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but took off his shoes and came to bed, smelling of tobacco and whiskey—and Rebekah thought she could detect the stale odor of cheap perfume.
    The next morning they were aroused by a loud knocking on the door, and as Tyler scrambled out of the bed, fumbling for his shoes, Rebekah managed to rise and put on her shoes and robe. The knocking was insistent, and Tyler angrily flung the door open. “What the . . . !” He halted abruptly as a man pushed by him and strode inside the room.
    He was a man of middle height, thin but well dressed. He wore a plum-colored square-cut coat that reached to his knees and flared out from the waist downward. His knee breeches were made of black broadcloth, and his vest was dark yellow silk with a floral design on it, with lace ruffles on his shirt front and at his wrists. The sword buckled around his waist was barely visible beneath his open coat.
    Pulling off a three-cornered hat, the stranger regarded Rebekah with obvious distaste, then whirled to confront her husband, who was still standing by the door. “Well, Tyler?”
    Carefully Tyler shut the door, his face as pale as paper. Turning to face the man again, his voice wavered slightly as he spoke. “Phil—what are you doing here!”
    “I might ask you the same.” His thin brown face had anauthoritative expression as he shook his head, saying wearily, “How many times is this, Tyler? Three?—Four?”
    Angrily, Tyler approached the man, who was much smaller than he. “Get out of here, Phil! Nobody sent for you.”
    Phil gave him a direct look that seemed to halt Tyler in his tracks. “Let’s not go through any more of your stories,” the smaller man said. “Angela wants you back—God only knows why! You’ll have to go.”
    “I’ll do what I please, Phil!”
    “No, you’ll do what I please, Tyler, just like the last time—and the time before that.”
    Rebekah had enough. “Tyler, who is this man?”
    Tyler stared at her, opened his mouth, but no words came out. With a look of sick helplessness in his eyes, Tyler lowered his gaze to the floor and let the other answer for him. “I’m Philip Moore, his brother-in-law. And who are you?”
    “I’m his wife!” she retorted.
    Moore’s hard expression softened perceptively at her answer. He looked at her closely, paused, then said gently, “My apologies, ma’am. I thought—” He broke off, then shot a bitter look at Tyler. “I’m sorry, but you are not legally married to this man,” he informed her quietly. “He’s married to my sister Angela. They have two children, and he’s deserted her twice before.”
    A wave of fear crashed over Rebekah, and she felt sick. “Tyler? His story . . . it’s not true, is it?”
    He met her eyes wordlessly, confirming her worst fears. Her legs suddenly gave out, and she sat down hard on the bed, horrified.
    Moore broke the shocked silence when his hand shot out and caught Tyler’s face with a sharp crack. “You dog! Why didn’t you just pick up a loose woman as you always did before?” Moore’s face was livid, and he cursed Tyler with unbridled rage. Tyler touched the print of Moore’s hand on his cheek, but made no attempt to defend himself. “I don’t know! God help me—I don’t know!” he whispered.
    Disgusted, Moore turned away from him and spoke to Rebekah. “I’ve come to take him back to Baltimore. He’ll go, of course.” He looked around the tawdry room. “He always does when he gets to this point.”
    With a quick movement he whipped out his sword and had it at Tyler’s throat before the larger man could move. Moore held him there, his eyes deadly. “I don’t make vows as a rule, Tyler, but I’m making one now. I’m taking you back to Angela—but if you mistreat her one more time, I’ll kill you. I swear I will. Do you believe me?”
    “Yes! Yes, Phil!” Fear raked Tyler’s face, and he began to weep. “I’ll never hurt her again, Phil! I swear it!”
    Moore shrugged and sheathed his blade.