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As a lad, Colton had proven time and again that he had had a mind and a will of his own, and after so many years, Adriana had begun to think, as his sister had, that he would never return. Now, at an age of thirty and two years, he was no longer a youth, but a man in every sense of the word.
    It was a simple fact that Colton Wyndham was far more magnificent in his maturity than he had ever been in his youth. Indubitably he was now taller, stronger, heavier, and incredibly more handsome and virile.
    With noble features, crisply wrought cheekbones handsomely defined by bronzed skin and striking indentations, a lean, straight nose, and darkly lashed gray eyes as translucent as a moonlit pool in a heavy glade, he now possessed the refined, aristocratic good looks that could make any maiden pine for want of him. No wonder she had fancied herself in love with him at so youthful an age. He had been her prince, her champion in gleaming armor. Now he was home, ready to assume the marquessate. Though she suspected he had yet to be informed of the conditions his father had laid out for them, she wondered if, in keeping with what he saw fit, he would comply with the requirements of the contract or renounce them altogether, just as he had done years ago. The uncertainty created a strange, uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, and she had to wonder what would cause her greater turmoil: the implementation of the nuptial agreement or its expected negation.
    Brotherly affection was evident as Colton leaned on his cane and, with his free hand, chucked his sibling gently beneath the chin. “Dear sister, by this time you’ve probably heard that Bonaparte has been vanquished once again. Perhaps the good captain of the ship has even dropped anchor and put his illustrious passenger ashore at Saint Helena. If we are indeed fortunate, the emperor will never again
    escape to stir up the ugly worm of war. ‘Tis a hungry maggot whose ravaging fangs feed upon the lives of men with little regard for the legions of widows and mothers it leaves grieving in its wake.”
    Samantha traced trembling fingers over a handsome groove in her brother’s cheek. “I had thought you’d return sooner, Colton. Papa kept asking for you on his deathbed, but he finally lost all hope of seeing you. He died with your name on his lips.”
    Colton clasped his sister’s hand within his and pressed a gentle kiss upon her thin knuckles. “Please forgive me, Samantha. My regrets in that area are immense. When you first sent word of Father’s illness, I was unable to leave because of our conflict with Napoleon’s forces. Later, when news of Father’s death came, I was hampered by a leg wound the surgeons deemed so serious that they warned me they’
    d have to hack it off nigh my hip if the infection worsened. If not for my good fortune in having seen a sergeant heal his own festered wound by unspeakable methods—maggots, no less, and a repulsive mixture of moss and clay—I wouldn’t be here today a whole man . . . if at all. Even so, it took some time before I was able to walk with any proficiency. Then, to obtain my release from service, I was required to go hither and yon. Officials seemed indisposed to issue the papers granting my release, since by that time it was evident that I would keep my leg. They kept assuring me that I was being considered for brigadier general, that I could have any assignment I wanted. They were especially reluctant to let me go, considering that some of our troops are still engaged with the enemy in certain areas of France. I had to tell them more than once that I was ready to come home.”
    Samantha and Adriana’s minds had snagged on his debilitating injury and the bizarre cure, and, for a moment, couldn’t seem to move beyond that. Much of what he had stated afterward had been lost to them. The remedy that had brought about the cure seemed so grotesque they were both seized by convulsive shudders.
    Samantha could do nothing more