"Won't you sit down, Captain?" Aunt Flo invited, forever gracious.

"Nicholas," he corrected. He moved to the chair next to Glory. "I know it's Christmas Eve," he said, his voice softer now. "I got here as soon as I could."

Glory laughed bitterly. "Where were you? Iceland? . . . Why have you come here, Nicholas?"

How could he tell her? What could he say? How would he ever make her understand? Though he'd prepared for this moment ever since he left New York, no words would come. He felt so damned ashamed he wanted to walk from the room and never look back.

But Nicholas was not a coward. "I came to apologize for what I've done to you. There's no point in pleading with you to forgive me. Either you will or you won't, so I'll say it only once. I was a fool. I believed the worst of you and never even let you explain. Now I know the truth. The baby you carry is mine. I want you to marry me, Glory. I want our child to have its rightful name."

Glory just stared at him. "What makes you think it's yours?" she asked defiantly, and noticed he didn't even blink.

"Because you were a virgin. Because everything I believed about you in the beginning was true."

"I was a virgin, Nicholas. How do you know there haven't been others since? How can you be sure the child is yours?"

He wanted to touch her. To pull her into his arms. "Is the baby you're carrying mine?" he asked instead, this time knowing beyond doubt she wouldn't lie.

"Damn you! Damn you!"

"The child is mine, isn't it?"

"Yes."

Nicholas felt a surge of joy like nothing he'd ever known. "We'll be married tomorrow. We'll move to my estate in Tarrytown. My stepmother lives there now, but we'll move her into the town house. She prefers the city anyway."

"How dare you!" Glory fumed. "How dare you come into my home on Christmas Eve and act as if you belong here? Get out of this house, Nicholas. Get out of here and never come back. There was a time when I would have given everything I hold dear in this world to hear those words. But that time is past. I don't love you anymore. There is nothing you can ever say or do to make me marry you."

His mouth thinned, but his eyes looked sad, not hard. "Then you'll marry this man, McMillan?"

She hesitated only a moment. "Yes. He doesn't care who the baby's father is. He still wants me."

"That's easy to understand," he said softly. He rose from the chair, his expression carefully controlled. Glory fought a sudden urge to follow him as he moved toward the door.

At the last instant he turned and looked back at her. "Do you love him?"

Her hand clutched her throat. "What?" she whispered.

"I said, do you love him?"

She swallowed hard. "George McMillan is the kindest, most gentle man I've ever met. He treats me like a lady. He respects my opinion. He's good and he's fair and-"

"Do you love him?"

"I'm going to marry him."

For a moment he stood stock still. Then he smiled, his face lighting up the way it had on the strand. For an instant he looked almost boyish, and Glory felt a tiny chip of ice melt from around her heart.

"You're going to marry me," he said. Then he turned and swept from the room.

The clock ticked loudly. Glory didn't move or say a word.

"Are you all right, my dear?" her aunt asked. Silk skirts rustled as she moved to her niece's side.

"Yes, Auntie Flo." It was all she could do to tear her gaze from the doorway. Her voice sounded weak and uneven. "I'm just tired, that's all. So very tired."

"We'll talk about this tomorrow. When you've rested. You'll feel better after you've had some sleep."

Glory nodded. She let her fragile aunt pull her along, guide her upstairs, and coax her into bed.

"Aunt Flo?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Why did you tell Jeremy you'd been expecting Captain Blackwell?"

"Because I had. I knew both you and your father couldn't be that wrong about the same man."

Chapter Sixteen.

"Did ye see her, lad?" Mac stepped up beside him. Nicholas stood at the rail of the Black Witch, still dressed in his black frock coat, staring out at the smooth surface of the water.

"I saw her." They were moored in Boston Harbor, just across from the navy shipyard at Charlestown. Several ships sat in dry dock, though they were eerily empty, the workers having gone home for Christmas Eve.

"Well, how did she look?" Mac could barely contain his excitement. Nicholas turned toward him, and Mac noticed the pallor that had haunted his friend these past few months had fled.

"She looked beautiful," Nicholas told him. "A little too pale, perhaps, but beautiful just the same."

When he didn't add anything more, Mac prodded, "Go on lad, what did she say?"

Nicholas bristled a little, but his gray eyes were light. "She says she's going to marry George McMillan."

"Who is George McMillan? And how in the devil can ye stand there lookin' so calm about it?" Mac practically jumped up and down upon the deck.

Nicholas smiled, then thought how often he'd been doing that lately. It felt good to be able to smile again. "Because I told her she's going to marry me, and that's exactly what she's going to do." His eyes flashed the determined look that had changed him from the frightened little boy who had run away to sea to the master of a huge shipping empire.

Mac clapped him on the back. "That's my boy! She loves ye, lad. She'll forgive ye sooner or later."

Nicholas's smile faded. "I'm not so sure about that, Mac. But she doesn't love McMillan, so she may as well marry me. She'll have everything she's ever wanted. Besides, the child she carries is mine. I intend to see he's properly raised."

"You're sure it'll be a son?"

"I'd like a boy, of course, but a little girl like Glory . . . how could that disappoint me?"

"You're a good lad, Nicky. I always knew it. It was ye who forgot for a while."

Nicholas nodded. "I think I'll get some sleep. If I'm to face that feisty blonde tomorrow, I'll need all the strength I can muster."

Mac just chuckled. Nicholas took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the salty sea air. Bright stars twinkled above him; the snow had stopped, and the air was so crisp and clear he could almost touch the silver sliver of moon. He felt young and hopeful, happy just to be alive.

"I've spoken with the Reverend Mr. Markham down at King's Chapel. He'll marry us right after the Christmas service." George McMillan gripped her hands, suddenly icy though the salon was warm.

"But I'm still in mourning."

"I'm sure your father would understand. There's the baby to think of. Besides, once you're my wife, no one will be able to come between us."

"I suppose you're right, George. It's just that it's all so . . . so sudden." Glory glanced at her aunt, who sat on the sofa looking worried. "Aunt Flo?"

"Only you can decide what's best for you and the child." She looked at George, her kindly blue eyes resting on his soft brown ones. "You're one of the best men I've ever known, George McMillan. You'd make my niece a fine husband, and I'd be proud to have you in the family. But Glory must think of what's best for her, what's best for the baby. Captain Blackwell is the child's father. He has asked her to marry him. She must consider carefully."

"As usual, Captain Blackwell didn't ask," Glory countered, "he commanded. There's quite a difference."

"You're a headstrong young woman, Glory. Don't let your anger at what is past decide your future."

"I can't marry him, Aunt Flo. I could never trust him. I'd always remember his cruelty and wonder when he might unleash it again."

"And George?" she pressed.

"George is my friend and companion." She spoke as if he weren't in the room. "He respects me and I respect him. I'll make him a good wife."

Florence sighed. "Then you must do as George asks." Glory turned to look at the man with the handsome face and warm brown eyes. "Give me a few minutes to change. A woman has just one wedding day."

George walked her to the foot of the stairs. "You're making me the happiest man in the world."

Glory only nodded. A hard lump closed her throat, and tears stung her eyes. She should be smiling, not crying, she thought, feel happy, not sad. It was all happening so fast, she tried to convince herself for the hundredth time. She hurried up the stairs, more conscious of the child she carried than she'd ever been before. Was she doing the right thing? The child was as much Nicholas's as it was hers. Then her mind flashed on the hard sea captain who had used her and deserted her. A man who could be brutal beyond anything she'd known. George McMillan would raise her child, not a man like Nicholas Blackwell. She squared her shoulders and hurried on up to her room.

"I'm here to see Mrs. Hatteras," Nicholas told the tiny little butler who single-handedly barred the door.

"Mrs. Hatteras is not at home." He tried to close the door, but Nicholas wedged his boot inside the jamb. "Where is she?"

The little man didn't answer.

Nicholas shoved the door open, nearly knocking the butler off his feet. He strode through the house until he was satisfied the man was telling the truth, then returned to the foyer where Jeremy still stood, ramrod straight.

"I asked you once before. This is the last time I'm going to ask nicely. Where is Glory?"

Jeremy glanced at the clock. It chimed the half-hour just as he looked away. "She's gone to church."

"Which church? And you'd better be telling the truth."

"King's Chapel. But you're already too late. She's married to Mr. McMillan by now."

With a curse so low it sounded like a hiss, Nicholas set his jaw and hit the door at a run. King's Chapel was only a few blocks away. He raced down Beacon Street and turned onto School. The old church stood on the comer of Tremont, just two blocks in the distance. Footsteps ringing on the cobblestones, Nicholas rushed down the street, up the stairs, and into the empty foyer. From the back of the church he saw Glory standing beside McMillan at the altar. He could hear the preacher's words-the ceremony had only just begun.

Nicholas gripped the end of a walnut pew to steady himself and slow his pounding heart. Glory clutched George McMillan's arm, her face waxen, her smile fixed in place as if she feared it might disappear. Her plum velvet gown, rich and elegant, only made her seem more frail. McMillan, dressed handsomely in a black split-tail coat and ruffle-fronted shirt, smiled down at her, and Nicholas felt his jealousy flare. He took a deep breath and brought himself under control. Then he walked down the aisle and up to the altar.

"I'm sorry, sir, there's been a mistake," he told the minister calmly. "You're performing the ceremony with the wrong bridegroom."

"Who are you?" the preacher asked, gaping up at Nicholas.

"How did you find out we were here?" George demanded.

All Glory could see was Nicholas Blackwell standing tall and imposing, with light gray eyes and a smile meant only for her. She knew a moment of joy so poignant she felt ashamed. And furious he could still affect her so.

"Mr. Markham," she said, feigning a calmness she didn't feel, "would you please finish the ceremony?"

"Not until we've talked." Nicholas grabbed her arm and tugged her gently toward the nearest pew, just out of earshot from the others.

"Take your hands off her," George McMillan demanded, catching up with them, and Glory wanted to scream. First no one wanted her; now two men fought for her like dogs over a bone. Aunt Flo sat on the opposite side of the aisle and Glory felt certain she caught the hint of a smile on the old woman's lips.

"Let me talk to him, George," she soothed. "It will only take a minute."

George let go of her arm, and Nicholas guided her into the pew.

"I want you to marry me," Nicholas said.

"No."

"The child you carry is mine, Glory. If for no other reason than that, you've got to marry me."

"George will make a good father. He has plenty of money; so do I, for that matter. We'll take excellent care of the baby."

Nicholas felt a flash of anger. "That's not the point, now, is it? I want that child, and even if you don't believe it, I want you. You're going to marry me, and that's all there is to it."

"And just how do you intend to make me?"

Nicholas looked at her hard. He had hoped she'd see reason, and in time he felt sure she would have. But he hadn't counted on McMillan. Time was running out. "If you don't marry me now, this minute, I'll bury you in scandal, just as I did before. I'll tell all of Boston the child's my bastard. I'll ruin any chance of happiness for all of you."

Her look of despair, of utter betrayal, tore at his heart.

"You would do that to your own child?"

"What do you think?" he asked. Then inwardly winced when she replied.

"Of course you would. You'd do anything to get what you wanted. You always have."

He ached to tell her she was wrong. That he would never do another thing to hurt her or their child. That if she had truly loved George McMillan he would have let her go. That once they were married, he would spend the rest of his life making amends for the pain he'd caused her. But the words wouldn't come-there was just too much at stake. His love for her. The love he hoped to rekindle. The child she carried in her womb.

"Then let's get on with the ceremony," was all he said. Unwilling to face George McMillan, Glory moved woodenly toward the altar. "The captain is right, Mr. Markham. I was marrying the wrong man. Please begin again. This is Nicholas Blackwell-my bridegroom." George rushed to her side. "Glory, what are you saying? Has this madman threatened you?"

"It's his child, George. There's nothing else I can do."

"Glory, please, there must be some other way."