Claire jerked her head up. “Pardon me?”
He gave her a patronizing smile. Had he noticed her discomfort? “The Husbandry of Sheep. Far be it from me to take you away from such an interesting topic. Must be the rage among ladies.”
Claire clapped the book shut. She colored when he chuckled. “My−my cousin, Lily reads everything,” she said in weak explanation.
“Faith to have knowledge of shearing and−mating practices. One never knows when that information might come in handy.”
Claire inhaled, the innuendo clear. His eyes were lit with humor. He would do anything to provoke her embarrassment. She abandoned all pretenses. “I was ruminating the practice of castration.” With innocent guile, she looked at him. “We are talking about sheep?”
His astonishment was priceless.
“I believe that was a tactical error on your part, doctor. Now we’re even.”
To her dismay, he threw back his head and roared with laughter then quieted himself so as not to disturb his patient.
“You are the most arrogant, insufferable man I have ever met. If it weren’t for Cookie’s well-being, I’d toss you out in a−” But the merriment in his eyes grew infectious, and for the first time in a long time, Claire could not help herself from smiling. “You bring out the worst in me, doctor. Are you always this−ill-mannered?”
He arched a brow in that all knowing impossible male attitude. “Always.”
The whole man was a study in contradictions. He was a slave, her slave, but behaved nothing like a slave. He had the audacity to act as her equal. He was educated and caring, this she’d seen firsthand. Yet he wasted no time in vexing her. She could not help herself from pondering his history.
“You must have been a monstrous child,” she said.
“Left my parents faint with exhaustion. And yours?”
This was far safer. Her feelings had run amok. She likened them to a desperate old spinster. She would not allow those feelings to happen again. With that decision, she felt better, genuinely warming up to a topic that held fond and dear memories for her. “I thrived on adventure as a young child, to my parents’ alarm.” said Claire, slanting the physician a provocative laughing look. “My parents hosted a dinner party with hopes to impress their guests. I recall Lady Winston. She stood the epitome of haughtiness, and she wasted no time in telling me I was doomed to be a ragamuffin. I thought her quite rude. So at dinner, I slipped a frog into her vichyssoise. When the servant removed the cover from her bowl, she fainted dead away. My parents tried to feign horror, but could not stop laughing. The dinner party turned into a fiasco. I was punished. I could not ride my pony for a week.”
She found it so easy to talk to him. Refreshing yet odd, not a discourse one would have with a slave. His camaraderie, his subtle wit and the way he listened intently to what she said as if nothing else in the world mattered. The banter was disconcerting and flattering. It also created a false mood of absolute intimacy and solitude.
Yet, hanging in the air was an unidentifiable acquaintance that she could not quite put her finger on. It was almost as if she had known him before. Claire searched his face for clues but could find none. Then there was that voice of his, resonating with nagging familiarity. She looked away, tracing the molded edge of her chair, thinking her worries over Cookie were causing her to imagine things that were not there.
Claire walked to the bed and lifted the cloth from Cookie’s forehead. “Your journey to Jamaica, was it long?” She glanced to him and froze, those penetrating eyes, fastened onto hers.
“The Jamaica Merchant was an abomination, a fertile womb for suffering. The sloshing bilges churned up nauseous fumes and the decks leaked until there wasn’t a dry piece of clothing below. Under the hatches we men wrestled with close confinement. Our nourishment started with salt horse, old meat first, that is, meat that had been returned from a former voyage. On opening one of these hoary casks, the stench flooded the space below decks and hung in the air like a miasma. Add the foul water. A sickness broke out among us and it was all that I could do to avail my skills and prevent heavy losses. We dropped anchor in Carlisle Bay, and we were lucky enough to put ashore forty-three out of seventy-two surviving rebels.”
Claire withstood his fiery blast. His eyes seemed to see everything, so piercing, so swift to study and judge, then explode with his judgment. She could only imagine the deprivations he’d been through. Yet what galled her, stood the fact that he assumed she was responsible for his lot in life.
“There is nothing I can do to change your fate. You are a rebel, a traitor to the King. You are captain of your own destiny, commanded by your own hand. I observed you looking out over the bay. I felt your lust for freedom. I’ll inform you, it is forbidden.”
“Thank you, Madame, for reminding me of my place.” He dismissed her coldly, and commenced to examine the patient.
Claire fumbled tidying up the bedside table. What had made her speak so horribly? He possessed the predisposition to turn her into a hopeless shrew. Every conversation turned into an accomplished act of war. Claire reminded herself that her goal was to heal Cookie, not antagonize him. Her temper was responsible for getting rid the other two island doctors. She didn’t want a battle. She wanted a treaty. With her uncle she had learned to deal with difficult men−the physician was bent on being difficult; therefore, she needed to maneuver him into a more reasonable frame of mind. Pointing out his status would not accomplish that. “I apologize for what I said.”
“Faith, a study in diplomacy?” he mocked.
Claire balled her fists, but kept her voice soft, weary of argument. “I’m trying to call a truce of sorts. Won’t you come at least halfway?”
He folded his arms in front of him. “What if a person owes you a debt? Do you think that person should fulfill it?”
“Why yes,” she waffled, wondering where this cryptic conversation was leading.
“A debt is a promise, an obligation to be fulfilled, is it not?” He smiled benignly.
“A person’s promise or word is his sense of honor.” Why did her chest tighten?
“How important is your sense of honor? Do you abide by it?”
She studied the inscrutable expression on his face, yet had the distinct impression she was a mouse toyed in a tiger’s paw. “Why of course.” Was there a deeper meaning to his questions she failed to grasp?
He bowed. “I’ll concede to your wishes. If it’s a truce you want, then it’s a truce it is.”
Claire smiled with triumph not really sure what was conceded. She rinsed a cloth in the cool water. He took it from her hands, his long supple fingers, brushed against hers. She shivered. He placed the cloth on Cookie’s forehead with gentleness. Claire speculated the different sides of him. The physician, she stood convinced, was a fearless, brash, capable man, but simmering beneath that exterior facade, one who could be brutal. “How is she doing?”
“Her pallor is good, temperature has dropped and breathing has steadied. She’ll make it.”
Through a haze of tears, Claire bestowed on him her most brilliant smile. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied, his voice husky.
“I’ve just now realized, I’ve never asked you your name.”
“Some call me physician, some call me slave,”
Would he always remind her of his misfortune? She sighed worn from argument, and at once, felt achy and exhausted. She leaned back and stretched her spine.
“Tell me, of your husband,” he asked.
She was so stunned, she couldn’t hide her reaction. She fingered the small gold wedding band she had purchased before she left London. “Why-why he’s passed on.”
“So young? How unfortunate.”
“He suffered a terminal illness. He went quickly. Before I even knew,” she explained. The pit of her stomach clenched.
“Sounds quite bleak.” His voice was devoid of emotion. “No other attachments?”
Claire rubbed her arms
up and down. “No. Although my uncle wishes to marry me off, but my widowhood imposes a period of mourning.”
“Of course. The prospect of marriage must be difficult.”
She nodded her head and sighed. “But I’ve moved on and am content to be independent.”
“No ties to a man to rule you. How convenient−his death. Now you are free to prove your intelligence and capabilities to the world. He must have been a generous man to give you his name.”
Claire’s jaw dropped. “This conversation has gone long enough.”
Lily entered, diverting her anger from his personal questions, and if her cousin appeared surprised to see the slave, gave no more notice than a perfunctory nod. She stood stick-straight, her hair dressed in a tight bun and from beneath her spectacles took note with hawk-like precision of everything in the room.
“And how is the patient?” Lily addressed the physician then waited in stoic silence.
Claire stifled a giggle when she saw the doctor sizing up her cousin in the same manner as Lily measured him−an eye for an eye.
“Our physician has made some medicines, and Cookie is on the mend,” declared Claire.
Lily shouldered past Claire, her stout heels clacking on the wood floor until she stood in front of the physician. “Good news indeed. I thank you. We were at an impasse−” Lily grew reflective. “But now that problem has been resolved. I have need of an answer from you on a different issue. I expect you will provide me an honest answer.”
The physician folded his arms. “With a certainty,” he said, and Claire could see that he stood amused with her cousin’s prim superiority.
“I wish to inquire of your friend’s well-being.”
When he looked confused, Claire answered for her. “The blond-haired rebel beside you on the dock the day you entered Port Royale.”
He held Lily’s gaze, but displayed none of the hostility or sarcasm, he saved for Claire. “My friend is doing fair despite his circumstances,” he said darkly.
“I don’t countenance slavery,” Lily said.
“Neither do I,” said the doctor unfolding his arms. “It’s good to see that part of the world has a civilized opinion on the fate of humanity. Most are more provocative to point out our special status.” He glanced knowingly to Claire. “And I’ll be sure to mention your good opinion to my friend, Robert Ames. He’ll be glad to know that a beauty like you with a compassionate heart has a care for his well-being.”
Good heavens. Did she see Lily blush?
Lily patted her hair then turned to Claire. “Have you offered our guest any sustenance? A meal is the least we can do for him.”
“Dear no.” Mortified Claire looked to him. “Please forgive me.” She grabbed his hand.
Devon felt her−he felt her heat. Impulsively, she had grabbed his hand. He allowed her to pull him forward. The touch startled him. And her, judging by the way she paused and stared at him. He smiled and curled his hand around hers. “Lead on.”
He had touched many women’s hands, but never this way. He struggled to remember when he last joined hands with a woman like this, in an innocent, childlike manner. And then he remembered the way her hands entwined in his in the gaol.
When they entered the kitchen she released him, but he held fast, and raised her hand to his lips for a kiss. Her eyes grew wide, and then he let her go.
The truce she had called for settled between them in an unspoken, tacit agreement.
His first instinct was to tell her to go to hell. He was foolhardy and selfish, impulsive at times. He reined in that impulse. Logic reminded him that some sort of civilized relationship with her was what he’d desired. But that devil of recklessness dominated him, and it became impossible to force down his restless energy when a challenge was born. And she was an exciting challenge.
She served smoked ham, roasted turkey, potatoes, buttered bread and sweet desserts. Devon grabbed the plate, and to her dismay, commenced stuffing the food into his mouth.
“Excuse me,” he said between mouthfuls, then remembering his manners,” I’ve not had decent food in a long time. The gruel I’m served barely keeps a man alive. Would you care for a drumstick?” He dangled it from his fingers.
“No thank you.” She put up her hand, and laughed when he grinned at her. “You have the charm of a goat.” She pointed out to him. “What do you think of my cousin?”
“I feel Miss Lily could walk through a riot or revolution and restore order with a series of sharp raps of her unrolled parasol.”
When she laughed it was as glorious as a rainbow’s birth.
“I like her,” he added. “Prudent, smart, and someone’s respect I’d like to have.” He drew upon some ale then studied Claire over the brim of his tankard. She was not typical of ladies her age, but artless, learned, and fiercely loyal to anyone she perceived as her immediate family. Unpretentious with her appearance, she seemed totally unaware of the beautiful picture she made moving about the kitchen.
He wanted her. It slammed into him. Wanted to silence her with his lips, cover himself with the silken strands of her hair, and see its chestnut against the bronze of his skin. He grew fascinated with the swift fury and intelligence he saw in fired glimpses of her golden eyes as she enslaved him with chains tightening around his heart.
“I’ve packaged some extra food to take with you.” He was taken with her thoughtfulness. Quite innocently, she leaned over, her shoulder brushed against his shoulder, and made the blood surge through his veins.
“Do you have a wife?” Claire ventured, curious about him.
He looked sharply to her, doused the surprised smile from his chiseled features and nodded his head in confirmation.
“How terrible to be separated from your wife.” If only he would stop staring at her. Had he been jilted? Of course, his mercurial mood veered drastically. Why was his behavior so disquieting? The hairs rose on the back of her neck.
“No,” he answered her. “Never separated.”
She fumbled with the salt cellar. He was a tempest, best viewed from afar.
“My eyes fall on her beauty as we speak. Fate is a strange bedfellow. Is it not?”
Claire stirred. Perspiration beaded down her sides.
“Surely that eventful eve in Newgate can spark a memory,” he laughed.
Her voice suffocated as a pair of piercing green eyes locked onto hers...cold, probing, speculative eyes. Knowing eyes. “Never−”
“Certainly, a felon whose life was to be cut short by the hangman’s, lucked out on the King’s greed, cheating fate and our dear friend, Mr. Goad.”
“This cannot be−” Overwhelming disbelief paralyzed her brain.
“In the flesh, Madame. Your earthly husband.” He laughed.
Claire could hear her blood exploding wildly in her ears, trying to adjust to the fact that the mysterious stranger in front of her was the same man she had married months before. In the waning silence, the dilemma hung over her like a shroud, indecision raged at her, and tears she refused to shed, ached in her eyes. Yet he knew specific information.
“But you are a slave−”
“I expected you to remind me of that fact, but is it not a conundrum for you?”
She twisted her fingers together. “What do you want?” She stood to leave, to flee the very room, to get anywhere as long as it was far away from him. Quick and agile as a panther, he blocked her escape. She stared into his chest. Her voice broke with fear. “Pray, let me go.”
“Och, now...” He paused. “We have a matter to discuss.”
She attempted to dart around him. When that failed she pushed against him, meeting a rock solid wall of muscle and flesh that didn’t budge in the least. “No−no. It cannot be true,” she railed against him, half sobbing, half screeching.
He grabbed her shoulders and gave her a rough shake to quiet her hysteria, her hair loosened from its pins, tumbling down her back. “By God, you will listen.”
Her hand burned where it touched the sof
t furring of hair upon his chest. She snatched it back. Claire stared with disbelieving shock into scathing green eyes and stilled her movements.
“That’s better now.”
How could she have forgotten that voice? His whole being was in that voice. Claire summoned a show of faint bravado and lifted her chin. “I’m not afraid of you.”
White even teeth flashed against tanned skin as he laughed at her. At once, he reminded her of a swarthy pirate, lacking cutlass and pistols.
“What do you want from me? I have little money−”
“Money is not what I want.”
Claire rose to slap him. Her hand caught in a vise-like grip. “I could scream. I could scream until my uncle and this whole plantation comes down on you. Then you’ll be hanged. I’ll be glad to see you thrown as fodder to the crows.”
“Will you?” he mocked. “And what will become of your reputation then? Married to a slave, a rebel?”
“Damn you.” Pricked by his scorn, she stood reckless and sneered. “What do you want?”
“Not rape or plunder of your lush body. A tumble in the hay is far from what I require, Madame Blackmon.” He flaunted her name.
Then what did he want? She trembled inside. She knew.
He raised a brow as if reading her mind. He raked his eyes up and down her. She crossed her arms in front of her as if naked before that stare.
“In Newgate, you walked into my wretched world. I counted the stones ‘til I was half-mad thinking of you. Every detail, every memory of you remained scorched on my mind. I survived a vast and terrible voyage, but still I did not forget. Then destiny threw me ashore with my tortured dreams all within reach, yet so far away.” He fingered a loosened tress, letting it trail through his fingers.
The Winds of Fate Page 7
