by Janet Dailey
"Good afternoon, gentlemen." Will Gordon stepped down, positioning himself between Nathan and the apparent leader of the Guard. "What can I do for you?" His expression remained blandly pleasant and unconcerned.
"Who are you?" Neither the man's tone nor his look could be described as friendly.
"Will Gordon. And you, sir?"
"Jacob Brooks, sergeant in the Georgia Guard." The man straightened, assuming a military erectness in the saddle as if to further assert his authority.
At that moment, The Blade moved to the base of the steps and paused before the mounted soldier. "Sergeant Brooks, we invite you and your men to dismount and join our wedding feast."
Eliza saw Temple flash an angry glance at her new husband. If he was aware of her disapproval, he gave no sign of it.
"A wedding, eh? And who performed this marriage?" the sergeant demanded, his glance already traveling to Nathan.
Nathan cleared his throat nervously. "I did."
"Seize him."
The suddenness—the casualness—of it caught Eliza by surprise. She stared in disbelief as three men dismounted and started up the steps.
"Reverend Cole is my guest," Will Gordon protested.
"He is the State of Georgia's guest now," the sergeant replied curtly.
When the three guardsmen surrounded Nathan and grabbed his arms, Eliza tried to stop them. "You cannot do this." When they pushed her out of the way, she turned on the sergeant. "Where is your warrant?"
"We have no need of one."
"Then what is the charge?" she demanded angrily. "Why are you arresting him?"
"We don't need a reason." He turned in his saddle, deliberately ignoring her. "Bring up the wagon."
Amidst the jingling rattle of harness and trace chains, a baggage wagon trundled forward. In shock and dismay, Eliza stared at the two men stumbling along behind it, frantically clutching at the neck chains that bound them to the back of the wagon. She recognized Samuel Worcester, Nathan's fellow missionary at New Echota.
As the guardsmen hauled Nathan to the wagon, Eliza ran down the steps. "No. You have no right!"
A pair of hands caught her from behind, crushing the full sleeves of her gown in an iron grip and stopping her headlong rush. "Miss Hall, no," Will Gordon muttered near her ear, urging caution.
But she continued to strain against his hold as she watched them wind a trace chain around Nathan's neck, then similarly attach it to a horse ridden by one of the Guard. Part of her knew she was powerless to prevent this, yet she refused to stand by and do nothing while they treated this kind, gentle man like a common felon.
The rider abruptly wheeled his horse around, causing a yank on the chain which sent Nathan to his knees. He managed to scramble to his feet in time to avoid being dragged when the rider put a heel to his horse and sent it lunging forward. He laughed at Nathan's frantic attempts to keep up. The rest of the Guard swung in behind them, cutting off her view.
Eliza sagged backward in defeat, now letting the hands support her. "Where will they take him?" she wondered aloud as the small cavalcade rode away from the house.
"To Camp Gilmer, outside of Lawrenceville, I expect," Will answered.
Eliza stared at the cloud of red dust kicked up by the company of the state militia. "This is wrong." She balled her hands into fists. "All of it—everything—it is just so wrong!"
"Yes."
The wedding feast continued, but it never recaptured its earlier carefree and happy mood.
A purpling twilight bathed the shadows cast by the towering trees that graced the lawn of Seven Oaks. The main house was a large, two-story structure built of wood. Its exterior was weather-boarded and painted a crisp white. There were verandas front and back, and a balcony above the front porch supported by turned columns. And everywhere there were windows flanked by painted shutters.
At the back of the house, Phoebe counted two kitchens and decided the third building was a smokehouse. From the outside, Seven Oaks looked every bit as big as Gordon Glen. She leaned forward in the carriage seat, straining to see more of her new home.
She was excited and scared all at the same time. Her stomach was all fluttery and jumpy like a chicken with a fox outside the pen. She wasn't Master Will's property anymore. She was Miss Temple's dower Negro. She had on her best dress, made from store-bought cloth, and brass-toed shoes, while the rest of her few belongings were tied in a bundle at her feet.
She stole a glance at Deu, riding behind the carriage. She wished he would look at her. Maybe she wouldn't feel so scared inside if he would smile at her instead of acting like she wasn't even there.
The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the house. Phoebe picked up her bundle and clutched it tightly to her. Master Blade climbed out of the carriage, then turned and helped her mistress down. Phoebe scrambled after them, then hesitated, uncertain where to go or what to do next. She looked to Deu, hoping he would give her a sign, but he stood attentively before Master Blade, awaiting his own instructions.
"See that my wife's trunks are brought inside," The Blade said, arching a warm glance at Miss Temple. "Then you can show young Phoebe where she will stay. We won't need you anymore this evening."
"Phoebe is my servant. I shall dismiss her," Temple declared, her black eyes flashing fire as Phoebe had seen them do many times when she got cross about something.
The more she thought about it, Phoebe realized her new mistress had been almighty quiet during the carriage ride. She darted a quick look at Master Blade, wondering what he had said or done to get her all heated up like that.
She saw him smile at Temple, kind of amusedlike, and incline his head ever so slightly. "By all means, dismiss her."
Even though he had given in, it didn't appear to sit too well with Miss Temple. "That will be all, Phoebe. Go with ... Deuteronomy."
"Yes'm." Phoebe bobbed a quick curtsy, but Temple had already spun away to walk to the front door.
Deu climbed the steps to the cabin ahead of her and pushed open the door. He had spent half of last night sweeping the dirt floor until there wasn't a piece of dust left, but it still didn't change what it was, a slave's shack with no windows, an open fireplace, a straw bed in the corner, and a crudely built table with stumps for seats in the middle of the single room. The only nice thing in the place was the rocking chair by the fireplace that old Master Stuart had given him when the seat busted. He had managed to fix it, although it still pinched your bottom if you sat in it wrong.
"Is this it?" Phoebe tried to peer around him to see inside.
"Yes." Deu hesitated a second longer, then walked inside. "It's dark. You'd better let me light the candle."
As the flame threw its wavering light over the room, deepening the shadows in the corners, Phoebe stepped inside, still clutching the bundle in front of her. He watched her look slowly all around the room, conscious of the spreading tightness in him.
"Phoebe . .." But when he had to meet those big dark eyes of hers, the words wouldn't come out.
"Is something wrong, Deu?" She tipped her head to the side, studying him curiously.
"No ... yes ..." He stopped and started over. "Master Blade has given his permission for you to be my woman."
Her eyes widened into two big black pools of trusting innocence. "You asked him?"
"No." Deu looked away. "But he knew I had ideas in that direction. That's why he did it without waiting for me to ask. I know that you're too young—"
"But I'm a woman." In the candlelight, she seemed to float across the space to stand in front of him, her face all upturned and eager. "And I want to be your woman, Deu."
"You don't know what you're saying." He stared at her, hurting inside so much that he thought he would break apart from the pain.
"But I do." She smiled at him confidently, her face glowing. "Many's the night I've laid awake listening to the sounds of my mammy and pappy coupling in the next bed, pleasuring each other. I know all about it, Deu. I know why my pappy breathes so hard
and why my mammy groans so soft and low. I've touched myself sometimes and ... and the ache I felt was good," she admitted, briefly self-conscious. "And I want for you to touch me like that, Deu. I've wanted it for a long time." She moved closer to him. "Please."
Her words, her nearness were more than he could resist. He reached out and pulled her against him, shuddering uncontrollably. "I've wanted you for a long time, too, Phoebe," he declared. "I was just waiting for you to grow up."
"But I am grown." She removed the bundle of her belongings that kept their bodies from touching as fully as each wanted.
He wasn't sure about her being grown, but right now he just wanted to hold her. "I wish I could have heard the words the preacher said today. I wish we could marry up proper. Say more and do more than just jump over a broom."
"Words or no words, broom or no broom, I'm going to be your woman for as long as I live."
She didn't understand and Deu didn't try to explain it to her. Being an educated slave, he knew there were other ways— proper ways—of making Phoebe his wife. Ways that gave it more dignity and meaning than the slave custom of jumping over a broom. Ways that expressed the feelings he had for her and made them something special and lasting.
He loved her. He loved the sweetness of her eager kisses and the innocence of her clinging arms, doubting she could possibly know the rough, raw needs she aroused in him as he struggled to contain them, afraid they would frighten her.
He pulled back and gazed at her face—at her glistening lips, wet from his kisses. "You're so young, Phoebe." His voice trembled like his fingers when he caressed the shiny roundness of her cheek. "A woman-child, that's what you are. A beautiful woman-child."
Hurt flashed in her eyes, then she stepped back, a determined set to her features as she unfastened her dress and pulled it over her head. Frozen, Deu stared at her naked, brown body and her young breasts that had ripened within these past months.
"Deu, please touch me," she whispered. But he couldn't. He couldn't move. The need in him was too great. He was certain he'd explode with it right there on the spot. "I want you to."
Reaching out, she took his hand and guided it to her breast. He felt the little shudder that quivered through her, but it was nothing compared to the quaking in his own body. His self-control was too fragile, his restraint too tenuous; he had to take it slow as he lovingly fondled her breasts, knowing it wasn't enough. He wanted to touch all of her and feel her body under his, all warm and open and giving.
She arched against his hands, inviting and encouraging him to explore and discover the firmness of her taut bottom and the thinness of her ribs. All the while, her eyes never left his face, their lids drooping sometimes in obvious pleasure or opening wide in wondrous surprise. When at last he dared to let his hand slide onto her mound, her knees buckled and she collapsed against him.
"Yes, there," she moaned, then lifted her head to gaze at him again, her own features slack with desire. "I want you, Deu."
He hesitated, longing to believe she knew what she was saying. Then he felt her hand at the crotch of his trousers gliding up to feel the outline of his erection. A groan came from his throat, destroying the last shred of his control. He carried her to the bed in the corner and laid her down on its straw mattress, then hastily stripped off his own clothes to join her.
As he moved to kiss her, he murmured thickly, "I'll try not to hurt you, Phoebe. I'll try." But he knew he would this time. Later she would find out how good it could really feel.
In the master bedroom of the main house, The Blade stood at the balcony doorway and listened to the sound of Temple's voice as she crisply instructed the servants in the placement of her trunks. Below, fireflies floated over the lawn, their winking glow appearing first one place, then another.
The door closed, accompanied by receding footsteps, leaving only the rustle of Temple's movements to mar the stillness of the room. Slowly, he turned from the balcony opening and the evening breeze that wandered through it. Temple had her back to him as she stood in front of the long mirror and unpinned the trailing white lace of her veil. Thoughtfully, he studied her reflection, noting the taut smoothness of her features and the anger that smoldered in her eyes.
"We are alone now." He watched her stiffen at the sound of his voice and caught the slashing glance she threw at his reflection. "Perhaps you would care to tell me why your eyes have been throwing knives at me all afternoon. I am fortunate to have only one scar."
She avoided his gaze as she swept the lace from her head. "How could you invite those . . . animals to our wedding feast?"
"What should I have done?" Idly, he moved away from the balcony doors. "Tell them they were not welcome and order them to leave? They would hardly have paid attention to that."
"No. But neither would it have appeared as if you welcomed them," she retorted, spinning to confront him. "Have you forgotten they are our enemies?"
"No, but I hoped I might distract them long enough for your Reverend Cole to slip away. I thought you would have guessed that."
"If I didn't, it is because you sounded much too sincere." She turned away, still angry, but The Blade could tell that her anger lacked its previous heat.
Moving to stand behind her, he slid his hands around her small, tightly corseted waist and bent to nibble at her neck. "I was sincere—sincere in not wanting our wedding feast spoiled."
"They did spoil it."
Taking her firmly by the shoulders, he turned her around to face him, then pulled her closer, a hand gliding to the small of her back to cradle her against his hips in subtle suggestion. He ignored the stiffness that was her one show of resistance. "Are you going to let them spoil our night as well?"
"No."
"Prove it," he challenged lazily.
She paused, peering at him through the top of her lashes, a knowing gleam in her eyes. "Maybe I have no wish to."
"You want to, all right." He smiled faintly, aware of her new pliancy in his arms.
An instant later she confirmed it, winding her hands around his neck and meeting him halfway when he bent to kiss her. Her response seared through him, her lips devouring while her tongue enticed. The Blade was half convinced that he was the one being slowly seduced—not that he objected.
Again and again her lips claimed his mouth, sometimes softly, sometimes hungrily, sometimes yielding, sometimes demanding. Then, breathing heavily, she trailed her moist lips over his face, her teeth grazing over his jaw to stop near his ear.
"I love you." Her breath fanned his ear, warm and stirring.
"I must be mad," he declared thickly. "Because I love you, too."
"Do you?" She nibbled at him as her fingers worked to untie the silk cravat at his neck. "How much?"
After the cravat hung loose, her deft fingers shifted to the buttons of his tucked shirtfront and high-standing collar while her mouth continued its moist exploration of his jaw, ear, and neck.
"Too much." He caught hold of her hands, preventing them from undressing him further, aware that it would be too easy to let her take control of the moment. Something warned him not to give her that kind of power over him or she would lead him in a merry dance the rest of his life. It was a question of survival.
"Is something wrong, my love?" So innocent were her words, yet so knowing were her eyes.
His mouth quirked briefly in a dry smile. "The room has become uncomfortably warm, as if you didn't know." He shrugged out of his coat and his waistcoat and pulled the cravat from around his neck, tossing them all on a chair and leaving only the white cambric of his shirt and dove gray twill of his trousers to cover him. "Have you not grown warm as well, Mrs. Stuart?" he murmured, arching a brow in question.
"Indeed, sir, very warm." Gracefully, she turned her back to him, presenting him with the row of buttons that fastened her lavender silk gown.
With deliberate slowness, The Blade unbuttoned her gown while he nibbled at her neck the way she had nibbled at his, then he expanded the area to the
ridge of her shoulder, smiling at the shivers of pleasure that danced over her skin. When the gown was fully loosened, he slipped it from her shoulders and arms in a long caress, then let it fall to the floor.
Reaching around in front of her, he untied the ribbons that secured her bustle, spreading one hand against the top of her stomach and feeling her back arch into him like a cat's. Next he unfastened the strings of her petticoats. Then, picking up her chemise-clad body, he lifted her out of the layers of clothing. She turned in his arms, her mouth seeking his, for a moment distracting him from his task with the heat of her kiss. For an instant, he wanted to pursue it, but he forced himself not to until he had bared her flesh to his hands, determined to take his time and enjoy every second of the moment when she finally became his.
He lowered her feet to the floor once again and dragged the long skirt of her chemise up to her waist. With her help, he pulled it over her head, only to be confronted with another layer of undergarments, infinitely more stimulating ones.
"Something can definitely be said for the old ways of the Cherokees," he murmured impatiently as he gazed at the twin mounds of her breasts bulging from atop the corset that just barely covered her nipples, momentarily mesmerized by their agitated rise and fall. "A man had fewer clothes to contend with."
He glanced once at her lips, parted in anticipation of his touch, then watched her breasts as he freed the laces that cinched the corset together. When the front gaped open, revealing the full roundness of her breasts and their tantalizing peaks, he wasn't conscious of her hands tugging the hem of his shirt loose from the confining band of his trouser waist. Then he felt the coolness of her hands gliding up his stomach.
He pulled the shirt over his head, then carried Temple to the bed, setting her on the side of it. There, she slipped off her low-heeled white pumps and slowly rolled down her stockings for him. The Blade peeled off her drawers, conscious of the nearly unbearable pressure in his loins. At last she sat naked before him, his to touch, to take, and to love.
