husband through an arched entranceway. Ahead was a wide, square courtyard around which the house was built. In the center, a large fountain gurgled, and in each corner, a wrought-iron spiral staircase led up to the vine-draped balcony that completely encircled the courtyard. Jason led her up the left staircase.
Stopping before the first door at the top of the stairs, he pushed it open and stepped across the threshold onto a pale rose-colored stone floor scattered with small rugs of muted pastels. The white- walled room contained a variety of small, inlaid tables, two divans of white silk, and a richly carved brass-bound chest. On one of the tables stood a vase of fresh orchids. Their scent filled the small parlor, and Caroline breathed deeply of the sweet aroma, heartened at the care and attention to detail apparent in every feature of the room.
Jason crossed to the wide, arch-encased windows on the opposite wall and opened the shutters. Brilliant sunlight flooded the room. The interior was as bright as the outdoors, thanks to a gilt-framed mirror that almost completely covered the wall to her right and reflected the light, despite the damage wrought on it by the harsh elements.
Placing the medical bag on the table that held the orchids, Caroline lifted a bloom to her nose, closing her eyes as she savored the aroma. When she looked again, her new husband's impatience showed plainly in his blue eyes. He gazed at the medical bag as if seeing it for the first time.
"It belonged to my father," she said defensively.
He made no reply, just nodded toward a door to her left. "Your bedroom is through that door."
Caroline glanced away quickly, feeling the heat of embarrassment suffuse her face, trying not to think of the intimate nature of their relationship.
"Thank you," she murmured. She was virtually alone here with him. Of course, there was nothing improper about that; he was her husband, after all. But propriety had nothing to do with the elemental fear in her heart.
Glancing at her new husband surreptitiously, she found him studying her with a frown creasing his brow, whether from impatience or concentration, she couldn't say.
"I trust you will be comfortable here," he said indifferently.
"It's lovely," Caroline managed to reply.
With a nod, Jason Sinclair turned and was gone, leaving a puzzled Caroline to stand in the middle of the room and stare in mute astonishment at the doorway through which he'd disappeared.
She released her breath, unaware until then that she'd been holding it. Closing her eyes, she tried to remember the words of the letters that had prompted her to make this journey. At the moment, nothing came to mind, but as soon as the servants brought her baggage, she would dig them out and read them again for reassurance. Could she really have been so wrong about him? Had she read things into his letters that hadn't been there? Was she so desperate for marriage that she'd given Jason Sinclair attributes he didn't possess?
Where was the gentle dreamer she'd glimpsed in his words? Where was the scholar who ordered crate after crate of hand-picked books?
A light smattering of huge rain drops began to fall quietly beyond the open window. The scent of damp earth and leaves filled the room and stirred her senses. Her house in New Orleans had always made her feel a bit claustrophobic. Cramped and cluttered with her possessions, the small structure, though meticulously clean, had possessed little charm. It had been too close to the fish market to open the windows throughout most of the year because of the stench and the insects. But here above the trees, not even the gnats would bother her.
At least Brazil had lived up to Jason's description in every way—beautiful, wild, savage. She would never feel cramped or claustrophobic here.
She moved to the windows that lined the far wall of the small salon. Would she be able to see the coffee orchards Jason had described so poetically in his letters from here? The house was built on a hill, so she was able to see over the tops of the giant trees that had spread their canopy of leaves so far overhead on her long journey through the jungle. Between them, the Rio Branco snaked its way through the valley toward the setting sun. She could even see the dock on which she'd met her new husband, but no orchards.
No mail boat either, she thought, realizing that she had half expected to see it in the