A cold wind swept by her, making a path through the smoke, and she could see.

She did not want to see, but she did not know how to keep from seeing.

She should not be here.

Red cloth, soldiers' coats, fire, and smoke. Redcoats and fire. A man, an Irishman, his head coated in pitch, was lit on fire by a British soldier. Pitchcapped. He ran, screaming, tearing at his skull. His only salvation was to tear off his own scalp. He tried. He screamed.

She watched.

Where was Perry?

Redcoats came toward her, shouting. One soldier saw her.

Perry was beneath her, pulling at her foot, shouting at her. Shouting something.

She should not be here.

The soldier who'd spotted her shot the Irishman who had been lit like a torch. He fell. He stopped screaming.

The soldier ran toward her. He did not shout. He was quiet. She could not move, even with Perry's pulling.

She should not be here.

The soldier grabbed her and lifted her in his arms. He pulled Perry behind him and then they ran to a stone wall that contained a field. The field was empty. The stones held nothing.

Nothing.

Only the sound of crying.


She awoke with a cry that strangled itself before it was fully born. Beau jerked upright beside her and reached for her. In the firelight, she looked into his eyes, the dream still as real as her last heartbeat.

And when she looked into his eyes, so green and so full of concern, she recognized him.

He was the one.

"You," she squeezed out past lungs still choked by remembered smoke and fire.

"What is it? You were crying," Beau said, folding her into his arms.

"You!" she repeated, jerking away from his touch. "You're the one."

He was the one. The monster from her nightly torture. He'd haunted her for ten years, and now she shared his bed. It could not be.

"Clarissa," he said slowly, not touching her. "Have a sip of wine. Calm yourself."

"It was you; don't deny it. I recognize you now," she said, the tears starting to press at the backs of her eyes. "You were there. You were in the regiment."

"Yes, with Lindley," he said.

"Lindley wasn't there!" she shouted. He would not make Lindley a part of this. Lindley had no part in it. Only she.

"Where, Clarissa?" he asked.

Where? Where her dreams took her almost nightly. Where it had happened. "Wexford," she murmured. It was like saying the name of a demon in the dark of hell.

At the name, his eyes went carefully blank. He knew what had happened in Wexford.

"I was there. I saw you," she accused, sounding like the eight-year-old girl she had been and was again, every night, in the darkness alone. Logic had no place in this memory; all was pure emotion, catching her up and tossing her about like a storm wind, her only companion the terror she had known and still knew. Every night.

"You," he said, his face a mask. "You were the girl. And the boy… that was Perry? Yes, it would have been," he said carefully, all emotion bled from his voice.

"I saw you! You killed him. You murdered him."

"No!" he said, grabbing her by the arms. She jerked away from his touch, but he would not let her go. Just like before. He would not let her go. "He was dead already. Do you think he wanted to die like that? Burned and mutilated? I showed him mercy; that was all."

"You killed him," she said, her voice as hard as stone. "You wore the coat. You're one of them."

"Who?"

"The English! The English did it."

"Clarissa, you're English."

"No! I'm not! I'm Irish! I'm not like that. I can't be like that."

Beau jerked back the blankets and dragged a resisting Clarissa out of bed. He put her in one chair by the fire and seated himself in another. Naked, they faced each other, the glow of the fire lighting only half their faces, leaving the other side in deep shadow. But for the first time he saw all of her. And understood everything.

Ireland was home because she had to be Irish. Because she could not bear to be English. The English pitchcapped. The English murdered. The English set ablaze the houses of the innocent. She could not be part of that, and so she renounced her culture and her race, seeking an innocence she did not feel.

But the Irish were not innocent, not as she thought.

Wexford had been a nightmare of careless cruelty.

But what of Enniscorthy, where Irish Catholics had burned Irish Protestants by the hundreds? None had been innocent in the events that led to the union of Ireland with England.

What could a girl of eight know of that? A woman sat before him, her face set and angry, but in her Irish heart she was a child still. A child scarred by what she had seen; a woman tortured by memory.

Yet he had faith in the ultimate strength of Clarissa and her practical mind; Clarissa would not be ruled by the tyranny of raw emotion, not willingly. He had only to convince her to let go the pain of memory and grasp the cool peace of reason.

"Clarissa, you did nothing wrong. The man who set the pitchcap was wrong. He was drummed out; I reported him myself. I did nothing wrong when I shot that man. I do not know if he was innocent of wrongdoing or guilty, but I know that I shortened his suffering, and I am not sorry." When she would have spoken, in protest and argument, he was certain, he continued. "What of what I, an English officer, did for you? I was trying to save you. I saw a small girl and her equally small brother in a place where no child should be. I took you away. I kept you safe. I did not know you. I did not know that one day I would see you again as the woman you are."

He stopped and studied her face, delicate and stubborn and pulled into a frown. He had known it from the start: she was soft femininity and strong determination rolled together. He had known he loved her at her first volley of smiling insults. There was no one like her.

"I did not know that I would one day love you."

"I don't believe you," she said coldly.

"Which part?" he asked, smiling.

"Any of it. All of it," she said. "You are just trying to soothe me."

"Yes, I am trying to soothe you, but that does not mean that I am not being truthful. How much truth is there in you, Clarissa? You are English, whether you want to be or not. And Lindley was a soldier and Perry is about to buy his commission. Of what are they guilty? Some Irish murder other Irish and some Irish never kill anyone. It is not nationality that determines a man's acts, but the man himself."

"But you killed someone," she whispered.

"And you watched," he said. "I am sorry for that. I was sorry then. But would I shoot him again? Yes. It is an uncomfortable truth, but it is the truth, and I believe that you want nothing less."

Did she? Some truths were very ugly, very painful. What sort of truth did she want? Only the truths that pleased her or served her? She would not be that sort of woman.

But this truth was very hard; it challenged all that she had believed for a lifetime. Yet if what she had believed was half lie and half childish terror, what was gained by clinging to it?

Yet what she felt in her heart was not so simple as that. Choosing a husband by cold logic was one thing; choosing a memory was quite another. And how much logic had there truly been in her choosing of Beau? She loved him, Englishman though he was.

"I do not think I can do this," she whispered.

"I know you can," Beau said, his voice warm with confidence.

"This pain is not so easily dismissed," she said, looking at the fire. "I think I may, after all, disappoint you."

"Never," he said. "Never."

And when she looked into his eyes, he smiled his belief.

"It will take time to forge a new memory and lay aside the horror of that day, but you will succeed. You are a woman ruled by reason and not emotion. Does any other woman compile a list?" He smiled gently. "We will attack this together and we will win."

They looked at each other, hope beginning to reign over her features, confidence riding his.

"Do you believe me now?" he asked, reaching out his hand to hers. "Any and all of what I declare?"

His hands were large and strong, the fingers long and graceful. Those hands had carried her to safety when she was a child. They would not drop her now.

"I'm not certain," she said, slowly taking his hand, feeling the hard warmth of him. "You did, did you not, say you loved me?"

"I did." He nodded.

"Were you sincere or were you just hoping to calm me?"

"Clarissa, when a man tells a woman he loves her, he is not hoping to calm her."

He loved her. Was it as simple as that?

He loved her. There was nothing simple about it.

"When did you know?" she asked.

Beau collapsed in his chair with a groan and tugged her over until she sat on his lap. "Now is not the time for conversation, truthful or otherwise."

"But I only want to know-"

"And I want to know if you love me, my dear, or in this conversation of truths to which you are so addicted, are the truths to be all my own? I believe I have quoted you accurately? And I not only want to know if you do love me, but when you first realized it and what it is about me, exactly, that you find so admirable, beyond my Irish estate, that is." He grinned, awaiting her response.

Tell him she loved him this early in the marriage? Hardly wise. His arrogance would be insufferable if he knew he had won her heart so easily. There was time enough to confess her love… perhaps in a year? Or two?

She grinned in return before saying softly against his ear, "You are so right. This is not the time for conversation."