Carefully Miriam poured tea from the polished pewter pot into the cup in her hand, striving to make an elegant arc of the golden brown liquid. Though Mama had insisted she learn such nieeties so as to be able to cater to the occasional gentry who stopped at the Green Lion on the road from Boston north to Salem, now she was glad because it pleased Chilton. She smiled as she handed him the teacup, and he beamed back at her with approval.

On so warm an afternoon Miriam herself would just as soon have sipped buttermilk or sweetened lemonade than a steaming dish of tea, but Chilton would never sacrifice his genteel ritual. Besides, this was the one part of the day, after the dinner dishes had been washed and before the preparations for supper were begun, that Miriam—and the Green Lion's single private dining chamber where they sat—could be spared from the tavern. With a weary little sigh she settled herself in the chair beside Chilton's, taking care to hide her dishwater-reddened hands in the folds of her apron.

And she was weary, not just from serving dinner to twenty, but from her own restless sleep these past two nights since Zachariah had returned. Instead of convincing her brother of the wisdom of her coming marriage, their conversation seemed to have shaken her own resolution. Of course accepting Chilton was right; of course she'd be happy with him. So why, then, had she taken such care to put that foolish seashell beneath her pillow each night, a small, mischief-making lump that had caused her to toss and turn and dream odd, broken dreams of Jack Wilder?

"Miriam dear, you do not attend me," chided Chilton indignantly.

"But I do, Chilton," said Miriam with guilty haste, thrusting a small tray of biscuits before him. "These lemon ones are your favorites, aren't they?"

"That is not what I meant at all," he answered severely, though he didn't hesitate to take one of the offered biscuits. "You have not listened to a word I have spoken these ten minutes past."

"That's not true," said Miriam automatically, if not truthfully.

"No?" He waved the half-eaten biscuit with dainty elegance between his thumb and forefinger. "If you can repeat to me one fraction of what I was saying of Dr. Hynde and his theory of transmogrification, then you shall have my heartfelt apology. But I rather believe, my dear, that you cannot, and so instead must be obligated to me."

He popped the last of the biscuit into his mouth, his jaws working in neat, rapid bites of triumph. For Miriam, whose errant thoughts had been preoccupied with the memory of Jack Wilder's wickedly rakish grin, those rabbity little bites were a dreadful reminder of what she'd lost. Chilton was a respectable man, even brilliant, but with his ginger-colored brows and lashes and the face around them as pale and round as a pudding, he could not be called handsome, and never, ever rakish.

But Chilton had asked her to be his wife, something Jack had never bothered to do, and for that alone he deserved better from her. "I am sorry, Chilton," she began as inexplicable tears stung her eyes. "I know how much Dr. Hynde's theories do matter to you. But the Lion's been so busy these last days, and I've been working so hard that—"

"Do not distress yourself, my dear, I beg you." Chilton reached for her hand and gently began to pat the back of it. "As soon as you are my wife, my dearest helpmeet, then such troubles will slip from your life."

She sniffed and looked down at his smooth, tapered fingers resting upon her own red knuckles. Gentleman's hands, she thought miserably, just as this was a gentleman's seemly way of comforting a lady. So why, then, did she wish that he'd sweep her into his arms instead and hold her tight against his chest, even try to kiss her? That was exactly the sort of thing that Jack had done, and what good had come from it? Could craving such brash attention mean that she in turn wasn't fit to be Chilton's wife, that all she really deserved was a scoundrel like Jack Wilder?

"You are too good for me, Chilton," she began wretchedly. "I do not know why you—"

"I'll not hear a word more against my choice, or yourself, either," interrupted Chilton. "Once we are wed, I promise I'll grant you a better life. It is, after all, not so very much longer to wait."

Miriam managed a wistful smile. As usual, Chilton was right. Marriage would end her foolish restlessness. It was this dreadful in-between time that was making her look backwards to the past. That, and Zach's meddlesome magic seashell. "I wish our wedding were tomorrow."

"My dear, impatient little bride." Chilton smiled indulgently, his voice as rich and fulsome as clotted cream. He raised her fingers, caressing them gently with his own, and kissed the air over the back of her hand. "I wish it were, too. But until then, Miriam, we must curb our more base desires."

"But that isn't what I mean!"

"I know well enough what you mean, Miriam," said Chilton kindly. "Not that I fault you for it, not in the least. Growing up in such a barbarous land, so close to the savage wilderness and away from the better influences of society, it is not surprising to have, ah, heated and ungovernable impulses. I admit to feeling them myself where you are concerned. But we must not succumb to those passions, and instead must be guided by our sensibilities."

As the long, stiffened curls of his wig brushed over her hand, she thought grudgingly of how he seemed to be doing a much better job of passion-curbing than she. Perhaps it was because she hadn't the faintest idea of what or where her sensibility was, let alone of how to be guided by it. But in this, too, Chilton was right. She must learn to control her passions or she'd never be happy, not with him and, more importantly, not with herself, either.

But it was one thing to make such bold resolutions, and quite another to make them real. By the time the last of the Green Lion's tipplers had been pointed toward home and the coals in the kitchen fire were banked for the night, Miriam was so tired she could barely drag herself up the winding back stairs to her room under the eaves. There the air was close and warm, the shingles of the sloping roof overhead still holding the heat of the day though it was nearly midnight, warm enough that Miriam flopped on top of her coverlet in her thin linen shift alone, her arms and legs outstretched to catch any breath of a breeze that might drift in through the tiny casement window.

Tonight, she told herself firmly, I will sleep, and I will not dream.

But as soon as she closed her eyes, her unconscious mind wantonly ceased to obey.!!!She was again sitting with Chilton, and once again he was bowing over her hand with his courtier's grace. She smiled and arched her wrist gracefully, her manners for once a match for his, and as she did, he laughed, low and deep in his chest. It wasn't Chilton's laugh, not at all, and when he lifted his face to meet her startled gaze, it wasn't Chilton's face, either, but!!!Jack's, his wavy dark hair falling across his forehead as it always did, his pale eyes wicked and teasing as his fingers tightened around hers to pull her from her ladylike chair and onto his lap, his thighs hard and muscled beneath her bottom as he tipped her back in his arms to kiss her and—

She jerked awake, her breathing rushed and her heart thumping and the heat of the room pressing down on her with the same force that Jack had in the dream. Another wretched, willful, wrong-headed abomination of a dream, and with a groan she pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks.

She hadn't dreamed of Jack in years, and certainly not like this. Why should his memory suddenly come back to haunt her, now that she was promised to another? Her passions were racing away like a team of runaway horses, all right, and she was determined to rein them in. Grimly she squeezed her eyes shut and rolled onto her side, sliding her hand beneath her pillow to bunch it beneath her cheek. As she did she felt the little lump of Zach's seashell, placed there as she'd promised.

"Maiden's Wish, ha," she grumbled as she pulled it out from hiding. "More like Maiden's Torment."

She was not by nature superstitious, but enough was enough. She shrugged a calico short-gown over her shift, not bothering to lace the front closed, and with the shell held tightly in her hand she padded barefoot down the stairs and out the kitchen door.

At the yard's fence, she paused, relishing the peace around her. In a village like Westham, no one else would be awake at this hour, let alone abroad, and the little cluster of houses and shops stood shuttered and silent beneath the stars and the dull gleam of the quarter moon. From the marshes on the far bank of the river she could hear the rhythmic chatter of crickets played against the gentle shush of the waves coming in across the sand with the tide. It was cooler here, too, than it had been in the house, and as she turned her face toward the water she already felt calmer and more at peace. This had all been Zach's fault, putting doubts and ideas into her head, and she meant to deal with it now, before it caused her any more trouble.

Purposefully she headed around to the front of the tavern, her bare feet choosing the dry wild grasses along the side instead of the sharp crushed shells of the carefully raked path. She passed beneath the hanging signboard of the emerald-green and gilt lion, and between the now-empty posts for tying horses. It was only a short walk to the tavern's own dock; long ago her grandfather had had the shrewd foresight to realize that travelers on the new road north from Boston would want a dry, comfortable spot to wait for a boat to ferry them across the river to continue their journey, or, coming from the south, a decent bed and a warm supper before the tide shifted in the boatman's favor.

The worn planks of the dock were smooth beneath Miriam's feet, and at the very end, next to the ferry bell, she stopped, hooking her toes over the edge in the daredevil way that she and Zach—and Jack, too—had always done as children. She herself hadn't done it for years now, but somehow, there in the moonlight, it seemed oddly appropriate. After all, in a way, wasn't she still daring the two boys who had ruled her life?

She opened her hand, holding the little shell up to the moonlight. "There, Zachariah Fairbourne," she muttered resolutely as she drew her arm back to heave the shell into the dark water below. "This is what I think of your heathenish wishing shell, and this is what I think of your wretched true love for—"

"You're too late."

She spun around so quickly she nearly tottered off the edge of the dock, her arms flapping like an inelegant duck as she struggled to keep her balance. But the man didn't move to help her, his long shadow in the moonlight the only thing to reach out toward her.

"It's after midnight, Mirry, the third morning," said Jack Wilder softly. "Now come, and greet your own true love."