And, she admitted with childish delight, it was excitement andadventure and the promise of the joy of a new day--together. That was love.

Beyond that, she had no need to define love. Except to know that, evenin the midst of danger and the horror they'd left behind them, thismoment was right.

How else could she feel such confidence when they were sliding throughthe night, hurt, hungry, probably lost, with her at one end of the boatand Patrick, suffering in silence, at the other? It was because theywere together, and they had the luck of the Irish on their side.

She let out a deep satisfied sigh.

Patrick heard her sigh and echoed it with a mental sigh of his own. In his mind he was still seeing Catherine and Simicco dancing, sizzlingwith the jealousy it caused. Patrick knew Catherine well. He knew her passion and her honesty. What Simicco had put into their drinks, hedidn't know, but he knew it had clouded her judgment and made herbehave in a way that she would never have done of her own free will.

For no matter what happened, Patrick knew that Catherine was his.

What would have happened had Lopaz not shown up? Would Catherine be sharing Simicco's bed now? Would he be with Mona? He felt himself shudder and bit back an outcry from the pain of his injuries,refocusing his attention on Catherine. She'd grown quiet now, and inspite of her attempts to stay awake he was sure she'd fallen asleep.

Catherine was his, had been since their first kiss and those that hadfollowed each time she found a way to seclude them in the darkness of averanda, in the barn, by the river. She'd been in love, and forCatherine there'd been no holding back.

He'd been the one to hold back. Honor, restraint and fear had kept himfrom loving Catherine, until one afternoon by the lake when he'd nearlylost control. He hadn't entered her body, nor planted his seed withinher, but he'd touched and caressed and led her into such a state ofdesire that he'd finally given in and promised to come back for her.

Then she'd come after him, coming to his bed after he'd rescued herfrom the river. His head had been hurt, and he'd been caught up in thehauntingly familiar dream of loving Catherine. And that time he'd not held back. He'd thought it was Isabella. Now he wasn't sure. Catherine hadn't mentioned what had happened. And he couldn't ask.

He'd been such a fool.

In the past three days they'd come close to dying, could still die, andhe was worrying about honor. Honor had demanded that he send Catherine home until he could come to her with his name cleared and his monies restored. Now all that was in jeopardy.

Up to now, there'd been only him. He could take chances if he wanted to and nobody would be affected by the outcome except him and thewilling men who followed him. And he had taken chances, puttinghimself in constant danger, battling those who stood in his way, takingfrom those who'd tried to take from him.

And he'd been untouchable. He couldn't bring himself to tell Catherinethat was the way he'd risen in the ranks on the ship he'd stowed awayon, or later when he'd been captured by pirates and convinced thebearded sea baron to let him pledge allegiance to a more profitable wayof life.

Patrick's risk-taking increased. His reputation and his status hadgrown proportionately. Over and over, he'd looked the devil in the eyeand spit in his face. Until one day the captain of his ship had fallenin battle and Patrick had taken command. A few years later, his pursefull, his need for excitement took second place to his need to find aplace for himself in the world of normal people.

Luck had followed. Everything that Patrick touched had prospered. And luck, or fate, or perhaps a vision, had led him to Petersburg andCatherine, wearing her Indian dress and moccasins, was now only anarm's length away. And she was sighing in her sleep.

A terrible sadness filled his mind as he thought about the cause ofthat sigh. Until he'd met Catherine, Patrick had never loved anybody,except the memory of his mother. He'd never allowed himself to be close to anyone. That way the only pain he'd feel was his own, andhe'd pushed that so deep inside that it was not there at all.

Except it wasn't dead. It was very much alive, and ever since he'dfallen in love with Catherine it had begun to creep out of the cracksshe'd made in the shell around his heart. For the first time in his life, Patrick had allowed himself to need someone, even if the needcould only be temporary.

And temporary was all it could be. They had to survive and thatdepended on their trusting each other, working together, sharing. Out here, in the wilderness, he wasn't certain he could stay away from Catherine. He wasn't sure she'd let him.

He wasn't even certain he'd try.

For the length of time it took them to know their fate, they'd betogether. He couldn't change that, just as he couldn't change herfalling in love with him, or her coming after him. Mona was rightabout one thing; what was to be would be. There was no other way now. For out here, inthis blackness, there were no little people, no rainbow and no pot ofgold.

For now, they were all each other had. Patrick and Catherine, fightingtheir enemies together. But she was at one end of the boat and he was at the other. There was still Lopaz and Simicco to deal with, the longnight ahead, hazards they could neither anticipate, nor defend against.

But for now they were together. For now Patrick loved Catherine and he would protect her with his life.

Behind them, danger slid through the night. Evil holding on to itsthreat like a whisper, gaining in intensity with every labored breathof the bearer.

Chapter Twelve.

Q^rys^Q -Lopaz, his hand pressed against the wound in his side, forced his eyesto search the burning village. The ceremonial ground was dotted withbodies and shrouded with smoke like the crepe on a widow's bonnet.

"Where is Stone?"

The guide, the only Indian still alive in the clearing, stood wide-eyedand trembling.

"He and the woman, they ran toward the river."

"And the wild one, the one who shot me?"

"I don't know, Excellency."

"Forget him, for now. We have to stop Stone." Lopaz felt the blooddrip between his fingers. He wasn't going to die, not out here, notafter all he'd gone through, not without killing Stone. No, notStone-- McLendon.

Patrick McLendon, the Irishman he'd thought he killed, was escaping,heading back to civilization, toward the governor. When the governorheard McLendon's charges, he would send Lopaz to the farthest post inthe Spanish empire. The captain would never see New Orleansagain--unless he stopped McLendon.

He glanced at the mound on which the two throne chairs were placed. Fora moment he considered climbing the steps for a good look at thevillage. But the effort hardly seemed worthwhile.

Instead he turned back to the guide.

"Find him, you heathen, if you expect to be paid. Find him and kill him!"

But the man who'd led Lopaz to the Green Mounds of Earth for moneydidn't have a chance to betray his people any further. He died where he stood, from an arrow that sailed from the darkness.

And the resounding cry that accompanied the deed was something notquite human nor animal.

Lopaz bit back a cry of pain and motioned for his men to retreat. With fear etched on their faces, they stepped over the bodies of the Indiansthey'd killed, made their way back to the boats and pushed off into thebrackish water. The swamp was suddenly more acceptable than theforeboding sense of evil they were leaving behind.

They had gone only a few hundred yards when the boats began to fillwith water. By the time they sank, the men were terrified. Death was imminent, either by drowning, snakebite, gators or the unseen enemythey could hear following them along the shore.

Lopaz was the last to die and the most vocal. His cries stirred the swamp animals into a frenzy. Until finally there was only silence andthe land of moving water swallowed the evidence of the intruders, as it always had.

Patrick lost all sense of direction as he poled the boat through thenight. His shoulders ached. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, buthis ankle continued to swell until he found himself using the pole asmuch for a support as to move the boat forward. Finally he was forcedto rest his knee on one of the kegs in the boat. The only thing thatkept him going was the need to get Catherine to safety.

Catherine slept. Time blurred. The night went from black to a dullgray, and he wasn't certain whether it was because daylight was comingor because his vision was clouded from pain and lack of sleep.

There was a dreamlike haze about what he was seeing, almost as if itweren't real. Only the sound of the night animals calling out to oneanother broke the silence, that and the plop of the pole in thewater.

Wisps of fog shimmered eerily, just above the black surface. Mist rose, disintegrated and reformed, floating upward like an errant cloudthat had fallen to earth and been snared by an unseen hand below.

Then suddenly the fog was gone, and they were out of the swamp and intoa moonlit clearing. A crude shack hugged the bank, like an old manhunched against the cold. From the block of shadows a platformextended out over the creek where it had widened into a small pond.

"Catherine?"

Catherine came instantly awake. The sky was growing lighter, a wavysmear of shadows that began to take shape behind Patrick.

"Patrick, why did you let me fall asleep?" she cried out in dismay.

Then she remembered where they were and whispered, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, yet. Look ahead. Is that a cabin?"

A cabin? Shelter? She blinked her eyes, forcing the sleep away. Her head was pounding so that she could scarcely focus on the dwelling.

"Yes. Do you think it's safe?"

"I don't know, but I don't think I can go any farther. We need rest.

If we're to be attacked, we'll know it soon enough. "

Using the last of his strength, Patrick poled the pirogue up to thedock and caught hold of the wooden piling supporting it. Trying tostand alone was futile. The application of only a slight pressure tohis ankle resulted in a groan he couldn't hold back.

Catherine cast an anxious eye around the shoreline, then turned back toPatrick. She didn't know how he'd come this far on that ankle.

"Can you turn around and sit on the dock?" Catherine asked.

"If you can pull yourself up, I'll secure the boat."

With the boat rocking dangerously, he managed to lift his backside onto the platform. Catherine looped a vine rope attached to the dockthrough an iron circle that appeared to have been fashioned for thatpurpose at the front of the pirogue.

By the fading light of the moon she could see that Patrick's entirelower leg was swollen. It might even be broken. She didn't think he'd be able to walk on that leg now as he had when she helped him to fleeto the boat. She eyed the cabin warily, ever conscious of the grimnesswhich seemed permanently chiseled in his face.

Following Patrick's example she lifted her bottom to the dock andpulled herself up beside him.

"Can you stand if I help you?"

"I'll stand," he said.

"I was told that I never crawled as a babe and I won't start now."

He got first to his knees, then up on one leg, this time without asound. But Catherine could tell from his tightly drawn expression andthe weight of his body leaning on her that every step was sheer torturefor him.

"Hello, the house!" Patrick called out. He waited and added, "We comeas friends."

But there was no response and they started forward. The distance from the shore seemed to stretch out interminably. Patrick stumbled once,only once, this time not from pain but from almost three days withoutsleep. He nearly knocked Catherine down before he straightened andstepped onto the porch.

"We made it," Catherine whispered.

"Are you all right, Patrick?"

This time he didn't attempt an answer.

The hint of a breeze ruffled the giant tree limbs behind the hut like awarning. Catherine shivered. "Well, it looks deserted. Let's see if the door is locked."

It wasn't. Catherine pushed it open and heard the scurrying of somecreature inside. She hesitated. Whatever waited might be cornered. Atleast, outside, there was space to run. But Patrick needed to lie down. She stepped through the doorway, hoping that whatever occupiedthe hut had decided to vacate the premises.

Through a hole in the roof, the dying moonlight played across theshadowy interior, illuminating the shape of a crude bed, its headfastened to the wall.

With the last of their strength they crossed the creaking floor to thebed, where Patrick collapsed heavily, his good leg on the bed, theother resting on the floor. Carefully she placed one hand behind hisknee, cradling his heel with the other.

"Does it hurt bad?"

"I've hurt worse," he growled, stone-faced and silent as he lifted hisleg from her hands and settled it onto the straw mattress. The onlysound was that of Patrick's breath hissing between his teeth.

"I'll see if I can find something to make a fire so that I can treatyour leg."

"No, not until morning. We don't want to signal our presence." Patricklay back on the crude bed, unmindful of snakes, Indians or any other presence. Total exhaustion was claiming him. He could go nofarther.

"But you're hurt."

"My leg isn't going anywhere, and neither are we. It's nearlymorning.

We'll rest for a while. "

"What about that Indian, Simicco?"

"If he's out there we can't change it. We have to trust that Jillico found a way to slow him down. If not, I don't think I can fight himoff anyway. Let us rest, Catherine. Please, come lie down with me."

Moments later they were encased in each other's arms, peacefully,blissfully together. Catherine arranged herself carefully, taking carenot to touch his injured leg. Patrick was asleep almost instantly. Shecould imagine how tired he was. She lay for a long time, her cheekpressed against his bare chest, feeling every breath he took and everybeat of his heart.

Outside the hut the day broke.

Deep inside the swamp behind them, creatures went about their dailylives. The strong conquered the weak. The cunning outwitted the lesscrafty. On silent feet the night fled, leaving behind those who livein the light. Mother Earth met the sun once more.

When Catherine awoke, the sun was straight overhead, casting a circleof light to the floor from the hole in the roof. For a moment Catherine thought it to be a ceremonial fire in the centre of the room.

She shifted her position, felt Patrick's arm still clasped looselyaround her and smiled. Throughout the night he'd held her, bonded thetwo of them together as if he'd been afraid they'd become separated.

And neither had moved.

The cabin, made of logs chinked with mud, was crude, but it offeredprotection. In the corner was a rock fireplace with a table beforeit.

The remains of the cooking fire suggested that it had been some timesince it had been used. Catherine's stomach growled, reminding her howlong it had been since they'd eaten.

They needed food and water. Carefully she extricated herself fromPatrick's arms and came to her feet. In the light she could see his leg and the damage.

The lower leg was badly swollen. Blood was crusted along the side ofhis calf just below his knee. It had dripped down and dried inrivulets of red. A deep rough cut through the surface of the skin. No wonder he'd fallen. He'd twisted his ankle, yes, but more, he'd beenwounded. Either a knife, or a ball from one of the Spanish guns hadsliced a chunk from his lower leg and buckled it under him. Patrick had been beaten, stabbed and wounded, all because of her.

And the wound had been left to fester. Catherine let out a most unladylike oath. They'd traveled all night without so much as evencleaning his injury, leaving it open to dirt, insects. God knew what.

There was a tightness about his mouth that suggested he was in pain,even as he slept, but he was too exhausted to know. She risked touching his face.

Patrick didn't react.