The room didn't actually feel that cold. Carly suspected that her chills were due more to nervousness. "I'm fine."

He moved to the hearth. At a distance, the features of his dark face were fuzzy, the outline of his tall frame indistinct, but that did little to diminish his size. He stood head and shoulders over the floor lamp beside her, and his white shirt swam in her vision, making him look even broader through the chest and shoulders.

He crouched to light the fire. Amber flames leaped and sputtered, casting his lean body in gold. Her heart pattered. Her breathing became quick and shallow. It was madness to think of the night they met, but she couldn't stop herself. Kisses that had made her bones melt, the tingling warmth that radiated from his big hands, and the sweet things he'd said. As always, a cold knot bunched in her stomach when she remembered the pain that came later.

Recalling the power she'd felt in his arms and shoulders when he'd lifted her from the truck, she knew she'd be helpless to stop him if he chose to exercise his marital privileges. The possibility made her nerves leap, which in turn made her nausea worse.

"It should warm up in here soon," he told her.

He pushed erect and turned toward her. Even at a distance, the blue of his eyes was intense and unsettling. Carly tried to make her mind go blank-but the traitorous thoughts clung tight. Now, for better or worse, she was about to discover if Hank Coulter was a man of his word.

Resting his hands at his waist, he slowly crossed the room, his movements a purely masculine undulation of lean hips and long, powerfully muscled legs. When he came to stand in front of her, he smiled, looking almost as tense as she felt. His expression gave nothing away.

"Would you like a quick tour of the house?"

"Oh, sure. That would be nice."

He led the way around the wall that divided the kitchen off from the small living room. "Here we have the kitchen." Laughter lighted his eyes as he met her gaze. With a wave of his hand, he indicated the table. "Complete with a not-too-fancy dining area that has the added feature of doubling as a game room, breakfast nook, and office." He indicated a door beyond the dining set. "That's the back bedroom. I've got all my stuff stowed in there." Inclining his head, he added, "The front bedroom is-well, in front."

Carly laughed nervously as he preceded her to the open doorway and leaned in to switch on the overhead light. The mellow illumination told her that he'd stepped down the wattage of the bulbs in the ceiling fixture. She hesitated before following him into the room. Then she chided herself for being a goose. If he reneged on his promise to her and pressed her for sex, she would survive. So far, he didn't strike her as being a cruel man, only a somewhat thoughtless and self-centered one.

"Like I said, it's nothing fancy, and it's not very big," he apologized as she took in the small bedroom.

"What a beautiful bed. Is it brass?"

He nodded. "Molly says it's worth a lot because it's an antique. It's been in the family for years. Small, though-people used to be a lot shorter than we are now. My feet hang over the end."

Carly tried to imagine him sleeping there, his long legs dangling over the end of the mattress, his feet thrust through the brass footboard. The breadth of his shoulders alone would take up more than half the mattress.

"Will this be my room?"

"Yep. I had the housekeeper come in and do a deep clean. She washed out the drawers and all the shelves. There isn't a lot of storage, but hopefully, you'll have room to put all your things away."

"I haven't all that many clothes." She leaned over to pat the mattress. "Being blind, I never got into fashions and all that."

He rubbed his jaw. "If you're apologizing for not being a clotheshorse, don't. I'll be paying the shopping bills for a while, so you won't hear me complain." He winced. "Not that I'll mind if you buy clothes."

It bothered Carly to be so dependent on him for everything. "No, of course not. I didn't think you were implying that."

"The bathroom is directly to the left as you leave the bedroom. If you'd like to take a shower, you'll find fresh towels and washcloths in the linen cupboard across from the sink."

"A shower sounds good."

He stepped into the living room to retrieve her one piece of luggage. "Are you hungry?" he asked as he handed her the case.

Carly's stomach rolled at the very thought of food. "No, no. I couldn't eat a thing,"

He ran a hand through his hair. Then he cleared his throat. "Well." He smiled slightly. "Deep word with a hollow ending. I think I'll fry up some bacon and eggs. You sure you won't join me? Mom's hors d'oeuvres and cake didn't last me long."

Carly shook her head. "No, thanks. You go ahead. I think I'll just freshen up and get ready for bed."

She was relieved when he finally left her. Quickly grabbing her overnight case, she made for the bathroom, hoping to hurry through her shower and be in bed, pretending to be asleep, by the time he finished cooking.

When she switched on the bathroom light, the glare of the ceiling fixture momentarily blinded her. She blinked away the black spots as she closed the door. Problem. There was no lock. She felt uneasy about showering without a way to make sure Hank didn't walk in on her. But there was no helping it. She couldn't very well live there without sometimes bathing when he was around.

The bathroom's white porcelain glared in the bright light. She set her case on the back of the toilet and squinted to protect her sensitive eyes as she turned on the overhead fan and peeled off her clothes.

Only minutes after she turned on the shower and stepped into the tub, a sickening smell wafted strongly to Carly's nostrils. Bacon. Ever conscious of cholesterol, Bess avoided eating pork, and since becoming pregnant, Carly breakfasted on unconventional fare. She hadn't been exposed to the smell of frying bacon in weeks.

That was a blessing, she decided, as the odor grew more pronounced. The air itself felt saturated with grease, coating her tongue and throat every time she took a breath. The exhaust fan in the bathroom ceiling seemed to be sucking the smell of the frying meat in under the door. She'd heard of pregnant women getting horribly sick when they smelled grease, but never had she imagined it would be as awful as this. Her stomach rolled. She gulped frantically, trying to swallow her gorge. Her feeling of nausea went from mild to pronounced in seconds. Sick, she was going to be sick.

Carly barely managed to get her hair rinsed before the nausea hit her in punishing waves. She shoved back the shower curtain, stumbled from the bathtub, and barely had time to grab a towel before her stomach started turning inside out.

Hank had quickly changed out of his monkey suit while the bacon fried. His work shirt not yet buttoned, he was about to crack an egg into the skillet when he heard an odd sound. He cocked his head to listen. It sounded as if Carly was gagging. He turned off the gas burner and raced to the living room. As he approached the bathroom, he called out, "Carly, are you okay in there?"

"Don't-come-in. Fine. I'm f-fine."

She didn't sound fine. He curled his hand over the doorknob. He heard her retching again. When he could stand it no longer, he cracked open the door. Wrapped in a towel, she was on her knees by the commode, her slender hands clenched over the rim of the bowl to support her upper body. He took one look and pushed inside. She saw him from the corner of her eye and released her hold on the porcelain to hug the terrycloth to her breasts.

"Go away. I'm not dressed." A violent spasm racked her body. When it subsided, she sobbed and said, "Get out of here. Please. I need some privacy."

No way. Hank grabbed a clean washcloth from the bowl by the sink and wet it with cold water. Then he went down on one knee behind her.

"Here, sweetheart," he said as he slipped an arm around her waist.

Her hands closed over his wrist and forearm. The towel started to slip, and she mewled in distress.

"Easy, easy." Hank discarded the washcloth and grabbed the nightgown she'd pulled from the overnight case and left on the vanity. "It's all right, sweetheart. I'll get you covered."

Beneath his wrist, he felt her stomach muscles knot. The next second her body jerked as another wave of nausea struck. She got nothing up. After drinking binges, he'd experienced the dry heaves a few times and knew how they hurt. He also recalled how utterly exhausted he'd been afterward.

After the spasms abated, he supported her weight with one arm while he worked the nightgown over her head. When he grasped one of her hands to poke it down a sleeve, she resisted, clinging frantically to the towel.

"I won't let the towel slip. There's my girl. Give me your hand." Working in increments, he finally got the nightgown on her. "See there?" The roomy folds of cotton encompassed both woman and towel. "You're completely covered."

His heart caught when she let her head fall back against his shoulder. Her wet hair felt cold where the strands dangled against his bare chest. He tugged the towel from under her gown and dried her hair with, one hand to keep her nightclothes from getting soaked. She leaned weakly against him as he worked.

"Sick, so sick," she whispered. "The bacon. The smell."

"Oh, God, I'm sorry." Hank remembered his mother telling him how sick she'd always gotten if anyone fried bacon around her when she was pregnant. "I never even thought."

"Me either," she said weakly. "I didn't know it'd make me sick."

Hank wished he could trade places with her. The bout of vomiting had left her looking totally exhausted. He could feel her body quivering. "I'm here, sweetheart. I don't have much practice caring for pregnant ladies, but I'll learn as I go."

He tossed aside the towel and grabbed the washcloth again. He cranked on the faucet, freshened the terry with cold water, and bathed her upturned face. As he dabbed under her eyes, she wrinkled her nose and frowned. Her small face was a roadmap of black streaks, compliments of the mascara that he'd applied to her lashes earlier that day. After rubbing her cheeks clean, he tucked in his chin to regard her pale features. Perfect. Even with her hair hanging in damp ropes over her shoulders, she was beautiful-a church angel, just as he'd described her to his father. Only she was wonderfully real and all the sweeter for it-an impossibly pretty lady who'd lived in a bubble all her life, until he'd come along to burst it.

"I'm hoping the coolness will help. It always makes me feel better."

"Mm," she murmured and rested more of her weight against him.

Hank moved the cloth to her arched throat. She sighed, her soft bottom coming to rest high on his thigh. A certain part of his body hardened, and he clenched his teeth, hating himself for responding to the contact. She might not realize that a man had no control over things like that. He didn't want to alarm her.

"When this passes, I'll get you to bed. Maybe you can fall asleep."

With no warning, she began retching again. Hank gripped her shoulders until the nausea ran its course.

The violence of the heaves worried him. He feared that she might injure herself or the baby. Afterward, he pressed the wet cloth to her convulsing throat again. The coldness seemed to help, and she sighed shakily.

"This is so humiliating. I could just die."

Hank's heart caught at the hopeless resignation in her voice. He rested his jaw atop her head. "Don't be silly. Everyone gets sick now and then."

She shuddered and gulped. He simply held her for a while. Then he gathered her into his arms, struggled to his feet, and carried her to the bedroom. The backs of her bare thighs felt damp and warm against the inside of his right forearm. In order to lay her down, he circled to the far side of the bed.

She moaned when her head touched the pillow. Then she pushed weakly at the hem of the gown, trying to cover her legs. Hank lent assistance, tugging at the cotton where it was trapped under her bottom. His knuckles connected with soft flesh, and memory blips flashed through his head of that night, how silken and smooth her skin had felt when he'd pulled down her jeans.

"I need to stay in the bathroom," she protested. "Sick. I'll get sick again."

Hank hurried back to the bathroom for a freshly lined wastebasket. When he took it to her, she rolled onto her side, hugged it with one arm, and hooked her chin over the edge. He sat beside her and smoothed her hair back from her face, wishing to God he knew what to do.

"Aside from that little bit at Mom's, you haven't eaten anything since breakfast. Right?"

She nodded almost imperceptibly.

Hank glanced at his watch. It was nine o'clock. If she'd eaten at eight that morning, she'd put nothing substantial in her stomach for thirteen hours. Going on an empty stomach made him feel slightly nauseated sometimes, and he wasn't pregnant. He tugged the sheet up over her legs.

A moment later, her body convulsed, her knees jerking up to bump his hip. Her delicate features contorted. In the light from the bathroom, he could see tiny red spots appearing on her eyelids. She was straining so hard that capillaries were bursting. That couldn't be good for her or the baby.

He wet a fresh washcloth and pressed it to her throat. Then he went to the kitchen to phone his mother. If anyone on earth knew what to do, it had to be Mary Coulter. She'd borne six children.

Mary was laughing when she answered the phone. By that Hank knew the wedding celebration was still in full swing. "Mom, this is Hank. Carly's really sick. Dry heaves. I'm a little worried."

Mary clucked her tongue, "That flu is nasty stuff. Do you have anything for an upset stomach?"

Hank released a weary breath. "It's not the flu, Mom. She's pregnant. I can't give her just anything for fear it may hurt the baby."

Long silence. Then Mary said, "Oh. I see."

Hank wished he'd been able to break the news to her a little more gently. The best laid plans. He heard Carly retching again and ran a shaky hand over his hair. "This is bad, really bad. I have no idea what to do."

"Saltines and Seven-Up always settled my stomach when I was expecting."

"I doubt she could hold it down." He glanced toward the bedroom again. Carly had quieted now. "I'm afraid all the straining will make her miscarry or something."

"I used to get so sick I thought I'd die, but I didn't, and neither did my babies. You need to get something in her stomach if she's got the dry heaves. Do you have any saltines?"

"No, but I can check at the main house or run get some."

"And Seven-Up," Mary added. "Room temperature's best. Let the carbonation dissipate a bit. Tiny nibbles of saltines and sips of the soda. Too much, too fast will only make her sick again. If that doesn't work, you should call the ER and see if you should take her in. I'm certainly no doctor."

"Thanks, Mom."

Mary sighed. "You're welcome, Hank. I'll expect a call in the morning to let me know how she and my grandchild are doing."

Hank knew that tone. "I'm sorry for dropping the news on you like this. I intended to tell you soon. I just didn't want to say anything before the wedding."

"A baby, Hank? How on earth did that happen?"

Hank started to answer, but then, for the life of him, he couldn't think what to say. For years, his mother's naivete had been a family joke. She'd told all her children the stork had left them beside the bed in their father's boot. None of them had ever believed it, of course, but Mary had seemed so certain of her facts that they'd been pretty sure she did. Now that he was grown, Hank knew better, but he still found it difficult to discuss things of that nature with her.

"It just happened, Mom," he settled for saying.

Mary clucked her tongue. "Well, it's a lovely surprise. And here we are, running low on champagne. This is definitely reason to celebrate. A new little Coulter is on the way."

Hank pinched the bridge of his nose. His mother would announce the news to everyone the moment she got off the phone unless his father managed to gag her. Ah, well. It wasn't as if the secret could be kept for long. She'd save him the trouble of telling everyone. It'd be less embarrassing for Carly that way.

"Love you, Mom.""I love you, too." She paused. "Should we have a mother-and-son talk?""About what?" he asked cautiously."I don't want to see that lovely young woman having one baby after another, with barely a break in between. You need to plan these things."

This woman had popped out six kids like a Gatling gun run amok, and she waslecturing him? "I know.""Yes, well. After this, try doing it to music with a nice beat. I've heard it helps."Music? The tips of Hank's ears burned. "That's a new one.""Not really. Been around for years. It's called the rhythm method."An airless pounding began in his temples. He was holding his breath, trying not to laugh. Great joke- if she was kidding. Dangerous ground if she wasn't. "Hmm.""If that doesn't work, try using your socks."The image that leaped to mind made him wince. "My socks?""Yes, sweetie." Mary giggled. "When you take off your boots, stuff your socks in them. That way, the stork can't make his delivery, and he moves next door to the

neighbor's house."Hank was still standing there, grinning like a fool, when his mother broke theconnection.

Seconds later when he reentered Carly's room, she was resting. He hated to disturb

her, but he didn't want her to waken and not know where he was.He touched her shoulder. "I'm going to get some stuff that may settle your stomach."When she stirred, he added, "I hate to leave you like this. If I have to go clear to thestore, will you be okay for about thirty minutes?"

She made an unintelligible sound. Hank drew up the covers so she wouldn't getchilled. "I'll hurry. Okay?"

She nodded.

Hank didn't want to leave her, but he had no choice. On Friday night, the hired hands went to town. Molly and Jake were at his parents' house. If there were no saltines or Seven-Up at the main house, he'd have to drive to the market for some. Remembering how light hurt her eyes, he turned off the overhead fixture as he left the room.

Carly yearned for sleep, but the bouts of nausea came so frequently that dozing was impossible. She tried lying on her back. No help. Her stomach churned no matter what she did. Oh, God. She was so sick she thought she might die. When another wave of nausea struck, she almost wished she would.

Afterward, she lay with her head resting on the edge of the wastebasket, her eyes unfocused on the white plastic liner forming a cocoon around her face. She wondered what Hank had gone to get. She hoped it helped, whatever it was, and would be safe for the baby. She had no idea what time it was, only that it had grown late. She couldn't believe he'd dressed and left the house just to get something for her stomach. It was sweet of him. Maybe, she decided dimly, he wasn't as self-centered as she believed.

As if her thoughts had summoned him, she heard the rumble of his truck. Moments later, headlights bathed the room. She heard the engine die. Then a door slammed, and boots thumped across the porch. He had a distinct walk, a decisive but relaxed stride, one heel shuffling with every other step. An expert at identifying people by their walks, she filed that information away. If her eyesight failed completely, she might need to know the sound of his walk someday.

He entered the house with exaggerated care, barely making any sound. Carly realized he hoped she was sleeping. Oh, how she wished she were. Eyes closed, she listened as he approached the bed.

"I'm awake," she told him, her voice so hoarse it didn't sound like her own.