But she hated him, too. More every day. Mostly she just felt numb. And bitter. With an emptiness that could never be filled. She prayed that when the baby came things would be different.

Chapter Fifteen.

"Master Brad! Ain't you a sight for these old eyes! Come in, come in." The wizened old black servant motioned Bradford St. John into the foyer of the elegantly furnished town house near Broadway.

"Hello, Isaac."

"The captain's surely gonna be glad to see you." The old man looked down, his bristly white hair unmoving as he shook his head. "He ain't been hisself lately." The worried expression lining his already puckered face told Brad all he needed to know.

"So I've heard." Brad had been worried about his stepbrother. Nicholas had only been back in New York a few weeks, but had uncharacteristically locked himself away. The few friends he'd allowed in the house told stories of his stormy temper, black moods, and bouts of despair. "Where is he?"

"He's in his study. I'll tell him you're here." The old man teetered a few steps down the hall.

Bradford caught the butler's thin arm. "I know the way. Thank you, Isaac." Isaac was a free man of color. He'd been with Nicholas for as long as Brad could remember. The old man knew Nicholas Blackwell's temperament as well as any man alive. If Isaac was worried, things were even worse than Brad had heard.

As he negotiated the dimly lit corridor, which was usually bright and cheerful, Brad wondered if the dark hall mirrored its master's bitter mood. After knocking quietly on the heavy wooden door, Brad lifted the latch and the door swung wide. Embroiled in his thoughts, Nicholas appeared not to have heard the knock. He sat before the hearth, staring into the flames of the fire, his too-thin hand wrapped around a half-full snifter of brandy.

"Hello, Nicholas," Brad said softly.

When he turned, his brother's eyes brightened, his angular features softened for a moment. Then he was on his feet, his long strides carrying him to the door. He extended his hand and Brad shook it, but wasn't satisfied till he'd enveloped his stepbrother in a warm hug.

"You look even worse than I'd heard," Brad teased, more than half serious.

Nicholas almost smiled. "What are you doing in the city?"

"I was in Tarrytown visiting Mother for the Christmas holidays. The city's not that far away, and I've missed you these past few months."

"And I you," Nicholas agreed. "Sit down. I'll pour you a brandy."

Brad took a seat on the tufted leather sofa. Nicholas handed him a crystal snifter, then returned to his overstuffed chair by the fire.

"You're looking fit," Nicholas said, and Brad smiled, knowing he could never look as fit as his stepbrother. Even now, a bit too thin, his face gaunt and a just little haggard, Nicholas Blackwell emanated power and presence. Being eight years younger, Brad had always looked up to Nicholas. It was Nicholas who was paying for his schooling at Harvard, Nicholas who owned the estate in Tarrytown on which he and his mother lived. He'd been more like a father to Brad than an older brother.

"How are you doing in school?" Nicholas asked. "Excelling as usual, I'm sure. You know how proud I am of you, Brad."

"I'm doing just fine. Mother's fine-if you're interested. It's you I'm worried about."

"Me! Why would you be worried about me?"

"You're right, of course," Brad said, not meaning a word of it. "You're much too much of a cad to worry about." He forced a tight smile he didn't feel. "I hear you've been whoring over half the Caribbean."

Nicholas laughed bitterly, a harsh, grating sound like nothing Brad had heard. "For a while," Nicholas said. "Not lately. I'm afraid my interest in the fairer sex has waned."

Brad took a sip of his brandy, seeking the relaxing warmth, and a bit of courage. He noticed his brother stared back into the flames. "I read about the shipwreck," Brad said, easing into the subject he'd come to discuss.

Nicholas turned toward him. "As you can see, I survived."

"Yes." Brad tapped his forefinger against his glass. "That young woman you were stranded with-Gloria Summerfield, wasn't it? She certainly set the tongues to wagging. She must have been some piece of work for you to treat her as you did." He chuckled softly, hoping to spark some emotion from the man in front of the fire. "I felt sure, her being Julian's daughter and all, you'd have married her."

Nicholas's features grew taut, the fire casting shadows into the hollows of his cheeks, making them look almost sinister.

"But then, of course, you've never made any secret of the way you feel about marriage."

Nicholas didn't answer, just stared into the flames. "The girl was shunned from polite society here in New York, you know. They called her the captain's tart.' Tart. Such a cruel word to use on a young girl."

Nicholas tensed. Brad noticed the rapid pulse beating at the base of his brother's throat.

"She finally moved to Boston," Brad pressed. "Probably to protect the child."

Nicholas's head snapped up. "What child?"

"Most people don't know about that. Going to Harvard, I got wind of it and made a point to find out, since the child is yours."

"Mine! Don't be absurd."

"Ah. Then she is a tart, as they say."

Nicholas stiffened, anger boiling to the surface. "Stay out of this, Brad. This is none of your concern."

"It's probably just as well you didn't marry her. After the way she came right out and claimed that Negro half brother of hers. Nathan, was it? Seems there was some trouble on the plantation. Something about returning him to the fields, so she spirited him away. She's got courage, I'll say that for her. The brother goes to school here in the city. Studying to be a botanist, of all things."

The glass in Nicholas's hand shattered into a thousand glistening shards, the amber liquid pooling on the carpet at his feet. He didn't know he was bleeding until Brad leaped from the sofa and gripped his hand.

"My God, man!" Brad pulled his kerchief from his waistcoat pocket and wrapped it around his brother's fingers. "What did you think?"

Nicholas stared at him, speechless. His face looked pale, and his mind seemed far away. He glanced at Brad, saw his concern, read the question on his face that still hung in the air. When he finally spoke, his tone sounded flat, lifeless, dead.

"I thought Nathan was her lover. That she loved him and not me. That she'd tricked me and deceived me. That she was just like all the other women I'd known."

"But she wasn't."

"No."

"You've made a mistake," Brad said. "Sooner or later it happens to us all."

Nicholas shook his head, his face more ashen than before. "It was more than just a mistake. Glory was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I destroyed her." Brad laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "There's still time, Nicholas."

Nicholas didn't look up. A fine sheen of perspiration dotted his forehead, and his hand shook where he braced it against his knee. "She'll never forgive me, Brad."

"You can't be sure of that. Besides, there's the child to think of. The child is yours, too."

"I don't know, Brad. I've made such a mess of things." Nicholas stood up, the bloody kerchief falling to the Tartan carpet. He didn't bother to pick it up.

"The girl needs you, Nicholas," Brad said softly.

Nicholas turned to face him, his mouth hard, as if the decision he was about to make would change the course of his life.

"Not half as much as I need her," he finally said. Then he smiled, that one small gesture making him look vulnerable, as Brad had never seen him before. Nicholas laid a hand on Brad's shoulder, and the two men walked to the door.

"Thank you, Brad. For everything. You're the best friend a man could have." He hugged his stepbrother briefly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some packing to do." He flashed a second wide smile, this one determined, like the Nicholas that Brad had always known. "I'll be leaving on the morrow. It seems I have some unfinished business in Boston."

As Christmas approached, Glory felt some of her old spirit returning. George McMillan was a constant fixture around the brownstone. Glory found she enjoyed his easy charm and intelligence. He challenged her in a way no man ever had. He cared about her opinions, considered her his equal. More and more he had involved her in the workings of the Underground Railroad until, inevitably, he had shown up the week before Christmas with a young black couple in tow.

"Do you think your aunt would let them stay in the basement for a few days? There are jobs waiting for them in Canada, but they need a few days' rest."

"Bring them into the salon, George. I'll speak to Aunt Flo." Actually, she already had. Her aunt had agreed to assist in any way she could. Glory suspected the old woman hoped that by helping others, Glory would be able to forget her own dismal circumstances.

Returning moments later, Glory introduced herself, and the young black couple did the same. Their names were Jackson and Belin.

"Short for Belinda," the pretty dark-skinned woman said. She clutched her brawny husband's arm and looked up at him, the love in her eyes intensified by a smile of trust and admiration. The warm look he gave her in return, mixed with a hint of desire, stirred such poignant memories Glory had to turn away.

"We's mighty grateful, missus," the big Negro said. "My wife and me, we done had a terrible time gettin' this far. But ever' hard day was worth it. Even the air in the North smells free."

Glory smiled and patted his arm. "Come on. You'll be sleeping in the basement. We've been expecting someone to come along sooner or later." They made their way down the narrow passage to the room below. "I'll be back in a while with your supper. There's a nice big bed and plenty of blankets." She smiled knowingly at the young people, so much in love. "I think you'll find it cozy."

Belin gripped Glory's hand and brought it to her generous lips. "Thank you, missus. Me an' Jackson ain't never gonna forget you and the others."

"We're happy to help. Now get some rest. I'll see you in the morning." When she reached the top of the stairs, George stood waiting, a look of quiet admiration on his face.

"You know the danger you're getting into," he warned for the tenth time. Though northern sentiment ran toward the abolition of slavery, the New England Anti-Slavery Society had been attacked on numerous occasions. Their members had been beaten, their newspaper burned, and several meetings broken up.

"I can't stay neutral any longer. My brother is part Negro. How can I believe in an institution that would enslave a man like him?"

"You're an incredible woman, Glory."

She laid a slender hand against his cheek. "And you're a good man, George."

The young black couple left two days before Christmas. No longer fearful of discovery, Glory finally allowed herself to relax and enjoy the holidays. She was over six months along in her pregnancy, her belly round and protruding, though she carried little extra weight anywhere else. The baby moved often, and Glory already loved her precious little burden. Secretly she hoped it would be a boy, a son as handsome as his father.

Again she reminded herself she no longer cared for Nicholas Blackwell. It was impossible to love someone who had treated her so cruelly. The man she loved had merely been an illusion. The man who had left her a ruined woman was the real Nicholas Blackwell, a hard, conscienceless man who used women for his pleasure, then tossed them away as if they were nothing more than the merest of trinkets. The knowledge gave her little comfort on the lonely winter nights.

Determined not to burden Aunt Flo with her troubles any more than she already had, Glory helped her aunt decorate the house. There was holly and mistletoe to gather, strings of cranberries and popcorn to sew, and a wreath to make for the door. George brought over a huge pine tree and they decorated it on Christmas Eve.

In concession to the holidays, she chose a dark gray velvet gown with a high waistline to accommodate her roundness and sleeves that were full above the elbow, then fitted below. She wore the dark clothes not only in honor of her father, but now for her imaginary husband as well. With Nicholas gone from her life, she felt almost as if it were true.

After a supper of roast duckling stuffed with cornbread and pecan dressing, Glory, George, and Aunt Flo returned to the salon. Glory sat in a delicately carved mahogany chair, sipping from a mug of hot cocoa while George hung the last few paper ornaments on the tree. Snowflakes, the first fall of the season, layered the sill outside the window, and carolers strolled the cobblestone streets, their voices ringing with Christmas cheer. George looked handsome in his velvet-collared burgundy tailcoat. The few strands of silver that streaked his light brown hair glistened in the flickering firelight. The room smelled of cinnamon and fruitcake. After hanging the last of the paper ornaments they'd made, George moved to Glory's side, but spoke to Flo.

He seemed nervous and more than a little distracted, and Glory wondered why.

"Florence, I've been trying to find a way to say this all evening. Since you're Gloria's closest living relative, I suppose I should ask your permission first. But I'd rather just give Glory this." He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a small velvet box.

Looking up at him, Glory accepted the box with a trembling hand. When she opened the lid, a delicate diamond and sapphire ring glistened against its bed of muted white satin.

"I know it's too soon after your husband's death to propose marriage," he said, sounding more than a little uneasy. "Until the time is right, I ask that you accept this ring as a token of our friendship-and a promise to at least consider my offer when it comes."

Glory's eyes welled with tears. She looked up at him, her vision blurred, but only moved her head from side to side. She handed back the box. "There's so much you don't know."

"It doesn't matter," he said vehemently. "I love you. If Florence thinks I'm suitable, I want you for my wife."

"I'm afraid that's quite impossible," said a deep male voice from the doorway. Jeremy stood in front of the man, chest high, trying to block his entrance to the room.

"Nicholas!" Glory gasped, but the word came out in a breathless whisper.

"I told him he couldn't come in," Jeremy said. "I tried to make him wait."

"It's all right, Jeremy," Florence soothed from her place on the tapestry sofa. "I've been expecting Captain Black-well."

"Who is this man, Glory?" George stood in front of her, demanding an explanation.

Glory couldn't speak. Her eyes were locked on the tall dark figure in the doorway. He was dressed elegantly in a black frock coat, pleated white shirt, and snowy white stock that made his tanned skin look even darker. He stood rigid, imposing, just the way she remembered him. Only his face had changed. Tiny lines creased his brow, and his mouth seemed softer, almost vulnerable somehow. His eyes rested on her face as if she were the only person in the room.

"Glory?" George McMillan gripped her icy hands. "Are you all right? Is this man a friend of yours?"

Glory licked her lips, suddenly dry. It was all she could do to concentrate on George's words. Then in her womb, the baby kicked, a reminder of all that Nicholas had done, and Glory's amazement settled to a cold dark rage.

"Captain Blackwell . . . I believe that's how I'm to address you, isn't it?" She held herself erect, her chin defiant. "Captain Blackwell is an acquaintance, nothing more."

"Why don't you come in, Captain?" Florence said. "I'm Gloria's aunt Florence. This is George McMillan." Neither man extended his hand. The air crackled with tension.

"Now that you've so rudely intruded, Captain Black-well," George said, "would you mind telling me why Mrs. Hatteras and I should not marry?"

"George, please," Glory pleaded. "I'll explain everything later."

"I'll be happy to explain everything now," Nicholas said in his most arrogant tone. "Mrs. Hatteras can't marry you because she's going to marry me."

"What?" Glory leaped to her feet. "Have you lost your mind? You don't even like me. Why on earth would you wan't to marry me?"

"Glory dear," her aunt interceded. "Please don't upset yourself. Think of the child."

Florence turned to George, who hovered over Glory protectively. "George, I think it would be best if you left us alone. There are some things we need to discuss." George turned to Glory. "Is that what you want?"

She wanted to say no, that she needed him beside her. That being in the same room with Nicholas Blackwell was more than she could bear. She'd already decided to tell George the truth about the child she carried, but she wanted to tell him when the time was right. She certainly didn't want to embarrass him in front of Nicholas.

"It would probably be best if you went home," she said instead. "We'll talk tomorrow."

He pulled her to her feet, holding each of her cold hands in one of his own. "Whatever you have to tell me isn't important," he said softly. "I love you. I want to make a home for you and the child."

Glory squeezed his hands. "This is all happening so fast. Give me some time, George."

He nodded and kissed her cheek, then stiffly left the house, stopping only long enough to give Nicholas a warning glance on his way out.

Nicholas watched him go. He hadn't meant for any of this to happen. He'd planned to be gentle, explain what had happened, beg Glory's forgiveness, then offer marriage. He sighed to himself. When it came to Gloria Summerfield his jealousy had always been his undoing. Until he met her, he hadn't believed himself capable of the emotion.