He headed for the cabin, obviously familiar with the ship. Kit hesitated, w-atching the young woman straightening her skirts as she reached the deck.

Christianssen followed his gaze. 'My daughter, Lilian, Captain Hilton. Our new master is a buccaneer, it seems, my dear.'

She gave Kit her hand. The firm quality of her features increased with a closer inspection, and her eyes were a magnificent clear blue. 'I trust we are safe in your company, sir.'

'Your father omitted to finish his tale, Miss Christianssen,' Kit said, with some embarrassment. 'I have seen sufficient piracy to understand that it is not for me, God willing.'

'Then there is yet hope for your soul, Captain,' she said. 'But you should be about your business.'

'Will you not join us, sir, and your daughter?' Kit asked the tradesman. 'Surely, if you own the St John's warehouse, the goods I import from this place are of interest to you?'

'Indeed they are, Captain,' Christianssen agreed. 'And more than half of them are destined for my cellars, to be sure. But I prefer not to indulge in spirituous liquors, you understand, and I would not interfere with either your or Mr Lenzing's pleasure. So you attend to your manifest, and I will attend to my business, no doubt to our mutual profit.' He turned back to the rail to supervise the loading.

Kit continued to hesitate, standing beside Lilian. Now why, he wondered. Was he not working for Philip Warner only in the hope of once again meeting Marguerite? All other women could be nothing more than distractions. And in any event, would Lilian not shrink away from his side had she the slightest understanding of what he really was, of what he had really done, with his life?

'Pray do not let us detain you from your affairs, sir,' she said.

'You may believe, Miss Christianssen,' he said, 'that I would far rather be detained here by you than either drink a glass of rum or scrutinize a manifest with Meinheer Lenzing. I am also concerned that this vessel lacks proper accommodation for ladies.'

'Then please cease to be, sir,' she said. 'In the first place, it is a journey of only a few hours, and in this pleasant climate it is no hardship at all for me to remain on deck throughout the night, and in the second place it is a voyage I have made several times before.'

'I stand corrected,' Kit acknowledged. 'Yet I hope, if you will permit me, and if you do intend to spend the night on deck, that you will not turn your back on my company, as I also must be on duty throughout the voyage.'

She glanced at him, her face severely composed. 'I should be delighted to talk with you, Captain Hilton,' she said. 'If you can spare the time from your duties.'

'Now, sir, Captain Hilton,' said Barnee the tailor. 'If you will stand as straight as if you were about to engage in a duel, and take a deep breath, I should be entirely reassured concerning this coat.'

'I already am standing straight, Barnee,' Kit said, and cast an embarrassed glance through the open door of the shop on to the street; there was hardly a more public place in all St John's than Barnee's shop. But he did as he was bid. The coat was of blue broadcloth, and cut with splendid accuracy, to fit every contour of his body. 'What do you think, Dan?'

Parke, whose every coat fitted in just such a fashion, leaned against the wall of the shop with folded arms. 'I had not suspected my bold buccaneer was at heart a dandy,' he said. 'Or is this expensive purchase designed to catch the eye of a lady?'

'Better that than for my own pleasure,' Kit said, turning this way and that to look at himself in the mirror.

'Aha,' Parke said. 'Believe me, friend, I have watched you closely this past month, and you could do worse, saving that I would wish no man to become enamoured of a Quaker.'

'A Quaker?' Kit turned, and frowned, and laughed. 'Oh, you mean Lilian. Why, I doubt not that she would utter similar words, only with a reversed sentiment. You mistake the situation entirely.'

'Another? Faith, you are a secretive fellow.' Parke sighed. 'But I suppose I have spent too much of my time buried deep in the sugar factories to appreciate the society of this island. Yet it grieves me, dear friend, to take my leave without meeting this charmer of yours.'

'Then dally a while longer,' Kit suggested. 'I cannot see that there is so great a haste about visiting Barbados. I had supposed you to consider Antigua a perfect paradise.'

'Indeed I do. But letters from my father keep reminding me that there are other islands, other sugar factories, even other handsome young women, to be investigated.'

The tailor at last stood back and clapped his hands. 'A perfect fit, a perfect cut, Captain Hilton, if I do say so myself. Now, what that coat wants is a matched pair of breeches to go underneath, and why, sir, you'd look fit to walk through Hyde Park itself.'

'I am extremely unlikely ever to walk through Hyde Park, Mr Barnee,' Kit pointed out. 'And I think the breeches should wait until I have managed to pay for the coat, don't you?'

'Oh, fie upon you, sir,' Barnee declared. 'Did you suppose I'd come running behind you for payment? You are employed by Colonel Warner, and that is sufficient for me. Now, as to the breeches ...'

'I'll run up no debts, Mr Barnee. Colonel Warner owes me a month's wages, which are due this day, and by God, sir, the first person I shall settle is yourself.'

'And speak of the devil.' Parke removed his tricorne with a flourish. 'Good day to you, Colonel.'

Philip Warner stepped into the tailor's shop, kicking dust from his boots. He did not trouble to uncover. 'What, Barnee? What? Dandifying Captain Hilton? Was I invited to a fitting?'

'A man needs a new coat, Colonel Warner,' Barnee said primly.

'And right glad am I to see you, Colonel,' Kit said. 'Mr Barnee has been good enough to trust me while making this splendid garment, and I would not like him to have to wait much longer for his money.'

'Money? Money?' Philip Warner burst out laughing. 'Now, what gives you the impression that I propose to pay you money?'

Kit flushed. 'I have commanded your sloop for a month, sir, as we agreed. In that time we have made twelve voyages to St Eustatius, and every one of them we have returned with our holds full of smuggled merchandise. I'd have thought you'd be more than satisfied.'

'Kit, Kit,' Warner said. 'I am more than satisfied. Much more. Compared with that fellow Longstreet you are a treasure. I came down here today, not merely to settle with you, but to insist that you remain in my employ. And to offer you a bonus in addition.'

'Faith, sir,' Kit said, frowning. 'I do not take your meaning. You said not a minute ago ...'

'That I have not a penny with which to pay you. Tell us, Barnee, when last were you paid in coin?'

'Well, sir ...'

'There you are, lad. Coin is scarce, and not to be wasted. And what would you do with it, save gamble it away overnight? I know you buccaneers, by God. Now, sir, here is my statement. I promised you ten pounds for the month, and here, I have written down that I owe you ten pounds. But more, so much profit have you brought into my warehouses that I have added another ten in reward. So there you have, twenty pounds, over my signature.'

Kit took the piece of paper, slowly, stared at the figures. 'But what am I supposed to do with this, Colonel?'

'Use it, to your heart's content. It is a charge against my credit, and will in turn establish yours. Now, for instance, what is this rogue Barnee charging you for this suit?'

'It is but a coat, Colonel,' Barnee protested. 'And I am making no profit at two pounds.'

'I repeat, you are a rogue. But none the less, Kit, if pay him you must, write him a cheque for two pounds, over your signature, and let him certify that it is so paid on my bill in turn.

Or if not, just show him my bill and let him be sure that you have the credit.'

Kit scratched his head. 'Except that I do not have the money.'

'By God, lad, but you are a primitive soul. Credit is worth far more than money, as the only person who can take away your credit is you yourself, by your extravagance. And the proof of a pudding is in the eating, is it not? Ask Barnee whether he will not be satisfied with a bill of yours, whether he has any doubt that he may exchange it anywhere on the island for goods.'

'Indeed, sir,' Barnee said. 'If your credit is backed by that of Colonel Warner's, then you will have no problem. I attempted to explain that much to you just now.'

'Except that every bill must be redeemed eventually,' Kit said. 'Must it not?'

'Why of course,' Philip said. 'Every year, when we have finished grinding the crop and our sugar is ready to be shipped, my bills are collected and set against the value of my shipment. It is all done by my agents.'

Kit scratched his head. 'But how do you know where you stand, Colonel?'

'Where I stand, Kit? Where I stand? I know where I stand every morning when I ride through my fields. Now then, I must along to the warehouse and see what you have brought in this last time.'

'Then you will require my presence, sir.'

'Not in the least,' Warner smiled at him. 'I never saw a man yet invest in a new coat of such splendour who wished to discuss business. You take your Danish lady-friend out for the walk you intend, and take my blessings with her. For I tell you straight, Kit, if I had my doubts about employing you when you first landed here, in view of your antecedents and your reputation, why, I admit myself to be mistaken. You are a steady lad, sir, a steady lad. And the Quaker will make you steadier yet. You'll retain command of the Bonaveriture?'

'Well, sir, I must say ...'

'Good, good, then it is settled. My associates will be more than pleased. Good day to you, Barnee. Daniel, you'll join me for dinner?'

Parke hesitated, and then nodded. 'With pleasure, Philip. A farewell feast.'

'And never will a guest be more sorely missed. Good day to you, gentlemen.'

He bustled across the street to the Ice House, and Kit scratched his head some more. 'He leaves me breathless. Do you know, when first we met, I had thought him a pompous boor. But he can be a very pleasant fellow. Certainly I could not have asked more of him. And I owe it to you, I am sure.'

Parke was frowning as he gazed at the street. 'Oh, indeed, he is a pleasant fellow, Kit. And yet, I sometimes wonder whether I have done you any favour in bringing you here.'

'Well, I have no doubts on that score.'

'You think so? Has it occurred to you that while I am entertained most royally at Colonel Warner's plantation, you have never even been invited there? Have you ever met Mistress Warner?'

'Well, no. But I am happy enough on my ship and in my station. I glory in every minute I spend at sea. And then, Daniel, however much of a friend you are to me, there is a difference in our station. Your father owns a cotton plantation larger than Colonel Warner's, and his father founded these colonies. Mine was a buccaneer.'

'A friend of Thomas Warner's, though. At least, your grandfather was. And none of your brothers or uncles are cannibal kings, at any rate. I think you set too low a claim upon yourself, dear Kit. The other criticism that I have to make of your situation is somewhat more serious, I think. You are now a man of substance, are you not, with a bill for twenty English pounds neatly folded in your pocket.'

'And right comforting it is too, I can tell you,' Kit said. 'I have never owned so much in my life before.'

'But it is dependent upon Colonel Warner's credit, is it not?'

'Do you doubt that?'

'Not in the least. Having ridden every corner of his plantation, I have no doubt that he does understand his worth whenever he looks out of a window. But yours exists only as long as he supports it. Bear that in mind, Kit. There are other forms of slavery than the handcuffs and the whip. But perhaps I have already said too much. You will make your home here, and marry your Quaker, and be happy. And I must take myself back to the hurly-burly of Virginian society, compared with which these islands seem like untroubled paradises.' He seized Kit's hand. 'But I would not have missed this voyage for the world, especially as it brought me your acquaintance. I trust we shall meet again, some day.'

'Oh, we shall,' Kit cried, suddenly aghast at the idea of his friend's departure. 'And you shall not find me changed. Believe me. As to why you, and Colonel Warner, and everyone else, it seems, should suppose that I am enamoured of Lilian Christianssen, or if I were, that she would consider betrothing herself to a buccaneer, a man of violence and with intolerable crimes staining his soul, why, the idea is preposterous.'

'Is it?' Parke inquired. 'Then tell me why she smiles whenever she sees you? And tell me what you talk of when you walk together of an evening?'

'Can two people of opposite sexes not be friends?' Kit demanded. 'As to our conversation, it mostly concerns Master Fox, for whom she has a reverence almost amounting to worship, and in whom she would also interest me.'

'So, then, we shall find you a Quaker yet. And in any event, Kit, you betray yourself in this coat. Now I must go. Adieu, dear friend. A thousand times adieu. But we shall meet again. I make that resolution, and Daniel Parke is a man of his word.'

He hurried off, patently upset at having to say farewell. And Kit let him go, because even Daniel's departure loomed small by the standards of this afternoon's adventure. As during his month on Antigua the widow Templeton had not visited St John's, then would he visit the widow Templeton. This coat had been designed for just that purpose. So what of Daniel's words? Did Philip Warner seek to make a slave of him? As if a white man could make a slave of another white man. And did it matter if he placed himself in Philip's power, for a while, as long as he could enjoy Marguerite's company, from time to time?

He left the shop, stood for a moment on the sidewalk, enjoying the knowledge that he was, for the first time in his life, truly well-dressed.

'Why, Kit, how splendid you look.' Lilian smiled at him, and then frowned. 'The rumour is true.'

His turn to frown. 'What rumour?' 'That you are to leave Antigua.'

'I? Leave Antigua? Now, wherever did you learn that?'

She flushed. 'Mr Parke and the master of his schooner were at the warehouse yesterday, completing their stock and settling with Papa. In coin, too. He knows not what to do with it. And as you came to St John's in the company of Mr Parke ...'

'It seemed natural to you that I should also leave in his company. Not I, Lilian. My past is too firmly set in these islands. I should feel a stranger anywhere else.'

'And you will never be a stranger here, Kit.' Her flush deepened, but she smiled through it. 'Then will you come to supper? Mama would be so pleased.'

Kit Hilton, dining at the merchant's, on fish and water and grave talk, while Daniel Parke dined at Colonel Warner's Goodwood, on wine and meat and gay laughter and gayer gossip, with dice to follow. There was a salutary lesson in relative society, he thought.

'Alas, Lilian, I cannot, this night,' he said. 'Believe me, I am sorry. But I shall call. Tomorrow.'

‘I’m sure Papa will be glad to see you,' she said, and gazed at his coat once more. 'I had best not detain you. Until tomorrow, Kit.'

She walked down the street with the graceful flutter of skirts; but what skirts, how drab and formless. And the flat grey hat, tied so securely under her chin, allowed but a wisp of the golden hair to trickle on to her back. Lilian Christianssen? What rubbish. A Quaker? A woman who thought life should be a vast realm of goodness, when anyone could have told her different? But Lilian was, in any event, only a girl.

Agrippa approached, leading the hired horse. 'He's quiet enough, Kit,' the big man said. 'I wish I could be as sure of his rider.'

'I can sit a horse.' Kit mounted. 'There. Do I not look splendid?"

'You'd turn the heart of any girl, Kit.' Agrippa retained the bridle. 'You're sure of what you do?'

'You do not understand, dear friend. This girl and I have known each other for years. At least, we met as children, and

I have carried her image in my heart ever since. Why do you think I came to Antigua?'

'I thought you sought a plantation, where there'd be no slavery, where there'd be no unhappiness, where all would share in the common profit.'

'And is not Green Grove a plantation? The largest in the Leewards, so it is said.'

'Scarce the sort of place to suit you, Kit. And if this Mistress Templeton is such an old friend, I'd have thought she'd have come to see you, before now.'

'Oh, God Almighty,' Kit shouted. 'She is but recently a widow. She has gone nowhere, these last four months. Why should she make an exception for me? But now, I will call upon her, and pay my respects. And who knows what may follow? You are right, Agrippa; I spoke of owning a plantation. So tell me how it should be done? By sailing Philip Warner's sloop to and from St Eustatius until we are caught by the revenue frigate and hanged? By God, in our situation, there is but one way to own a plantation, and 'tis a way I have always meant to follow. Now stand aside.'

Agrippa hesitated, and then obeyed, and Kit kicked the horse forward, clutching the reins for dear life. Fifteen minutes later he was through the town, and upon the high road which led south, to the sheltered harbours of English and Falmouth, where Edward Warner had first landed with his handful of colonists, from where Aline Warner had been kidnapped by the savage Caribs, and to where Edward had returned with his beautiful French bride, after his successful expedition of vengeance. There had been men about in those days. Edward had wooed Aline, as a slave wooing the daughter of a wealthy planter. He had faced every odd, as Tony Hilton had faced them, and won. So men might have diminished, to Grandmama's cost. But the Hilton blood had not diminished. Kit Hilton would similarly carve, or woo, himself an empire from this fertile land.

Thus he sought to delude himself, that he had come to Antigua with a purpose, with all the cold determination of a DuCasse or a Morgan, and had humbled himself to Philip Warner, for that purpose. As if he had not clutched at the straw that had been Daniel Parke, to raise himself from the Port Royal beach. As if he had ever done more than dream, of Marguerite Warner. As if he sought, this day, anything more than a smile, if only of recognition.

Yet it was a fertile land. No high mountains, as in almost all the other islands. No rushing rivers; water was as much of a problem here as in Tortuga. No teeming jungle, in which a man might hide, or become lost. Antigua was a place of gentle, rolling hills, and green fields separated by the endless ribbons of white dust road, with only an occasional great house or a towering sugar mill to break the skyline. And soon enough not even those. But these fields were green, and the green was all waving stalks of sugar, reaching six, eight, ten feet into the air, bending before the trade wind, each stalk worth its volume in solid gold. A growing wealth in every way.

He reined his horse as a file of Negroes approached him, walking in front of a black man who carried a whip. And what a whip. No cat of nine tails here, but a single long piece of plaited leather, with a gleaming steel tip. They did no more than glance at the rider.

'Holloa, there,' Kit shouted. 'I am looking for Green Grove Plantation. Can you direct me?'

The file stopped, because the foreman had stopped. 'Green Grove, mistuh?' he inquired. 'You been riding Green Grove this last hour.'

'By God,' Kit said. 'I thank you." He kicked his horse, and moved down the path. This past hour. They had not exaggerated, then, when they had told him that Harry Templeton had been the biggest planter on the island. Perhaps in the Leewards. And it all now belonged to his widow. But of her they would not speak. Because she was the Deputy Governor's daughter, and therefore above gossip?

And now he reached the brow of a shallow hill, and looked, in the far distance, at the sea. But between himself and the sea were more endless acres of green cane, separated by perhaps a mile from what appeared to be a small town. He identified the Negro village, with its orderly rows of barracoons, and the trim, low stone walls which surrounded the white man's compound, with the houses of the overseers and the book-keepers, and beyond that, the bulk of the boiling house, the factory, placed downwind of the houses themselves. Even farther back. and dominating the whole, was the Great House, a massive four-square structure, built upon solid stone cellars, loopholed for defence, with the ground floor entirely surrounded by deep verandahs, each side reached by a flight of wide, shallow steps, and with the upper floor lighted by enormous jalousied windows, although each window mounted its heavy wooden shutter as a protection against either hurricane wind or rampaging slave rebellion. The roof sloped deeply, to throw off water, and was made of green shingles, and, to his surprise, from the back of the roof there arose a great stone chimney. As that surely could not be needed for heat in this climate, it suggested a table to match the house. But the plantation did not even end with the beach and the sea, for off the shore there was yet another little island, perhaps half a mile across the water, as green and as fertile in appearance as its larger neighbour; although there was no evidence of cane growing there, there were certainly people in residence—he could see a wisp of smoke rising from amidst the trees.

His heart pounded as he rode down the slope towards the gate. It was nearly five years now, and much had happened in that time. They were both older, and no doubt wiser. And she would know by now that he was living in St John's. Her father would have told her, if no one else. So the widow Templeton never left her estate; how had he waited for the mourning period to end. But she would expect Kit Hilton to call. His only fear was that Barnee had been too long in making the coat.

And how he wanted to see her again.

The gate was closed, and a white man lounged beside it. 'Halt there,' he shouted. 'What business have you with Green Grove, Captain Hilton?'

He was an unprepossessing fellow, whom Kit had met often enough in town. 'No business, Dutton,' he said. 'I am here to call on Mrs Templeton.'

'Mrs Templeton receives no visitors,' Dutton pointed out. 'Unless their names be on this list.' He flourished a length of scroll. 'Yours is not, Captain.'

'No doubt because your list has not been revised recently enough,' Kit said. 'Carry my name to your mistress and I will be admitted. I do assure you of that."

Dutton shook his head. 'My mistress knows of your presence on this island well enough, Captain. She has given me no orders about admitting you. Now turn your horse and get you gone, or I'll set the dogs on you.'

'You'll do what? Why, by God ...' Kit instinctively reached for his cutlass, and found nothing; he had deliberately left all weapons behind, for this visit.

Dutton grinned, and brought up a wide-muzzled blunderbuss. 'Or better yet, I'll pepper your horse and have us discover just how safe you sit there, Captain.'

Kit stared at the man. 'You'll find I'm not an easy enemy, Dutton.'

Dutton shrugged. 'We of Green Grove have many enemies, Captain. One more will not frighten us.'

Kit raised his head, to gaze at the house. There was a woman on the verandah. That he could tell from the flutter of her skirt. But nothing more at this distance, save that he could decide she was at once short and slender, a drop of precious femininity. But not to him. She had stood there throughout the conversation, no doubt intending to make sure her instructions were obeyed.

He pulled the horse around, and rode back the way he had come.

She had chosen not to forgive, after all. Was that unreasonable? Was there a single reason why the mistress of Green Grove, now the wealthiest widow in all the Caribbean, should deign to look at an ex-buccaneer, who was in the employment of her father, and at a very nefarious game?

But why, then, was he in the employment of her father at all, breaking the law three nights a week? He stood at the taffrail of the Bonaventure, and watched the sun come peeping above the island of Barbuda, hull down on the eastern horizon. By now he knew every ripple on these waters. He had sailed them too often. And always at night. Always the view was the same, at dawn, St Eustatius on the outward journey, Antigua on the homeward, after the long sweep north. Now they were once again coming home, close-hauled to beat down against the unfailing trades, their hold filled with French wines and sweetmeats, with Dutch powder and cloth, at a fraction of the price Philip Warner would have had to pay to import it from England, and all obtained on that never-ending credit which was the mainspring of West Indian prosperity.

But the risk was not Philip Warner's. It was Kit Hilton's. And one day ...

He frowned, into the gradually lightening sky. Sooner than

he had supposed, by God.

Agrippa came scrambling up the ladder. 'You see that fellow, Kit?'

'Aye.' Kit levelled his glass. 'The revenue frigate, and up wind of us.'

'We'd best run back for St Eustatius.'

'No chance of that,’ Kit muttered. 'With the weather gauge they'll hold us off and we'll find ourselves on a reef in the Virgins before we know it. If they didn't catch us up long before. We've a foul hull, and you can bet your last penny theirs is clean enough.'

'But man ...'

Kit chewed his lip. 'With that square rig, she'll not beat to any purpose, Agrippa, clean or foul.'

'Yeah, man, but it is we who are doing the beating. She's coming fair and free.'

'And should we pass her? We'll show her an empty stern, then.'

Agrippa scratched the bandanna which covered his head. 'Man, Kit, how are you going to pass her without exchanging fire? And that is a warship. We will hang by breakfast.'

'So we'll breakfast now,' Kit said. 'And then load the guns. One exchange and we're through. It'll be worth it, Agrippa.' He glanced at his friend. 'You've not lost your stomach for a fight?'

'It is you I'm thinking about, Kit. You'd fire on the English Navy?'

'I never claimed I'd not fight in self-defence. And we'll do no harm, Agrippa. Elevate the guns as high as you may, it will be easy with us on the larboard tack. We want to slow her up, not kill anybody. And to make sure she cannot prove it was us, afterwards, hang your spare canvas over our name plates and wrap the figurehead as well. There are sufficient small craft sailing these waters to leave them in some doubt.'

Agrippa hesitated, and then shrugged and went down to the main deck, where he set about explaining to an incredulous crew that they meant to shoot their way past the warship.

Kit dismissed the helmsman, and himself took the tiller. This was a time for no hesitation, for no delay in carrying out a decision. He looked up at the sails; every one was filling, and the sheets were straining. He could get the sloop no closer to the fresh wind. And now the gap was rapidly closing as the warship bore down on them. There was no question of parleying; there were no English islands north of their position, and they were clearly not on passage from the open Atlantic, nor was it likely that a ship this small would have come down from the American mainland. His first problem was to stop the frigate from approaching close enough to identify them.

He watched the activity on the warship's deck. For the moment they were confused by the rapid approach of the stranger. But they were running out the bow-chaser, preparing to send a shot in front of him.

'Light your matches,' he called down into the waist.

Almost as if he had commanded the frigate there was a flash of light and a puff of black smoke from the bluff bows which were now pointing directly at him. The ball was well aimed, and splashed into the sea about a quarter of a mile ahead.

'Aim your pieces,' Kit yelled. 'And fire as they bear.' The whole ship trembled, and rolled farther to starboard as the two cannon exploded together. The gunners dropped their linstocks and ran to the rail, to peer into the morning. And utter a gigantic cheer as one of the balls struck home, smashing into the base of the long bowsprit, and sending all the jibs whipping away as their halliards were severed. Coming downwind the loss of her headsails made no difference to the frigate's speed, but her already limited capacity for windward work would be reduced to nothing. Hastily she put her helm up to bring her broadside guns to bear, but Kit had already altered course, and the Bonaventure streaked away on a broad reach, gathering speed with every second, white water foaming away from her bows, Antigua now rising from the ocean on her port bow.

Behind them the day trembled, and the frigate was enveloped in black smoke; but the flying ball plunged harmlessly into the sea.

Agrippa climbed the ladder. 'We'll not get back up to St John's.'

'Nor should we, as that is where she'll look for us first,' Kit said. 'We'll make for Falmouth. We can be unloaded there, and then let them decide which one was us, from all the dozens of sloops in these waters.'

'Well, then,' Agrippa said. 'You are to be congratulated, Captain Hilton, on a successful action. Colonel Warner should be pleased. I have no doubt that he will present you with another bonus.'

Kit glanced at his friend. 'I know your meaning, Agrippa. By God, I saved our necks, nothing more. We'll sail no more for that scoundrel Warner.'

'Now there is a word I have been waiting to hear,' Agrippa said. 'So why have us return at all? You'll have heard that Morgan is returned to Jamaica? Sir Henry, by God, and Deputy Governor to boot.'

Kit shook his head. 'I'll not sail for that scoundrel, either. And you'll have heard, old friend, that he is also hanging every one of his old acquaintances he can discover. No, by God, we'll act straight up. You may leave the matter to me. Just find me a horse the moment we anchor.'

The exhilaration was passed, and in its place was growing a deep anger, against himself for firing upon the English flag, against Philip Warner for placing him in this position. But against all the Warners, perhaps, for treating him as an inferior being, for so many things. For an understanding perhaps that Daniel had been right all along, that to Philip he was just a useful piece of humanity, to be enslaved and dominated as if he were, indeed, a slave.

While to Marguerite he did not exist.

The anger sustained him after the anchor was dropped, after he had mounted the hired horse and made his way inland. The last time he had taken these roads it had been with a lilt in his heart. Now it was with grim anger bubbling throughout his system. And once again he was exploring fresh ground, because he had never been to the Warner plantation. He had never been invited, in two months. How all of Daniel's strictures came bubbling back to him in endless outrage.

A replica of Green Grove, although on a smaller scale. No doubt each plantation had been copied from the others, once a suitable design had been discovered. And once again a closed gate, with a man waiting beside it. But this one looked friendly enough. 'Good morning to you, Captain Hilton,' he said. 'What brings you to Goodwood?'

'I'd speak with the Colonel,' Kit said. 'The matter is urgent.'

The man nodded, and released the bolts on the gate. 'He's at the house, Captain. You'll find he has just returned from aback.'

Kit urged his horse up the drive, past die overseer's houses, watched from die little porches by the women and children, the poor whites, prevented from lack of credit and lack of opportunity from sharing the enormous luxury of the planters, doomed to a lifetime of servility and poverty, with only the pleasure of taking out their spite on the even more unfortunate Negroes beneath them.

Was that, then, to be the eventual fate of Kit Hilton? By God, he would turn back to piracy, first.

He dismounted at the foot of the steps to the Great House, and a slave immediately ran forward to take his bridle. Philip Warner sat on the verandah, eating the late breakfast in which most of the planters indulged after spending the cool dawn hours in the fields, supervising the day's work plan, before the heat of the sun made such exposure prohibitive for Europeans. With him were his three senior overseers.

'Kit?' Philip asked. 'What brings you to Goodwood? Not trouble, I hope?'

'Trouble,' Kit said. 'We encountered the government frigate from St Kitts.'

'By God,' Philip said. 'And gave her the slip, I see?'

'We exchanged fire to do so.'

'You fired on the man of war?' demanded one of the overseers.

'It was that, Mr Haley, or a rope around our necks.' 'By God,' Philip said. 'But she'll not identify you?' 'I trust not, Colonel Warner. The sloop is in Falmouth now, and I have given orders for her to be unloaded as rapidly as possible. The warship will not make here before she has repaired the damage.'

'If she bothers to come at all, in the circumstances,' Philip mused. 'You're a man of spirit, Kit. I never doubted that. But we'd best lie low for a while.'

'And find yourself a new captain while you are about it, sir,' Kit said. 'I'll have no more part in this business. I'd not anticipated having to go to war with the Navy.'

'What? What?' Warner demanded, getting up. 'You knew the risks.'

'Maybe I had not weighed them properly. My mind is made up, sir. I shall seek employment elsewhere.' 'Not on this island,' Philip shouted.

'Well, then, I shall leave this island,' Kit said, keeping his temper under control with difficulty. 'By God, sir, I'll tell you what I will do. I'll take myself to Sandy Point, and ask Sir William Stapleton for a position. I’ll sail on the revenue frigate, sir, not against it. Then we'll see how your smuggling ventures fare.'

'By God,' Warner said. 'A Hilton who is at once a coward and a turncoat. Aye, your family was ever a scurvy lot, you bitch's bastard. And frightened with it. You can see the yellow bubbling through the white.'

'You'll take back those words, sir,' Kit demanded.

'Will I? Or you'll make me?'

'By God, sir, I will, even if I doubt it will be worth wasting time on a cur such as you. You seek to impugn my family, sir? What of your own, with your treacheries and your feuds, and your cannibal brother?'

'Take him,' Philip shouted, and a heavy stick crashed across the back of Kit's head. Yet it did no more than stun him. He found himself on his hands and knees, turned, dragging his sword from its scabbard, and was met by a kick in the face which sent him rolling down the steps. He gazed up at a crowd of black men, all armed with staves, and realized that he had lost his sword and was in some danger of being beaten to death. He threw up his hands to protect himself and was struck a sickening blow on the arm which left it paralysed. He attempted to roll on to his face to protect his groin and belly, and felt a succession of blows crashing into his back and legs. Dimly he heard voices shouting, women's voices as well as men's, and the beating stopped. But he could not move, he could feel nothing but the surging pain which ran through his body like a continuous thread, above the blood which kept surging into his mouth. I am dying, he thought. Oh, God, I am dying.

Hands gripped his legs and arms, and he attempted to scream with pain, but only blood ran out of his mouth. Then he was thrown down in another excruciating jolt, on to wood, which immediately commenced a whole series of jolts, each one sending his tortured brain screaming away into the recesses of consciousness, but never so far as to bring merciful oblivion.

Time no longer had meaning. The jolting was neverending, he was taking a journey down to hell. Perhaps that was how all men went to hell, bouncing in the back of a cart. Until without warning it stopped, and the hands seized him again. For a moment he hung in the air, then the ground rose up to meet him with another mind-shattering impact, and he rolled, arms and legs flopping helplessly and painfully, until he came to rest. His face and eyes and ears and nose and mouth filled with dust to coagulate the blood, and he coughed and spat, supposing he would choke. Then he lay still, knowing only the pain which gripped him like a living enemy, tearing at his legs, his arms, his bowels, his head. Movement was impossible, nor did he see how it would ever become possible again. He was lost, at the bottom of a pit of agony, an eternity of misfortune which had been his since time began.

And was not yet over. For there was a voice, a voice he had heard before, and movement around him, and hands once again touching his body and bringing moans of agony to his lips. But these hands were strangely gentle and made more so by the insistent voice, commanding and instructing. With a tremendous effort Kit forced open his eyes, gazed at the morning through a welter of blood, at more black men; he could not tell if they were the same as those who had first beaten him into the ground.

And then at a white face, strangely pale, inexpressibly beautiful, set in a framework of straight, long, dark brown hair, undressed save for the bows which secured the strands.

The face which, angry or smiling, had lured him onwards for so long. Marguerite Warner.

5

The Devil's Honeymoon

Now at last did consciousness depart. Or did it? He could never be sure. He seemed to exist in a world of dreams, in which pain dominated, certainly, but in which there was also light and pleasant voices, and occasionally even laughter, and sweet scents and quiet, and acres of softness. He found it confusing, and chose to focus on the essentials, on the pain itself, on one voice more than any other, because of its familiarity, and on one physical object, a vast glow which seemed to hover in the sky, a million miles away.

The bright object gradually came to replace all else, even the soft voice and the gentle hands. He tried to reach it, and watched it take shape, slowly and indefinitely, but with gradually sharpening edges. It hung, at the foot of the bed. The bed? He turned his head, from side to side, amazed at the effort it cost.

And amazed, too, at his surroundings. For he lay in the centre of a vast tent-bed, beneath linen sheets of a whiteness he had not suspected to be possible. The mattress scarce seemed to exist below him; it and his pillows were stuffed with feathers.

The bed occupied the centre of an equally vast room, at once wide and square and high-ceilinged. And the bright object was a chandelier, just visible beneath the roof of the tent, a mass of gleaming facets of light although none of the candles were lit. What miracle was this? But then he saw the windows, huge open doors of glass, through which there drifted at once a cooling breeze and the morning sunlight, playing on the chandelier, having the effect of a flaming signal.

And through the window there came the smell of sweetness.

Or was it all around him? Certainly it seemed to soak the bed on which he lay, the nightshirt in which he was dressed ... the nightshirt? Another magnificent cambric garment, as softly limp as the sheet, and as clean.

The scent made him drowsy. The scent, and the breeze, playing gently on his face, and the silence. A strange silence, because his instincts told him that he was surrounded by sound, that he could even hear it, if he tried hard enough to listen. If he could summon the energy. But why should he do that? Why should he do anything, except lie here, in the softness and the breeze, and the quiet? If he had died, and this was heaven, then he was truly content.

Except that there was no possibility of Kit Hilton, the man who had been at Panama, ever attaining heaven.

The door opened, and he turned his head again, more easily this time. A black face stared at him, smiling, and then came across the room to look more closely. She was a young girl and wore a white dress; her hair was concealed beneath a cap.

'Where am I?' Kit asked. How thin and soft his voice; it seemed no more than a whisper.

'Well, glory be,' she said. 'You's awake. Now you wait so, Captin. I got food for you.'

She disappeared. Kit tried to push himself up, and found that he could not. He raised his right hand, with a tremendous effort, gazed at it in horror. That hand, which had grasped a cutlass or a musket to such terrible effect, which had been feared even when he had been beachcombing in Port Royal, was no more than a mass of bones and veins, held together by a bag of thin skin.

The door was opening again, and now there were several girls, but led on this occasion by a tall and dignified black man, who wore a deep crimson coat over white breeches, and carried himself with an air of authority. The girls each bore a tray, and these in turn were placed on the table next to his bed. Here were morsels of broiled tuna, cups of soft green avocado, broth made from die pulpy okra, and a glowing, dark red liquid in which floated lumps of ice.

The butler bent over the bed. 'You must allow me, Captin.' He raised Kit's shoulders, and one of the girls pushed a mass of pillows under his back, while another held the cup to his lips. It seemed to him as the liquid reached his parched throat that he was tasting pure nectar. It reminded him of that first gulp from the stream in Hispaniola, how many centuries ago. He swallowed, and smiled at the girl, and sighed. 'What is it called?'

'Sangaree, Captin,' the butler said. 'Red wine, with some brandy, and fruits, and ice added. Now you must eat. You must put the strength back into those muscles.'

The food tasted scarcely less pleasant than the drink. But Kit was too tired to consume very much, and after a few mouthfuls he sank back on the pillow.

'Enough,' said the butler, and the girls hastily carried the trays from the room. There will be more when you are ready.'

'Where am I?' Kit asked again.

'Plantation Green Grove, Captin.'

'Green Grove. Green Grove? Then where is ...'

'The mistress is aback, Captin. But she will return at eleven of the clock. Now you must rest. I will tell she that you is awake.'

He withdrew, closing the door, but leaving Kit propped up on the pillows. The mistress. Now memory came flooding back, of the faces standing above him when he had been picked from the ditch. Marguerite? Marguerite Warner? No, Marguerite Templeton, now. Rescuing him from the anger of her father? That was unbelievable. It was also magnificent. It made him tremble, brought tears to his eyes. It made him want to get out of bed, and make his way to the window, and see if he could find her in the canefields. But that was impossible. So he must lie here, and wait. Marguerite. For how long had his life been devoted to just that object? Marguerite.

He dozed, and the food and the wine stretched out from his belly to dull his brain, to send him back into his dream world. Only this time he did not dream. Now he was to awake, from all the dreams, and from all the nightmares, too. So perhaps buccaneers did, after all, attain heaven.

Voices, outside his bedroom door, and one raised in protest. Now he must strain his ears to hear the muted sounds of the house. It was nearly noon. He could tell that because the sun no longer played on the chandelier, and the very breeze, which had not abated, was hot as it stroked his face and arms.

Ridiculous, Mrs Templeton?' demanded the man. 'When I heard, why ...'

'Tell me, Mr Spalding, when last did you visit me?' Marguerite. He would have remembered that quiet tone anywhere.

'Why, I ... I had gained the impression I was not welcome here.'

'Oh, indeed you were right, Mr Spalding. I detest criticism in any form. Of myself, of my plantation, of the way I operate my plantation, or of my habits, which seem to be your present occupation.'

'Why ... why ... really, Mrs Templeton.' Spalding would be going red in the face. Kit remembered he was the vicar of the St John's Anglican Church, a man who avoided him; Spalding always crossed the street to walk on the other side when he saw Kit Hilton coming. 'I felt it my duty. This man is a pirate, madam. He has murdered people with his own hands. Far worse. He was at Panama. Can you imagine what he must have done there? Women, girls, why, madam, the imagination boggles.'

'And your voice sounds positively envious,' Marguerite said.

'He is also known as a friend of black people and Quakers,' the parson said, dropping his voice so that Kit could hardly hear it.

Marguerite laughed, a sound as softly contemptuous as her voice. 'A far more serious crime, I do agree, reverend. Would you like to leave now, or will you attend me in my bath?'

'You ... you astound me, madam. Be sure that I shall be to Colonel Warner this morning, with this sad news.'

'Then I should certainly hurry, if I were you. Maurice Peter, will you show Mr Spalding to his horse?'

There was a short silence, while Kit stared at the door, and then at last it opened. She had removed her hat, and was untying her hair, so that it fell straight to her shoulders. She wore a pale green riding habit, but had unbuttoned the long, masculine coat to reveal the cambric shirt beneath, tucked into the divided green skirt. And beneath that? His eyes were too weak to be sure, but he would have said nothing. Christ, what a thought for an invalid with too many crimes of lust already on his shoulders.

She moved quietly; she had taken off her boots and thrust her bare feet into slippers. She looked as far removed from the splendid lady who had climbed the hill in Tortuga as it was possible to imagine. And now she paused, six feet from the bed, and gazed at him, her face breaking into a smile. She had not smiled in Tortuga, and he had found her entrancing. But entrancing was nothing, when considered against the context of her face smiling. The small mouth became large, and the firm chin softened, and the green eyes glowed with little facets of light, almost like her chandelier. 'Kit Hilton,' she said. 'There were times when I thought I would have to bury you. And then I remembered, he has crossed Panama. He will survive a beating.'

She came closer. Her hair was free, and now she took off the coat. The sweat-wet cambric clung to her shoulders, as it stuck itself to the high breasts and outlined the dark aureoles. A lady, sweating. That surely reduced her to no more than a woman. There was sweat on her face, beading her forehead and her upper lip. And surely, therefore, there was sweat in other places as well.

'They told me you were able to speak,' she said, standing beside him.

'How long have I been here?'

'You are at least direct, Kit. A week. Do you remember what happened?'

'I quarrelled with your father.'

She nodded. 'And he set his slaves on you. Do you hate him?' 'Perhaps I was hasty.'

Her eyebrows raised. 'Hardly a piratical sentiment. You'd do well to hate him. You may be sure he hates you. And will hate you more when Spalding reaches Goodwood.'

'Then why did you bring me here?' His hand moved, and touched hers as it lay on the coverlet. 'You refused me admittance, but a week gone.'

'It had taken you three weeks to call upon me,' she reminded him. 'Besides, should a lady succumb to the first advance made by a gentleman?' Her smile was back. 'And you are not even a gentleman, as I am reminded time and again.' She half turned her head as there came a gentle knock on the door. 'My bath is ready. Now you must lie there, quietly, until I return.'

She moved to the door.

'I thought you hated me,' he said to her back. She paused, but did not turn her head, then continued through the doorway.

Christ, how slowly the afternoon passed. How frustrating to lie in bed, unable to move, to know that that beauty, that smile, that confidence, was in the house with him. Being bathed. His brain was filled with the sweat-soaked shirt, with the beads of sweat on her lips—he had wanted to kiss them all away, one after the other. And for all the sweat, she had moved in the middle of that aura of sweet-scented perfume.

Marguerite Warner. Marguerite Templeton. By Christ, he had to be dreaming, after all.

She wore a crimson undressing-robe, secured at her waist by a wide pink sash. She filled the room like an explosion. And she no longer sweated. Her skin glowed, from the bath, and she looked rested. Her hair had been piled on top of her head, to leave her face exposed, and beautiful.

'They hanged your grandmother,' she said, looking down at him. 'I doubt I could ever have liked her, but it was not the fate for a woman. And so you took to piracy, so unsuccessfully that you finished working for my father.' She smiled, and shook her head. 'You will have to practise success, if you are to remain at Green Grove.'

He licked his lips. 'And am I, to remain at Green Grove?'

'Perhaps you would rather be handed over to the Quakers?'

So she was, after all, no more than a woman, and given to jealousy. But, Marguerite Templeton, jealous of Lilian Christianssen? Over Kit Hilton? That seemed incredible.

'I had supposed you hated me,' he said.

Marguerite moved away from the bed, and four maidservants entered. Two carried enormous towels, a third a huge basin, and a fourth a pitcher of steaming water. The butler came behind, and he placed the rocking chair for Marguerite to sit down, close to the bed, but far enough away so as not to interfere with the girls.

'What is to happen?' Kit asked.

'You are going to be bathed. I demand cleanliness, at Green Grove.'

'To be bathed? But…’

'These same girls have bathed you every day since your arrival,' she pointed out. 'And I have sat here and watched them do it. They are slaves, and of no account; I am a widow, and perfectly accustomed to the male body. So pray stop twitching and rolling your eyes. Although,' she added with a smile, 'it is a relief to find that you are rediscovering your manhood.'

For the sheet was already removed and so was his nightshirt, all by the softest and most gentle hands he had ever felt.

Marguerite rocked, gently, to and fro. Her gaze never left his body. But how thin and pitiful he was, with bones jutting out from every pouch of skin.

'You'll fill out,' she told him. 'It will be my charge. I did hate you, Kit. When I got out of that water butt. I hated you all the way back to the ship. In many ways you owe a great deal to my father. For when I continued to curse you as I changed my clothes, he interrupted me to point out that you had acted as you did because you had fallen in love with me at first sight. And when I looked back upon it, it seemed obvious.'

The towels were spread under his raised body, to protect the sheets, and now the hands were gently washing him, while the water itself seemed filled with Marguerite's perfume.

'But you did not come back,' he said. Dreaming. There could be no other answer, for him to be lying here, in the midst of five women, one of whom had filled every dream for five years.

'Why should I?' she asked. 'You certainly deserved to be punished. Besides, I had more important things on my mind. My marriage. It took place almost as soon as I returned to Antigua. I was seventeen. It took five months to consummate the event. Harry was seventy-two. Believe me, Kit, in producing in him a condition which would make me a woman, I learned more about male anatomy than you know, I'd wager.'

'You've an uncommonly vulgar tongue.' He was surprised by his own anger.

'Which you must learn to live with. Everyone else has had to do so.' She ceased rocking and got up, to stand next to the bed as the towels were folded over him and the soft fingers gently dried him. 'I only say what I wish to say, and hide nothing. It is the only way to live.'

'And you care not whom you offend.'

'That will do,' she told the girls. A clean nightshirt was produced and dropped over his shoulders, and she herself saw that it was neatly settled. Then she lifted the sheets over his body. By now the last of the girls had left, and the door was closed. 'I care not whom I offend,' she said. 'Harry did me but one honest service in his entire life. He managed to remain alive until my twenty-first birthday. So now, you see, I am at once the most beautiful and the most wealthy woman in all the Leeward Islands. That combination also makes me the most powerful and the most independent.' She smoothed the sheet, and then sat beside him. 'I made but one resolution, which I propose to keep; that when I married again it would be to a man who not only would warm my bed, successfully, but would also be fit to stand beside me on all other occasions.'

She was no longer smiling; her eyes seemed possessed of a life of their own, separated from her body, shrouding him.

'You are too straight for me,' Kit confessed. 'You have my brain in a whirl. And I doubt you know what you do. I marched with Morgan, on Panama.'

'So I have been reminded, endlessly. I would have thought that proved you at least a man.'

'Have you any idea what can happen, when a town is sacked, and when there is as much hatred as hangs on the very air in these West Indies? How can you, living in this wealth and splendour and security of which you boast.'

'You have been delirious, from time to time, this last week,' she said softly. 'What was her name? Isabella? I sometimes feel I know the child.' She picked up his hand and turned it over, looked at the palm. 'Perhaps hands that are guilty are those I seek.' She smiled at him. 'Am I not a shameless hussy? Oh, I had all but forgot you, Kit Hilton. Until the day you reappeared in St John's with that detestable Parke. So he was your friend. But he was none the less detestable. He called here with my father, and had the nerve to make advances to me.'

'He told me none of this.'

She got up, restlessly, her robe swirling to give a hint of bare shoulder underneath. 'Why should he, and arouse your jealousy? But he told me much of you, Kit. Or of your desire for me. He found it amusing. As well bring the earth and the sun into a common field, he said.'

'Like you,' Kit said, 'he is uncommonly straight. You'd have made a good pair.'

She stood before the window, gazing at her fields. 'I understood him to be speaking the truth. But come. You have been considered missing for a week. Now that Spalding has found you out, the news will be shouted from one end of the island to the other by nightfall. Is there anyone you wish informed of your whereabouts?'

'Agrippa.'

She turned, frowning. 'There is a strange relationship. I am not sure it is a healthy one.'

'Will you choose my friends, madam? I am grateful to you for saving my life, believe me. But I will not be ruled. Agrippa and I have seen much together.'

'He held the arms while you made free with the body,' she said, the contempt returning to her voice. 'Very well. I will have him informed. What of the Christianssens?'

'They also, if you would be so kind.'

She came back across the room, slowly. Her fingers played with the bow of her sash. 'Tell me about this girl, Lilian.'

'You are mistaken there, madam,' Kit said. 'She is only a girl, and she is also, as you keep reminding me, a Quaker. She knows naught of the feelings that can be created between a man and a woman, nor does she seek to learn, before her marriage. She regards me as a lost soul.'

'My question concerned your regard for her.'

'She is one of the few people who have shown me kindness, if that is what you mean.'

She stood by the bed, sucking her upper lip under her teeth in a peculiarly thoughtful gesture, a mixture of decision and apprehension, he thought. 'I shall tell her you are here, and close to regaining your health,' she said. 'I shall invite her to visit you, so that you may compare between us.'

'Your boast of straightness does you little credit, madam,' Kit said. 'By many that act would be considered treacherous.' Now why, he wondered, was he quarrelling with her? He worshipped the ground on which she walked, and she had saved his life, at the very least. But still her arrogance, her total assumption that what she desired would necessarily happen, was impossible to bear.

Her mouth relaxed, and she smiled. 'What is the business of living and loving, and dying, but inexpressibly treacherous?' She sat beside him again, seized his hands. 'I told you, I had forgotten your existence, until you reappeared. Until you became the talk of St John's. Kit Hilton, the buccaneer, the murderer and rapist and robber and pirate, the man who sailed with Morgan. Oh, you have set our delicate ears in a tizzy, Kit. I avoided you because I wanted you to come to me. I knew you would. And so I waited. For three long weeks. I would not see you when you came, and I would have made you wait even longer, but for your visit to Goodwood. I was there. Did you know that, Kit? I was visiting Aunt Celestine, when you came storming in. I watched you, from the upstairs window. And you never thought to look. Oh, you were splendid, in your anger, in your defiance of Papa. I had thought there was only one person in the whole world would ever do that: me. I knew then that you were what I wanted. That you were what I would have. I watched you being beaten insensible by those black bastards. There was naught I could do, then. I did not wish to reveal my intention, for fear that Papa would have you murdered before I could protect you. For he is that ruthless a man, you know, Kit. He is nearly as ruthless as I. But yet he is not, quite. And so I stood at the window, and exchanged pleasantries with my aunt, while you were savaged, and then stayed a while longer and took a cup of sangaree with Papa, while your battered body was removed and thrown into a ditch, and only after a reasonable time did I leave, and pick you up, and bring you here.'

There were pink spots in her cheeks, and her whole personality glowed. A thought crossed his mind, that if, in possessing her love, he was experiencing the most tremendous emotion he had ever known, what must it be like to know her hate? 'And do you not fear his anger now?'

'On Green Grove?' She smiled, and he knew, what it would be like to feel her hate. Hell would be pleasant in comparison. 'On Green Grove, I fear nobody on the face of this earth, Kit. With you at my side, restored to health, I should fear nobody off Green Grove, either.' Her fingers tugged at the bow, and her robe fell apart. She wore nothing underneath. Once he had supposed she might possess the body of an athlete. Once he had done no more than dream.

But here was no dream. She possessed the body of an athlete, but of a woman athlete, not a girl; she had been brought to womanhood by a man old enough to be her grandfather, who had done no more than make her bloom, and then left her, in full flower. Waiting to be plucked. When she was ready. When he had the strength.

Dawn on Green Grove brought the sun flooding through the open french windows, picking out flashes of light from the crystal drops of the chandelier. Dawn was at once lazy and active, a time for reflection and a moment for testing a growing strength.

Kit rolled on his side, and the woman's head slipped from his shoulder. Her brown hair, so rich and so thick, was damp with sweat, and clung to her temples and her back. Her body was concealed beneath the sheets but was there for his hands, a treasure house of magnificent joy compared with which Panama City had been a hovel. He could caress her breasts; they were large, surprisingly so for so young a body, overflowing from his hands, soft and yet firm, with nipples which flared into life at his touch, even while she slept. He could search her waist, and count her ribs, for never was flesh so slenderly fine. He could spread over her thighs, and cup her glorious buttocks, more firm yet than her breasts, or slide round to explore the tropical forest which matted her groin with amazing luxuriance. And beyond, the ultimate paradise sought by man. As yet explored only by his fingers, although she had slept here for four nights. But each day, and each night, had seen an increase of strength, and soon ... as her own fingers were now establishing. Her eyes were open, and her breath rushed against his face as she smiled.

'I must make haste,' she said. 'For I am determined you shall have no entry until we are wed. Am I not a prude?'

She laughed, as he would have searched further, and rolled away from him, and out of the bed, to stand for a moment, a glistening drop of marvellous womanhood that quite put the sun-gleaming chandelier to shame, while she listened to the bell tolling, bringing the slaves from their quarters, the overseers from their beds.

‘I shall return early this day,' she said. 'And meanwhile, the girls will dress you in your best.' She had sent to town for his clothes.

He frowned at her. 'You mean to marry me today?'

Again she laughed, a peal which echoed through the room. 'When I marry you, Christopher Hilton, it shall be an occasion not readily forgotten by Antigua. But today I shall declare my purpose. I have invited Papa for lunch, and if you can mount so hard and firm an assault at my gate you can certainly sit yourself for a meal. You are well again, Kit. Today we are betrothed.'

He raised himself on his elbow. Certainly this was easy enough. 'Philip Warner comes here, today?'

'I saw no alternative. It is near a week since Spalding will have carried him the news that you are here. And throughout that time he has ignored me. He considers that I am a lonely widow whose bed needs warming, and that I have chosen you to honour a passing fancy. We will surprise him, Kit.' She pulled on her undressing-robe as she went to the door, and there checked. 'But you will be polite. You are not yet strong enough to sustain the burden of a duel, nor would I have one between my father and my future husband. Leave the extravagant gestures to me, if you will. I request this especially of you, in case he arrives before I return from aback.'

'Then why go at all?'

'Because I am the mistress of Green Grove, darling Kit. I must be seen in the fields at least once in every day, as I must sit in judgement over my slaves at least once in every day, lest they forget that I am here, and that they fear me.' She smiled. 'Soon enough the responsibility will be yours, and be sure that I shall welcome the rest.'

The door closed, and he was left to wonder at just what the day would bring, although without apprehension. Apprehension was not a practicable emotion when in the dazzling company of Marguerite Templeton. And even wonder was clouded by memory, as he lay on the pillows and beneath the sheets still warm from the contact of her body, and still overhung with her scent.

And soon enough there was no time even for that, as the maidservants came to bathe him and help him dress, in his best blue coat, giggling and chattering amongst themselves, and all the while insisting that he make haste, for there were gentlemen waiting to see him.

'Already?' he demanded, and discovered he was sweating. But at last they pronounced him fit to be seen in public, and so for the first time he left the bedroom. And entered a world he had not supposed to exist. First of all he found himself on a wide, deep gallery, which circled the upper storey, allowing the stairwell in the centre to descend to the lower floor. Off the gallery opened the doors of at least five bedchambers, all ajar, at the moment, while from the sound of cleaning and beating and rustling which emanated from every doorway he could not doubt that apart from his own four attendants there was an army of maids in each room, engaged upon putting it to rights, even if, so far as he knew, Marguerite and he alone slept in the house.

The gallery itself was floored with polished wood, and the walls were lined with paintings, of some quality, he estimated, mostly depicting scenes in and around Antigua. Most surprising of all, there was no ceiling to this centre of the house, but merely the rafters, beyond which the timbers of the roof could be seen, and above them the shingles, with four skylights controlled by great ropes on pulleys from the gallery itself. Certainly the amount of air made for coolness.

Then there was the staircase, circular as it rounded the gallery, down which he made his uncertain way, a girl supporting each arm and two more hovering beyond them, for his legs were still weak. At the bottom he faced the main door, which stood open to admit a view of the verandah and the drive beyond. Here the floor was parquet, and a similar surface stretched all around him. And here there waited Barnee the tailor and Agrippa. 'Kit,' said the black man, coming forward. 'By God, man, but it is good to see you. I thought you were dead.'

Kit took his hand. 'On the contrary, dear friend. And it is even better to see you, looking as well and as strong as ever. But I have been here so long, and you ...'

'I have been well cared for, by the Christianssens, Kit.'

'And they too are in good health? Lilian?'

'They send you their best wishes.' 'But they have not come to see me?'

Agrippa looked embarrassed. 'Well, man, they think it is best not to. This Mistress Templeton, well, she is a strange woman. So it is said.'

'A strange woman?' Kit frowned, and then smiled. 'Why, I suppose she is. A most remarkable woman. Wait until you meet her. Barnee, what brings you here?'

Barnee cleared his throat. 'Mistress Templeton commanded my presence, Captain. I am to make you some clothes.'

'The devil you are. But first, a glass of sangaree.' He turned to the maids. 'Do you know, this is the first time I have been downstairs in this house. Where should I take my guests? That way?'

He looked beyond the stairs to the left, at the enormous mahogany dining table with its twenty-four chairs, with its sideboard gleaming with silver decanters, with its chandelier hanging from the high ceiling.

'No, suh, Captin,' said one of the girls; her name was Martha Louise. 'You got for come this way.' She glanced at Agrippa. 'But the mistress ain't going want no black fellow in die drawing-room.'

'What nonsense,' Kit said. 'You'll bring us sangaree. Come with me, Agrippa. And you, Barnee.' He held his friend's arm as he turned to the right, to pause once again in astonishment. The parquet flooring seemed to stretch forever, but here there were chairs, and low tables, once again smothered with silver, ornaments rather than cutlery, and beyond, close by the wall, a spinet. 'Have you ever seen such splendour?'

'Now that I haven't,' Agrippa said. 'I was never allowed inside the Great House in Barbados.'

The girls were back, bearing the tray with its jug and the glasses. Kit sank into one of the chairs with a sigh; his head was swinging.

'Drink up,' he said. 'To our mutual healths. I'm assuming you do not have to take my measurements all over again, Barnee? I haven't changed that much.'

The men hesitated, their glasses in their hands. Boots were clumping on the verandah outside, and the girls were gathered in an anxious huddle by the stairs.

Kit forced himself to his feet again. 'Marguerite,' he said. 'You have not yet met my friend Agrippa, although you have heard me speak of him, often enough. Barnee you obviously know.'

Marguerite Templeton took off her tricorne as she entered the room; this day her hair was gathered in a single loose swathe. As usual her coat was open, and her shirt was wet with sweat. She carried a whip with which she flicked her boots. Philip Warner was at her shoulder, frowning at the men in front of him.

Marguerite came across the room, smiling. But she kept her hands at her sides. 'It is my pleasure, Agrippa,' she said. 'Any friend of Kit's is a friend of mine. But I should take it very kindly if you would finish your drink in the kitchen. The girls will show you. And Barnee. You understand, I am sure. I know Barnee does. The withdrawing-room is for my guests.'

'But ...' Kit felt the blood rushing into his face.

'Agrippa understands my meaning, Kit,' Marguerite said, giving the black man her most dazzling smile. 'You told me that he has worked on a sugar plantation himself, and thus he understands more of the situation than you do, perhaps. I have five hundred slaves here, Kit, and I employ thirty white people. That is in fact below the legal requirement. My slaves have to be kept at my arm's length, and made to understand their place. This would be difficult were I to start entertaining black men in my withdrawing-room.'

'Why, I'll have no such thing,' Kit declared.

'The lady is right, Kit,' Agrippa said. 'And I would be the cause of no disturbance on a sugar estate. I but wished to assure myself that you were well. I look forward to seeing you in town.' He looked at the glass he held in his hand, then replaced it on the tray. 'You'll excuse me, Mistress Templeton.' He bowed, and left the room.

'By God.' Kit said.

'I'll be waiting in the pantry, Captain.' Barnee sidled round him.

'By God,' Philip Warner declared in turn. 'I think I came at an appropriate moment.'

'Your moments are always appropriate, dear Papa,' Marguerite said. 'Kit. It is good to see you standing up, and looking almost yourself. I met Papa on the drive. He has been spluttering all the way here.' She reached up and kissed him on the cheek.

'You had no right to treat Agrippa so,' Kit said. 'If I am to be here, then my friend must also be here.'

She held his arm, and she still smiled. 'If you wish Agrippa to live on my plantation, Kit, then I shall have a house built for him. You have my word. But he cannot come into this house except as what he is, a black man. I will explain it to you, when I have a moment. For the time being, I think we should entertain Papa. I am sure he would like to apologize to you.'

'Apologize?' Philip Warner shouted. 'Apologize, to that scoundrel? That murderer? That rapist? That nigger lover? Why by God, child, I've a mind to whip him again, here and now. As for having him in this house, I absolutely forbid it.'

Kit tried to move forward, but Marguerite retained her grip on his arm. And still she smiled, but suddenly the smile was the most terrible thing he had ever seen.

'Do be careful, Papa,' she said. 'Or Kit may have you thrown out.'

'Thrown out? That ...'

'The future master of Green Grove,' she said, very softly.

'The ...' for a moment it really seemed possible that Philip Warner would have an apoplectic fit, so purple was his face.

'That is why we have invited you here.' She released Kit's arm, and poured two fresh glasses of sangaree, then held one out to her father. 'To drink our healths on the announcement of our betrothal.'

Warner stared at her in utter perplexity; he did not take the glass. 'I assume this is some sort of ghastly humour, Marguerite.'

'I was never more serious in my life, Papa. I have now managed this plantation for four years. Oh, yes, I was managing it within a week of my marriage to Harry. He was in his dotage and quite incompetent. I have restored it to its once great position, but the work has been hard, and lonely. I need the comfort and protection of a man. And it is the word man I wish to stress. I propose to marry Kit, in my chapel, in three weeks' time. I wish you to be the first to know. I will issue you an invitation in due course. And I would like you to give me away, Papa.'

'To that ... that ...'

'To my chosen husband. You selected my first, very wisely, Papa. Pray allow me the intelligence and experience to choose my second. I shall ride over some time next week to discuss my gown with Aunt Celestine.'

'And you expect to be welcomed?'

She smiled at him. 'Of course, Papa. Am I not your only daughter?'

He stared at her for some seconds, glanced at Kit, and turned and strode from the room.

Marguerite drew a long breath, and slowly released it again. 'Well,' she said. 'A more eventful day than I had expected. Who could have supposed they'd all arrive together?'

'Marguerite,' Kit said. 'I wish you to know that I honour your defence of me to your father, and will always respect you for it.'

'What strange words you use,' she said. 'I do not wish your respect, my darling. I wish your love. Only that. And you were going to continue and mention your friend Agrippa. Well, I honour your friendship for him, Kit, believe me. But as I will not thrust my father down your throat, Kit, so I hope and believe that you will not thrust your black friend down mine.'

She stood next to him. He could inhale her perfume, as he was close enough to touch the damp softness of her shirt. 'I was going to say that I feared you had estranged Mr Warner, on my behalf. He will never consent to attending our wedding. And what of your mother?'

Marguerite frowned, for just a moment. 'My mother is dead.'

'But ...'

'Papa has a wife, of course. Aunt Celestine. She has always treated me as her own.' She laughed, a glorious explosion of confident sound. 'What, did you not know I am a bastard? Does that make me less desirable?'

'Sweetheart ...'

'Then kiss me, and do not worry. Aunt Celestine will support my wish, and Papa will attend our wedding, Kit. Because it will be the social event of the year, no, of the century, in Antigua. Have no fear on that score. Now come, Barnee is waiting to discuss your clothes.'

'And if I say so myself, Captain Hilton, sir,' Barnee said. 'It is a work of art.'

He stood back, and Kit surveyed himself in the full-length mirror. But was this really Christopher Hilton, buccaneer? He wore a black velvet coat, with gold braid and buttons, over a brocade waistcoat. His cravat was white, with fringed rather than laced ends; this had been Marguerite's decision, as so much had been Marguerite's decision. His breeches were also black velvet, as his stockings were black silk, and his shoes were black leather, with red heels and metal buckles. He carried no weapons, as befitted a bridegroom, but rather a cane, lacking a gold top, but embossed with leather from which hung a tassel. For when people are as wealthy as we, Marguerite had pointed out, where is the point in wearing jewellery?

And on his head, specially cropped for the occasion, was a brown periwig. Certainly he did not recognize himself.

'I swear I am a parson,' he declared.

'In velvet, Captain?' Barnee smiled. ''Tis hot, I have no doubt, but the quality ... the quality, Captain Hilton. That sets you apart.' He raised his hand. 'Listen.'

The bell had started its chimes, a cascade of brilliant sound. And the bell, with its tower, had only arrived yesterday, transported bodily from St John's and erected in the yard outside the front verandah. As so many other things had been especially created or constructed for this one day in all their lives. The thought of the expense had him shuddering, but Marguerite apparently gave it not a thought. And now, with the bell, there came the rumbling of the carriages of the arriving guests; for there was not a soul in all Antigua granted an invitation to this event who was not appearing. From all the Leewards, in fact.

'So, now, sir, you must go down,' Barnee said. 'Your future awaits you. And may I offer you the first of the thousands of congratulations you will receive this day, Captain.'

'Be off with you, Barnee,' Kit growled. 'You are looking on me only as a future valuable customer.'

Barnee did not smile. 'You are already a valued customer,

Captain Hilton. More. You are a liked and admired customer, and I will not pretend to feel so for all of my clients. If I had a single bequest to make, on this your wedding day, it would be that nothing, sir, nothing, either good or bad, happy or unhappy, should change the spirit and the demeanour I have grown to admire.'

Kit frowned at him. They had been in daily contact over the past three weeks as suit after suit had been fitted and completed. And in truth the tailor had been uncommonly serious most of the time, for a man who was in the process of making his fortune.

'I think you should explain that remark.'

Barnee flushed. 'I have already spoken too much, sir. It is the excitement of the occasion, if you will believe that. Now look, George Frederick awaits you.'

The footman, resplendent in pale blue and white, with a white powdered wig, was hovering in the doorway.

'Are the guests arrived, then?' Kit asked.

'Most of them, sir. But one uninvited, who asks for a word.'

'Agrippa.' Kit ran outside, hesitated on the gallery, glancing from the closed door behind which Marguerite was also no doubt making ready—he had not been allowed to see her all day—to the people who were stamping into the lobby at the foot of the great staircase, whispering and sweating, for it was only three of the afternoon and the sun was still high in the heavens, and who now looked up at the bridegroom to be, so soberly dressed in contrast to their reds and greens, pinks and whites, while the girls circulated amongst them, carrying trays laden with sangaree.

'The side stairs, sir,' George Frederick whispered, and Kit gave the assembly a hasty smile before running down the servants' staircase, which descended from an upstairs lobby between two of the bedrooms, and emerged in the pantry itself. Here was even more crowded, with the housemaids lining up in their best white gowns to be inspected by Maurice Peter the butler, with the tables covered in glasses and jugs of iced sangaree and rum punch, with plates of sweetmeats and cakes.

And here too, was Agrippa.

'I had to offer my congratulations, Kit. And perhaps say goodbye.'

"Goodbye, Agrippa?' Kit squeezed the hand, equally today, for his strength was all but returned. 'You're not leaving the island?'

'No, man,' Agrippa said. 'I work with Mr Christianssen, now. But I doubt we shall see much of each other in the future.'

'What nonsense,' Kit smiled. 'I must honeymoon. But I am well again, and be sure that I will be in town soon enough.'

'Aye, but hardly to the warehouse. That will be left to your overseers, Kit. Do you not understand? You are a planter, now. You belong with your fellows, in the Ice House.'

Kit frowned at him. 'There is something of the censor in your voice, old friend. Was this not always my dream?'

Agrippa sighed. 'A plantation, Kit. To be conducted as you saw fit. Not Green Grove. Now I must take my leave. I hear the music starting.'

For indeed the music of the spinet was beginning to drift up the hill from the chapel, whence it had been removed for this special occasion.

'Yet must you say more,' Kit insisted. 'I am surrounded by these hints and innuendoes. Now come, dear friend, explain your meaning. Be sure that I will not take offence.'

Agrippa hesitated. 'Why, Kit, they are only hints and innuendoes, in St John's. Have you not come to grips with the administration of your plantation?'

'Not mine, yet. Besides, I have scarce left this house, save for a quiet ride in the trap, since arriving. I have been treated as an invalid, royally, and then this last week there have been all the preparations, and the fittings, and the ... you mean my bride is the subject of gossip, in town? Well, so she should be, I suppose. She has an individual cast of mind. But am I not the gainer by that? Be sure that there can be no kinder woman on the face of this earth.'

Agrippa gazed at him for some seconds. 'Aye,' he said at last. 'Of that I have no doubt at all, Kit, where kindness is concerned. Now I will leave. I'd not have you late for your wedding. But be sure my thoughts go with you, now and always.'

He had walked away before Kit could stop him, and a moment later was through the door. Where kindness is concerned. Now there was a strange remark.

Captain Hilton. Captain Hilton, sir.' Passmore, the head overseer, a tall young man whose pretensions to good looks were spoiled by a squint, dressed in his best clothes, perspiring and anxious. 'It is time, sir.'

Kit followed him into the dining-room, and beyond, to the withdrawing-room, crowded with shuffling, whispering, sweating planters and their wives, with the plantation overseers and book-keepers and their wives also, all wearing unaccustomed finery they could ill afford. Everyone in Antigua, Marguerite had promised. No, in the entire Leewards. Providing they possessed wealth or position, or were her employees. He feared for the safety of the floor, and smiled at them as he passed along, while they gazed at him and renewed their chattering; few had met him, but all had heard of him, of what he had been and of how he had come to be here.

'Captain Hilton. My word, sir, but you are looking your best today. As indeed you should be, sir.' The Reverend Spalding, wearing his best black surplice, and with a new wig. And being hypocritically charming, unaware that his conversation of six weeks ago had been overheard.

'Indeed, reverend,' Kit said. 'I also feel at my best.'

'Again as you should be, sir.' Spalding winked. 'I swear there is not a man in this congregation, nay, in the entire island, who is not heartily jealous of you at this moment, and will be more so as the evening goes on. But come, sir, I would have you meet your most important guest. Sir William Stapleton, Captain Christopher Hilton.'

The Governor of the Leeward Islands was a tall man with a red face and a martial air; he wore a red coat and a black periwig, and was one of the few gentlemen present to have retained his sword; but then he was a soldier pure and simple, who had made his reputation in the late war. Rumour had it that he was not popular with the planters; had he a touch of true patriotism in his soul Kit could well understand that.

'The buccaneer.' Stapleton's voice was dry. But he shook hands. 'You are to be congratulated, sir. Alone amongst the people here I claim no acquaintance of your famous grandfather. Had we met I should no doubt have been after hanging him from his own yardarm. But I am most heartily pleased at your own good fortune, sir.'

'My thanks, Your Excellency.' Kit wondered just what yardarm would be made available were the Governor ever to discover he had commanded the Bonaventure in its brush with the warship. Or was he, now being a member of the plantocracy, immune from such proceedings? It was a most delightful feeling.

'Kit, my dear fellow.' Edward Chester, his face as red as his hair. 'How good to see you again. You have not met my wife. Mary, this is the man himself.'

Mary Chester gave a little giggle of embarrassment, and half curtsied. She was hardly more than a girl, and plump and fair. 'You are the sole subject of conversation at our tea parties, Captain.'

'Which means your reputation has been torn to shreds, Kit,' Chester beamed. 'But I doubt that troubles you in the slightest. And dare I hope, once this happy affair is consummated, that we shall once again see darling Marguerite in society? The island has seemed a duller place these past few months.'

'I'm sure you should ask that question of Marguerite,' Kit said, and could not help but add, 'dear Edward,' just to watch the planter's eyes flicker. What a horde of hypocrites they were, to be sure.

A fan tapped him on the shoulder, and he hastily turned. This woman was almost as tall as himself, and middle-aged; her face was sun-browned and long, and unhappy, and her body angular. 'I think it is time,' she said, 'for you to take your place, and for us to meet. I am Celestine Warner.'

'Madam,' Kit said in confusion. 'Forgive my manners. I should have sought you out immediately. But I was not sure ...'

'If we would attend? The marriage of our own ...' she sighed, 'daughter? Who else do you think would give the bride away? Now come, I am sure these good people will have as much time as they need to gawp at you and pick your brains and whisper behind your back. For the moment, let us have you married.'

A woman to be liked. Because she alone was honest? Or because he could see the misery in her eyes; the strain of being Philip Warner's wife?

Passmore was waiting to escort him from the house, into the suddenly brilliant sunshine, and into, too, the cheers of the slaves, assembled in a vast mass half-way down the hill to applaud their master and mistress; for this day there had been no field labour. And how hot it was. As he smiled and waved at the Negroes he could feel sweat trickling down his arms. But he at least was fortunate; he was entering the chapel. How unlucky were those guests forced to remain outside; there was room within for only the twenty most distinguished.

The Reverend Spalding was already in place before the altar, almost obscured by the masses of flowers, and the spinet was gaining in volume. Kit heard the whisperings behind him, and the restless turning of heads and craning of necks. But he would not turn himself. He waited, until the soft footfalls sounded beside him, and then he allowed himself to smile at her, and was dazzled in return. She had elected to indulge her taste for colour, and wore a pink taffeta gown with gold stripes and a red lining, pulled back from a white silk underskirt which was edged with silver; her bows were of green velvet to complete a kaleidoscope of colour, magnificently set off by her hair, which was loose and brushed forward over her shoulders to lie against the brilliance of her gown, and was in turn illuminated by the high, white lace head-dress, which matched the white lace ruffles on her sleeves, while over her underskirt she wore a white linen apron, edged with lace. Her only jewellery was her pearl necklace, but her fan was ivory, and the whole was shrouded in the richness of her scent and illuminated by the splendour of her personality. She filled even the crowded chapel, and left it empty of competitors. Kit did not even notice Philip Warner, at his most resplendent, standing at her left shoulder.

And now her hand was in his, soft and damp, and the priest was beginning to speak.

'Gad, sir, but were I at sea on this night, and looking towards this shore, I would suppose this island to have suddenly discovered for itself a volcano such as St Lucia or Martinique.' Stapleton swayed, and tugged his cravat somewhat looser. The Governor had consumed a great deal of liquor. But then, who had not? And his observation was accurate enough, Kit thought, as he leaned against one of the verandah uprights, and looked out at the yard. There a gigantic bonfire had been

lit, safe enough from the house for what breeze there was blew the sparks towards the canefields. And here the Negroes danced. And what a dance, for they had decked themselves out in a variety of fantastic garments and head-dresses, feathers and the masks of weird beasts, huge jaws and snapping teeth, great rolling eyes and long waving stalks of arms, some reaching as high as the second storey of the house itself, and they stamped and shuffled and swayed, brought their bodies close together, men and women, and separated again in long snaking lines. They had been given rum to drink on this most special occasion in their lives and they were celebrating the marriage of their mistress.

Johnny Canoe,' George Frederick had said. 'They dance to the memory of Johnny Canoe.'

So then, was there nothing but pleasure in their sinuous movements? For Johnny Canoe was the English corruption of the name of the chieftain who had held his court in the Bight of Benin, and who had rounded up these unfortunates for sale to the Dutch slave traders. And if they were dancing to pull down a curse on his unhappy memory, might they not also, locked away in the secrets of their obeah, or magical religion, be bringing down curses on their mistress and their new master?

But they looked happy enough, and sounded more so. They exuded a quality of insidious sexuality, of abandon and gaiety, increased and accentuated by the throbbing drum which seeped upwards through the night, which reached out and encompassed the white people on the verandah. But certainly they too were in a mood to be titillated. They had drunk far too much, and they were gathered to celebrate a wedding, with all that entailed and promised; in the dark corners of the verandah men stroked and squeezed women they would normally pass by with a decorous bow, and women smiled and gasped, and sought this evening's temporary escape from the prison of their homes and their husbands. Why, Kit thought, given another hour, the entire crowd will be coupling on the floor.

Such was the power of the African drum. But it was not to be. Marguerite had drunk hardly at all, and she was on her feet, and at the sight of that dominant figure the drum stopped without warning, and the dancers too, and silence descended on the compound almost like a blanket dropped from the sky.

'Enough,' Marguerite said. 'I have been a widow for more than a year. My bed and my body alike have wilted in their loneliness. Would you keep me longer from my husband's manhood?'

A gale of cheering and laughter swept the night. The Negroes yelled and stamped and clapped their hands; but the drum remained silent. No one could doubt that the slaves at Green Grove were the best disciplined on the island.

But not the planters and their wives. Kit was seized by a forest of arms and rushed up the great staircase, a path along which Marguerite, laughing and protesting, had already been carried, and into one of the spare bedrooms, where his clothes were torn from his body with scant regard for Barnee's exquisite stitching, and replaced by an embroidered silk nightshirt, to the accompaniment of loud laughter and louder lewdity, and then hustled along the gallery, while the house servants and the more faint-hearted of the guests gathered in the hall below to clap and cheer their approbation of the coming events.

The great bedchamber was so crowded Kit doubted they would get through. But a space was cleared, and he was pushed between the laughing, cheering women, each of whom reached out to squeeze or kiss some portion of his anatomy. But at the least the enormous implications of everything that was happening were having the desired effect, and he was as hard and as anxious as any boy confronted with his first naked breast. God forbid that he should be anything less; he did not suppose this crowd would be satisfied with second hand news. Not on an evening of rum and sangaree.

Marguerite was already ensconced beneath the sheets in the huge four poster, the covers held primly to her neck, her hair spreading across the pillows. Her smile was a delicious indication of pleasure; this was her night, and clearly she felt not a drop of embarrassment, much less nervousness. Not even when the sheets were raised to allow him in, and the men gave a roar of approval as they caught a brief glimpse of her naked body.

And how warm she was. And damp. And eager.

'The thrust,' they shrieked. 'We'll see the first thrust, by God.'

Her breath was on his face, her smiling teeth but inches away. 'You'd best accommodate them, dear Kit,' she whispered. ' 'Tis certain they'll not leave us alone before.'

He drove his body downwards. Christ, what a memory that brought back, clouding up out of his unconscious to blanket his brain with despair. But there could be no despair here. There was no risk of this quivering body sliding away into a void of empty flesh. This was his, and again, and again, for as long and as often as he could wish or accomplish.

Her arms were tight on his back, and her voice continued to whisper in his ear. 'Stay,' she insisted. 'Stay, and thrust. Stay and thrust. And begone,' she shouted. 'It is done.'

The noise flowed around his head, filled his ears, clouded his senses. He thrust, and kissed her neck, her eyes, her nose and her mouth, and thrust again, and discerned the noise receding, driven by the sharp voice of Celestine Warner. The groom had proved himself a man, and the bride had revealed herself to be content. Now at last was the wedding completed, and now at last could they be left in peace.

And now at last was he exhausted, and prepared to sleep. But not to dream. A blanket descended on his mind, as he slipped from her warmth to lie on the cooler sheet, to lose himself in the oblivion of utter contentment, to awake, reluctantly, dragging his mind upwards through endless eons of drowsy sleep, to blink in the daylight, and marvel at the silence, although always there was that ripple of muted sound just beyond earshot, which told him that the plantation was also awake, and beginning its daily round.

The bed was empty. He sat up, pushing hair from his forehead, looking around him in sudden alarm. And finding Marguerite, fully dressed in her riding habit, standing at the window gazing out at the canefields somewhat pensively, but turning as she heard the movement.

'Sweetheart.' She came towards him, striking the small gong on the table as she did so. 'I would not disturb you earlier.'

'My darling.' He reached for her shoulders as she sat on the bed, explored her mouth.

A soft sound alerted them, and she released him as Martha Louise placed the tray on the table by the bed. 'Coconut milk,' Marguerite said. 'Cool and refreshing, and essential for a man on his honeymoon.'

He drank, and indeed it tasted delicious.

'And now,' she said. 'You must get dressed. For we must honeymoon as and when we may. There is a plantation to be managed, and I would have you play your part as soon as possible, that the people here may be in no doubt that they have a master again.'

'Of course.' He got out of bed. ' 'Tis a responsibility I have long anticipated sharing.'

'I will send the girls to you.' She turned, to face the still opened door as booted feet clumped on the stairs. 'Well?'

Passmore stood there, his face flushed, his hat held in both his hands. 'He had sought the beach, Mistress Templeton.'

Marguerite smiled. 'My name is Hilton, Passmore. I'd not have you forget that in the future. Aye, the beach. I had supposed him more intelligent. Which but proves how absurd it is to waste time in worrying. Very good, Passmore. Prepare the fire. I will attend shortly. As soon as Captain Hilton is dressed.'

Passmore bowed, and withdrew. Kit was already reaching for his pants. 'There has been a misadventure?'

'I had supposed so,' she said. 'But I was mistaken. I purchased a new batch of slaves but a month ago, and one of them, a buck about whom I will confess I had some doubts at the time, chose to make the excitement and the preoccupation of yesterday as an excuse to abscond from the plantation.'

'By God,' Kit said. 'A runaway.'

She buttoned his shirt for him. 'Every so often there is a new arrival who behaves in this fashion.'

'And you knew this, yesterday?' He held her shoulders. 'And did not tell me?'

'It was your wedding day.'

'Was it not yours?'

She smiled, and kissed him on the mouth. 'Slaves are a problem I grew up with. To you they may appear to be a problem. And as it happened, you would have been needlessly concerned. The poor savage but sought the beach, and clung there until my people found him, this morning. Now come, we must attend his execution.'

'His ...' Kit's hands slowly fell to his side. 'His execution?'

'Of course,' she said. 'There is only one punishment for runaways. He will be burned alive, as soon as you are dressed.'

6

Across the Water

Marguerite had already left the house and was about to mount her horse when Kit caught up with her. 'You cannot mean that,' he said.

A Negro slave held her bridle, and Maurice Peter waited to give her a knee up to her side-saddle. Her six mastiffs trotted from the house to follow her. She settled herself, reins in her left hand, and looked down at him. "What else can I mean? There is no other punishment for runaways.'

'But ...' he grasped her stirrup. 'It is barbaric, Marguerite. I ... I had no idea of what they spoke, when they warned me that I might not find everything here to my liking. But this ...'

She frowned, very slightly. 'They?'

He waved his hand. 'Everyone. Barnee

Her forehead cleared. "What did Barnee have to say about me, Kit?'

He felt his cheeks burning. She was so calm, and so admonitory, as if she were a schoolmarm and he a little boy. 'He said your methods were your own.'

'Ah,' she said. 'Indeed they are, sweet Kit.'

'I could detect no approval in his tone. Rather the reverse.'

She smiled. 'No doubt Barnee's approval is important to you. We will discuss my methods, you and I, my darling. But not in front of the house servants. Will you mount, and ride with me?'

Another horse waited. Kit scrambled into the saddle, and grasped the reins with both hands. She regarded him with a critical look.

'We will have to make you practise, I think. Nothing so earns a man respect as to sit a horse well.'

Now he was angry. 'I assure you, madam, I need to earn respect from no man.'

'I never doubted that for an instant, Kit. I but wished to be sure you always possessed mine.' She walked her horse in front of him, began the descent of the gradual slope towards the slave compound. She pointed, with her whip, at the houses grouped perhaps half a mile to their right. 'I have not had the chance to show you our plantation, my darling. That is the village of the white staff.'

'I had gathered that for myself.'

She half turned her head, then changed her mind and ignored the brusqueness in his tone. 'Have you any idea how many people live there, as you are so knowledgeable?'

'You told me you employed thirty overseers.'

'Only twenty overseers,' she said. 'The other ten are bookkeepers, and men with a knowledge of machinery who are required to keep the grinding house in good repair. For upon that our entire prosperity depends.' Her whip moved, a few inches, to point to the bulk of the boiling house, dominated by its huge square chimney, even larger than that which rose from the kitchen of the Great House. 'But of course,' she said, 'they have their wives and families living with them. I even employ a schoolteacher, a lady from St John's. My intention is to make Green Grove entirely self-supporting. In all, counting you and me, my darling, there are fifty-seven white people on this plantation.'

'A sizeable number.'

'And yet hardly sufficient.' The whip moved again, to point to the rows of barracoons at the bottom of the hill. 'When you consider that there are five hundred blacks. Now tell me, Kit, what do you think keeps them down there, and us up here? For I do assure you, it is a mistake to assume the blacks entirely lack intelligence, or the ability to count. Perhaps you imagine that it is the knowledge of your good right arm, your unerring accuracy with a pistol, your terrible prowess with a sword. But you arrived here only last month, and they have been there for twenty years and more.'

'Now you seek to mock me.'

'I shall never do that, Kit. I give you my word. But I must make you understand that we live in a world which is constructed upon fear, and fear alone. Those blacks fear my overseers, because they know the overseers will punish them savagely for any transgressions, but they fear me more, because they know also that my overseers are but carrying out my will. And now it is our will, Kit. There can be no doubt in anyone's mind that this is so.'

'I understand everything you say, Marguerite. And I appreciate the reasoning behind it. I even appreciate that it may be necessary to execute runaways, although by my faith I find it hard to punish a man so terribly for behaving as I should myself. But if it is to be the case, why not hang him or shoot him or behead him? Is not the mere fact of dying awful enough? To burn a man alive ... can there be a worse fate?'

'There can indeed,' she remarked. 'But that is reserved for the black who raises his or her hand to a white. As for burning alive, it is barbaric to be sure. But then, you see, we are not concerned with the man who is about to die. He is dead from the moment he makes the fateful decision to break out. We are concerned with the effect we must have upon the brains of those who remain behind upon this earth and more particularly upon this estate. They must hold at the forefront of their minds, for the rest of their lives, the awful spectacle, the awful sound, the awful stench, of a man they know being consumed to ashes, so that whenever the idea of escape enters their minds, they will reject it instinctively. Now come, they are ready.'

They had reached the foot of the hill, and the entrance to the slave compound. Here the majority of the overseers were gathered, for in view of the escape there was no field work today, as yet; the white men were mounted, and armed, at once with the fearful cartwhip and with swords and pistols. In front of them, gathered in a vast concourse, dressed uniformly in white calico, drawers for the men and chemises for the women, were the slaves; their children milled about them, but these were permitted to be naked. They looked no different to the previous afternoon, save that today they were silent, and there were no smiles to be seen. They watched the overseers, and they watched their approaching mistress, and they watched too the stake erected outside their gate, made of green timber, but surrounded by carefully dried wood and leaves stacked as high as a man's knees.

Passmore waited some distance from his fellows. Now he urged his horse closer to Marguerite's. 'It is ready, Mistress Hilton.' His eyes flickered to Kit, and then back again.

Marguerite turned her head. 'Will you give the order, my darling?'

He gazed at her in utter horror. 'Me? I cannot, Marguerite, I swore an oath, after Panama, that I would never again take a human life, except in defence of my own.'

Her frown was beginning to gather, as Passmore was beginning to smile.

'Surely you were then suffering from the pangs of conscience, my darling,' she said gently. 'Oaths should be sworn only in the clear light of sober day.'

'None the less, it was sworn,' Kit insisted. 'And can you not make an exception, this day of all days? It is the first of your new married life. No one could possibly mistake a gesture of magnanimity as weakness this morning. Why, kings and queens are accustomed to grant an amnesty on the morrow of their coronation.'

Marguerite looked at him for some seconds, then she said, still without taking her eyes from her husband's face, 'You may bring the prisoner out, Passmore.' She waited until the overseer was out of earshot, then she said, still speaking very softly, 'Dear, dear Kit, I do admire your humanity. But please believe me when I say that even if you meant to honour your oath, it would hardly apply to these blacks.'

'Are they not human?' Kit demanded.

A slight shrug of those exquisite shoulders. 'Perhaps, if we stretch the term. But I would not do so. They are certainly an inferior species. Can you doubt that? Oh, you will hold up Agrippa, of course. Then Agrippa is a human amongst the sub-humans. I would willingly hold you up, as a demigod. Yet would I not suppose you the Deity Himself. And are we not in His image created? There are classes of all things. So there is God, and His angels, and there are men, and there are blacks. Believe me, Kit, as you have studied seamanship and battle, the use of weapons and the leadership of men, I have, perforce, had to study these creatures to whom you would arrogate a humanity equal to your own. If you have a 158 fault at all, it is your own modesty, your own diminution of yourself and your species. I would correct that so slight fault. Now hear me out. You have but to ask of me. No, I would not have it so. Demand of me, Kit, and it shall be yours, of my person and of my wealth. Both are considerable. Would you have a ship, larger than any ever built? I will build it for you. Would you have a sword, made of solid gold, and yet sewn through with steel to make it a serviceable weapon? Be sure that you shall have it. Would you take the whip to my back? Be sure, that in the privacy of our bedchamber, I will bend before you, and smile while the blood flows. In return I ask only two things of you. Nay, I demand only two things of you, in exchange for the immensity I now place within your grasp. Support me in the rule of Green Grove, for upon this rock are all our powers founded. And love me, and me alone. I am sufficiently a woman, who has already been married, to understand that my body may not always satisfy a true man. But love only me, Kit, no matter where you may find your comfort. Supposing I should become unable to provide it for you. Now let us, together, supervise this execution.'

For the black man was being brought from the hut in which he had been chained, by four of the Negro foremen, heads held high as they dragged their victim forth, because they were acting for the superior being, the demi goddess, the mistress.

The man himself scarce wasted his time in fighting them or in struggling, and he knew better than to waste his precious breath in begging for mercy. But as he was taken to the stake he stared at Marguerite, and occasionally his lips moved, silently.

'He is cursing you,' Kit said.

'I have been cursed before. But he left his gods behind in Africa. They will not help him here.'

The man was at the stake, and being pressed against it while iron chains were passed around his waist and under his armpits, and secured to keep him upright. Meanwhile his drawers were removed from his thighs, to leave him naked.

'Can you not spare him that, at the least?' Kit asked.

'Material costs money,' Marguerite pointed out. 'Even

calico, my darling. One makes a profit from a sugar plantation by saving wherever possible. Not by throwing one's goods away.' She raised her voice. 'You may light the fire, Mr Passmore.'

Passmore nodded, and dismounted. The torch had already been kindled, and was held by another of the Negro foremen. Now it was handed to the overseer, and a moment later a puff of smoke rose from the pyre, accompanied by the first tongues of flame. Kit wrapped his hands tight round the reins, and felt the sweat start out on his cheeks and shoulders. But then, the morning was starting to heat as the sun rose above the eastern hilltops, out of that endless ocean from whence this man had come, and upon which he now looked for the last time.

A moan arose from the throats of the slaves, rising and falling like a dirge. Kit glanced at Marguerite, but she gave no indication of having heard it. Certainly she was not affected. Her face was expressionless as she gazed at the man, who still stared at her, through the pain and the anguish which filled his eyes. Her own eyes were soft, almost perhaps filled with tears. The schoolteacher. She regretted what must be done, because there were good muscles being wasted. But done it must be, for the good of all. For the discipline of all.

And now the dying man cried out, time and again, and his own wail joined the chant of the slaves. But it lasted a surprisingly short time. He inhaled smoke and choked, and died, before his body was consumed. Yet must they sit there, and stand there, and watch, as the fire crackled and the smoke pyre reached upwards towards the clear blue of the heavens. Once I was a buccaneer, Kit thought, a common cutpurse, a creature of passion, who fought and robbed and raped while convulsed with passion. But now I am one of the elite. There is none higher than me in all the Caribee Isles. I live like a king, and I command like a king. And I punish like a king, as well, with slow and deliberate enmity. Did I not always dream of possessing such power?

'Be sure the ashes are scattered, Passmore,' Marguerite said. She touched her horse's flanks with her heels. 'You'll stay by my side, Kit,' she said, without looking over her shoulder.

The horse was advancing towards the slave compound.

'You'd go amongst them now?' Kit asked in wonderment.

'Should I not, my darling?' Her voice was low. 'It is my, our, daily duty, Kit. For even plantation owners have duties, alas.'

Kit gazed at the slaves as they approached. Behind him the flames were roaring and the man was silent, and dead. The spectacle was over. The overseers were moving forward as well, barking their orders, and the foremen were taking their whips from their belts. The Negroes were falling into gangs with well disciplined obedience, but Kit saw to his horror that each man, and each woman, was armed with a sharp knife, almost a small sword, although it had no point and no guard to the haft. And now Marguerite was amongst them, and they stood to each side of her horse, touching their foreheads in eager humility, and averting their eyes.

He drew level as they passed the last of the throng and gained the beaten earth of the compound itself. 'They could have torn us to pieces in seconds.'

'I explained that to you, but a minute ago,' she said. 'Because we are we, and they are they, it will never happen. They have brains, but only to feel, and fear, not to reason. Not to aspire to anything more than the food I allow them twice a day, and the mug of rum I allow them once a week.' She reined, and George Frederick stooped to allow her to place her boot in the centre of his back as she dismounted. Kit joined her, pulling the kerchief from his pocket to wipe the sweat from his neck and brow. Another foreman was waiting, an older man, this time, with grizzled hair and bent shoulders, and they were to inspect something Kit had not noticed before, a row of six frames set beyond the houses, placed in the ground like inverted hoops, although with square edges. From the crossbar of each of the frames there hung a naked body, and to his dismay he saw that only four of them were men; the other two were women.

But disgust had not yet come upon him. It grew as he approached, and saw the marks on their backs, great gashes in the black skin, crimson trenches in which the blood had coagulated.

He stared at Marguerite, and his mouth slowly opened in utter horror. Her expression had not changed; not even the faintest wrinkle marked her lip or her forehead. But she slowly pulled the glove from her right hand, and with a bared forefinger actually touched the wounds on the back of the first man. 'Enough,' she said. 'Salt.' She passed on to the next, again touching and this time even stroking the serrated flesh. 'What of him?'

'He does curse, mistress,' the foreman said. 'He does kick and curse you.'

'Another two dozen,' she said. The body quivered, but the man did not speak.

'What crimes have they committed?' Kit asked.

'Insubordination in the fields.' Marguerite was stroking the back of the third man, and commanding him to be cut down.

Kit gazed at the blood on her hands. 'Are you not afraid?' 'Of what?' She had reached the women. 'Of... of disease?'

Marguerite smiled. 'It is good blood, Kit. Were they diseased, they would not have been in the fields in the first place. It is also our responsibility to care for that. Take these girls down,' she told the foreman. 'No doubt they will behave in the future.'

'Yes, mistress.' He held out a towel, and a woman waited with a basin of water. Marguerite washed and dried her hands, and then led the entourage, like an inspecting queen, it occurred to Kit, towards another hut, larger than any of the others and set a little apart from them. But then, he realized, she is a queen, here on Green Grove, and I am no more than her consort.

The door was being opened, and they stepped into the gloom. A noisome gloom, for although the interior of the house was carefully washed with lime, and quite recently, and there was clean straw on the floor, yet the smell of human sweat and human excrement could not be excluded.

'Is this, then, your prison house?' Kit muttered.

'We do not have a prison house,' Marguerite said. 'The lash is sufficient for disciplinary purposes.'

Now that his eyes were accustomed to the sudden end of the brilliant sunshine he could see that there were perhaps a score of people in here, men and women, lying on pallets on the straw, most trying to raise themselves on their elbows as their mistress came in, but several unable even to muster that much strength.

One of the men following Marguerite ran forward with a three-cornered stool, and placed it beside the first of the sick men. Marguerite sat down, and leaned forward, over the trembling Negro, a young fellow, whose eyes rolled. 'How is it today, Peter Thomas?' she asked, her voice like a soothing zephyr of breeze.

Peter Thomas's eyes rolled some more. 'Oh, man, mistress, it itch itch too bad.'

'But that is good, Peter Thomas,' she said. 'It shows you are fighting the poison. I will look at it.'

The foreman hastily knelt beside the sick man and pulled the cover away from his leg, which was swollen to twice its size. Peter Thomas screamed as the foreman seized the leg itself, and raised it, for Marguerite to feel and prod the swelling sore which was dominating the misshapen calf.

'What happened to him?' Kit whispered.

'He was stung by some insect in the field. I have no idea what it was. But of course he scratched the puncture, and inflammation set in.' She sighed. 'They are a careless people, of their healths no less than of my profit. But this will heal. It is good, Peter Thomas,' she said. 'You will soon be well. He may have a glass of rum, Henry William.'

'Oh, yes, mistress,' the foreman said. 'He going like that. You hear what the mistress say, Peter Thomas? You ain't happy?'

'I happy, mistress,' Peter Thomas muttered. 'I happy.'

Marguerite stood up, walked on to the next patient, a woman who lay on her back, face drawn with pain.

'Do you remember all of their names?' Kit asked.

'I try to do so. I give them their titles myself. It is of course necessary to have two names for every one or we should soon run out. I keep a roster, of twenty-six names, from Arthur to Zebadiah, and another, from Alice to Zenobia, and merely couple two in strict rotation. This permits me to recall them with some ease, and I have not yet had to use a dead man's name. In fact, I have not yet reached Thomas as a prefix. Peter Thomas is one of my newest arrivals.'

The stool was in place, and as she sat down the coverlet was removed. This time even Kit bent forward; the woman's thigh was enclosed between two boards, drawn tightly one in front and the other behind, and secured by rope bands which ran round the thigh itself and across the pelvis to constrict the body as much as possible.

Marguerite was frowning as she leaned over the girl, and at the shriek of agony which drifted from the clenched lips at her touch.

'It is not knitting,' she said.

'No, mistress,' Henry William agreed. 'I ain't see how it going to do that.'

Marguerite sighed, and stood up. 'A fall,' she explained to Kit. 'It really is very bad. She was a good worker.'

'And can she not be so again?'

'With a deformed thigh? No, I do not see that she can ever be put to useful employment again.' She was standing in the centre of the room now, Henry William attentive at her elbow. 'You'd best see to it, Henry William. This day.'

Kit caught her arm as she would have moved on. 'You cannot mean to murder her?'

Marguerite's head turned. 'I'd be obliged if you'd keep your voice down, my darling. These people are sick, and it would not be good for them to understand our measures. No, I am not going to murder her. I am going to put her to sleep. Believe me, she will not feel a thing.'

'And you do not call that murder?'

'For God's sake, Kit, how can one murder a slave? You will be speaking next of murdering horses, or cats, or dogs. Would you not shoot your horse were he to break his leg and become a useless encumbrance? And you would shoot it. Hannah Jane will never know what is happening to her.' She turned away, and was already seating herself beside the next patient, when she discovered Kit was no longer at her side. He was in fact pushing the blacks aside as he made for the door.

'Enough,' Marguerite said, standing up again. 'I will see to the rest later.'

The blacks parted, and she reached Kit as he himself gained the open air.

'That must not happen again,' she said. 'You have a duty, to me no less than to the rest of the planting community on Antigua, never to show weakness in front of the blacks. Nor had I supposed you to possess such weakness.'

'No doubt I have similarly misjudged,' he muttered.

She gazed at him, her brows brought together in a frown. 'I doubt that,' she said. 'I doubt that, Kit. Come, we shall leave the sick house and attend to something more congenial.' She seized his hand. For a moment he almost shrank away from her as he recollected that but a few seconds earlier that hand had been covered with blood. But it had been washed, and was cool to the touch. And now she was leading him on, to yet another compound, set at the back of the slave village proper, and reached by a high gate, which was thrown wide as the master and mistress approached. 'Here you will find nothing but happiness, I do assure you, Kit. Here the blacks are kept at stud.'

This time the entourage stopped at the fence, and Marguerite entered by herself, hesitating just long enough to make sure Kit was still at her shoulder. Henry William had rung the bell which waited by the gate, and from the huts there now came a score of young people, equally divided as to sex, naked and apparently delighted to see their mistress. As she seemed delighted to see them, and moved around them, apparently in no way embarrassed by their animated sexuality, speaking with them, laughing and smiling and praising, now and then stopping for a longer chat as if discussing a problem.

Kit remained on the outside of the gathering, watching his wife, watching the naked female flanks and the thrusting male penises, feeling the blood pumping into his own arteries. This was the first morning of his married life. The first morning of an eternity of mornings, which would be spent awakening in those magnificent arms and against that magnificent body, but knowing too that within an hour he would be out here, with the punished and the sick and the productive.

'Are they not splendid?' Marguerite demanded, returning to him. 'They will bear magnificent children.'

'My mind is in a whirl,' he said. 'You control their mating?'

'Of course. Supposing they are of child-bearing age.' She led him back out of the compound. 'For where would be the purpose in investing so much money in these creatures and then allowing them to bed at will, with the inevitable consequences of bearing unhealthy and certainly unwanted children? Ah, our drink.'

George Frederick had returned from the house, bearing a tray on which there waited a jug of sangaree and two glasses. These he now filled, and Marguerite raised her own. 'This will sustain us until it is breakfast time. We will do the animal farm and the nearer canefields this morning, and ride aback proper tomorrow.'

Their horses had also been brought forward, and now George Frederick handed his tray to Henry William so that he could assist his mistress up. Kit mounted in turn, and Marguerite smiled at the assembly. 'I am satisfied,' she said.

They clapped their pleasure and parted to allow the two horses out of the compound. The dogs padded at their heels. Marguerite glanced at Kit. 'But I doubt you are.'

'As I said, madam, I am overwhelmed. I have lived in a world of unbounded passion all my life. Here I find unbounded order, and control. I wonder how you manage events so to your satisfaction.'

'It but takes thought,' she said. 'Certain it is that a woman will conceive on at least one day in every twenty-eight, even if we cannot be sure which day is the true one. So I select ten of my girls, every month, after careful inspection, and send them to that compound, along with ten young men ...'

'Also carefully selected, no doubt,' Kit said.

She chose to ignore his sarcasm. 'Of course, my darling. The owner of a plantation must be all things, to all things. And then they are commanded to have intercourse on every day of the month. It very seldom fails.'

'Would it not be simpler just to let your slaves couple as they choose? As I am certain they do in any event.'

She drew rein and checked her mount where the path came to a cross. 'They do not,' she said. 'I will cut the stem from any man who takes a child-bearing woman wantonly on Green Grove. I cannot afford more than a strictly limited number of pregnancies. True enough that these girls are uncommonly hardy, and will work until the babe drops between their legs, but I cannot risk that either. I am laying down a stock for the future, Kit. For our children. Slaves are essential, for the operating of the plantation. But they are also uncommonly expensive. And will grow more so. Now, if we can produce our own, generation after generation, why, our children and our grandchildren will depend upon nothing but themselves. But the stock, must be strong, and obedient, and healthy. This is our aim.'

'And you will pretend that there is no fornication on this plantation save as instructed by you?'

'Once a woman is past child-bearing, she may couple to her heart's content, and any young man may put her to good use. Girls who may bear children know well that should they do so without my permission they will be punished. And severely, I do warrant that.' But her frown was back as she studied him. 'I wonder if we have not worked enough for the first day of our married life. I think we shall leave the fields and return to the house.'

She urged her horse up to the right-hand path, and Kit rode behind her. Christ, how confused he was. How uncertain.

'And is what you have shown me today common practice on all the plantations in Antigua?'

'By no means. Nor was it common practice here, until four years ago. For the most, my fellow planters allow the blacks, in whom they have invested nearly their entire fortunes, to go their own way, live and die and fornicate and drop their children with as little interference from their masters as possible. Truly are they a thoughtless society. But then, is there a society which is not?'

'And for this they speak of you in whispers.'

Once again she reined her horse. 'For this they feel that I am beyond their understanding. Were I a man, perhaps, with ideas to put into practice, they would be less aghast. That I am a woman, and young, and even beautiful, would you not say, but yet will go amongst my blacks, and feel their wounds, examine a male weapon, deliver, on occasion, a babe myself and cut the cord myself, this they feel is indecent, unbecoming. Would you not say they are fools? I do the same when one of my mares is in foal.'

Kit stared at her.

'Aye,' she said. 'You are, after all, no more than a man, Kit.

But you are my man. We'll not forget that, either of us. Now race me to the house.'

Her whip cracked on the rump of her horse, and it started off at a gallop. Dust flew from its heels, and her hair scattered behind her as she charged up the hill. Kit followed more slowly, keeping his hand tight on the reins. He doubted his ability to keep his seat at that speed, and besides, it was an opportunity to think. As if he dared, to think. Marguerite Warner, Marguerite Templeton, Marguerite Hilton. She was everything he had ever wanted. She was everything any man could ever have wanted. She was a walking dream, in her smell, in her confidence, in her very being.

So then, had he supposed he was marrying a doll? A creature without thought or judgement of her own? He had never supposed that. He had wanted her as much for her spirit and her obvious intelligence as for the promise of her thighs. So then, that spirit and that intelligence was now his, had he the spirit and the intelligence to master them. But to master them he must first of all master the world of which she had made herself the mistress.

So she was universally ... what was the word he sought? He could not be sure. Abhorred by her fellows? Hardly. They had come quickly enough to attend her wedding. Perhaps feared would be a more accurate description of the emotion she inspired, in the planters no less than in her blacks. She was feared for her ruthless certainty. She evaluated her situation, decided what must be done, and then did it, without a glance to left or to right, without hesitation, without a thought as to the possible hardship she might be inflicting.

And he was taking her to task for that? Had she not acted always upon such a principle, and with such determination, he would not now be riding up to the Great House, the master of Green Grove. She had defied family and convention and society in taking a buccaneer as her husband. Because she had chosen to do so. Only a fool would question her for that.