Josiah nodded. "In my younger days, I might have made such a mistake." He clapped Drake on the shoulder. "Time and experience has taught me to be home by six for my dinner."

DRAKE FOUGHT THE darkness, a gaping black pit of despair that opened on occasion, most times at night, right before he succ.u.mbed to sleep. Or during the night, coming alive in his dreams. Worst of all, though, was when it invaded in broad daylight, a place he thought safe. Regardless of timing, it always threatened to engulf him, to drag him under until he feared what would become of him if it overtook his will. Weeks had gone by, but it was all so useless! He had been working at the forge-sweat-dripping, head-jarring work that tested his physical strength while leaving his mind free to do the one thing he didn't want to do: think.

Were he at a desk, working with the comfort of numbers and schemes, there he would be confident, sure of a measure of worth. But here-behind this metal that blinded his eyes, this smoke that scorched first his nose then his lungs-here he was just a man struggling to turn molten metal into b.u.t.tons for the wealthy.

And not very nice b.u.t.tons at that. Drake scowled at the little round lumps of silver, raking the straggling hair that had come loose and hung in his eyes back into his queue. The bra.s.s mold should have made it simple. All he had to do was pour the silver into the mold and wait for it to harden. He had been hopeful all the way to the point of gently tapping them out onto the smooth worktable. The results stared back at him. Nearby mocked the examples Josiah had set out for him, perfect by any standard.

Drake wiped his blackened hands on his ap.r.o.n, resisting the urge to throw his latest attempts back into the fire-or better yet through the window at the condescending rich who made up most of Josiah's clientele. He ground his teeth together thinking how he had been one of them.

Just this morning a wealthy gentleman entered, just arrived from the mother country and prattling on about the land he was to control. Drake had surrept.i.tiously eyed him from behind the huge bellows against the wall of the forge. Dressed in the height of London fashion, with white powdered periwig, bright red satin breeches, a red and gold-trimmed waistcoat, and high-heeled yellow shoes with silver buckles, he had commanded immediate attention.

Like a gaudy tropical bird among pigeons.

Lip curled, Drake watched him treat the n.o.ble Josiah with carefully metered distain. After working and living with Josiah these last weeks, Drake truly believed a better, more upright, honest man did not live. Drake itched for his previous power and position. What he wouldn't give to provide this sneering Englishman his due. The fool was only a baron! As a lion with a rodent, Drake would have toyed with the idiot until he had him reduced to a stuttering fool. Then, with the precision of a rapier thrust, he would have delivered the death blow. Something that would have really cost the fool.

Instead, he seethed with impotent fury. After the man placed his order and left, Josiah looked at Drake as if reading his very soul. "Be merciful, son. G.o.d esteems the humble. I would rather have the Maker's esteem over that of Lord Tinny."

Drake wanted to rail over the statement. Everything within him wanted to tell Josiah who he had been and how he could have bought this whole city if he'd wanted to, but instead he nodded, coming under the teaching of a truly great man, and silently meditating on Josiah, the kind of man he was and the things he said, the rest of the morning.

Josiah often said things that made little sense to Drake, but he recognized the greater purpose. It was so opposite from how he had been taught to think.

Josiah's voice broke into Drake's thoughts. "How are thy b.u.t.tons coming along?"

He turned and, with a half smile, tried for humor. "Like b.u.t.tons for drawers. Not to be seen on the outside, certainly."

Josiah chuckled and motioned him to the room in back. "But thou hast done wonders with my accounts. I think I made more profit last week than in the whole of the month before. Come, we will eat our dinner and then try again."

As they were eating they heard the tinkling of the little bell attached to a string on the door.

"Father?"

Drake's heart tripped at Serena's voice.

"Back here," Josiah answered.

Drake glanced down at his bare chest. The forge could be incredibly hot, and he had discarded his shirt long before. At least the leather ap.r.o.n he wore covered most of his chest.

Serena entered the room-then came to a sudden stop. Her eyes met Drake's, then dropped. They had had many such meetings in the last weeks. Quick moments of electricity that, for different reasons, neither one knew quite what to do with.

Her words came out in a gush of breath. "I brought thy dinner. Mother said thou forgottest it." She frowned at the laden table and then their full mouths. "She must have forgotten . . ." The amazement on Serena's features shifted to understanding, and she looked up at her father. "Mother is with child, is she not?"

Her father smiled and turned to Drake. "Leah has an excellent memory, except when expecting a babe." He winked at Serena. "Especially in the first three or four months, is that not right, daughter?"

Serena's smile was beautiful as she set down the basket. "Remember the time she left Mercy at the apothecary's shop while expecting Lidy?" She turned her enchanting smile on Drake. "Mother was so horrified at what she had done, but when we finally found Mercy, the poor apothecary had stuffed her with candy to keep her from asking any more questions. He told mother he was sure she would come back for her eventually and that she had probably earned a much-needed rest from the girl's curiosity."

Josiah chuckled heartily at the memory while Serena continued.

"Mercy calls it one of her most exciting adventures and adds to the story every time 'tis told." Eyes bright with the memory, Serena turned to her father. "How far along? When will the baby come?"

Drake marveled at such excitement. With six girls, how could another mouth to feed be such welcome news?

"Thy mother says sometime this summer. July, I think." He paused, as if considering something, then changed the subject. "I need to see Mr. Jenkins, the blacksmith, concerning a project I am working on. Wouldst thou stay, Serena, and show Drake how to make b.u.t.tons?" Turning to Drake he explained, "If she had the strength, she would make an excellent silversmith. When she was little, she would beg to come to work with me every day, one morning even showing up in my work pants and ap.r.o.n. Remember?" He smiled down at his daughter and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead.

Drake paused in taking the next bite. What it must have been like to have such a father-child relationship.

Josiah looked back at Drake. "With thy strength and her talent, I foresee wondrous b.u.t.tons." Then in a lower voice for Drake's ears alone he teased, "Remember thy lessons in humility today. Thou mayest need them."

Drake looked at the open joy on Serena's face, so shining and alight, and thought that any lesson from one such as she would be welcome. But he raised one brow and said, "One must bear one's cross."

They both ignored Serena's puzzled look. Josiah patted Drake's shoulder and rose to leave, but offered one last, soft suggestion. "Bear it with thy shirt on, son."

To Serena he said, "If any customers come, Drake can enter their order. I've turned the books over to him."

Drake followed him out, then obediently put his shirt on, tying the ap.r.o.n over it before going back into the small room where Serena was busy clearing the table. He braced one hand on the upper frame of the door and leaned into his arm, stretching his aching shoulder muscles as he watched her work.

And fought the overwhelming urge to take her into his arms.

SERENA TOOK A deep breath. She could feel his eyes upon her, could feel the heat from his stare, making her clear her throat and search for something to say. Turning from her task she looked at him, struck by how male he was. Remembering what she had said in the hold of the ship about seeing him fattened up, she smiled. She'd been right. It was a glorious sight.

At the forward thought, she cast her eyes down. The image of him, though, burned in her mind's eye. In the past few weeks the combination of her mother's cooking and the exercise of the forge had given him a new body. Wide, muscled shoulders,substantially defined upper arms, and a new thickness to his chest had caused her mother to ask Serena to make him a new shirt.

Working on it had been pure pleasure. She didn't understand why. She barely liked sewing, but just the thought of that shirt lying on his skin after being made by her hands . . . well, it made her struggle over each poke of the needle, wanting it to be perfect. With a shaky breath, she lifted her gaze back to his. "I see thou wilt be needing another shirt soon. Father's never last long with such work."

"Your father told me to put it back on."

Serena nodded, turned, and began repacking the basket with leftovers. Brisk activity was always diverting. Smiling over her shoulder at him she grinned. "I know."

He walked closer, leaning over her to reach a dish she'd missed. She straightened to get out of his way and succeeded only in slamming into the solidness of his chest. Serena turned her head and looked up into Drake's face . . .

They both froze.

SERENA'S FATHER TRUSTED him alone with her.

That single thought warred with the intense desire to kiss her. With her face just inches from his, he drank in the creamy skin, the green and brown flecks in her eyes, the golden brows, the soft, pink lips. Just one brush of her lips, he told himself, would quench this growing thirst for her.

He knew it wasn't true, that one kiss usually led to wanting more and more. But he couldn't seem to help himself. Every muscle strained to grasp her to him. His imagination replayed what it would look like to see her fiery hair down and around her shoulders, and even though he was supposed to be the one world-wise and self-controlled, he felt as eager as a young man with his first love. He'd never longed for a woman the way he longed for her.

"Serena," he whispered as he bent toward her. How he loved the sound of her name.

She turned, wide-eyed, but with acquiescence evident in the way she strained toward him.

He lowered his head, keeping his gaze locked to hers, antic.i.p.ating the rush of her breath when she finally released it. Her lips were soft, hesitant and compliant, wanting to follow and learn. Her breath was sweet. It was heady, teaching such innocence.

He had not known such sweetness existed.

She seemed entirely willing to go where he led her. Her movements matching his, her hands sliding up his chest to rest on his shoulders. He groaned, eyes shut, splitting in half with desire and guilt, trying to hold on to the reasons they must stop.

He broke free from the kiss, but then, instead of backing away as he'd planned, his lips moved to pepper kisses along the side of her neck and throat. Her blouse didn't have any b.u.t.tons . . . ah, the Quakers, maybe they had the right idea after all. He pulled the top bow slowly, unable to think beyond wanting to see more of her in the dusty sunlight.

Suddenly, she reared back, gasping, staring at him wide-eyed. "Thou mustn't . . . we mustn't!" She dragged in a long breath and stepped away from him. "Please, forgive me."

Drake's mind and body rolled with the turmoil so that he didn't at first comprehend. Was she taking the blame? Shaking his head he looked at the floor. What a fool, trying to make love to a saint. He would burn in the abyss for certain now.

"No, Serena, it's my fault. I beg your pardon."

He looked up to see her reaction and caught his breath. She was just so beautiful. He had never seen her blush so thoroughly, but her eyes were steady and remained fixed on his. Such a mix of innocence and pa.s.sion.

In a rush she turned them to another direction. "Art thou ready for thy b.u.t.ton lesson?"

SERENA ESCAPED TO the workroom. With more energy than needed, she stoked the fire with the bellows until it roared, much like the turmoil within her. She took sc.r.a.ps of silver and placed them into the iron skillet and then into the heat of the forge. It was calming to focus on the beautiful silver, watching it become a puddle of liquid metal. It shimmered and shone in the light of the fire, showing all the shades of black and gray and white as it changed. It seemed a living thing and, as always, she was a little mesmerized by it.

She sensed Drake coming up behind her. "Is it not beautiful?"

Drake peered into the fire, a look of perplexity on his face. "I want it to be."

She could feel his inner turmoil, the confused need to make everything fit. "Thou art not happy here." It was a simple truth. She turned, searching his face. "Dost thou wish to be back home?"

He started to speak and then stopped, shook his head and looked into the fire. "You could not possibly understand. I am not the man you think me, Serena."

"I may not understand, but I can try. I want to know-" she put her hand on her heart-"here. I do not know why, but I . . . feel thy anguish."

"I certainly hope that is not true."

His tone caused tears to well in her eyes. "Thou thinkest me foolish."

Drake came to her and took both of her hands in his. "No. No . . . I think you are sweet and lovely and enchanting and . . . very innocent."

She raised her chin and glared at him through her tears. "I'm not the saint thou thinkest I am."

He smiled. She doubted even he realized how natural that condescending, patronizing smile was to him. How it made her want to shake her fist in his face. Instead, she reached up on tiptoe and touched her lips to his, wanting more from him, but somehow knowing it would only come this way.

"Not a saint, eh?" He smiled against her mouth, and she pulled back, cheeks aflame. She hadn't gotten very far away before he caught her and gathered her up close into his arms, his lips claiming hers, the force of his will in the kiss.

She was swept away as before, but this time she felt the thoughts of right or wrong slipping, drowned in their heat. All her reasoning why she could not fall in love with him faded as she lost herself, floating on the sensation of his mouth against hers.

Minutes pa.s.sed . . . exploring minutes . . . discovering minutes.

Time stood still, and yet it seemed so short when he pulled suddenly away and gasped out, "My G.o.d!"

These words were no curse. They were more a prayer.

Suddenly Drake laughed, and Serena's spirit soared that she had caused him such joy as that sound carried. She had banished the ghosts in his eyes, if only for a little while. He smiled, and it was one Serena had not yet seen-pure and real-not meant to mean anything different than what it was.

"What magic you weave. You always pull me out of the darkness."

A chill went down her spine. While she reveled in his words, she knew something was not as it should be. She could never be his savior. But how could she say so aloud? How could she break this spell that bound them, even with the truth?

She looked at her hands. "Shall we make b.u.t.tons?"

"We should most a.s.suredly make b.u.t.tons."

They turned back to the silver, and Serena saw that it had become a liquid puddle in the middle of the skillet, the impurities burned away. She focused on the task as she showed Drake how to fill the molds. "Thou madest them too full before, 'tis all." She compared his earlier work with the perfect ones she'd made, setting them side by side on the worktable and leaning over them.

Looking up at him, a wisp of hair tickling her forehead, escaping her cap, she nodded toward the b.u.t.tons.

"Thou hast done much greater things than this, I think. Thou mayest learn this art . . . but even if thou never does, I know thou art worthy . . . of so much." She teared up, not able to keep her convictions buried in her heart where they belonged.

Drake exhaled, looked up to the ceiling of the shop and then back at her. "How did I find you?"

DRAKE DRANK IN her presence, his hand reaching toward her. Her body came flush with his chest, as if a mooring place. He breathed the scent of her hair. He reveled in the feel of her comfort. With her he no longer felt like a worthless man trying to do something he couldn't. With her in his arms, anything was possible, even a happy life as a silversmith.

Her talent was obvious. He leaned toward her ear, clasping her close. "You should be your father's apprentice. It is obvious you love this work."

She reared back and smiled up at him. "Were I a man, there would be no question. As it is, I am not able to truly learn the trade, though I spend as much time here as I can. My father is lenient and suffers my company without complaint."

"He would do better with your company. You are more suited to this work than I."

"Is it terribly trying to learn? I know my father would not want thee apprenticed to something thou art not able to do."

"I am not so confident of that," he murmured. "I think your father has other lessons in mind for me. Besides, I have signed on for the next two years. It is a short term, I know."

Serena shook her head with a breathtakingly sweet smile. "My father will take very good care of thee."

"His motives are pure, of that I will agree. Now-" he peered over her shoulder at the molds-"have these hardened sufficiently to let them loose?"

Serena laughed, taking his hand and leading him to the table. "Never hurry the process, dear one. Let us remelt thy b.u.t.tons and make spoons whilst we wait."

He doubted she even realized she had used the endearment, but it warmed him like a blaze of light in this pit of darkness where he stood.

Serena. This serene woman. She made him feel . . .

Like he wasn't alone anymore.

Chapter Ten.

It was Sunday again and meeting time. Drake was never asked if he wanted to attend; it was a.s.sumed that he did-or at least, he supposed, that he would. And it was peaceful. He had adjusted to the long silences, had disciplined his body to sit still and straight on the hard wooden bench for exactly one hour. He was even intrigued by the softly spoken "testimonies" occasionally given. The words always had a ring of truth behind them that resonated with something inside him. But he didn't understand some of the other aspects of their religion.

And most of all, no matter how welcoming they had been, he never felt like he belonged. He was too strong, too colorful against their plain quietness. Too old and too world-weary for their simple sweetness. He'd eaten from the tree of knowledge of good and evil too many times to go back and pretend a simplicity he didn't feel. And yet he felt pursued-not by anyone he could see, but by a feeling that there was someone he couldn't see in the quiet meeting room with them all. Someone who knew him, knew everything about him, and still wanted him.

Often at night, as he lay in his bed, when his body wasn't so exhausted by the day's work that he fell into an immediate sleep, he gave way to the cynicism over the ironic twist G.o.d or fate had dealt him. This world he now found himself in could not be more opposite to the one he'd known all his life. Yet it had so much to teach him. He wasn't always sure what or exactly how . . . but he knew he was changing, like his old skin was being molted off and a new, more tender skin emerging. A skin that felt everything with keen awareness.