"Good morning, gentlemen. Captain," she said pointedly and caught the hint of a frown from her father and a look of amusement from Nicholas.

"Good morning, Glory," Eric said. His hazel eyes swept over her, his look of adoration unmistakable. "You look ravishing, as always."

"Thank you, Eric."

"Glory, we've been waiting patiently down here for hours," her father said. "Nicholas and I are riding over to the rice fields. Since it's such a lovely day, we thought you might enjoy coming with us."

"That's very thoughtful of you, Father," Glory said. "But I have an engagement at Buckland Oaks."

"I'll be happy to escort you," Eric put in, his hazel eyes soft.

"What kind of engagement?" her father wanted to know.

"Miriam is planning a costume ball, and I've agreed to help. Besides, her mother is sick, and I'm taking her some of Plenty's special remedy."

Julian sighed in defeat. "Well, I suppose you have no choice if Mrs. Allstor is ill."

Glory smiled at the captain, who hadn't said a word and looked utterly bored by the entire conversation. "Have a nice ride, Captain. I'll see you at supper."

He merely nodded, looked hard at Eric, who had rushed to open the door, then returned his attention to her father, who appeared not the slightest bit happy about this latest turn of events.

Outside, Glory called for the caleche to be readied, instructing them to leave the top open in concession to the beautiful weather, while she conversed lightly with Eric. He told her he'd thought of her every moment since the night of her birthday, told her how much he adored her, and asked her to attend Miriam's costume ball with him. As handsome and attentive as he was, Glory found it hard to keep her mind on the conversation. She suddenly wished she'd gone riding with her father and the captain-though for the life of her she couldn't imagine why.

Glory spent the day at Miriam's feeling the same disquiet she'd felt before she left. She'd sent Eric packing as soon as they arrived, telling him how much she and Miriam had to do and placating him with a tentative acceptance of his invitation to the costume ball. All the while she wondered what Nicholas Blackwell and her father were doing.

Miriam only made matters worse. "How are you and that roguish sea captain getting along?" she asked. "He is, without doubt, the most wickedly handsome man I've ever seen. Why, I'd positively die to spend the day with him. But then, I guess you have so many beaux you hardly need another." They were seated on the porch, looking out across manicured gardens toward the river.

"I told you before, Miriam, Captain Blackwell's an arrogant, despicable man. Why he . . . he's no gentleman, I'll tell you that."

"Did he kiss you, Glory? Did he?"

"Don't be a featherhead, Miriam. Captain Blackwell and I don't get along at all. If he weren't Father's friend, I swear I wouldn't so much as speak to the man. He's rude and overbearing; he's ill-tempered and inconsiderate; he's-"

"Absolutely divine," Miriam broke in. She rolled her eyes and fluttered her painted fan, and Glory fought down an urge to strangle her. She changed the subject to something safer, and the long afternoon rolled slowly to a close, Glory staunchly refusing to arrive at home before her father and the captain, no matter how tedious Miriam's usually sparkling company seemed.

She even forced herself to stay a little longer than usual. By the time she finally did leave, her driver, old Mose, was nervously wringing his bony hands.

"Your daddy don' like you comin' home late, Miss Glory. He gonna have my hide."

"Oh, horsefeathers," Glory said, paying the old man no heed. "If we hurry, we'll be home well before dark." But they weren't. Halfway home the carriage hit a rut and one of the wheels broke off the axle. Mose was taking forever to fix it. His gnarled old hands were not as nimble as they used to be, and Glory hadn't the vaguest idea what to do to help him. She just sat quietly in the seat, waiting patiently for him to finish, and wondering how she was going to calm her father's raging temper.

"Damn that girl," Julian Summerfield raved. "She damned well knows better than to stay out this late!"

"She probably just let the time slip by," Nicholas soothed. They sat in the upstairs drawing room, sipping bourbon and branch water and smoking thin cigars, Julian's concern becoming more and more apparent.

"What that girl needs is a husband," Julian stormed. "And the sooner the better!"

"Listen, Julian, I'm sure she's all right, but just to be on the safe side, why don't I go make sure?"

"I'll go with you," Julian volunteered, leaping to his feet. He took several hurried steps, then suddenly stopped short, one hand going to the small of his back. "Damned if I haven't pulled a muscle," he said, but couldn't meet Nicholas's gaze. "Darned sacroiliac."

Nicholas almost smiled. "I know the road to Buckland Oaks. She's probably not far. I'll escort her the rest of the way home."

"Thank you, Nicholas. This damn back of mine picks the darnedest times to act up."

Nicholas just nodded. Crushing out his cigar, he headed for the door, setting his glass down on the piecrust table near the fireplace on the way out. Since the night air was still chilly, he stopped by his bedchamber to draw on his black wool cloak. Then he strode downstairs.

One of the stable boys saddled Hannibal for him, and Nicholas swung up into the saddle. He'd begun to worry about the girl himself, though he wasn't certain why he should. She was probably just indulging herself. She was willful and spoiled. A woman like that wouldn't be the least concerned for the worry she caused others. Julian should have taken the girl in hand years ago; now it was too late. Too late for a father, but not for a husband. In that Julian was correct.

Setting Hannibal at a mile-eating pace down the road to Buckland Oaks, Nicholas thought of his somewhat limited experience with the institution of marriage. His mother had been a beautiful French Creole woman. She'd been the darling of every party, the belle of every ball. Everywhere she went men fell at her feet. Alexander Blackwell, Nicholas's father, had been no exception. He'd loved his wife, Collette, with a limitless passion; unfortunately Collette did not love him. At least not in the same way. Collette Dubois Blackwell wasn't capable of that kind of love.

After Nicholas was bom, Collette had lain with every dandy in New Orleans. His father had known of her infidelities, but had chosen to ignore them, hoping he could somehow regain her love.

When Nicholas was seven years old, his mother ran away to France with a wealthy merchant with never a thought for Nicholas or his father. A few years later, Nicholas was told she had died of some sort of plague. How he had missed her. How he had yearned for her love-just as his father had.

As always, thoughts of his beautiful, hedonistic mother darkened Nicholas's mood. Gloria Summerfield, with her soft laughter and flirtatious ways, would probably turn out just the same. Just like all the other women Nicholas had known. For the hundredth time that day, Nicholas vowed not to get involved with the girl. Tomorrow he'd be leaving Summerfield Manor, returning to his ship and the way of life to which he belonged. Nicholas could hardly wait.

"Aren't you done yet, Mose?" Glory asked, glancing up and down the dark, tree-lined lane. Only the lonely hooting of an owl had kept them company until now, but as the moon rose above the trees, Glory began to hear other sounds. She couldn't make out just exactly what they were, but they were ominous sounds, and Glory was anxious to be on her way.

"All set, Miz Glory." Mose tottered over to the caleche and climbed into the driver's seat. He clucked the team of matched sorrels into a trot, and the carriage rolled away.

At first Glory breathed a sigh of relief. But as they traveled farther down the lane, the ominous sounds grew louder. She noticed old Mose glancing nervously from side to side, and a chill of apprehension raced down her spine. The noises sounded closer now-hounds baying, horses' hooves thundering against the still-soft earth. As her worry increased, her heart began to thud in rhythm to the galloping beasts.

Old Mose slapped the reins a little harder, urging the team forward at a faster pace. As the tall pine forest rushed past in a moonlit blur, Glory gripped the velvet seat to keep from being tossed around inside the open carriage. Seeing a bend in the road up ahead, Mose slowed the horses. At the same time, a small Negro youth rushed from the side of the lane, forcing Mose to pull up on the reins to avoid a collision. Just for a moment, the youth froze in his tracks and Glory recognized Ephram's brother, Willie. Then he bolted toward the woods.

"Willie, wait!" she cried out. "Not that way, they'll catch you for sure!"

Willie turned and, recognizing Glory's voice, raced up beside the coach, his slender body bathed in sweat, his clothes in shreds, his arms and legs scratched and bleeding. "Please, Miz Glory," he pleaded. "Dey'll kill me for sure."

The echo of the lash rang in Glory's ears. By some miracle Ephram had survived the whipping. Little Willie had neither his older brother's size nor his stamina.

The sounds were getting louder. Glory could hear men's voices as they called back and forth to each other, searching determinedly for the runaway slave. The hoofbeats of their horses were so loud she wondered how she could possibly hear the pounding of her heart.

"Please, Miss Glory," Willie begged. "You da only hope I got. Dey ain't nobody else."

Glory glanced at the woods, ringing with the terrible sounds of death, and back at the boy, who seemed nothing more than two huge white-ringed eyes. "We've got to find someplace for you to hide."

"There's a tool box under my seat," Mose offered. "The boy is small enough to fit."

Glory hesitated only a moment. "Get in!" she ordered, and Willie's flashing smile was all the thanks she needed.

"What the hell's going on here?" Nicholas Blackwell stormed onto the scene just as Willie lifted the canvas flap concealing the tool box beneath Mose's seat.

An expression of terror frozen on her face, Glory stared up at him, seated astride the big black. He looked ominous and forbidding in his dark cloak, his features drawn and angry.

"Please, Nicholas," she pleaded, hands clutching the folds of her skirt. "They'll kill him if I don't help. Just go back up the road a little. No one will ever have to know you were here."

Nicholas hesitated only a moment, his glance straying to the woods, then back to the anxious face of the girl in the carriage. "Do as she says," he commanded the boy, and Willie climbed into the box. "The dogs will pick up his scent," he told Glory. "Do you have anything we can use to distract them? Food scraps, anything?"

"I have some fried chicken Mrs. Allstor sent along." Nicholas dismounted. With trembling fingers, Glory hurriedly handed him a small wicker basket from the seat beside her. She hadn't missed the word "we." Gratitude surged through her, so potent it made her feel weak.

Nicholas looked into the basket. "Pepper. Let's hope this works." He set the basket in the foot box of the caleche, sprinkled the pepper all over the tool box, rearranged the canvas flap, and climbed back on his horse just as twenty sweat-covered riders burst through the woods and onto the road. A short, stout man held five baying hounds by the end of their taut leashes, and the cacophony of snorting horses and heaving men threatened to overwhelm Glory's senses.

From the center of the group, Thomas Jervey, a muscular man in his mid-forties who owned a neighboring plantation, approached.

"Miz Summerfield." Though the air was cool, he lifted his felt hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with an elbow. "Sorry to bother you, but the hounds have been following that Nigra who ran from Buckland Oaks." The dogs strained at their leashes, baying and barking furiously at the driver's seat of the carriage. "They seem to have followed him here. Mind tellin' me what you're doin' out so late?"

"I was visiting Miriam Allstor. One of the carriage wheels broke on my way home. Mose just got it fixed." She pointed to the wheel, broken and lashed haphazardly back together on the right side of the caleche. "Since I was late getting home, Captain Blackwell came out to escort me back."

"Mind if we take a look?" Jervey asked, and Glory felt the color drain from her face.

"Not in the least," Nicholas put in, dismounting from the black and coming to stand near the front of the carriage. The stout man holding the dogs brought them around to the driver's seat, and Glory thought her heart would stop.

Nicholas lifted the flap, revealing the lunch, while the dogs, standing on their hind legs, took several deep sniffs. Then they sneezed and howled pitifully, turned tail, and ran in the opposite direction, pulling the stout man along behind them. Seeing the wicker basket Nicholas had opened to reveal the chicken and a bit of spilled pepper, the men chuckled softly among themselves.

"Sorry to bother you, Miz Glory," Thomas Jervey said. "But you can't be too careful." He turned toward Nicholas. "You'll see she gets home safely, Captain?"

Nicholas nodded. He swung himself up on the black, his dark cloak billowing out behind him. "Good luck with your hunt," he told Jervey. Then he signaled for Mose to take the carriage on home.

Glory leaned back against the seat, her heart still hammering wildly. The carriage rolled along the road in silence for several miles, until Nicholas motioned for Mose to stop. After dismounting, he tied the stallion to the caleche, and joined Glory inside the open rig.

"Mind telling me what that was all about?" he asked, settling his lanky frame against the seat.

If the day had been trying so far, Glory now found it exceedingly so. She could feel the captain's powerful presence-and his muscular thigh pressing against hers through the folds of her skirt.

"I wish I could tell you, Captain. But it all happened so quickly. I just did what seemed right at the moment." Nicholas regarded her closely. "You risked your reputation and your father's standing in the community to help a runaway slave? Only yesterday you sent a man on a four-mile walk just so you wouldn't soil your riding habit."

"Things aren't always as they appear, Captain. Sometimes Jonas, the overseer, is a little too eager with the whip. I believed the boy would rather take a four-mile walk than nurse the cuts on his back."

Nicholas felt a little of his cynicism slip away. Maybe there was more to the girl than he thought. Moonlight filtered between the clouds, and Nicholas noticed the way the soft light glistened on her smooth cheeks and lit the blue of her eyes. "I don't think I've ever met a woman more full of surprises than you, love," he said softly. Glory's cheeks pinkened at his use of so intimate a word, and he felt that same pull of attraction he'd felt before.

"I'm grateful for your help, Captain. But I'm afraid I'm going to need to ask for more. Willie won't be safe until he reaches the North. You could take him there aboard your ship."

Nicholas stiffened. "I don't approve of the institution of slavery, Glory. But I have friends in the South. Men like your father. Men I admire and respect. I do business with these men. I won't interfere in their way of life."

"I appreciate your feelings, Captain. I feel much the same way. But just this once . . . ? No one need ever know."

He ran a long tanned finger down the line of her cheek. She looked so beautiful, so caring. He really had no choice-he'd known that the moment he came upon her in the road. "All right. Just this once. But don't ever ask it of me again."

"Thank you, Captain."

"Back there you called me Nicholas. I liked the way it sounded."

"Nicholas," she whispered softly.

It seemed so natural he should kiss her, so right somehow. What harm could there be in one little kiss? He lifted her chin and covered her soft coral lips. They felt full and warm, and Nicholas heard himself groan. When she parted them to allow his tongue entrance, Nicholas forgot the promises he'd made himself, forgot all but the warmth of her breath, the sweetness of her mouth. He deepened the kiss and felt her slender arms slip behind his neck, her fingers glide through the strands of his curly black hair.

Glory felt a rush of desire so poignant it made her dizzy. His lips were full and insistent, and a warm, pervasive glow spread through her limbs. She felt hot and languid, tense and shivery all at the same time. His hands cupped her face, his firm fingers guiding her in the kiss while they gently held her captive. Her nipples hardened against the fabric of her dress, felt heavy, and just a little achy. His tongue searched her mouth, tasting every comer, taking her breath away, making her head spin.

Glory had been kissed before, dozens of times, by countless suitors. Sweet, chaste kisses, warm on her lips. Promises of things to come. The kiss she experienced with Nicholas Blackwell was like no other. She wanted the kiss to go on forever, but even that wouldn't have been enough. When his hands moved down the bodice of her dress to cup the weight of her bosom, when his fingers teased the stiff peak through the soft green fabric, Glory knew exactly what it was she wanted from Nicholas Blackwell, and the thought cleared her mind like a dip in an icy stream.

"Please, Captain," she whispered, pulling away, her voice a little shaky. "This is too . . . I mean, I didn't intend to . . . I mean, I don't think we should . . ."

"I know exactly what you mean, Miss Summerfield." His voice sounded husky as he twisted away from her, trying to ease the bulge in his breeches Glory pretended not to see. Her face flamed scarlet, and she was glad a cloud had covered the moon.

Nicholas glanced at the side of the road. "I didn't intend to, either."

They rode the rest of the way in silence, Glory's lips still tender from the blush of his kiss, her heart still hammering uncomfortably. As she glanced at his angular profile, watched the wind blow strands of his curly black hair and moonbeams lighten his usually dark gray eyes, Glory began to understand why women like Lavinia Bond would risk their honor for Nicholas Blackwell.

Mose stopped the carriage some distance from the main house to let Willie out, with instructions as to which cabin belonged to Mose. In the morning Willie could slip back into the box for the long ride to the wharf in Charleston. From there Captain Blackwell would see that he reached safety in the North.

Glory and the Captain said a detached good-night, but Glory thought he looked at her differently somehow. She knew she saw him in a different light. She desired Nicholas Blackwell, desired a man for the very first time in her life, and Glory felt both stunned and a little ashamed. She'd always known her father was a man of lusty appetites-at least he had been until Hannah died. After that he'd gone to Charleston, she was sure, to call on the ladies of the evening. He had never again visited the slave quarters, as he had when Hannah lived there.

Until tonight, Glory had always been certain she'd inherited her mother's more delicate sensibilities regarding a woman's duties in the marriage bed. To her mother, intimacy was an obligation. After Glory was born, Louise had been thankful when Julian stopped visiting her room altogether. Her mother had explained to Glory that what happened between a man and a woman was for procreation, to bring new life into the world. Passion was something only a man enjoyed. Glory had always believed her mother-until tonight. Surely she hadn't inherited her father's passions instead of her mother's! But now Glory wasn't so certain.

Julian spotted the change in attitude the moment they entered the dining room early the following morning. Last night both had pleaded fatigue and gone straight to their chambers. This morning Glory watched Nicholas covertly from beneath her thick dark lashes, an achingly wistful look on her face.

And Nicholas smiled. Not a thin, narrow, mirthless smile, but a real, genuine, full-fledged smile. At least when he looked at Glory.

Julian wondered what could have happened between them on the road last night, and part of him questioned his judgment in throwing them together so much. The other part said he'd had to give his daughter the chance at love he'd known only briefly.

Now Nicholas was leaving. And if the look on Glory's face was any indication, she was damned sorry to see him go. Nicholas didn't look any too pleased himself.

"Good-bye, Captain Blackwell," Glory was saying. They'd walked outside on the piazza to stand in the warm spring sun.

Nicholas took her slim fingers in his hand and brought them to his lips. His eyes, usually a dark gray, looked lighter somehow. "It's been a pleasure, Miss Summerfield. More than you'll ever know."

"Will you be returning to Charleston soon?" she asked, almost willing him to say yes, it seemed to Julian.

"I'm afraid not." He didn't add anything further, and Julian wondered why he sounded so final while his expression seemed to belie his words.

Glory straightened. "Then I wish you well, Captain." She turned to go, her head held high, fair hair gleaming in the early morning light.

"And you, Glory. Don't settle for less than what you want." He glanced pointedly at Julian. Then he climbed aboard the caleche, his rented saddle horse trailing behind. The captain had found the animal lame that morning, so Mose was driving him into Charleston.

"Thank you again, Julian," Nicholas called out. "For everything."

As the carriage rolled into the distance, Julian moved to stand beside his daughter. She looked down the lane until the caleche turned the bend in the road and moved out of sight.

"You really liked him, didn't you?" Julian said softly, meeting his daughter's troubled gaze.

"Too much" was all she said.

Glory spent the next few weeks determinedly trying to forget Nicholas Blackwell. It was no easy task. She attended several soirees and finally Miriam's costume ball with Eric Dixon. But now the men who fawned over her seemed immature or dandyish. When she kissed Eric and felt nothing more than a pleasant glow, she thought of Nicholas's more passionate embrace. Whenever she saw Lavinia Bond, she fought the torturous image of Nicholas lying with the luscious red-haired woman, his hands caressing her, his warm lips brushing her eager flesh. Worst of all, she felt jealous that it was Lavinia and not she who had been the object of his ardor.

Not until the first of May did Glory's life return to some semblance of order. She'd resigned herself to marrying Eric Dixon as her mother had strongly begun to urge.

"It's time you married," she'd say. "Eric is a fine southern gentleman. His family has lived here for generations. You two will make a splendid match."