Chapter Six

THERE WAS MORE freedom in being married than Lucy had ever dreamed of. Shehad never had so much money to spend on herself, so much leisure time and so few responsibilities. Her reputation had been mended somewhat by her marriage to Heath, though it remained slightly fractured. There were still some people who sniffed and raised their noses as Lucy walked by, but there were very, very, few these days whose opinion she cared about. Her money and her new status had made her popular with the kind of people she had never known before. Spending most of her time in and around town, she made new friends and kicked up her heels in a way that caused her father and her old friends to shake their heads silently at her.

She was hardly ever with her husband. In fact, Lucy saw Heath so seldom that during the day it was almost difficult for her to remember that she was married. At night things were slightly different—they did share the same bed—but they had never made love, and the distance between them was so wide that they might as well have been on different continents. Many nights he arrived home very late, and she would already be asleep, alone on her side of the mattress. She would stir drowsily as she felt him get into bed beside her, and then they would lie there, side by side, not touching, until sleep claimed them both. They were both careful not to venture on each other's territory: the left side was hers; the right side was his, and not even in sleep did an arm or a leg cross the invisible line that separated them. But in spite of their lack of closeness, their lack of communication, sharing a bed with Heath became a habit that Lucy would have hated to give up. Even though she could doze off without him there, it seemed that her sleep was never deep or complete until she knew that he was beside her. There was something strangely comforting about knowing that he was next to her, hearing the deep, even rhythm of his breathing, waking up in the middle of the night and seeing the dark outline of him nearby.

On the nights when he got home early, Lucy would turn the lamp down low and get into bed first. She always kept her eyes closed as Heath stripped off his clothes and stretched out beside her, but often when he was asleep, she would open her eyes and let her gaze wander over him. Even though the graceful, pantherish lines of his body became familiar to her eyes, she would always become a little bit breathless. He was an uncommonly handsome man. And since their wedding night, he hadn't made one move toward her.

At first she had been relieved by his lack of attention to her, and then curious, and gradually even a little resentful. Now she spent a lot of her time wondering how to make herself more attractive to him.Once he had seemed to want her very much. What had happened to change his feelings so radically? Was he ignoring her out of consideration or actual disinterest? She couldn't bring herself to talk to him openly about it, and since he didn't seem inclined to broach the subject, it seemed likely that she would end up like Abigail Collier after all—a sharp-tempered, immaculately late old maid.

A few weeks after her marriage, Lucy became a part of a young and fashionable set in Concord, called the Thursday Circle. It consisted of several beautifully groomed women who had too much time on their hands. They had servants to do their work and busy husbands who were away too often. The wives volunteered their money for charities and musical organizations in order to get their names publicly acknowledged, and they took on many cultural and social projects that Lucy joined eagerly.

She was welcomed readily into the circle since she had all of the qualifications to be a member—she was young, fashionable, and as bored as the rest of them were. They, too, had husbands that they hardly ever saw. They spent their excessive amounts of free time just as she did, shopping, talking, and leafing through fashion magazines. Their meetings always seemed to end in gossip, gossip about intimate and personal matters that Lucy had never heard anyone talk about so openly before. Privately she was sometimes embarrassed by their frank discussion of lovers and sexual exploits and affairs, and yet for all their careless chatter, she could see that many of them were lonely underneath, as lonely as she was. And they were great fun to be around, priding themselves on being shocking and sophisticated, filling the room to the ceiling with their brittle laughter and tobacco smoke. Many of them liked to smoke factory-made cigarettes, a habit of popular actresses and daring society women.

"Dixie," Olinda Morrison, a local banker’s wife, drawled smoothly at one Thursday evening meeting, "you must tell me about something."

"Dixie?" Lucy repeated, lifting her dark winged eyebrows quizzically.

"Yes, that's what I'm going to call you from now on—I had no idea until yesterday that you were married to a Confederate. I think it's absolutely delicious.”

"What exactly do you want to know?" Lucy inquired, smiling at the avid curiosity that shone in Olinda’s velvet black eyes. The brash possessor of striking beauty, Olinda had the confidence to ask anyone anything. Only the truly beautiful could dare to be rude as she was.

“What is it like with him?" Olinda demanded.

"Do you mean—"

"Oh, don't give me that little-lost-lamb expression. . you know what I mean! Is he very charming in bed? Are Southerners as soft-spoken as they say, or does he give the Rebel yell at the crucial moment?"

They all howled with laughter. Even Lucy, who had turned bright red, couldn't help joining in. As they all waited expectantly for her answer, she lifted a crystal glass of ice water to her lips in the hope that it would cool her burning cheeks. She had to maintain their impression of her as a woman who was as knowledgeable and familiar as they were with the subject of lovemaking.

"I'll tell you one thing," she said, ignoring a twinge of guilt at leading them all to believe something that wasn't true, "he told me that I disproved all the things he had heard about Yankee women."

That set off another gale of laughter and scattered applause.

“In the South they think Northern women are all blocks of ice," Alice Gregson, the pretty wife of one of the town councilmen, said dryly.

"We are, compared to them," Betta Hampton replied. Betta was salty and witty; at forty-two she was the oldest one of the group, as well as themost experienced. She often disconcerted Lucy because her knowing smiles and ribald revelations always seemed to contain an unrelieved disenchantment with life. Betta didn't seem to care for anyone or anything. "It’s the climate. I'm not talking about the weather, you ninnies—it's the social climate. Here the men are hardheaded and coldblooded. They only care about one thing. I'll tell you how to make a Northerner stand to attention . . . just rustle a wad of greenbacks near his ear. But Southerners . . . that's a different matter altogether. I had a Southern paramour once, and I can tell you that no matter how many men she's known woman is never truly awakened until she's had a Southerner."

"Why? Why is that?" Olinda demanded.

Betta smiled wickedly. "They all have a special secret. Ask Lucy what it is."

But Lucy would not, could not answer, despite the avalanche of entreaties and playful demands for her to reveal the secret. Secret? She had no idea what it could be. She had never made love with Heath—she barely knew her own husband! She looked up silently and met Betta's mocking gray eyes, feeling like a fraud.

"I'll tell you," Betta said smugly. "Southerners do everything—everything—very slowly. Isn't that right, Lucy?"

When Lucy returned home that night she was mildly surprised to find Heath already there. It was still early enough in the evening for them to have dinner together, something they almost never did. Lucy dreaded times like this. It was becoming unbearably difficult to sit across the table from him, exchanging stilted conversation and finding very little to say to each other. Sharing a meal was something that was supposed to be warm and cozy and intimate, but instead it made Lucy uncomfortable and cold. He was not the same man who had once teased her and made her laugh, who had provoked her and made her blush with his seductive smile. The man who sat across the table from her became more of a stranger to her every day, a stranger who had hard blue eyes that revealed no trace of desire for her. He did not seem to want her at all, and his indifference was much, much worse than anger.

Lucy figured that the only reason for such a complete lack of interest in her meant that he was seeing other woman. Perhaps he kept a mistress in Boston—she wasn't sure—but it did hurt to think about it. She had no idea how things had deteriorated so far, but it seemed too late to change or fix anything between them.

"How was your day in Boston?" she murmured, spearing a tender bit of asparagus with her fork and lifting it to her mouth.

"A few difficulties with the investment I want to make. I'll have to go back tomorrow."

"Of course," she said, tight-lipped as one suspicious thought after another went through her mind. Did he make all those trips into the city for business reasons, or was he visiting some woman?

Heath's blue gaze sharpened on her. "What about you? A profitable meeting with the good ladies of Concord? What exactly were you discussing tonight—orphans or veterans, the art students' fund or—“

“We were discussing plans for a benefit,” Lucy said with dignity, stung by his sarcasm. He had made it clear many times before that he didn't hold a high opinion of the women she had chosen to associate with lately. "A benefit for the musical society."

"Ah. I had no idea you were such a patron of the arts."

"I am!" she snapped, slamming down her knife and fork. Her anger gave her temporary bravery. "Why are you always ridiculing my clubs and meeting and my friends? You told me I could do whatever I wanted to do—you have no right to criticize me. You don't really care about any of it, you just want to irritate me!"

"I am interested. I'm fascinated, in fact, that given complete freedom you've made such uninspired choices. I should have expected that it would be that particular crowd to draw you in, but I had hoped that by now your taste would have been developed enough to avoid them."

"They're my friends."

"Are they? What about your old friends… the respectable elements in town, the ones whose invitations and notes you refuse to answer? What about that little blond one you knew—"

"Her name is Sally. And you know the reason I don't accept invitations from her or the others I used to know. I told you about the week when—that week before we were married. They were all horrid to me. I'm not ever going to forget or forgive them for deserting me so quickly. I don't care how sorry they are—"

"Careful honey. As the saying goes, if you live in a glass house. . ."

"Why are you taking up for them?" she demanded, trying desperately to ignore an odd, almost painful thump of her heart. Casual and careless though his endearment had been, it had been so long since he had called her that. Oh, what she wouldn't give to know if he felt anything for her still! He sat there in such a self-possessed manner, unruffled by her temper or useless attempts to get the better of him in an argument.

“I'm not taking up for anyone," he said smoothly. ''But only a coward turns his back on someone's trying to apologize to him. It'll take some spunk to forgive them, but that's one thing you're not short on."

"I don't give a fig about their friendship or their apologies. Betta Hampton says it's better just to forget all about them and go on to—"

"Betta Hampton? That aging. . ." Heath started to say, then stopped abruptly. Lucy was startled to see a hot glow in his turquoise eyes and the sudden hardness of his jaw. She felt chills of uneasiness and anticipation race down her back. For weeks he had been so cool, collected, and taunting. Now, for once, she had managed to drag a noticeable reaction from him. "What else does Betta tell you?" he asked, standing up and bracing his hands on the table, leaning over her. "How to lead me a merry dance just like she does with her husband? That woman is known as the most unfaithful bitch in town—yes, I've seen her prancing down Main Street with her false curls tucked under the brim of her hat and her two paid studs in tow—“

"Those are her footmen," Lucy said defensively. "Her husband is a very important banker and she needs those men to accompany and protect her in case someone tries to—"

"Explain, then, why she can't keep her hands off those fine, strapping footmen when she's out in public. She's nothing but a high-class whore. Her kind feeds off of people like you—she won't rest until she’s managed to drag you through the mud she wallows in."

Lucy shot up from her chair. "You don't even have any friends," she said vehemently. "Except for whoever it is you visit in Boston, whoever it is that fascinates you so much—"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"And you don't want me to have any friends either. Well, I will! Nothing you do will stop me from seeing Betta and the rest of them!"

"So be it," he said, the softness of his voice making her shiver. He turned and strode out of the room while she called after him in impotent rage.

"And you can't ever make me leave here!” You'd have to drag me away kicking and screaming and then I'll leave you and come back!"

She heard nothing but his tight, padding steps he went up to his bedroom. A few seconds later she was weak and tired, staring at the dirty dishes on the table, pondering the question of how her life, which had once been so good, had been ruined so completely. Was it her fault—had she done something so terribly wrong that she had deserved to have Daniel taken away from her and a hateful stranger put in his place?

Maybe Heath will leave me, she thought dully. Neither of them could last much longer like this. Maybe he would decide that he'd had enough and that he wanted to go back South where he belonged. It was ironic that that thought brought a terrible emptiness inside instead of comfort.

Why didn't she understand anything anymore?

The Country and the Cause. She had bought a copy of the book that Heath had written, and she had sneaked it home as guiltily as if she had been doing something forbidden. Thick and well-bound, the book made barely a crackle as she opened it. Alone in the parlor, Lucy turned each page as if seeking some effusive clue to the man she had married. The book outlined the story of a regiment from Virginia during the war, written in a clean, stripped style. Sometimes the writing was as casual as that of an unedited journal, while at other points it took the form of clear and precise prose.

Slowly the book caught her interest as she recognized bits and pieces of her husband winding through the pages with increasing frequency. There were odd notes of humor and descriptions that were sometimes moving, sometimes grotesque. There were stories set of by themselves without preface or conclusion, so cryptic and personal that she was embarrassed and startled by their frankness. The more she read of his book, the more hopeless a task it seemed to come to an understanding of him. The men she had known—Daniel and David Fraser, the boys she had gone to school with, the shy and polite men she had met at dances—had all seemed like such uncomplicated creatures. They liked to flirt with pretty women. They liked to talk among themselves about war and strike manly postures. They were so easy to flatter and cajole. Most of them couldn’t stand a woman's tears, and none of them could bear a woman's frosty silence when they had displeased her.

But Heath was different from all of them. He only laughed when she was mad at him, or did his best to provoke her even more. Her silences didn't bother him a bit. And even when he looked relaxed and lazy, underneath the surface lurked the most biting sarcasm that she had ever been exposed to. Surely there was some key to him, something that would give her the ability to know what to say to him. She would dearly love to know how to make him wince uncomfortably as he could make her wince. She would give her left arm to know how to win an argument over him. But trying to see into his heart was like trying to see through a stone wall.

Something in this book, perhaps—there must be something here that would help her find the answers. Staring at the pages intently, Lucy found that she didn't have the objectivity necessary to see things clearly. All she understood was that as chapter followed chapter, his scruples seemed fewer and farther between, and his feelings more shadowy. He wrote about the heroic deeds of his comrades in a way that made them seem like vainglorious fools. Somewhere in the middle of the book a chapter ended in the middle of the description of a battle. The next chapter was headed with the words Written at Goverm Island’s Island . . .

"Prison Camp," she whispered, feeling a chill of shock at the revelation. Heath had never mentioned anything about having been kept in such a place. On both sides, North and South, the prison camps had been known as the most disgusting, unsanitary, and dangerous places on earth. Hundreds of men had been crushed together without adequate shelter, forced to survive on tiny quantities of unfit food. Disease had swept through the camps unmercifully, unrelieved by medicine. A few words jumped out of the next few pages: . . . captured in summer clothes . . . so cold here . . . men dying of typhoid . . . new outbreak of measles . . . exchange, exchange—the rumors lead tl the highest hopes and the worst depressions . . . no water fit to drink . . .

Lucy closed the book with fumbling hands, curiously upset. She didn't want to know what Heath had gone through during the war, how long he had been in prison camp or how he had gotten released.

You'd be surprised, Mrs. Rayne, about the amount of things you don't know about men and their integrity . . .

Did he ever think about the prison camp or had he buried it deeply in his mind? What had he done to survive? Why hadn't he ever told her about it?

She didn't want to know. She didn't want to feel sympathy for him. She didn't want to know this insistent urge to take him in her arms and offer comfort for things that had happened so long ago. It was all in the past, she reminded herself. He didn't need comfort or sympathy now, and he certainly didn't need any silly attempts of her to approach him.

As night approached and Mrs. Flannery arrived to prepare dinner, Lucy wandered into the parlor where Heath was settled on the sofa in a long-legged sprawl. Several newspapers were piled around him in neat, crackling stacks. Heath lowered the paper he was reading and watched her walk across the room, his eyes bright blue and unrevealing as they followed her every move intently.

'What are you reading?" she asked idly, glancing at one of the piles and bending to pick up the top sheets. A paper from Vicksburg, the Citizen. "Oh, these old things ... oh, how strange—this one isn't the usual sort of paper, it's. . ."

"Printed on the back side of wallpaper," Heath said, one side of his mouth lifting in a halfsmile.

"Why?"

"Supplies ran low near the end of the war, and the paper mills were burned. Some newspapers printed on wrapping paper, wallpaper, anything they could stick in the presses. And when they ran out of ink, they started using shoe-blacking."

Lucy smiled, admiring the persistence and determination of the Southern publishers. "I guess we Northerners don't have the market cornered on stubbornness, do we?" She shuffled through a few more sheets. "The Charleston Mercury. Why did you save this one?"

"Read the headline."

"The Union is dissolved ... oh, the announcement of South Carolina's secession—"

"That's right. At fifteen minutes past one, December 20. The moment everyone knew that there would be war."

"And this other newspaper—why did you keep this?"

"That ... ah, that one. . ." Heath reached out a hand for it and settled back down on the sofa, his expression softening with distant memories. Lucy tilted her head as she looked at him, mesmerized by the bittersweet smile that played gently on his mouth. "This is what my father died for."

"What do you mean?" Lucy asked, stricken by his words.

"’This paper’," he read aloud," 'which has heretofore strayed from its former Unionist loyalties, is under new management which will seek to uphold the principles of the United States of America. . .' "

"I don't understand."

"It was a Richmond paper, run by one of my father's closest friends. My father was a loyal man as well as a firm believer in the Confederate press—he had a great respect for the printed word and swore that as long as the Southern press was alive, the South would never fall. He rushed over to the newspaper office where the editorial staff had started a battle to keep the paper from falling into the hands of the Union troops and becoming a Yankee mouthpiece. My father was killed in the fight and the paper was taken over. This Union edition came out the next day—the struggle keep it from the Northerners had been useless. My father’s fight had been in vain."

"I'm sorry-"

"Don't be. There were worse ways to die. Slower ways. It was good that he never found out how the war ended."

They looked at each other for a long moment. A soft and unexpected feeling of warmth swept through Lucy’s chest as she found what she had been seeking all afternoon. Why, of course, she did understand much more about him now. It all made perfect sense. “Your father's feelings about writing . . . was that why you became a correspondent?" she asked hesitantly. “Is that why you wrote that book, and why . . . why you’re so interested in newspapers and publishing and things like that?"

Heath's gaze pulled away from hers. He shrugged slightly. "I would have been interested in it anyway.”

“Did you find out about his death before or after…”

"Before or after what?"

"Governor's Island," Lucy said, suddenly pinned by his narrow-eyed stare.

"So you got your hands on a copy of the book,” he mused, raking a hand through his tawny hair. "What did you think about it?"

“I thought . . . ," she faltered, uncertain of exactly what she had thought about it. "Well, I was a little .. revolted.

"Yes?" he prompted, seemingly fascinated by the shifting emotions on her face. What was he looking for? Why did he appear to be so absorbed by her expression?

"I was . . . sorry that you had been in prison camp. . ."

"A reassuring sentiment, coming from my wife. Anything else?"

"I ... didn't really like it. I didn't expect it to be so ... dark. There was no ... kindness, no hope."

"No. I didn't have much hope then. Or kindness." As he saw that Lucy's forehead had become furrowed, he smothered a grin. "But that doesn't mean I didn't develop a little of each in the last few years. Don't look so anxious. Is Mrs. Flannery almost ready with dinner? I've been hungry for hours."

Instead of the regular Thursday Circle meeting this week, the club was sponsoring a special musical evening. A huge crowd of men and women filled the impressive drawing room of the Hampton's home, while several young musicians played selected works by German composers. Betta, Alice, Olinda, and the rest of the Thursday Circle were well-known for their quick, sharp tongues and the short work they could make of anyone who was targeted by their gossip. During the musical evening Lucy sat close to Betta and Olinda, whose presence would ward off the approaches that her old friends might have made to her.

Sally Hudson, usually so bubbly and friendly, dared not come near the acid-tongued matrons for fear of being ridiculed by them. Lucy glanced at Sally across the room occasionally, trying to ignore the guilt that the pretty blonde’s uncertain smile caused. They had once been such dear friends. They had once told each other everything, laughed about boys and parents, talked about dress patterns and candy recipes, cried for each other's heartaches. Now Lucy felt that they didn’t know each other at all. I've changed too much for us to be friends ever again, she thought sadly, knowing that even if she and Sally made peace with each other, they would have nothing to talk about. Lucy had too much pride to confess to anyone that her relationship with Heath was practically nonexistent and that her marriage was a sham. Neither did she want to hear about Sally's problems, which were so little and insignificant that they made her own look that much more appalling.

Fidgeting absentmindedly, Lucy traced the black jet beads that glittered along the box-plaited ruffle of her rich blue evening dress. It was one of the most daring dresses she had ever worn, cut so deeply at the neck that her breasts appeared to be spilling out of the basque. She had worn it with the intention of attracting as much attention as possible, and she was aware of many men's eyes on her. Only one man in the room was not staring at her. He was looking at Sally, whose golden prettiness was accentuated by demure pink and white ruffles. Daniel, who looked much younger than she had remembered him, handsome, proper, starched and combed, and sitting up straight in his seat, staring at Sally as if ... as if ...

He had once looked at Lucy that way.

Noticing Lucy's sudden intake of breath, Betta Hampton leaned closer and followed the direction of her eyes. "Why do you keep looking back and forth between that puppy-eyed Daniel Collier and that blond twit?" she whispered.

"I think there's something between them," Lucy said stiffly, fixing her eyes on the musicians at the front of the room.

"Oh." Shrugging disinterestedly, Betta leaned the other way and began to talk to her husband.

Lucy, who had no husband there to talk to, heard not one note of music all through the rest of the evening as she sat and wondered. As the performance concluded and all agreed with pleasure that it had been a resounding success, wine was served and several toasts were made to the Thursday Circle. Lucy nodded and smiled with the others as the club was thanked repeatedly for sponsoring such a delightful evening. Before the crowd began to disperse, Mr. Hudson, Sally's father, stood in front of them all with a glass of wine and a red, beaming face. Somehow knowing what would come next, Lucy stared disbelievingly at Sally, who had blushed and modestly turned her face downward.

"My friends," Mr. Hudson said, gesturing expansively with his free hand, "I am certain that a more appropriate occasion could have been found for this announcement to be made . . . among a quieter and more private gathering, perhaps, as is the Concord way. After all, we know how to do things just as well as those cold-roast Bostonians." The crowd chuckled as a whole, while a few Concordians laughed outright. Mr. Hudson set his glass down and held out a hand to Sally, who went up to the front of the room to join him. "However, the joy of my family, and most especially my Sally, is something we feel should be shared with everyone here tonight. I wish to announce the engagement of my daughter to a fine young man from one of the most respected families in Concord—a young man whose intelligence and responsibility have impressed me many times over—Daniel Collier. To Daniel and Sally."

"To Daniel and Sally!" everyone took up the cry and lifted their glasses in a toast.

Daniel and Sally.

/ don't believe it, Lucy thought as the dry, acrid wine passed over her lips and trickled down her throat. /'// wake up any minute now, and be Lucy Caldwell again, and Daniel will still be mine, and Heath Rayne will never have come to town . . . Emerson’s house will still be standing . . . I'll be in my own little bed at home and hear Father shuffling around in his room. . . She felt people staring at her, and their curious gazes caused cold, hard sense to enter her mind again. She would never be Lucy Caldwell again. She was Lucy Rayne. She paused in the act of sipping more wine, her eyes meeting with Sally's soft, doelike gaze. The first few rays of adult understanding burned inside her head as she thought, It's not your fault, Sally. I lost him because of the things I did. I can't blame you for anything. Her hand trembled slightly and her fingers clenched around the stem of the glass as she raised the wine to Sally in a private toast and smiled at her. Sally’s eyes suddenly glistened with tears of gladness as she smiled back.

A prickle ran down the back of Lucy's neck. Her eyes flew to the doorway at the side of the room. Heath stood there, having arrived a few minutes early to pick her up and take her home. His legs were crossed negligently as he leaned against the doorjamb. Someone had given him a glass of wine, which was held carelessly between his long fingers. His mouth quirked in an ironic half-smile.

And he raised his glass to her.

It could have been a compliment. Or the most sarcastic gesture anyone had ever made to her. Lucy didn’t know which. She stared at her husband in confusion, his name poised on her lips. His eyes slid down the slender line of her throat to the pale, generous curves of her bosom, lingered there boldly and traveled back up to her face. His stare was so warm and thorough that she flushed as if he had touched her intimately in public, and he kept on looking at her even while he drank from the delicate wine glass. Her heart raced wildly as an electric current of awareness raced over her skin.

"How remarkable," Betta murmured speculatively, and Lucy jerked her glance away from Heath in order to gather up her gloves and tiny blue handbag.

"What's remarkable?" she asked quietly, so thoroughly flustered that she dropped her program between the seats and couldn't retrieve it.

"Your husband. To look at him I wouldn't have thought he would be the marrying kind at all. I also find it remarkable that he should be staring at you in such a manner."

"He is the marrying kind," Lucy said, "I’m wearing a ring that proves it. And why shouldn't he be staring at me? I'm his wife."

"Husbands don't stare at their wives that way."

"Mine does," Lucy said with automatic defensiveness, casting a guarded look at her handsome, perplexing husband.

"As I said . . . remarkable."

Lucy turned away from Betta's well-preserved, worldy-wise face and murmured her goodbyes to the other women of the Thursday Circle. Heath took Lucy's black cape from the arms of a stout, white-aproned maid and pulled it around her shoulders. Her gloved hand rested on his arm as he took her out to the barouche.

"So it's over," he said when the barouche was on its way. The cheerful rhythm of the horse's trot steadily underlined their conversation.

"Yes. Tonight was a success."

"I wasn't referring to the Thursday Circle’s musical evening." Lucy hesitated uncertainly before replying. “Then I guess you're talking about Daniel and Sally."

“I saw what you did for Sally. It struck me as an odd gesture for you to make . . . but every now and then, you do show backbone."

“All I did was join in the toast—"

“A toast to the engagement of your former fiance and your former best friend. Tell me, how hard did you have to grit your teeth?" As Lucy refused to answer, he laughed softly. "Forgive me. I don't mean to detract from your noble gesture. But I am curious… are you surprised by the match?"

"I . . . I’ve never thought of them together," Lucy said wonderingly, her gaze distant as she went over her recollections of the past. "The three of us were together many times, but Daniel never seemed to notice her."

"I'm sure he didn't. Not while you were around. You do tend to attract a man's complete attention.”

"How quickly they . . . discovered each other, t three months after I married you."

“Cheer up, honey. Daniel could have done much worse for himself. She's a little short on pluck, but she's a sweet enough creature—just what he needs.”

"I suppose you think he's better off with her than he would have been with me."

"I suppose you don't."

"I could have been a good wife to him."

"If you say so."

She glared at his smooth, clean-cut profile. “And he would have been a good husband to me. At least he wouldn't have left me all the time to go to some other. . ." She caught herself just in time, her hand fluttering up to her throat to keep down the accusation. Wild impulses darted inside her chest like trapped birds seeking escape. All at once she wanted to throw all of her complaints and frustrations and fears at him. "Some other what?" Heath demands sliding her a narrow-eyed glance. "Courage, Cinda. Finish what you were going to say."

"Some other woman," she said bluntly, her breath coming faster as she gave into the relief of telling him exactly what she thought. "You're gone all the time, and you don't come back until late at night sometimes, and . . . that's what I think."

"What the hell ... you think I've been gallivanting around Boston with another woman instead of working?" he asked roughly.

"Haven't you?" she countered in a small voice, while a flicker of hope was born inside her. For a second he had seemed so surprised, perhaps even a little hurt.

He was silent while she waited in agonized suspense for his answer. She had not expected that what he would say would matter so much, and yet she thought she would scream if he didn't say something soon. "Would it matter to you if I've been taking my pleasures where and when I've found them?"

"So it's true," she said, while sudden anger coursed through her body in quick pulses. "You have been with other women—"

"I didn't admit or deny that. I asked if it would matter to you."

"Why should I care? Of course it wouldn’t matter to me," she said sharply, longing for the power to hurt him as she saw the cool smile that touched his mouth. "Why have you changed so much?" she burst out. "You used to be so much nicer . . . gentler—

"You don't allow me to be gentle with you.”

"I don't know what you want," Lucy said shaking with frustration. "I don't know why you're different now ... I don't know why ... I thought when we were first married that we might be able to… but now. . ."

"That we might be able to do what?" he prompted, his mood changing rapidly. The moment before he had looked jeering, but now he was staring at her with perfect seriousness. She couldn't answer. The words had jammed up in her throat, and she sat there looking at him mutely. Heath shook his head and returned his attention to the road while the tension between them leapt to an even higher pitch.

"I had hoped that we could find some way to get along with each other," Lucy heard herself blurt out awkwardly. "I didn't expect that you would want to see other women. I don't want that. I don't like it at all.” She hung her head and froze in shame, unable to believe she had admitted it. Now he would ridicule her, now he knew that she had been jealous. She watched as his hands tightened on the reins, then the barouche pulled over to the side of the road and the horse nickered gently. Heath? What are you doing?"

He caught her in a bruising grip, one large hand wrapped around the back of her slender neck while his other arm hauled her body right against his. His lips were urging hers apart, his mouth plundering hers with a violent eagerness that caused her to quiver in surprise. As he felt the pliancy of her body, the lack of struggle or fight in her, Heath eased the crushing pressure of his lips and kissed her slowly. She couldn't breathe, couldn't move away from the persuasive stroke of his tongue. His mouth was hot and sweet, drinking in the tenderness of hers, and his head bent further over hers until she collapsed weakly against his shoulder, her lips moving under his in response. His hand moved from her neck to her jaw, cradling the side of her face as he devoured her with relentless kisses. She clung to the lapels of his coat, surrendering herself completely to his demands. The wildness of it filled every pore until she was tingling with the overflow. His arms trembled with strain as he lifted his mouth from hers.

"Does that feel like the kiss of a man who’s recently been serviced by his mistress?" he asked huskily, his breath caressing her moistened lips. Lucy blinked drowsily, her arms creeping around his neck. "I haven't had a woman in months," he continued in that same rough whisper, "not since before I married you. I haven't wanted anyone else, and I won't until I've gotten enough of you, whenever the hell that may be. Every night I promise myself you're going to pay for the hours that I've wanted you and gone hungry. By God, I won't go hungry anymore." He bent his head again, his mouth seeking hers and absorbing her soft moan. Suddenly Lucy could not separate sounds and scents and textures from each other, she did not know if the faint taste of wine came from her mouth or his, she did not care if that rapid thudding was his heartbeat or her own. The sky was falling around her in brilliant ebony shards and little pinpoint stars; a time was shuddering to a halt. Words and thoughts vanished with lightning quickness while the only thing that remained was the pleasure of his lips and the hard strength of his body.

"There hasn't been any other woman," Heath said against her mouth, making her tremble. "There couldn't be. I'm too obsessed with my own wife. There's only one thing you can give me that no one else can . . . and heaven and hell be damned, I'll get it from you no matter how long I have to wait, no matter how hard I have to ride you. No, I'm not talking solely about my husbandly rights, although that would be a good place to start."

“Heath. . ." She made a small movement to free herself, her eyes dark and clouded with confusion. His arms tightened on her.

“I've given you the time you asked for. But I didn’t have too much patience to start with, Cin, and you’ve worn it threadbare. We've tried it your way and I’ve waited for you to come to me ... and now there's a bigger distance between us than I ever should have allowed."

But she had been waiting for him to come to her! Lucy looked up at him speechlessly.

"From now on we're going to do it my way," he continued, framing her small face with his hands. “In case you have any doubts left . . . starting tonight we’re going to be husband and wife in every way. There are things we need to talk about . . . but they'll hold until tomorrow.'' His thumbs traced lightly over the dark, slanting lines of her eyebrows and rested at her temples. Unable to help himself, he lowered his mouth to hers again, the sensitive fire of his kiss penetrating down to her toes. She felt lightheaded, as if too much wine had suddenly gone to her head, and she pulled at his wrists feebly in a plea for respite. The pressure on her lips stopped. Heath looked down at her and traced his fingertips along the moonlit gleam of her skin. In an unexpected movement he dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose and deposited her back in her seat, where she curled up and eyed him with bewilderment.

When they reached the little circular drive in front of the house, Heath got out of the barouche and helped her down, his hands fitting neatly around either side of her waist. As soon as her feet touched the ground, she twisted around to pull down the folds and draperies that flowed from the back of her dress. She straightened up as his hands remained on her waist, her heart jumping at the sight of him. In the darkness, his eyes were midnight blue and his perfectly honed features were shadowed. He pulled her body up against his, forcing her to stand on her toes and lean into him. For all the differences in their respective sizes, they fit together quite snugly. Her eyes closed as she felt the warmth of his lips on hers, again and again, in light kisses that caused a river of heat to flow through her. The feelings were even stronger than before, drugging her with sweetness. She swayed against him when he stopped, and Heath stroked a tendril of hair away from her temple as he stared down at her. "Go and get ready for bed while I see to the horse," he murmured. "I won't be long."

Lucy nodded jerkily. She turned after he released her and went into the house without a backward glance, raising her hand to her mouth as soon as the door was closed. Her lips felt tender and bruised. She went up the stairs with a frown creasing her forehead as different emotions pulled at her from every direction. Part of her was shaky and anxious; part of her was relieved that soon the waiting was going to be over, and there would no longer be anything to dread or wonder about. Part of her was alive with anticipation. Finally, finally it was going to happen, and she knew that it was right.

The light quilt and sheets seemed to resist her efforts to pull them down, but she accomplished the task with a determined tug. Then she turned the lamp down almost all the way, so that it gave off a low, inviting light. Heath would be up here soon, and this time she wanted everything to be different from their disastrous wedding night. Like a madwoman, she tore at the fastenings of her dress and kicked off her slippers, plucking pins out of her hair at the same time. Button after button—why did her dress seem to grow buttons faster than she could unfasten them? Yanking off her stiff silk petticoat, which was padded at the rear with a multitude of small ruffles, she let it drop to the floor with a billowing heap. Underneath the petticoat was a narrow crinoline, made of watchspring steel with a white cotton bustle attached. The whole affair collapsed into a huge, lumpy pancake, which she resolved to kick out of sight as soon as the rest of her things were off. Pins flew everywhere as she tugged more out of her hair. Oh, where was the hairbrush? She hopped on one foot, then the other as she stripped off her garters and stockings.

Flying to the mirror in her corset and pantalets, Lucy dragged a comb through her long hair until the chestnut locks fell thick and smooth over her shoulders. "Damn, damn, damn," she muttered as the clock seemed to tick faster. Heath would be here any minute. There was still her corset to take off, and that would take up a lot of time. It was made of thick white cloth that was starched, steam-molded over metal and whalebone stays, and laced tightly up the front. Usually she pulled the laces as tightly as she could by herself and tied them in a bow. This morning she had been in a hurry and had left them in a knot. Futilely she picked at the hard little knot with her fingernails, but it showed no signs of loosening. She could have wept with frustration as she heard Heath's footsteps on the stairs. Why was everything going wrong? "I'm not ready yet!" she called out, her voice tight and much higher than usual.

"Fine. I'm going to take a few minutes to wash up."

Lucy put her hands to her boned and stayed midriff, taking a deep, calming breath. Then she tore at the laces with renewed energy before giving up and hunting for a pair of nail scissors. The contents of a drawer rattled like thunder as she pulled it open and pawed through it frantically. Everything was there except the scissors.

"Anything in particular you're looking for?"

She whirled around, flustered and overwrought, her eyes bright with anxiety and exasperation. Heath stood before her in a dark blue robe, looking calm and collected, faintly amused by the sight of her flurry. ' 'Don't make any jokes,'' she said tautly.

"I'm not about to."

She turned away and resumed her impatient search through the drawer, flinching as she felt the touch of his hand on her bare shoulders. “What is it?” he asked quietly. She gave up her search for the scissors and sighed tremulously, knowing that she was far more agitated than a pair of knotted corset laces should have warranted.

"I . . . oh, I knew something was going to go wrong . . . it's this corset, this horrible . . . thing . . . I can't undo the knot, and I was looking for something to cut the laces—"

"Is that all? Turn around. Well, you do know how to tie an impressive knot, but it's nothing to stew over." His fingers went to the laces, and he began to work at the tangle.

"It's impossible. You might as well help me find the scissors," she said, biting her lower lip, and he smiled.

"Give me a few minutes. We have a long night ahead of us." His head bent lower as he concentrated on the knot. The fragrances of soap and his skin combined in a subtly attractive scent that drifted to her nostrils. Lucy felt a light fluttering in her stomach his nearness. "Why are you wearing a rough coutil corset? I thought that along with your new clothes you must have ordered new underclothes—"

“My old ones are just fine—"

“I beg to differ. Plain white doesn't suit you. And besides, I have a fancy to see you in colored satin and silk. I can see I'll have to take care of it."

“Colored satin underthings?" Lucy had never heard of well-bred women wearing anything but white, gray or tan underneath their dresses. "You wouldn't dare buy me any of those . . . would you?"

“Dozens . . . including black pantalets with frilly ruffles and pink bows." He grinned down at her, and despite all of her jitters she felt a responsive smile tugging at her lips. Just then the knot came undone, and Heath unwound the laces from the metal studs of the corset. Lucy closed her eyes and breathed deeply with relief. As her ribcage expanded and her lungs filled with oxygen, familiar tendrils of dizziness curled through her head. "Feel better?" he murmured. She nodded, raising her eyes to his as he peeled the corset away from her. The tip of her bare breasts brushed against the soft blue material of his robe. How oddly exciting it was to have him undress her so slowly, treating her like a precious object that would shatter from rough handling.

His fingertips traced her spine in one stroke, skimming over invisible, downy hairs, and his touch sent a casual chill through her. Swallowing tightly, she reached around to the back of her pantalets to unfasten them. As she fumbled with the button, he slid his arms around her and took her hands, squeezing them briefly before moving them aside and freeing the button with a twist of his fingers. The pantalets dropped to the floor.

Heath lifted her up in his arms and carried her to the bed effortlessly. As she hooked her arms around his neck and was clasped against the hard sinew of his body, she began to relish the feeling that had once frightened her. It was actually pleasant to feel so disarmed and vulnerable, exciting to be held by a man who could throw her off balance so easily, a man who didn't shy away from arguments, a man so far above embarrassment or prudishness that she knew nothing she did could ever shock him.

He lowered her down to the bed and shed his robe. His tanned skin seemed to trap the glow of the light as he bent over her, his gaze moving from her toes all the way up to her face. Hungry blue eyes met hers, shining with dark fire. "You're beautiful, Lucy,” he whispered.

They were words that he had said to her before, but in this moment of discovery it seemed that this was the first time she had ever heard them. Her gaze faltered and her eyelashes lowered as he kissed her, his hand sliding beneath her head to cradle it possessively. His mouth demanded that she respond to him, his stroking hand insisted on venturing to the most secret places of her body. All of the hesitation and the shyness that Lucy had expected to feel crumbled and burnt to ashes in the face of his passion. We re those really her arms, pulling his head down to make his kisses deeper? Were those muted, smothered sounds coming from her throat? Oh, she had never dreamed, never thought, never imagined how good his naked skin would feel against hers. She wanted to know what every inch of him felt like. Her hands slid up his back to his heavy, powerful shoulders, her palms smoothing over the faint edges of scars and back down to his lean waist. Boldly she let her fingertips drift to the hard surface of his buttocks and he groaned against her lips.

"It's been such a long time. I've wanted you for so long.. ." Heath slid down her body and pressed his mouth in the fragrant valley between her breasts. His thoughts careened into a haphazard jumble. The need and the forceful demands of his body took the place of caution. His hands were filled with the soft ness of her; his mouth parched for the taste of her skin. She had fought him and denied him, turned his world upside down, set countless obstacles in his way, and suddenly here she was in his arms, yielding to him freely. All his frustrated desire was aroused to an acute pitch, and he was too far gone now to stop, think, or slow down. It seemed that his whole life was balanced on the outcome of this moment, and he knew that he had to have her or die of hunger.

Lucy gasped as his probing mouth found her nipple and surrounded the sensitive peak. His tongue stoked wetly over the very tip; then, his teeth caught at the contracting flesh and pulled at it delicately. Writhing, she felt the sensation extending to the pulsing softness between her thighs. Helplessly she let him spread her legs with his hands. She was so consumed by desire that she was shaking. He was kissing her everywhere. His hands caressed her thighs, and his body moved further down the mattress. His lips were on the inside of her thigh and they were sliding upwards. Suddenly she knew what he was going to do.

“Heath, wait—"

"Shhh." He nipped the tender skin at the top of her leg and nuzzled into the soft, dark triangle of curls. “Let me ... you're my wife." As he reached the burning flesh between her legs and his tongue flickered over the tiny, well-hidden cache of nerves, Lucy’s knees drew up and her toes curled into the bed. Heath’s hands cupped her buttocks, raising her up to the sensitive exploration of his lips,

Catching a sob back in her throat, she clenched her teeth and turned her face to the side, aware of every subtle, dancing touch of his mouth, conscious of nothing else but what he was doing to her. Her buttocks tensed in his palms as she was overwhelmed by pleasure. Suddenly his tongue flickered inside her, and she arched involuntarily, her senses expanding until she was hurtled through an explosion of feeling.

Gasping heavily, she floated in a warm sea of weakness, her eyes heavy-lidded with passion as she saw Heath's face above her. She was too exhausted, too limp to protest as the weight of his hard-muscled body settled over hers. "Just relax." His tone was caressing and low in her ear. "I won't be rough. Let me love you. . ." There was an intrusion between her thighs, and somehow she was shifting her legs to make it easier for him, and then she gasped at the powerful invasion as he pushed into her. There was pain and the shocking realization that he was inside her. Responding to the gentle encouragements he whispered to her, she moved her legs further apart and he slid even deeper, huge and scalding as he moved within her. She flinched at the unfamiliar sensation and the discomfort, but his hands were there to soothe her quivering body, and his voice was soft and strangely broken. "You're so sweet . . . Cinda ... I knew you would feel like this ... I knew it would be this way. Put your arms around me . . . ah, Cin. . ."

Thrusting with a controlled rhythm, he gathered her more closely against him and showed her how to follow him. He was uninhibited and utterly abandoned, just as she had known he would be, ruthlessly stripping away her privacy and demanding with his hands and mouth for her to tell him what gave her pleasure. As Lucy looked up at the tawny features of the man she had married, she couldn't imagine sharing this closeness with anyone else, and she knew that after tonight nothing would ever be the same. Confused, she turned her face into his gleaming shoulder and felt a wash of heat inside her; she felt his body driving in and staying there as he stilled and buried his face against her neck. His hands clenched into fists that depressed the pillow on either side of her head.

Blindly she raised her mouth to his, her lips parted and eager. The hours drifted by as their two forms entwined and touched, sometimes urgently and sometimes at a languorous pace. Lucy matched his desire with her own, returning his passion with an equal measure and giving no heed to thoughts of yesterday or tomorrow. She didn't notice when the lamp burned out. She only knew that as the night deepened she became part of the darkness, part of a dream that was now long past innocence, wrapped in a sensual spell that would be broken as soon as morning arrived. With every touch Heath made her more a part of him, and in the hours beyond midnight she began to fear that he had taken more from her than just her innocence.