LITMIR.BIZ

      To my editor, Melissa Jeglinski,

      for all her invaluable input, hard work,

      friendship and support during two frantic

      years of living almost daily with The Beckets of Romney Marsh. Couldn’t have done it without you, babe!

      PROLOGUE

      1798 An unnamed island near Haiti

      IT WAS THE HEIGHT of summer, hot, crushingly hot, difficult-to-breathe hot. But behind the thick walls of the two-story house set among the towering shrubs, nestled among the swaying palms, the air was relatively cool in the large bedchamber. And that air was sweet with the smell of Isabella’s perfume.

      Courtland sat cross-legged on the wide-planked floor, holding the young Cassandra in front of him, encouraging her to stand on her chubby little legs. But the child wasn’t cooperating. She was much too enthralled with the idea of pulling off Courtland’s nose, giggling as she reached for him.

      “She’s too young to stand,” Odette the Voodoo woman warned him as she brushed Isabella’s long, dark curls. “Her legs will bow like Billy’s and she’ll roll when she walks, with you to blame for it all.”

      Isabella laughed, a sound like the sweetest music, as she leaned closer to the large mirror, slipping sapphire bobs into her ears. “Oh, stop teasing our poor Court, Odette,” she said, “that’s not true. My sweet baby would never roll when she walks. She will glide, like an angel, and she will float in the dance in this London Geoff promises us, the belle of every ball. We will all be so grand, won’t we?”

      And then she swiveled on the small padded chair and smiled at Courtland, blew both him and the infant Cassandra a kiss.

      Courtland felt his heart skip a beat and knew hot color was creeping up into his cheeks, for he loved the beautiful Isabella with every fiber of his thirteen-year- old being. He didn’t know that, of course, because love had never been a part of his life before coming to the island. He only knew he lived for her, would die for her. He lived for Cassandra, and would gladly die for her, too, because she was a part of Isabella, a part of his savior, Geoffrey Baskin.

      Cassandra went to her hands and knees, her favored form of locomotion, and crawled onto Courtland’s lap, stuck her thumb in her mouth, and within moments was asleep in the afternoon heat. He could pick her up, take her to her cot in the dressing room, but it felt so good to hold the small, trusting body that he leaned his back against the wall and contented himself watching Odette brush Isabella’s hair…and thinking of the past, of the day he’d first arrived on the island.

      The day had begun as usual, with his seven- year-old self being roughly kicked awake by the boot of the man who insisted Courtland call him Papa. But would a father kick a son, make him sleep with the huge, bad-tempered dogs that were allowed to roam free in the shop at night, fight them for the food that was always too little and often too spoiled to eat? Courtland couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t think a father should treat his son that way.

      The other thing that was usual about the morning was that his papa was drunk. Mean drunk, nasty drunk. And Courtland was sick, having eaten some of the meat that the dogs had left for him, and the vile-smelling vomit on the floor beside him was his own. He didn’t want to wake up, he didn’t want to clean up his mess. He just wanted to sleep. Sleep forever.

      But his papa kicked him again, hard, and began yelling about the dogs, something about the dogs. Something about the damn miserable dogs being dead and they’d been worth twice what the boy was, the useless little bastard.

      That’s when Courtland had heard the worst sound, that of his father’s whip being untied from his belt, the braided leather with its several small ends, each tipped with a small lead ball, snapping hard against the floor an inch from his head. He would have cried out, but he’d learned not to do that. He’d learned not to talk at all, not to ever make a sound. It was safer that way. He could almost be invisible, if he didn’t talk. Sometimes. Not this morning.

      He tried to scramble to his feet, but he was too slow, had moved too late. The whip snaked out again, this time catching him hard across the back, cutting deep into his young skin in at least a half-dozen places. Again. And again. Over and over, until Courtland thought he might die, like the dogs.

      But then the blows stopped, and his father cursed, and Courtland heard another man speaking. Quietly, firmly. He dared to lift his head, and saw a tall, dark- haired man dressed in fine black clothes, holding tight to his father’s wrist, looking down into his face.

      “Billy,

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