"Consider it a gift."

"Good-bye, Captain," she whispered, for her Nicholas was gone. Then before she could stop herself, she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. In a whirl of stiff rose-colored skirts, she turned and walked to Mac's side. Joshua Pintassle came up the foreward ladder with Nathan, who looked none the worse for wear, though he blinked several times in the bright sunlight. Glory rushed into his arms. "Glory." He hugged her hard.

"Are you all right?" she asked, her voice unsteady. "I'm fine." He glanced toward the captain, then back to her. "You don't look well. Are you ill?"

"No. I'm just a little tired."

"What about what happened on the strand? Has the captain offered marriage?"

She thought of Nicholas Blackwell's reputation with pistol and cutlass and imagined gentle Nathan dueling for her honor. "Yes," she lied. "I turned him down."

"You did what! Are you sure you want to do that? There's bound to be a scandal."

"I don't care about the scandal."

"Father would have forced you to marry the man."

"I don't want to marry him, Nathan. Surely that's all that matters."

"Your happiness is all that matters, Glory."

"What he did to you is reason enough to turn down his suit," she told him.

"A few days in the hold is not much of a price for a man to pay for his freedom." His soft brown eyes looked at her questioningly. "What happened between you two on the strand . . . You realize there might be . . . complications."

Glory felt warm color rush to her cheeks. "What happened on the strand was my fault. I could have said no. As to . . . complications, we'll just have to hope their aren't any."

"You're sure you know what you're doing?"

"Nathan, please. Let's just get out of here." Squaring her shoulders, she lifted her skirts and walked toward the gangway where Mac waited patiently, a dejected look on his face. Knowing her own expression must look much the same, she lifted her chin. She wouldn't give Nicholas Blackwell the satisfaction of a backward glance, she told herself as she walked down the gangway to the dock.

Careful to keep her eyes straight ahead, she clung to Mac's arm while they navigated crowded South Street. But when they rounded the comer onto Wall, Glory couldn't resist a last look at the Black Witch. Nicholas stood with his booted foot propped against the rail, his hand gripping one of the shrouds. The wind billowed the sleeves of his white linen shirt, and even from a distance she could see the dark thatch of hair on his chest, exposed in the V of the shirt. She knew he was watching and wondered at his thoughts. Why couldn't he love me? Oh, God, how she wished he did.

She knew she should hate him, but all she felt was love. And pain. Terrible, shattering, agonizing pain. Pain like nothing she had ever known. And a sadness even more profound than she'd felt when her father died. How would she survive it? Why would she want to? Feeling as if her knees might not continue to support her, she clutched Mac's arm and let him pull her along the bustling streets.

They passed drays and wheelbarrows, horses and pedestrians. An auctioneer stood amidst barrels and bales and lumber outside the Tontine Coffee House, his rapid-fire speech ringing above the noisy crowd gathered around him. Inside the building, Mac explained, brokers and underwriters negotiated shipping contracts and insured cargo.

Glory had trouble following his conversation, trouble in fact forcing one foot in front of the other. Since they had no trunks, and her aunt's home was only a few blocks away, they had decided to walk, and Glory was grateful for the time to collect her thoughts. Her aunt didn't know she was coming, but she rarely left the city, so she would more than likely be home. They had spent little time together, but Glory had always been fond of her aunt Flo. In some ways she felt closer to her aunt than she ever had to her mother. Maybe it was because they had both loved Julian Summerfield so much.

She had seen her fragile, gray-haired aunt at the funeral, but Glory had been so distraught she'd hardly spoken to her. Aunt Flo seemed to understand. Glory knew she would understand about Nathan, too, and why they'd run away.

They finally reached the stoop of the huge brick mansion, and Nathan rapped the heavy brass knocker against the ornate wooden door. A small, thin-faced, rather stuffy-looking servant opened the door.

"Please tell Mrs. Stacey her niece is here," Glory said, her voice sounding small.

Without so much as a smile, the little man motioned them into the receiving salon. The high-ceilinged room, decorated in the once-popular Federalist style, had wide carved moldings and ornamental doors that led nowhere, but lent balance to the room.

"I'd best be on my way, lass," Mac said. "Will ye be all right?"

Glory appreciated the deep concern in the Scot's eyes. She nodded. "I'll be fine."

"Why is it I dinna believe ye?" He concentrated on the toe of his boot, scuffed and ragged against the gleaming parquet floor. "The lad's behavin' like a fool, lass. It isna like him. I'm sorry things dinna work out."

"Thank you, Mac, for your concern." She kissed his ruddy cheek. The Scot turned and fled before her aunt came into the salon.

"Glory! For heaven's sake, what on earth are you doing in New York?" Florence Stacey's kindly blue eyes, so much like her father's, sparkled with pleasure. "And, Nathan, too!" She hugged them briefly. "Is your mother with you?" She glanced around until Glory's next words stopped her.

"We need your help, Aunt Flo. Nathan's returning to school, but I need a place to stay for a while . . . until I can catch a packet home." She hoped her aunt would let her stay for at least a few weeks. She wasn't ready to return to her life at Summerfield Manor. She needed some time to sort things out. "It's a long story, I'm afraid."

"Well, I've got nothing but time. Jeremy will show you up to your rooms. You can freshen up and then we'll talk. You're both welcome to stay just as long as you like." Glory hugged her aunt fiercely. It was all she could do to pull away. Fighting a rush of tears, she turned and headed toward the stairs behind the thin-faced little butler.

Florence Stacey watched her go. She almost hadn't recognized the girl in the salon as her niece. The too-short gown, the tired droop to her shoulders, the forlorn expression. Something wasn't right and Florence knew it. She took a long, steadying breath. It wasn't the first time someone in the family had come to her in trouble. She was glad she inspired that kind of trust.

She watched as Glory climbed the stairway, taking each step as if her legs were leaden. She loved that girl like the daughter she never had. Florence Stacey was determined to find out just exactly what was going on.

That night Glory told her aunt about her mother's plans for Nathan, about leaving Charleston on the Black Spider, about the terrible storm at sea and how Captain Blackwell had saved her life. She kept her story impersonal, leaving out the part about Nathan's time in the brig and what had happened between her and Nicholas on the strand.

After supper, sensing Florence's need to speak with Glory alone, Nathan pleaded a headache, excused himself, and went upstairs to his room.

"Why don't we go into the parlor?" Florence suggested. "We'll have a nice glass of sherry."

"All right," Glory agreed.

When they were seated on the comfortable Queen Anne sofa, Florence came to the point. "You've told me all that's happened these past few weeks. We'll get you some new clothes to replace the ones you've lost. We'll get Nathan situated in school, and I'll write your mother, try to convince her to see reason. Maybe she'll give Nathan his freedman's papers, as your father would have wanted. In the meantime you can stay with me. I have a feeling you're not ready to go back home yet."

"No, Auntie Flo. I don't think I can face those people yet. So much has happened." She took a long swallow of sherry and glanced away, feeling the warmth of the liquid as it burned a path down her throat, fighting the sting in her eyes.

"Yes, it has. But nothing you've explained so far accounts for the terrible sadness I see. Won't you tell me about it?"

Glory's head came up. Her blue eyes searched her aunt's kindly face. "Is it obvious?"

"Yes, my dear, I'm afraid it is."

Glory took another deep swallow, smoothed the rose skirts of the gown Nicholas had given her, and leaned back against the seat.

"The man who saved my life, Captain Blackwell . . . We were stranded together on an isolated stretch of land for almost three weeks. I came to love him." She ran her finger around the rim of the stemmed crystal glass, for a moment seeing Nicholas as he was on the strand, handsome, smiling, loving. She felt the pull of a smile. "Actually, I think I fell in love with him almost from the first moment I saw him. At my nineteenth birthday ball. He was so arrogant-and dashing. All of the women were in love with him. Except me, of course. I was determined to dislike him. He was a friend of Father's. I think Father hoped I would marry him." She swallowed past the hard lump in her throat. "By the time we left the strand, I wanted that more than anything in the world."

"So why didn't you?" her aunt asked softly, resting a veined hand over Glory's supple one.

"He didn't want me after all. I guess I was just a convenience. Someone to satisfy his passions until he could reach civilization. I don't know. When we were on the strand, our time together seemed like a dream. A perfect fantasy. He cared for me, protected me. I was sure he felt as I did." Glory lifted her face, and tears washed down her cheeks. "He smiled all the time, and he taught me to swim, and he took care of me when I got sick and . . . oh, Auntie Flo, I loved him so much." She couldn't go on for the tight sobs clogging her throat. Slipping her arms around her tiny aunt's neck she cried against the frail woman's shoulder, deep, painful sobs that racked her slender body.

"My poor, dear child." Florence held her, patting her head and encouraging her to let the tears fall. Glory didn't resist. She couldn't have stopped if she'd wanted to. Her aunt rocked her as if she were a small child and let her weep out her sorrow until she had no more tears to cry.

"You can stay here as long as you wish. I always wanted a child, but your uncle Leonard and I were never blessed. You're the closest I've ever come." She stroked her niece's cheek, soothing her, wishing she could take away the pain. "I can't bear the thought of this man hurting you as he has. But you must have seen something good in him, or you would never have loved him. Someday you'll get over him and find someone else to love. Until then, we'll work through this together."

Glory sniffed and looked into her aunt's narrow, aged face. "I don't know if I can get through this at all. I wish I'd died when the ship went down."

"Don't talk like that. Not now, not ever. Do you hear me?"

Glory bit her lip to keep it from trembling. "Yes, Aunt Flo."

"Good. Now dry your tears. It's time you got some sleep."

Glory just nodded and let the older woman lead her up to her room. In the bedchamber, an airy room with a canopy bed and crisp chintz curtains, Florence undressed her, ordered her to drink the glass of warm milk Jeremy brought up, then tucked her into bed. The older woman sat quietly beside her until she finally fell asleep. Dreams of Nicholas kept her tossing and turning. She woke up feeling more exhausted than she had the night before.

The weeks passed in a blur for Glory. Nathan returned to school, and her aunt did all the things she'd promised. Glory had beautiful new clothes and all the love and understanding she could have wanted. Still it wasn't enough. All she thought about was Nicholas. At first she remembered the good things: the way he'd cared for her and protected her, the way he'd made love to her, the way he'd made her feel. She imagined him laughing, sunlight glistening on his curly black hair. Or swimming in the surf, water trickling in rivulets down his wide dark chest, the stiff hairs beckoning her touch. How she missed him.

Oh, Nicholas, she would agonize, how could I have been so wrong? How could I have loved you when you didn't love me? She wondered where he was, wondered what he was doing, remembered with fondness the way he'd stood on the deck, feet apart, shirt billowing as he rode the roll and pitch of the ship.

But the warm memories only made her more miserable, and so little by little she compelled herself to forget them. Purposely she dwelled on the night he had forced himself on her, the terrible things he'd said. She remembered the way he treated her those first few days after the shipwreck. His brooding disposition. His arrogance, his terrible betrayal in the end.

Though she tried to build a new life with her aunt, her heart wasn't in it. Since she had no desire to attend the numerous soirees and balls she would have been invited to, it took her weeks before she realized no invitations had been sent. No one had called at the house after the first few weeks. Not even her aunt Flo's closest friends. But it wasn't until she overheard some of the servants gossiping below the stairs that she realized how firmly she had been cast out.

"They say she's a woman of easy virtue." Glory recognized the scratchy voice of the upstairs maid. "They say she slept right there in his cabin, that she had no shame."

Gripping the banister to steady her suddenly shaky legs, Glory felt her heart wrench.

"They shared a bed on some deserted island," another voice said. "Gussy Simpson told me all about it."

"They've got a name for her, they have." Glory bit her lip. " The captain's tart.' That's what folks call her."

"It doesn't matter what they call her," Jeremy Wiggins defended. "Miss Summerfield's a fine young lady. She treats us with kindness and respect. It's that sea captain's fault. The man's nothing but a scoundrel and a rogue. It's obvious he took advantage of her innocence. I hope someday he gets what he deserves."

Stomach in knots, her knees trembling so hard she feared they wouldn't support her, Glory sank down on the stairs.

"You're right, Jeremy," Flora Whitman, the housekeeper chimed in. "The bloody bastard ought to be horsewhipped."

Oh, God, how could this be happening? How could Nicholas have done this to her? He must have known what would happen. Either he did it on purpose or he just didn't care.

She blinked hard, fighting back tears. The loyalty of her aunt's staff touched her. She felt a surge of affection for Jeremy Wiggins-and the first real stirring of hatred for Nicholas Blackwell.

"How long have you known what people are saying?" she asked her aunt one night after supper. "That's the reason you never go out, isn't it? It's because of me."

"It isn't as bad as all that. They're all a bunch of puffed-up snobs anyway. They made me choose between them and you, and I chose you. That's all there is to it. If my niece isn't good enough for them, then neither am I." Glory sank down on the plush velvet sofa. "How did they find out?"

Florence sat next to her. "I'm not sure. The shipwreck was written up in all the papers. Some journalist interviewed several surviving crew members. They gave him the details. It didn't take much deduction to discover you'd been alone with the captain for almost three weeks. The man has one sordid reputation, I can certainly tell you that."

This time Glory felt closer to anger than to tears. "Nicholas Blackwell is a rake and a rogue. I was a fool to think he cared for me. I know that now. Unfortunately it's too late."

"To make matters worse," her aunt added, "people have found out that Nathan is your half brother. Apparently you introduced him that way to someone on the street."

"Mrs. Wentworth, the day after Nathan and I arrived. I was just so tired of lying. I'm proud of him. I won't lie about him again."

Florence patted her hand. "The gossip will die down," she said. "It always does. The Summerfield name is not to be taken lightly. By the time you go home, it'll all be forgotten."

"I'm afraid it isn't going to be that easy."

"Oh? Why not?"

When Glory didn't answer, Florence sucked in a breath. "Oh, my God. You don't mean you're . . ."

"I'm with child, Auntie Flo."

Less than a month later they were on their way to Boston. Glory was just beginning to thicken in the waist. At first she'd felt as if Nicholas had played one final lewd joke on her. But as the weeks crept by and the child began to move, her resentment toward the baby faded away. The child was hers, too. He or she was just an innocent victim of the destructive game Nicholas had played. The only person she hated was Nicholas. The man who had destroyed her life.

Florence owned a brownstone in Boston. Her late husband, Leonard, had inherited it from his German parents. He'd loved the old mansion so much that even after he died Florence hadn't had the heart to sell it. Now she was thankful she hadn't.

"We'll change your name. Say you're a young widow. That your husband was killed in a hunting accident. Since you've got a little of that soft southern accent, we'll say you're my niece from Savannah-that's close enough to the truth. You can be Mrs.-"

"Hatteras," Glory put in with a perverse sense of drama. "That seems more than appropriate, since the strand was the start of all my troubles."

"Mrs. Gloria Hatteras it is." Aunt Flo flashed a tiny supportive smile.

Glory found she liked Boston, even with its cold weather. The days were crisp and clear and the fall air exhilarating. As the weeks passed, the weather grew colder, but Glory found her mood improving each day. She had the baby to look forward to now.

She only worried a little at the doctor's warning: "The baby seems situated a bit oddly," he told her. "It may only have a tenuous hold. You must rest and take extra care. And your health could be better. From now on you are to eat three meals a day and get plenty of sleep."

She did exactly as he directed, and Aunt Flo doted on her endlessly.

The first few weeks had been the worst. Shed been sick every morning, looked wan and pale, and lost too much weight. Though she no longer fought the morning sickness, she still didn't look as strong as she would have liked.

Wearing a comfortable black crepe mourning dress, she sat in the downstairs drawing room while she practiced her crocheting, a skill she'd learned just before leaving the manor. Outside the window, she could see children playing ball on the street. A warm fire crackled on the marble hearth.

"Hello, dear." Her aunt entered the room on the arm of a tall brown-haired man, elegantly dressed in dark gray frock coat over a burgundy waistcoat and navy blue breeches.

"Glory, dear, this is George McMillan. He's an old friend of your uncle Leonard's."

George McMillan looked to be in his mid-thirties. A few gray hairs, which made him look more distinguished than old, betrayed his age, nothing more. He was lean and fit and exceedingly handsome. His smile was warm and inviting, and for the first time in weeks, Glory felt her interest stir.

"How do you do, Mr. McMillan?"

He brushed her fingers against his lips in a show of gallantry, and Glory felt the pull of a smile. How long it had been since someone had treated her like a woman. No. Like a lady. She realized she had missed it.

"Please," he said, his voice rich and warm. "I'd be honored if you'd call me George."

They sat in the drawing room for hours, discussing everything from the weather to the politics of the day. With so much time on her hands, Glory had become a devoted reader of the Boston Transcript as well as the Liberator, a fiery abolitionist publication. When she'd lived at Summerfield Manor, her most important concern had been which gown she would wear to the next ball. After what she'd been through, all that seemed superficial.

She found her interest sparked by concern for the Negro and was particularly interested in a group headed by William Lloyd Garrison and Frederick Douglass who called themselves the Underground Railroad. They helped runaway slaves along the route to the North, or assisted them in making a new start once they'd reached freedom.

As it turned out, George McMillan had strong antislavery feelings of his own.

"I'd be pleased, Mrs. Hatteras, if you'd accompany me to the next meeting. They're held at the Park Street Church. Helping runaway slaves is not a popular sentiment these days, but if you've the courage, the cause needs people like you. Especially Southerns. It's comforting to know they're not all chained to the same obsolete mentality."

George came often after that, and they did attend a few meetings, until her body became cumbersome and she no longer looked just a little overweight. Pregnant women were not encouraged to be seen in public, and Glory certainly didn't need to offend the people of Boston as she had those of New York.

Though she rested excessively, she often took carriage rides through the streets of Boston. The brownstone stood on Beacon Street, not far from the Common. She'd have the driver head down Tremont, past King's Chapel, and turn west toward the Charles River. She had visited the harbor only once. The tall masts of the schooners and packets wagging in the gentle breeze dredged up painful recollections of Nicholas, memories she thought she'd successfully buried. She could almost see him pacing the deck or standing at the helm, his gray eyes searching the clouds for storm, his broad shoulders squared against the roll and pitch of the ship.

She wondered where he was and what he was doing, wondered if he ever thought of her, wondered if he missed her as she missed him. Just that one time did she allow herself to admit the depth of her feelings, though in truth she missed Nicholas Blackwell every single minute of the day. Her heart ached for him. Her body yearned for his touch.