fallon’s Irish Legion is assembled, sir. Major Louis Fourrier temporarily commanding. One hundred sixty-two men, six officers, all present and accounted for.” Michael gravely returned the salute. Then Louis surprised him. He turned to Gabrielle, saber coming up once more in salute. “Madam, the Legion wishes to request a favor of its commander’s lady.” The flagbearer leaned forward to raise his staff toward the portico.

  Gabrielle felt flustered. A favor. What—? Suddenly she knew. Taking the long, green ribbon from her hair, she bent and tied it around the tip of the flagstaff. The bearer raised it high, and the Legion burst out cheering.

  “Well done, lass,” Michael murmured. “You did that very well indeed.”

  “Thank you, Michael.” She frowned suddenly as a carriage, approaching unseen during the display, drew up at the steps. “Are you expecting anyone? I don’t recognize it.”

  “No one,” he replied, but made his way to greet the man limping up the stairs.

  He was a dessicated man, not far above middle years, but bald enough for seventy. He bowed stiffly. “Colonel Fallon. Mrs. Fallon. You don’t know me, though I recognize both of you. I am here on a matter of grave importance.”

  Michael ushered him into the drawing room, and Gabrielle rang for a servant. “You’ll have some wine, Mr.—?”

  “Forgive me, please. Stonewell. Oliver Stonewell. I represent the affairs of the late Mr. Thomas Carver.”

  It took a second for the word to get through to Michael. Late. The old man was dead. He sank into a chair. “I saw him not a fortnight gone.”

  “It was sudden, sir, but painless, I am told. In his sleep. I have not come to tell you of that, however. In fact, I find the purpose of my visit most irregular.” His face pinched momentarily as if irregularity were the greatest sin he knew. “However, I have come to carry out Mr. Carver’s instructions. I am to read you a portion of his last will and testament.”

  Gabrielle stirred uneasily. Michael looked bewildered. “His will?” he said. “I don’t understand.”

  Stonewell drew some papers from his pocket and fastened spectacles on his nose. “Here it is. I read. ‘The wharf known as Carver’s Bridge, on the Cooper River, together with the attached warehouse, the property on which wharf and warehouse stand, and the contents of said wharf and warehouse, the company known as Thomas Carver and Company, together with all ships owned by that company, all accounts in that company’s name, and all property owned or contracted for by that company, I herewith and hereby leave to Michael Shane Fallon, whom I regard as I would a son, and whom I hold in the deepest affection, regard, and respect.”’ He fussily returned the paper to his pocket.

  Gabrielle couldn’t take her eyes off Michael. For all the words about love and respect, why had Carver left so much to him? Whom he regarded as a son. And his daughter was Elizabeth, whose picture Michael still carried in his pocket. No.

  “It’s not right,” Michael said suddenly. “He’d a daughter who should inherit. What about her? What about Elizabeth?” Gabrielle’s face went white. She rushed from the room. He jumped from his chair. “Brielle? Brielle, what’s the matter?” From the door he could see Martha following her up the stairs. What the devil was it? “I apologize, Mr. Stonewell. My wife must have been taken suddenly ill.”

  “It does happen to women, sir, especially in the face of death. Now, as to how Mrs. Elizabeth Fourrier has been cared for under the will of her father, I can, you understand, give no details. Considering the effects of the war on trade and shipping, though, I should think she has been left, certainly, the bulk of the estate.”

  Justin spat into the drawing-room fire. “I can’t believe it. To my wife, his own daughter, he leaves half a dozen plantations that haven’t made a crop since the war began. The source of his wealth he leaves to Fallon, may his soul rot in hell.