How she hated being forced to beg. “Could you at least do it for Cookie?”
She waited his response, but he stood there a pillar of arrogance. “I could force you, but I won’t begin to condescend. As to buying you like a horse−it-it was no more than you deserve.” She turned and galloped off.
“You fool.” Ames spat, watching her mare kick up puffs of dust behind her.
“So I lost my tongue,” Devon laughed. “It was worth every second.”
Bloodsmythe cursed him. “That was the baron’s niece. The same baron that will order every piece of skin flogged from you. What if she’s riding home to inform him of your refusal? It’s all of our hides that will profit from your loose tongue. Why did you have to insult her?” Devon didn’t know why himself. She was his wife, and he couldn’t have her. He was a slave, lower than an animal. Best to keep his distance with a woman like that. Revenge proved a safer mistress.
“She saved you from the mines. We’re together because of her,” snapped Ames.
Devon’s mood soured. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to take everything out on her, but her words, “lowly as a slave” flared his temper.
“I’ve worked at the big house and Cookie is as kind and gentle as they come. She fed me when she knew no one was about. You should aid her.” Bloodsmythe crossed his arms.
“I don’t need a blunderer like you to handle my quarrels.” Devon scowled.
Wolf looked him in the eye. “I don’t know nothing about your past laddie, but ye have the bleat of a ram what’s trying to play tiger. Maybe you’re used to hunting alone, but now you’re just one more lamb in the flock and what hurts one, hurts us all.”
Ames pointed a finger at Devon. “Get over your hard feelings toward the girl. Use it as an opportunity to scout the island, perhaps find some way to escape. You’re a fool not to try.”
Devon heard enough. “Your opinions come yapping and growling round me like a pack of curs.” Yet…there was truth in what they said, points he’d not considered. He threw down his shovel and stalked toward the guards.
Claire stood and wiped her hands before answering the door. All day she had been applying fresh cloths to cool Cookie’s fever. Deciding it best to take shifts, she had sent Lily to bed. Listening to Cookie’s moans unnerved her. To feel this helpless, was a foreign concept for her to grasp. In London, she could have called on a whole host of practitioners. Claire despaired. She had failed when Cookie needed her most.
When they were younger, it had always been Cookie who had cared for them. When she and Lily had fallen ill with smallpox, she remembered Cookie’s loving hands, tendering their care. She owed a great debt to this woman who had nurtured her for so many years. Claire adjusted the sheet over Cookie, terrified she would lose her.
Claire played over in her head the altercation with the slave. Her fury increased with every thought of him. Earlier she swore she would never speak to that impudent and ungrateful wretch for as long as she lived. But Cookie’s illness had worsened. Her pride paled in significance to Cookie’s needs. If she had to put up with that arrogant man, she’d suffer it. She would order the physician brought to her, and in chains if necessary.
Yet when she answered the door, there stood the aim of her contempt. “I can’t believe my eyes. There must be some mistake. How is it the great physician has condescended to come to my assistance?”
“Not to your assistance, although you look a little flushed, but I owed it to your overwhelming enthusiasm of seeing me.” He dared to smile.
Claire considered slamming the door in his face. “Do come in.” She gritted her teeth and waved to the guard. “You may return to the fields. I will handle things from here.” She stared in emphasis when the wide-eyed guard attempted to protest.
The physician crushed his straw hat over his heart. “Perhaps I owe you an apology,” he said, the words a mere whisper, as if sour on his tongue.
“More than one, but who’s counting?
“Very well, accept my apology in triplicate.”
Claire considered his apology which didn’t really sound like an apology at all. It sounded forced and nowhere near contrite, given more like he was at the point of a sword. She paused for a moment reflecting on this fact. Her impression was that this encounter was more than a battle of words. It was as if he had declared war on her kind.
But on the rare chance he really was sincere and not being ill-natured about it, she said, “I’m not sure a simple apology will suffice for what−” She paused, noting the tensing of his body, his brows pulled together in an affronted frown. I win this argument, she decided before giving him a brilliant smile. “I’m not hard pressed to continue hostilities, so I accept your apology−in triplicate. This way, doctor.” She turned and led him up the stairs.
Devon barely heard her. He was still attempting to recoup from the staggering effect of the smile she’d just given him. How easily she disarmed him. In pure disgruntlement, he considered the impact she made on him. Devon followed baffled, his mind gone awry, his tongue trussed in knots. She held weapons enough to flay his backside.
Devon shook himself. Following the sway of those hips and soft swish of her skirts in front of him had his mind mesmerized for other things. A rare pleasure that accompanying site. A temporary cease-fire existed between them. He let it go at that, not sure she’d accepted his apology nor sure if he had dropped his idea of revenge.
“How is the patient?” he afforded, attempting to pry his mind from his primitive thoughts. She led him into a bedroom. Devon moved around Claire and knelt next to the older woman asleep on the bed. Pasty, pale, her skin wrinkled like parchment, her hair matted to her head.
Grimy from working in the fields he directed Claire to pour fresh water into a basin. He washed then dried his hands on fresh linen. He ran a hand over Cookie’s brow.
“You can go now. I’ll take care of her.”
“No,” she said. “I’m staying.”
“No wilting flower?” Devon was impressed. He set his bag down and commenced to examine the patient. He took the old woman’s wrist between his thumb and forefinger. “She is quite feverish. How long do you say?” As asked, she answered many of his questions. It was not unusual to greet a foreign malady in this part of the world unknown to him.
“You’ll not bleed her?”
He looked at her, saw the apprehension in those golden eyes. “Of course not.”
She bestowed on him a wavering smile. Her shoulders sunk in relief.
“I see she’s been bled.” He didn’t need her confirmation, he could see the marks. He despised the practice where physicians blooded, vomited, purged, and sacrificed their patients.
“Can you help her?”
She was a menace, but Devon would do anything to get the sparkle back into her smile. He wanted to see her cheeks bloom and her eyes brighten. Not the dark shadows that lay beneath her eyes. He studied her overlong. “I’ll do my finest. This old girl has the best physician in her corner.” He’d have to be a magician or a messiah for in reality the old dame’s vitals were quite weak. He ordered several things from Claire.
“You have been a doctor long?” She asked his qualifications.
“Qualified by examination at Trinity College of Physicians. I have extensive knowledge of remedial herbs. Do you have advantage of an apothecary? I heard there is one in Port Royale. I have requested of it to serve your uncle’s slaves but have been denied. Instead I’ve had to rely on some learned native plants to suffice as medicine to succor my patients. If I have convenience of both, we may have a fighting chance.” He rose and studied her. If he could get advantage of the apothecary from her, he could get medicines for his men.
“Of course. Give me a list, I will send for it.”
Devon dictated more than what he needed. He watched her write in neat scrawl then sent a messenger to retrieve the herbs. She frowned and under his scrutiny wavered. He thought she was going to question the additional medicines.
“But w
hat of the native plants?” she said. “How will I obtain them?”
“I will have to collect them myself. I observed some growing not far from here. I will have to boil a concoction. Will I have use of your kitchen?”
“Yes. When will we retrieve the herbs?”
Devon raised an eyebrow. “We? Surely not. After all, I am a lowly slave, not fit company for the highborn.” He hedged, hoping to have the freedom to scout the island alone without the guards. She stiffened from his scorn. He laughed, daring her. “Or perhaps you are afraid of me.”
“More afraid, you’ll try to escape before I get Cookie healed,” she suggested. “Follow me.” She marched from the room. When they broached the outdoors, she turned to him, both fists dug on her hips. “I realize you don’t like me much because I performed a favor by purchasing you. But I’m going to do everything in my power to save Cookie. Nothing and no one will stand in my way. Even if that means me putting up with your bad manners and assisting in any tasks necessary to expedite that goal. Let it be clear that I don’t care a fig about what other people think and what you think. After you have healed Cookie, you are more than welcome to go back to your labors and wallow in your disdain for me. As for now, you are my slave and under my command. Is that understood?”
A blind rage like a fire swept over him. “Tell me...” He stripped her with his piercing eyes, but she stood her ground. “As an expert slaver, what in my shoes would you feel yourself?”
He could see she considered her words before she spoke. “My intention of going with you is to learn what you know about medicinal plants. If my uncle or his overseer are about I can answer any questions that may arise. A slave roaming free would be suspect,” she reminded him.
He folded his arms and gave her a look of complete superiority. He would not budge until he had her answer nor would he tolerate her evasiveness. Her face mirrored many changes regarding him. He gauged her fury, curiosity and then earnestness without the guile of her sex.
She took a deep breath. “To answer your question, I would feel the same.”
This struck Devon as a most unusual, sincere confession and one that left him bewildered. For a moment he studied her with heightened interest, reassessing her. He was not, he told himself to be deceived by her beauty, her eyes, sympathetic now, or her easy manner. He reminded himself that he could not dissociate her from her uncle. She was of his bloodstock. Some of the merciless cruelty of her uncle must, he reasoned, be a part of her. He mulled this argument in his head, convincing an opposing instinct that challenged otherwise.
Choosing icy civility and practiced remoteness proved safer. “There now that is settled. Let us go and find the herbs.” He turned and started down the road in long strides.
The woman scrambled to keep up. She did not become the least bit squeamish when he crossed through high brush and reminded her to be on the lookout for dangerous snakes. When they entered the forest, she drew alongside him. He smelled jasmine, her scent. The real danger was him. Keep your hands off her, he warned himself. He had enough troubles.
“Is it far?” she asked.
Devon gazed at the sun seen latticed through the trees, plunging deeper into the woods, leaving her to follow. He knew exactly where he was, but the devil in him chose to go a slightly longer more difficult route. It was a petty meanness designed to get even. Burned into his mind rang her words. You are my slave and will do as I command.
The traverse through the forest did something to lift Devon’s spirits. A freedom evoked inside him, the likes he hadn’t experienced in the past few months. The trees, the exotic flowers and birds rekindled his spirits. He was so deep in thought he did not hear her cry out.
“My dress is caught. Could you lend some assistance?”
He strode back a few places to see her piquant upturned face, alive and animated.
“I’ve never walked into the woods before,” she admitted. “I am a little afraid. But I feel at home in the wildness and beauty. It is like a dream spreading an enchantment.”
Devon tore his eyes from her inviting lips and looked into jewel-bright eyes that glowed like amber under sooty black lashes. Fathomless eyes. And the way she kept staring at him. Bloody hell. She heated his blood, made him want things that even he recognized were far beyond his reach.
“I tried to do it myself−” she offered.
Devon opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn’t speak− her scent beckoned him, his nostrils flared from primal instinct, the proximity of her body, and the look in her eyes drugged his mind. In Newgate, he’d been savagely attracted to her. Visions of her kept him alive, yielding to haunting dreams that staved off the hopelessness and despair of a lonely voyage. In the space of a moment, that latent attraction erupted with a force that made him lean down. He yearned to seize her mouth with hard, demanding hunger, to devour her sweetness. Her lips parted, and his body came rigid with desire. A pulse beat at the base of her throat. His tongue could explore that area down to the soft tips of her breasts and beyond.
The raven cawed above him, jerking him back to reality. With Herculean effort, Devon pulled back. He’d forgotten about his men. About finding an escape. He was amazed he’d forgotten that; he was more amazed at his unparalleled lack of control where she was concerned. His jaw tightened and his tone hardened. “You should have stayed with your friend. It is not proper for a woman like you to come alone with a slave.”
He observed her confusion as he knelt to remove her dress from gnarled vines. Beneath feminine petticoats, he saw a glimpse of ankle. His whole being filled with wanting. He brushed her ankle, soft and warm. She gasped. It would be so easy. He yanked the remnant from the roots and stalked off.
He was a slave, lower than a beast of burden, not fit to hold the hem of her dress.
She was his wife.
Devon came upon an opening. A cliff boasting a broad view of Port Royale’s Harbor, her arms spread wide like a great breasted woman, embracing the sea. Freedom. It slammed into him. The rich sea waters beckoned him, calling him home. A boundless ocean ruffled by the winds of heaven. The contemplation of his dying on this miserable island prison dredged an awful bitterness backed by burning resolve. He surveyed the landscape, taking in everything strategic. But how? He needed a vessel. The chances of obtaining that were next to nil. It would be easier to build castles in the air.
“It is lovely,” she offered, standing by his side. “But where are the herbs?” said the metaphor of his chains.
“I’m sorry. I lost my bearings,” he apologized. He turned, removing himself from the proximity of temptation. He backtracked to a little glade to harvest the precious herbs before returning to the big house.
“Do you think this will work?” Claire willed the concoction he had blended in the kitchen to perform its magic. She watched as deft hands lifted Cookie’s head, coaxing her to drink the strong medicine. She remained puzzled by his present aloofness. She didn’t really quite understand what had happened in the glade and these feelings irked her. “What else is in it?” She had watched him mix many powders then finally decided to give up trying to figure him out…and, accept his cool cordiality.
“I can assure you it’s not parrots’ tongues or rat’s livers like those other rascals prescribe. I’ve heard tell many have entered the world beyond escalated by their unique talents.”
Claire noted his knowledge of the quackery practiced by the other two island doctors. She also noticed his hands, how gentle they were administering a poultice to Cookie’s chest, like his quick agile hands with her mare, the art of a healer. He returned the blankets over Cookie.
“You will be fine. You are a tough old girl with fighting spirit,” he crooned to Cookie, and for that, Claire stood thankful. He washed his hands in a basin and dried them on linen. From there, his calm, deliberate glance passed on to consider her. “Claire, be seated. It is a waiting game from here.”
He spoke her name with characteristic firmness, defying proper decorum. She had
not given him the liberty of using her first name, but dismissed the faux pas for now. If he could indeed help Cookie she would overlook his breach in etiquette. She would remind him later.
He sat in a chair next to his patient, his shirt sleeves folded up on his forearms, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He seemed at home, she surmised a nuance of his trade. Claire could not relax. In the communal silence that fell between them, she felt he was aware of her as much as she was aware of him.
Time crawled by as years. No longer could she remain seated. She walked to the curtain and looked outside, allowing the drowsy warmth of the sun to wash over her. In the waning quiet, she could feel his eyes on her. She clutched the drape in her hand, attempting to throttle the dizzying currents racing through her for she remembered that moment in the forest all too well. There was a spell woven between them, and she thought for one brief instant, he was going to kiss her. She wondered how that would feel. She had never been kissed before. Ridiculous! Far be it from her to invite such attention, since she was so plain.
Simmering beneath the surface, her feelings merged into one another like the hues of a prism. Claire’s face grew warm. His gentle touch upon her ankle, burned through her dress, petticoats, stockings, igniting even now, a melting in the pit of her stomach. Oh my. She was by no means blind to his attraction for the man radiated a vitality and energy that drew her like a magnet. But those thoughts were forbidden. He was a slave.
Why had she purchased him? Reason nettled her. She knew. He had stood there all alone against the world. No one wanted him. She could not allow that final humiliation. Then there was his spirit that she admired. They were kindred souls, despite their differences. Both of them, she surmised, yearned for independence, freedom to live their own lives.
Claire sat in her chair again, pretending the man opposite her was no different than a piece of furniture. Her nerves were drawn taut as harp strings, and her senses hummed. Without thinking, she stroked the spine of a book, then picked it up and commenced to read. The endeavor remained far from calming. The words she read made no sense at all. She backed up a page to reread what she missed. She sighed, concluding the activity an exercise in futility. “A particular interest of yours?”
The Winds of Fate Page 6
