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rotting vegetation that permeated the place—was making him dizzy.
    So dizzy was he that he was barely aware of the curious eyes that fixed on him from every direction as he followed his new mistress through the throng. He was only peripherally conscious of Susannah being greeted by what seemed to be half the matrons present, to which obviously expectant salutations she responded with no more than a smile and a wave. Trailing not too far behind him came the three girls he assumed were her sisters. He knew they were there because he could hear them whispering. One of them giggled.
    That pricked the vertigo that half-blinded and deafened him. The chit snickered at him, of course. The burning shame reared its head again. How had he, Ian Connelly, fallen to such depths of ignominy? But he knew very well, of course, and knew who was responsible, too. He could consider himself fortunate that he'd not been murdered outright. But what had been done to him was almost as bad.
    His sentence was seven years. Seven years was not that long a time for a man of thirty-one to wait to get his revenge. Not that he had any intention of serving out the period of his indenture, of course. He could walk away from his dowdy new mistress anytime it suited him and catch the next ship back home.
    And then there would be bloody hell for his enemies to pay.
    A few people with skin in various shades of coffee hovered on the edge of the crowd. They were conventionally clad, the women in long dresses that were certainly finer than the one Susannah wore and the men in shirts and breeches such as any man would wear. But the darkness of their skin made them stand out. Ian blinked at them curiously as he passed. With a sense of shock he realized that he was seeing African slaves. He had heard tell of such, of course, but had never laid eyes on one before. As they left the green, he stared at a tall, ebony- skinned woman with a turban wrapping her head who was approaching along the street. She wore a starched white apron over a full-skirted dress of pale blue calico and walked a pace or so behind a fashionably dressed lady who was presumably her mistress. To his shock, Ian found that the African woman was eyeing him with every bit as much curiosity as he felt toward her. It hit him then that he, as a convict who had been indentured, was as much an oddity to her as she, an enslaved African, was to him. It occurred to him that they had a great deal in common.
    "Convict! Convict!" A rock flew out of nowhere to hit Ian's shoulder and bounce off. He flinched, looking sharply around as his arm came up to ward off other missiles. A tow-headed urchin of perhaps nine years was already running back to join a snickering group of his friends, who peeped around the corner of a dry goods shop.
    "Jeremy Likens, you stop that at once! Or I'll have a word with your mama! And the rest of you had best behave yourselves as well or there will be a painful reckoning for you all in the very near future!" Susannah clapped her hands sharply to emphasize her words, and the boy looked alarmed as he scuttled out of sight. His friends had withdrawn around the corner already, and not so much as a hand or foot remained to be seen of them.
    "Sorry, Miss Redmon. Please don't tell Ma!"
    "Sorry, Miss Redmon!"
    "Sorry!"
    The culprits peeped out at them and were dismissed by Susannah with a stern look and a monitory gesture. Ian was impressed anew with the respect she seemed able to command at will. More than one able-bodied man of his acquaintance would not have been able to deal half so effectively with such a gang of restive boys.
    "You are not hurt, are you, Connelly?" She did not stop walking but slanted him a glance over her shoulder. Those kind eyes were accented by lashes as long as his thumbnail, Ian noticed, and her nose was small and surprisingly pert. Had she possessed a better figure and a keener sense of style, she would not have been so very unattractive after all. But she was