CAPTAIN'S BRIDE.

KAT MARTIN.

"From now on you'll do as I say, or you'll spend the rest of this voyage in your cabin."

Glory's eyes widened. Drawing herself up, she tilted her chin defiantly. "Why are you treating me this way?"

"Because, you little vixen, I'm trying to make you understand. The Black Spider is not a passenger ship. These men aren't used to having a woman on board- especially a beautiful woman. You're putting yourself in danger."

Nicholas cursed beneath his breath and hauled her against him. "This," he said, his voice cold, "is what I'm trying to make you see." Brutally, his mouth claimed hers. He felt her stiffen in surprise, her lips part in protest, and he deepened the kiss, thrusting his tongue violently between her teeth. Her slender fists beat at his chest, and she fought to pull away, but he only held her tighter . . . Mercilessly, he shoved her against the bulkhead, pinning her wrists above her head. One hand slid up her thigh to cup her bottom. He kissed her fiercely, savagely, without a thought for her pleasure . . .

"Now do you understand?" he asked, his voice ragged. "That's what will happen to you if you don't do what I say."

To my husband, Larry, who is always there for me. And to the wonderful people of Charleston, who, even in the face of disaster, work to preserve their proud heritage and welcome others to share it with them.

Chapter One.

Charleston, South Carolina.

April 2, 1840.

The snap and crack of the lash, followed by a bone-chilling scream, echoed across the manicured lawns of the great plantation house.

Gloria Summerfield closed her eyes. Her slim fingers trembled as she tightened the sash of her ruffled silk faille wrapper and moved to the open window, gray with the first light of dawn. Outside, the birds had ceased their morning trill, which only amplified the quiet between the screams. Pulling the window closed, Glory secured the brass latch in an effort to block out the noises, but still she could hear them. Muffled now. Eerie, haunting sounds.

Her movements wooden, Glory seated herself before her gilt-framed mirror, determined to still her racing heart by immersing herself in the tasks of the day, but her hand shook fiercely. The silver brush seemed leaden as she fought to arrange her sleep-tangled hair. Pale blond wisps caught in the horsehair bristles, and it was all she could do to free the glistening strands. It will be over soon, she told herself. But when the screams didn't stop, Glory's fingers tightened around the handle of the brush and her usually bright eyes turned to angry blue flame. Whirling around on the tapestry-covered stool, she jumped to her feet and raced to the door, forgetting her slippers as she hurried down the hall.

The sounds of her bare feet muffled by the thick Persian carpet, Glory descended the two flights of stairs to the cold marble floor of the foyer. She hurried past the elegant receiving room, past the dining room with it's imported crystal chandelier, and into her father's study, certain he would already be hard at work on his ledgers. Instead, the tall man stood staring out the window, hands clasped tightly behind his back, a decided droop to his usually straight wide shoulders.

"Papa, you've got to stop them," Glory pleaded, her voice high and brittle. "They'll kill him if they keep this up!" She slammed the heavy door behind her with a little more force than she intended. As her father turned the full force of his gaze on her, his stem features gentled for a moment; then he stiffened, his face implacable once more.

"I wish it were that simple, Glory," he said. Kindly blue eyes a shade lighter than her own seemed the only softness to his features. "I'm afraid I have no more say in the matter."

"Surely there's something you can do?"

"It's out of my hands, daughter. Ephram conspired with a Negro from another plantation to run away. That makes his crime punishable by the committee."

"But Willie is his brother. Surely that isn't the same thing."

"It's still a conspiracy in the eyes of the law. Ephram knew the chance he was taking when he left. The sentence is fifty lashes and that's what he'll receive."

Glory gripped the back of her father's high-back chair, fingers biting into the tufted brown leather. "Punishing a man for wanting to be free isn't justice, Father. The man is a human being. He deserves better treatment."

Her father left the window and strode the short distance to her side. Lamplight shone on his once-blond hair, now a glistening gray.

"We've argued this a thousand times," he said. "You know he's chattel in the eyes of the law."

Glory responded with silence, making her position clear.

"You like your life here," her father said. "At least admit that much. You like the parties and the gowns and the beaux."

How could she deny it? Of course she liked her life. What young woman wouldn't? "Those things are wonderful," she told him. "Summerfield Manor is my home. I love everything about it. But it isn't right for us to enjoy ourselves at the expense of others."

"Life isn't easy to understand, Glory. We all just do our best. Ephram had a good home here, far better than most. He shouldn't have run away."

"I know, Father, but slavery can't be the answer." Julian Summerfield sighed. "I know how strongly you feel about this. I'm just grateful you have enough respect for me not to let the others know."

"Sometimes I think I should."

Julian lifted a lock of his daughter's pale blond hair and smoothed it between his fingers. "It'll all make sense when you grow up. In time, you'll get used to it."

"I am grown up," Glory said.

Her father only nodded. Stuffing his hands deep into the pockets of his gray serge morning coat, he turned back toward the window.

Glory thought he'd looked older for a moment, the lines of his face a little deeper than just the day before. Her father was a good man. Intelligent, considerate, and generous to a fault. Glory valued his judgment, and knew him to be correct in most things. But not in this. I'll never get used to human suffering, she thought. I don't ever want to.

Finally, the screaming ceased, the quiet almost as loud as the Negro's high-pitched screams.

Glory felt her tension ease. Life at Summerfield Manor would return to normal. Tomorrow evening she would attend her gala nineteenth birthday ball. By then she would have forgotten the terrible scene outside her window as she'd taught herself to do. She would laugh and dance and flirt-and enjoy herself immensely. She would remember none of the cruelty of today.

But her heart would remember. Her heart would never forget.

As if reading her thoughts, her father tilted her chin with a callused hand. "It's over now," he said gently. "Your mother has coffee in the dining room. Why don't you bring us both a cup. After you're dressed, you can help me with the ledgers."

Glory forced a smile she didn't feel. "All right, Father." With a breath of resignation, she swept from the room.

Nicholas Blackwell swung his long lean legs over the side of the bed and reached for his breeches, casually draped over a spindle-legged chair.

"Surely you aren't leaving yet?" Lavinia Bond seemed incredulous. "It's still early and Victor won't be home for hours."

To Nicholas it seemed incredible he'd stayed through the night. "Sorry, sweeting. Duty calls. I need to check the off-loading down at the dock." Still sitting on the bed, he pulled on his breeches, then grabbed up his shirt.

Lavinia ran her hands along the corded muscles of his back and nipped playfully at his shoulder. "Are you sure you won't change your mind?" Almost reverently, she laced a finger through his curly black hair.

Nicholas turned to see one creamy breast spilling above the sheet, the pink bud at the tip beckoning his touch. There was no denying her body was beautiful and yet . . .

He scoffed at his lack of interest. A month ago he might have been tempted to stay. Now he was eager to be gone. He had sampled the lady's more than ample charms and had not found them lacking. But, like all the others, she'd become tiresome and demanding. He'd spent too much time in Charleston lately. When he'd visited her for just one night two or three times a year, he'd enjoyed her company-at least in bed. But his ship had docked in Charleston a week ago. And a week with Lavinia Bond was far too long.

"Not this time, sweet." He cupped her breast and kissed it quickly, then turned and pulled on his tall black boots. Lavinia slipped into her embroidered silk wrapper and walked him through the elegant single-house down the stairs to the front door.

"Will I see you before the party?" she asked, running her finger down his chest inside the front of his partially buttoned shirt. The stiff black bristles curled against her hand, evoking memories of their heated lovemaking. Lavinia licked her full red lips, a shade darker than her hair.

"What party?" Nicholas asked, his mind already on his duties aboard the ship.

"Why the Summerfields', of course. Julian's a friend of yours, isn't he?"

"It slipped my mind." But it hadn't. Julian had made a point of inviting him to spend a few days at Summerfield Manor, and Nicholas found himself actually looking forward to it. Though the older man had been his father's best friend, Nicholas had never visited the estate. But he'd been working hard these past few months; he deserved a rest. He needed one. The last thing he needed was more of Lavinia Bond.

"Do us both a favor, sweeting. Try to be a little discreet. I'd hate to have to shoot your husband just to satisfy his misplaced sense of honor."

"You don't think I'm worth it, darling?"

"I didn't say that, did I?" Nicholas opened the door. A heavy dray laden with barrels thundered down the narrow tree-lined street. Milk bottles rattled and clanked, and a stray cat hissed and rushed from beneath the wheels of a flatbed wagon. "Time to go, sweet."

Lavinia pulled his head down for a warm moist kiss, but his mind was already on the day ahead. He had more than enough to do if he intended to finish by tomorrow, in time for Julian's party.

"I'll let you know when Victor will be gone again," Lavinia called after him as he moved onto the street.

"You do that," he said. Without looking back, Nicholas strode down Tradd Street toward the three towering masts of the Black Spider, which swayed above the buildings along the Battery in the distance.

"How do I look, Plenty?" Glory took a last backward glance in her full-length cherrywood-framed mirror, doing a tiny pirouette that made the voluminous skirts of her new white organdy gown swirl around her.

Plenty pursed her thick lips as if she wasn't certain Glory would pass inspection. "Well . . ." She checked Glory from every angle, then her round face split into a wide bright grin. "You look lovely, chile. Jes' like always."

Glory leaned over to plant a light kiss on the old slave's cheek. "And you always say that. But-I have to believe, this time you're right!" Glory laughed, a soft tinkling sound, and postured in front of the mirror. "I shall absolutely devastate them this evening!"

Plenty chuckled, her vast girth rippling with the motion. "You always do!"

"I've got to go. I've kept them waiting just long enough." She snatched up her white silk fan, heavily beaded with the same seed pearls and silver thread that adorned her gown, and swept through the door. Strains of a Viennese waltz rose up from below as Glory descended the sweeping staircase from her third floor chamber to the second-floor ballroom. When she was halfway down, Benjamin Perry, a slim blond man in his early twenties spotted Glory and beamed up at her, delighted, it seemed, to be coming up from the foyer just in time to escort her into the ball.

"Hello, Ben." Glory extended a white-gloved hand, and the young man bowed over it with such reverence Glory feared he might lose his balance and topple over. She suppressed the tiny bubble of laughter that welled in her throat.

"Good evening, Miss Summerfield," Ben said. "You look absolutely"-his eyes dipped to the swells of her breasts, barely concealed by a sweep of organdy across the bodice of her gown-"beautiful." As he caught Glory's knowing glance, twin spots of color stained the youthful bloom of his cheeks. "Might I request the honor of escorting you?"

"Thank you, Ben, but Eric has already asked."

Eric Dixon-tall, brown-haired, and handsome- approached from a few feet away. He glared down at the younger man, but turned a warm smile on Glory. "I believe I have the honor, Miss Summerfield." Eric offered a frock-coated arm, his immaculate black evening clothes setting off his fine features, clear skin, and hazel eyes.

Ben Perry flushed and backed away. For a moment Glory wondered if Eric would deign to speak to Ben at all.

"Better luck next time, old boy," Eric called out as he led Glory toward the strains of the music.

The pair stepped into the ballroom, and the hum in the room dropped to a hushed murmur. A slight applause followed, which Glory acknowledged with a demure curtsy. Conversation and laughter resumed as Eric led Glory onto the gleaming black and white tiled floor. Other couples, all elegantly dressed, joined in, smiling at Glory and offering natal day felicitations.

It was Glory's night of nights. Her dance card had been filled long ago and the less fortunate young men seemed heartbroken when she turned them away. Most of them fawned over her, and Glory enjoyed every sugar-coated phrase, every platitude, every paean to her beauty. She whirled around the floor in the arms of one elegantly dressed gentleman after another, Eric always close at hand to offer a word of encouragement or see to her slightest wish.

Of all her suitors, Eric seemed the most likely. He was handsome and charming-and obsessively devoted to her. She wished she were in love with him, but then, maybe she was and didn't know it. She'd always imagined falling in love would be like falling off some towering peak, leaving her breathless, her heart in tatters, and her stomach doing tiny pirouettes. So far that had never happened.

Whatever did happen, Glory decided, life was a grand adventure. Each day brought her happiness and something new to learn. For Glory, life was as bright as a Christmas bauble-most of the time.

"Nicholas, my boy! Come in. Come in." Standing beneath the huge crystal chandelier in the foyer of the mansion, Julian Summerfield enveloped the tall lean sea captain in a warm embrace. "I'd near given you up."

Nicholas accepted the welcome, extending a sun-browned hand. "We had a few problems with the offloading. Couldn't be helped." His own sure grip was matched in kind by the imposing man before him. "It's good to see you, Julian."

"I've been looking forward to this occasion for some time," the older man said. "Ezra, fetch the captain's bags up to his room and have one of the stable boys see to his horse."

The wizened old slave exerted a creaky bow. "Yes, sir, massa." Long, bent legs carried him out the carved double doors, between twin Doric columns, and down the broad steps to the sweeping gravel drive where Nicholas's hired saddle horse pawed the ground nervously. Dozens of horses, countless broughams, phaetons, and carriages, along with the noisy footmen, lined the drive.

"Come, my boy," Julian commanded, "let me introduce you." With a bulky arm across Nicholas's broad shoulders, Julian led him up the stairs to the ballroom. A frail brunette who, except for her still-dark hair, looked to be somewhat older than Julian stepped into their path. She snapped several commands to the servants, her posture erect, her mouth a narrow, uninviting line, then turned hard dark eyes to Nicholas.

"Louise!" Eyes wide, Julian appeared almost startled by her presence, but quickly regained his composure. "May I present Captain Blackwell. Nicholas, my wife, Louise."

An announcement that the woman was really a pillar of salt could not have stunned Nicholas more. Louise Summerfield seemed the antithesis of her husband's warmth and charm. Cold, remote, and distant-that was Nicholas's first impression. For Julian's sake he prayed he was wrong.

"Mrs. Summerfield."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Captain."

The words, said with little sincerity and even less enthusiasm, rang with a hollowness Nicholas could hardly have missed. "The pleasure is mine, madam."

"Julian," Louise said, "I'm afraid you must excuse me. I'm needed in the kitchen. The dinner preparations, you understand."

"Of course, my dear."

"Captain Blackwell," she addressed him, "I'm sure Julian and Glory will keep you well entertained. They enjoy this sort of frivolity much more than I. We'll have other opportunities to get acquainted during your stay."

"I look forward to it," Nicholas said, and wished he could mean it. He watched her leave, looking neither right nor left, saying little to the guests and they in turn saying little to her. She was not unattractive, Nicholas decided. Tall, willowy, fine-featured. But her pinched expression, the tightness around her mouth, made her seem older than her years.

"Louise doesn't care much for parties," Julian explained. "She usually spends the evening out in the kitchen or upstairs in her room."

"I see," Nicholas said, but he didn't. How could a man like Julian Summerfield, so vital and full of life, be married to a woman like that? Then again, why should it be such a surprise? His own father had married a woman much the same. Elizabeth St. John Blackwell, Nicholas's stepmother, was just as coldly aloof.

"You'll come to understand Louise after you get to know her," Julian said, and Nicholas wondered if his thoughts had been that obvious.

Nicholas nodded. "I'm sure she has a lot on her mind this evening."

They moved into the main salon, where dancers twirled, dipped, and swayed beneath gleaming crystal chandeliers. Nicholas discovered he knew several of Julian's guests, and Julian introduced him to others. When Julian excused himself to speak with some banking associates from Charleston, Nicholas took the opportunity to stroll onto the balcony for a breath of fresh air. For the past three days a light spring rain had muddied the fields. The musky, earthen smell mingled with the sweet scent of honeysuckle, and Nicholas thought how much he had come to love the South.

Though he'd been born and raised a northerner, his business as a merchantman had made spending time in the South a necessity. His fleet of ships plied the coastal waters between Boston, New Orleans, and the Caribbean, transporting everything from cotton to molasses, shoes to pickled herring, venison hams to sperm candles. He loved the life of a seaman, loved the freedom, the exhilaration of fighting the elements, and the satisfaction of building his fortune.

"Nicholas!" Lavinia's syrupy voice drifted across the balcony.

How appropriate, he thought as she rushed to his side stirring a fresh wave of the honeysuckle scent. All sweetness and sugar and not a moment's regard for the man she had married. Yet how could he fault her when he'd been sharing her bed all week?

"Good evening, Lavinia, you look lovely." And she did. Her flame-red hair curled in delicate ringlets above her head, and her green eyes sparkled as bright as the emeralds at her throat. Even in the dim lamplight of the balcony, Nicholas could see the shimmering perfection of her skin, the fullness of her breasts.

"And you, Nicholas, look like one of Satan's own- devilishly attractive. I blush just thinking of these past few days."