Beginning, Previous Section, Section V, Next Section

Part 23

atrina sat at the dressing table mirror, her pale face peering back at her as if a stranger's. There were dark circles under her eyes and no amount of skillfully applied makeup or wishful thinking would alter it.

"When will the final act play out?" she found herself asking herself for the hundredth time. "When can I take off this mask I wear and breathe freely again?"

She knew she ought to be hurrying to put on her elegant traveling cloak but her heart was not in it. She had not slept at all that night and her head ached as a result. The room felt too hot and her throat was so tight and dry. Drusilla would be most disturbed if she knew she was not at her best as this house party was of so much importance.

Poor Bridget had noticed her condition from the moment she had entered to awaken her that morning. "Miss Katrina, ye look right poorly," she had commented quietly. "And wi' such a long journey ahead of ye today! But never ye worry, I'll 'ave Cook fix ye some breakfast right sharp like. Then ye can rest when ye arrive."

Katrina had tossed and turned for hours before rising to draw out her sketch pad. She found herself drawing the face she had now drawn countless times. Whenever she grew restless or sad, her skillful fingers always returned to drawing the face she loved more than any other. But what good did it do her to think of Ross when there was no hope of heaven that they might one day be together?

She had glimpsed Ross on a few occasions during the week. She had been walking to Herr Hoffman's studio and seen him leaving the Stenning townhouse with Elise. But what had cut deepest was the gossip that Lavinia Haliford has been seen dancing with him at the Duchess of Ravenshaw's party.

"It is little wonder he would turn to her," Katrina thought as she turned from the mirror, feeling slightly dizzy. "She is beautiful, smart, witty...and utterly fascinating. She would make him the perfect wife and hostess. It is all for the best."

Katrina had little doubt that the wily Lady Haliford would rapidly make changes in Ross' life. Such as insisting they spend more time in London to enjoy the season. And that he give up his diplomatic career in order to become a prominent politician as her father, the Marquis of Haliford was. The very thought of Ross marrying the ebony-haired siren made her heart cry out in lonely agony.

But Katrina knew the truth. The moment she had promised to assist Richard Shelton she had given up all hope of ever loving Ross openly. It had been her choice and she had made it knowing that.

Even if she had not, Katrina was aware that her lack of fortune had already rendered her unsuitable as a wife. The whole of Society did not mind if she were sponsored by Lady Simmons' for a brief time but to marry a man with Ross' importance would break all the rules.

"His friends would be horrified," she thought slowly. "And as kind as Lady McGrath is, her friends would certainly talk of it as a scandalous match."

What wearied her more than anything was the fact that her own life no longer belonged to her. It rested in the hands of Richard and the mission she had sworn to carry out in obtaining sketches of the elusive Brian Whitby. Her actions, her movements were carefully planned. Every day she prayed for an end of it, that the French officials would declare Whitby the thief and that his arrest would take place.

Shaking her head as if to clear it, Katrina straightened her back and rose to exit the room. It did not good to dwell on unalterable facts. She had left one of her sketch pads in the Admiral's study and she wished to retrieve it before they left for Kent. Her fingers clasped her reticule in her hand as she shut the door behind her.

The servants were in a stir as they prepared the carriages for the departure. The floor was piled high with trunks and boxes. No doubt Drusilla was drilling her maids on what last minute items to pack. So no one noticed as Katrina entered the Admiral's small but well-furnished book room.

Katrina spied her sketchbook on his desk and quickly crossed the room to retrieve it. She had been showing him a preliminary sketch she had done of Drusilla and he had admired it greatly.

As Katrina bent to pick it up, she noticed a note in Richard's hand to the Admiral. Her name seemed to leap from the page and unwittingly she began to read.

"Dear Kenneth:

I shall follow you, Drusilla, and Katrina this afternoon as soon as I can get away. The Home Office requires that I put in an appearance today and no amount of wheedling can extricate me from it.

Hopefully, this dashed house party will put an end to this intrigue once and for all. You and Drusilla have been the epitome of kindness and secrecy. If Katrina were to ever know that her efforts are putting Ross' brother Lawrence into the hands of the Crown, she would never forgive me. Thank you for protecting her so kindly.

Until this evening,
Richard"

Katrina went utterly still, her eyes riveted to the page as if by a magnet. It was not possible. Was Brian Whitby truly Ross' brother Lawrence?

No!

The awareness of it slowly began to dawn on her as she sank weakly into a nearby chair, the note floating onto the carpet. Now certain things began to make sense. Why Richard told her so little about Whitby. Why she had often glance up to find Drusilla looking at her with something akin to pity in her soft brown eyes. They had kept it from her knowing full well she would never sketch Whitby knowing he was Ross' brother. He had lied to her.

She had been duped. And badly so. By a man she had trusted with her life, her future. The enormity of what had taken place smarted, burned in her chest and she felt almost faint from the emotions rolling through her at that moment.

"Richard knew if he told me that it was Lawrence that I would never have gone through with it," she thought dazedly. "He knew how I felt about Ross...even then."

Katrina knew with a brutal finality that Ross would never forgive her if he knew she had assisted in having his own brother sent to prison for art theft. His family meant the world to him, despite Lawrence's former misdeeds. How often had he told her stories of his childhood, of his love for his home?

How could she travel to Kent now, knowing full well that she would be nailing the coffin on Lawrence's life? She could not do so. As much loyalty as she had to the Prince Regent and her country, she could not do what Richard Shelton required. She could no longer play the fool in a chess game in which she was the pawn, moved at will by unseen hands.

Rising rather unsteadily from her chair, Katrina blindly searched for the nearby pitcher of water. Her throat was so dry and sore and her senses were still reeling. She poured some into a glass, nearly spilling it due to the shaking of her hands. Gulping down the cool liquid, Katrina knew what she must do. She had to leave the house and take the first mail coach home to Lyme. She had to extricate herself from this web she had found herself in. She did not care what Richard or the Home Office would think.

Her shaking fingers opened the reticule, finding the bank notes she had saved inside from the sale of some of her paintings. Yes, she had enough to get her to Lyme if she hurried. The mail coach left from the Black Bear, she remembered. That was quite a distance and she would not have quite enough for the hackney to take her there and to purchase her fare. No, she must walk.

The empty water glass clattered onto the desk as she moved to leave the room. Her eyes, full of tears, made it difficult to see as she crossed the room. As if in a daze, she stumbled out of the room and made her way through the hall to open the front door, moving down the stairs. The chill wind hit her full in the face but she was determined to go.

Hicks, the butler, actually lost some of his usual hauteur and enquired quickly, "Miss Wentworth, may I have the footman fetch your coat and gloves?"

But Katrina hardly heard him. She only knew she must leave the house and get away from Drusilla, from the Admiral. And from Richard Shelton. Without a sound, she descended the steps onto the sidewalk and on shaky legs began making her way down the street.

Sinking back against the squabs of his carriage, Ross was extremely irritated. He had just left Richard's townhouse only to be told that he was "not at home" and was possibly at the Simmons' townhouse in Grosvenor Square. The Simmons' were apparently traveling to a house party in Kent and Richard was to join them.

His driver whipped up the horses and they were soon off, the distance being a rather moderate one. Ross did not wish to disturb Katrina any more than was necessary but Richard Shelton had to answer for what he had done. Katrina must not be made to play a part in this hunt for Lawrence, to take part in this grim charade. She did not belong in London, enmeshed in intrigue and danger. She belonged in Lyme with her sisters, safe and out of the possible clutches of his brother.

After recovering from the shock of the young earl's drunken confession, Ross had come to the conclusion that he was not so very surprised that Lawrence would be fencing stolen artifacts. Lawrence had always had an eye for items of great worth, even in their younger days. And Lawrence had never lacked charm or the ability to persuade others to do his bidding. The only contact Ross had made with his brother was two years ago when he had requested a large advance in his allowance, something Ross had refused to do. Lawrence had not been home to Castle McGrath in four years, much less written to their mother. Now he knew how Lawrence had kept up his style of life. By stealing valuable artworks and selling them to unscrupulous or unwitting buyers.

But to know that his colleagues in the Corps were aware of Lawrence's misdeeds and had kept it a secret from him was a bitter pill to swallow. He knew that they were trying to protect him in some way but if anyone were to know how to track Lawrence, it was Ross. And he had every intention of delivering his brother up to the authorities as quickly as possible.

Now it was so very clear why Katrina had asked him to be patient, to not ask her questions. She had known so little herself. And Ross knew all too well how Katrina wished to protect others from pain or harm. She had known he would raise an alarm if he had known about Richard's scheme to gain her trust. "My poor Titania," he thought with sadness. "How did you bear it?"

Fifteen minutes later he arrived in the Square and found the Simmons town house embroiled in something of an uproar. Apparently something was greatly amiss. Servants were running in and out of the front door and a young maid was sobbing inconsolably while the Housekeeper tried to soothe her.

Jumping out of the carriage before his footman could open the door, Ross found the butler standing on the front steps looking bemused. "Good man, whatever is the problem? I am Ross McGrath, a friend of the Simmons family."

Hicks recognized the Major from a party held some months before. "Pardon me, sir, but it is truly quite strange. A guest of Lady Simmons' left the house an hour ago and we've no idea where she had gone. Her Ladyship is naturally quite distressed."

"Was it Miss Wentworth who has disappeared?" Ross asked quickly, alarm spreading over his handsome face. "I am a friend of the young lady."

"Indeed, sir," the butler remarked, glad to know that there was someone who appeared to be of use. "She left the house acting rather strangely, did not wish for her coat or gloves. I thought she must be simply taking a breath of fresh air but she did not return."

Ross nearly swore aloud. If she had been gone for an hour, Katrina would be chilled to the bone. Something truly horrible must have happened for her to have done something so lacking in sense and reason. It was completely out of character.

"Tell your mistress I have gone in search of her," Ross instructed the servant. "I shall find her, do not fear."

Stepping back into the carriage, Ross instructed his driver to head north. He had no idea if she would be walking in that direction, but he had to start somewhere. It had begun to snow and he knew the temperature would soon be falling again.

Katrina was a lovely young woman, a sitting duck for any trickster. He could not bear thinking of her alone and cold like that, a likely victim of some thief or charlatan. He had to find her and find out what had caused her to flee the house. To make certain she was safe and not frightened.

Some fifteen minutes later, Ross caught sight of a slight young woman walking slowly unescorted down the street. Clad in a smart traveling gown and bonnet, she was wearing no coat or gloves. It had to be Katrina.

Calling the driver to stop, Ross again bounded out of the carriage before it had come to a complete halt. "Katrina!" he called, running down the icy sidewalk. She did not turn or seem to hear him, although a fashionably garbed gentleman and his son were staring at them openly. But Ross did not care.

Heart beating fast, Ross raced to her and grasped her cold, bare hands, his eyes searching her beloved face. Her little hands were like blocks of ice in his grasp. Poor angel, he thought, to be so very cold! She must be in some state of shock.

"Katrina, my darling, what are you doing out on the street like this? What has happened?" he asked gently, wishing not to startle her. She looked so pale, so thin.

As if jolted into awareness, Katrina looked up at him as if she were a lost child seeking a haven of safety, the fear livid in her great blue eyes. "Ross...." she murmured brokenly. "I...I didn't know...I swear it...I didn't know!"

Ross, quickly taking off his heavy, many-caped greatcoat, pulled it round her thin shoulders quickly. She was trembling like a leaf and as his long fingers brushed her cheek. "What is it, Katrina?" he tenderly asked, "Let me take you back to Grosvenor Square and you can tell me everything there. We must get you warm again."

"No," she protested thickly, pushing him away. "I...I have to go home...go home to Lyme....they tricked me...they didn't tell me about Lawrence, Ross. I didn't know he was the one they wanted me to draw!"

Despite her hoarse tone, Ross then realized what had happened. She had stumbled upon the truth all on her own and it had so stunned her she had wandered into the street. So much so that she had forgotten her coat.

"Katrina, I know that now," Ross softly assured her, not caring if the whole world witnessed this odd scene. "You don't have to face this alone any longer. I know about Lawrence and I know that Richard kept it from you."

A spark of warmth, of relief shone in her blue eyes, making Ross wish to punch Richard Shelton squarely in the face. "You...you know? Oh Ross....I was so afraid," she murmured, her hands clinging to his forearms as if to hold herself upright. The snow was catching in her red gold hair, sticking to it like tiny stars. "I was afraid...of what you would think of me!"

"I know you did this to help Richard," he told her hurriedly, worried that she must be growing more chilled and sick by the moment. "But we can talk of this later, my Titania. I must get you inside now. You're chilled to the bone!"

"No, no," she protested, moving away from him. "I...I am all right, Ross. I have to find the mail coach and go home to Lyme. I can't undo what I've done. They are going to send Lawrence to prison...and it is all my doing! Do you not see?"

She stepped away blindly but her shaking limbs could no longer support her. The weight of her shock, the long walk from Grosvenor Square, the bitter cold, had taken its toll. She tottered, her hands reaching blindly to grasp the tall pole of the nearby street lamp as the ground seemed to rock beneath her small feet.

Ross suddenly realized what was happening. He had seen such a look before on Mrs. Wentworth's face at Lady Stenning's birthday party. The look on her face before she had fainted...

As if jolted, Ross moved quickly as she stumbled, toppling into his open arms with a pitiful, weak cry of surprise.

"Katrina!" he exclaimed hoarsely, lifting her small, limp form up into his arms carefully.

But she could not hear him. After the weeks of worry, of fear, of sleepless nights, Katrina Wentworth had given in to the blessed oblivion of darkness where lies and intrigue could not find her.

Calling for his footman to gather the fur rugs in the carriage, Ross then shouldered his precious burden closer against his heart. His blue eyes were riveted to her pale, thin face. The trails of tears were apparent, evidence of her pain. She had been so strong, so quiet and resolute. Now she was utterly defeated, helpless to fight the maelstrom that had tugged at her very life.

Ross' mouth brushed her cold forehead as he settled her on his lap in the carriage and the footman moved to slam shut the door. She was so very cold and still, almost lifeless. But Ross had found her in time and he would never let Richard Shelton or anyone else harm her again. No longer would secrets stand between them.

"To my mother's house, Jason," Ross called out. "And go as fast as you can!"

Part 24

"It's good to have you home, Frederick," Archibald Harville told his friend truthfully. "Lyme hasn't been the same without you about these last weeks."

Looking up from the map they had been looking at, Frederick smiled boyishly. Archibald had been a staunch friend from their days aboard the Laconia. He could not ask for more in a companion. To know that Harville was enjoying his new venture into ship building relieved him greatly.

"You can't know how good it is to be home," Frederick returned with relish, sitting back in his desk chair. "London has sunk yet further in my opinion, I must confess. How does one bear to live there year round?"

Mirroring his friend's grin, Harville lit his pipe with an air of wisdom. "Is it not a wonder that the world marvels at a sailor's love of the sea? For some unknown reason, people flock to our capitol city every day. I only know that Margaret and I have found our true home here in Lyme. As I hope you and Anne have."

Nodding, Frederick smiled reflectively. He had not felt such peace as when he had been riding the coach home to Lyme a week ago and they had walked home from the posting inn. To come upon the small rise above his home had been something quite moving. To see the smoke rising from the chimney of the house, to see Harper in the stableyard tending to a horse. To realize his wife was there, waiting for his return. Such simple things, really. But to him they were life and meaning.

"Well, I've had my fill of committee meetings and lectures," Frederick pronounced. "George and I do not return until January, thanks be to God. I do not think I could have stood yet another moment."

"So they are truly bent on seeing the antipodes used as an enclave for imprisonment?" Harville asked. "It seems an expensive scheme in my mind. And such a distance from civilization of any kind. How do they even know what is happening on the other side of the world?"

"True, there have been any number of mishaps in the first attempts at settling the convicts in suitable areas," Frederick agreed. "I do not think they had any idea what kettle of fish they were facing when they began. But in light of the circumstances, I can see no other viable option. There simply is not space enough on our own shores to house them any longer."

Harville looked thoughtful, drawing in on his pipe absently. "The first group of convicts shipped to Botany Bay lived a hellish life," he murmured. "From what the old salts tell me, they had the whole lot of them quartered in rotting ships outside Plymouth. For over nine months they were stuffed in those dark, hulking ships, hardly a place fit for a dog. It's no wonder they survived that trip around the world, much less the conditions they found once there."

Frederick had heard more stories than he cared to share with his friend. He certainly had not told Anne of them. "They certainly weren't entering a paradise as they had envisioned," Frederick remarked slowly. "But in time, they've managed to hack out some kind of bare existence there. The Crown has no intention of going back on its investment now. The outlay has been too great."

Harville opened his mouth to speak but instead was silent. The door to the Library was ajar and they could hear the sound of soft music coming from the sitting room. It was a complex, difficult piece that soared and plunged.

"I ought to be heading home," Harville said, rising from his chair to grasp his cane. "Much as I should love to hear Anne play. She kept Margaret and I much entertained when we dined a few weeks ago. But the weather has been so taciturn of late that I do not wish to be traveling home after dark."

Smiling, Frederick silently praised his friend's timeliness. Since his return, Frederick had fought to keep from monopolizing his wife's time. But he found it difficult to not be at her side. Sophy and the Admiral had wisely chosen to escape to Kellynch to leave them to their own devices and to enjoy some private time as well.

Frederick saw his friend to the door and into his small gig. Then he turned back to go down the hall and find his wife.

She was in the throes of a Mozart intermezzo, her light fingers making easy work of the complex syncopation and development. Sitting at the piano bench was no longer the easy task it had once been, he thought with fond affection. Her pregnancy had altered her position at the keyboard considerably. But Anne had always been innovative and had not let it become a barrier.

Her brow was furrowed with concentration as she played, her entire body focused on the task at hand. It was a difficult piece, one more intricate than she usually chose. But Frederick stood, rapt, watching her. Acting as silent spectator to her skill was something he relished with the keenest pleasure.

He had a sudden memory of his wife sitting at another piano some years back when he had first courted her at Kellynch. How young and sweetly charming she had been then, blushing when he attempted to compliment her playing. She never had mastered the art of accepting compliments. It had been one of the endearing qualities that had drawn him to her from the beginning.

Anne had known little of compliments, Frederick remembered with regret. Her mother had been the only person in her life who had encouraged her musical talent, had showered affection on her whenever she played. After her mother's death, Anne had continued to study music and play but there was no one to listen. Her sisters cared little for music beyond what was played at the local balls.

"I play only to amuse myself," Anne had told him quietly. "For at times it has been my only companion."

When Frederick had first heard her play, he had been entranced and beguiled. Her light fingers evoked such wonderful sounds, such poignant melodies. To sit and listen to her play had been a rare pleasure even then. His appreciation for music had been fostered by his own mother and to find that the woman he loved could play so beautifully had touched his heart.

He could remember the look of utter surprise and delight on her face when he had complimented her playing, had often sat for hours listening to her. To think of her growing up in such a loveless home had brought out a protective urge in him that had startled him. No woman had ever evoked such feelings in him before. And even now, Frederick felt as if he must watch over her at times, so deep did his feelings run for her.

To his surprise, Anne suddenly stopped playing, her hands falling into her lap. The mixture of frustration and something else were vivid in her eyes.

"Darling, are you all right?" he asked with concern, stepping into the room.

She looked up at him in surprise. "Frederick! I...I had no idea you were standing there. Is not Archibald with you?"

"I just saw him out," he told her, moving across the sitting room to stand beside the elegant piano bench. His eyes missed nothing as he looked down at her. "You were playing so beautifully that I grew distracted and he stormed out in sheer frustration. Am I not a truly pathetic case, my dear?"

A mischievous smile tugged at Anne's lips and Frederick's heart lightened. "I doubt that highly, Captain," she remarked saucily. "It is more likely that Archibald did not want his ears to come to harm and fled while he was still capable of mobility."

Chuckling, Frederick took her hands and assisted her as she rose from the bench. "You will forever downplay your talent, little one," he reminded her. "But I heard you and you were doing so well. Whyever did you stop?"

She looked up at him uncertainly and Frederick knew in that moment that something was weighing heavily on her heart. Of all the people in the world, he could read her every look, hear every inflection in her soft, gentle voice. He had guessed at it a few days ago but had hoped she might speak of it on her own.

Without speaking, he tucked her hand into his arm and lead her from the room so that they might return to the Library. Closing the door, Frederick then sat down in his favorite armchair and gathered his wife carefully onto his lap despite her protests.

"Frederick, I am much too large for you to be doing this," she told him with a distinct lack of fervor, which made him smile. "Surely I have grown too heavy for you now."

"Nay, that could never be," he told her softly, kissing her forehead lightly. "Unless you grow to be as large as Mrs. Musgrove. Then I fear we might need to discuss the matter again. But even then I fear I would find you a sweet burden to bear."

She warmed at his words, marveling that even in her final stages of pregnancy, her husband still said such things. "Your tongue is lined with silver, Captain," she told him softly. "I fear you must say such things to all the expectant mothers you encounter."

His dark eyes were intent upon hers as he shook his head. "You are trying to divert me and I fear it is working all too well, you little baggage. Now confess it to me, Anne. Something is troubling you. Is the baby wearing you out, my love?"

"Only slightly," Anne admitted, knowing he could see right through any pretense she might display. "It is not that which is on my mind, Frederick. It is truly nothing, which is why I hesitate to speak of it."

Frederick's hand was cupping her cheek, his firm thumb stroking the soft skin of her neck. "Anne, you must not take on so. I have been away for so long but we must share these things. Tell me what it is."

The feel of his fingers, his touch was soothing, unknotting the tension that had gathered since that morning. She sighed with relief and he pulled her slightly closer.

"I am worried about Katrina," she admitted, her eyes darting up to meet his. "I know you told me she is at a house party with Lady Simmons and the Marquis. But I cannot shake the feeling that something is not right. Not when the holidays are so near. Surely she would want to be nearer home for Christmas. Perhaps I am simply being selfish."

Frederick's mind went back to the morning visit he had paid on his sister at the Simmons' elegant home in Grosvenor Square. True, Katrina had looked somewhat altered. She looked thinner and more reserved. But he had taken her assurances that all was well at face value. He knew she enjoyed her art lessons and wanted to continue to study. But he, too, had been surprised at her decision to attend the house party in Kent.

"Katrina assured me that it was what she wished to do," Frederick remarked, continuing to stroke her neck, sensing how tense his wife was. "And I feared if I pressed her on the matter she would think I did not have confidence in her. Why do you fear for her, Anne?"

Anne rested her head on her husband's broad shoulder and she felt his arm gather her against him yet again. Just being close to him again, to be in his embrace, made all of her worries seem to fade. "She is so young yet, so new to the ways of Society" she remarked slowly, truthfully. "And I know that Ross McGrath is also in London. She has mentioned him in her letters but has said so little about it. I fear that perhaps they have quarreled or that something is upsetting her. It is as if something rests unsaid between the lines."

Frederick gave credence to his wife's quiet words. She had always possessed a keen discernment about people, a sense of knowing what was happening beneath the surface. Her perception had been invaluable when they had sailed on the Palisade, her intuition for what his men were thinking and feeling. Perhaps she was right. Was Katrina troubled? Was she in love with the Scotsman?

"He must love her," Anne murmured out loud. "I saw it in his eyes that night at the Stennings' party. And she loves him. How I wish I could help her in some way. To ease the path somehow."

Frederick's mouth brushed her hair lovingly. "You became quite attached to my little sister when she was here. I was hoping for such a friendship between you. The Major is a good man and I think in time the matter will sort itself out. But you must not take on so, darling. Tertius was quite strict on the order that you not worry yourself in any way."

One of his hands dropped to cover the large swell of her abdomen.

"I am in perfect health," Anne insisted, lulled by the warm, constant beat of her husband's heart beneath her cheek. "Tertius can tell you that as well. Now that you are home again..."

Frederick regarded her with a slow, knowing gaze that caused a small flame to flicker and glow in her chest. Her fingers darted to the back of his head to lightly comb through the dark curls that grew there.

"Anne, you are making me forget myself," he murmured against her cheek and making her smile. "You make it difficult for me to think when you take such actions. I am like clay in your hands, darling."

"How do you propose to halt me?" she asked with a sly smile, not in the least ashamed of her actions. This was not the demure miss of Kellynch Hall that Frederick remembered but he was not at all dismayed by the transformation.

He lowered his head to show her exactly how when a discreet knock came at the door. Anne began to laugh and Frederick leaned his forehead against her own and sighed in frustration.

"I thought when I returned home from London that I would be free of such agony," he remarked dryly. "But I fear the outside world will intrude."

Anne moved to leave his lap but he would not allow it. Frederick let his mouth brush her briefly before calling out, "Yes, Martha?"

"Tis' an express from London, sir," the servant's voice sharply came. "From Major McGrath!"

All the color drained from Anne's face and Frederick saw it at once. "It may be good news, my love," he told her quietly, his voice low and calm. "Do not alarm yourself."

"Please bring it in, Martha," Frederick instructed and she entered then, bearing the important letter. She did not blink at seeing her mistress so closely ensconced in her master's arms. She was quite accustomed to seeing them together like this, especially since the Captain's return from London. It warmed her heart to work for a couple that loved each other so fervently.

When Martha had gone, Frederick tore open the letter and Anne read it with him, her hazel eyes still dark with concern. When they had finished, their eyes met over Major McGrath's sprawling handwriting. Katrina was gravely ill and the Major had taken her to his mother's townhouse in order to better supervise her care.

"You must go back to London, Frederick," Anne spoke his thoughts aloud. "Katrina needs you there. I would never forgive myself if you did not do so."

"But you could give birth at any time," Frederick countered, his own eyes full of anxiety for her. "I cannot leave you alone, Anne. I cannot allow that."

Anne shook her head, an equally stubborn set to her small chin. "Margaret can come and stay with me, Frederick. Tertius is but five miles away. There is nothing to fear. I am not due to deliver for three weeks, as you know."

Frederick suppressed the urge to shout his frustration. She made perfect sense but his heart was at war with his head. "Babies do not always follow adult schedules," he slowly remarked, his hand protectively held against her waist. Had not Katrina arrived a full month ahead of schedule? "And I should never forgive myself if you were to go into labor alone."

Anne looked up into her husband's handsome face and saw the guilt, the worry written plainly there. She realized with sharp clarity that he was remembering when Mr. Elliot had abducted her in Bath. He had never forgiven himself for not escorting her back to the White Hart that day. They rarely spoke of it now but Anne sometimes sensed that he still somehow felt he had failed her that day.

Anne put her arms about his neck and he drew her into his arms, against his heart as tightly as he could, taking care not to harm the babe. "Frederick, you must put those thoughts aside," she told him in a low, insistent voice. "You could not have prevented what happened in Bath. You must go to London and make certain your sister is all right. I cannot rest knowing she is ill, perhaps in need of you."

Frederick closed his eyes and held her close to him, hating the situation that they had found themselves in. She was right. While he trusted the fact that Katrina was in the care of Major McGrath and his esteemed mother, Frederick knew Anne would also fret until she heard first hand that Katrina was better.

"You know I would move Heaven and earth to change these circumstances," he told her, emotion tightened his throat, feeling her soft, sweet hair against his cheek. "I can hardly bear the thought of leaving you yet again! You know I shall be thinking, loving you...praying for you every moment I am gone."

"As I will for you," Anne whispered, relieved that he had decided to go. "Stay as long as you need to, Frederick. We will be fine, that I swear to you."

Frederick kissed her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks as she moved slightly apart from him to look up into his face. She saw his love for her burning brightly in his dark eyes, in the cherished brush of his mouth against her face. It was an agony, she knew, for him to leave her. She saw that plainly and felt the tension in his embrace.

"Captain, I love you," she softly said, her heart resting in her eyes. Never did she mean it more than she did now. It shone from her very face, underscored each word.

"And I you, little one," he returned swiftly, humbled by that love and its awareness.

Then his mouth met hers fervently, painfully as he loved her beyond words, beyond thought, as if to brand her with it for all time.

Part 25

The snowy, cold London air hit the Marquis of Shelton squarely in the face as he quickly descended the steps of the Simmons house in Grosvenor Square. But he barely felt its biting sting. While the household staff could glean little from his expressionless countenance, a minefield of emotions were exploding within him as he moved woodenly.

Richard barked out an order to his astonished driver, who was unused to curt such curt treatment from his master. Settling himself into the well-sprung phaeton, Richard took off his hat and buried his face in his hands.

"Dear God, what have I done?" he asked aloud, anguish lining his words. But the empty vehicle only echoed his question.

As the elegant equipage made progress through London's fashionable neighborhoods, Richard sat dazed and dry eyed. Inside the house, Drusilla was in tears, in a true fit of panic over Katrina's disappearance and discovery by Ross. The Admiral was doing his best to calm his wife but there was little he could do. Drusilla had grown quite fond of Katrina and Richard knew she had been half frantic to discover her gone.

And now Richard would be facing Ross again, to take retribution for what he had done. His actions mocked him as he considered how the Scotsman would react. He would be angry and hurt, a reaction that was justifiable in light of what he had done.

Ross McGrath, while not an intimate friend, had been one of his most admired comrades in the diplomatic service. Men looked up to him as a model of tact, patience, and intelligent discernment. Now as Richard compared his own behavior to Ross' sterling character, he felt nothing but shame and bitter remorse for placing Katrina in such a position..

"I ought never to have gone near her," Richard thought dismally. "I let my own personal feelings get in the way. Now she is paying for my mistakes, the poor girl. He has every right to wish to thrash me heartily."

The phaeton arrived in Mayfair before he knew it and the footman leapt down to open the door. Richard stepped down and swiftly made his way up the stairs and through the open door. He was informed that Lord McGrath was attending to his guest upstairs and would speak with him in the Library when time allowed.

Richard was shown into Lady McGrath's elegant salon, decorated tastefully in royal blue and gold. But he had little inclination to admire the furnishings at that moment. Looking down into his lap, he realized his had brought Katrina's sketch pad with him from the Simmons' house. Why had he done so? He must have been holding it when Drusilla had informed him of the latest events.

Katrina was lying upstairs, gravely ill. And it was his fault. That was the only thought his mind could hold at the moment. His cold fingers woodenly tossed the sketch pad onto a nearby table, his eyes staring forward starkly.

It was a half an hour later when the salon doors opened. Ross stood between them and Richard nearly shouted at the sight of him. He hardly looked like the man he has seen at the Chevington party the week before.

Ross was dressed very simply in his boots, trousers, and lawn shirt, his sleeves rolled up to forearms. There were deep grooves etched along his mouth and shadows beneath his eyes. He looked as if he had aged considerably.

Richard stood as Ross quietly shut the double doors behind him, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The expression in his dark blue eyes was unreadable and to Richard that was worse than visible anger. He had faced kings, ambassadors, pashas, and emperors in his vast career. But never did he feel as uncertain and unprepared as he did now.

"I should say your piece quickly, Richard, and make haste to depart or you shall force me to render you unable to do so," Ross finally spoke, his words succinct and dark, economically spoken.

"Ross, I have to know if Katrina is all right," Richard began, his eyes entreating him. "Drusilla said she wandered the street for over an hour before you found her. Has a doctor seen to her?"

"Do you truly think me a lunatic?" Ross asked quickly, his eyes accusing. "It was the first thing I did when I brought her here. But what concern is it of yours? You do not care what happens to her. She is merely your instrument, a tool for you to use in your pursuit of my brother."

Richard blanched visibly, his throat going dry as he concluded too late that Ross knew far more than he realized. He knew everything. How had he found out?

"Yes, I know about your scheme to use Katrina to sketch your elusive Mr. Whitby and that you did not tell her it was Lawrence," Ross remarked dryly, walking slowly across the room to stand before the fireplace. "I know that you chose not to inform me that my brother is a suspected art thief with international warrants out for his arrest. Instead you stoop to involve an untrained innocent young woman and make her life utterly miserable!"

"How did you find out?" Richard managed to ask, his voice unnaturally high to his own ears. He could literally hear his own heart beating, it was so loud.

"A loose lipped earl at White's was pouring out his heart to Saxton," Ross answered, his eyes directed to the leaping flames in the hearth. "That alone proves to me what a sorry state the Corps has sunk to...enlisting the efforts of a young man who cannot hold his liquor much less his tongue. Then again many of my perceptions have been recently shattered to bits, have they not, Richard?"

Richard could not reply to such a question. Ross was speaking the truth and he knew it. There was little he could say that would not sound patronizing or pathetic. To speak would only inflame Ross further and that was something he did not want.

Ross looked up from the fire and stared straight at Richard. "You know if I had my wits about me and Katrina did not lie ill upstairs that I would tear you apart with my bare hands, do you not? But I would as soon strike a dog! That is how low you have sunk in my estimation!"

Slowly nodding, Richard felt the hair at the back of his neck rising. Ross was a package of barely contained rage, ready to ignite with the slightest provocation. Only his years of patient work and persistence as a negotiator kept him from bursting apart at the seems.

"Why did you do it, Richard? Why did you pluck her from the country to play this game against me?" Ross asked, his question heavy with meaning. "Was it some sort of sick revenge against me? Some way to take her from me?"

Richard replied quietly, "I approached her because it seemed our only hope of attaining a realistic sketch of him, Ross. You know we've been unable to find a proper quick sketch artist. I was desperate and the Prince Regent was leaning on me to put this thing to rest. He was breathing down my neck hourly."

"There were no lives in danger, no threat to national security," Ross sharply returned. "His European friends are up in arms because they were swindled by a crafty charlatan and they want their precious artifacts returned. More pity to them, I say, for being such dolts. Lawrence always was a skillful liar. I have no doubt he is a proficient at what he does. But to involve Katrina in your dirty work goes beyond the pale, Richard. It goes against every rule we were taught. As servants of the crown and as gentlemen!"

Unable to reply, Richard merely stood, his gray eyes staring down at the carpet. He had always prided himself on being able to handle any situation, to perform any mission. But now he knew how selfishly he had acted by involving Katrina and keeping his friend in the dark.

"Did you think I would let Lawrence continue his game?" Ross suddenly asked, turning away from the hearth to pace the rug. "That I would enable him to walk free? You of all people know what a thorn in my family's side he was, Richard. Did you conveniently forget that as well?"

"Not at all," Richard swiftly answered. "I knew you too well to doubt that you would do all you could to capture him. But matters like this can be the ruin of a man's career. I did not want you to catch wind of it and take matters into your own hands. To act unwisely."

Ross stopped still and Richard saw the fury blazing in his eyes. "My career can go to the devil! Katrina is all that matters to me! And has this matter fared so well in your own dirty hands, Richard? Tell me that!"

Richard felt the anger and hurt ringing loudly in his friend's words and inwardly cringed. He deserved every word for what he had done. "What you say is true," he slowly said, his voice weak for the first time in the years Ross had known him. "I ought never to have asked it of her. She is an innocent, a sweet, charming woman with no artifice, not guile. It was wrong of me to do it, Ross. I offer you no excuse."

But his words only seemed to incense Ross more. He strode across the room to where Richard stood and he gripped him by the shoulders with his strong, work roughened hands. "Do you realize that she is lying upstairs, delirious with fever? That your little mission had ruined her health and turned her into a frightened prisoner of your whims? Does that not give you pause to feel shame?"

Richard felt the sting of his words and with equal strength, replied, "Do you think I am heartless, a true monster? To know that all the while she was in London that it was you she loved and not me? That it was tearing her to pieces to be apart from you? That I could never know the return of that love?"

Ross' hands tightened on his shoulders and Richard felt his grip painfully. "You cold-blooded scoundrel!" Ross ground out. "How dare you even speak of love? You do not even know what the word means! She did all of this for you, to serve her country because you beguiled her into it. And you speak to me of love! How dare you put her life in such danger!"

For a moment, Richard thought he would strike him, so fierce was the expression on his flushed face. His own breath was coming in quick gasps. But very slowly reason began to make her presence known and Ross suddenly unhanded him and turned away angrily. He had no right to turn to violence in his own mother's house, much as the desire to do so pounded in his temples.

"I have no wish to sully my hands further with you," Ross spoke after a long, tense moment, his expression stony. "But you may rest assured that if I ever find you anywhere near Katrina again, I shall call you out and you may name your seconds. I think you know my ability with a pistol is quite good. I would not put me to the test on that fact, Richard."

Richard slowly nodded, feeling as if his shoulders were on fire from Ross' recent grip. It had taken all of Ross' control, he knew, to not land him a facer right there on the carpet.

"But I have no intention of leaving Lawrence in your care," Ross continued. "I know you are en route to Kent to the Chevington's house party. Is that patsy Singleton arranging to have Lawrence show his stolen finds?"

"Yes," Richard replied, knowing he had no choice but to tell Ross what he knew. All the cards must be put on the table now. "He is Lawrence's frontman, scouts for his prey."

"As soon as I know that Katrina is safe, I am going to Kent to bring my brother to justice," Ross informed him coldly, his eyes intent on his. "And you cannot stop me from doing so. I intend on being there. You will leave him to my care, do you hear?"

Richard nodded. "I shall keep you informed of everything. He is scheduled to give a private showing in five days to the Chevingtons, to Drusilla, Lord Manton, and the Dowager Duchess of Salingford. It is the only appearance he would agree to make. I will make certain you know the details of it in time to act accordingly."

Taking a deep breath, Ross turned away to look out the window. Darkness was already falling on London. As a heavier darkness seemed to be invading his very soul. How had his life descended into such a nightmare? Dear God, where are you, he asked silently.

"When this is over, I am washing my hands of the Corps, Richard, and of you," Ross slowly spoke, his words deliberate and no-nonsense. "I have had my fill. And if you challenge me on any of what I have said today, you shall regret it."

Richard did not reply at once. He felt the shame burning in his chest, the remorse at having lost a friend. For he knew it highly unlikely that once Lawrence was brought into London, Ross would ever speak to him again. It was the price he must pay for having been lazy and selfish in his intent to serve out his mission. And to keep Katrina near him.

"I shall send you reports as often as I can," he finally answered. "And I do hope you will let me know...when Katrina improves. I would never forgive myself if..."

As Richard's voice trailed into silence, Ross turned then to look at the man who had so been the source of his anger and disappointment. He saw the weariness in his eyes, the regret, the resignation. He had looked up to Richard Shelton as a man of honor and integrity since his career had begun. They had shared some wonderful times together around the world. To see that end was equally painful to him.

He could also see Richard's concern for Katrina and his anxiety that he had caused her illness. His gray eyes were haunted, sunken in his usually robust face. The news that she was ill had truly shocked and humbled him. Ross could easily see that now, once his furious anger had subsided.

While Ross knew he could not yet forgive the man for hurting Katrina, a tiny flame of comprehension flickered in his heart. He of all people knew what it was like to love and admire a woman of Katrina's calibre. She was indeed all that he had said...innocent, sweet, intelligent, and giving. It was little wonder he had been drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

"I will let you know," Ross spoke simply, and for the first time Richard felt some slight lessening of his inner turmoil. "Now I must return upstairs for Dr. Holt is seeing to her now. I shall wait to hear from you tomorrow."

He turned then and exited the room, unable to stay in the same room with Richard any longer. His heart was upstairs with Katrina and she drew him like a magnet, unable to control his feet as they moved toward the staircase.

Richard looked up into the gilt mirror that hung over the exquisitely designed Adam mantelpiece, his eyes catching sight of the white-faced man that stared back. He hardly recognized himself and it shocked him to the core. Then again he had long since stopped being the man he had once been. The change astonished and horrified him as nothing ever had before.

Gathering his hat and gloves, he stumbled out into the grand entrance hall and took his coat from the butler, leaving the house without another word.

Part 26

"Stop splashing me, you scamp! Or I'll toss you in the pond with that giant snapping turtle you are so afraid of!"

Childish laughter echoed through the shady elms under the hot, cloudless summer sky. Katrina gathered up her skirts as she gave one last, splashing kick into the cold water. "You would never do that to me, Freddy," she teased saucily. "For if you do, I shall tell Papa about your little excursion while we were at church last week!"

Her brother's young face, which had been playfully menacing, took on a more guarded air. "You would not give me away like that, Kat," he bluffed unsuccessfully. "Or I shall not give you the chance to go out in my skiff whilst I am home!"

She turned her back on him, dipping her toes into the stream again. Ah, that felt so good on a steamy summer day! She hated to think badly of Miss Harkness, but she was glad that her music teacher was home with a cold. Having Frederick home was such a rare treat that the thought of being cooped up in the house on such a beautiful day was unbearable.

The birds were chattering away in the green, leafy branches, a cacophony of sound. Her brother, trousers rolled up to his knees and boots discarded, was hoping to catch one of the small fish that they sometimes found in the rippling brook behind their house.

"Freddy, I do not know why you bother, you are a horrible fisherman," Katrina, her ten-year-old wisdom sounding so proper to her ears. "To plead a headache in order to escape the Rev. Whitborne's sermon so as to catch nothing seems quite silly to me. You came home quite empty-handed."

"You shall see," he murmured absently, his hands poised for action above the water, eyes intent on possible prey. "One day I will sail the great oceans of the world in a huge ship. And all the men will do as I say."

Katrina giggled, wiggling her toes idly. It was so unbearably hot. If only Frederick would allow her to strip down to her shift and go bathing as he used to. He had become such a stickler for propriety lately, telling her that she would soon be a young lady and that proper girls did not go swimming in ponds or streams like hoydens.

"You? In charge of a British naval ship? You must be daft," she remarked, lifting her skirts still higher as she stepped onto a mossy rock. "You cannot even get old Marsh to groom your horse properly much less command a group of sailors."

Glancing up, Frederick pretended to glower at his little sister. "I groom my own horse, as you well know, scamp! Now keep quiet or I shall never catch a fish!"

She opened her mouth to tease him yet again when his hands plunged into the water, grasping for his slippery quarry. But the small trout escaped, swimming away to happier climes. Katrina laughed with glee, the sound of it carefree and delighted.

Her reward was to be unmercifully splashed by her older brother and she retaliated by kicking back so that within moments both were completely soaked.

"I'll get you, Freddy!" she shouted, her wet braids hanging over her shoulders. The sound of her high-pitched laughter, mingled with Frederick's, amid the splashing water, began to fade and dim about her.

"Freddy!" she called out in fear. "Freddy"

But there was only darkness and unbearable heat drawing her deep, away from her happy memories.

Ross glanced at the mantle clock and saw that it was nearly 3 a.m. Snow was silently falling outside in the empty streets. Hardly anyone was stirring at such an hour. All was quiet, save for the sound of the cedar logs crackling in the fireplace as the endless night dragged on.

His mother had come earlier to see how Katrina was faring and to offer him what comfort she might.

Standing in the doorway of the dim room, Grace McGrath had hesitated for a moment. Her son was standing beside the fire, his arm flung carelessly over the mantelpiece as he gazed into the fire. She had never seen such a look of intense sorrow and dejection there in all of her life.

She ached to see her eldest child in pain, as any mother might. But this was something new. Always before her "best and brightest" had kept his emotions firmly in line, had approached every challenge with confidence and wisdom. Now he looked incredibly young and defenseless at that moment, his feelings resting plainly on his face for anyone to read.

"My dear boy," she murmured, finally coming into the room. "You must let me help you in some way, or allow Mrs. Coombe to watch over her. You have hardly left her side since you found her two days ago. Surely you must be hungry."

Glancing up from the fire to see his mother, Ross managed a weak smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "Thank you for your concern, Mama. I shall rest and bathe closer to dawn. But I find it impossible just now to leave her. She...she had taken hold of me, you see. Body and soul..."

Looking from the sleeping figure in the ornate, carved bed to her son, Lady McGrath could see that all too well. In the past, Ross' work had always been his closest companion. Yet now all that meant nothing to him in light of one small woman was lay so quiet and still.

"Is she faring any better?" Lady McGrath asked her son gently, moving gracefully across the room to join him.

Shaking his head, Ross put his arm round her shoulders. Lady McGrath was a full foot shorter than her son and it had always amused him before to look down on her as he did now. But tonight her love and concern were a prop and guide he held onto for dear life.

"Her fever has yet to fall," Ross murmured, his dark eyes shadowed. "And at times she grows quite restless. I...I must be near her in case she needs anything, Mama. I cannot leave her now. Not until I know she is all right."

Lady McGrath leaned against her son wordlessly. She had never worried greatly for Ross in the past. He had always been a devoted son, a caring landlord, and hard-working man. There was no difficulty she thought he could not face. But now his heart was engaged, his very future hanging in the balance.

"I---I failed her before but I will not do so again," he bit out the words shortly. "She kept it all inside, never telling anyone about Lawrence or what Richard asked of her. She did it to protect me, to protect the family."

Lady McGrath's heart sank at the thought of her youngest son. He had always been the one cloud on her horizon, the one blot of pain on her life. From birth he had been a willful child, a headstrong boy. She and the late earl had hoped that he would outgrow such behavior. But nothing seemed to work. He went through money as soon as he got hold of it, gambling or tossing it away on worthless ventures. Then he had practically vanished four years ago, never to show his face at the castle.

She had resigned herself to the fact that she would likely only see Lawrence again if he demanded money or was being placed in the cold, unforgiving earth. But when Ross had revealed to her that Lawrence had a price on his head, it had totally shocked and appalled her. Nothing had prepared her for such news.

To learn that Katrina Wentworth had gone to such length to help the Crown convict her son had startled her as well. But once Ross had fully explained Richard Shelton's deception and the resulting disaster, she had felt extreme pity and love for the young woman.

She could easily remember meeting the charming, kind young woman from Lyme months before. It had not been difficult to see why Ross had been captivated by her with her simple, yet intelligent warmth. It was quite obvious now how much he loved her. Now the poor child was on the brink of life, her future uncertain.

Doctor Holt had not had good news. "She has an infectious fever that has taken quite a hold," he had told Ross that evening. "And she was certainly suffering from exposure. Her health, I think, was not altogether good before this, was it?"

Shaking his head grimly, Ross had told him that it had not been. Too many sleepless night worrying about his reprobate of a brother had worn her down. The cold climate and unfamiliar surroundings had done the rest.

"She's weak and that can only work against her," the surgeon had informed him. "We can only hope she has the strength left to fight this. Only then do I see any hope of recovery."

Lady McGrath asked quietly, "Have you received word from Captain Wentworth?"

"Yes, I have. The Captain will likely be here by morning," Ross said in affirmation. "And I am glad of it. She has been calling out his name in her sleep. I think she would rest easier if he was present."

Alone now, he moved away from the hearth, across the room as if he could not help himself. Katrina had been delirious most of the night, calling out in her sleep. To hear her cry out for her brother had nearly slain him where he stood.

How tiny she looked in the great bed, he thought lovingly, standing in the dim light of the single candle that burned on the nearby table. It might have swallowed her whole if not for the pillows. Then again, he had always been entranced by her neat, graceful figure.

Ross had seen such fevers before and he knew that it was quite serious. Katrina could easily slip away from them. And the very thought of it rendered him unable to do anything but watch over her in hopes of a change.

She was quiet now, he noticed. Her red-gold hair was splayed over the pillows in curling waves, her lashes so dark against her flushed cheeks. So young she seemed now, so utterly unable to defend herself.

Ross sat on the edge of the bed, taking up that delicate hand into his much larger one. As if unable to stop himself, he kissed each finger, traced the delicate shape of them with his own. As if to memorize their texture and feel. As if to bond her to him forever so that no one could take her from him.

How often had he watched those light fingers hold a brush with such skill as she had painted Elise' portrait? Witnessed the concentration on her oval face, unconsciously biting her lower lip. Or felt the softness of those fingers when he had helped her down from the tree that fateful evening of its completion. Why had it taken him so long to realize that she had taken up residence in his heart as no other woman ever had before?

She had given her life for him, he realized with a breaking heart. She had so feared that her sketches would send Lawrence to prison that she had walked a London street without a coat, leaving her work behind. Nearly freezing in the process. Thanks be to God that he had found her!

He closed his eyes at the memory of it, the sight of her huge blue eyes staring up into his, her little hands like ice. She had tried so valiantly to explain, to show him that she had been unaware of who Lawrence was. It tore him to pieces to think that all of the time she had kept her fears to herself, had lived this charade in order to help her country. And had fought to protect him in the process by saying nothing.

And now she must pay the price, he thought bitterly. For Lawrence's evil treachery, this sweet, innocent girl must barter her life.

She was murmuring something, turning against the pillow restlessly. Jerkily, Ross reached for the nearby basin, filled with cold water and a cloth. He wrung it out and bathed her hot cheeks, his heart twisting in his chest to see her in such agony.

"Freddy," she muttered, her words hardly understandable. "Where...are you?"

"Lie still, my Titania," he murmured soothingly, his assurances betraying none of his own fear. "He is on his way here now. Hush now."

But his words did little to soothe her. She sighed deeply, resting her cheek against the cool cloth he held. "So hot...the sun...it burns me...Frederick, can ...we not...swim?"

She was remembering her childhood, he realized with a pang. Recalling happier times when she had frolicked with her brother, a time before her parents' death. Trying to find peace in a memory that did not include international intrigue and deception. Or cold, wintry London streets full of snow.

For a few moments, she lay still as he continued to brush her face, her arms, her hands in hopes of calming her. The fever was so strong, she hardly had the energy to move or breathe.

To his amazement, she began to tremble and her eyes opened, their blue depths glazed with fever. She looked up at him in fear, the emotion written plainly there. She did not know him. "He...he will...be...so angry..." she whispered, the words so quiet he hardly heard them. "Ross...will be....angry!"

"No, my love, I could never be angry with you," he assured her urgently, soothing the hair from her hot brow tenderly. "Just rest and lie still now."

But she would not be silenced. Great tears welled in her eyes, overflowing onto her hot cheeks. Ross could not longer bear to see her suffer and with care, he gathered her into his arms to rest against his heart. The sound of her weeping came close to rendering him quite useless.

"I...I let them down," she was murmuring brokenly. "They...they...will hate me now!"

Ross' strong hands stroked her hair in an attempt to comfort her. Her small body was so warm, afire with fever. But he rocked her gently, wanting desperately to bring some peace to ease her torment. "No one hates you, my dear," he softly said, his breath light on her curls. "I love you, Katrina. And I will make sure that nobody ever frightens you again. That I swear!"

Gradually, she grew quiet at his gently whispered words and his mouth brushed her cheek lingeringly. "Rest, my angel. Rest and dream sweet dreams. For I will be here when you awaken."

In time, her small body relaxed against him, her head resting limply on his shoulder. But Ross could not let go of her just yet. It felt too good to have her in his arms again, to know she was safe, despite her illness. She was so very precious, so very dear to his heart. To think that she had endangered her life for him was like a blow to his soul. Nobody had ever done such a thing for him before.

She was soon asleep again, her breathing coming in small, erratic breaths. As Ross gently lay her back on the pillows, his heart swelled in his chest. To see his sweet fairy tottering on the edge of life frightened and humbled him to the core. Now that he knew what love was, to love someone more than his own life, to have that ripped from his heart was too much to contemplate.

He also felt utterly helpless. Ross could do nothing to save her, could do nothing to bring her back to him. Burying his face in his hands, he fell back into the chair beside the bed. "Dear God, I have been a selfish man," he prayed hoarsely. "To think that I could never truly need you. To take my blessings of health and life for granted."

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It had never been easy for him to admit he was wrong, that he had been a stubborn man. But he had. Always he had taken his blessings for granted, had enjoyed them as his due. He had forgotten that God had given him every good thing in his life. Especially Katrina. And her love.

"I know I do not deserve your love or your kindness," Ross continued brokenly. "But your Word says that if we approach you with a humble heart, you hear or prayers. Dear Father, I give you Katrina. The sweetest, most giving young woman I have ever known. You are the creator of life. Please...watch over her now in this desperate hour. Help me to be strong for her now.

Then he could no longer speak. And the tears of the brave Scotsman fell thick and fast onto the coverlet of the great bed as his beloved slept on.

Part 27

The view from her bedroom window revealed that the snow had stopped. But Anne remained there standing quietly, her thoughts jumbled and entangled.

She did not like worrying about Frederick and Katrina, but it was her lot. Seeing Frederick off to London had been more difficult than she had imagined. He had only been back home for such a brief time. But in her heart, she knew it was the best action for him to take. Katrina needed him.

The livid worry in his face over his sister had been palpable. Had she not seen the same panic in Charles' eyes when Louisa had fallen from the Cobb? It had also touched off something in Anne's own heart. The Wentworths were so very close, were so devoted to each other. Had her own father ever worried over her in such a way? Did he ever give her a fleeting thought?

"No," she thought, her eyes darkening in memory. "Why should he?"

As a child, Anne had hoped to win her father's love by excelling in her studies or learning a new song on the piano. But nothing she did had ever done excited much interest in him. Only her mother had applauded her efforts, had swept her up in her arms for a hug and kiss.

Anne could well remember one event in particular when she had written an essay on Cromwell that had won her a prize at school. She had brought it home proudly during the holiday break, hoping against hope that Sir Walter might utter a word of surprised delight.

Anne had been approaching the elegant family drawing room when she had overheard her parents talking.

"Darling, have you seen Anne's ribbon? Is it not wonderful? She is ever so clever, as I have always said. This essay is very nicely done. You must congratulate her on it."

Sir Walter had evidently been reading the newspaper for she had heard him rattling it. "Whatever for? Of course she is intelligent. She is like you, my dear. But a young lady who can write about some moldy upstart like Cromwell is nothing in the eyes of Society. She may eventually become a bluestocking, and that we cannot have. Better she be attending to her dancing and sewing than to dusty, old history books."

Lady Elliot had gently admonished him. "She is certainly far from being a bluestocking, Walter. Her skill on the piano is superb. And I believe in a few years she will look quite pretty. It shall be quite wonderful to see her nicely settled with a loving husband. I am glad our Anne will be more than a pretty face."

Sir Walter had sniffed disdainfully. "It is neither here nor there. Anne is a good enough girl. But how I do wish we might have had a son. Then I should be truly excited about such prizes. I would have sent him to Oxford and taken him about London, to Tattersall's and Gentleman Jackson's gymnasium. And let me not forget to Bond Street for a fitting with Weston. Ah, now that would have been something truly notable!"

Standing frozen in the hallway, Anne had come to a stark conclusion. She knew at that moment that no matter what she did or said, her father would always wish she had been a boy.

"Dear Anne, you must not fret yourself so about Katrina and Frederick."

With a slight jolt, Anne turned away from the bedroom window to find Jane Smith standing in the doorway. "You must think me an abominable hostess," Anne remarked with a depreciating smile. "Have you and Nurse Rooke found your rooms to be to your liking?"

"Of course we have," her friend replied playfully, winking. "Charming and warm, as the entire house is. I'm so glad that Frederick sent word for us to come, my dear. We were growing ever so bored in Bath."

Anne gathered her shawl about her shoulders more closely. It truly was a blessing to have her old friend with her again. Frederick, ever the thoughtful husband, had written to Jane before leaving for London to request that she and Nurse Rooke come and stay. He would not leave Anne until he had made certain someone would be with "his beloved little baggage" at all times.

"Frederick is so protective," Anne murmured, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "And I must admit I am glad he did in this case. I do not like being alone just now. Has it truly been since August that I saw you last, Jane?"

"Shameful, is it not?" Jane replied jauntily as she sat down on the nearby chair. "Nurse Rooke was in transports when I told her we were to come for a visit. She does enjoy a good gossip with your Martha. Much as we adore Bath, it is always a pleasure to see one of my dearest friends. You know I owe you and the Captain a great deal."

Shaking her head dismissively, Anne remarked lightly, "It was little repayment for what you had done for me in revealing Mr. Elliot's history. And in being a faithful friend in light of my family's haughty airs."

Jane, garbed in a fashionable gown of dove gray merino, would not let it pass. "I would still be a nearly destitute invalid if it weren't for you. Frederick's dealings with the solicitors, so tenacious, saved my life. Now I can walk again, while slowly, and enjoy life as I've long wanted to do."

Thinking aloud, Anne commented, "Frederick cannot bear to see anyone in need or in pain. That is why it was an unspoken matter that he go back to London to ensure Katrina's health. His family means the world to him. Tis' one of the things...I have always admired in him."

Aware of the change in Anne's voice, Jane knew she must be thinking about her own family and how very different the situation was for her. "Do you hear any news from Sir Walter or your sisters?" she gently enquired, her voice low.

Nodding, Anne replied, "I am in regular contact with Mary. Her letters have always amused me. The children are forever getting into scrapes. She and Charles were happy about the baby, of course. Elizabeth sent me some elaborate baby clothes and a brief note requesting she be informed of the arrangements for any christening we might have. Father merely sent a note of congratulations, with little affection attached. I am sure Elizabeth put him up to it."

"Does it trouble you that you rarely see them any longer?" Jane asked carefully. She knew that such matters were delicate ones for her friend but she sensed that Anne needed to talk of them. The sad look in her eyes while standing at the window had been apparent.

With some hesitation, Anne considered her feelings. She so often pushed aside thoughts of her father and elder sister. It was often painful to think of them. And she rarely spoke about it to Frederick. Her father had nearly kept them apart a second time and the matter was better left alone. At times she wished she might speak of it but feared his reaction. She knew he wanted to dwell on their current joy.

She truly had so much to thank God for in her husband and the Wentworths. But perhaps being so close to delivering the baby, her emotions were in a sad state of affairs.

"I..." Anne began quietly, haltingly. "I envy Frederick at times for his happy memories. Of Sophy and Katrina. And his parents. They have had their differences at times but they all ultimately harbor feelings of love and concern for each other. Frederick's parents are long since deceased but my father yet lives. And at the same time...it is as if he were dead to me."

Jane was silent, thinking how painful such feelings must be for her friend. Anne was on the threshold of becoming a mother herself. It was not surprising that she had such thoughts weighing on her mind.

Jane could remember their girlhood days in school, the wonderful letters and parcels that had come from Lady Elliot. She was indeed a proud mother, always encouraging Anne to excel in her studies and to read as much as she could. The other girls had envied Anne in that respect. Many of the mothers were only concerned with grooming their daughters for a prized Society marriage.

Jane had experienced the honor of meeting Lady Elliot and had been struck by her kindness and grace. Anne often reflected these characteristics unconsciously in the way she held her head or spoke a certain phrase. The devotion of mother and daughter had been touching to behold.

Then had come Lady Elliot's death and the shattering of Anne's world. Jane had often heard the smothered sobs coming from Anne's room, her efforts to check her weeping a failure. The sound of those choked tears had cut her to the quick. But what had been even more distressing was how Anne had been treated by her father in the days to follow. He never came to visit and rarely wrote. Elizabeth's letters consisted only of news of herself and Kellynch, little warmth attached to the words. How crushing it must have been for a young woman entering adulthood, away from home and so unsure of her place in the world.

But despite her family's coldness and her mother's death, Anne Elliot had remained the kind, warm, intelligent young woman she had always been. Perhaps she was somewhat more subdued but that was to be expected. When Jane and Anne had reunited in Bath, Jane had been surprised but pleased to see her friend little altered in manner and feeling.

"Dear Anne," she began kindly. "You must not take this to heart. You have a new family now in Frederick's. Sophy and the Admiral adore you, do they not? And now Katrina, from all accounts a most lovely girl. And in a few weeks, you and Frederick will have begun your very own family. Surely that must bring you quiet joy?"

The words brought a warmth into Anne's hazel eyes that had not been there before. Her eyes darted down to her swollen abdomen and she looked up at her friend. "Truly, you have the right of it, Jane," she murmured at last. "I had not thought of it in that light. Frederick and I are so very happy. I need not pine about the past or my family's faults."

Nodding, Jane told her, "And soon you will have no time in which to even consider such matters! Your little one will need all of your care and love, which will leave no time for brooding. Motherhood, I am told, is a daunting task in the initial months. Nurse Rooke has told me enough stories to make me not so sorry I did not remarry."

Grinning, Anne regarded her friend. Jane could always make her smile, even in her darkest moments. "I have no doubt that Nurse Rooke took some license in her storytelling. But I must tell you I hope my father does not attend the christening. Or Elizabeth. They will insist on it being a show of sorts and that I shall not have. Lyme will be agog as it is."

Laughing aloud, Jane's gray eyes danced merrily at the thought. "I can see Sir Walter spending at least four hours consulting his valet on what he ought to wear among such lowly people as village folk. I do hope he is provided with enough looking glasses upon which to make this vital decision. They do not know what an honor he will be paying them with his presence."

Anne could not help joining in Jane's hilarity. Her father did have an obvious penchant for being a fashion plate, much to her chagrin. "I fear he has too many," Anne remarked. "The poor Admiral could not fathom it when he and Sophy first came to Kellynch. He had almost all of the glasses removed! How I blushed when he told me!"

At that moment, Nurse Rooke popped her head in the door and looked wise. "I do here ye laughing, Miss. Don't tell me ye heard a spicy tale and wouldna tell me? Twould be a sin, it would."

Winking at her friend, Jane invited the woman into the room. "Come in, Nurse Rooke, and do join us. You shall have to recount the tale of Lord Grady's wardrobe being dragged halfway across muddy Bath commons, my dear. It is quite a diverting story, I do promise you, Anne!"

Continued In Section VI