Drake placed his hands on either side of the desk and leaned toward Albert. "How could this have happened? Albert, tell me. Am I not my father's son? Have you but to look at me to see his face? I see him every time I look in the mirror. Why did he do this to me?"

Albert looked down at his clasped hands in his lap, his lips pressed together in a thin line. "I do not know, my lord. I do not know." He paused, sudden speculation in his gaze as he looked back up at Drake. "You have just reminded me of an old rumor. I have never put any stock in it, mind you, but . . ."

"Tell me."

Albert shrugged. "Rumors are rarely reliable, Drake."

"You will tell me regardless."

"Well, your father did have two brothers, did he not?"

"Yes, Cousin Randolph's father, Clinton, dead for many years now, and Richard, the youngest brother who lives in Bristol, I believe. Quiet man, I've met him only once. What of it?"

"The tale was that your mother fell in love with Richard. She was already betrothed to your father, had been since she was a young girl, but hardly knew him. Not long after the marriage Richard came to see them, and your father was away. I do not know the details and I certainly cannot believe it true-"

A deep dread made Drake's stomach tremble.

"-but some say you were conceived during his visit."

No! The denial echoed inside him. Impossible. He couldn't be anything other than Ivor's son. It was unimaginable. "How could anyone think such a thing? There must be more to the story." That anyone should question his parentage on the simple fact that his mother was alone with his uncle for a time was absurd.

"The only fact that gives the tale some credence is that when your father returned, he banished Richard from Northumberland and said he would never see him again. No one knew exactly why, but rumor was rife, as it always is in such cases."

"Preposterous!" But the quaking inside him grew, threatened to become a full-blown panic. He thought of his mother, a sad, pale wraith of a woman, possessing an ethereal beauty that seemed to fade each year until she was a ghost on her deathbed. And always, that faraway look in her eyes . . .

His hand, a balled fist in his lap, shook so that he had to press his other hand against it. He looked down, willing a stillness into his body. He would not, could not think of his mother doing such a thing. She would have never betrayed his father in such a manner. She would never have made her son illegitimate-would she?

Drake stood and paced, pulling his shattered emotions into brisk action. "So your plan is to indenture me to the colonies? I, Drake Alexander Weston, reared to a dukedom, shall become a servant?" He let his mockery show in his smile as he looked down at the older man from his full height of six foot three inches.

"My lord . . . that is, I see little alternative."

"No!" Drake turned to the desk, s.n.a.t.c.hed up the half-empty bottle of Madeira and flung it against the wall.

Albert sat in stunned silence, fear lighting his eyes. Drake struggled to control his emotions. He caught a glimpse of himself in a small mirror hanging on the opposite wall. Wild-eyed, unshaven, and so angry. The man who stared back was not a man he knew. The careful control bred into him since birth was gone. In its place he saw a fire-breathing dragon capable of murder.

Yes-he saw a murderer, and it terrified him.

Breathing fast he flung himself into the chair, his hands balling into fists. "What shall I do? What would you have me do?"

Albert rose from his chair and handed Drake a piece of paper, then laid a bracing hand on Drake's shoulder. "Sign this, son. Buy some time. It is your best hope."

Drake stared at the paper. Had the world gone mad? Sign the paper. Indeed.

Fingers shaking, he took the quill from Albert's hand and dipped it in the black ink. Just as he pressed tip to paper, Albert halted him. "Sign your name as Drake Winslow. You dare not go by Drake Weston any longer."

He stared at the tip of the quill, the ink so black and ready to drip, wondering if he could do it. Then he hunched over the page and scrawled the foreign name.

"It is over," he whispered into the dark.

DRAKE STOOD WITH the rest of the indentured in a long line on the docks of the River Thames. The mid-morning shadows of the warehouses fell across them, shading the sun as it rose beyond the Tower of London. London Bridge sat in the distant west, a familiar black outline against the gray sky. How many times had he clattered over that stone edifice and thought nothing of its magnitude, its memories of such a great city. Now he might never see it again.

Turning toward the west and his new future, Drake felt a shaft of doubt for his own sanity. Two ships bobbed in front of them on the dark green waters of the Thames. One, ma.s.sive and st.u.r.dy, was being loaded with supplies, her hull sitting low in the water. Next to it floated their ship. Studying that rickety craft with the eyes of a man who had financed and inspected many a cargo vessel, Drake fought the urge to slink out of line and back into the shadows.

Being indentured was the least of his worries. His shaky resolve to follow Albert's plan threatened to dissolve into the wisps of a nightmare. Mere weeks ago he wouldn't have considered trusting a barrel of tea aboard this heap and now he was boarding it himself? Ludicrous! And yet, what choice did he really have?

He looked around at his companions, dock workers and pa.s.sersby, half hoping for some miracle to jump out and save him. Instead, his feet shuffled forward with the rest.

A sudden shout drew his attention and that of his companions. A constable was leading a man, hands tied behind his back, down a gangplank and back to sh.o.r.e. The constable jerked to a halt, his eyes sharp as he scanned the crowd. Drake ducked his head. The hat he wore was pulled down low over his eyes, two weeks' worth of beard darkened his cheeks and chin, but he was tall and stood out. His chances of being caught in such a disguise were slim, but still, sharp tension stiffened his spine. The colonies were better than Newgate.

Or so he kept telling himself.

A woman behind him coughed, a rasping sound that boded ill. His skin crawled of its own accord as he took an involuntary step forward. They were a downtrodden lot, his fellow pa.s.sengers. The stench of poverty hung like a bleak aura around them. Drake shuffled even further forward, hunching down, allowing the hollow feeling in his gut to reach his eyes.

No one he knew could possibly recognize him. He scarcely recognized himself.

His mind fixated on the murder-those few moments replaying in his head with razor-sharp clarity. Sixteen long days since an interrupted breakfast and a poor man's death. Days filled with watching and waiting, but Drake knew not what he was waiting for. Sixteen days of anxiety gnawing at him till he'd lost so much weight that his clothes hung from his frame in heavy folds. Sixteen nights of fitful sleep for fear the nightmares would come. Nightmares that strove to ensnare him and pull him down into madness where murderers belonged. Truth be told, he had little need for a disguise; his mask of wretchedness was only too real.

They drew closer to the gangplank-a wet, narrow board slippery from muddy feet. The dank, fishy smell common to the Thames a.s.saulted his nostrils; the screech of seagulls above their heads grated in his ears. A mother and two small children set foot upon the gangplank, and Drake found himself holding his breath. The youngest child, a little girl, began to cry and wouldn't move; the boy clung to his mother's skirts threatening to topple them all.

"Get a move on!" A shrill voice from behind yelled.

The woman took another step, but the younger of her children swayed. All eyes in line watched as the mother screamed and grasped a fistful of the girl's shirt. There was a collective sigh of relief as they righted themselves.

Before Drake could think better of it, he stepped out of line and was walking to the front.

"'Ey! What's to do, 'ere?"

"You cain't step ahead in line!"

Drake stilled the complainers with a look, the mantle of authority still draping him.

One woman nudged the man beside her. "Who's he think he is, eh?"

Drake leapt onto the gangplank, swinging the tiny girl into the crook of one arm. The lad looked up at him with big, round eyes as Drake grasped his hand. "Step lively now, my boy. You can do it."

The child nodded, chubby cheeks rounding in a smile. When they reached the other side, Drake jumped down onto the deck of the ship. The girl in his arm hadn't moved during the crossing, but now cried out for her mother. Drake turned to the woman and helped guide her down to the deck. He then deposited the toddler into her arms. "Your children, madam."

The woman stood, mouth open for a moment, and then blushed. "Oh thank ye, kind sir. I was so afeared they'd be drowned afore we ever begun."

Drake inclined his head, then turned from her-and stilled. Countless numbers of eyes were upon him. Fool! How could you have forgotten? Can you not for a moment remember who you are now, what you are supposed to be? This was going to be impossible! He gritted his teeth and turned away, following the others down into the hold to claim a bunk.

A rickety ladder, a creaking, swaying floor, a dark hold, a place where the air didn't move. This would be his new home.

It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust. He stared, heart sinking, at row upon row of double or triple-tiered bunks. Alnwick Castle, its grandeur, its imperial force against nature and man, rose up to taunt him. Against all will, a sob grew in his throat . . . followed immediately by shame. Making a quick judgment, Drake staked his claim on an outside row with easy access to the ladder leading up on deck. Some of the others claimed a bed and then returned to the deck for a last look at England before sailing. Drake thought better of leaving his belongings unattended, so he sat on the bed and waited. It wouldn't do to court more trouble by standing up on deck for all to see him-a fugitive, a dependent on the winds of fate, a poor wretch leaving his homeland.

His new home amounted to about six feet long and two feet wide, his bed a thin straw-filled pallet on a rickety looking frame. Underneath the frame was the only s.p.a.ce to store his belongings and the meager supplies he had purchased for the journey that would take about fourteen weeks. They were packed in here like slaves, except slaves were shackled. Drake's appreciation for freedom suddenly made itself known, startling him.

Embarra.s.sment stole up his neck as he realized that he wanted to collapse-to lie on this shoddy iron bed and wallow in self-pity like he hadn't since he wore gowns. Instead, he took a shaky breath and steeled himself. He would make it to America, get out of this ridiculous indentured servant business altogether, and begin a new life. What he would do to support himself once the meager funds in his trunk ran out he didn't know. Still . . . news traveled slowly. Perhaps he could join the other impoverished n.o.bility on the new continent.

He wrapped the thin blanket about him, lay back, and closed his eyes, hoping sleep-and the nightmares-wouldn't come just yet.

Chapter Four.

Serena stared out her bedroom window, taking in the late fall scene of her yard and street. The leaves were mostly fallen now, lying in brown, tumbled heaps, blown about by the breeze. An old, gnarled tree filled the north corner of the yard, where a wooden swing twirled, the wind its only occupant. She had swung on that swing countless times, reaching her toes up toward the sky. A sky that today was the pale blue-gray of weather coming.

She smiled as inspiration filled her. Closing her eyes, she let the colors swirl behind the darkness of her lids. The rope of the swing turned from weathered tan to a shocking yellow. The seat of the swing became golden brown. It rose in her mind's eye, tossed by the wind into an azure sky.

Then she shifted her focus to the trees-their trunks slick and shiny with her black paint, bubbles of deep green like little mossy outcroppings popping up and down their mighty lengths. The leaves were in juxtaposition-the ones still attached to their branches, the stubborn ones, growing old and brown while the dead ones on the lawn became bright, alive again in golden yellows, fiery orange, and violet reds. Their veins pulsed with a blue-green blood. The gra.s.s brightened to a yellow-green, swaying in the breeze, then she deepened the color in her mind, adding a hint of blue. Her breath caught as the world outside her window became a fairy place where princesses and dragons roamed, a place not seen on this earth.

"Yes, the light is soft but bright." She breathed the thought aloud, imagining the slant of the sunlight and all the shadowy places. Her eyes shot open, her hand pressed flat against her beating heart. Where were her paints? She had to get this image onto canvas before it blew away on an earthly breeze. She knew nothing this astonishing would last long in her imagination. A part of her feared it-this knowing of what she wanted and then the battle to get it down. It was always like this-elusive and frantic. But she had to try.

"Now where are my paints?" She was forever leaving things scattered about.

She turned, facing the bedroom she shared with her sister, a furrow between her brows. Mary Ann's side of the room was, of course, as neat as a pin. Hers? She grimaced. She just couldn't seem to put things back in their proper place, nor even imagine what that place might be.

She crouched down, flipped the quilt up onto the bed, and peered underneath. Ah! There was her pile of rolled-up canvas. Now, where were those paints? She hoped she hadn't left them somewhere, some new spot she'd found in her roamings where she had painted last. Her mother would not be pleased to find her begging for more paint.

The door banged open. Mary Ann stood at the threshold, a little breathless. "Serena, come quick! Another ship has arrived."

It took Serena a moment to comprehend that the time to paint was lost. She groaned, knowing she might not ever capture that colorful land in her imagination. A profound sense of loss touched her as she stared at the rolled-up canvas, aching for the feel of stretching it over a wood frame. But another part of her, one equally strong, wanted to help.

Serena stood, gave the canvas one last stare, and then turned to get her bonnet. "I am coming."

It was time to go. Time to leave dreams and imaginings, and do what she could to help the indentured who traveled to America on a hope and a dream.

IT WAS EVENING. The gentle rocking in the hold mocked Drake's inner turmoil. He lay curled on his side, squeezed onto the narrow confines of the cot where he spent much of his time. His arms were raised, wrapping around his head, covering his ears. His eyes were closed to the misery around him. The first few weeks of the journey proved just how stark reality had become. Seasickness was rampant. Vomit made a miserable mess of the hold, and the stench of it clung to the air, making it impossible to breathe deep. The fresh air of top deck was a distant, haunting memory. Once onto open sea, Drake had been shocked to realize that they were considered more cargo than pa.s.senger, rather like cattle than human. Basic needs and rights were now in the hands of a captain whose eyes glowed with fanatical greed. Drake knew the type-and knew the future would not be pretty for the lot of them.

Many of his fellow pa.s.sengers were ill before leaving London. This combined with foul food and toilet habits added to their misery, leaving countless numbers unable to leave their cots.

Then, one by one, the dying had begun. Soon, the news came that twenty-seven people had perished. What had seemed a stunning death toll at first was now just another event in a wretchedness that left the living numb. Bodies were thrown overboard with little ceremony-those left alive hadn't the strength or spirit for formalities. The worst had been a pregnant woman unable to deliver her baby. After she and the child died, the crew didn't even bother carrying the heavy body to the deck. Instead, she was pushed through a porthole to her watery grave.

Drake curled inside himself, shunning the others in their close quarters. His fellow shipmates soon learned not to bother him unless they wanted a snarling return. He had honed the skill of verbal cuts and scornful glares long before, now it was as natural as his scowl. And as necessary.

He couldn't let them see his fear.

Each evening, as dusk approached, Drake gritted his teeth and resisted the panic. The deep of night, the pitch black, when the creaking of the old ship ruled them-that was the worst. He was afraid to sleep; for when he lost the fight, the nightmares came. It wasn't as if he'd never had a nightmare. As a boy he'd suffered them often, waking, sweat soaked, from skeletons of dead animals or fiery-eyed demons haunting him. Such nights he'd rear up, panting among his pile of blankets.

But those nightmares were nothing compared to what haunted his nights in this place.

The same and yet varied enough to never lose their terror's strength, they had the ability to wake him and leave him lying like a corpse, stilled with fear. His father, fiendishly laughed at him from the grave. Or worse, the man he'd let fall haunted him, crying from a b.l.o.o.d.y pool on the stone terrace below. Once, it was his father killing him, and another time it was his father who had pushed the man over the railing. Always the images were ghastly and Drake felt, little by little, his sanity slip away with each one.

Sleep became a dreaded thing, darkness his enemy.

When awake, Drake's mind traveled its own paths, paths his battered will could no longer resist. His memory revisited encounters he'd had with the man he'd always believed was his father. Now he doubted everything. The gossip about his mother haunted him. What he knew for certain was the hateful stares of Ivor, the contempt he'd never understood, the impotent rage underlying his actions, so incomprehensible to Drake. The questions still lingered, rearing heads that chipped away a little more and then more at Drake's ident.i.ty.

Had it been Ivor's plan all along to dangle a true son's inheritance and then rip it away when the truth of Drake's lineage was revealed?

Weak, his father called him. Any show of emotion ridiculed. Any fear belittled. It hadn't taken Drake long to learn the value of becoming a shadow in any setting, as still and quiet as a piece of furniture in the castle, a ghostly form during a hunt where he secretly abhorred the killing. A silent presence at an auction of horseflesh or valuable artifacts. He was expected to watch and soak in the play of power. And he had learned his lessons well.

Then, at twelve years of age, something changed. His father began grooming him as heir. It was right and expected and everyone around them breathed a sigh of relief. Life finally took on

a comforting though severe routine.

Looking back, Drake now wondered . . . Was it then that his father turned bitterness into revenge? It seemed obvious, looking back. Ivor had set upon his master plan-treat Drake as the son he'd always longed to be, waiting for the day, when he would s.n.a.t.c.h it all away.

The plotting gave his father new energy, excitement even. The subtle promises, the unequaled education, the single-minded building together of a financial empire to rival any king's-it all lead to that fateful day when father would destroy son from the grave during the reading of the will.

Who was he now? His true father, if rumor was to be believed, was an unknown uncle. The man had left him and his mother to their fate, skulking away to Bristol. How could he have done such a vile thing? Had it been Drake, he would have taken his lover and son and left England, not slink away like a dog with its tail between its legs.

All he knew was that he hated him for it.

Suddenly a sound broke through Drake's remembrance. m.u.f.fled sobbing reached him from several bunks down. The full moon lent a surreal light through the portholes, casting a ghostly gleam on the sleeping pa.s.sengers. Sitting up, he searched for the sound's source. His first inclination was to turn over and ignore it, but something about the shaking of the thin shoulders, the dark tousled hair reminded him of a long forgotten memory, and he found himself going to the cot and squatting down on the rough planks of the floor.

"What is the matter, boy? Are you hurt?"

A tear-streaked face of about nine rose up from a wadded blanket that served as pillow. "Who are you?" Resentment filled the response. "I don't need nothin' from you."

Drake resisted the urge to get up and leave. Instead he sat down on the floor, settling in. "Well now, you may not, but I just woke up from a ghastly nightmare, and I was hoping you would tell me something to get my mind off it. Are you sure there is nothing you want to talk about?"

The boy sniffed and drug the sleeve of his arm across a runny, freckled nose. Propping his head on his hand he asked, "What was your nightmare about? I 'ave the same one all the time."

"Oh yes? Tell me yours and I will tell you mine."

The boy sat up, wrapping thin arms around bony upraised knees, looking half-scared and half-excited to have such a rapt audience. "The ship wrecks in a terrible storm, takes on water like the very devil and . . . people are drownin' and I . . . I'm tryin' to save my mum. She's drownin' . . . going under the waves. They always grow bigger and bigger, but somehow I'm floatin' above 'em. II always wake up and don't know if I've saved her or not." His voice caught but he quickly rallied, lifting that pointed chin. "Bet yours ain't worse than that 'un."

Drake smiled, feeling suddenly better than he had in weeks. "No, not worse, but equally bad. Mine involves a sea monster trying to drag me down to a cold, watery grave. Must be those beans we have been eating for our dinner. Did you have the dream tonight?"

The boy looked around and then whispered, "No, sir. I . . . I was just missin' my mother. She stayed behind with my little brothers and my sister, Ella. Pap took me and Sean with 'im to get our start." He paused and stared off into the distant moonlight. "I don't know when I will see 'er again. Or if ever I will." His voice became a whisper. "I'll see 'er again someday, don't ya think?"

"Of course you will. What is your name?"

"Danny Oliver. And yours, sir?"