Little Clara squirmed on Chantz's lap until she could take his face between her little hands. Looking at him intensely, she said, "I gonna say a special praya fo' you t'night, Boss Chantz. Gonna tell God he betta be right nice fo' ya now and bring ya lotta perty young'uns with Juliette, and cane what reach right up to

d'sky so high angels be dancin' on 'em. Can ya imagine dat, Boss Chantz? Angels dancin' on each and ever' cane stalk, sweet as d'sugar fairies Miss Julie tell me about."

"Sugar fairies?" He grinned.

"What makes yo' cane so sweet. 'Cause ya got d'sugar fairies on ya shouldas. Miss Julie say so."

Liza moved out of the house. "I 'spect you all best git on now and stop usin' up Chantz's weddin' night.

Man fit to be tied, I imagine. If he ain't he will be soon enough. Soon as he gets a look at his new wife."

Her smile wide, Liza moved against Chantz as he stood. She nestled her face into his neck and sighed.

"Felt my baby move today," she said softly. "Right after you come and tell me I'm a free woman. I swear

she be flutterin' in happiness."

He kissed the top of her head and looked into Andrew's eyes. Chantz wondered if he looked that sick in love when he watched Juliette. God, God, what a woman could do to a man...

Liza pulled back. "She waitin' on you, Chantz. Got her bathed and dusted with sweet-smellin' powder. She got magnolia blossoms in her hair. We done plumped up that old mattress with fresh moss and goose down. Gonna feel like you're floatin' on a cloud."

She turned and reached for Andrew's hand. They walked down the stairs together, toward the old shanty they would share for this night only. Tomorrow they would move into the spare room at the top of the stairs. Tomorrow Andrew Buley would start to work for Chantz Boudreaux.

It all felt crazy, as if the world had gone topsy-turvy.

With his hands in his trouser pockets, Chantz looked off into the dark. In the flood of moonlight he could almost imagine that the reflection of silver in the distance was the moon glancing off the endless rows of high, sweet cane.

This time next year.

He sat again on the stair and reached for his glass of champagne. Elbows on his knees, his long hard fingers gently tracing the rim of the glass, he watched the dance of fireflies and listened to the whir of crickets. The ring on his finger felt heavy and cold. The heart in his chest ached. Ached so badly he could hardly breathe. Why?

Why?

Chantz Boudreaux- bastard who this time yesterday didn't have a pot to pee in- had married the most beautiful woman in Louisiana. He now owned the jewel of the Mississippi. Soon folks would be moving off the banquettes and doffing their hats in respect when he walked by. It was going to be Mister Boudreaux from now on.

No more goddamn infested cornmeal.

Great God, he had ached for Juliette with every bone and muscle in his body the last weeks. He'd thought of nothing but losing himself in her scent, in her body. The memory of her heat in his hand had driven him mindless- walking his floor night after night, wrenching him from his dreams with his body so full and hard between his legs he'd groaned in pain.

Now here he sat in the dark on his wedding night, sweat oozing from his pores, his body so tight he was afraid he'd never make it up the stairs to hold her, and he could think of nothing but Tylor's words: "You've just sold your dignity for the price of a rundown, weed-infested property and a wife who looks at you as nothing more than a workhorse. A glorified overseer. Instead of paying you with money she's gonna spread her legs. I don't know which of you is the bigger whore."

A sharp pain bit his fingers.

He looked down, at the broken glass stem, snapped in two by his sudden fierce grip of anger. Blood beaded on his flesh- black in the moonlight against his palm, spreading like thick molasses.

Hurling the glass into the dark, Chantz stood, moved into the house where the moonlight poured through the roof and onto the stairs. Slowly, he ascended. The bourbon and champagne beat at his skull.

Convince yourself that you care for nothing but the cane.

That your heart hasn't chipped a little each time you look at her.

That it doesn't matter that she doesn't really love you. That she may never really love you. That her

greatest burning desire is also for the cane.

The goddamn cane.

A wild fire.

A tempest.

A siren's song.

Love had nothing to do with it. Jack knew it. Didn't matter.

Chantz knew it.

Shouldn't matter.

He removed his coat, carefully tossed it over the banister as he climbed, slowly. Then his vest, only then

realizing as it slid off his shoulders how badly he had sweat in it. Though the air was warm, it chilled his damp skin, making his entire body quiver. He paused, looked up through the exposed rafters at the heavy moon, and tried to even his breathing.

Merciful Mary, he hurt.

Leaning against the banister, gritting his teeth, he ran his hand down the ridge in his pants. His eyes rolled shut. The pressure of the buttons bit into his sensitive flesh sending sharp pain through him.

Again, he climbed.

The hint of magnolia drifted to him. It seeped into his blood like fire.

The bedroom door was ajar. Quietly, he let himself in, stood for a moment in the threshold, doing his best

to ignore the rising throb in his loins, to ignore Tylor's words that kept rapping rapping rapping at his

brain, at his heart, at his damn pride.

The moon through the window painted the bare floor and walls in silvery splashes and shadows. Her scent washed over him in a wave of floral and musky sweetness.

He found her at last, lying on the mattress.

Reaching for his shirt buttons, he silently crossed the room, to the bed where she lay with her head on a

down pillow, her eyes closed. Her skin looked milky soft in the moonlight. Her hair sprayed over the bed like a dark copper fire. There were magnolia petals scattered around her head.

Her arms and shoulders were bare. Only the sheet tossed over her body shielded her from his eyes that

suddenly ached to absorb her every lovely nuance. Still, the thin linen molded to every curve and peak,

accentuating her most intimate places- highlights and shadows.

With the heat rising in his body, he stooped and, with trembling hand, reached for the sheet, eased it down her body, exposing her high, proud breasts with their dusky nipples, down, beyond her tiny waist, down, revealing the downy mound that appeared mauve in the shimmering light.

A groan sounded in his throat. His fingers curled into fists.

If only...

If only she would open her eyes and see him as something special. Her husband. No damn overseer. No

damn means to an end. Only a man who, since the moment he dragged her out of that river, would happily offer his heart in his hand if she would but cherish it. Christ, he had nothing else to give her, after all.

Had Chantz Boudreaux actually become one of the very men he had despised for their inability to deny a woman?

What the hell had happened to him?

Cane had been his passion. Planting it. Growing it. Harvesting every last tall green stalk.

Now he seemed little more than a ghost, as if he were slowly becoming a mist of what he had been- obstinate, willful, and so full of bitterness his life had become a twisted irony.

It was that bitterness that bit at him still, fighting to take control. To remind him that, once again, he was nothing and she was... everything.

Everything.

Standing, he removed his clothes slowly, piece by piece. Let them fall where they may as he watched her sleep. Her cheeks still bore the bruises of the attack those nights before. Even as she drifted in her light dreams, her mien appeared drawn with her fear and despair over India's death.

Oh, she had grieved over the loss of her friend. She blamed herself, of course. Had she not involved

herself in teaching the darkies how to read...

She stirred, turned her head so the moonlight through the window found her face. The long curve of her lashes painted shadows upon her skin.

A shiver of emotion passed through Chantz, a sudden swelling of ecstasy and pain.

Naked, he carefully slid onto the mattress beside her. Motionless, his body heavy and full, he refrained

from touching her. The need felt too great. His every nerve felt on fire, the heat centering between his legs and his brain.

Instead, he allowed his gaze to absorb her, half wanting her to open her eyes, half praying she wouldn't.

Not yet. He wanted the moment to last an eternity. The minutes ticked by. Perhaps an hour.

He reached for her, hands brushing her flesh, lightly tracing her moist lips that parted so her warm breath and sigh touched his fingertips. Down, he moved, tracing the curve of her throat, farther, to cup the fullness of her breasts and the peaks that hardened at his caress.

Lowering his head, he pressed his lips against hers- briefly, more like a flutter of a hummingbird's wing, fast as the beating of his own heart. "Sweet God," he murmured, his eyes drifting closed. "I must be dreaming, darlin'. Ever'time I look at this ring on my hand... ever'time I reach for you and you don't dissolve into air. Have you any idea how many nights I've lain in my bed imagining this and aching so damn bad because I never believed it would happen?"

She sighed. Her lips curled. Still, however, she did not open her eyes, as if she were playing at being asleep now.

Sliding lower, he took the rose-colored nipples between his lips, sucked them gently, first one then the other, nuzzled them with his tongue, round and round until the peaks became hard as pebbles and her scent rose up to inflame him.

Closer, so his thigh nestled against the curve of her hip. His hard, erect body lay upon her leg, and he felt the first ripple of excitement pass through her. Her breathing quickened. Her body warmed.

"Chantz," she murmured so softly he barely heard her.

"Husband."