They grimly handed over their muskets to Charlie's guards and exited their commander's wrath at a run. He watched them go, then turned on Whitney with a nasty gleam in his eye.

"Aunt Sarah was worried that Charlie wasn't dead or tortured," she seized the initiative, pushing Aunt Sarah behind her to face the major alone, "so we came to see for ourselves. And, expecting that you wouldn't have had the decency to feed him, she brought him a bit of food."

"You've invaded my camp, lured my men from their rightful duty, and expect me to believe your little sortie was motivated by motherly concern?" He was fighting the way his eyes were drawn to her shirtfront again and his face reddened in chagrin that was a fair imitation of fury.

"You have no right to hold him here," Whitney stalked closer, planting her fists in the crook of her waist. The move thrust hard-tipped breasts against the front of her shirt and made the opening gap between buttons. "It's a pure travesty of justice. He's done absolutely nothing to be arrested for-"

"I should think you of all people would understand just how much of a menace he can be," the major sneered with a slow, insinuating look down her body. Instantly, he regretted it, for his comment had brought the confrontation down to purely personal terms and his look at her body brought him alarming reminders of just how personal he'd been with her himself.

"What happened was between Charlie and me," Whitney found herself reddening under his bold, tactile stare and his very personal taunt. "And it has nothing to do with taxes or whiskey or anything else you might be interested in."

"Then... what were you doing out in the woods with him in the first place?" Townsend demanded, feeling a bit unnerved at the tenor of his question. It sounded strikingly personal, and he was dismayed to find a sizable personal curiosity about the answer lurking beneath it.

"I don't have to answer that," she snapped, stalking another step closer, so close she could begin to fee! the heat radiating from his tall, muscular frame. Too close, she realized. "I'm not under suspicion, here."

"Aren't you, wench? Whatever gave you that idea? In fact," the insight poured a measure of heat through him, "you're a prime suspect, out rambling about in the woods in men's clothes, in suspicious company. And you've an insolent, defiant nature and an unbridled tongue, which makes you just the sort to rouse this common rabble against lawfully constituted authority."

As he spoke, Whitney's eyes widened in spite of herself. He was too blessed close to the mark... and too blessed close to her body! For some reason, her gaze was coming unfocused everywhere but on his fascinating lips. Then it slid helplessly downward over the hard planes of his cheeks to his corded neck and finally to the half-buttoned shirt beneath his gaping coat front. His bare chest was visible... black, curly hair. And his skin was so smooth, so hard, and it gave off wave after wave of heat... Lord! She was getting all soupy-headed and confused! She rallied to produce one last spark of defiance.

"Well, arrest me, then, if I'm so desperate and dangerous!" she challenged hoarsely, even as blood was rushing an enchanting color into her lips. "Put me in chains and let Charlie go."

His hands closed on her shoulders and a spasm in his coiled arms drew her toward him before they, together, could counter it. Their bodies were now inches apart, sharing the same lightning surge of sensation.

Her in chains. God. If he only could. Erotic images of cold iron and soft flesh suddenly galvanized him; to have her, keep her, tame her as he had that first time. To feel her lush mouth opening under his; to hold those firm young breasts and feel himself wedged with her softness- "Don't tempt me, wench," he just managed a rasping growl as his shimmering silver eyes conveyed the deeper, sensual level of his warning.

Charlie, Aunt Sarah, and Charlie's two guards stared, open-mouthed, at them. Whitney and the major were clasped together and yet braced apart, chests heaving, eyes locked and glowing, until hoofbeats and the appearance of the horse they heralded finally intruded on the charged flow that passed between them.

"Major!" Lieutenant Brooks reined up and dismounted hurriedly, alarmed by the volatile scene.

The sound of his rank being addressed, the flurry of men arriving and staring, jarred him back from the brink of sheer catastrophe. He startled and released Whitney with embarrassed force.

"Stay away from this camp, wench," he warned.

Whitney blinked and began grasping at words. "His family has a right to see him -"

"You're not family, wench. If I catch you in this camp again I'll slap you in chains, so help me!"

"But Aunt Sarah... she's his mother!" She was scrambling, trying to boot her half-melted mind back to full operation. "What will it take to... ? She'd be willing to feed him, every day." She cast a quick look at Aunt Sarah, who nodded eagerly.

Bargaining again, he realized. His face grew a shade darker so that he resembled a great granite statue, solid and immovable.

"And you can set the time and the place she sees him," she blurted out irritably, breaking her own longstanding rule of bargaining: never "up" an offer until you have a definite rejection. "What do you say, major?"

"No."

"You-" she started to rail, but quickly took herself in hand. This was bargaining, pure and simple, she made herself think. This was no place for feelings. "You drive a hard bargain, Major. Then... we'd be willing to feed Charlie and his guards. That's three less mouths you'd have to feed." He just stood there, watching her, his nose curled as though he was smelling something distasteful, and she added with unraveling calm: "With food scarce like it is, you won't get a better offer. Aunt Sarah here is a marvel of a cook."

There was a crackling silence as Townsend looked from her to Aunt Sarah's desperate clinging to her son's arm, and then to the intense faces of his own men, some resentful, some prodding him to take the deal. Lord, how he hated this. There was only one way to end this wretched impasse without looking like a bloody tyrant.

"If she feeds him every day," he struggled to sound logical, wishing he could sound more mercenary, "it takes a burden from my own men and frees them up for more important duties."

"Ohhh, thank ye-" Aunt Sarah came forward with a chin-quivering gratitude and Townsend braced, backing her off with a glare. Whitney scooped up the pie tins, thrust them into Aunt Sarah's hands, and led her off with a murderous look at her gentlemanly adversary.

Charlie watched Townsend watching the sway of Whitney's bottom as she left, and his broad brow furrowed. He suffered a momentary twinge of sympathy for the gentlemanly major... who obviously wanted Whitney Daniels's delectable little body, too. But there was a major difference in their situations, Charlie realized with unwelcome insight; Whitney Daniels wanted the major back. That was what all that clutching and staring and trembling was about, just now. The minute the major had set hands to her, she'd gone all trembly in the knees. Only a fellow who was familiar with and fond of Whit's shapely legs would have caught it.

Charlie watched the major conferring with his lieutenant and laying down orders and assessed him anew, as competition. His tall, refined good looks were formidable, his fancy uniform and cultured speech were probably fascinating. But he had a healthy dose of arrogance and raw, uncloaked contempt for frontier folk and their ways. And Whit had a greater-than-normal share of pride, and a fierce love of both independence and her pa's way of life. Whatever their cravin's: Whitney and the major were sworn enemies. The thought sent Charlie back to his regular spot, lounging under the tree on his back, with a very smug smile on his face.

Garner Townsend came to stand over his prisoner minutes later, with his hands set on his waist and the smoke of damped fires in his gray eyes. "What the hell were you doing out in the woods with her, Dunbar?"

Charlie pushed up onto his elbow with a ghost of a smile. "What would any buck be doin' out in the woods wi' her, Major?"

Townsend flinched, ever so privately. He'd asked for that. "You could have been checking on a liquor cache, or operating a still."

Charlie just laughed a very insinuating laugh and lay back, tucking his arms behind his head for a pillow. "Ye know, Major, yer right about one thing: she's a real talker. Once she gets goin'-I swear-she can talk a dog down off n a meat wagon." His taunting grin broadened. "But if ye'll take a bit o' wisdom from me; ye'd do well to show more caution, up close to her like that. She kicks. And she bites."

The sudden flaming of Townsend's face was hidden by the closing shadows. Involuntarily his eyes dropped to his coat front, and one squashed button. His hand closed around it as Charlie's words rumbled about in the hollow inside his chest. She kicked; nobody knew that better than him! And she bit; Lord, how she could bite! As he turned to go he managed to realize Charlie was saying something else and collected part of it.

"-aniels is a dirty fighter."

But through the bewildering steam in his senses, it took a while to register. He was halfway back to the inn before it struck him; he finally knew her name.

Whiskey Daniels.

Chapter Six.

Whiskey Daniels.

Dear God. He was in more trouble than he knew. There was no question; the long-dormant beast inside him was rearing its ugly head again. This last confrontation with her had confirmed his worst fears. The throbbing blood, the flash-in-the-pan fever, the irascible temper, the impaired judgment-the warning signs were unmistakable. His single flaw, his old malady, his great weakness was uncoiled in the depths of him, he could feel it in his bones... and in sundry other parts of himself as well.

It wasn't lust, not precisely. He knew how to take fleshly pleasures in discreet, gentlemanly fashion, when the dire need arose. This was something altogether different. This was a consuming, gut-rending, uncontrollable desire for a whole woman, a specific woman. It was an exhilarating madness of fascination and possession and arousal... and for Garner Townsend it spelled catastrophe.

He entered the tavern and made for his room, fighting a sense of panic with everything in him. He was older now, more experienced, wiser. And he was in charge here. He could control these troublesome urges and he could see to it that temptation was kept at a distance. He could see that Whiskey Daniels was- Whiskey Daniels. What the hell kind of father would name his daughter after that hell-broth they cooked-up in this crude outpost of humanity? He stopped dead, halfway up the creaking stairs. A father who was deeply involved in brewing and distilling that hell-broth, he realized... and who was damned proud of it.

It was as though someone dumped an icy bucket of water over his head. Cold fingers of understanding slid through him, chilling his heated blood. That was why she was so prominent in the opposition to him and his mission. She was part of it, or at least her family was. Either way, she was involved, he was sure of it. He took two more steps and stopped, seeing her again as she stood in the tavern doorway, her hair aglow, her green eyes flashing, her soft lips parted...

Whiskey Daniels. And the beast was rising again. Lord, why did it have to be her?

Early the next evening, Whitney strolled into Dedham's tavern, still wearing her breeches and boots. It was past suppertime and by all rights she should have been in skirts. But she needed to check with her informants in the settlement, and she wasn't about to risk confronting the major while dressed like a mere female. She'd already spoken with Uncle Radnor and Aunt Frieda Delbarton and had come to the tavern to collect Robbie Dedham's report.

The lanterns burned cheerily in the tavern and the air was filled with traces of woodsmoke and the pungent tang of ale and whiskey. She removed her coat and hung it on a peg near the door, surveying the evening's trade. The Delbarton bucks were playing cards in their usual place near the door, Uncle Ferrell and Uncle Radnor were now baking their shins by the fire, and a dozen or so soldiers were lined up by Uncle Harvey's planking bar drawing their liquor rations. She greeted the locals broadly as she watched the soldiers process through the line then plant themselves at the long, planking tables to nurse their rations in the tavern's warmth. When the bar was free, she sidled up to it and ordered: "A good strong pull of it, Uncle Harvey."

"I don't give it away," Uncle Harvey answered with his stock response. His eyes were twinkling.

"Well, perhaps you ought to," she launched into her trader's gambit of devaluing the desired object. "That barrel isn't quite up to your usual stuff, Uncle. A bit rashy... and weak, watery underpinnings. I wouldn't give more than a handful of oats for it."

The soldiers were watching, she could feel their eyes on her back. She laughed that low, intriguing Whitney Daniels laugh and took her drink from Uncle Harvey and downed it with a conspiring sparkle in her eye. She plunked her tin cup down on the bar for another drink, offering: "A whole strip of side pork, Uncle Harvey."

She drank her second drink with a flourish and decided to sit a hand of cards with the Delbartons before slipping out to talk with Robbie. They got into their usual row over who was cheating and the Delbartons, as usual, banded together to declare Whitney the culprit. They demanded retribution and she bargained them down to an exhibition of her ability to balance a plate, on end, on her chin. By the time she rose, laughing, to comply with their demand, every eye in the tavern was on her.

She had to start over twice; she was seized by fits of laughter that had a bold, mischievous quality to them that was utterly contagious. Soon soldiers' shoulders were shaking and they were making bets amongst themselves as to whether she could actually do it. And it only took a challenging look from a Delbarton to broaden their betting; soldiers versus locals, now. They all held their breath as she tried a third and final time. And when she did it, two precious twists of tobacco changed hands and several soldiers' smiles disappeared.

"Now that's hardly right, Mike Delbarton," she grinned at the strapping blond buck who'd just won himself a month's pipe-fodder. "A fair trade's one thing, but I believe you took unfair advantage of the gentleman. Give him a chance to win it back." And so she found herself pitted against gravel-voiced Sergeant Laxault, representing the federal militia, in a "blink-off."

Place jyas made at the long planking table and rules were agreed. Whitney and the sergeant faced each other across the table with their chins propped on their hands. At the order to go, they opened their eyes and began to stare at each other, daring each other to be the first to blink. The wheeze and pop of the fire in the great hearth marked the lengthening passage of time.

Major Townsend had been watching the entire spectacle from the darkened stairs, and was alarmed at the dangerous spirit of camaraderie that was developing between his men and these locals, spearheaded by the irksome Whiskey Daniels. He stalked to the table, and his men, made nervous by his presence, fell back to give him access. He stood at the sergeant's right shoulder, scrutinizing the proceedings, trying to decide whether to break up the absurd contest. But a certain petty vengeance made him want to give Laxault a chance to win back his tobacco, and a certain unwelcome feeling in his gut made him seize the chance to stare at Whiskey Daniels.

The major's monolithic presence cast a shadow over Whitney's face and in the periphery of her vision she was surprised to see two gold coat buttons and the very snug fit of a gentlemanly breeches flap. And they stayed there, those buttons and those provocatively bulged breeches, working on her concentration and producing heat in her smooth cheeks. She had intended to let the soldiers win some of the tobacco back, but the longer he stayed, the more heated and itchy and the less charitable she felt. She bore it as long as she could, then slowly her enchanting face began to light with the infamous Daniels grin, a final gambit and fatally charming declaration of triumph all in one. It was a low thing to do to a fellow in a fair contest, but she honestly couldn't take any more.

The leathery sergeant blinked. And a second later, as hoots and catcalls descended on him, he reddened furiously and blustered, somewhat confused by his loss. But the major knew exactly what had happened, and it infuriated him to a feverish pitch.

"Uncle Harvey!" she called, "a drink for the sergeant, here." Then she turned and seemed surprised to find the major standing so near. "Oh, and one for the major too."

"No, thank you," Townsend declined through clenched jaws.

"Well it's the least I can do, Major, in light of the heartwarming generosity of your men."

"No thank you," he started to move off, but was slowed by the press of his own men around the table.

"Well, perhaps the gentlemanly major just dislikes common whiskey." Her assertion quivered on the air like a javelin, then struck. "Harvey here can't afford fancy Jamaican rum, nor that pricey New England cork. And after he pays those outrageous liquor taxes, he has no money left for fine French wines. But, perhaps you'd take a draught of ale or cider with us, Major... to be sociable." She had risen as she spoke and now faced him across the table, her face glowing with challenge.

"I said, no thank you. That means I don't want a drink, of any sort."

"With us, you mean," she seized the chance to drive his aristocratic airs like a wedge of confusion into his men. "You don't wish to drink with the likes of foot soldiers and poor dirt farmers." The hit produced a tremor of raw anger in him. He jerked back across the table toward her, eyes narrowed and face dusky.

"No! What that means is, I don't drink alcohol of any sort, witch. And I'm not about to take it up to please the likes of you."

"Don't drink? Anything?" she pulled back, genuinely shocked by his pronouncement. And from the looks on their faces, she realized his men were equally surprised.

"Why, that's... you mean, not even breakfast ale?"

"No." His face was burning as he straightened and pulled his coat down, refusing to meet the questioning looks of his men as he turned to order: "Back to camp, sergeant, now! Get them bedded down. We have a patrol to mount before sunrise."

No one moved; few managed to even blink as the order died away. Their commander was an abstainer. A gentleman fancy-ankle and now a damned abstainer to boot! The looks of horror on the gal's and the locals' faces were all that was required to complete their humiliation. They looked at each other and at their crusty sergeant in disbelief.

Seething now, Townsend turned on Whitney and the Delbartons. "And you- you'll stay away from my men, do you hear? All of you. I'll not have you bleeding them of what few possessions they own with your slight-of-hand tricks and bets. From now on the tavern will be closed to locals every evening during the dispensing of rations. Do you hear that, Dedham?"

Uncle Harvey sputtered and muttered, before surrendering with an: "I hear!"

"And you," he turned to punch a finger at Whitney, "do you hear? Or shall I repeat it?"

She blazed, furious with the vengeful smirk on his face and with the way he rolled his wide shoulders as though shaking off possible contamination from contact with her and her kind. It just wasn't in the constitution of a Daniels to give anybody the last word.

"I heard... Major Sampson."

He was already three steps toward the stairs when he turned back, just like she knew he would. He felt his men turning back, too, to take in the final salvos between them.

"Perhaps all that whiskey has already fuddled your brain, witch. The name is Townsend, Major Townsend."

"Is that so?" She cast a wickedly sweet smile at their audience, then turned it fully on him. "Well, it's understandable, me mistaking you for a Samson. You do have the jawbone of an ass."

Townsend flinched visibly as choked laughter erupted around the tavern. Whitney cast him a wicked gleam of a smile, snatched up her coat and sailed out.

"I want to know where she lives," the major towered above Uncle Harvey the next afternoon. There was no need to explain who was meant.

The major had returned from his fruitless predawn scour of the countryside, dropped into his bed for four tortured hours, and risen in a particularly disagreeable humor. Then he'd scraped his face raw with an ice-cold shave and descended the stairs to face a breakfast of cold beans, greased liberally with fatback, and two unsalted biscuits.

"You must be mad," he had pushed it away with a snarl of disgust. "I'll have two eggs, boiled, and some decent bread."

"Got no eggs. You et my last hen last night, Major," Uncle Harvey had drawn in his neck so that he resembled a resentful turnip.

"Then I'll just have coffee."

"Got no coffee, neither. Ye drunk th' last, last night."

"Dammit."

The hungry, hot-collared major had risen and stalked out to his men's camp to get them ready to continue the search for liquor, stills and distillers.

All morning long, as they searched the cabins and outbuildings of the settlement itself, he had found himself looking for something, an ill-defined, but nagging something that produced a coiling of anticipation in his gut and made him surly indeed when he didn't find it. And it wasn't until he sat down to his dinner of leftover beans and caught sight of his squashed button that he realized just what it was he had expected, but failed to find. Her.

"Near a mile down the road, then cut left on the path by th' oak stump with a 'B' cut in it." Uncle Harvey answered reluctantly, hoping the revelation didn't bring trouble down on Whitney and her Aunt Kate.

"'B'?" The major scowled. "I understood her name was Daniels."

"'B' stands fer 'Black.'" Uncle Harvey snorted defensively. "Wouldn't do no good to put a 'D' on it, now would it? That could be anybody in Rapture... Delbarton or Dobson or Dunbar or Donner or Dedham."

"Good God." The major straightened, only now realizing why he'd had such difficulty keeping the identities of these motley inhabitants straight.

"We all be fam'ly," Harvey declared with stubborn pride.

"You mean to say this entire valley is related by blood?"

"Nooo," Uncle Harvey looked at him as if he were a bit daft, "by al-phy-bet."

The major exploded out of the tavern, heading for the smithy where his horse was stabled. And shortly he was leading a grim-faced contingent of the Maryland Ninth down the main river road. He was spoiling for a good fight, and the heat in his blood conjured Whiskey Daniels strong on his mind.

Whitney was working to repair a bit of harness in the pole shed that leaned against the barn when Kate came hurrying up from the garden,-her skirts billowing and her bonnet flapping on the back of her head. An instant later, the cause of her uncharacteristic, agitated behavior appeared around the corner of the barn, following her. Soldiers.

Whitney ducked out of the shed and came face to face with him, as he sat arrogantly upon his great roan horse, with his gold braid and his tall boots gleaming. Her face began to heat and her eyes sparked as she felt his eyes slide over her derisively, then fix on the piece of leather in her hands and the stain it had left on her fingers. He dismounted with flagrant grace and handed his reins to his light-lipped sergeant.