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.She let him go.He took a step toward her and leaned into her, so close she wondered that the fury inthose blue eyes didn't scorch her."Go into the house.Now.""How m "He laid his hands on her shoulders, his grip hard and a little cruel."You're not my wife,Bryony," he said, his voice low, his tone cutting through her in a way that hurt far morethan the angry pressure on her shoulders."You're not even my bloody mistress, althoughI doubt there's a man here who doesn't think you are.It's not your place to question me,let alone challenge me.Now, get into the house."His hands fell from her shoulders, and he swung abruptly away, dismissing her.Bryonywent rigid.She turned and forced herself to walk slowly back toward the house, her headhigh.She swallowed hard, trying to hold back the fiery well of anger and hurt that burnedwithin her.She made it as far as the veranda before the hot tears spilled over and ran down hercheeks.Quincy had been given seventy-five lashes.It was Gideon who finally told her, when he came up to the kitchen that evening to helpher fetch the water and wood.She was kneading the dough for St.John's damper when he told her.She stopped deadstill, feeling as if a piece of her an important piece had just been torn out and thrownaway.Gideon eyed her dispassionately for a moment, then said, "Yer wrong, Bryony what yerthinkin'." Bryony pushed her fist into the dough the way she'd like to slam it into Hayden St.John'shard, handsome face."How do you know what I'm thinking?""Yer thinkin' he's no different from the others the ones like Sir D'Arcy Baxter.""He is no different.""Isn't he? Bryony, if Jennings and Quincy belonged to Baxter, they'd be dead now or ontheir way to a penal colony like Norfolk Island, which is worse'n being dead, in mostpeople's way of thinkin'.""The magistrate hands down the sentence, not the master.""Sure he does.And why do you think the Cap'n went into Green Hills yesterday withthose men himself, instead of jist sendin' 'em in to the magistrate with Will Carver?"Bryony shrugged."He went to make sure the magistrate didn't hang 'em, that's why he went.And he's theonly reason those two men are over there in their hut nursin' bloody backs, 'stead of bein'rolled up in bark and lyin' at the bottom of some unmarked grave."She threw the damper into the Dutch oven and thumped it down among the coals on thehearth."He didn't have to send them to the magistrate at all," she said, shoveling morehot coals onto the lid."Oh? And what was he supposed to do? Let them and any other man who takes the fancysteal all his cows and sheep?""Quincy is only fourteen, damn it.He's not a man.And I don't care how many calves hebrands or servant women he seduces," she added, picking up the basket she used to gathergreens, "he is still only a boy."Gideon had opened his mouth to say something, but at that he closed it and shook hishead in the age-old gesture of a male hopelessly confused by the thought processes of afemale.Hayden sprawled in his chair at the end of the dining table, his legs thrown out beforehim, his waistcoat unbuttoned, a crystal glass cradled in the palm of the hand that restedagainst his crotch.A bottle of port stood open and nearly empty at his elbow.The room was in semidarkness.He hadn't bothered to light the brace of candles Bryonyhad set on the table.The only light came from the mellow glow of the setting sun filteringin through the lace curtains at the French doors.A soft mew of surprise from the doorway brought his head around.Bryony paused justinside the room.She had waited until it was almost dark before she ventured to comeclear his place from the dinner table.He supposed she hadn't wanted to risk running into him.She stood with her arms wrapped around her waist, and stared at him as if he were thegreatest beast imaginable.Her eyes were dark and bruised-looking in a pale face.He looked at her long and hard, then he raised the glass to his lips and drained it."Howill-mannered of me," he said, rolling the empty glass between his fingers."I should havevacated the room by now."She didn't say anything.He sloshed the last of the port into his glass and let his gaze roveslowly over her.She was wearing her old brown work dress.The apron she had tiedabout her small waist was stained with water from the dishes she'd been washing, and shehad a servant's mobcap perched on her head, hiding her beautiful hair.He frowned at it
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