"Why didn't you say something, Georgie?" he asked with gentle reproach.

"What the hell is going on here?" Warren demanded of no one in particular.

"Nothing," Georgina tried to insist.

But Thomas was as bad as Anthony in his own way, and said calmly, "She's having her baby."

"Well, of course she is--was

"Right now, Warren," Thomas clarified, and to his sister. "Why aren't you in bed?"

"Good God," James was heard to sigh quite loudly at that point. "The first sensible thing I've ever heard out of an Anderson."

And then it happened, all of her brothers

beginning to scold her at the same time, and 53 Anthony doing just as expected, standing back and laughing.

Georgina finally exploded. "Devil take it, would you all mind letting me have this baby in my own good time--and put me down, Warren!"

But Warren, who'd scooped her up off the sofa and was already heading for the door, wasn't her husband who might take her wishes into account. He kept right on going without answering her, and Georgina knew it was pointless to say anything else.

James had bounded after them immediately, and Amy, aware of how he felt about that particular Anderson, imagined a tug-of-war about to take place on the stairs. She jumped out of her chair to intercept him, saying quickly, "Does it matter how she gets there as long as she gets there?"

James barely spared her a glance, but did explain. "I wasn't going to stop him, dear girl, but he's the only one of her brothers who can't be depended on to see to her comfort once he gets her there. His answer to George's willfulness is to break out his belt."

Amy, effectively silenced, really wished he hadn't said that, and could only hope it was his dislike of Warren that had put those words in his mouth, rather than the truth. The man thought spanking was the answer to curb willfulness? Well, she wasn't willful, she really wasn't. Spanking? Stupid, stupid feelings, to settle on that brother. Why not Drew, who'd noticed right off that she was old enough now and pretty besides? She could deal with a sweetheart in every port. But this, on top of already knowing that Warren Anderson treated his women with nothing but cold indifference?

Upstairs, James paused in the doorway of the master bedroom, which Warren had unerringly found without Georgina's assistance, to watch the brother plumping the pillows at his sister's back, and gently tucking the covers around her. James wished, he truly did, that Warren didn't love her so much, and she him. It really tied his hands in dealing with the fellow as he'd like, indeed it did.

And he heard, in Warren's matter-of-fact tone, which was at the moment gruffly tender, "Don't be angry, Georgie. You had no business entertaining at a time like this."

Georgina was still miffed enough, however, to reply, "What hasn't occurred to you blockheads is that this is something that takes hours and hours 55 to get to the end of, and I would have preferred not to spend all of them in a hot, stuffy room--it happens to be summer, if you didn't notice-- with nothing to do but feel the pain."

To give him credit, Warren blanched, having been reminded so scathingly of what she was soon to suffer. "If anything happens to you, I'm going to kill him."

Georgina took that about as seriously as she did her husband's threats against him, but she said, "Just what I needed to hear. And you'll be hearing just how appreciative I am of your help in a short while, so I would suggest you wait this out aboard the Nereus. I'll have word sent 'round to you when it's over."

"I'm staying," came his stubborn reply.

"I wish you wouldn't," she persisted. "I really don't trust you and James in the same house when I can't be there to pull you two apart."

"I'm staying."

"So stay, then!" she snapped, losing patience. "But promise me there'll be no fighting, and I mean it, Warren. I have to have your promise. I can't be worrying about you two at a time like this."

"Very well," he agreed most grudgingly.

"And that means you won't react in your customary fashion to anything James says in his anxiety. He's not going to be himself today."

"I promise, dammit," Warren grouched.

Only then did he get a smile out of her. "Try not to worry yourself. I'm going to be just fine."

He nodded and headed for the door, only to be brought up short as he finally caught sight of James. For his part, James had been mulling over the amazing license that promise had just given him, only to realize, unfortunately, that he'd likely be in no condition to take advantage of it. What rotten luck, that the one time he'd be able to exact some pleasurable revenge against the fellow was now, and he probably wouldn't even notice that Warren was around.

And even while he still had his wits about him, he couldn't get in a few digs, not with Georgina lying there tensely within hearing distance. So he said, amazing himself in the process, "Never thought I'd have reason to thank you for anything, Anderson, but thank you. She bloody well wouldn't listen to me." 57

Warren was rather surprised himself that that was all James had to say to him, so he replied without much heat, "You should have insisted."

"Yes, well, that's where you and I differ, old man. I'm not about to argue with a pregnant woman, not when she's my pregnant woman. She could have asked me to tear down this house with my bare hands and I would have obliged her most happily."

Warren said with disapproval, "Indulgence is not always beneficial."

At which point James chuckled. "Speak for yourself, Yank. I find it very beneficial."

Warren flushed at his meaning, and that James was deliberately missing his point. "When it's for her own blasted good--was

"Oh, give over, Anderson," James cut in impatiently. "I know that. And she wouldn't have remained downstairs much longer, despite her wishes, I do assure you. As much as you might hate to acknowledge it, I do take very good care of my wife. Now do run along. I'd like a few quiet moments with her before there aren't any more."

Mindful of his promise, Warren said no more and

left the room. James found himself staring at a wife who wasn't all that happy with him.

He quirked a brow, asking innocently, "What?"

"You could have been a bit more gracious to him," she pointed out.

"That was as bloody well gracious as I get, George, as if you don't know that by now. Now what can I do for you before Charlotte arrives to kick me out?"

"You can come suffer under these blankets with me," she said peevishly, only to add in a small voice,

"And hold me, James. I'm beginning to get a little scared."

He did as she asked immediately, keeping his own fear well hidden to assure her, "You knowthere's nothing to this baby business."

"Easy for you to say," she snorted.

"You come from good breeding stock," he reminded her. "Your mother had six with little fanfare, and, good God, they must have all been little monsters when they arrived, to go by the size of them now--present company excluded."

"Don't make me laugh, James."

"That was the idea."

"I know, but just now it hurts." 59

"Georgie--was

"Shh, I'm fine. It's not really bad yet, and you were right, I do come from hardy stock." Then she sighed dramatically. "It's what we women have to suffer for our pleasure, though just once I'd like to see a man suffer the same for his."

"Bite your tongue, George. D'you want to see the end of the human race?"

She giggled--she could, now that she was temporarily between contractions again. "Oh, I don't know. I have every confidence that you could handle it. Can't say the same for the other men in your family. And you can forget about the men in mine, though Drew's been known to come up laughing when he gets knocked down. He might be able to tolerate the pain well enough. 'Course, that's only two out of soooo many, so I see your point. The race would definitely die out if we left it to you men to carry it on."

"You needn't sound so bloody smug about it, George," he grumbled.

"Just looking at the broader scheme of things, and how we women really have no choice in the matter when it comes right down to it. After all, you won't

see us being responsible for the end--was

"You've made your point, m'dear," he cut in dryly, then said tenderly, "Feeling better?"

"Yes." She grinned.

Chapter 6

Warren Anderson was pacing the parlor floor, and watching the clock on the mantel over the cold hearth. It was a quarter to four in the morning. If Georgina didn't get this thing over with soon, he was going to ... he didn't know what. Smash James Malory's face, probably. That idea had merit--no, he couldn't. That blasted promise. Though James wasn't likely to notice just now if he got his face smashed.

The man looked even worse off than Warren felt, which was like hell.

God, he was glad he hadn't been home when Clinton's wife had had her two babies. He'd been on one

of his China runs both times, which could take from two to four years at a stretch, depending on the mood of the ruling warlord. But the Skylark line wouldn't be sailing to China anymore, not after the powerful Lord Zhang

Yat-sen had reneged on a wager and would 61 be out for blood if he ever saw any of the Andersons again. Zhang had certainly tried to end their days that night in Canton, sending his deadly minions after Warren and Clinton, who'd been together at the time, wanting their heads as well as his precious antique vase, which Warren had just won from him in that fateful game of chance. If Warren hadn't been so drunk that night, he would never have put up his ship against that priceless vase, but he had and since he had, he was damn well keeping it.

Clinton had been of the same mind, coveting the vase even more than Warren. But their possession of it, fairly won, had ended their China trade. You simply didn't displease a man like Zhang, who was nearly godlike in the power he wielded in his little kingdom, and live to tell about it. Zhang proved that night that he'd have their heads on a platter if he could just get his hands on them, but thanks to their crew's timely rescue, Zhang's men had failed in their attack on the docks.

Warren wasn't going to miss the China runs, however, since he'd grown bored with those longer trade routes and being away from home so often. Maybe if he'd been home more, Georgina wouldn't have set out to find her missing fiancé in England, and ended up finding James Malory instead.

Thinking about the deadly enemy he'd left half a world away still didn't keep Warren's mind off his sister for very long.

Four o'clock in the morning.

How much longer could it go on? Someone, the girl Amy possibly, had said that Georgina's pains had begun around ten o'clock the previous morning, that she hadn't bothered to tell her husband because she didn't want to worry him, so he'd left the house and hadn't found out about it until he returned in the afternoon, just before the rest of them had arrived. Eighteen hours. How could it take so long? Something must be wrong, despite the doctor's periodic assurances that everything was progressing normally.

Warren continued to pace. James Malory continued to pace. Every so often Warren would come up abreast of him, since James was pacing in the opposite direction. They would merely move to the side of each other and continue, no words

exchanged, barely noticing each other. 63

Drew was pacing out in the hall, since he and Warren had gotten on each other's nerves, as they frequently did. Clinton was sitting, but the fingers of both hands were constantly drumming, on his knees,

on his arms, on the sides of his chair. He hadn't been at home for either of his children's births, so this was new to him, too, but he was holding up much better than the rest of them, with the exception of Thomas.

Boyd was stretched out on the sofa, dead to the world. He'd consumed an entire bottle of brandy by himself, and it was stronger stuff than he was used to. Warren had tried it, and would have welcomed getting drunk himself, but he kept setting his glass down and forgetting about it.

Thomas was upstairs, pacing the corridor outside Georgina's room so he would be the first to know when it was over. Warren had tried that, but at the first god-awful moan he'd heard coming through Georgina's door, he'd broken out in a sweat and started shaking, and Thomas had dragged him back downstairs.

That had been five hours ago. His sister was going through literal hell, and it was James Malory's fault. Warren took a step toward his brother-in-law, but he caught Anthony Malory watching him, and noted the aristocratic black brow raised in amused inquiry. His promise. He had to remember that blasted promise.

All night Anthony had been moving back and forth from a chair to a comfortable slouch against the wall by the hearth, and simply observed, or so it seemed. He held a glass of brandy that he did no more than sniff occasionally, and every so often he'd try to slip the glass into James's hand. It didn't work. James had told him flat out much earlier that he didn't want a "bloody" drink, and he hadn't changed his mind about it.

Anthony had tried to draw his brother into conversation, goading him actually, the kind of taunts that Warren couldn't have withstood without drawing blood. James ignored it all, though he did mumble to himself once in a while, things like, "Bloody everlasting hell," and "I'll never touch her again," and once,

"God, please," and once to Anthony directly, "Just take me out and shoot me."