"Nicholas," she dutifully repeated. Then she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. Nicholas nestled her close for a while-until, with a surge of alarm, she felt his manhood stiffen. Then he groaned softly and rolled away. With a tiny smile, Glory finally drifted to sleep.

In the morning, she woke to an empty bed, rough seas, and a sharp pain in her stomach. At first she thought she might just be hungry, but the gnawing felt lower, farther down in her abdomen. Soon the tiny needlelike jabs mushroomed into full-fledged knives of pain, and Glory could scarcely breathe. When she rose from the bed to get help, water gushed from between her legs, pooling on the floor and soaking her nightdress.

Shaking with fear, she pulled open the cabin door without even remembering her wrapper. She stumbled down the passageway, encountering Nicholas, who was carrying her breakfast tray. She saw the stricken look on his face, heard the tray crash to the floor, just before she sank into darkness.

Chapter Eighteen.

"There's nothing more we can do, lad." Nicholas glanced from the bloody lifeless bundle he cradled in his arms to the woman who lay on the bed. She looked wan and pale; the covers barely moved with each shallow breath.

"Will she be all right?"

"I know little of women, lad. But by the look o' it, I'd say yes. The problem was wi' the child, not the mother." Nicholas stood at the foot of his berth, clutching the miniature, blanket-wrapped body of his son. The world seemed tilted, blurred somehow. Outside a wet wind blew across a chilly sea, and the sky was overcast, as bleak and gray as his thoughts.

"Why don't ye let me have him," Mac urged softly. "I'll see the cooper builds him a proper coffin."

Nicholas swallowed past the lump in his throat. It had all happened so quickly. What had gone wrong? Only yesterday the future seemed so bright, so hopeful. With a baby in their lives, he and Glory had a chance to rebuild the love they shared on the strand. But the baby was dead. What would the future hold for them now?

Nicholas fought the burning behind his eyes, the terrible fatigue. "Mahogany," he whispered. "Build him something sturdy. The sea is so vast . . . and he is so small." Mac laid a weathered hand on Nicholas's shoulder. "We'll use that lovely old sideboard in the officers' wardroom."

"Yes," Nicholas said, his eyes fixed on a tiny spot of blood on the blanket. "That will make a fine coffin." Mac reached for the bundle and for a moment Nicholas couldn't bear the thought of letting go.

"Life's never easy, lad."

"No, I suppose it isn't." He glanced at the woman sleeping in his berth. Damp hair clung to her temples; her slim fingers clutched the quilt beneath her chin. "How will I tell her, Mac? What can I say?"

"There are no right words, lad. When the time comes, ye'll do the best ye can."

Nicholas carefully handed the bundle to Mac, gently tucking the comers of the blanket around the tiny infant's body. He couldn't meet the old Scot's eyes, knowing the pity he would see. With slow, grim steps, the Scotsman left the room. Nicholas blew out the lamp beside the bed, darkening the room to the same dismal gray as the sky outside.

Heart heavier than ever before in his life, he took up his vigil beside Glory, slipping her cold hand between his warmer ones. He sat that way for hours, until his arms and legs cramped so badly he was forced to stand and stretch them. The room smelled stale with the coppery scent of blood and death. Conscious of the ordeal that lay before him, Nicholas headed up to the deck for a breath of fresh air. He needed to clear his head-and bolster his courage. A few minutes later he returned to the cabin. Glory's eyes flew to his face the moment he stepped through the door.

"Nicholas?"

"I'm right here, love." He knelt beside her and captured her hand, bringing it to his lips.

"The baby?" Her other hand moved to the flat spot beneath the covers, which only hours ago had been round with life.

"I wish there was something I could say, something I could do to change things, but there isn't. The child is gone, Glory."

"No." She shook her head. "I don't believe you. Just this morning I felt him move. He was alive; he was-"

"He came too soon, Glory. He was just too small."

"A boy?"

"Yes."

"But he can't be dead. Nicholas, please, I'll do anything you ask, just tell me he isn't dead." The pain on her face was so great that Nicholas had to look away.

"I'm sorry," he said. "So sorry."

"Nooo!" she screamed and struggled to get up. As she flailed her arms and thrashed about, it was all Nicholas could do to keep her abed. Finally she stopped struggling. She searched his face for a moment, then slumped back against the pillow. He let her cry out her sorrow, just sat quietly beside her, his head in his hands, his fingers laced through his curly black hair.

She cried for what to Nicholas seemed an eternity. When he could stand to listen no longer, he pulled her into his arms.

"Get away from me!" she shrieked. "Get away and leave me alone! This is all your fault, do you hear me? Your fault!"

"Listen to me, Glory."

She twisted free of his grasp. "Listen to you? Listen to you? Every time I've listened to you, every time I've trusted you, something terrible has happened. I won't listen again. Not now, not ever!"

Nicholas straightened. There was something in her words, some terrible chord of truth. He searched her face, hoping to find some means to reach her, a way to hold on to that tenuous thread of hope. He saw none.

In that moment Nicholas knew any dream he'd ever held of winning her love was as dead as the child they'd conceived. She would never trust him again, never love him again. His chest felt so tight he could scarcely breathe. He stopped near the door for a last long glance. Then slow, dreary steps carried him from the room.

They buried the baby at sea. Nicholas felt it fitting; after all, the boy was his son. He knew Glory would have preferred a peaceful grave on the slope of a quiet hill. Even that small comfort was denied her.

A week after the burial, they docked at New Rochelle, where Glory and Nicholas disembarked. Nicholas hired a carriage, and they traveled straight to Tarrytown. Glory said little throughout the journey. She looked weak and frail, and wept at the slightest cause.

Arriving at Blackwell Hall, Nicholas found Brad had already moved his mother to the town house near Broadway in the city. Apparently Bradford had no doubt Nicholas would be returning with a wife. A small place in his heart thanked his stepbrother for his thoughtfulness.

Blackwell Hall, a huge estate set at the bottom of a hill near the Hudson, seemed a different place without the bitter presence of Nicholas's stepmother. Brighter somehow, more welcoming. Nicholas had owned the hall for five years, though he'd never been in residence for more than a few days. He sometimes wondered why he'd bought it, since it was more ornate than he preferred. The huge stone house was built in the Gothic Revival style, of marble quarried by convicts from Sing Sing. The interior had vaulted ceilings, figured bosses painted to resemble stone, and huge stained-glass windows. The furniture was mostly European, upholstered in rich brocade and heavy velvet. Elegant velvet draperies adorned the windows.

Though the house was beautiful, it was the grounds that had attracted Nicholas. The beautiful formal gardens, the landscaped lawns sloping to the river, but most of all the handsome paddocks and stables where one day he intended to breed fine racing stock.

Nicholas imagined it would have been the perfect place to raise his child. That his son was dead, would never run through the elegant halls, seemed an even more bitter loss for him here. Looking across the massive salon to the pale face of his wife, who sat staring straight ahead, hands folded in her lap, he wondered how it had all gone so wrong.

"I want an annulment," Glory said, the words ringing hollow and weak against the marble walls. She'd spoken so little since their arrival two weeks ago that Nicholas hardly recognized her voice. She stood in the doorway to the main salon dressed in black, her pale hands clasped in front of her.

"Why?" he asked, shoving back his chair as he came to his feet. The sound grated on the polished hardwood floors.

"Because I don't love you. The baby's gone; there's no reason for us to be bound." She said the words with a casualness that twisted Nicholas's heart.

"If I were to agree, what would you do?"

"Return to Boston," she told him with an equal lack of emotion.

"To marry George McMillan?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Maybe."

"No" was all he said. When she turned and walked away as quietly as if no words had been spoken, he stormed from the hall, slammed out the door, and headed toward the stables.

Long rides through the countryside seemed his only solace on the chilly winter days. He returned at dusk to find Glory, as usual, locked away in her rooms at the top of the stairs. Each time he saw her, she looked thinner and paler than before. He worried about her endlessly, tried every way he knew to please her, even asked if she'd like her aunt or Nathan to come for a visit.

"No, thank you," she'd said. "I'm sure they have other more important matters to attend to. Besides, I don't feel like entertaining."

All in all there was little he could do. The second time she mentioned the annulment, he considered giving it to her, though it was far from what he wanted. He just didn't believe an annulment was the answer. He wished he knew what was.

They'd been at Blackwell Hall over a month when Bradford St. John arrived. Nicholas had written him several letters, telling him of the sad state of affairs at the hall and seeking his advice. Instead of receiving a letter in reply, Brad appeared in person.

Nicholas enveloped him in a warm hug. "God, it's good to see you."

"You, too, Nicholas."

"Come on." He beckoned. "I want you to meet Glory."

When they reached her room at the top of the stairs, she was sitting beside the fire, crocheting an antimacassar. Needlework and a little reading were all that seemed to hold her interest. Firelight flickered over her too-thin face, and even her flaxen hair reflected less than its usual sheen.

"Glory," Nicholas said softly. "This is my brother, Bradford. I told you about him on the strand, remember?" She seemed uncertain. "I . . . I'm not sure."

Nicholas felt a tightness around his heart. "Brad, this is Glory, my wife."

She extended her hand, and Brad accepted it, bringing the delicate fingers to his lips. "It's a pleasure to meet you at last."

"Yes. . . . What did you say your name was?" Nicholas could have cried.

"It's Bradford. Bradford St. John."

"Brad. That's a nice name." She glanced back down to her lap and picked up her crochet hook.

Nicholas motioned Brad toward the door.

Glory watched his retreating figure. He glanced back at her before he reached the hallway, lingering as if he wanted to speak. He looked as handsome and imposing as ever, and just for a moment she imagined they were back on the strand. Then all the pain and suffering she'd felt these past long months surfaced to weigh her down. Her mind closed off thoughts of Nicholas just as surely as if he'd closed the door. Quietly, he did.

Glory's hands worked the thin ivory hook, forming lacy patterns with the thread. As she rocked before the fire, she kept her eyes carefully focused on her work. Her mother had taught her to crochet just before she left Summerfield Manor. She still had to concentrate to get the stitches right, but at least the work brought her some solace from her despair.

Glory rested the antimacassar in her lap, determined to keep her thoughts on the intricacy of the pattern. The flames of the fire flickered and hissed, and a stiff breeze rattled the shutters. Outside the sky was dark with the indications of a coming storm. Against her will, Glory's thoughts wandered. She glanced at her surroundings: the high vaulted ceilings, the stained-glass fanlights above the windows. She could almost imagine the small dark-haired boy, so like Nicholas, who might have run to her side and tugged on her skirts. "Mama, won't you come out and play with me? I love you, Mama."

A shiver raced across her flesh, and a hard lump swelled in her throat. Clutching her crochet hook a little tighter, she settled her hands against the folds of her stiff black skirt. Why had it happened? She'd wanted the baby so much, needed a child so badly. Was the baby's death really Nicholas's fault as she had convinced herself? A tiny voice said no. It was your own fault. You should have taken better care of yourself. Glory bit her lip and glanced back at the spidery patterns in her lap. Determined to forget what might have been, she picked up her stitchery and began to catch and pull the thread with her hook.

Nicholas led Bradford down the wide stairway to his walnut-paneled, book-lined study. Ignoring the tremor in his hand, he poured his stepbrother a brandy. Brad seated himself in one leather chair; Nicholas sat in another.

"I don't know what to do," Nicholas said. He took a long, soothing drink of brandy, letting the warmth bum a steadying path down his throat. "She seems to be getting worse every day."

"What have you done so far?"

"I've tried to get her to go out with me, at least for a ride. I've had lavish dinners prepared; she won't even come down to eat. I've begged, pleaded, apologized. She blames me for the death of the child, and maybe she's right."

"Do you believe you're responsible?" Brad asked.

"It's possible. I suppose it was upsetting, my arriving in Boston the way I did. As I told you in my letters, I forced the marriage; there was a duel. Maybe that was enough to cause her to lose the babe." Nicholas glanced away. "I just don't know, Brad. But Glory certainly believes I'm responsible."

"Does it really matter?"

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is, you've suffered, too. I could hear it in your letters, though you didn't come out and say it. The baby is dead. Whose fault it is is unimportant. What is important is that woman in there. She's blaming you because she can't bear the thought that she might be the one responsible. She's drowning in grief, Nicholas."

"Don't you think I can see that! I just don't know what to do about it."

"What would you do if it were Mac-or me," he added softly.

"I'd haul you up by your boot straps and make you face the fact that what's happened is past. That life is full of sorrow, but it's full of happiness, too."

"So why don't you do that to her?"

"Because I promised myself I'd never raise my voice to her again, never make harsh demands or treat her badly."

"I know you feel guilty about what's happened, but Glory is your wife, Nicholas, not some sainted virgin. She needs a husband. From what I've learned, she's a headstrong young woman. She needs a man who can handle her. She fell in love with the man you are, not the watered-down image you're trying to become. Be yourself Nicholas. And be a husband to Glory."

"You make it sound so simple."

"Nothing's ever simple."

"No, I suppose it isn't."

"That young woman needs you, Nicholas. You've got to be strong for both of you."

Setting down his brandy snifter, Nicholas watched Brad for a moment, pondering his words. "How is it, Brad," he asked, coming to his feet, "that you're eight years younger than I and twenty years wiser?"

"Because I'm not in love." Brad stood up, too. "One more piece of advice?"

"Any time."

"Get her back in your bed just as soon as you can. There never was a woman who could resist you in that department."

Nicholas laughed-for the first time in weeks. "You're the best, Brad. The very best." Nicholas clasped his brother's hand. "Thank you. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll see you at supper. I've got some work to do."

Two days later, arms piled high with boxes, Nicholas turned the ornate brass doorknob and burst into Glory's room.

Her head came up, but she didn't say a word, just stared at him as if a stranger had entered her room. She sat before the fire, rocking and reading a book. Nicholas stopped only long enough for a quick glance in her direction. As he strode across the carpet and dropped the boxes onto the bed, she eyed him with a bit of suspicion.

Nicholas muttered beneath his breath. Moving to the rosewood armoire in the comer, he made a great show of opening the carved wooden doors and pulling out one of Glory's black faille day dresses. Just the feel of the stiff material, the lifeless look of the dreary black fabric, made him angry. He set his jaw, caught the collar of the gown between his fingers, and ripped the dress down the front.

The sound of shredding fabric brought Glory to her feet. "What . . . what are you doing?"

"Something I should have done weeks ago. I'm getting rid of these dismal dresses once and for all."