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anguish so piercing she almost gasped.
    This baby might fill her arms, but he could never fill her empty heart. And holding him was a constant, almost unbearable reminder of the other two babies she'd held. And had lost.
    Her gaze lifted from the baby to his father, and the ache within her twisted itself into something sharper, something more frightening. He seemed unconcerned with the driving rain that beat down on his wide-brimmed hat and broad shoulders. He stood at the bow of the boat, his spurred boots spread wide, his arms folded across his chest in that aggressively masculine stance of his. As she watched, the sailor beside him said something, and a quick, wicked smile flashed across St. John's face. Then he tipped back his dark head and laughed. The deep, throaty sound of it reached her across the length of the boat.
    She glanced quickly away, conscious of a tumult of feelings, deep down in her belly. God help her, she knew nothing about this man except that he was hard and mean and dangerous, and that he frightened her terribly. Yet she belonged to him.
    I can make you my mistress....
    Bryony remembered the weight of his hands on her bare shoulders, and she felt her insides quiver. As if drawn by some kind of awful fascination, her gaze returned to settle on Hayden St. John.
    He had the clothes and speech of a gentleman, but for all that, she decided, he was an adventurer. A man who acknowledged no laws but his own, who took what he wanted. A man as wild and untamed as this rugged land he had chosen to make his home.
    "'Tes hot, if'n you'd like some."
    Bryony turned to find Gideon Shanaghan holding a steaming tin mug of tea out to her. "Oh, yes, thank you." She gratefully relinquished the sleeping baby's weight into his arms as he handed her the cup.
    Gideon settled himself beside her. He held Simon with such easy confidence that she smiled and said, "Either you had a lot of younger brothers and sisters, or you've had babies of your own."
    He grinned at her. "Sure, 'tes both. I was the oldest of seven, and Mary and me, we had ourselves two lusty boys..." His smile slipped slightly. "Before I went and got myself transported."
    Bryony stared down into the murky depths of the tea. It looked like a vile brew, but at least it was hot. "I left a three-year-old girl in Cornwall."
    She glanced up to meet his gentle gray eyes, and for a moment they shared the dark, unspeakable torment of each other's loss. Then he said quietly, "To be sure, her father'll be takin' good care of her."
    Bryony shook her head. "My uncle has her. Her—her father's dead."
    A familiar, aching weight of guilt pressed down upon her. Bryony had carried her guilt over Oliver's death with her, like a burden, for so long now. It had grown no lighter; she had simply learned to live with it. Yet, in a way, it seemed strange to be mentioning Oliver, here now. It was as if he'd been a part of someone else's life, someone who had died with him.
    She looked over to where Hayden St. John still stood at the prow of the boat, the wind whipping his greatcoat about his thighs. He had one hand resting on his hip, his fingers curling around the hilt of that frightful knife. "Gideon?" she said, leaning forward. "Does he always wear that knife?"
    Gideon turned toward his master. "Aye, most times. Unless he's wearing a pistol. Although I've known him to carry both."
    "But... why?"
    Gideon laughed. "And why do you think, then, livin' in a colony that's been mostly populated with nothin' but thieves and murderers? Just last week three bushrangers jumped him when he was riding 'tween Green Hills and Jindabyne. He killed two of them straight out, and the third didn't live long enough to hang."
    "He shot them?"
    "Lord, no. There weren't time for that."
    She turned her face away from the sight of that hideous knife and the hard, unforgiving man who wore it. The thought of being touched by a man like that, of being forced to lie beneath him and take his body into hers, sent a