Mr. Harold nodded.

Dublin, Ireland, July 29, 1794 THE LAST FEW RAYS OF SUNLIGHT slipped into the small hotel room. Simon hunched over the writing tablet, seated at a tiny desk, dipping his quill and writing frantically to outrace the fading daylight. The room was already dark with shadow.

"The sun is about to set, so I must end this missive now. Not a day goes by that I do not antic.i.p.ate our joyful reunion. My heart remains with you and the children, Amelia, as always. Yours truly, Simon."

He briefly closed his eyes, as deeper shadows consumed the narrow room. He could hear the sounds of children playing outside in the street below his window. There was laughter and happy shouts. Then he heard a woman calling to them. His heart clenched with anguish.

In his mind's eye, he saw Amelia hurrying through his house, calling for the boys. They came running eagerly out of the cla.s.sroom and she was smiling....

He missed his children so. He missed his wife.

Simon inhaled, opening his eyes. He had never imagined that they would have the opportunity to wed, and it amazed him still that she was his wife. Would he ever be allowed to return home? Would he ever see her again? Hold her? Make love to her?

Of course, there had been no word from her. What had she told the boys? Were they all right? How was Lucille?

His chest was constricted. He still clutched the quill, so he relaxed his fingers and laid it carefully down. He did not want to break it; he only had one spare left.

He had been in Ireland for almost two months, and his finances were becoming precarious. He could hardly go to the bank and identify himself and await funds from his accounts in England. However, he and Lucas had discussed all of his plans, including his need for funds, when Lucas had left him in Carlisle. He had opened an account at a Dublin bank in the name of Tim O'Malley. Eventually Warlock would arrange for a transfer of funds. He hoped the transfer would happen soon.

He shoved his chair back rudely from the tiny table, which was more the size of a dinner tray. The abrupt action caused his letter to fall to the floor. Suddenly furious and frustrated, he stood.

The letter wasn't dry yet as he retrieved it, but he didn't care. He turned, opened the room's single bureau and shoved the damp letter inside. Dozens of other letters were already there. He could write to her as much as he desired, and he wrote to her every single day. But he couldn't post a single letter. It was too d.a.m.ned dangerous.

His heart aching, he closed the drawer and lit the candle that was on top of the bureau. Then he poured wine from an open bottle into a tin mug, and he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the rusting, chipped mirror hanging over the bureau on the wall.

He only shaved once a week now. There was gray in his beard and white streaks at his temples. His hair was loose, and well past his shoulders. He desperately needed a haircut.

He wore a poor man's cotton shirt, without any adornment. His hands were free of rings. He did not wear a belt. His breeches had a hole in one knee.

No one would a.s.sume him to be anything but a down-and-out Irishman.

He took the mug and went to the window, pushing it as widely open as possible. He was hoping for a glimpse of the two boys who so often played stickball in the street. One was red-haired and William's age, the other a bit younger and blond. But it was dusk now, and the boys were gone.

He decided he would spend another evening at the small pub on the corner below the inn. While he spoke to no one-he didn't dare-he craved the human company.

Someone knocked on his door.

Simon tensed, putting his mug down and taking a dagger from beneath the single pillow on his narrow bed. He was barefoot, and he took two soundless steps to the door. He leaned against it, listening.

Someone knocked again. "O'Malley. O'Malley! It's me, Peter."

He relaxed slightly, slipping the dagger into his shirtsleeve. After he unbolted the door, he opened it a fraction of an inch and saw Peter, a freckled lad of about eighteen, but his attention was on the narrow hall behind him. It was empty.

He finally relaxed entirely and opened the door so he could face the boy.

"Ye said ye wanted news of the war." Peter grinned eagerly. "And I got news, sir!"

Simon gave him a coin. Peter brought him the Times once or twice every week, and he had instructed him to bring him any exceptional war news as well, for which he would be paid. The French had scored a ma.s.sive victory in Flanders at the end of June, in the Battle of Fleurus, humiliating the Austrian army. Since then, the French had consolidated their armies along the Sambre-et-Meuse, and General Pichegru had gone as far as Antwerp, defying the armies of the Prince of Orange and the Duke of York. General Scherer had successfully besieged Landrecies and was advancing on Valenciennes. The war was not going well.

"From that smile, I would say it is grand news indeed." Simon did not smile.

"It is worthy of another shilling, sir, at the least!"

Simon leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb and waited.

Peter looked disappointed. Then he blurted, "They arrested Robespierre!"

Simon straightened, certain he had misheard. "What?"

"He was arrested, sir, and so were his closest supporters, maybe two days ago!"

His heart was thundering. The face of the Terror had been arrested.

Acutely aware that he could have been in Paris just then, and the city was surely in chaos, Simon took a shilling out of his pocket and handed it to the lad, still in disbelief. "What will they plan? Now what will they do? What is happening in Paris?"

"The Convention has taken power, sir, and the government has been sent to the Blade. They were all executed, every one of them, even Robespierre!"

And Simon stood there, shocked.

The Reign of Terror was truly over.

AMELIA WAS IN DISBELIEF. Robespierre was dead.

He had been executed by the Terror-his own terrible policies had been used against him.

Amelia closed the newspaper, her hands shaking. "Thank G.o.d Simon didn't go back to Paris," she whispered to Julianne and Nadine. They sat together in a salon in Julianne's house.

The three women stared at one another, all wide-eyed. Robespierre's closest allies had been executed with him, as had seventy-one members of the city government in the following days. Had Simon taken up his old position in the Commune, he could have been amongst the dead....

"This is wonderful news!" Nadine said. "Maybe now, at last, there will be sanity in government and normalcy in Paris. Maybe now, at last, the killing will stop."

Amelia barely heard her friend. She closed her eyes, and for one moment, she felt that she was with Simon. She could see him standing in a small room, in dark shadows, a single taper burning. Then the image was gone.

He had left town fifty-eight days ago. There hadn't been any word, as it was too dangerous for him to write. Lucas had told her that he was most definitely out of the country, but he wouldn't say where. Did it mean he was in the north, in Scotland? Could he be in Ireland? Surely he hadn't gone to Europe, not with the chaos of the ongoing wars there.

"Are you all right, Amelia?" Julianne asked.

Amelia faced her, trying to smile. "I wonder if he has heard." If Simon ever came home, he would no longer have to fear the deadly serpent. If he ever came home, he would be free of fear of retribution and vengeance. He would be able to say "no" to Warlock, he would be able to walk away from all of these war games, knowing his children were safe....

"News like this travels like wildfire," Nadine said. "I am sure he has heard. We must celebrate."

Amelia wished she felt like celebrating, but she missed Simon too much. She watched as Nadine went to the side bar and poured three gla.s.ses of sherry. Anguish pierced her. If only she could send a letter to Simon.

"Maybe this war will soon end," Julianne said.

Amelia looked at her. "Julianne, he would remain an outlaw. As long as those charges are hanging over him, nothing changes for us."

The doors to the salon burst open, revealing the Count of Bedford. Julianne leaped up, surprised. "Dom?"

He slowly smiled at them. "Have you heard the news?"

"Yes, we have," Julianne said. "Robespierre is dead, d.a.m.n him to h.e.l.l. The Terror is over."

Dominic's smile changed and he walked over to Amelia. "No, that is not the news I am referring to."

Amelia tensed, with sudden hope. Why was Dominic looking at her that way-with a smile in his eyes? Why did he look so satisfied?

He held out a scroll. "This, my dear sister-in-law, is a royal pardon for Grenville."

Amelia reeled.

"I imagine that Simon is on his way home, even as we speak."

IT WAS EARLY MORNING. William clung to the windowsill beside the front door, while John galloped around the hall on a stick with a horse's head attached to it. Momma sat in one of the thronelike chairs against the wall, happily embroidering. Amelia was giddy and faint with hope, expectation and joy.

She was almost afraid that she was dreaming. But Warlock had confirmed the news and Lucas had already left to retrieve Simon, within an hour of Bedford's achieving the royal pardon.

"It's Papa!" William cried.

Amelia ran to the window, as John galloped over, screaming, "Papa! Papa!"

And sure enough, two hors.e.m.e.n were cantering into the driveway, and she recognized her brother and Simon.

Amelia ran to the front door, which was already being held open, her mother following. William and John were faster than she was, and they beat her down the front steps. Simon pulled his mount to a halt before the house, leaping off of it before it was standing entirely still. His hair loosely pulled back, his clothes and boots muddy, he ran toward them.

Amelia stopped, letting the boys leap into their father's arms first. She started to cry. Simon was thin and pale and his hair was so long, but he was home. Her beloved husband was home.

And as he embraced both boys at once, he looked over their heads at her. He was crying.

Amelia came slowly down the steps. Her heart thrummed.

Simon straightened, releasing the boys.

She hesitated-and he swiftly, purposefully came forward. Amelia was swept into his hard embrace and held there.

"I have missed you so," he said roughly.

She looked up, taking his beautiful face in her hands. "Thank G.o.d you are home! I have missed you, too, Simon, impossibly!"

He suddenly smiled, his eyes lightening with happiness, and he swooped her closer and kissed her for a long, long time.

"Ewwww," John cried.

"Shh. Father loves her, can't you tell?" William returned.

"Boys, we must give them their privacy," Momma said sternly.

Amelia heard them all, but she took Simon's shoulders and allowed the kiss to go on and on until she couldn't breathe, until her knees were buckling, until she absolutely had to take him upstairs and tear off his clothes-and be a proper wife.

Simon finally came up for air, looking very pleased. "Some things haven't changed," he said softly.

"You, my lord, shall pay quite the price for such a lengthy absence," she managed to flirt, rather breathlessly.

He grinned. "I hope so...wife."

Amelia started. "I have told no one yet." She lifted the chain with her wedding ring from beneath the collar of her dress.

Simon took her shoulders and turned her around. Realizing what he meant to do, Amelia stood very still as he undid the chain, her heart thundering. She was so overcome with love and joy and desire that she could hardly stand it.

He turned her back to face the boys, Momma, Lucas and the coachman and footmen, smiling. Then he grinned at her and she held out her hand. He slid the band onto her fourth finger.

"Papa?" William gasped.

Simon turned. "We have an announcement to make. Amelia and I were married on June 3. Amelia is the Countess of St. Just."

Both boys blinked. Momma started, while the staff looked as surprised. Lucas, of course, simply smiled. And then John ran to her and threw himself at her, hugging her hard, with a screech. William approached, more slowly, but with a smile.

"Can I call you Mama?" John asked, grinning up at her.

"Of course you can," Amelia said, stroking his hair. Her heart surged with too much emotion to bear.

"Should I call you Mother?" William asked, very seriously. He looked first at Amelia and then at his father.

Simon deferred to Amelia.

She put her arm around him. "You may call me whatever you like-whatever feels right."

William stared, beginning to blush. "I am pleased, Miss, er, Mother, that you have married my father."

Amelia laughed and hugged him. And then it was her mother's turn. Momma was crying a mother's tears of joy.

"Oh, darling, I always knew he loved you!" she cried, hugging her, and Amelia had the odd feeling that her mother was recalling the long-ago past, when Simon had so recklessly courted her when she was just a sixteen-year-old girl.

But the present consumed her now. Laughing, she turned and looped her arm in Simon's. She had never been so happy; there had never been so much joy.

He was tugging her toward the house, a definite glint in his eyes. "Why isn't Lucille here to greet me, as well?"

She laughed again. "She was sleeping, the last I looked, but we can wake her up."

"Good," he said, rather ruggedly. "Because we are going to celebrate-as a family."

John clapped his hands. "Can we go to the gypsy circus?"

"I do not see why not," Simon said, smiling. And still smiling, he gave Momma a kiss on her cheek. She blushed.