"No, George. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm sorry for everything that's happened. I hope you won't think too badly of me."

"I love you, Glory. How could I possibly think badly of you?"

"I think it's best if you leave us now. In time you'll find someone else to love."

George McMillan bristled. He rose to his full height and turned his attention to Nicholas. "Captain Blackwell, I demand satisfaction."

"Oh, Lord, no," Glory whispered. Not this, too! "Please, George," she pleaded, "don't do this. He'll kill you. Don't fight him, I beg you."

"Listen to the lady, George," Nicholas said without a trace of arrogance. "You seem to be a good man. There's no need for you to die."

"I'm asking for satisfaction. Are you a coward as well as a cur?"

Nicholas fought a surge of temper. A month ago he wouldn't have wavered. Now he looked at Glory, who was perched on the edge of hysteria, then at George McMillan, and wished there was some way to spare the lady more grief. McMillan stood erect, waiting for an answer. It was obvious the man would not back down. "Will tomorrow be soon enough?" he said with a casualness he didn't feel. "After all, today's my wedding day."

McMillan's handsome face flushed an angry beet red. "Tomorrow morning at dawn. There's a small grove of trees just below Breed's Hill. Be there."

"As you wish."

George turned and stormed down the aisle, hitting the double doors so hard Glory feared they might splinter.

"Please, Nicholas," she said, her tone pleading, "don't do this."

"Right now the only thing I want to do is marry you." He looped her cold hand over his, then nestled it securely in the crook of his arm. Glory felt the smooth fabric of his black serge tailcoat beneath her cold fingers. She was angry and more than a little afraid. It was all she could do not to turn and bolt for the door.

"Shall we get on with it?" Nicholas said to the minister before she had the chance. His eyes held a gentleness she'd seen only a few other times, and the look, and the strength of his hand, helped to calm her raging fears.

"Trust me, love. Everything's going to be all right."

"I trusted you before," she said and was sure she saw him flinch.

The ceremony went smoothly, what little Glory remembered. Nicholas laced her stiff fingers through his warm ones, and she felt his strength and power. Some of it seemed to flow into her, giving her the courage she needed. Aunt Flo sat quietly dabbing at the tears in her eyes.

When the minister asked for the ring, Nicholas surprised her by pulling a tiny velvet box from his pocket.

"I wanted to propose last night, but . . . I hope you like it."

He slipped the emerald-cut diamond solitaire onto her finger, the fiery lights throwing a rainbow of color against her skin. Glory didn't tell him how lovely the ring was, so simple, so exquisite. It only made her more angry that he had chosen exactly what she would have.

When the ceremony ended, they returned to the brown-stone, where a Christmas dinner of roast goose with oyster dressing, fresh steamed vegetables, homemade cranberry sauce, and mincemeat pie waited in celebration of the newlyweds. No one mentioned Glory's substitute groom.

Glory didn't speak to Nicholas at all. She felt angry and resentful. He'd thrust himself into her life, just as he had before. All she had worked for-her independence, the life she'd been building in Boston, her convictions-seemed threatened by Nicholas's intrusion.

She didn't love him anymore, of that she was certain. She'd lost whatever she felt for him a long, long time ago. That he still stirred her blood, she grudgingly admitted. But that was lust, not love. She had already come to grips with her passionate nature. Her father had been a passionate man; she'd inherited the trait from him. She refused to acknowledge the fact that George McMillan never once stirred a passionate chord.

Wherever she went, Nicholas watched her, never standing more than a few feet away, his eyes warm and light. He and Aunt Flo jousted back and forth, and though her aunt had tried and failed repeatedly to discourage Nicholas from meeting with George, Glory feared her aunt was succumbing to Nicholas's powerful charm.

After dinner Nicholas sought Jeremy out. Watching them, Glory wondered what they discussed.

"Jeremy?' Nicholas approached him in the foyer. "I'd like a moment if you please."

The little butler nodded stiffly. He'd been sullen all evening. It was obvious he felt guilty for revealing Glory's wedding plans.

"I know you believe you've done Glory a grave disservice," Nicholas said. "You think she'd have been happier married to McMillan."

The little man just stared, his eyes fixed on the ceiling somewhere over Nicholas's shoulder.

"I can only tell you that I love her. That I want her happiness more than anything in the world. If I didn't truly believe I could give her that happiness, I wouldn't have forced the wedding. I hope you'll believe that and put your conscience at ease. I promise you won't be sorry."

Jeremy Wiggins felt stunned. Never in all his years of service had a gentleman spoken to him as an equal. Never had a member of the upper class deigned to explain his actions to a mere servant-not even George McMillan. As he watched the tall sea captain move back to the place beside his bride and pull her hand onto his lap, he felt a surge of admiration for the man he'd been determined to hate. And a grudging feeling that he had accidentally done the right thing.

As the hour grew late, Glory became more and more edgy. Nicholas seemed perfectly relaxed as he reclined comfortably beside her on the tapestry sofa in the sitting room. He never tried to force her into conversation, just carried on politely with Aunt Flo, speaking as if they were truly the blissful newlyweds they appeared. It was all Glory could do to remain in the room. How dare he look so pleased with himself! My Lord, the man had taken her virtue, ruined her reputation, and forced her into an unwanted marriage! Who knew what other evil intentions he had?

Every few minutes her glance strayed to the top of the stairs. Surely he wouldn't claim his husbandly rights with the baby so close. But there were men who did. If the baby had a tenuous hold on life, as the doctor feared, making love might harm it in some way. If she spoke to Nicholas about her misgivings, surely he would understand. Surely he was as concerned with the child's safety as she.

But when she chanced a look at those light gray eyes she saw the old hunger, and a new edge of worry gnawed at her heart. Would Aunt Flo and the few servants they had be able to stop him? Or would he take her out of the house, demand she share his cabin on the ship? She'd seen his cruelty. She couldn't trust him.

Swallowing hard, she twisted the folds of her plum velvet skirt until she felt the warmth of Nicholas's hand against her cheek. He turned her face toward his, forcing her to look at him.

"Tell me what it is you fear?" he said softly.

"What makes you think I'm afraid?" She raised her chin defiantly. But her eyes strayed to the stairway, and Nicholas's gray eyes warmed.

"You used to enjoy my bed," he teased, but Glory didn't smile.

"I . . . fear for the babe."

"The babe?" He seemed incredulous.

She stiffened, suddenly realizing how ridiculous she must sound. "I'm sorry. You must think me a fool. Obviously you have no interest in a woman whose waistline is as large as a flour barrel."

He chuckled softly, the sound no more than a rumble in his wide hard chest. "To you it may seem so, but I assure you, that is not the case." His eyes moved to the fullness of her breasts, heavier now with the babe. "You look beautiful and womanly, and I desire you just as I always have. But I'll not force myself on you."

"It wouldn't be the first time," she said with a surge of spirit.

"I was wrong to do what I did." He settled his hand on her stomach, the warmth of his touch spreading all the way to her toes. "You needn't fear. I'll not take you to my bed until you're ready." His gray eyes caressed her face. "Never doubt I want this child as much as you do. I shall do nothing to harm it. I'll be returning to the ship tonight. You may have the rest of the week to ready yourself for the journey to Tarrytown. We can be there by the end of the following week. I want you safely installed in your new home before you are any further along."

"But I . . ."

"You what?"

"It isn't important."

"Tell me."

"No."

"Please."

The word sounded so foreign coming from Nicholas she weakened. "I'll sound like a coward."

"Never."

"I was only thinking about . . . about when the baby comes. Would it be all right if Aunt Flo attended me?"

"Of course. Your mother, too, if that's what you want." Her mother. Funny, she'd hardly thought of her mother since she left Summerfield Manor. Proof they were strangers after all. She'd written several letters, none of which mentioned the child or the circumstances that had taken her so far from home. Superficial letters, meaningless.

The ones she'd received in return had demanded that she return to Summerfield Manor-with Nathan in tow. She had duties, her mother reminded her, responsibilities. Reading between the lines, Glory assumed that meant she should resume her relationship with Eric Dixon. Bring their two plantations together. After what she'd been through, it all seemed senseless to Glory.

She glanced away. "Thank you," was all she said. "You've had a long day. As much as I hate to leave, I think you'd better get some sleep." He smiled. "Walk me to the door like a dutiful young bride?"

Her head came up. "If you'll promise not to meet George McMillan on the morrow."

His eyes turned stormy. "He gave me no choice. I want nothing more to come between us. I'll not have it said you're married to a coward."

"Nicholas, I'm begging you."

"No."

"You owe me this. I've never asked you for anything. I'm asking you now."

He touched her cheek, took a long deep breath, and released it slowly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"After you've killed George?" she asked, temper barely in check. "If you harm him, I'll never forgive you, Nicholas."

"Sleep well, love." Long strides carried him from the room.

Glory mounted the stairs to her room, tom between anger and despair. If Nicholas dueled with George on the morrow, George was bound to be wounded or killed. He was a gentleman, not a fighter. She was surprised he even knew how to use a gun. She had pleaded with Nicholas, and, as usual, he'd ignored her wishes. She slammed her hand against the banister, the sound ringing in the empty foyer. Damn him! Damn him to hell! He was every bit the cur George said he was, and yet . . . when she looked at him, she felt that same deadly attraction she'd felt before. What was there about Nicholas Blackwell that sent all reasonable thought fleeing on the wind?

Unable to find an answer, Glory readied herself for bed. By the time she climbed between the pan-warmed sheets, she'd made a decision: George McMillan was a kind and decent man. Beyond that, he was her friend. She wouldn't stand by and see Nicholas Blackwell murder him. Pregnant or not, she'd be at Breed's Hill at dawn.

Chapter Seventeen.

"Are you ready, gentlemen?" McMillan's second, a wispy, sallow-skinned man who looked to be a few years younger, stood in front of the dueling men.

"It's not too late to call this off," Nicholas said to the man who faced him, pistol in hand, a look of cold determination lining his handsome face. "Your concern for the woman's honor is well noted. Dying seems a senseless means of proving it."

"In case the thought hadn't crossed your mind, Captain, it's you who will die this day. Glory's husband is already presumed dead. I'll just be marrying the widow Blackwell instead of Hatteras."

Nicholas nodded. "If that's your final word, we may as well get on with it."

The men turned back to back, their feet planted squarely on a thin layer of snow. The sky looked cloudy, the overcast hinting at a storm. A stiff wind sliced the December air and molded Nicholas's breeches even more closely against his thighs. He stood a good three inches taller than McMillan, though the brown-haired man was tall in his own right.

"Raise your pistols," the sallow-faced man instructed. Acting as Nicholas's second, Mac stood tensely beside him, his face ruddier than usual in the biting cold. The two seconds walked some distance away to stand beneath a ghostly, leafless sycamore. The woods around the clearing were eerily silent except for the moaning breeze.

"I will begin counting." The younger man's voice rang with a note of authority across the snow-covered clearing. "One. Two."

"Stop! Stop right where you are, both of you." Glory stepped from beneath a tree on the opposite side of the clearing, pointing an ancient pistol at the men, her arms resting against the sides of her swollen belly, the wind whipping at her heavy woolen skirts. "If either of you take one more step, I'll shoot, and right now I don't care which of you I hit!"

Nicholas felt the pull of a smile. As far as he knew, she had no idea how to fire the weapon. But she'd surprised him before, on more than one occasion. He'd learned from experience not to underestimate her.

"Go back home, Gloria," George McMillan instructed. "When this is over, I'll come for you."

"Don't you understand, George?" She started walking toward them, the gun still pointing straight ahead. "He's going to kill you. You don't know what he's like."

"And you do?" Nicholas put in, just loud enough for her to hear.

"I know enough to be frightened for George's life. I don't want him harmed."

"This is between Captain Blackwell and me, Glory," George said. "Please, just go back home."

Neither man had moved. From the comer of his eye, Nicholas saw Mac circling around the clearing. "Do as he says, Glory," he added, hoping to distract her. "It's out of your hands. Think of the child."

"I'm warning you. Throw down your weapons, or I'll shoot."

Nicholas almost smiled. "It might be worth it, just to see which of us you'd aim for. But then, I guess there's really little doubt."

"That's a very good deduction, Captain, considering what you've put me through these past long months. Now, both of you, drop your weapons and move away from each other."

The whistling wind hid the sound of Mac's heavy boots crunching on the snow behind her. He reached around her, grasped her wrist, and the gun fired harmlessly in the air.

"Not you, too, Mac!" she cried, feeling completely betrayed. "Can't any of you understand? George McMillan is a good man. He's my friend. I can't stand by and let him die."

"Listen to me, lass. The cap'n's a good man, too. He only wants what's best fer both o' ye. Even if ye stop them now, they'll only meet another time. Come back to the carriage wi' me. Yer place is at home, waiting fer yer husband."

Suddenly tired, and seeing his words as true, Glory handed Mac the now-empty pistol. She let him lead her across the clearing to the carriage and climbed up inside. Mac said something to the driver, and the carriage rolled away.

Once she'd rounded the comer out of sight, Glory ordered the driver to stop. Pulling her fur-lined mantle around her, the hood up over her head, she awkwardly stepped to the icy ground and headed back toward the clearing. She hadn't been able to stop them, but she wasn't about to leave without knowing the results.

"May we proceed now?" George McMillan prodded, his voice laced with irritation. "The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I may return to my fiancee."

Nicholas worked a muscle in his jaw, but said nothing. The men raised their weapons again. Backs to each other, they began to step off the distance.

"One. Two. Three," the second called out. "Four. Five. Six."

Nicholas tightened his hold on the pistol; the walnut grip felt smooth against his palm.

"Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten."

Nicholas turned to face his opponent, saw the man's arm come up, tried to gauge the trajectory, then turned his body slightly at the precise instant flintlock drove against steel. Feeling a sharp sting in his left arm, he muttered an oath, realized he hadn't allowed quite enough for the wind.

Now it was his turn.