Then she dithered over another problem. Should she leave her hair as it was, in its tight knot at her neck, or should she brush it out as she usually did at night? There was only one sensible choice, of course. The heavy knot would be uncomfortable to lie on and would look silly too, she supposed. She quickly removed the pins and brushed her thick chestnut hair until it crackled.

Finally she pulled one of the two blankets from the bed and one of the pillows. She tossed them onto the floor and climbed into the bed in panic. He might be back at any moment. But she soon forced herself back onto the floor. The candle was out of reach on the washstand. She did not want that to be burning when Hetherington returned. And if he was to move in the darkness, it would be unkind to leave his bedding in a heap on the floor. He would be dreadfully uncomfortable.

She looked around her and then removed her gray cloak from the hook on the door. She spread it on the floor with his own greatcoat on top of it. She laid the blanket on top and turned down one corner. She plumped up the lumpy pillow as best she could and put it in place. Kneeling back on her heels to view the overall effect, Elizabeth suddenly had a mental picture of Hetherington lying there, and the image sent her scurrying to blow out the candle and climb back into the bed and beneath the covers. She pulled the single blanket up around her ears even though the room was not cold.

Falling asleep was another matter altogether. She found herself constantly listening for footsteps in the passageway outside. There was much traffic to and fro, but the footsteps always passed the door. And the noise from below was incessant. She might as well have taken her bedding into the middle of the taproom and tried to sleep there, Elizabeth thought wryly as she tried to ignore shouts and singing and cups banging over the loud hum of masculine voices.

Then she started to think about Jeremy. She had seen the child only once, at his christening, but she felt as if she knew him very well. John's letters were always full of descriptions of the youngster and bulletins of his progress. She could almost picture the child with his sturdy build and the blond curls that he had inherited from Louise. Both parents obviously doted on their son. John would be devastated if anything happened to him, and goodnes* only knew what the shock might do to Louise in her condition. Elizabeth prayed that the child would recover She prayed that whatever happened she would have the strength to offer both her brother and his wife the help they needed. Her own problems paled in comparison to what they might be facing.

She stiffened suddenly. She had hardly heard that set of footsteps approach and they had stopped outside her door. As she held her breath, she heard the key turn in the lock and then she was aware of light through her closed eyelids.

Hetherington stood there for a while before blowing out his candle, coming inside the room, and closing the door softly. Elizabeth lay rigid, almost afraid to breathe, listening to him set down the candlestick and remove some of his ciothing. Then she heard him lie down and move around until he was comfortable.

There was total silence in the room. Elizabeth found that every nerve in her body was tense. She was afraid to move, afraid to breathe even, in case he would know that she was awake. His own stillness made her wonder if he too lay awake or if the fatigue of the day had sent him instantly to sleep. She resigned herself to a sleepless night, tried to calculate how long it would be before the dawn would come.

---

"No," she was saying. "No, it cannot be true. I shan't believe it."

"I am sorry, Lizzie," her father said, his voice unusually sympathetic. "It is over. You will have to face the fact. The man is a scoundrel."

"No," she wailed, rocking herself back and forth in her chair. "No, please. I must go to him. I have to see him."

"He will not see you," her father said. "He has refused. You cannot keep on clinging to hope, Lizzie. He does not want you any longer."

"No," she moaned. "I won't believe it. I can't. I have to see him. I have to. Oh, please, please."

John was kneeling in front of her, his hands warmly covering hers over her face.

"Hush, Elizabeth," he was saying, "it will be all right."

"No, it will not," she wailed. "It will never be all right."

"Hush, darling, hush," he whispered. "Oh, don't cry. All will be well. I shall be with you."

"No," she said. "No."

He drew her to him and held her head against his shoulder. His fingers stroked through her hair.

"John, I have to see him," she said against his neck. "I must go immediately."

"Hush, love," he said, "I shall take you to him tomorrow."

And she was tired of the pain, tired of bearing her grief alone. She surrendered to the comfort of her brother's strong arms. She allowed him to rock her in his arms, to lay his cheek against hers, and kiss her temple. She allowed herself to be comforted by the soothing words he murmured the whole time. She felt the whole burden of her agony slipping away.

---

A needle of light was shining through a chink in the curtains and directly onto Elizabeth's face. She was aware of it and knew instantly where she was. But she did not want to wake up yet. She was too warm and too comfortable. She shifted her position to escape the sunbeam and to burrow more deeply into the warmth.

But sleep was receding. Her mind was reaching back into memory for the source of the smell that now teased her nostrils, a musky cologne that she had not been in contact with for a long time. She could almost smell the salt of the ocean that seemed to be associated with it, could almost hear the sound of sea gulls crying in the early morning. She had a vivid recollection of warm lips on hers and a tongue that teased them apart and probed into her mouth.

She opened her eyes. Her head was resting in the hollow between Hetherington's shoulder and neck. His arm was around her, clasping the arm that was thrown across his naked chest. Although she could not see his face without tipping back her head, she could tell by his even breathing that he was sleeping. She lay paralyzed for a moment, then pushed in panic at his chest and pulled herself into a kneeling position beside him on the bed.

"What are you doing here?" she cried. "What has happened?"

His eyes were open now, though he did not move except to clasp his hands behind his head. "What do you imagine has happened, Elizabeth?" he asked. "Do you believe you have been ravished?"

"You were to sleep on the floor," she accused. "You are not to be trusted, my lord."

"Before you have a fit of the vapors," he said, "may I point out that I am lying on top of your blanket and beneath my own." He turned back the blanket that was covering him to prove the truth of what he said. "And you will also observe, if you have courage enough to look, that I am fully clothed from the waist down. Don't worry, my love, your virtue is quite intact."

She had grown to hate that sneer in his voice. "This is no joking matter," she hissed. "Get out of here immediately."

"Shirtless and bootless?" he asked, not moving. "I fear the landlady would be scandalized."

"Get out!" she shrieked, and she scrambled off the bed, grabbed his shirt, and flung it at him, then proceeded to do the same with his boots, one at a time.

"Stop this, you little wildcat," he commanded, suddenly serious. He too had leapt from the bed; he grabbed her now by the wrists as she was about to pick up his bag. "Do you wish the whole inn to believe that we are having a lovers' spat?"

She struggled against him, but his grip only tightened.

"What was I to do when you were having nightmares?" he asked. Elizabeth went limp suddenly and stared into his eyes. "You were dreaming about your nephew, wanting to go to him at once. You were crying and moaning enough to attract attention. When I came to wake you up, you thought I was your brother. The thought seemed to comfort you."