Perchance to Dream - By Holly Newman Page 0,4

commend him for his fortitude in the face of your displeasure. Send the boy in."

"But—"

Andrew cocked his head and raised one eyebrow.

"Yes, sir," Tauton said tightly.

Andrew watched, amused, as the estate agent fussily straightened his coat and cravat before walking out of the room to fetch the boy. Andrew wondered why he'd gone to the trouble to jolly the man. When had he become sensitive to the sensibilities of others?

Perhaps it was no mystery, perhaps it was merely a part of his settled contentment. And working the plantation, and discovering Her, had authored his contentment.

He rose from the chair and walked over to the window. He pushed the edged of his jacket aside and put his hands on his hips as he looked outside. From where he stood he could see a broad swath of green sugarcane fields and the white washed sugar-processing buildings. His eyes followed the activities of the plantation slaves as they went about their work; but his mind saw the blue Caribbean waters.

It was hard to imagine it had started with dreams.

For more than three years now, almost since he'd come to his family's Caribbean plantation, she'd invaded his dreams.

Finding her, acknowledging her reality, calmed his spirit and centered his mind. They'd never spoken directly, but they were connected and Andrew had come to treasure his glimpses of her in his world.

"Sir, here is George Hibbert from the Bonnie Marie to see you."

Andrew turned around, his hands falling loosely to his sides.

"Here, now, do you be taking me for a flat? That ain't Viscount Carrelton," said a young lad of some ten or twelve summers dressed in dirty, loose-fitting white pants and shirt topped with a navy blue jacket obviously cut down to fit his skinny frame.

"Viscount Carrelton!" Andrew laughed, leaned back against the window frame and crossed his feet at the ankles. "I should hope not. That's my eldest brother, Edward. Someone has sent you on a fool's errand, boy."

The sandy-haired lad scowled and planted one fist on his slim hip as he regarded Andrew. "You the one got kicked outta England?" he asked skeptically.

Andrew straightened, irritation drawing his brows together. "No one kicks me anywhere, boy," he said evenly. "What's in the pouch," he asked, even as understanding crashed through him.

No! his mind screamed. He clenched his fists at his sides.

"Letters for Viscount Carrelton from the Earl of Rice. Urgent the toff said wot got the captain to risk the ship this time a year. Paid well to risk it, too. We're all to get a share, the captain says."

"My brother Edward is in England," Andrew said softly.

The lad's cheeky grin revealed two missing teeth. "That one is, to be sure, and six feet under it, too, fer safe keeping."

"Watch your tongue!" Tauton ordered as he grabbed the boy's shoulder and shook him. The estate agent looked up at Andrew. "Then . . ."

Edward, dead? "Then Charles is the new heir," Andrew quickly said.

The boy dropped his long knitted cap then squirmed out from under Tauton's grip to pick it up. "No," he said, stuffing his cap in one of his coat's large patch pockets, "he got hisself kilt afore the other lopped off."

"Sir!" exclaimed Tauton. "That means. . . . My Lord Carrelton!" Tauton said, bowing.

Andrew did not spare the man a glance. A roaring sound filled his head. Edward and Charles dead! Memories of childhood sport and pranks chased one another through his mind. Edward, serious and solemn, with clever eyes. Charles ever the engaging scamp with angelic eyes. Their father had sent them to different schools to try to break the tie between them. It hadn't worked.

A searing sense of loss consumed Andrew. As adults they'd gone their different ways, but they were brothers always. Even, or especially, against the Earl of Rice.

Tears burned in the corners of his eyes. He blinked them away and he took a step forward. "Then I'll take that pouch," he said quietly, "For it seems I am Viscount Carrelton."

Andrew Montrose, now Viscount Carrelton and heir to the Earl of Rice, pushed the tiller hard to port to steer the small craft between the razor sharp coral reefs at the cove entrance, just as he had done a hundred times before. For a moment he allowed the sail to flap in the wind, then with a strong, smooth motion he hauled in the canvas. The flapping had unerringly echoed the pounding in his head, a pounding that had come yesterday afternoon in company with the leather