Buying a Car

A used one. New is out of our budget.

But what I'm really out of--or was by the end of Saturday--is used car salesmen. I apologize to those who break the mold, but those with whom we dealt deserved every bit of their reputation.

Especially the last one. He tried all sorts of tricks. Well, guess what, my husband got the highest grade in his negotiations class in law school, and I'm not so bad at it myself. Between the two of us, we're a formidable team, and my mother-in-law, who was helping us, is no mouse either. We had this guy on the defensive. Oh, I'll give you a few hundred off for those little dents onthe body. Then he slaps on this ridiculous servicing fee.

We walked out and out and out, then went to IHOP for some good wholesome food. I love pancakes and will eat them at any time.

Anyway, I digress.

I think selling used cars for inflated prices was easier in the old days. Now we have the Internet. We have cars.com, which hooks in with Yahoo Auto. We have vehics and Craig's List.We can side by side compare. Hmm, this dealer is selling this 2003 Dodge Carivan for X and this one is selling the same model for Y. Why is there a $1,500.00 price difference? No, you don't know until you look, but it makes one wonder who is trying to get away with something.

Any advice welcome. We will be back on the war path--I mean shopping spree--later this week.

Moving

So we are moving. Now I am convinced that moving companies are evil. Well, at least not quite honest. They get the estimate, you give them the job, then they tell you about all the extra fees, despite you asking them to include those in the estimate up front. Not illegal, not lying, but surely unethical.

What the Mail Brought!

My Revell contract. I am still stunned. How could an amateur like me sell to a publisher like Revell?

My Guest Blogging

I didn't get this posted sooner because of my trip, and I was a guest blogger last week on Lyn Cote's blog, writing about a woman who had a great deal of influence on my life, my values, my writing, and my heroines.

http://www.strongwomenbravestories.blogspot.com

Blogging from Texas

This weekend, i'm looking for a place to live down in Texas. It's hot here. That's probably the most crucial thing to say at this point. Although the weather people call ithumid, and I can feel humidity in the air to a degree, it's not like the DC area. oh, no. Down here near the gulf, it's much drier, at least at this point. My hair usually takes hours to dry. It was dry in an hour and up in a ponytail at that.

Nick isn't crazy about the heat, but he's having a great time. People seem to love dogs, esp. the children. I feel like the Pied Piper sometimes. But that's okay; I like kids. They are more of a distraction for Nick than are pet dogs.

People seem to live from one air conditioned building to another.

House-hunting? Well, not so easy. Lots of things to factor in--transportation, walkability, space, neighborhood...

We found one place and have looked at others. We have others to look at today.

It's a great help having my sister-in-law along. She's driving...

Oh, yes, to get a car with a GPS system in it, we had to rent a large car. A Grand marquis or something. It's an ocean liner of a car, but rides nice, isn't too bad on gas, and is pretty good with the GPS.

Life will be different than in a major metropolitan area, but we'll make due.

Now That It's in the Mail!!!

I can share my news!!!

Yes, I have signed a contract with Baker Revell. I am still stunned. I was stunned with every page of the contract I initialed and signed. It's just too amazing and wonderful and just plain special.


Bride of the Mist is a story that's been in my head for a long time, Seeds began to germinate the semester of my graduate work in women's history at Virginia Tech, when my research project focused on midwives in Early Modern America and Europe. It took a while to come to fruition as a full-blown story idea, but finally it was all there in my head. I wrote a proposal of synopsis and three chapters, and outlined the rest of the scenes, then my agent sent it out. Three weeks later, an editor at Revell told my agent she was taking it to committee. They made me an offer.

I'm overwhelmed with the Lord's goodness and abundance at this time of transition in our lives, when we are leaving the familiar for the unknown.

This is my seventh contract to sign since December of 2008. I am overwhelmed--in a good way.

I'm It

I.J. Parnham tagged me at

http://ijparnham.blogspot.com/2009/06/fore.html


So I'll attempt to answer these:

Four Movies that I can see over and over.
A Lion in Winter
Sabrina—the one with Bogart and Hepburn
Breakfast at Tiffany's
Fiddler on the Roof


Four palces I have lived:
Wilmore, Kentucky
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Berryville, Virginia
Davenport, Iowa

Four TV shows I love to watch:
Foyle's War
DS9 (DVD, since I missed it when it was a running series)
Lost, though I've missed so many that's what I am
Bones, but the change of nights doesn't work for me

Four Places I have gone on vacation:
Spain
Portugal
Colonial Williamsburg
Montreal, Quebec, Canada

Four Foods I love:
Penang (SP)
Chicken Tikka (SP)
Flautas
Chocolate mousse cake

Four Sites I visit daily
Drudge Report
Google News
Politico
Washington Post

Four Places I'd rather be:
On a beach
On the water
In the mountains
At a spa

Four things I'd like to do before I die
Visit Scotland, Wales, and Cornwall
Fly in a hot air balloon
Have a kitchen I design
Have a room just for my books

Four novels I wish I were readidng for the first time:
My Lady Notorious by Jo Beverley
The Dedicated Villain by Patricia Veryan
Shanna by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss
The Lively Lady by Kenneth Roberts

Four People to tag:
Gina Welborn
Terry M w/a Tessa McDermid
M. L. tyndall
Louise M. Gouge

New Computer

This is my first post with my new computer. Although things look the same, since I didn't get one with Vista, it's so different. Why, oh, why, did Microsoft have to change Office so drastically. A few updates, fine, but, really, ribbons? What is this, a horse show for adolescents that we need ribbons to help us get our work done?

Way, way into the manual, which I am reading to try to figure out the logic of these ribbons--which still eludes me--I discovered that the old keyboard shortcuts still work. I can, for example, still type alt O and p and get my paragraph setup. I'm thinking I should write all these things down just in case I forget something from 2003 and never figure out the ribbons.

Outlook isn't much different, and I haven't even touched Exel yet. Now, btween preparing to move and writing like mad to meet deadlines, too, is not a good time to change software on me. But the old computer isn't feeling well on too many days and wants to retire to much less strenuous use than I give it. It's going to a good home, where it will give a busy mom a needed break, a way to write outside the home.

Yet, despite its foibles, I love this ocmputer for what it's done for me. Yes, I have written proposals for many books I have sold. But then, I used my husband's even more ancient and cranky lap top we keep for emergencies, to write a proposal I also sold.

Lesson? Maybe. That it's the writing that counts, not the software. You can buy all the fancy software you like, but it, like writing books, are useless if you don't learn and grow and give editors stories they want.

News?

Yes, now that I've posted all of the novel, I have to start coming up with subjects to discuss. Arg.

I do have news, but am not ready to release it.

Meanwhle, I am head down and writing my second Heartsong in the New jersey Historical Series. This is The Heiress and seems to have a beta hero. My hero's tend to be more alpha, So this is proving to be a challenge.

I am about halfway through and want to be further. End of June is my personal deadline to have it done, as I hae to jump right into writing another novel, a long one.

Then there's that dreaful four-letter word I have to apply:
PACK

Surrender Chapter Twenty-One--The Last Part

"Yes, but--” She hugged her knees. "Not enough of one. I wasn't supposed to love you."

"I still would have loved you. Phoebe--” His voice thickened on her name and he stopped speaking, turned his head. "I still love you. I want you to know, what has happened doesn't matter now."

"Doesn't matter?" Phoebe rose to her knees, gripping the gunwales. "Garrett, I'm a traitor."

"Do you still love me?"

"That's beside the matter."

"Not at all. Virgil wrote, 'Love conquers all things, / Let us too surrender to love.' So if you do love me…"

Phoebe pounded her fist on the gunwale. "That kick to your head must have addled your brains. This is no jest. It'll ruin your career if you try to protect me."

Garrett smiled. "I don't have a career to be ruined."

"Oh, no!" Tears sprang to her eyes. "How can they? You stopped the robbery. You caught Charlie and me. They can't punish you too."

"They haven't punished me. They won't punish me." He reached out as if he would touch her. "Nor, ma chere, will they punish you."

Phoebe shook her head in confusion. "How can they not? Surely Werian saw me."

Garrett straightened. "He'll not have recognized you, if my father tells him not to. The reason for my visit to London was to see my father. I told him what I'd worked out about your activities, and asked him to obtain a pardon for you."

Phoebe caught her breath. "He agreed?"

Garrett inclined his head. "After I offered to resign my commission."

Phoebe gasped. "You didn't! You can't! You could get your captaincy now."

He wanted the captaincy for his future, his mark on the Empire, a chance to make his father proud of him.

"How could you do it?" The question was a cry torn from her heart. "It's everything important to you."

Garrett flashed her an angry glare. "If you think the Navy is still everything to me, then 'tis no wonder you were going to run off with Charlie rather than trust me with the truth."

"I had to do it."

"What? Distrust me?"

"Save your life."

His head snapped back as if she'd struck him in the chin. "How the devil could ripping my life apart save it?"

"Charlie wanted you dead." Once again, Phoebe sat on the bottom of the skiff, hugging her knees. "He didn't want to stop hunting in the Channel because he was winning too many prizes. But your honor demanded you catch him." With a groan, she lowered her head to her knees. "It wasn't even an honor you needed to satisfy. You weren't in the wrong."

"I suppose you didn't shoot anyone either."

Phoebe nodded. "It was all planned between Charlie, Erwine and my father, a scheme to get rich off prizes."

"Then Channing and Erwine are lucky they're already dead, and your father is fortunate to be on the other side of the Atlantic." He was silent for a moment, then added, "And I'm lucky to be alive."

"Yes." Phoebe straightened. "It was Charlie and Erwine's mistake to use you as they did. It made you work harder to catch them than other patrol ships did. And then there was me." She lowered her gaze to a point between his feet and the gunwale. "You were dangerous to me. If I hadn't decided to stay with you--but I did decide to stay. I told Charlie where you'd be so he'd sail away from you. Except he tried to kill you. So I told him I'd get him the gold shipment if he'd leave the Channel."

"But why were you going with him?" Garrett sounded sad, not angry.

She lifted her gaze to look at him. "I didn't trust him. He'd broken his word about keeping out of your way. So I knew he'd break his word about leaving the Channel, stopping his privateering, and-and not killing you. I was going with him to ensure your life … because I love you."



"But not enough to trust me."

"How could I know you wouldn't arrest me?"

"You were supposed to believe my love was deeper than that."

"Deeper than your career?" Her voice rose, broke. "The Service always c-came first. You hated treachery so much you married me rather than desert the Navy. So maybe you'd have given me up for the Navy too. And if you'd had me arrested, Charlie would have found you and killed you. I didn't have a choice as I saw it."

"'Struth!" He dropped his head into his hands. "And you wonder why I resigned my commission to gain your pardon. If I were still in the Service, you'd never believe I love you first."

Phoebe studied his bent head, his bowed shoulders, and began to believe he meant every word he said. Yet she had to ask one more question and gage the honesty of his answer. "Can you be happy living on land?"

"Having fresh food and a warm, dry bed and a warmer, uh, passionate wife?" He raised his head, and the smile was back in place with all its angelic sweetness. "My dearest wife, six months ago, I would have traded all the warm beds and fresh food in England to be a post captain. Then I met you and realized all my reasons for my ambition were no longer important. I wanted promotion to gain my father's respect. But I discovered my wife was a spy, that through turning her in, I could have all the promotions I wanted. Except I didn't want them. I wanted you. Alive. Free. That my father told me he's proud of me is incidental to the fact that I could use my commission to bargain for you and perhaps get you back."

"Perhaps?" Phoebe gaped at him, speechless.

He looked away, toward where France lay on the other side of the Channel. "You don't have to stay with me if you don't wish to. I can see that you're returned to Savannah or wherever you wish, and the marriage is dissolved. It would be a scandal, but it won't matter for you in America. And I don't care. I have more than enough money to give--"

"I don't want your charity."

Garrett faced her. "What do you want?"

"You." Careful not to tip the boat, she stood and grasped the edge of the jetty. "If I may still have you."

"Can you trust me?"

"I--” She hesitated, making sure of her answer. "I always have in everything except how I was betraying you and England. Since that's behind us, then, yes, I do trust you."

He grinned. "You may."

"Then help me out."

He rose also, stood gazing down at her for a moment, then he shook his head. "I can't."

Shocked, Phoebe demanded, "Did you stop being a gentleman when you stopped being an officer?"

"'Tis because I was an officer that you have to get out on your own. I remember--” His fingers flexed. "I pulled you out of a boat once because I was ordered to do so. This time, I want you to come to me of your own will." First stooping to brush his fingertips across her hair, he turned and strode toward land.

"Garrett!"

He stopped.

"Wait for me."

He faced her.

She scrambled onto the dock and ran to him. His arms closed around her, drawing her close against his heart. Tilting back her head, she smiled. "Virgil was wrong."



He arched his brows. "Love doesn't conquer all things?"

"No, he's right in that. Love does conquer the things it needs to survive like distrust and fear of loving." She slid her arms around his neck and began to free his hair from its sailor's queue. "But love doesn't make you surrender; it gives you victory."

The End


And pleae remember that this is copyrighted material.

Surrender Chapter Twenty-One Part IV

Her breath a painful fire in her chest, Phoebe stumbled onto the dock. She had a vague notion of jumping into the sea and swimming. To where, she didn't know. Away from the man who was bound to catch her soon.

She reached the end of the jetty. Bobbing on the ebbing tide lay a skiff. She couldn't row into the Channel, but if the boat were the kind of small boat with a mast and sail one could raise…

She sat on the edge of the dock and lowered herself into the boat. A heartbeat later, footfalls echoed on the jetty planks.

Phoebe yanked at the rope securing the boat. It didn't give way.

The footfalls were almost at the end.

Phoebe dove beneath the shelter of the folded sail.

The footfalls stopped. "Phoebe?"

Garrett!

She held her breath. He mustn't find her, not him! She might bear arrest by a stranger, but not Garrett!

"Come out, Phoebe." Garrett sounded as Charlie had when coaxing the horse to come to him. "No one will hurt you."



The jetty boards creaked. Phoebe froze, certain he was about to haul her onto land. Maybe others waited to take her up to London and the Traitor's Gate leading to the tower.

"Charlie is gone." Garrett sounded nearer, but made no move to reach down to her. "I'm sorry. It shouldn't have happened this way. But Werian had a rifle. He only meant to wound him. The Admiralty would have preferred a trial so they could question him about his activities. But it'll be easier to keep the whole thing quiet without the trial."

"Keep it quiet?" Surprise and a spark of hope drew the words from Phoebe before she thought. She raised her head.

Garrett sat on the edge of the jetty, his feet dangling, his elbows resting on his thighs. Even in the moonlight he looked pale, but he gave her his angelic smile. "I'm not a ghost. Charlie stunned me there. But when I heard you leaving with him, I made Werian's lieutenant give me his horse."

As much as it hurt to do so, Phoebe made herself say, "You should have let me go. It'll be best for everyone."



"Who, ma chere, is everyone?"

His dear?

She sat up, hugging her knees to her chest like a shield against further intrusions of hope. "You, Aunt--your aunt. The Navy."

Garrett leaned toward her. "And what about you? Will running away be best for you? Presuming you reach France alive and find Charlie's crew, will they keep you safe?"

"I've known most of them all my life."

"You knew Charlie all your life too."

Phoebe bowed her head. A solitary sob escaped her control.

"'Struth, Phoebe, I am sorry." He sounded as though he meant it. "I know you loved your brother."

Phoebe shook her head. "I didn't, not that man the colonel shot. The Charlie I knew--thought I knew--must have died sometime during this war." She forced herself to look at Garrett. "It must be something wrong with us, to pretend we're something we're not. Charlie pretended to be patriotic when he was only greedy. My parents pretended loyalty to the Crown when they were only greedy. And I--I'm nothing that you thought I was."

"I wonder if you even know what I thought of you." Garrett propped his chin on one hand. "Or think of you. After the first time I met you, I thought you were a timid little thing with more hair than wit. Then I saw you again and thought you were as cold and beautiful as a January sunset. Now I know you're neither of those. You're as clever as a bluestocking, as courageous as General Wolf, and more beautiful and passionate than any sunset."

His words should have filled her with joy. But they sliced her to her soul.

She shook her head. "I'm none of those things. Everything you think we had was built on lies. You thought I was brave because I packed cartridges instead of cowering in the cockpit. But I damaged the powder."

"I know you did."

She started. "When?"

"Too dashed recently. But--"

"And the flogging." She had to tell him. He deserved to know it all. "I did it because his wife guessed what I'd done to the powder and threatened to tell you if I didn't help her husband. So I wasn't brave either time. I did it out of cowardice."

"Oh, my dearest girl." He brushed one hand across his face. "Don't you understand that your reasons don't matter? It's the fact that you did what you did for something you believed in. Even if 'twas for the wrong side, it doesn't change the fact that it took tremendous courage to carry out your actions. Perhaps more courage because you thought yourself surrounded by enemies."

"I never once thought of your crewmen as enemies."

"Ah." Garrett tilted his head as if listening for something. "And me? Did you think of me as an enemy?"

Surrender Chapter Twenty-One Part III

Holding the reins, Charlie swung up behind her. "Hang on. We're going to ride."

He kicked the horse. It surged forward, nearly unseating Phoebe. She snatched the reins and clung fast.

A musket cracked from above them. Other hooves joined their mounts, the rhythm louder than the wagons' rumble.

"Come on, boy," Charlie said.

The horse increased his speed.

Phoebe leaned over his neck, her hands buried in the mane.

Behind her, Charlie laughed. "He rides like my ship sails. He'll get us away."

"To what?" Phoebe shouted. "Your crew's gone."

"Boat's waiting."



Another shot rang out, sounding closer.

Charlie leaned over Phoebe. "Smuggler's boat. Fast. Get us to a rendezvous in France. But I can't see the road like this." He straightened.

Another shot. Closer? No, a different gun. Sharper.

A rifle! One of the marines had a rifle!

A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in Phoebe's throat. She used a rifle in an attempt to help Charlie. Now the English used a rifle in an attempt to stop him. If they did, they would have her too. They would know about her treason and learn she had shot the man in Savannah…

But had she shot the soldier?

The shock of the revelation made her loosen her hold. She started slipping to one side.

Charlie yanked her upright. "Hang on or you could make the horse stumble and kill us both."

"Charlie?" She leaned back against his chest. "Did I shoot anyone?"

"Of course not. But we had to make you feel guilty to go along with the plan to get you to England."

Phoebe curled her fingers around Charlie's forearms and wished they were his neck. Charlie kicked the horse for more speed.

The stallion raced down the road toward the sea, his powerful muscles straining. Charlie's own muscles tightened. The horse slowed, left the main road.

The other horses drew nearer.

"We can't slow," Phoebe protested. "They'll catch us."

"We're leaving the horse here." Charlie reined in and leaped to the ground, dragging Phoebe after him. "C'mon. Run!"

She ran. With a swift, backward glance, she spied the black shapes of two riders slow for the turn.

She ran faster.

Hearing hoof beats on the path, she glanced back again. The men were gaining on them. One raised a gun.

"Look out!" Phoebe dropped to the ground and rolled. The ground gave way beneath her and she somersaulted over stones and brush that smelled of the sea.

Above her, Charlie kept running. The riders drew nearer. The rifle cracked. Pounding hooves came on.

The footfalls slowed, staggered, ended in a crash.

"Charlie!" Phoebe only mouthed his name. She dared not cry out. The men, the British she had made her enemies, had shot Charlie. If she went to him to see if he lived, she would be captured, maybe shot too.

Raising her head, she peered through a gorse bush at the path above her. The two horsemen passed the place where she had fallen. The other horse followed them, reins trailing. The men stopped, dismounted, bent over something on the path. They spoke in tones too low for her to catch their words, but their actions spoke loudly enough--the friend, her brother, who had become a stranger, was in no condition to struggle. Soon, they would start hunting for her, and now that Garrett had proof she was a traitor, he would have to turn her over to the authorities. She had no choice but to run. Later, she would mourn Charlie, grieve for what the war had done to all of them. For now, all her energy centered on escape.

As quietly as possible, she crawled to the beach. The tide was mostly out, and the sand was hard-packed and easy for running.



Phoebe ran.

She heard a shout behind her and ran faster. She had a goal. A smuggler's boat that would carry her to France, to safety. Charlie's crew would care for her. She would be alive. She would be free, without Garrett, but not shaming him with her corpse hanging from London Bridge or Tower Hill.

She saw a hut in the distance, and headed toward it. A stitch pierced her side, slowing her. She grasped the spasm with her hand, and kept running.

Behind her, the brush crackled with the impact of feet stamping down, bodies sliding. Someone cursed. Then silence.

Phoebe ran faster.

The hut neared, squat and black against the sand beyond. She raced around it, and found the dock.

A rickety, empty dock.

She sank to her knees, gasping for breath. She had to be in the right place. Charlie had headed this way. If anything were further along, he wouldn't have dismounted so soon.

But the boat wasn't there.

Surrender Chapter Twenty-One Part I

CHAPTER 21



Charlie spun, using one hand to drag Phoebe around in front of him. His other hand slashed downward, then whipped up to press the honed, steel blade of his knife against the side of her neck. "Call off your friends, Ashford."

"I already have." Garrett sounded calm, in control.

He wasn't. Charlie was.

"You go too." Phoebe spoke through a constricted throat. "Garrett, you must--"

"I don't believe you, Ashford," Charlie broke in. "A naval commander doesn't tell a marine colonel what to do."

"He does at times." Garrett's smile, a flash of white teeth in the moonlight, seemed feral, dangerous, though his tone remained as imperturbable as the limestone beneath his feet.

As if she weren't there with Charlie's knife pressing hard enough to draw a trickle of blood from her flesh.

"When those orders come from the Lord High Admiral," Garrett continued, "the colonel listens to the lieutenant."

Lord Sandwich himself!

The knife blade became a traitor's noose around her neck.

"He's to guard the gold at all cost," Garrett added. "After all, Channing, your men could be on the other side of the hill robbing them while they chased the traitor."

She should have expected nothing less than him calling her what she was, but hearing him renounce her felt as if Charlie's blade had sliced through her heart--and twisted.

Charlie laughed. "And meanwhile, my crew gets away."

"Without the gold." Garrett curled his upper lip. "As if you thought you could steal from the British Navy, colonial."

"I already have." Charlie's hand shook just a little, just enough to send another drop of blood creeping down Phoebe's throat.

She sucked in her breath.

Garrett displayed no sign of noticing--or caring. He hooked his thumbs in his sword belt and looked past her and Charlie. "A few supply ships don't count for much. The gold, now--" He shook his head. "No, we couldn't allow you to have that. I couldn't allow you to have that since several hundred pounds worth of it belongs to me, and I fight for what's mine." He took a step back and dropped his hand to his sword hilt. "What about you, Channing? Do you have the courage to fight? Or do you plan to hide behind a female?"

A female. No one important.

Charlie raised his knife, slashed it in the air so moonlight shimmered off the blade like silver fire. Then he brought the point to rest against Phoebe's jugular vein. "Drop your sword."

Garrett gave out a rich chuckle that reverberated off the silent cliffs. "Do you think I'll believe you'll slit Phoebe's throat?"

"If it's what I need to get away, yes." Charlie drew a line along Phoebe's skin. "She's nothing more than a pawn, expendable when no longer useful. Just like you."

Garrett didn't move, yet an imperceptible change in his demeanor proclaimed a new tension holding his body taut. "I am no man's pawn to be used as he wills."



"Aren't you?" Charlie's tone was derisive. "Haven't you worked out that the fire aboard the Intrepid was no accident?"

Garrett's hand flexed on his sword hilt. "Your accomplice there said as much. It gives me all the more reason to kill you. So put the pieces away. You're not going to sacrifice Phoebe for a game you can't win."

"Maybe I can't win this round," Charlie conceded. "But I'll sacrifice Phoebe before I let her go on being a whore for an English--"

Garrett hit him. Hard. Fast. The knife spun from Charlie's hand. Garrett's sword was out, swinging up. Charlie threw Phoebe between himself and the blade. She felt the deadly steel whip past her face. Then she was down, rolling away from the men, reaching for the knife.

Diving beneath the sword's next lunge, Charlie seized Garrett's legs. Garrett fell. His right shoulder struck the ground. His wounded shoulder! With a grunt of pain, he swung up the sword. Too slowly.

Charlie grabbed the blade's flat edge, wrenched. He lifted the sword high, slashed it down.

With a scream of protest, Phoebe sprang at Charlie, knife extended. The blade's tip pierced his arm. He jerked. The sword fell, its tip an inch from Garrett's neck.

Knife still in her hand, Phoebe sank to her knees, gagging.

Garrett staggered to his feet, breathing hard. "Give up, Channing.” He crouched, then grabbed for the sword. "You're wounded."

"Not dead." Charlie kicked Garrett's arm, reached for Phoebe.

She swung her knife hand. "Let him go, Charlie."

"He hasn't much choice." Garrett held his sword again--in his left hand. His right hand hung limp. Though he brought the sword up, the blade wavered.

Charlie plucked the knife from Phoebe and again laid its edge along her throat. "Since you want her to stay alive, Ashford, you give up. Drop the sword."

The blade lowered.

"No," Phoebe cried. "Don't, Garrett. He'll kill you."

"Drop the sword," Charlie repeated.

Garrett dropped the sword. Then he kicked it against Charlie's feet. Charlie jumped back. Freed, Phoebe flung herself out of Garrett's way as he leaped forward.

He struck Charlie's injured arm, then ducked to avoid the slashing blade. Diving inside the arc of the knife blade, he grabbed for Charlie's arm. Charlie brought up his knee. The hard bone connected with Garrett's groin. Garrett doubled over, gasping. Before he could straighten, Charlie swung his booted foot.

Phoebe grabbed for his leg. Missed. Charlie's toe caught Garrett behind his ear.

Garrett fell--and lay still.

"Oh, sweet heaven!" Phoebe crawled to him and felt for a pulse. It was there, a little too fast, but strong. She started to breathe a sigh of relief, then glanced at Charlie and changed her mind. "You've killed him!"

"I doubt it." Charlie sounded weary, bored. "But it'll serve you your rights if I did. Traitorous--"

"I didn't betray you." Phoebe swallowed down a sob. "I betrayed him. But it was supposed to save him."

Charlie curled his hand around her arm. "Get up. We've got to go. They're moving the wagons."



Phoebe hadn't noticed the rumble of wheels. She heard them now, grumbling through the Cleft like distant thunder.

"How can we get away?" she asked.

Charlie laughed. "Your Englishman has left his horse." Placing two fingers to his lips, he emitted a piercing whistle.

Like most well-trained saddle horses, the animal tossed up his head and galloped toward them. A dozen feet from them, he stopped, shied back, nostrils flaring.

"He doesn't like the blood." Charlie yanked the silk stock from around Garrett's neck. "Quick, bind up my arm."

With shaking hands, Phoebe folded one end of the neckcloth against the gash in Charlie's arm, then tied the rest in place. All the while, she watched Garrett for signs of waking.

He didn't move.

Charlie grasped her arm. "Get moving. Or do you think they won't hang you if they catch you?"

"They will." Phoebe followed Charlie in a careful gait toward the horse. It backed away, snorting.

Charlie held out his uninjured hand, palm up. "There, there, boy. We won't hurt you." He had nearly killed a man and threatened to kill her, yet he spoke to a horse with all the gentleness Phoebe once thought he possessed.

The cliffs began whirling around her. The rumbling filled her ears as if the wagons were on top of her, not atop the Hill.

Charlie slapped her face. "Stop it. If you faint, I'll leave you to the British rather than try and carry you." He turned back to the horse. "Come on, boy."

The horse stepped nearer, neck extended.

"That's it, beauty," Charlie crooned.

Phoebe held his belt for support. He was right. She couldn't faint. If she did, Charlie might kill Garrett and leave her behind to be captured. She couldn't let herself be caught. That would destroy Garrett as fast as would Charlie's blade. She had to go with the brother she had once loved.

The horse drew near enough for Charlie to take hold of his bridle. The animal sidled, but Charlie held him fast.

"Mount," he said.

Phoebe raised one foot to the stirrup and with a strength she didn't know she possessed, managed to drag herself into the saddle.

Surrender Chapter Twenty Part III

"They're leaving Petersfield now." The informant was one of Charlie's crewmen who had waited in the Market town to watch for the approaching gold shipment.

"They made us wait long enough." Charlie's tone was complaining, but his eyes shone with excitement. "Everyone ready? Phoebe?"

"I'm ready." Phoebe spoke without enthusiasm.

Charlie shot her a warning glare. "Don't fail us."

"I won't." Phoebe turned from the American crewmen taking up their positions at the base of the hill, and climbed the sloping side of the road that formed one arm of the V known as the Devil's Cleft. Behind a boulder level with the apex of the hill, she found her supplies--two gunpowder-packed cartridges with trailing fuses and a strike-a-light. Once the wagons were on the downward slope of Butser Hill, her task was to light the fuses and toss the cartridges onto the road. If all went well, the exploded gunpowder would do nothing worse than cause the horses to bolt. The marine guards would be too occupied with staying atop the wagons to fire their weapons. Weary from dragging heavy wagons uphill, the horses couldn't run far. When they slowed, and before the guards had recovered enough to put up much of a fight, Charlie's crew would overpower them from both sides of the road.

If all didn't go well…

Too many things could go wrong. Her grenades could set off a rockslide. The horses might not be frightened. The marines might fight anyway. Too many might be injured.

"I'm trying to save lives." Phoebe mouthed the words for courage. "If I don't stop Charlie, he'll kill too many people."

She heard the distant thunder rumble of iron-bound wheels on the road and peeked from behind her sheltering boulder. The wagons were halfway up the hill. She caught the gleam of moonlight on polished musket stocks and knew the marines were ready to fire at any suspicious movement.

She ducked back behind the boulder. Her heart raced, galloping, galloping…

Her heart stopped. The galloping continued.

Sweet heaven! Who would dare race up the Portsmouth side of Butser Hill in the middle of the night? Some innocent person was going to get caught in the ambush. If she set off her fuses, the rider would be in the way of the frightened horses. His horse might be frightened, might throw him, and might kill him!

Stop him! she wished she could shout to Charlie. "Don't let anyone near the gold."

From one side of the hill, the hoof beats pounded nearer. The wagons rumbled closer from the other side. One too fast, the other too slow.

Stop him!

But of course they couldn't. Men hiding off the road with pack mules couldn't stop a man on horseback who rode that swiftly. If they fired a shot, the marines would halt the wagons and begin hunting for the source of gunfire. They would find her first, guilty with her powder and fuses.

Calm yourself. Think. She closed her eyes. All might go well. The rider meant nothing. Once he passed the wagons, all would be well.

She stole another look down the hill, and knew her logic was wrong. The horseman couldn't pass the wagons. They took up too much of the road and the cliffs on either side wouldn't allow the rider to pass. If she carried out the ambush, he would certainly be caught in the path of the dray wagons hurtling down hill.

She couldn't let it happen.

Her hands shaking so badly she could hardly bring steel to flint, she set spark to the fuse on one cartridge and threw it onto the road. Then she ran.

She kept to the slope above the road, scrambling over rocks, grabbing the sparse vegetation for handholds. Thank heaven for breeches. Thank heaven for moonlight.

Freedom and brightness. Run past the horseman down on the road. Speed away from danger.

The gunpowder exploded. The blast echoed and re-echoed off the Devil's Cleft. The ground shook. Chalky dust filled the air. Horses whinnied. Men shouted. Somewhere a shot rang out.

Phoebe slipped on loose stones, went down, and rolled. She lay winded on the ground, trying to see if the horseman was near or if the marine guards were coming. She saw a riderless horse silhouetted against the chalk cliffs. Beyond the horse, men approached through the dust like wraiths. Marine guards.

She struggled to her feet, then started to run.

Hands grabbed her and jerked her to a halt. "What have you done? You stupid little fool! What have you done?" Charlie! He shook her so hard her teeth snapped together. "Tell me."

"The ho-horseman," she gasped out. "I couldn't--"



"You never planned to." Fury contorted Charlie's face. "It's a trap you planned with Ashford."

"No, Garrett knows nothing."

The guards were heading down hill.

"Charlie, we can't stay here."

"Where do you plan we go? Into your own ambush?"

The tramp of feet drew nearer. Someone shouted.

Phoebe tugged at Charlie's arms. "I told you--"

"Lies."

"Garrett knows nothing."

"Then why was he riding hell-bent-for-leather up the hill?"

Phoebe sagged in Charlie's grip. "You must be mistaken."

A footfall crunched on the slope behind Charlie. "He wasn't mistaken," Garrett said.

Surrender Chapter Twenty Part II

arrett allowed his father to persuade him to remain in London resting until the following day. With the Tethys anchored at Portsmouth, Channing could do little to harm him. Yet the fact that Phoebe refused to travel to London with him nagged at his mind. He suspected she had a rendezvous with Channing, despite her claim she had bid him farewell, and considered that he should have stayed home to watch her.

"But I don't want to catch her with him," Garrett admitted to his father. "She's devoted to him, and if it came to a fight, I don't want her to have to choose."

"Hasn't she already chosen?" Tyne asked.

Garrett toyed with the food his father insisted he eat. "She told me she loves me."

But did she mean that or was it one of her ploys for distracting him? Perhaps she remained with him, pretending devotion, in order to stay where she could gather information.

With no clear plan how he would proceed in stopping his wife's activities, Garrett left for Hampshire on Midsummer's Eve. The Portsmouth Road was crowded with holiday makers, and a dozen miles into Surrey, a convoy of heavily-laden dray wagons crawled along, slowing traffic. The heavily armed marines riding atop the vehicles told Garrett the canvas covered load was gold destined for Portsmouth and transport to the colonies.

Garrett cut across a field to get ahead of the column, and recognized one of the two officers riding in the lead. Leith Werian was the illegitimate cousin of his sister's husband. Garrett lifted a hand to the colonel in greeting. As Werian waved in response, Garrett wondered where he had seen him recently. Then he was off, heading home to find his wife.

But when he reached home after a ten-hour journey, Phoebe wasn't home. Grimsby didn't know where she was, so Garrett went in search of Aunt Bess.

She sat in the conservatory brushing mounds of hair from a bevy of dogs. She smiled at him and waved a hand to the discarded hair. "Do you think we could sell this as a new kind of wool? It's much silkier than the sheep are."

"And would make its wearer prey to every dog around." Garrett stooped to rub Lysander's belly. "Where's Phoebe?"

"Phoebe?" Aunt Bess looked surprised. "She's at the Glenning's Midsummer Masque. Isn't that why you came home? To attend the ball?"

Garrett almost sagged with relief. "I didn't know about it."

"Didn't Phoebe tell you the other night?"

"We, uh, didn't discuss … parties."

Bess frowned at him. "Did the two of you fight?"

Garrett went on alert. "I wanted her to go to London with me, but we didn't argue. Why?"

"When I came home, she was in her room weeping like her heart was broken. And I don't think she's had a bit of sleep the last two nights."

Garrett's hand stilled on the dog's chest. His heart beat as rapidly as the canine's. Had she met Charlie? If so, what secrets could she have divulged to him?

He rose. "You're certain she's at the Glennings?"

"Of course I am. I don't care for masques. Too wild with everyone in costume."

"Good gad, costumes." Garrett scowled at an orange tree. "What is Phoebe wearing?"

"A shepherd lad. She looked quite adorable, if a little naughty showing her legs." Bess picked up a dog Garrett didn't recognize. "Are you going? I've a domino and mask."

"No, I'll go as myself." He kissed his aunt's cheek and headed to the door.

"Garrett?" she called after him.

He paused.

"Don't make her cry again."

"Believe me, Aunt, I'm doing my best to make her happy."

He took only enough time to wash away the dust of travel and change into a dress uniform. He had considered donning civilian eveningwear, but he felt uneasy and wanted his service sword with him instead of the ornate but almost useless dress sword. Apparently, Phoebe had gone to the ball with the Barringtons, so Johnston offered to drive him in the carriage. Garrett deliberated, then chose to ride. Horseback was faster.

The long Midsummer twilight made traveling swiftly possible. In little time at all, Garrett reached the Glenning's estate and presented himself at the front door. "I have no invitation card, but my wife is a guest," he explained to the butler. "Mrs. Ashford."

"Yes, of course, sir. She arrived with the Barringtons an hour ago." The servant glanced over his shoulder at a group of revelers dressed like minstrels. "But you may have difficulty finding her until the unmasking."

"I know her costume."

Feeling out of place amid sprites, satyrs and Knights of the Round Table, Garrett strode into the house he'd only visited once before, and began searching the several rooms for a shepherd lad with legs shaped like a woman's.

After an hour, he had found five shepherdesses and six milkmaids, but no shepherd lads. In a card room, he encountered several persons who wore evening dress with a few uniforms among them, though most of them wore masks. One face, however, he recognized despite the black silk stretched across eyes and nose, for he had often seen the face smoke-blackened after battle.

He tapped him on the shoulder. "Tregarth."

The captain glanced up, his compressed lips expressing his annoyance. "You're not supposed to give people away, Ashford. For that matter, where's your mask?"

Garret glanced at the other players. Their erect postures suggested they were military men out of uniform, but he recognized none of them. "Excuse me for interrupting your game. I'm looking for my wife. Have you seen her?"

Tregarth smiled. "A great deal of her."

The other men chuckled.

Apparently encouraged, Tregarth continued. "T'other night 'twas her bosom. Tonight 'tis her legs. Lucky you. That is--” His eyes gleamed behind the slits in his mask. "If she ain't cuckolding you already."

In a way, she was.

Garrett gave Tregarth a hard look. "I've never called a man out, and would prefer not to do so. But if you persist in making vulgar remarks about my wife, I'll have no choice."

"If you don't want to fight duels," another card player said, "I'd keep a filly like her in the stable."



Garrett held his temper. Phoebe did flirt too much, and now he knew why. Dazzled men talked freely. Hadn't he?

He stepped back from the table. "If you see her, tell her I'm here."

"Look for Werian," Tregarth suggested. "He's easy to spot with his height, and they were right friendly t'other night."

"I doubt Werian is here," Garrett said. "I passed him on the road with the gold shipment."

A blacksmith's hammer seemed to smash into Garrett's chest.

Not the payroll! They wouldn't dare!


But they would. They had dared attack Portsmouth Harbor. And she'd been friendly with Werian. She'd worn a barely decent gown to the ball, and that was where he had seen him. One of the men surrounding Phoebe when he walked into the ballroom.

"Thank you for your time." Garrett thought his voice sounded strained.

The men seemed to notice nothing amiss. They murmured polite responses and returned to their game.

Garrett left the house with as much haste as he could and not draw undue attention. Once outside, he ran to the stable instead of waiting for a servant. "I need a fresh horse, now," he addressed the head groom.

Glenning Hall had some of the finest horses in the country.

"Something fast," he added. "An emergency."

"Yessir." The groom called for a horse.

Garrett began to pace, to think, to plan.

The payroll wagons could take as long as fourteen hours to make the journey. They'd started before him. An hour? Two hours? Where had he passed them?

Where was the horse?

He turned, ready to demand haste.

The groom led out a saddled bay that looked fresh enough to win at the New Market races. "'Ere you go, sir. Rambler. Finest we got 'ere by the 'ouse."

"Thank you." Garrett pressed a guinea into the man's hand. Then he mounted and spurred the animal down the drive.

The gold shipment was three hours behind him. That would place them at Petersfield on the other side of Butser Hill. They would need fresh horses for the climb. That would delay them. On a mount like Rambler, he should reach the Devil's Cleft in time to warn Werian of a possible ambush.

* * *

Surrender Chapter Twenty Part I

CHAPTER 20



Garrett reached Tyne House in Old Burlington Street shortly after ten o'clock the following morning. He was hot, tired and dusty from travel and knew he should have stopped at an inn to make himself more presentable, but he couldn't waste the time.

An unfamiliar butler answered the door, and looked down his beaky nose at Garrett, though he was half a foot shorter. "Are you lost, er, sir? If so--"

"Is Lord Tyne still in residence?" Garret said.

The butler wrinkled his nose. "You wish an audience with his lordship, you make an appointment with his secre--"

"Step aside, man, he's my father."

The butler paled. "Sir, I--"

"You were doing your duty." Garret's lips twisted. "Believe me, I understand. Now, if you please, I must see my father at once."

"He's in the dining parlor, sir. With your brother, sir." The butler stepped out of Garrett's way. "Mr. David Ashford, that is."

"Lud." Garrett groaned.

His middle brother was going to enjoy this scene far too much.

Garrett paused long enough to drop his hat and gloves on the hall table, then strode down the passage leading beside the grand staircase, and opened the door to the dining parlor. The scent of coffee, bacon and fresh bread struck him like a tidal wave. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. But the sight of his father residing over the head of the table drove all thoughts of hunger from Garrett's mind.

Never in his life had he asked his father for anything but love and respect. The favor he was about to ask of Tyne now was sure to rob Garrett of his last opportunity to receive either.

The memory of Phoebe's haunted eyes as she refused to come to town with him, lent Garrett the strength he needed to face his father. Her life, after all, was boundlessly more important than Ashford pride.

Garrett cleared his throat. "Sir?"

Tyne glanced up from his perusal of some papers before him. "Garrett!" He showed a momentary surprise, then his face closed.

"Well, well," David drawled, "if it isn't my prodigal brother. Come home for a fatted calf since you can't seem to catch any big fish?"

"There's a French corvette anchored in Plymouth Harbor will argue with your last comment," Garrett shot back. "My share will earn me more than your quarterly allowance."

"But earn!" David shuddered. "So bourgeois."

"Rather a bourgeois than a leech," Garrett snapped.

David's upper lip curled. "Better a leech than a--"

"That will due," Tyne said. "You'd think the two of you were old enough to be past this petty bickering."

"I'll not be past it," David said, "until my brother ceases to be an embarrassment to me at the clubs. An earl's son a mere naval commander, indeed."

"Tell them I have an income of ten thousand a year," Garrett said. "And my own estate."

"But with whose money?"



Garrett's hand dropped to his sword hilt.

Tyne's fist slammed onto the table. Silver spoons rattled against eggshell china. "Enough! Your remark was uncalled for, David, and you know it. And you, Garrett, should know better than to walk in here looking like you came straight from battle. Good gad, that's even your service sword."

"I wonder if he's cleaned the blood off it," David murmured.

Garrett turned his shoulder toward his brother and inclined his head to his father. "Forgive my appearance, sir. I rode all night."

"Then pour yourself coffee and sit down."

Garrett poured coffee from the silver pot on the sideboard, but remained standing, gaze fixed on his brother.

"I believe he wants me to leave," David said. "Too bad. I'm still eating."

Garrett allowed his gaze to drop to David's expanding waistline ill concealed beneath his well-tailored coat.

David flushed. "I can see the phrase 'an officer and a gentleman' doesn't apply to you, brother."

"David," Tyne barked, "take your leave."

"Yes, sir." David rose and left the room.

Garrett followed him to the door and locked it. Then he went to the table and stood gripping the high, carved back of a chair. "Sir, I'm sorry for this intrusion."

Tyne leaned back in his chair. "You should be sorry for exchanging puerile insults with your brother."

"Aye--yes, sir, I know. It seems some things never change."

"But some things do change." Tyne's eyes were speculative. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be here."

"No, sir." Garrett's fingers dug into the chair's carved back. "I need--I need ... your help, sir." He thought the words would choke him, but once out, he felt a burden lift.

Even his father's cool, silent regard didn't return Garrett to the sense of painful isolation that had burdened him since he'd recognized the truth about Phoebe. For her sake, he could wait out his father's silence or wrath.

"I think," Tyne said at last, "you'd better sit down. That shoulder must be paining you."

"'Tis not my shoulder that's paining me, sir."

"Indeed?" Alertness sparked in Tyne's eyes. "Is it your conscience perhaps?"

"Yes, sir, but not-not for the reasons you implicated last month. I have no guilt where that's concerned." Garrett pulled out the chair, but didn't sit. "Perhaps you should hear me out."

"Perhaps I should, but not while you're towering over me."

Garrett sat and faced his father. As he started to speak, the temptation to look elsewhere than into his father's eyes was great. He didn't want to read contempt, revulsion or, worst of all, rejection. Yet he had to make certain Tyne knew he hid nothing of the truth about events or how he felt about them.

"It started in Savannah in December. I was bored and more than happy to dine with even Erwine just for the diversion…” The rest of the tale made him feel as unclean as had the fire's soot, regardless of whether or not he'd been drugged. When he reached the part about Erwine blackmailing him into marrying Phoebe, his father displayed his first emotion--anger. Yet Garrett didn't think it was directed at him.

"I thought about deserting," Garrett said. "But I couldn't break my oath, not after the fire. I had--I have--a duty, a great deal to make up for. So I tried to frighten her into refusing me. That didn't work either. She--she had bruises on her shoulder from her father's fingers. She went down on her knees and begged me not to hurt her. I couldn't leave her there after--” He snapped his teeth together.

Tyne's lips twisted into a bitter smile. "Not after you heard about how I'd beaten Georgiana into submission so she'd marry Worthington, eh?"

"Did you, sir?"

Tyne raised an unsteady hand to his jabot. "She called Worthington a name no lady should use. I slapped her and she fell down. It bruised her arm, so the rumors started. We were both sorry."

Another burden lifted from Garrett. "Is she unhappy with His Grace?"

"Georgiana likes being Her Grace if not exactly happy with the man who gives her the title. But we're discussing your wife, not your sister." Tyne's gaze pierced into Garrett's heart. "Are you unhappy with her?"

"Unhappy?" Garrett felt an unfamiliar ache behind his eyes. His throat was too tight for speech. He rose and crossed to the sideboard, where he poured brandy into a coffee cup. Then he stood staring at the amber liquid, thinking how much its color reminded him of Phoebe's eyes. "I thought it was possible that nothing could make me happier than waking up beside her every morning, watching her play in the grass with Aunt Bess's dogs, listen to her voice…” The ache behind his eyes grew more intense, blurring his vision. "She packed cartridges during battle. She stopped a man from being flogged when he didn't deserve it. She drew pictures for seamen to send their families. And on land, she charmed everyone into forgetting that she's the daughter of a colonial planter. For the first time in my life, I had a home." His throat closed.

The silence in the room was absolute.

Then Tyne cleared his throat. "Why do you speak as if this is in the past, Garrett?"

Garrett curled his fingers around the handle of the coffee cup until the delicate china snapped. "She's a traitor."

His father swore. "Then what the blazes are you doing here instead of going straight to the Admiralty or the Horse Guards?"

Garrett turned on him, and the remains of the coffeecup flew across the chamber to smash against the paneling. "Do you think I want to see her hang?"

"If she's important enough, it'll be a boon to your career."

"She's important enough." Garrett tasted the bitterness of his tone. "She's feeding information to the privateer I have so much trouble catching. He knows my movements because I tell her and she tells him. He's her betrothed."

"A boon indeed," Tyne murmured.

Anger surged through Garrett, dousing some of his pain. "You can't think I intend to exchange my wife for a promotion? 'Struth, sir, I wouldn't be here humbling myself before you if that were what I wanted."

"'Tis always been what you wanted, your way regardless of whom you hurt in the process."

"I learned it--” Garrett cut off the automatic retort.

Tyne's smile was sad. "I was a good teacher, eh? Nothing for my children but what I thought was the best. Yet you chose your own way and strove to be the best at that."

"If I'd done better, I wouldn't have opened myself to extortion."

"Then you regret the happiness you've had with Phoebe?"

Garrett thought of her as she had been the night before, her skin glowing like one of her pearls, her eyes fathomless with passion, tender with love.

The ache returned behind his eyes. "I'd give anything to return to that happiness."

"Anything?"



Garrett met his father's eyes, knowing the true question Tyne asked and the only answer he could give. "Anything if you'll use your influence to obtain a pardon for her."

Surrender Chapter Nineteen Part II

Thoughts fled from Phoebe's head. Her hand shook. Watching Garrett, she reached out to set her glass on a statue plinth before she spilled the wine. At that moment, she knew he sighted her through the milling throng of guests. She caught the lightning flash of anger in his eyes, and the glass slipped from her fingers, shattering into a cascade of crystal shards and ruby droplets across the parquet floor.

The hubbub of chatter, rustling gowns and a tuning violin drowned out the sound. But the gentlemen near Phoebe sprang to assist her, drawing her skirts away from the wine, gripping her hand, demanding to know what was wrong.

Phoebe barely noticed. Her gaze, her thoughts, her aching heart all focused on Garrett striding toward her as if a hundred people between them weren't forming sets for another dance.

Garrett home. Garret angry. Garrett!

How she loved him! For weeks, no, for months, she believed herself incapable of loving Garrett. But now, watching him stride toward her, knowing she would never see him after Midsummer's Eve, she realized that she loved him.

He reached her side and curled his hand around her elbow, radiating energy like heat off a cannon. "Good evening, gentlemen. Kind of you to entertain my wife, but she's going home now."

"Our pleasure to entertain her," Werian said.

"I say," Stewart added, "ungallant of you to drag her off like this without a by-your-leave."

"I want to go home with him." Phoebe smiled over her lie. "He's been gone for weeks. Goodnight." The last she flung over her shoulder as Garrett's hold compelled her to move forward, disregarding the narrow passage between people. Her panniers bumped against those of other ladies. She stepped on one woman's train and an officer's toes. At the top of the stairs, she glanced at the newel post carved into the shape of a pineapple and held onto it. "Why are you dragging me off like this?"

"Because I want to be alone with you."

The remark should have been romantic, exciting. Instead, it was cold, dangerous.

Icy fingers of dread crawled up Phoebe's spine. With all her abilities to act, she smiled up at him through her lashes. "Well, if that's how it is, I'm overjoyed, I'm--"

"Stubble it." Garrett pried her fingers from the pineapple. "I'm not one of your swains to cajole into indiscretions."

Indiscretions. Sweet heaven, he knew. He had fit the puzzle pieces together and come up with a map of her treason.

Her feet dragging as though she already trod a path to the gallows, Phoebe followed him across the front hall. At the door, a footman stepped forward and offered to get her cloak. Another footman glanced at Garrett and opened the front door. The carriage sat at the foot of the steps with Johnston already on the box.

"Aunt Bess?" Phoebe managed to ask.

"She'll understand," Garrett replied.

Phoebe wondered if Bess would understand. The older woman had given Phoebe more attention in four months than her own mother had in twenty-three years. Bess would be hurt over Phoebe's treachery.

In silence, Phoebe climbed into the carriage and sat shivering against the squabs. Garrett climbed in behind her and took the opposing seat. The door slammed. The coach began rumbling down the drive.

Phoebe hugged her arms across her chest.

"Cold?" Garrett asked.

Phoebe nodded.

He removed his coat and handed it to her as he had once given her his cloak. As she wrapped it around her, inhaling its scent of sea air and spicy citrus, feeling the warmth of its owner, she realized she had fallen in love with him that night. When even Charlie had deserted her, Garrett had shown her human warmth. It was warmth he would never give her again unless it was the heat of anger.

Outside the carriage, the night grew dark, and Phoebe realized they were leaving Portsmouth. She had expected him to take her straight to the Admiralty.

"We're going home?" she asked to break the tension of silence.

"For a while. I have to go to London immediately."

So he was taking her to the Lord High Admiral instead of to Barrington. Courteous as ever, he would allow her to change into dress more appropriate for prison. Maybe she could take her paper and pencils, too.

The idea of sketching in a dark cell brought a bubble of hysterical laughter crowding into her throat. She swallowed it back, and it emerged like a sob.

Across from her, Garrett drew in his breath. She expected him to speak, lash her with accusations. Instead, he turned his face to the window and the moon-washed landscape. His profile looked as rigid as a figurehead.

Phoebe felt just as immobile. Yet the journey was far too short. The lion-topped gateposts of Bishop's Down hove into view. The carriage slowed, turned, sped up the gravel drive and lumbered to a halt at the foot of the fan-shaped steps.

Garrett leaped out and reached back to assist Phoebe down. The front door opened and Grimsby stood in a pool of candlelight.

"You may go to your quarters now," Garrett told the butler. "Mrs. Ashford and I will see to our own needs."

He didn't want witnesses to--what?

Phoebe wished she could remain in the carriage and command Johnston to drive on and on…

She had to suffer whatever punishment Garrett thought fit for a treasonous wife, while she planned a way to escape. If she didn't get the information to Charlie, he would kill Garrett.

Steeling herself, she stepped down and followed Garrett into the house. She expected him to lead her upstairs where she could change out of her ball gown. But he lifted the candelabra from the hall table and led her into the morning room. He set the candles on an occasional table, then he closed the door and leaned against it.

"Talk to me, Phoebe," he said.

From across the room, she turned and stared at him. "Talk about what, Garrett?"

"You can start with your brother."

Phoebe folded her hands together over her stomacher. "I have nothing to say about Charlie."

Garrett's eyes flashed, but his tone was even. "You've more than enough to say. Start with why he shot me."

She arched her brows in a pretense of surprise. "I should think that obvious. He wasn't going to risk killing me, but he didn't want you following him."

"My crew would have followed him except for your interference."

"And you might have died, too."

"More to the point," Garrett drawled, "your brother--"

"He's only my half brother."

As though that mattered now, as it never had when he was loving and kind.

"He might have died." He took a pace toward her. "Tell me, ma chere, how far will you go to protect him?"

Not as far as she would go to protect Garrett. But she couldn't tell him that. She had endangered him too much already.

She took a step back. "He risked capture to protect me."

"You shouldn't have been on deck." He moved closer to her.

She tried placing distance between them, felt the edge of the sofa behind her, and flung out her hands as if they could ward him off. "I had to know who it was."

"Why?" Another step. "Who were you protecting?"

One more step and he would reach her.

"I can't--” She whirled away from him.

He caught her around the waist and drew her against him witha gentleness that brought tears to her eyes. "Dash it all, Phoebe, why are you running from me?"

"You're accusing me of something." She pressed her hands against his chest. It moved about as far as a brick wall would have. His arms shackled around her, a prison. "Garrett!"

"Don't look at me like I'm going to beat you." His voice held the tenderness of a lover's caress. His eyes shimmered, softened. "My love." He raised one hand to curve around her cheek. Then he bent his head and kissed her.


She resisted only a heartbeat. Then she slid her arms up around his neck and gave in to the bittersweet joy of holding him against her once more. One last time. It would be a memory, a treasure to keep. If she could show him she loved him, he might later understand why she had betrayed him.

Afterward, they remained silent for several minutes, then Garrett sighed as though a burden had returned to crush him. "I have to leave for London tonight since there's good moonlight. Will you come with me?"

She stared at him. "You're giving me a choice?"

"Yes, my sweet Phoebe, I'm giving you a choice. Will you come?"

Her entire being cried out, Yes! Take me away from here.

But it would only be a temporary delay. If she let Charlie down about the gold, she signed Garret's death warrant.

"I can't."

He sat up, and through the curtain of his loosened hair tumbling around his face, she read an expression of such infinite sadness, she knew his journey to London involved her treachery, and her refusal to go with him was a dangerous error she could not counter.