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North Carolina, 1823

Caitlin bent to pluck a small purple blossom from the grass, her dark hair falling around her fair face like a curtain before she rose again to hold her find against the sky, examining it. It was small-no bigger than one of her fingernails-but the petals were a creamy shade of amethyst that seemed to glow when the sunlight shone through them from behind, rimming the flower with a halo of violet light. She tossed it into her basket. Looking down at the rest of its contents, she frowned. She'd only managed to gather a sparse handful of wildflowers, and most of them were just as diminutive as the little lilac beauty she'd just picked. This was not owing to some unfortunate circumstance of weather-it had rained often that summer-or some natural lack of colourful foliage in the North Carolina countryside. It was because of the the fact that, for the past two months, she'd been roaming this particular area on the outskirts of the O'Brien property like a madwoman, gathering wildflowers as an excuse for her trespassing.

She stooped down again, this time to pick a dainty buttercup from beside the hoof-worn dirt trail she was so careful not to let out of her sight. She added the flower to her collection, laying it to rest among its equally petite companions, hoping that today would be the day she'd finally need to display them-a colourful if rather pathetic excuse. She would pretend to have been so caught up in flower-gathering that she'd scarcely noticed straying off her own family's property and onto O'Brien land, of course. She'd smile, laugh and pretend to be surprised to have wandered so far and to have run into-of all people-Aaron O'Brien, Squire O'Brien's oldest son. And then, if she was lucky, maybe he'd kiss her again.

She blushed furiously at the thought, adding another buttercup to her collection. The first of May was two months past, but she could still feel the warm weight of Aaron's lips against hers when she thought about it. The O'Brien estate was an empire built on iron, but all of their dozen furnaces and even the forge had been abandoned for that wonderful summer holiday, Beltane. Each and every person had forgotten about work for one glorious day, from Squire O'Brien himself to the forgemen. The O'Briens had hosted a wonderful Beltane celebration on the grounds of their manse, and their Irish neighbours had gathered from miles around to throw a rather raucous harbinger of summer. Caitlin's family had crossed the Atlantic from the Emerald Isle seven years ago to farm some North Carolina land acquired by an uncle who had come before them and had attended. Their presence at the celebration had not been in vain.

Caitlin sweated slightly in the humid southern July heat, but she wouldn't have forgotten it even if it had snowed every day since. How could she possibly forget the way Aaron had seized her around her waist as she circled the maypole and stolen an airborne kiss?

Not in a thousand years.

The real question, she had long since decided, was whether the kiss had been a spontaneous outburst of giddy celebration-perhaps aided by a pint too many of ale-or a manifestation of genuine attraction. She hoped, quite badly, that it had been the latter, but there was only way to find out...and that was to meet Aaron face to face again.

She'd hardly seen him at all since Beltane, except for a couple of times in brief passing that had offered little more than a chance for a greeting shouted from the seat of a wagon. She was determined to encounter him again-preferably alone-and so had begun to resolutely strip the edge of the O'Brien property of its wildflowers, hoping to meet him riding on the nearby path she knew he favoured. So far she'd been unsuccessful, but she refused to give up hope-her father was fond of telling her that 'you make your own luck', and she'd taken the saying to heart.

She glanced up at the path as she continued to scour the wild summer grasses, her heart sinking for what seemed the thousandth time when the horizon proved to be devoid of human or animal presence. The sky had grown dark.

Another storm.

Sighing, she straightened, shifted her basket into the crook of her elbow, and prepared to begin the journey home.

Maybe I can beat the rain this time.

With that incentive, she gathered up her skirts and stepped quickly through the grass, casting one last wistful look at the path that wound across acres of empty fields and, eventually, into a narrow strip of forest. She nearly dropped her basket when a horse and rider appeared on the road, coming towards her at a brisk pace, perhaps trying to race the storm home.

Frozen in expectation, her heart beating wildly, she stood several paces from the road, watching the figure on horseback transition from a discernibly masculine figure blurred by distance to a distinctly tall, well-muscled young man with a full head of red-gold waves that fell almost to his shoulders, shining even beneath the grey sky.

Aaron!

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The air smelt of rain and lightning. Isla drew her cloak further over her head, holding it fast against the wind with a fist beneath her chin. Fat raindrops pelted her face anyway, driven almost sideways by a particularly fierce gust, plastering a few stray strands of her fiery red hair against her fair cheek. Water flew into her moss-green eyes, causing her to blink against the sting. She cursed under her breath as her horse plodded on, its ears laid flat against its skull. She hadn't expected foul weather. There had been no sign of an impending storm earlier that morning when she'd ridden from home. Sign or no, her skirts clung to her legs, soaked, as she rode onwards across the rain-swept highlands without hope of shelter. Should she turn around and begin the journey home?

No. She was too close, and it might be weeks or even months before she had another chance to abandon her home and chores for half a day. Her father had gone to his brother's farm to help him with the breaking of a particularly feisty colt, intending to stay at least two days. In preparation, she had doubled her efforts around their modest home and fields over the past couple of days to ensure this trip wouldn't cause her to fall noticeably behind on her work. Her hands were raw from it-even holding the leather reins stung her fingers. She could only hope no one would come calling and find their cottage empty, or recognise her riding across the countryside and mention it to her father. He would demand an explanation for her dalliance, and what would she tell him? Certainly not the truth. She shoved the thought from her mind and focused instead on the road ahead, which had turned rapidly from a dirt path winding through the heather to a sticky ribbon of mud. She eyed the field to her left and the forest to her right in turn. She hadn't come far enough yet to want to enter the woods. The heather, however, would make for better footing than the thick mud. She tightened a rein and pressed a leg against her mount's side, urging him off the road.

The horse-a stout little bay gelding she called Briar-turned his head slightly to the left and lurched suddenly, plummeting beneath Isla. She bobbed in the saddle, caught unawares by his stumble. Briar struggled to right himself, heaving beneath her as an ominously sticky, wet sound came from below. She swung out of the saddle and landed in the mud, in which she found his front left hoof entrenched. It was hard to tell exactly where his leg ended and the earth began, because his coat was naturally the colour of mud, but it was obvious he'd sunk in well past his fetlock. He snorted and pulled, pawing the mud with his free foot. She placed a hand against his damp neck and attempted to calm him, fearing the sound of snapping bone would soon join the noise of sloshing mud and pelting rain to create a symphony of doom.

"Shh..." She stroked Briar's neck with one hand while she felt her way steadily down his leg with the other.

Briar snorted and gave one last pull just as Isla's fingertips brushed his soiled knee. His foot came lose with a loud pop and he slid a little in the mud, caught off balance. Something gleamed silver in the churned earth-a horseshoe. Isla groaned, placed a palm flat against Briar's grime-splattered chest and pushed, urging him backwards, away from the treacherous pool of churned, wet earth that had robbed him of his shoe. He complied, his hooves splashing in the layer of rainwater that glazed the surface of the saturated ground. She pulled him into the heather, patting his neck and eyeing the lost horseshoe with regret. What would her father say? She'd better grab the shoe and tuck it into her saddlebag so she could take it home, toss it into the paddock and pretend it had been lost there.

"Hold still, now, Briar." She relinquished her hold on his reins and stepped back out onto the road.

He stared at her complacently with large, dark eyes, any sense of adventure or mischievousness cowed by the driving rain.

Isla experienced one fleeting moment of shelter from the downpour as she bent to pluck the horseshoe from the road, her hood falling forward to hide her face as she eyed the muddied, upturned earth. And then the rain was back, cold and biting against her cheek as she rose and tucked the shoe into a fold in her cloak. A distant flash of movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention as she slogged forward to reach for Briar's hanging reins. She turned and squinted against the downpour, barely able to make out a figure approaching on horseback.

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Carrie clutched the lapels of her jacket tightly against the chill of the early autumn evening. It was unseasonably cool for October in Charlotte, North Carolina, as if the weather had decided to match the climate of her emotions. She walked slowly as she covered the distance between the small boutique where she worked and her apartment. There was no one waiting for her at home, no reason to hurry.

"Huhh!" she gasped sharply, the fabric of her jacket straining across her bust at the sudden expansion of her chest. She had seen it-there! A large shadow, darker than the nine o' clock streets, darting quickly out of sight. Her heart hammered, hard and fast. A mugger. A rapist. A murderer. Each possible explanation her mind conjured up was worse than the last, but none of them-terrible as they were-prepared her for the shock of the truth.

"No." The network of neurons and synapses in her brain might as well have snapped and been sparking like broken power lines for all the good her powers of reasoning were doing her. Her heart stepped up in their place and assumed control. Yes, it cried to her, yes, God yes!

"Brendan," she whispered, as the shadow revealed himself.

"Carrie."

Carrie trembled and fell, swallowed by the blackness and quiet of unconsciousness before her body could even hit the sidewalk.

* * * *

The place where Carrie awoke was a little less dark and quiet than the nothingness that had filled her mind when she'd fainted, but not much. The ceiling above her was rough, wooden, its rafters barely visible in the dimness. The hardness beneath her indicated the floor was made from a similar material. She pressed a palm down by her hip, where a folded blanket protected her from the worst of the cold and stiffness that came from lying on an unheated, hardwood floor.

Where am I? she wondered desperately. The only source of illumination was moonlight, which drifted in through a jagged hole, about two feet across and two feet high, in the brick wall. That shadow... So it was a rapist! Why else would she be lying on her back on a blanket in an old, abandoned building?

She took a quick inventory of her clothing and found it was all still intact. And her body felt as closed and unvisited as it had on any other given day of the past year. Where was she, then, and why?

A face appeared above her, and the rest of the street-side events flooded back in a rush of wild emotion. "Brendan!" Carrie gasped.

It was really him, it had to be. She would have recognised the slightly coppery gleam in his dark locks anywhere-she had never seen hair quite like his. It had grown, though, so it brushed his shoulders. A year ago it had been cropped quite short. She had always wanted him to let it grow out. She'd even begged him once. And his eyes-there was no mistaking the shape or the fringe of dark lashes. But there was something off about the colour. Maybe it was just the dim lighting, but they appeared almost red in hue. His face, however, was just as it had always been, if a bit paler. She could have traced its every line and contour with her eyes closed and known who he was-and the same went for his body, which bulged beneath dark, simple clothing with a strength she had once known so well.

"Carrie," he said.