“That’s not all!” Jo protested, and then when heads turned at her raised tone, she lowered her voice. “I’ve seen the way you look at him. And Chester—I think he loves you!”
At that Molly’s face softened further, her eyes gazing out over the heads of the crowd.
“It don’t matter. It won’t work.”
“But why? You’re both free people, as are Mr. Spooner and I.”
“You ask your Mr. Spooner how he enjoyed growing up a mulatto. Then you decide if you want that for your child.”
Jo was speechless at Molly’s words. When Ford rejoined them, he could clearly sense the tension in the air. He touched Jo’s elbow and gave her an inquiring look but she shook her head. How could she tell him what she and Molly had been discussing when she didn’t even know what was developing between her and Ford. Perhaps he merely considered it a flirtation, something that would end when the trade winds turned. The thought left her feeling rather desolate.
He accompanied them as they finished their shopping. When she could find no other excuse to remain in his company, she told him that she was on her way to visit Mrs. Livingston at her brother’s--the Lieutenant Governor--home.
“As it happens, I have a packet of papers to pick up from Lord Robinson and deliver to Antigua next week.”
This was the first he’d mentioned about leaving and Jo felt her heart sink in disappointment. “Oh? How long will you be gone?”
“A few days, perhaps a bit longer.” The look he gave her said he was as loathe to be away as she.
She smiled reassuringly at him. “Well at least you will be back for the dinner party my brother is hosting. I was just preparing invitations this morning.”
Molly looked at her sharply. There was no dinner party planned yet. It was a spontaneous idea, but one, which she now latched onto as something to look forward to and perhaps, allow Theo to get to know Ford. Just in case.
“I look forward to it. Shall I bring you something from Antigua?”
“That’s not proper,” Molly cut in.
Ford appeared startled but recovered quickly. “I only meant in preparation for the dinner. The markets in Antigua are much larger than here. Perhaps there is something I can fetch.”
Molly harrumphed again and stalked ahead. Jo suppressed a giggle—another giggle! —and took Mr. Spooner’s arm when he offered it as they climbed the hill to the Lieutenant Governor’s house.
A few steps ahead of them, Molly disappeared from view briefly as she rounded the final bend of the bush-lined drive. Jo quickly reached up on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to the side of Ford’s mouth, amazing herself with her own boldness.
He laughed softly and gave her a look of hot promise for the next time they were alone.
Once inside, Ford bid her and Molly goodbye and went to the wing of the house in which the island’s government was administered. When a footman arrived to show them into a sitting room to await Rose Livingston, Molly announced that she was going to take their market purchases home.
“The fish will go off if I keep it in my basket all afternoon.”
Jo bit back a grin and said, “As you see fit, Molly.” She knew the housekeeper had only accompanied her this far to serve as a stern-faced chaperone since Ford had joined them.
Mrs. Livingston arrived a few moments after Jo sat down. The young woman was pale, her eyes shadowed as if she was not sleeping well. She wore a light shawl about her shoulders, even though it was quite warm in the house.
Jo was immediately suspicious. She inspected her new friend more closely for any marks or bruises but could find nothing. Then again, Thomas Kent had been very careful to hurt her in places that were easily covered.
“Rose!” Jo said, rising to take the other woman’s hands in her own. “What’s wrong? Are you injured?”
“I am only feeling a little peaked today. I—I’m not acclimating to the heat as easily as I should.”
Jo looked at her skeptically. It was a valid excuse. The head and humidity were very difficult for some people to adapt to, especially after growing up in the cooler climate of England. Still, her scalp prickled and she couldn’t squelch the feeling that there was more to Rose Livingston’s ailment, especially when the woman winced as she sat down.
As Jo took her seat, she reminded herself that she had kept her abuse to herself for years, for there was no recourse for a woman in her position. It was only when Amanda Howard discovered the bruises on Jo’s arms and then offered unfailing support, that Jo felt comfortable confessing her shame.
An unladylike snort escaped her and Jo tried to disguise it as a cough. The shame was Thomas Kent’s alone, but only Amanda’s friendship and a year free of Kent had made her realize it.
She set about trying to put Mrs. Livingston at ease and earning her friendship and trust. After an hour of chatting, laughing, and tea, Rose seemed much more relaxed and comfortable. Several cups of tea also meant that Jo was slightly uncomfortable, as she’d been out all morning, and she excused herself to visit the privy. Returning to the house, she walked down the dimly lit hall, pausing to admire a portrait. It was of a woman who must be Rose and Lord Robinson’s mother, for she looked very much like Rose, though with dark hair. Two young children and a puppy sat placidly at her feet and a bowl of fruit was poised precariously at her elbow.
A man’s raised voice startled her out of her study.
“I don’t care if bloody Queen Victoria herself came to visit. I told you to stay in your room!”
Jo froze in place, her heart racing, her fingers going numb with fear. She was suddenly back in London, in that quiet, dark house that had absorbed her years of torment until they’d fairly reeked of it. He was coming. Thomas Kent was coming, and he was angry. Jo wanted to run but she knew that would only make the punishment worse. Perhaps if she flattened herself against the wall he wouldn’t notice her. It had worked once.
Her breath came in short, harsh pants in the quiet of the hallway.
The loud smack of flesh on flesh followed by a woman’s cry made her jump. Suddenly she realized that she was not the one who’d been hit, who’d cried out. Just as suddenly, she was racing down the hall, stumbling to a halt just inside the sitting room. Directly in front of her was a polished side table on which a man’s beaver hat and a brace of pistols had been haphazardly dumped.
The sound of another slap drew her attention to the left where she saw the back of a large man standing over Rose Livingston, who was sitting on the couch, her arms wrapped around her head.
With an almost physical lurch, Jo’s heartbeat and breath calmed to preternatural slowness. She walked without hesitation to the table and with steady hands, plucked one of the dueling pistols up. As if she’d trained her whole life, she lifted the gun in one fluid motion, while pulling back the hammer to cock it.
“Step back, Mr. Livingston. I said step back!” she repeated more loudly when he didn’t seem to hear her.
He spun around, a snarl on his face, clearly furious at being interrupted.
“Who the devil are you? You’d best leave if you know what’s good for you!”
Peripherally, Jo saw Mrs. Livingston lower her hands, but all her attention was on the woman’s husband whose fists were clenched into meaty hammers. He took a threatening step toward her and she squared her shoulders, closing one eye as she sighted down the barrel.
“If you know what’s best for you, you’ll take your own advice. You will not hit her again.”
His snarling visage took on an expression of incredulity. “She is my property,” he drew the word out menacingly. “And I’ll treat her as I see fit, you bloody, interfering bitch.”
Jo swallowed at the hatred and threat in the man’s words, but her arms held the gun steady, the weight of it helping to hold strong her resolve.
“I’ll not ask you again, Mr. Livingston. Step away from your wife and never hurt her again.”
“Are you that stupid? The damn gun isn’t even loaded. I was target shooting al
l morning.”
At that statement, the pistol seemed to grow to twice its weight. Her arms dipped slightly, the barrel angling down.
“That’s what I thought,” he snarled, and began to stride across the room, fury in his gaze.
“Mr. Livingston stop!” she cried and without thought pulled the trigger.
Chapter Nine
The sound of a gunshot was so at odds with the peaceful serenity of the Lieutenant Governor’s elegant house that for a second, Ford’s brain tried to find another explanation for the noise. Even as his brain was wondering if it could have been a door slammed too hard, his legs were in motion, tearing down the hallway to the front of the house. When he reached the main entryway, he heard the screams of a man in pain and followed the sounds to a large sunlit sitting room.
Jo was standing in the middle of the room staring at a long-barreled dueling pistol. The screaming man was laying on the floor, clutching his thigh, which was bright red with his blood, drops falling steadily onto the polished wooden floor in delicate splashes. Another woman sat beyond him on a settee, her hands pressed to her mouth, her face so pale that one would have thought she was the one bleeding.
“Jo?” Ford called gently.
She looked up at him, her dusky blue eyes wide with shock. “I—he—he said it wasn’t loaded.”
“How did—” he began, but she kept talking.
“He was hitting her, Ford,” she said brokenly as he crossed the space between them. He gently took the gun from her hand and set it on the table with its mate.
The Lieutenant Governor and a host of other people arrived suddenly with exclamations of shock. Several men rushed to aid the wounded man while Lord Robinson crossed to his sister.
“What happened?” he demanded of the room at large when he’d assured himself Rose was unharmed.
“The pistol went off. It appears this gentleman,” Ford indicated the writhing Livingston on the floor. “Believed the gun to be unloaded.” Neither statement was untrue, he reasoned.
“But how—” Lord Robinson began.
“She shot me, the stupid cunt!” Livingston bellowed.
Instinctively Ford pulled Jo behind him as he stepped in front of her.
“Livingston!” Lord Robinson said sharply. “A gentleman has no need of such language in front of ladies. Pull yourself together, man.”
“Go to the devil, Robinson!” Spittle flew from Livingston’s mouth and his eyes were wild. Ford realized his rage toward Jo was greater than his pain or injury, and he felt his fists clench convulsively, ready in case the man came off the floor. “Be of use for once and arrest this bitch!” he roared.
Lord Robinson’s lips compressed into a flat line. He glanced at Ford, who gestured him over. He would not leave Jo’s side with Livingston in the room, injured or not. When the Lieutenant Governor drew close, Ford said quietly, “Livingston was beating your sister, my lord. Miss Barclay south to dissuade him with the man’s dueling pistol. He told her it was empty and must have tried to take it from her. It went off.” This last point was pure conjecture on Ford’s part and, he suspected, false conjecture at that, but his only goal at this moment was to get Jo out of this house before Livingston made any claims that would force Lord Robinson to arrest her.
“Miss Anne!” Chester rushed into the room. Ford saw the older man’s gaze sweep the room, taking in the pale-faced Mrs. Livingston, the equally pale but dry-eyed Josephine, and the still-bellowing Livingston. Chester’s expression hardened but his voice was soft as he asked, “Are you alright, miss?”
Jo nodded woodenly.
“We need to get her out of here,” Ford said.
“I came to escort her home,” Chester said.
Ford lowered his voice further. “No, not home. Just in case—” he glanced meaningfully at Livingston who was finally gaining control of his groaning. “Wait for me out front. I’ll settle things with Lord Robinson.”
Chester nodded and took Jo’s arm. She followed his tug stiffly. Their movement drew the attention of Livingston.
“Stop that bitch! I’ll see her hanged, the worthless slut!”
“You will keep a civil tongue in your head whilst under my roof,” Lord Robinson hissed.
Livingston seemed on the verge of saying something else but the implacable expression on the Lieutenant Governor’s face stilled him momentarily.
Lord Robinson turned to Ford. “Take Miss Barclay to her brother’s house. I will come around later and take her statement.” He closed his eyes and let out a weary sigh. “Why’d she have to go and shoot the bastard? He’ll never let this go.”
“She was trying to protect your sister, my lord.”
Lord Robinson shook his head. “She must have misunderstood. Livingston is a boor but he would never harm his wife. Especially under my roof.”
Ford frowned at the man’s naïveté and turned to go.
“Make sure she goes straight home and remains there in case—well, just make sure she does it.”
Ford bowed briefly and left, keeping his steps measured until he was out the front door, then bolting across the verandah and leaping down the steps.
Jo and Chester were waiting under a tree just before the curve in the road. Jo was still pale but she seemed calm and her gaze was steady as it met his.
“I’m sorry to put you out, Mr. Spooner. It seems you are forever having to rescue me from one scrape or another.”
Ford almost laughed, at her extreme politeness, as if the scrapes he’d rescued her from were mud puddles and broken slippers. He noted the tension around her eyes, the brittle strain in the way she held herself still and instead of laughing, he touched her cheek lightly before taking her hand and leading her and Chester quickly down the road.
“Lord Robinson doesn’t believe Livingston was hurting his wife.”
“But she’s his sister!” Jo exclaimed.
“She didn’t speak up,” he said.
“Of course not! She’d be afraid of retaliation later.”
“Be that as it may, it leaves you with no defense for shooting him.”
They reached the main road, but instead of turning right toward Theo’s house, he turned left.
“Where are we going?” Chester asked.
“My warehouse. I think it’s best we not take her home until we’re sure she won’t be arrested.”
Josephine inhaled sharply but Chester nodded and they walked in silence back into town. The market had dispersed, though there were still quite a few people milling about the square. Ford took them on a circuitous route through the back streets until they reached the building that served as his warehouse, office, and lodging. He ushered them inside and locked the door before leading them upstairs to his set of rooms.
Jo’s stunned lassitude seemed to lift and she took an interest in the furnishings of Ford’s sitting room. She crossed to a curio cabinet where she inspected the jumble of odds and ends he’d accumulated from his travels: a polished rock from the coast of Brazil, a bit of coral from Jamaica, a fragile tea cup from his time in England, a broken fan from a particularly passionate señora in Barcelona.
Ford turned to the manservant and lowered his voice. “Will you return to Barclay’s and tell him what’s happened? Perhaps wait until Robinson arrives and find out what he intends.”
Chester glanced at Jo before nodding. “Aye, I’ll do it.” The man paused and Ford waited. “Miss Jo—she wouldn’t have done such a thing unprovoked. She—”
“She was defending Mrs. Livingston. Her husband had struck her.”
Chester froze, his ruddy complexion flushing angrily. His gaze snapped to Ford’s. “She told ye, then. About Kent.”
Ford nodded and watched as Chester’s gaze cleared. “She trusts you.”
“I am honored to think so.”
“You’ll keep her safe, should—”
“I’ll protect her with my life if need be.”
Chester stared hard at him and Ford allowed his expression to tell the man
what was in his heart. Satisfied, Chester said, “I’ll return as soon as I can.”
He then crossed to Jo. “Miss? I’m going to let Mr. Theo know so he’s prepared for the Lieutenant Governor.”
Jo turned to him and took the older man’s hands in her own.
“I’m so sorry, Chester. Please tell Theo that, too. I—”
“You did what was necessary, miss. I only fault your aim. Had ye hit him in his black heart, there’d be none to question your motive.”
Jo gave a half-laugh, half-sob. “You’re incorrigible, Chester.”
“Aye, miss. Afraid that’ll never change.”
“I sincerely hope it doesn’t,” she said, smiling through her tears.
As soon as the older man left, Ford crossed to Jo and touched her elbow.
She turned into his embrace with a gasping sob, clinging to him tightly. He held her just as tightly, whispering soothing words into the rumpled silk of her hair. After a few minutes, she lifted her head and gazed up at him with a tremulous smile.
“I’ve become quite popular on St. Kitts,” she said. “Now two men wish to see me dead.”
Ford chuckled at her gallows humor. “Actually, only one,” he corrected. “The Arianna departed yesterday with Benjamin safely and securely on board.
“Well thank heavens for small favors,” she said with a chuckle. Her smile faded, and she cupped Ford’s cheek gently. “Not such a small favor at all. How can I ever repay you? You seemed doomed to forever saving me from vengeful men.”
“Not doomed,” he said, turning his head to press a kiss into her palm. “Honored. I will defend you from the world if necessary. I only wish I could have killed Kent for you.”
She stared at him, her expression full of wonder and emotions he didn’t yet trust to exist. Instead he slowly lowered his head and told her all that was in his heart with his lips. She responded slowly, as if she was pulling herself from the terror of the last hour. As he gently caressed her mouth with soothing kisses, she warmed, responding with tender movements of her own.
Long after their kisses trailed off, they stood in one another’s embrace. Despite the trials facing them, Ford had never felt so content, so at ease, so cherished.
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