Gage examined the slender fingers with care, finding them grimy yet finely made. He stroked a thumb across the fragile bones in the back of her hands and, turning them over, inspected the palms that were as soft as any well-born lady’s.
“You seem ill prepared for work, Shemaine,” he observed in amazement.
Beneath his searching gaze, Shemaine felt a blush stealing into her cheeks. “I’m not afraid of work, sir,” she said carefully, aware that her next words might greatly reduce the possibility of being purchased. “I’m just not well acquainted with it, that’s all.”
“I see,” Gage responded in bemusement. Perhaps what Annie had told him was actually true, that Shemaine O’Hearn really had been brought up as a lady. Only the very wealthy could afford to coddle their offspring with servants, which seemed the only plausible explanation for her soft hands and lack of skills. “I sincerely hope you have a talent for learning on your own, Shemaine. I can ill afford a tutor for you, nor do I have the time or the ability to instruct you myself.”
“I learn very quickly, sir,” she averred hastily. “If there are books to be had that give detailed instructions on the duties of a housekeeper, then I can teach myself.”
“I will earnestly have to look for one.”
“ ‘Twould help,” she answered gingerly.
“Do you even know how to cook?” Gage posed the inquiry again, trying to subdue his sudden concern. He fervently hoped they wouldn’t have to starve before she familiarized herself with some of the basics.
“I’m clever with a needle, sir,” Shemaine hedged cautiously, not wanting to divulge what she was basically uncertain about. Her mother had thought it prudent for a young lady to be taught all the skills of a wife, and their cook had fervently agreed, but Shemaine had not been the most attentive of students and could make no guarantees as to the extent of her memory.
Accepting her reply as a negative response, Gage heaved a dismal sigh. He wasn’t at all excited about the prospect of having to endure a novice’s cooking, but even Roxanne’s skills in that area could not compel him to veer from the course he was quickly laying out for himself. He knew by the very act of coming here today that he was seriously testing the winds of fate, but his desire to have Shemaine was beginning to far outweigh all other considerations.
“You seem very young,” he remarked, not wanting to dwell on her inexperience.
“Not so young, sir,” she readily rejoined, though at the moment she felt ancient. “I was ten and eight this past month.”
“Young enough!” Gage scoffed. “Unless, of course, you think a score, ten, and three is ancient.”
Shemaine was bemused by his statement. “What’s so significant about a score, ten, and three, sir?”
“ ‘Tis my age,” Gage informed her bluntly.
Oh! Shemaine’s lips formed the word, though her voice failed to give utterance to the syllable. Embarrassed by her blunder, she avoided meeting his gaze for fear he might detect her astonishment. She hadn’t really thought him to be that old!
An uneasy silence passed between them, and finally in fretful confusion, Shemaine raised her eyes to meet the ones that stared back at her. She fully expected him to tell her that he would have to seek elsewhere for a servant, but his eyes delved deeply into hers and seemed intent upon searching out her innermost secrets.
“Now,” Gage breathed, as if speaking to himself, “all I have to do is convince Mr. Harper to sell you to me.”
Shemaine’s heart fluttered in genuine relief. Though she had desired earlier to be bought by a woman, there was something about this man that made her confident of his integrity. Perhaps it was the angry look that had sharply creased his brow when he had broached the subject of the prisoners being starved. She just hoped her lack of skills would not bring that particular disaster to bear upon his small family.
Gage returned to the bosun and offered a sum with a casual indifference that was well feigned. “I’ll give you fifteen pounds for the girl.”
James Harper felt his hackles rise. Perhaps it was his own jealousy that had raised its inflated green head like a wary serpent when the man had looked the girl over, but he was beginning to suspect the colonial wanted her, not as a nursemaid for his son, but as a mistress for himself. “The captain gave me strict orders about the girl, Mr. Thornton! She’s not to be sold.”
“Twenty pounds then,” Gage said a bit more testily. He removed a leather purse from a larger pouch that was slung from a shoulder by a rawhide strap and worn on the opposite hip. Carefully he counted out the coins and offered them to the bosun. “That should be enough to suit your captain.”
“I tell you, the girl is not to be sold!” Harper insisted, growing irate. He refused to even acknowledge the outstretched hand.
“Dammit, man!” Gage snapped. Realizing his heightening intention to buy Shemaine whatever the cost, he asked incredulously, “You bring your prison ship into port and flaunt the cargo for every man to see, then you say you have no intention of selling the best part of it?” He laughed with trenchant skepticism. “Come now, Mr. Harper, is this a game? If it is, I have no time to play. Now tell me, how much do you want for the girl?”
“What’s going on here?” Captain Fitch demanded sharply as he joined the pair.
“Sir, this pilgrim,” Harper derided as he indicated Gage with an angry jerk of his head, “is insisting that he be allowed to purchase Shemaine O’Hearn. His last offer was twenty pounds. He wants to know what you’ll take for her.”
Brushing back his frock coat from his ponderous belly, Captain Fitch hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat and rocked back on his heels as he smirked at the tall stranger. “I fear you haven’t nearly enough coins in your possession to buy the wench, sir. She’s already spoken for.”
Shemaine caught her breath in surprise and quickly closed the distance between them. “By whom, sir?”
Peering obliquely past the large prow of his nose, Everette Fitch lifted dark, wispy brows as he regarded the maiden. His sly smile lit his gray eyes with a glowing ardor that was unmistakable, bringing an outraged blush to Shemaine’s cheeks as the realization dawned. Somehow the captain had contrived to have her for his own, even if he had to hide her beneath the very nose of his wife.
“Sir, I beg you!” Shemaine came threateningly close to tears as she considered the repulsive prospect. Becoming this man’s plaything would be more horrible than anything she had yet imagined. “Please, Captain Fitch, I don’t wish to arouse your wife’s ire more than it has been.” Indeed, a flogging would scarcely appease the woman’s desire for retribution if she ever learned of her husband’s intentions. “Let Mr. Thornton buy me. He’s a widower, sir, and has a youngling that needs tending.”
Recognizing the heavily weighted footfalls of his wife as she approached from behind, Everette stiffened and clasped his hands behind his back in perturbation. Throughout the voyage Gertrude had made it her business to dispatch her broad shape swiftly to his side whenever she sensed some monetary matter was being discussed. She was a needling, meddling, critical old jade, and he was anxious to experience a maid far more youthful, delectable and sweet.
“Everette, you’re needed on the bridge to sign papers of indenture,” Gertrude stated, snubbing her nose at James Harper.
“I’ll be along in a moment, dearest,” Everette said, trying to urge her back to the area of the ship from whence she had come. “Just as soon as I tend to the business here at hand.”
Gage grasped the situation immediately and, after purposefully doubling the amount of coins in his purse to draw the woman’s attention, spoke to her discreetly. “I was told the maid, Shemaine O’Hearn, cannot be purchased for any amount of coin that I have in my possession. Perhaps, madam, you’d care to count them for yourself.”
Gertrude peered askance at the tall man as he pressed the purse into her hand. Then she cast a suspicious glare toward her husband as she judged the weight of the moneybag. She promptly made a more accura
te accounting of the amount it contained.
Shemaine quaked in fearful apprehension. She was certain that if Gertrude Fitch suspected how desperately she wanted to be sold to Gage Thornton, the possibility would be promptly nullified.
Gertrude came to her own conclusions and, upon returning the coins to the bag, jerked the rawhide strings closed with a finality that doomed her husband’s scheme. As much as she had yearned to see Shemaine dead and buried, she could not lightly dismiss a generous sum such as this. “Sign her papers, Everette,” she instructed officiously. “We’ll not likely gain a sum greater than forty pounds from another buyer.”
Captain Fitch opened his mouth to protest but paused as he met the colonial’s sardonic stare. He suddenly realized that if he wanted to continue commanding a ship, he had no choice but to sign the girl’s papers of indenture and give her to the man. He handed the document over with a grumbling complaint. “I don’t know what I’ll tell the other gentleman when he comes to fetch the wench.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Gage responded aridly. Allowing a spartan smile to touch his lips, he rolled the parchment and tucked it into the flat pouch at his side.
He glanced down at Shemaine. “Are you ready?”
She was anxious to be gone before Captain Fitch could think of a reason to delay them. Looking around for Annie, she found the woman timidly answering the inquiries of the short man Morrisa had rejected. She raised a hand in a gesture of farewell and hurriedly blinked back the moisture that blurred her own vision as Annie responded with an indistinct nod and a teary-eyed gaze. Facing her new master again, Shemaine sought to steel her emotions. “I have no other possessions than the clothes on my back, sir, poor as they are. I’m ready to leave whenever you are.”
“Then let us be on our way,” Gage urged. Meeting the cold-eyed glower of James Harper above her head, he added, “I have no further business here, and there seems to be a storm brewing all around us.”
Shemaine lifted her gaze to the darkening sky looming close above their heads, but when she glanced around at the angry faces of the men who stood nearby, she realized the colonial’s statement only partially pertained to the weather. Following in his wake, she allowed him to lead her away from those who watched them.
CHAPTER 3
For a man who had, of late, found frugality crucial to the furtherance of his ambitions, Gage Thornton realized he had just managed to suppress every miserly instinct he was capable of mustering in his determination to have Shemaine O’Hearn. No one could have guessed from his apparent eagerness to offer such a sizable purse that he would now have to postpone the purchase of much-needed building supplies for his ship until he could collect payment for several pieces of furniture he had recently finished for wealthy patrons living in Williamsburg. It was a delay he would not normally have entertained. Yet here he was, the owner of this bondswoman, and he could not have been more delighted had he spent the last year methodically planning and saving for the event. It was a rarity indeed to have one of his goals attained without first expending a grievous amount of planning, hard work, and careful scrimping toward its acquisition.
As for Shemaine, she had settled her mind on the fact that her papers of indenture were now owned by the colonial, Gage Thornton. For the next seven years of her life, she would be subject to his authority. She would keep his house, care for his child, and do all that was reasonably expected of a servant. Much remained to be seen, but for the moment at least her situation did not seem terribly offensive. In fact, she was relieved that it had turned out as well as it had. It seemed doubtful she would have cause to remember her departure from the London Pride with any import, except that it was equivalent to being given a reprieve from hell.
Gage stepped from the gangplank to the cobblestone quay and casually turned to offer assistance to his newly procured chattel, prompting Shemaine to flick a wary glance over the lean hand that was extended toward her. It had a recently scrubbed appearance that made her painfully conscious of just how utterly grubby her own hands were. Yet the man had inspected her palms only a few moments ago and had to be fully aware of just what he would be touching. Abashed by the sharp contrast, she reluctantly accepted his hand and found it deeply callused from hard work, his fingers thin and strong. Yet, surprisingly, his skin felt smooth beneath the soft texture of her own, as if conditioned by some strange oil or ointment.
No sooner had Shemaine stepped to the quay than she was struck with thoughts of retreating to the wooden gangplank. The frigidity of the stones beneath her bare feet made her anxious for something warmer upon which to stand, and if that was not enough to make her falter, the breezes that whipped through an invisible channel between the ships anchored against the wharf and the nearby warehouses seemed especially wicked. She was ill prepared for the inclement weather and those blustering blasts that sliced with brutal vengeance through her garments. No comfortable haven seemed attainable, and she could only shiver and clench her teeth against their chilling breath. Even her frantic efforts to subdue her recalcitrant skirts proved futile, for the frayed hem buffeted her slender calves and, now and then, swirled chaotically aloft, as if it had assumed a puckish life of its own and took mischievous delight in thwarting her.
Gage had always been a man to admire a finely turned ankle and did not deny himself the opportunity to appease that propensity now. It had, after all, been a considerable passage of time since he had been able to indulge himself with a worthy glimpse. Yet he was not exactly sure which held his attention more intently, the shapeliness of the slender calves or the telltale red weals that had been caused by a lengthy chafing of iron shackles. Dark bruises marred the flesh of her lower leg, hinting of a more recent injury. Beneath his stare, the slender toes curled inwardly, making him mindful of the girl’s growing discomfiture. Reluctantly he lifted his eyes to meet the guarded green gaze.
“Have you no shoes?” he asked, sincerely hoping he wouldn’t have to lay out another portion of his meager wealth to buy her a pair. The idea caused him to frown as he mentally debated how he might manage such a purchase.
Shemaine smoothed back the snarled strands of hair that were flying across her face as she peered up at her new master. His scowl was ominous enough to make her turn tail and run. “I’m sorry, Mr. Thornton,” she murmured, hating the uncontrollable quaver in her voice. “My boots were stolen from me at Newgate shortly after my arrest.” She reminded herself that she had done nothing deserving of her seizure or this shame which had been forced upon her. But the truth did not ease her humiliation, nor did the proximity of several older couples who had just arrived on the dock. In spite of their gaping curiosity and the battering wind that cut through her like an icy saber, she explained haltingly. “I can assure you, sir . . . the boots were a loss I sorely regretted. They were unique and very fine. . . . It cost my father a fair sum to have my initials etched in a pair of tiny gold pendants and for the cobbler to find a way to attach them to each boot at the ankles. At the time, it seemed wiser by far to hand them over without protest. Each of the two women who demanded them outweighed me twice over, and they were in such a frenzy to trade them for gin . . . I was convinced my life would be in jeopardy if I did not comply. Their theft made me grateful my riding habit had been torn and soiled during my capture. Otherwise, they’d have seen some profit in selling my clothes, too, and I’d be standing here now less than fully clothed.”
Those amber-flecked orbs of lucent brown swept her from crown to toe, giving little indication of the colonial’s thoughts. “A pity, for sure.”
“Sir?” Shemaine was confused by the precise drift of his meaning and felt a prickling of apprehension as she questioned him. “Is it the loss of my boots you bemoan or the fact that I’m fully clothed?”
His smile was far too fleeting to convey any warmth. “Why, the loss of your boots, of course.”
Shemaine wondered suddenly what sort of man had purchased her. Beneath that darkly stoic and inaccessible demeanor
he now presented, would she find a disreputable rake? Was she destined to be used by Gage Thornton in the same way Captain Fitch had intended? Or was there a waggish sense of humor that was wont to defy his conveniently assumed reticence? He seemed well acquainted with what he wanted out of life, indeed had already proven his dedication to the attainment of his goals, showing little concern for what others might think or say about him. He had certainly given no heed to the tongues that had started clacking soon after the bosun had announced his reason for being aboard the ship. Nor did he seem the least bit disturbed by the rudely inquisitive stares they were presently being subjected to. Apparently he was a man well accustomed to being talked about.
Reaching out a hand, Gage lightly flicked the back of his fingers over Shemaine’s sleeve where it had been torn away from her bodice. “Unless rags have become the fashion, my girl, I’m inclined to disagree with you about being fully clothed.”
Excruciatingly aware of her ragtag appearance, Shemaine dragged the rent together over her bare shoulder. “ ‘Tis a poor, drab servant you’ve bought for yourself, Mr. Thornton.”
The brown eyes snared hers again and probed deeply, seeming to reach into her very soul. They conveyed no warmth beyond the color, yet there was no coldness in them either. “Considering where I went to find one, Shemaine, I count myself fortunate to have come away with such a rare prize.”
Her expression became one of confused wonder. “Have you no regrets about laying out so costly a purse for the likes of me, Mr. Thornton?”
Gage lightly scoffed at the idea. “I came here today with a definite purpose in mind, and I’m not one to lament my actions until they’ve been proven irreversibly foolish.” He lifted a curious brow and presented a question of his own. “Knowing yourself as well as you do, Shemaine O’Hearn, would you be thinking I’ve wasted my wages?”
“I truly hope not, sir.” Her voice was small and uncertain. “It all depends on what you want most from me. ‘Tis no boast when I say that I’m capable of teaching your son to wield a quill with a goodly amount of skill, to do sums in his head, and to read with the best in years to come, but ‘tis a sorry fact that you might have acquired a more capable housekeeper, nursemaid or cook by buying Annie or one of the other women.”
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