With her cousin’s letter crushed in one hand while the other held up her skirts, Lucy Waverley stalked up the gangplank. With every step, she wished more desperately that the outrageous request had never reached her plantation.

If there was one thing she did not need there, it was a traitor who had barely escaped the gallows after rebelling against the King. He would have been dangling there long since, if a greedy captain had not found his hiding place. That fellow had obviously seen more profit in selling him into seven years of indentured servitude, rather than dragging him back to trial in London or simply hanging him outright. Either way, it would have spared her a great deal of trouble.

Lucy only hoped that Cousin Lorna knew how inconvenient her request had been. The sloop carrying the urgent message had reached Jamestown only two days before the last cargo ship was due.

It had been a bountiful harvest, too, she realized, with some of her good mood returning at the thought. Just to start with, she could buy her servants fine gifts this year in plenty of time for the Christmas celebration on January 6. That tour of the Jamestown shops would be a pleasant task indeed.

For now, though, she was facing a far less appealing prospect, as she toiled up a rough wooden gangplank, under the cool, bright autumn sun. What’s more, she had to fight against her full, heavy skirts and the long, tight bodice above them, every step of the way.

Glancing up, she felt sure that she saw the sailors leering down at her, as she pulled the skirts almost to her knees, so she could continue her climb. Well, let them sneer, she told herself.

She reached the deck in time to hear the hatch slowly creaking open, allowing the human cargo to emerge into the light, making room for the tobacco crop.

In the three months since his July rebellion, the Duke of Monmouth’s followers had become a common sight in the harbor, where area planters waited eagerly to buy them.

The sailors’ grins broadened at the sight, but she could not share their mirth. No matter what they had done before, these former rebels seemed utterly pitiful to her now. Stunned, lost, exhausted, they stood on the deck, swaying and blinking against the unaccustomed bright blue sky. Their wrists bound in manacles, their faces smeared with filth and their matted hair hanging around their shoulders, they seemed less like human cargo than some captured forest beasts.

And how am I to recognize my dear distant cousin among these other captives, she wondered. Then she noted that the master-at-arms was unlocking all of the prisoners except one, and she had a sinking feeling that this was her prospective purchase.

Like a hulking bear looming over mangy curs, he rose above his fellow captives. His tangled black locks glistened with sweat above his shaggy black beard, making the resemblance even greater. Only his eyes seemed human, glittering with intelligence, like the brightest blue sapphires above his ivory complexion. As she came closer, he smelled like an animal that had lived in his own filth.

But by the way he stood with his feet planted firmly far apart, his head thrown back and his powerful arms pulling against the manacles, she knew that he was accustomed to command…just as Lorna had described him.

And, just as her cousin had written, he was close to a giant in stature…towering even above Lucy herself, although she stood at 5’6” high. His massive shoulders made him seem as broad as two ordinary men standing together. It was easy to see why, even in his helpless state, the sailors were unwilling to unchain him.

With a sinking heart, she realized that she had no doubt left at all. This was the man she had come here to purchase…Sir Carver Doone.

As dear Lorna Doone had tactfully mentioned, her cousin had been a leader among the rebels, as chief of his powerful, noble, ancient clan. She had not, however, seen fit to add that the Doone family had long been known for rampaging out of their hidden valley to pillage, rob and rape throughout the surrounding countryside. Carver had almost succeeded in forcing Lorna herself to marry him, before her own dear John Ridd had saved her.

These facts were already known to the world, ever since her husband had published the journal he called simply, “Lorna Doone.” Perhaps the lady herself saw no need to remind her of them in her letter.

Yes, and perhaps she hoped that I was not aware of them, Lucy thought. Perhaps she thought that they would leave any woman so terrified, she would not go near him, no matter how great the profit might be.

Then she was a fool, Lucy decided, and tossed back her head impatiently at the thought.

The words leapt into her mind like a darting silver fish. Lorna must have been a fool, to think that a complete description of Carver Doone would drive a woman away. In fact, it was sure to excite and even entice her...if she did not control her feelings carefully. She felt sure that every woman who read the published story had to secretly feel the same way.

Seeing him now, he seemed to her like the hero of another fiction…her favorite one of all. Often she found herself whispering those thrilling words, as she lay alone at night…

“Here at least shall we be free…

the Almighty hath not built here for his envy…

better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.”

Hero? No, the world agreed that Satan was the…literally…damnable villain of “Paradise Lost.” But in the 18 years since its publication, she had never heard anyone dare to say what seemed so obvious to her…that the Devil was the towering hero of this masterpiece.

To her, this man was the living image of Mr. Milton’s incredible creation.

“Good afternoon, Miss Waverley.”

She turned quickly at the sound of William Spencer’s voice. It was firm and strong yet courteous and refined, as befit the royal governor’s first cousin. He was also among the colony’s first gentlemen in his own right, with 300 acres of rich tobacco land and 50 indentured servants and slaves to tend it.

Evidently, he was here to increase that number to 51 or more. From his intent expression as he gazed at the chained prisoner, he planned on including Carver Doone.

* * *

Spencer was not at all surprised to find her there. She was one of those ladies who seemed stubbornly determined to manage their own plantations, rather than yielding ownership to a husband. No doubt it was due to the masculine education that her father had foisted on her, as his only child.

Nevertheless, even at 25, she did not lack for suitors. No doubt she thought she could wait forever. With women still so scarce and her property so extensive, she was probably right. But he hoped to save her the trouble.

Her beauty was an added incentive. It was a wild, fierce style that made her resemble the proud queen of beasts.

But, no, not a lioness, he thought. She is more like a female lion. That proud bearing, that steady gaze, that way of flinging back her red-gold mane of hair. Yes, he thought, she is like some proud animal that cries out to be tamed.

Her features had that same lion’s look, with high cheekbones ending in a strong, square jaw and eyes of a clear, bright green.

He could also sense the animal grace trapped beneath her fashionable London clothes. Her long, strong legs seemed even lengthier beneath the vertical green and white stripes of her woolen gown. Her stays were laced tightly to her waist, giving her body an even straighter line.

With no disrespect to his dear late wife, it was almost enough to make him glad that he been widowed the previous year, at the still-early age of 45. His relations with the delightful dusky Cassandra had nothing to do with his marriage prospects now.

Why, a wedding to Lucy Waverley might leave him wealthy enough to fulfill every Virginia gentleman’s dream of some day returning to a fashionable life in London…with Lucy, Cassandra and all. The first of these could even give him sons, at last, to inherit his fortune, while the second cared for them.

Nothing could stop him them from enjoying them both…at the same time if he chose to do so, as he probably would. The Englishwoman would be his property then, as surely as the African girl. He could punish them both as vigorously if they resisted.

His late wife had been far too great a lady to share his particular pleasures. In fact, she had not even seemed to know that they existed and even pretended to believe that Cassandra was merely their latest parlormaid. Since his Margaret had been a cousin of William Byrd, her had been especially careful to spare her feelings by pretending the same thing.

Lucy Waverley, however, was no true lady at all. What’s more, she had no male relatives to protect her, let alone such powerful ones. That made him all the more eager to tame her.

But first, he had to win her hand. With that goal in mind, he had worn his finest curled wig and the new blue jacket with its brass buttons, reaching to the knee, all in the latest fashion.

“Are you planning to buy this fellow?” she asked him.

He could barely keep himself from shaking his head. She spoke as openly and directly as any man. He would have to chastise her for it, after he convinced her to marry him.

“I had hoped to do that, yes,” he answered. “This is Carver Doone, you know. Even before he was a rebel, he led a notorious outlaw band. And he is a fellow of some wit, besides. As I heard the story, he let his enemy think he had drowned him in a swamp, when he had actually brought a hollow reed to breathe through until the coast was clear. I have hopes of making him an overseer, since I have so many slaves to see to. I plan to go as high as one hundred pounds.”

Behind him, he heard the master-at-arms gasping at the sum. An African slave could have been purchased for half that amount, and his servitude would have lasted a lifetime. Pretending to ignore him, William went on, “I believe in paying the top price, you see, because haggling is beneath a gentleman.”

* * *

Yes, she thought, tossing back her head. You also believe in trying to impress me with your great wealth, so you can gain control of my own. Do you imagine that you are the only heiress-hunter who has ever done so?

Glancing up at Carver Doone, she saw, to her amazement, that he was throwing back his own matted hair in a gesture like her own, thus showing that he shared her contempt. Unfortunately for him, Spencer obviously noted it, too.

“Of course, he will have to be trained,” he said. His courteous tone took on a note of menace that left no doubt as to the methods he would use.

Not, of course, that it was any of her concern. It would be easy enough to write back to Cousin Lorna, saying that she had, unfortunately, been outbid. In that way, she could solve her problem easily, even though she found herself feeling strangely disappointed at the thought.

The captive had more than earned his fate, she reminded herself sternly. Hadn’t she cheered as loudly as anyone, when the bonfires were lit to announce King James the Second’s victory, over the rebels who had most notably included this same Carver Doone? Let William Spencer show him his proper place in the world, with the whip across his back.

“Unfortunately, I had promised my cousin that I would purchase him,” she heard herself saying, to her own surprise. “She promised to repay me for any sum I spent.”

For a moment, she saw a flash of anger in Spencer’s bulging brown eyes. Then he swept into his most courtly bow.

“A promise must be kept,” he told her. “Will you accept my one hundred pounds as a loan, without interest, until your cousin repays you?”

Not a loan, but an investment, she thought bitterly. He expects me to repay him with my hand and my property, because the moment we are married, it will be his. With my 100 acres and 20 servants adjoining his own lands, he would be almost as rich as the Byrds themselves. So it seems that he has not solved my problem after all.

In another moment, she realized how serious her problem would be.

“I would rather have the man rule me.”

They both jumped at the prisoner’s growling words…which were so unexpected, they might as well have come from a hulking animal. After recovering from his surprise, William Spencer managed an uncertain laugh.

“I am sure you would, my fine fellow,” he retorted. “But we can’t always choose our fates. Or, rather, you chose yours when you decided to rebel against our king. And that means you must be ruled by this lady, when she buys your indenture.”

“Not if I refuse to sign the contract.”

“How dare you!” Lucy shouted, ignoring William’s disapproving glare. Lorna will owe me one hundred and fifty percent in interest to pay for this insult, she promised herself.

“I dare all the more, having seen your temper.”

“But you have not seen mine.” This time, she welcomed the cold threat in William’s voice. “You will, however, if you keep insulting this lady.”

“May we return to the subject,” she interrupted hastily, bringing her own anger under control. “I promised your Cousin Lorna that I would purchase you, and now Mr. Spencer has very kindly allowed me to do it.”

Once again, his reaction stunned her.

“Lorna Doone?” he snarled, with a glare so furious, it made her jump with fright. Ashamed of her foolish reaction, she stared straight up at him as she answered, “Why, yes, Sir Carver. The one who ran away from you. But you have a way to pay her back, do you not? By forcing her to repay me, one hundred pounds plus interest?”

“She will never miss it,” he muttered.

“Believe me,” Lucy answered, in her sweetest tone, “those who have the most money are the ones who are most anxious for more.” She carefully looked away from William Spencer as she said it.

Carver Doone must have understood. He smiled at her, with a flash of his strong white teeth. Lorna had said that that smile was always a fearsome thing, and now Lucy understood why. But, for her, that terror was mixed with a burst of pleasure that was even more frightening. It would be worth a great deal to me, she thought, to see him smile that way again.

“Well, then, you may help me take my revenge,” he decided. “But first I must be sure that you are whom you say, and not merely some widow wanting to buy some entertainment.”

His tone left no doubt as to what sort of pastime he had in mind. William raised his palm to strike him, then let it fall again as he turned his back in a great show of disgust. It was Lucy’s own slim hand that slapped him full in the face. He smiled as though she had caressed him.

“How dare you!” she cried again.

“How dared YOU?” he responded softly, too low for William to hear. “I will not always be chained this way. After the way you patted my cheek, I might live to repay you with ten blows from my belt…on those other cheeks that are hidden below your skirts.” His fingers touched the heavy leather strap beneath the ragged white shirt.

Really, this was too much to take. Not even Cousin Lorna could expect her to go home with a man who had just threatened her openly. And yet, she could not deny the thrill of dark delight that seized her again, in an even fiercer grip. It left her with a warm, wet feeling that was strange but not unpleasant…spreading from those lower cheeks he had mentioned to the opening in front of them.

As incredible as it seemed now, she sensed that this helpless prisoner would soon be able to carry out his terrifying promise. If that strap ever fell on her with the force of this man’s broad hands and powerful shoulders, it would be dreadful indeed. Somehow, the threat of that danger was the most thrilling prospect of all.

“So how do I know that you are who you claim to be?” he demanded, as though he were master already. “You might be inventing the whole story, just to have your way.”

Now William Spencer could no longer pretend to overlook his insults…not if he had any hope of marrying the maiden who had suffered them.

“Dare you to call this lady a liar?” he demanded, advancing on the captive. “Are you refusing to trust her word? By God, I wonder if I dare to leave her with you, after all.”

I would certainly be safer if you did not, she thought. But I would also be terribly disappointed. Hastily, she stepped between them and stood staring up at both.

“He is merely recalling the old adage…’Honest people do not ask to be trusted,’” she put in, bringing her own temper under control again. “He is welcome to test my knowledge of him…beyond what all the world has read.”

“Very well, then,” he said, as though he were granting her some favor. Raising his manacled hands to thoughtfully scratch his perfectly straight but sweaty nose, he asked, “My son, Ensor Doone…since he was born in wedlock, why was I free to marry you? And what was her name?”

“She died in childbirth,” Lucy answered patiently. “But that is an easy guess to make. More to the point, she was Lady Sarah Carmichael and was well known in London society. You therefore had to seek her father’s permission to marry you in the usual way, rather than merely throwing her across your saddle and carrying her off like one of your village maidens.”

As she spoke, that wet warmth started spreading throughout her lower body again…at the very thought of his abducting her that way. For that, she thought, I might well have been willing to change places with the lowest wench in England. She could only hope that the men had not noticed her shocking reaction.

Judging by Carver’s flickering grin, she had a terrible feeling that he had. Trying for an innocent tone, she went on, “But didn’t John and Lorna decide to change his name to Ensor Jones, after they adopted him?”

If she had hoped, in her annoyance, to make him angry at her, she had succeeded all too well. She found herself pulling back in fear again as he leaned forward and snarled, “My son is Ensor Doone!”

As though ashamed of having shown so much emotion, his voice went cold again. “And what was my own mother’s name?” he asked.

“Elizabeth,” she answered shortly. “After the great queen. Your father, the late Sir Counsellor, also married her in the usual way, as you put it.”

“And how did your own family come to Virginia?”

“My great-grandfather, Richard Waverley, was one of the original 107 settlers, 78 years ago.”

“And how are you related…”

“I have answered three questions,” she told him. “As I remember my nursery stories, that is always enough to win the fair maiden’s hand.”

“As you seem to have won mine,” he answered, with that devilish grin again. “At least, for the purposes of signing my indenture form.”

That was too much for William Spencer.

“Take care, sir!” he cried.

“But I need have no concern for you. This lady has won my hand.” Above his manacles, he swept into a courtly bow before her.

“Your hand is not in question,” she reminded him coldly. “All I have won, is a servant for seven years.”

“To serve the fair maiden for seven years, then,” he retorted, with a cold smile. “That is honor enough.”

“You need a good thrashing, boy!” the Virginian shouted.

“I need a pistol in my grip, sir, and these manacles off of them.!”

Once more, she threw herself between them.

“Now I need not ask you any questions!” she exclaimed. “I am sure that you are the mad Carver Doone indeed. Who else would challenge a gentleman to a duel, when you aren’t even allowed to carry a weapon?”

Before either could respond, she hastily ran on, “Since the duel cannot therefore take place, will you please come with me now? You would be doing a great kindness to my coachman and my companion.”

She waved in the direction of the tobacco warehouse at the end of the pier, where her carriage was waiting. A brown-skinned youth in sky-blue velvet livery sat on the coachman’s sea, behind two matched sorrel horses. A slim, sweet-faced, coffee-colored young lady stuck her head out of the oval carriage window.

“Well, I have no quarrel with either of them,” said Carver, and reached out to the master-at-arms for the indenture papers. The ship’s officer jumped, startled at the gesture, having almost forgotten the documents in his hand. With his prisoners and crew alike, he had been watching the exchange as though it had been a fast-moving tennis match.

Recovering himself, he thrust the documents, with a blunt lead pencil, into the prisoner’s hand. He signed them with a flourish as though his chains had not been there.

Carver Doone, the lord of Doone valley and the terror of the villages for miles around, was binding himself to be a servant. Yet looking at him, she would have thought he was signing a pardon for one of his followers.

Much less gracefully, she snatched the 100 pounds in paper currency that Spencer held out to her and thrust them, in turn, at the ship’s officer. Despite herself, she jumped as she saw him unlock the prisoner’s manacles and heard them crash to the deck.

Even though he was using those huge, powerful hands only to rub his injured wrists, the sight of them unchained was enough to make her almost wish that her were going off with William Spencer.

Then she forgot her neighbor, and everything else in the world, as she heard her prisoner strolling down the gangplank behind her. She could almost feel his blue eyes burning into her back as she went.

* * *

Riding past the high wooden gates that surrounded the capital city, Lucy was acutely aware that they were driving quickly into the wooded wilderness, between the capital city and her home. She was almost alone with this dangerous man, she realized vividly, and even graver perils filled the forest around them.

Now she had only two slaves to protect her, and they were not allowed to use firearms to do it. And she made no mistake about it. This Doone chief was as savage as any of the native Powhatans who had roamed these woods until ten years ago, when the English had forced them further away.

Without thinking, she touched the primed and loaded pistol on the seat beside her. She no longer needed this for Indians either, but who knew what other dangers the forest might hold…even if she did not include this glowering, menacing creature beside her.

As though her fears had summoned him, one of those dangers soon loomed up ahead. It was the animal whom her prisoner so closely resembled. The women’s screams echoed the bear’s threatening roar, as he lumbered towards them.

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