Chapter 1

Maryland 1741

The three-masted sailing ship moved silently through the dark waters of the Chesapeake as the vessel made her way toward the port town of Annapolis on the western shore of the bay. A light breeze filled the canvas and lulled the deck watch at his station. No one saw the slight form move toward the railing on the starboard amidship.

Trembling with fear, the girl dropped her shapeless woolen gown to the splintered deck. She had only precious seconds to make her escape; she must not falter. She scrambled up and stood naked in the pale moonlight, her bare feet clinging to the gunnel, her long flaxen tresses blowing about her. Her lips moved in silent prayer, but her mind seemed numb and emotionless.

Ever since the ship had entered the mouth of the Chesapeake, she had planned for this moment. By dawn they would sight their destination, and it would be too late. There the cargo of convicted felons would be auctioned off as bondslaves to the highest bidder.

Charity's dimpled chin quivered with resolution. Her stubborn spirit refused to accept the finality of King George's stern justice. No man would sell Charity Brown as an indentured slave!

A sailor's shout stiffened her resolution and she dove into the dark waters of the bay. The cool waves closed over her head. There was no going back now. If they caught her, she'd be whipped or worse. She swam away from the vessel with the strong, steady strokes of one who had learned to swim in the treacherous currents of the Thames.

The cry of alarm spread. Charity took a breath and dove again. They must believe her drowned. Land was a thin blade of trees along the eastern horizon. She must reach it. When she did, she would decide what to do, how to change her identity. For now, she must only swim.

Her naked body slipped through the water like a mermaid's. It had been an act of desperation to strip. The prison gown would have pulled her down and would make recapture certain. For what real lady would wear such bug-ridden rags? And she was a lady. She had dreamed, and planned, and set her mind to the task. When she dove from the gunnel of the ship and entered the water, she had transformed herself from a convicted prisoner to a person of quality.

Shore was farther than she had believed. She began to swim more slowly, letting the current carry her. As long as she reached land safely, what matter if it took a little longer? She seemed alone on the surface of the water; she tried not to think of what might be beneath her. Were there whales? Sea monsters? She had seen a map of the New World once. A captain had brought it into her stepfather's tavern. She'd seen the sea monsters drawn around the edges of America. Not that she could read it. He pointed them out; he left a good tip, too. But who could believe the word of a seafaring man, or any man for that matter? The fish were probably as afraid of her as she was of them.

Tiring, Charity rolled onto her back and floated for a while. She was beginning to feel cold; she kicked harder. The moon moved behind rolling clouds. She was no longer certain of her direction. Annapolis lay on the west shore of the bay. A sailor had told her so. Safety then must be east. There had been no lights on the outline of land she'd seen from the ship's rail. Yet the sailor had said there were scattered plantations, and even a town... somewhere. America was very big. There were Indians and wild animals. Charity shuddered. Why did every thought come back to being eaten alive? She was cold and tired. Her shoulders ached and she was swallowing water every time a wave hit her in the face.

The trickle of fear along her backbone grew. Bastards! she screamed silently. When the judge had pronounced her guilty of murder, she'd stared the old vulture right in the eye and taken it without flinching. No weeping and wailing for Charity Brown! But now she was scared. She wasn't sure how long she could swim. It felt as if she'd been in the water for hours. "Bastards! Bastards!" She choked and shook her head, spitting out the water and gasping for air. If she let herself panic, it would be all over. She had to stay calm.

Maybe the water wasn't too deep. She took a big breath and let her body slide down and down into the depths. It was too far! Fear lent strength to her weary muscles and she forced them to work, pulling her up until her face broke water and she gulped the sweet, tangy air.

Sailors said drowning was an easy way to die. She didn't believe it. Not for her it wouldn't be. Drowning would be letting the water win... giving up. She'd always been a fighter. "Fight or lick boots," her mam had always said.

Life had been rough on the streets before Mam had married Tom Brown. She'd made her living the best way a pretty girl could, and Charity had never blamed her. Mam had done her best to keep her girl-child reasonably well-fed, no easy thing when you lived by your wits and slept in doorways.

Stop it! she told herself. She must keep her mind on swimming and not on what was past. Mam couldn't help her now. No one could help, maybe not even God. She shuddered at the blasphemy. If God wanted her dead, he'd had plenty of opportunity before this. Swim. Shore couldn't be far away! It felt like she'd swum across the whole damned ocean.

Arm over arm, that was the way. No need to push herself. No sense trying to fight the tide... just swim with it. Take deep breaths and swim with it, let the water hold her up.

Life at the tavern had been soft compared to the streets where there were stray dogs and other street urchins to contend with. Cobblestones were cold, worse for a girl than a boy. It took a sharp eye and ready wit just to stay alive. More than one girl she knew had been snatched and never seen again, dead or alive. Quick hands and a cocky smile had served her well. She'd learned to run errands and dodge drunks by the time she was knee-high to the fishmonger's stall. She could run like a wharf rat and fight like a one-eared tomcat. Meanest brat on the docks, Mam had called her, but she'd laughed when she said it.

Her mother's image wavered before her salt-stung eyes.

Her mind was wandering. Charity forced herself to stare through the darkness. Where was land? It had to be out there someplace. Her throat burned from the salt water; she was past cold, she was freezing. A few more strokes... just a few more strokes. Soon her feet would hit solid ground. Another stroke... another.

A dark shape loomed ahead. She strained to see what it was. The clouds parted briefly, revealing the outline of a sail. "Help!" she cried. "Help me! Please!"

For a long time it seemed as though they wouldn't hear, that they'd leave her to die in the black, black water. Charity bit her lip and whispered a silent prayer. Then, easily, daintily, the little sloop altered course and circled toward her.

"Here!" she shouted. "I'm here!"

Strong arms reached out to pull her from the waves. "By all that's holy!" Tenderly a blanket was wrapped about her shaking body. "Where are yer clothes, girl?" The voice was very Irish and very masculine. "No! By the saints, don't tell me! The less I know of this, the better."

"Please... don't take me to Annapolis," she murmured. Her voice sounded hoarse and queer to her ears. "I... I must go east," she insisted.

"No fear o' that, me girl. I'm fer the Eastern Shore, meself."

Exhausted, she allowed him to lead her below to the tiny cabin. Instinct told her there was nothing to fear from this tender, amused voice. She curled into a ball, clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering. He lifted her onto a bunk and left her to sleep.

"It's what ye need now, darlin', sleep. There'll be time an' time for talk in the mornin'. Sleep now. Yer safe, little girl." He dropped another blanket over her and went back on deck. "An' a fine story I'm sure it'll be," he said, chuckling to himself. "A fine story... an' a fine night's catch."

* * *

The gentle rocking of the boat brought Charity back to consciousness slowly. She stretched and rubbed her eyes. Light streamed through the open hatch; it was full day. She rubbed her aching muscles and snuggled deeper into her nest, then forced herself awake. Where was she? Who was her rescuer? Could he be trusted? What would she say to him? Wrapping the smaller blanket around herself with as much dignity as she could muster, Charity climbed topside.

Her green eyes widened in surprise. The sloop was anchored in a cove surrounded on all sides by thick trees. There was no sign of a dock or any human habitation.

"Good mornin', Venus."

Charity whirled. "My name's Charity! Not..." Struck dumb, she stared. A blush started at the tips of her bare toes and crept steadily upward through her body. She found her voice, what there was of it. "Holy Mary!" Aghast, she clapped a hand over her mouth. Her savior was a priest!

He stood on the bow of the sloop, feet planted solidly, arms akimbo. His blotchy, red-freckled face split in a wide grin.

"'Tis clearly a case of mistaken identity on both parts," he gasped. "I'm Father Brady."

Tears came to Charity's eyes. She was mortified. First the holy father had seen her naked as the day she was hatched, and now he was poking fun at her. If he weren't a priest, she'd black both his eyes and throw him into the drink, old man or no!

"Now, now, child." His laughter vanished as he saw her pain. "I didna' mean to make light of yer problems. 'Twas just the double shock of seein' yer lovely face in the daylight, and of hearin' you call me..." His voice trailed off, and his lips twitched in an effort to keep from smiling. "Holy Mary."

Charity looked away as he came toward her. On this little boat, there was nowhere to run. She was conscious of her nude body beneath the scratchy wool of the blanket; she pulled it tighter about her. "Father... Father Brady, I..."

"Ye look better this mornin', ye surely do. Like a drowned kitten ye were last night. Let me fix you a drop of tea. Tea always makes a body feel better. I've some fine tea, fresh off a ship... from the governor's own special stock. 'Twill make ye feel like a new woman, I can promise."

Charity eyed him suspiciously. "Where are we? What place is this? How did you get the boat in here? I never knew no priest to sail a boat like a fisherman."

He raised a hand soothingly and leaned against the cabin. "Peace, child, I mean ye no harm. There 's a passageway through the trees over there. I often anchor here to wait for my... for my flock." He removed his small silver spectacles and polished them on a shabby pants leg, then arranged them on his freckled nose. "Others have been fishermen before me," he chastised softly. "Remember Peter? He left his nets to follow the Lord."

"I'm sorry, Father," Charity mumbled. Tears spilled down her cheeks. "It's just that I..."

"You've had a bad time, of course, of course." The deep voice grew serious. "But shouldn't I be the one to be askin' the questions?"

"Yes, Father." She sobbed and wiped at her eyes like a child. "Oh, Father... Father, I need your help." She began to weep again and he took her in his arms and let her cry against his shoulder.

"There, there, child," he soothed.

His touch was comforting; she felt safe for the first time in months. Slowly the tears stopped falling and she stood back and stammered an apology.

"No need, no need," he said. "If I can give aid to a lost lamb—"

"But I'm no lamb!" she protested. "Father, you don't know... Father, it's been more than a year since my last confession. Will you hear it now?"

"Me? Now?" Father Brady backed away, shaking his head. "I don't know. It's highly irregular. There's no screen! That's it. No screen. You need to make your confession in private. In the church. I'm sure whatever little sins you've committed since ye last—"

"How private do you need it to be? You must hear my confession! Father, I've killed a man!"

"Murder?"

"No! Not murder! You'd make this easier if you'd just hear my confession." Her green eyes narrowed. "What kind of a priest are you who won't hear a sinner's confessions?" Her chin went up and she glared at him.

"An old one. One who isn't used to fishing beautiful girls from the sea. One who hasn't had his tea this mornin'." He limped up toward the bow and Charity noticed a small fire built in a box of sand. He balanced a copper kettle over the coals and turned back to her. "We'll have our tea and you can tell me yer tale. Go below first and put on some clothes. You'll find a dress in that chest under the bunk."

"But..."

"No buts. We'll talk like civilized people, and yer story will be as sacred to me as if it were given in the confessional." He nodded firmly. "Ye have me solemn word on it."

"Yes, Father," she agreed meekly. Perhaps it would be better to put something on first. She was hungry and wondered if it would be bad manners to ask for something to eat. She couldn't remember when her last meal had been. She ducked below and rummaged in the sea chest, then let out a gasp of pleasure.

It was no dress but a gown! A gown as fine as any queen had ever hoped to spread upon her back! All lavender and lace with a shift of angel down as white as a cloud! Trembling, Charity slipped the precious clothing over her body. Other than being a little tight across the bodice, it fit as though it had been stitched for her. She had never imagined such a gown, let alone touched one.

"Don't forget the drawers," Father Brady called.

Charity flushed crimson, fumbling; for the dainty under-things and pulling them on. He needn't have embarrassed her! She knew enough to wear drawers! She fingered a pair of white kid slippers and fine stockings, then decided against them. The owner would be furious enough about her dress being worn. What was a priest doing with such clothing? Holding the skirt up carefully from the deck, she stepped up through the hatchway.

"Holy Mary," he said softly, then got up to offer her his hand and lead her forward to the bow. "Yer a sight, child."

"Thank you, Father. I could find no petticoats..." She stopped, blushing. "I mean... I..."

"The Lord provides, child. But I doubt if he worries about such frivolity as ladies' petticoats." He offered her a steaming cup of tea. "Sit yerself down and tell me yer troubles."

"Whose gown am I wearing? 'Tis lovely enough to belong to the queen herself." Charity sipped at the tea. It was sweet and tasted heavenly. "How did it get on your boat?"

"The sparrows of the field do not question... neither should you. 'Twas meant fer the niece of the governor of Virginia. But she'll not need it now. Keep it and welcome." He unwrapped a length of clean cloth and handed Charity bread and cheese. "We'll eat light this morning."

"Do you mean it, Father? I'm to keep this beautiful thing?" Her eyes glowed as she stuffed the food into her mouth. "I can't thank you enough," she mumbled.

"She had a face like a dried plum," he admitted wryly.

"What?" Charity swallowed the last of the bread and wiped hastily at the crumbs on the front of her gown. "Forgive me, Father, I've not eaten food as good as that since I sat at my mam's table."

Father Brady settled down on his haunches, the broad brim of his shapeless felt hat shading his eyes from the morning brightness. The lined face was compassionate, the cinnamon-brown eyes behind the spectacles kind and intelligent. "Now tell me of yer troubles, child. There's none here but the gulls and God to hear."

"I'll start with my name... though I do feel funny to be giving my confession all bare-like."

Father Brady chuckled and poured himself another cup of tea. "But not as bare as ye were, child, Go on wi' it."

"Well, I'm Charity Brown, at least that's what I'm called. My mam says it's a charity to say so. She married Master Brown. He has a fine tavern at the corner of—" She broke off. "Could I have that last bit of bread if you're not going to finish it? I'm past famished!" He handed over the end of the loaf and she took a bite and chewed it eagerly." 'Tis fine bread they make in the Colonies. I thought I'd be living on roots and berries like the savages. Have you ever seen a red savage, Father?"

"A few. They're mostly peaceable on the Tidewater. Go on."

"Well, my trouble's my own. My mam always said my face was my fortune, but I can tell you, so far it's been a heavy cross to bear."

"I find no fault with your face, child, praise God." His lips twitched in amusement.

"You needn't laugh. It's no easy thing for a girl in my place, I can tell you! Every jack that came into my stepfather's tavern was looking to catch a feel. I'm a good girl, I am, no matter what some might think. And I'm not ashamed of Mam, not a bit of it." She glared at him as if to defy contradiction.

"Honor thy father and thy mother," Father Brady murmured piously.

"Prettier'n me, she was too, until she started to lose her teeth!" Charity took a breath and finished off the bread."'Twas a tanner that caused all the trouble, and not a full tanner neither, a journeyman he was. Come into the tavern drunk as a lord. Begging your pardon, Father. But the bastard was no gentleman, he wasn't. He tore my best dress and was fumbling for my..." She flushed crimson and looked away. "Well, I grabbed a poker and gave him a good thump on the head to teach him some manners! 'Tweren't my fault, you see. How was I to know his skull would cave in like that? I never knew a tanner to have such a soft head."

"And the man died?" Father Brady's voice was curiously distorted.

"Dead as a coffin nail." She frowned. "I prayed for his soul, of course. But it was more his fault than mine, you can see that, can't you?" Charity held out her cup for more tea. "Is that sugar in the tea? It really strengthens a body, certain." She settled back and sniffed the heady brew. "Ummm, good. Thank you, Father. Well, when I went before the judge, he didn't believe a word I said. Just looked me up and down and said, 'No wench that looks like you could possibly be a virgin!'"

Father Brady choked on his tea, spraying a mouthful into the fire, and doubled over in spasms of coughing. Charity slapped his back sharply.

"Are you all right?"

He cleared his throat and made a croaking sound of affirmation, then took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. "'Tis nothing, I'll be fine. An old illness, nothing more."

"I'll not be laughed at by my own confessor!" she threatened. "You'd not think it funny if you were in my shoes, I can tell you." Charity folded her arms over her chest and continued. "Being I couldn't be what I said, then I couldn't have been defendin' meself. The old bastard sentenced me to transportation for murder."

"So you're an escaped bond servant?"

"I am not! I'm Charity Brown, and I'm going to be a lady!"

Brady regarded her closely as she explained her plans to pass herself off as a woman of quality. God's teeth! In or out of that gown, she was a real beauty! The heart-shaped face without a single scar or blemish, the even white teeth, the tiny waist and full high bosom... She could have graced the courts of Europe. Only her low speech gave her away. He wondered if she were the by-blow of some nobleman. She had the pluck and determination of one born to the aristocracy.

"So if you could see your way through to give me a bit of help, Father..." Charity frowned. "Are you listening?"

"To every word." He cleared his throat. "If I understand you correctly, yer asking me, a man of God, to aid in this deception. You want me to help pass you as quality so you can land a rich husband."

Charity squirmed. It sounded worse when he said it. She dropped to her knees and held out her hands. "I'd do any penance you give me. I don't mean to cheat or steal. I'd be a good wife, a nurse and companion to some old man. An' he don't have to be rich, least not too rich; a country squire would do just fine. I want my babes to have fresh milk and all they can eat, without dodging slops in the street. I'm a good girl, an' I'd be a good wife," she promised.

"None of that now," Father Brady grumbled. "Get up off yer knees. Ye look foolish. I'll admit I hate to send you back to be punished fer runnin' away, but wouldn't a farmer do just as well?"

"No, he wouldn't! First time the cows took sick or the rain took the wheat, me and mine would be hurtin'. A man's luck sours, he begins to knock his wife and kids around. Me face is all I got, Father. I'd sooner take my chances with a man what's got enough set aside fer a rainy day." She settled to the deck and spread the lavender skirt around her. "I could use your help, but I'll do it with or without you."

"And if they catch ye?"

"I'll run away again, and again... till I get free or they hang me." Her gray-green eyes were hard. "'Twould be an act of Christian charity to help me." Her dimple quivered and she grinned impishly. "My death will be on your conscience."

He sighed. "Ye leave me little choice, child. Fer the good of yer soul and mine..."

Charity swallowed hard.

"I'll take ye to a friend of mine. She's a great lady. Ye can tell her yer tale. Whether she'll believe it or no, I cannot say. But if she decides to help, I could leave ye in no better hands."

"Oh, thank you, Father. I'll say a hundred Hail Marys for me sins."

"That ye will, me girl. One hundred Hail Marys on your knees, and another hundred Our Fathers fer the soul of that poor tanner you pokered," he added sternly.

"My knees will be raw!" she protested.

"You've had me best offer. Take it or leave it." Squaring her shoulders, Charity thrust out a hand. "It's a bargain," she said. "Though I'll wager my prayers will not, move the lecher a step out of hell!"