"Don't try to talk," she pleaded. "You have to save your strength."

He lifted his head, determined to make himself heard.

"Please, Nicholas. You've got to lie still."

"Tell me . . . you . . . love me," he whispered. "Tell me. . . ."

"Oh, God." Glory closed her eyes against the pain. Touching his cheek with her hand, tears blurred her vision and ran in rivulets to dampen the front of his shirt. "I love you, Nicholas. I wanted to tell you so many times. I've loved you since the first day we met. I loved you the night you saved my life on the Black Spider. I loved you on the strand. I loved you in Boston and at Blackwell Hall. I couldn't stop loving you. Even when I wanted to, I couldn't. I've always loved you, my darling Nicholas. I always will."

But Nicholas couldn't hear her.

His eyes had closed. His fingers relaxed their hold and slipped from between her own. His head slumped softly against the folds of her skirt.

" The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He mak-eth me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.' " The minister's voice droned on, soft with sympathy above the bowed heads of the people who had gathered to pay their last respects.

" He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.' "

Glory stood facing the oak coffin that rested on the mound of fresh earth in the tiny cemetery on the hillside below Summerfield Manor. A cloud blocked the sun. A single cloud, casting rays of shadow over the mourners in the graveyard. A damp breeze whipped her skirts and ruffled the black tulle veil she wore.

No tears wet her cheeks.

The time for tears had passed.

" My cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.' "

Glory twisted the folds of her dark gray bombazine skirt and stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the garland of yellow roses draped across the coffin.

"Earth to earth, dust to dust, ashes to ashes."

Not long ago she had stood in the same spot, staring at another casket, one of fine mahogany, which held the remains of her father. She swallowed past the lump in her throat.

"Are you all right?"

She felt the pressure of his hand as it nestled atop her own in the crook of his arm. Nicholas still looked wan and pale, but he was alive-unlike Jonas Fry who lay cold and still in his coffin.

Glory nodded. "I'll just be glad when all this is over and we can go home."

"So will I."

Across from her, Glory saw her mother watching her through her own dark veil. She'd changed since the last time they'd been together. She seemed more vulnerable now. Glory had been right about her mother: Louise Summerfield had been just as upset as Glory when she learned of Jonas Fry's scheme to have Nathan returned. Her mother had come to terms with the past, it seemed. She just wanted to get on with her life, someday make a home for the soft-spoken, graying man who stood beside her-Caleb Harcourt.

She and Glory had talked for hours after it was certain Nicholas would live. They'd become closer in these past few days than they had been in years. Louise had spoken to Glory about Caleb, seeking her approval. After Glory had left Charleston, her mother had met Caleb Harcourt through Eric Dixon's family and the two had fallen in love. Since the period of mourning for Julian had not yet ended, Louise and Caleb had been unable to wed. In order to spend time with him, she had delegated more and more tasks to Jonas Fry. But all that would change now. Soon Caleb would be helping her run the manor.

Glory liked the quiet older man, so unlike her father. He'd spent most of his adult life as a merchant in Charleston, but he'd been raised on a plantation.

"I can learn again," he'd said with a wry grin. "For a woman like Louise it will be worth it."

Louise had blushed like a schoolgirl.

Glory was happy for them. Her mother deserved this chance at love.

Louise had even made peace with Nathan. To Thomas Jervey's chagrin, she'd given Nathan his freedman's papers, and he had already embarked on a ship heading north.

"You've always been there for me, Glory," he'd said. "Someday it'll be my turn."

"Pay me back by helping your people." She had hugged him and waved till he rode out of sight. This time when he reached New York, he would be safe there.

Nicholas's wound had been less serious than it had appeared at first. The bullet had passed all the way through his chest, a safe distance above his heart and lungs. Now it was just a matter of rest and recovery. He'd been abed three days, but today he had demanded she let him accompany her to the funeral, determined to lend his support.

Her mother seemed quietly pleased at his sense of duty. "Jonas Fry was a loyal employee of this family for over twenty years," Louise had said. "It's only fitting he be buried on Summerfield land and attended by family."

And so it was.

Mac, Jago, and Josh had turned Matthew Bigger over to the Charleston authorities. Since he'd been in no other trouble, there was a chance he would receive a light sentence. Glory hoped so. In some ways, as Lester Fields had said, he wasn't a bad sort.

"Bye, darlin'," he'd said with a grin, his face still battered from Nicholas's beating. "I wouldn't mind goin' to jail if I could've tasted that sweet body of yours just once." Josh had been outraged. Jago grinned as if he understood, and Glory was just thankful Nicholas hadn't been anywhere near.

Mac and the crew of the Black Witch had left for New York as soon as the doctor was sure of Nicholas's recovery. Black Neptune, another of Nicholas's ships, would be at the Charleston docks in three weeks. By then Nicholas would be well enough to travel, and Glory would have had some time with her mother and a chance to visit old friends.

The funeral service ended, and Nicholas led Glory back up to the house. For propriety's sake she'd made an appearance, but she felt no grief for Jonas Fry. She wouldn't have wished him dead, but the fact that he was brought her little pain. She hoped the man her mother hired to replace him would be more sympathetic to the Negroes' plight.

"You look a little peaked," Glory told Nicholas, laying a hand on his brow to check for fever as they climbed the sweeping staircase to their third-floor room.

"I believe you may be right, Mrs. Blackwell. I'd better get back to bed right away." His eyes moved from her face to the swell of her breast beneath the dark gray mourning dress she'd worn after her father died. They darkened to that heated, hungry look she knew so well.

"You'd better come with me," he told her. "Just to be certain I'm all right. Besides, I want you out of that dismal dress." His look said the dress wasn't all he wanted her out of, and Glory felt her own desire swell. They moved along the hall and into Glory's bedchamber. She'd put Nicholas in the wide four-poster to convalesce, but so far she'd slept on the narrow settee each night for fear of opening his wound.

"Turn around," he ordered, as soon as they'd closed the door.

Glory did as she was told and felt firm fingers unbuttoning the back of her dress, then releasing the tabs holding together her petticoats. She stepped free of the frothy folds, pulling the dress off at the same time. She turned to face him in snowy corset, chemise, and lacy drawers.

Nicholas groaned. "I'd almost forgotten how lovely you are."

"I love you," she whispered.

"I don't think I'll ever tire of hearing you say that."

"I love you, I love you, I love you." A bubble of soft laughter escaped.

Glory smiled seductively. She slid down her drawers and faced him clad in dark gray stockings and velvet garters, a demicorset, and a lacy chemise that barely covered the curves of her bottom.

"Vixen," he whispered, pulling her against him. He kissed her soundly, until she felt him sway.

"I think we'd better get you in bed."

"Not unless you're coming, too."

"Try to keep me away."

He let her remove his clothes, first his dark brown coat, then his pleated white shirt. He sat on the bed while she worked open the buttons of his breeches. Bending over, she felt a rush of heat, first to her cheeks, then to her loins, as Nicholas's hand moved up her thigh to tease the rounded curves of her bottom.

She slid his breeches down his long hard legs and felt his muscles bunch as her hand brushed against the now-stiff shaft between his legs. Licking her lips, she let her fingers play over the rigid flesh, fascinated as always by the size-and the promise of pleasure it held.

Nicholas eased himself up against the headboard. "Come here."

"Not yet." Giving him a seductive glance, she wet her lips and lowered them to the tempting flesh at the juncture of his sinewy legs. She teased and caressed him with her mouth and tongue, wanting to give him pleasure, delighted by his soft low groans of passion. She licked and sucked and drove him to near distraction, finally bringing him to shuddering climax. As he lay spent and more than a little surprised at her boldness, she finished undressing and joined him on the bed, careful not to touch his injured chest.

"You're even more of a vixen than I imagined," he whispered, cupping an upturned breast. He teased the nipple with his teeth, then circled the hard bud with his mouth. Glory felt a rush of pleasure that went all the way to her toes. When he pulled away, she traced a finger down his chest to the flat spot below his navel, then was surprised to feel his shaft hot and pulsing again.

"And you, my handsome husband, are even more of a devil."

He chuckled softly and captured her lips, his tongue teasing and warm as it slid inside her mouth. He settled her astride him, and Glory slipped easily onto his hardened length, her body long ago wet and ready to accept him. She moved sensuously, until he cupped her buttocks with practiced ease and set up a rhythm that made it hard for her to concentrate.

Soon she was lost in the pulsing motion, melting with the liquid sensations that washed over her. She kissed him, laced her fingers through his hair, and mewed softly against his mouth. Once she felt him flinch, as she accidentally touched his wound, but he didn't stop. Just kept thrusting into her, slowly and deeply, until a wave of pleasure broke over her, curling her upward and forcing his name from her lips. Nicholas followed her to release.

He nestled her beside him and they drifted to peaceful contentment.

"Tell me-"

"I love you," she interrupted before he could finish the words.

He traced the line of her cheek. "And I love you." There were no more doubts, no lingering fears between them. From now on Glory would speak her heart to Nicholas. And Nicholas would spend the rest of his life proving his love in the age-old manner he'd demonstrated only moments before-and was eager to show her again.

Kat Martin is the internationally acclaimed author of the Against series as well as over 50 romantic suspense and historical romance novels. Learn more at www.katmartin.com. She lives in Montana with her husband, L. J. Martin, also a novelist.

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