“And beyond that? I’ll tell you. Nothing.” He tossed the bundle back on the desk. “As far as young Wynfrey is concerned the charges may as well not exist. Nothing can make him come back here and face them. He might never even hear of them. But I would be here. To face the planters.”

  “You’re not saying there’d be feeling against you for it? Well, his father, of course, but—”

  “Yes, his father, and his father’s friends, and more than one planter that barely knew either of them. This isn’t a little thing like trying to slip in poor-quality rice as premium. That’s almost a game, to some of them. This is theft. A planter’s son, one of their own, no better than a common cutpurse, a fig-man with his hand in another man’s pocket. It would embarrass them, more than you can imagine, and every time they dealt with me they’d be reminded of it. I’d find myself shipping little more than my own rice. And for what? For laying a charge that’s useless.”

  By then Michael had sat back in his chair. He felt dazed. He shook his head to clear it, but that only made the fog swirl more. “I should be old enough by now to know the way of the world.” He pushed up out of his chair. “I’ll go to my room, now, I think.”

  “Michael?”

  “Sir?” He stopped at the door without turning. Sparks of anger were rekindling in him, but the fog still clouded the flames.

  “Don’t—” The merchant halted, then finished lamely. “Don’t forget to stay in tonight.”

  Michael smiled bitterly. “You’ve no need to worry, sir. All the Irish rebels are dead, long ago.”

  He left then, quickly, before he said more than he should. He seethed. For a false charge of murder and a trumped-up charge of stealing, he’d hang, did they ever catch him. Wynfrey would never even have the charge laid, not with the evidence of his stealing written on the walls for the world to see. And murder? Would wealth and position be a shield against that? Wealth and position. Without them a man was less than nothing, not so much as a bump in a rich man’s road.

  The garden behind the house was laid with formal walks paved with large squares of slate that absorbed the sound of his footsteps. Stalking between tall banks of roses and oleander, he saw nothing until he rounded the corner where an ancient oak spread limbs as thick as a man.

  Elizabeth sat on the stone bench at the base of the tree, face upturned, laughing. Through the gall of his thoughts desire seized him. Someone else was there, the someone who caused those smiles and laughs, who had that face upturned to him as if captivated. Justin Fourrier.

  The planter’s son, his coat off, postured for her with a small-sword, attacking low-hanging twigs furiously. Elizabeth clapped delightedly, applauding every sally as if he’d dispatched a dozen desperate villains. Michael moved to leave, and a twig cracked beneath his foot like a pistol shot.

  Justin looked up at the sound and smiled, flipping back the lace at his wrists. “Here’s what I need. You there, Irishman, whatever your name is, come down here.”

  “Excuse—” Michael began civilly.

  “I said come here. I can’t say I think much of your father’s servants, Elizabeth. He should have gotten a Dutchman, or a German. They can at least obey. These Irish are too stupid to even understand what they’re being told.”

  “Oh, Justin,” the girl laughed. “Come, Mr. Fallon. Mr. Fourrier is a guest of this house. Come along, now.”

  Justin flexed his knees and presented the sword in the guard position. “Mr. Fallon? You’ll have him above himself, Elizabeth.”

  “He’s an indentured servant, Justin, not a slave, after all.”

  “Be better if he was. All they’re good for, anyway.” He launched a long thrust into the air. “Well, man, are you going to do as you’re told or not?”

  Michael walked slowly to the bench, still in a haze. When Fourrier produced another sword and pushed it into his hands, he stared at it blankly. The point was bare. There was no button. Idly he wondered if Fourrier actually intended them to fence with unguarded swords. It didn’t seem important; he let the thought drift away.

  Elizabeth’s eyes followed Justin; he strutted in front of her like a peacock. “Now I can really show you what I meant. Hold the thing up, man. He’s probably afraid I’ll hurt him. Come on. Hold it up.”

  Michael raised the sword slowly, stiffly. Justin took a stance in front of him, flexing and posturing still, slashing his blade from side to side. His feet are too far apart, Michael thought absently. Fourrier smiled at Elizabeth and, without warning, lunged, a sneer already forming in anticipation of the Irishman’s fear. Nothing of Michael moved except his awkwardly held blade, and that just enough to deflect the other wide of the mark.

  Justin straightened angrily, not quite certain what had happened. “I didn’t tell you to move about. Stand still there.” Again he took a stance and lunged. Again Michael’s blade moved just far enough to force Justin’s aside.

  Elizabeth looked from one man to the other in confusion. There was an unnerving undercurrent to this she could barely catch. It made her feel strange.

  Michael remained a statue, looking straight ahead, barely seeing the rage that suffused Justin’s face, or the obsidian glitter in his eyes. He was panting.

  “Stand still this time,” he breathed. “Still. Don’t move. Not a muscle. I command it.”

  Michael watched the circling point in front of him and the baleful smile behind it as if they were part of another world. The blade flashed toward him. On instinct he twisted, parrying in full.

  For an instant they froze in a twisted tableau. Michael studied the extension of Justin’s blade disinterestedly. Half a foot or more would have gone into his chest, had he stood as ordered. He raised his eyes to Fourrier’s. Sullen anger met him. Purposeful anger. So there was an answer to it. Murder would be allowed, for a man of the proper position.

  Elizabeth had gone rigid, one hand half-raised to her mouth, a scream frozen in her throat. Her eyes were unnaturally bright, and her breasts felt painfully tight. “Justin, that looked dangerous.” There was a tension in her voice that didn’t come from fear.

  Fourrier belatedly jumped back, sword raised as if to defend, though Michael made no move to follow. “You Irish bastard,” he spat. “I’ll have no more of your insolence.”

  The flames of anger flared in Michael, and the last of the fog burned away. His eyes blazed like sapphire. Words flowed out of him. “You have no grace with the sword, bucko, nor any style, either.”

  “What?”

  “In fact, you use it like a tailor’s apprentice cutting cloth. Mr. Fourrier. Sir.”

  Justin seemed to swell. The color went out of his face. He quivered all over. “I’ll have you—”

  A wolfish smile came to Michael’s lips. “You choke the sword. A sword’s like a woman. If you hold her tight, strangle her, she’ll always be disobeying you and trying to escape. You must cradle her gently, like a bird in your palm. Like so.” He brought his blade up in a manner that would have graced any salle d’armes on the Continent. Disbelief warred with the anger on Fourrier’s face. “Then she’ll obey you, and protect you, and fight for you. Like this.”

  In one smooth motion Michael’s blade whipped around Justin’s, point coming to rest a scant inch from Justin’s gold-embroidered vest. Justin stumbled back, certain his death was intended. When he realized that it wasn’t, that the blade had been halted short on purpose, a blind rage came over him. He would be done with the Irish scum, once and for all.

  With a cry he rushed to the attack. Almost immediately the blade was at his chest again. He beat it aside, and in some fashion the other blade spiraled around his to threaten him again. Heedless, he pressed on, and once more the Irishman’s blade found its place at his chest. Slowly it dawned on him that that point was coming closer at each pass. The first had ended with it an inch away. Now it was half an inch. Sweat began to run down his face. He took a step back. And another.

  Coolly Michael followed, each move precise and surgical. Riposte, parry, counter. His entire body moved in rhythm, his breath was even, and at every step he came that much closer to killing Fourrier. The slight smile was still there on an otherwise expressionless face. He had forgotten expression, forgotten everything save a spot on Justin’s waistcoat, directly over the heart.

  Fourrier thrust high, desperately, and Michael beat the sword down. His left hand shot out to grasp the blade and tear it from Justin’s grip. Point to the other’s throat, he forced him back, till his back was against the wall and skin began to dimple around the steel.

  All the while Elizabeth sat watching, mouth open, panting as if she herself was taking part. She hugged herself, shivering, but she felt strangely warm, all over. A faint perspiration misted her face and throat, and beads of sweat ran down between her breasts. She waited, for something, but she didn’t know what for.

  The corner of her eye caught a movement.

  “The sword, Michael. Give it to me.” Carver had stepped seemingly out of nowhere to put his arm between the two men. His voice was almost gentle. “Please.”

  Michael looked at him, and moments later saw him. He let out a long, shuddering breath. The tension ran out of him like water, leaving a loose, rubbery feeling behind. He laid the sword in the old man’s hand in formal surrender. The other dropped to the ground, stained red along the blade.

  Justin, too, let out a long breath, and its leaving brought back his tongue. “He attacked me. Your servant attacked me. I want him—”

  “I saw it, Justin,” Carver said coolly. “If it’s taken to a magistrate, I must testify, of course.”

  Fourrier stared at him, his expression unreadable. “He’ll believe me,” he said flatly.

  Carver’s face tightened. “Few men have ever questioned my veracity.” His voice hardened. “I find it especially strange in one who wants to marry my daughter.”

  Justin started. “I—I didn’t mean it in that way, sir.”

  “I don’t see any other way to mean it.”

  “If I gave any offense, sir, it was unintentional, I assure you.”

  Carver sighed. Perhaps it really was just a slip of the tongue. He wanted to believe that. “Very well, Justin. Make your apology to my daughter, then you’d better leave.”

  “Of course, sir.” Composing his face quickly, Justin swept a bow to Elizabeth. “My dear Miss Carver, pray accept my humblest apologies for this incident.” His voice rolled on in oily solicitude.

  Elizabeth barely noticed he was there. Why had she never noticed how blue Michael’s eyes were, and the way his hair seemed to defy brush and comb? It was savage, like himself. The way it nestled around his ears made her want to stroke them with her fingers.

  “Elizabeth. Elizabeth?”

  Her father’s voice broke her trance; vaguely she saw Justin go. “Yes, Father?”

  “Child, I regret that you witnessed this … outrage. Go to your room. Have Samantha put a cold compress on your forehead.”

  “Yes, Father,” she said. As she rose she cast a glance at Michael. How strong his hands looked, broad and capable. She shivered as if one of his fingers had run down her spine.

  Her father watched her walk away, concern etched on his face. Then, abruptly, he said, “Michael, I’ll see you inside.”

  He started off before Michael had a chance to speak. He followed slowly. His temper had done it again, pushed him beyond the limits of decency. A part of him shouted that the limits were too small, but he pushed it back. The last time he’d fled to America. Where could he go now?

  In the study Carver went straight to the sideboard near the window. “Let me see that hand.”

  “It’s nothing, sir.”

  He clenched it into a fist, but the older man pulled it up into the light and forced it open. A deep gash ran across the whole width of the palm. The clenched fist had kept the gash shut, but now it began to bleed again.

  “Nothing, is it? Seth will fetch bandages.”

  “I’ve a clean handkerchief in my pocket. I’d as lief use that.”

  “Very well, but first—” The old man moved the hand over a tray and, before Michael saw, splashed a dollop of brandy over it.

  “God preserve us!” Michael jerked free, shaking the hand in the air. Awkwardly he tied the handkerchief over the gash, stinging now more from the brandy than it had when cut. “And that’s a waste of good liquor.”

  He froze as Carver thrust a glass at him. Hesitantly he took it. Brandy was not a bound man’s drink. It slid over his tongue with a remembered smoothness.

  “Sir, I apologize. I forgot myself.”

  Carver waved the apology away. “She’ll survive it better than you might suppose. I don’t like it, but she’ll survive it, and there’s no more to be done about it. What worries me now is you, Michael.”

  “Me?”

  The old man hesitated, choosing words carefully. “That was quite a display. I doubt there’s a fencing master in the city could duplicate it. Were you a fencing master?”

  The question hung between them.

  “I was not,” he said finally.

  Carver was relentless. “Then what? When you first came I didn’t press you. I needed a clerk, and you were a good one. Competent, more than competent. Still, I detected something in you I couldn’t quite put my finger on, a hidden energy, a purpose. Now, I must know. Who are you, Michael Fallon? What are you?”

  Michael summoned a smile. “I’m Michael Shane Fallon, a clerk and an indentured servant, with two years, two months, and some days left on my time.” And a man under a charge of murder.

  “That’s not what I mean, and you well know it. The truth, Michael, and no worming your way round it. The sword. Begin with that.”

  He gulped the rest of the brandy. It exploded warmly in his stomach. “Ah, the sword, now. Well, I was a soldier for a time. A time. Seven years of it. Fifteen I was when I began. There was a fellow, Timothy Cavanaugh, took an interest in me. It was him taught me the sword, drumming it into me till I was ready to collapse.”

  “Cavanaugh?”

  “Aye. He was a soldier before I was born, and lucky for me he was. He kept me alive until I learned enough of soldiering to do it for myself. He’s out of it now, with a tavern below Liverpool.” He was saying too much. “This is fine brandy. I’m out of the habit of drinking it.”

  “Why come here? Why sign indentures? I’d think a man with your drive could make something of himself in his home country.”

  Michael laughed or perhaps it was a snarl. “Home country, is it? No Irishman has a home in Ireland. One of your slaves could get his own piece of land as easy as an Irishman in Ireland.”

  “And that’s all you want? A piece of land?”

  “Once it was. Not now, though, or rather, that and more. I intend building something. I’ll plant crops on my own land, ship them in my own bottoms. That’s my dream.” His face grew hard. “I’ll be able to buy and sell men like Mr. Justin Fourrier.”

  “He could have killed you, you know.”

  “He would have tried. Hell, he did try.”

  “And would you have killed him?”

  Michael studied the pattern on the rug before answering. “No. No, I would not.” His mouth contorted. “It takes a man of power to kill another man and get away with it.”

  Carver sighed. The answer disturbed him. So much bitterness in the man. He had the sudden feeling that it must not grow. Michael Fallon, he decided, should not be allowed to destroy himself.

  “And how will you go about this building? How do you mean to start?”

  “I’ve a few pounds I brought with me. When my time to you is done, sir, it’ll be trade for me.”

  The old man frowned at his desk. “You know it’s illegal for a bound man to engage in trade?”

  “I do.” Michael grinned suddenly. Some of the gall seemed to wash away. “Else I’d have begun the first evening I arrived.”

  “There’s a fine of triple the amount of the goods traded, payable by the man you trade with to the man who holds your indenture. Of course, if the man you trade with is the man who holds your indenture, then he must pay the fine to himself.”

  Michael blinked. “Sir?” His head was spinning, and only partly from brandy. Was Carver saying—?

  “If you’re willing to take the risks of the trade, the losses as well as the gains, you can trade through my accounts. Just add your order to mine. No one will question it. You ship on my vessels, and your goods will be sold in lot with mine. He paused. “Well?”

  Michael closed his eyes. “‘Willing’? God, it’s more than willing I am, sir. More than—”

  “Enough, Michael.” The old man smiled. He sniffed suddenly and rubbed his hands together. “Tell me. Do you play the game of chess? I know many military men do.”

  “Chess?” Michael was off his guard. “Why, yes, I do. But,” he added with a smile, “I’m a military man no longer. I’m a merchant.”

  Carver smiled back at him. “And so you are.” He took out a wooden chessboard. “One merchant to another, would you oblige me with a game?”

  Elizabeth rose from her crouch by the door and retreated toward the stairs. Her knees ached; the nagging fear of discovery was on her. She had the feeling that if her father saw her he would know immediately she’d had her ear to the keyhole. She darted up the steps, skirts held high, and didn’t stop until she was safe behind her bedroom door.

  She threw herself into the windowseat, staring out at the evening shadows in the garden, seeing nothing. A soldier, and as a boy, too. Idly she wrapped a curl around her finger, twisting and untwisting it. Why would a boy become a soldier? He was Irish. Could he have been a rebel? The thought raised goosebumps. A rebel would dare things. Things other men wouldn’t.

  Angrily she released the curl. Justin dared nothing. Everyone assumed they’d marry, eventually. Her father assumed it. Justin assumed it. But he was so, so stiff. All the time. Even when he was having fun, doing something that made her laugh, she had the feeling that only part of him was involved. A small part. He was certainly no impetuous lover.

  Her breath caught in her throat. Lover. She wrapped her arms around herself, crushing her breasts. That could be a man’s hands doing that. It could be Michael Fallon’s hands. She squeezed harder, as if the warm pressure could make him appear.