Her blood hummed in her veins. It was with a great deal of effort that Krystyna managed to look away.
Since she hadn't even acknowledged him, Jason decided to prompt her. "May I escort you to the table?"
Regaining her composure, Krystyna nodded and allowed herself to smile.
Lucinda felt pleased that her gown looked so well on someone else. It would be a shame to waste such a pretty frock. She glanced about furtively to see how the others received this lovely woman. They all appeared surprised and somewhat taken with this stranger, except for Savannah. She was glaring.
Savannah hadn't failed to note that Winthrop had all but dropped his glass at the sight of this unknown woman. She wasn't accustomed to competition. She had always been the center of attraction, wherever she was. It galled her to lose that standing now, and she took an instant dislike to the intruder her brother had found only the Good Lord knew where.
"Close your mouth, Aaron. You'll catch flies," she snapped. Aaron failed to respond. He was too taken with the strange woman. It was Lucinda who blushed for him and looked down at her plate.
Savannah sharpened her claws. "Where did you find this one, Jason?"
As she had intended, Krystyna gathered that Jason was in the habit of bringing home women. The knowledge stung, but she didn't let her reaction show. She drew herself up to her full height and tossed her head, annoyed at being spoken around and not to.
"Mr. McKinley was kind enough to come to my rescue after two men killed my father." Her words were like ice, and the look she gave Savannah cut the young woman dead. Savannah's eyes narrowed.
Jason smiled to himself. Krystyna might have needed help when he had first encountered her, but she certainly knew how to hold her own here.
"And just what is your name, miss?"
Krystyna turned. In the doorway stood Morgan McKinley, as regal-looking a man as ever had been regarded. A true patriarch. He reminded her of her father, though their faces were nothing alike. It was their bearing that made them kinsmen.
There was still dust on Morgan's coat from the long, hard ride, but he would not allow anyone to be late for dinner, including himself.
The old man and the young woman eyed one another in silence for a long, drawn-out moment. Krystyna sensed that this was the man to please and that he was not the sort who suffered weak people well. The simple sentence he had uttered was a challenge.
Morgan Dylan McKinley was a born despot who could be benevolent if the situation called for it. But he would brook no rebellion, stand for no disobedience to his laws. He was a hard master, but a fair one. His people loved him as much as they feared him. And he had no love for the aristocracy. He carried a small scar on the left side of his temple, a "gift," as he referred to it, from a lord's sword for not obeying an order fast enough. Shortly thereafter, the thirteen-year-old Morgan had fled, managing to get himself passage to the Colonies.
He had spent his youth and a good deal of his health creating an empire, carving it out of the Virginia wilderness. There had been no time to marry until he had been well into his thirties, and the children who came of that union hadn't gladdened his heart —save Jason. In him he saw echoes of himself, and it angered him greatly that Jason was so apathetic about the pending war that loomed over them.
"My name is Krystyna," she replied, inclining her head slightly. "Krystyna Poniatowska."
The old man's bushy eyebrows narrowed as he approached the table. One of the house slaves darted up and quickly took the cloak that Morgan carelessly dropped from his shoulders. The young girl retreated unobtrusively with the dark wrap in her arms. Morgan seemed to take no heed of her, though Krystyna doubted that anything got by him unnoticed.
"So, you made it after all." His words were met by surprise as the other people at the table looked at one another. Morgan had made no mention of
Since she hadn't even acknowledged him, Jason decided to prompt her. "May I escort you to the table?"
Regaining her composure, Krystyna nodded and allowed herself to smile.
Lucinda felt pleased that her gown looked so well on someone else. It would be a shame to waste such a pretty frock. She glanced about furtively to see how the others received this lovely woman. They all appeared surprised and somewhat taken with this stranger, except for Savannah. She was glaring.
Savannah hadn't failed to note that Winthrop had all but dropped his glass at the sight of this unknown woman. She wasn't accustomed to competition. She had always been the center of attraction, wherever she was. It galled her to lose that standing now, and she took an instant dislike to the intruder her brother had found only the Good Lord knew where.
"Close your mouth, Aaron. You'll catch flies," she snapped. Aaron failed to respond. He was too taken with the strange woman. It was Lucinda who blushed for him and looked down at her plate.
Savannah sharpened her claws. "Where did you find this one, Jason?"
As she had intended, Krystyna gathered that Jason was in the habit of bringing home women. The knowledge stung, but she didn't let her reaction show. She drew herself up to her full height and tossed her head, annoyed at being spoken around and not to.
"Mr. McKinley was kind enough to come to my rescue after two men killed my father." Her words were like ice, and the look she gave Savannah cut the young woman dead. Savannah's eyes narrowed.
Jason smiled to himself. Krystyna might have needed help when he had first encountered her, but she certainly knew how to hold her own here.
"And just what is your name, miss?"
Krystyna turned. In the doorway stood Morgan McKinley, as regal-looking a man as ever had been regarded. A true patriarch. He reminded her of her father, though their faces were nothing alike. It was their bearing that made them kinsmen.
There was still dust on Morgan's coat from the long, hard ride, but he would not allow anyone to be late for dinner, including himself.
The old man and the young woman eyed one another in silence for a long, drawn-out moment. Krystyna sensed that this was the man to please and that he was not the sort who suffered weak people well. The simple sentence he had uttered was a challenge.
Morgan Dylan McKinley was a born despot who could be benevolent if the situation called for it. But he would brook no rebellion, stand for no disobedience to his laws. He was a hard master, but a fair one. His people loved him as much as they feared him. And he had no love for the aristocracy. He carried a small scar on the left side of his temple, a "gift," as he referred to it, from a lord's sword for not obeying an order fast enough. Shortly thereafter, the thirteen-year-old Morgan had fled, managing to get himself passage to the Colonies.
He had spent his youth and a good deal of his health creating an empire, carving it out of the Virginia wilderness. There had been no time to marry until he had been well into his thirties, and the children who came of that union hadn't gladdened his heart —save Jason. In him he saw echoes of himself, and it angered him greatly that Jason was so apathetic about the pending war that loomed over them.
"My name is Krystyna," she replied, inclining her head slightly. "Krystyna Poniatowska."
The old man's bushy eyebrows narrowed as he approached the table. One of the house slaves darted up and quickly took the cloak that Morgan carelessly dropped from his shoulders. The young girl retreated unobtrusively with the dark wrap in her arms. Morgan seemed to take no heed of her, though Krystyna doubted that anything got by him unnoticed.
"So, you made it after all." His words were met by surprise as the other people at the table looked at one another. Morgan had made no mention of
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