Yes, by God, she had been sinful… depraved… degenerate. She had done a forbidden thing; and, her father had had every reason to be angry because of it. He'd had every reason to send her away to those church schools where she could repent at leisure, contemplate her sins, promise herself she would never sin again.

Creagon now, he had been the lucky one! He had simply run away, not turning up again until he was past twenty-one and could thumb his nose in the old bastard's face.

Lucky? Melissa realized that was hardly the right adjective to use. She was obviously in such an emotional state that she was constantly putting wrong words in the wrong places. Because, how could Creagon be lucky? He'd had no good holy sisters, dressed in their starched black and white uniforms like penguins, telling him what was right and what was wrong, thereby insinuating that what Melissa and Creagon had done was certainly an abomination in the eyes of man and God.

And, had William Davenport told his son he was sorry; or, had he assumed he'd done enough in leaving his wayward son half of the estate?

"Melissa?"

It was her husband, calling from the bedroom. Melissa had hoped he was asleep. Why in the hell wasn't he?

"What is it, John?"

"What's taking you so fucking long?"

Melissa shuddered at her husband's vulgarity. God, but he had changed since he'd gotten back from the war-or, was Vietnam called a conflict? Whatever, John Mason had changed. Oh, God, had he changed!

"I'm brushing my hair, John," Melissa said, reaching for the brush on the dresser so as to make her statement only half a lie. "Why don't you just try and get some sleep while you're waiting?"

"Try hurrying, will you?" John said in reply.

And, what exactly did that imply? Melissa suspected she knew; and, that knowledge did nothing more than send goose bumps up and down her spine.