The Winds of Fate

by Michel, Elizabeth

  Done with settling Mary’s megrims, Devon retired to the far end of the gardens. The rum’s warmth couldn’t melt the chill inside him. What was his wife doing now? Was she entertaining that English bastard?

  When he recalled the number of covetous gazes following his wife’s every movement, he seethed with a renewed fury, wishing to put a sword through every man who dared to look at her. He could not breathe when she had descended the stairs. He had never seen her dressed like that and he seethed as every man in the room was affected as much as he. It took every ounce of effort on his part to stay put. Was she planning to seduce every man on the island?

  Yet he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Everything about Claire shimmered as if her gown had been woven by fairies out of scarlet sunbeams. He wanted her in every way a man wanted a woman, possessing her until she depended on him for the very air she breathed.

  So he had stood apart from the revel, and watched and waited, unable to touch what he knew bone-deep belonged to him. She spent too much time dancing with the fop. Rank, title, family, money, freedom. Sir Teakle’s hand slipped to touch her body, caressing the curve of her waist. Teakle had pretended not to notice the liberty he had taken, so it might appear accidental, but Devon did not. The image of that aristocratic bastard grunting over Claire’s pale naked beauty became too much. Cursing beneath his breath, Devon threw his glass into a garden wall where it shattered in a thousand pieces.

  He saw Claire run down the steps and rush into the garden away from the crush of people. Perhaps a designation to meet a paramour? Devon sat in the darkness, nurturing a world-weariness, which both annoyed and intrigued him. It almost made him wish...

  He shook himself. He wished nothing other than to be free, away from enslavement, aristocrats and their progeny. Tomorrow, if the opportunity presented itself, he would seek out Tom Dooley, the debtor whose prison sentence he helped waive to see if his cryptic gratitude offered real merit. The eventuality of escape spun in his mind.

  He saw her get caught on a rose bush, a painful thorn digging into her flesh.

  He moved from the shadows. “Allow me to assist you.”

  Devon’s appearance surprised her.

  “Please be careful,” she pleaded, her head still bowed in a position both awkward and embarrassing. “My gown might be torn.”

  “We can’t have that,” Devon teased, his voice intimate and cordial, making her blush as if this were the sort of secret encounter she devised, but wanted to avoid.

  She raised her eyes, observing the man in front of her. Dark brows slanted over quizzical eyes. Any other girl would have had her breath taken away by such maleness. Not Claire. She refused to be like Maybelle Meriwether. He seemed to take overlong in removing the thicket. Her insides began to churn like a northern sea, and he stood next to her as if he hadn’t a care in the world. But even as she tried to ignore his proximity, his deep voice and the warmth of his breath on her neck sent shivers down her spine−although not of fear. Of something else. Something primal…and dangerous. He managed to free her. Claire exhaled.

  “I’ve performed a surgery, separating you from Mary’s roses.” He brushed her hair away from the nape of her neck in a gesture like a caress and she pushed him away.

  He laughed from her outrage, his face showing his concern. “Do you have a scratch? Perhaps beneath your gown−”

  “You’re not looking beneath my gown.”

  His lips curved up in an amused, yet gentle smile that made her heart race as if she’d run for miles. “As a physician, I assure you I am only looking out for your well-being. Scratches can be dangerous and fatal if not treated.”

  “You are not free to exercise your trade on me,” she snapped.

  “But it is true, Madame.” He picked up her hand, kissed it−and she snatched it back. “I am the least dangerous.” He assured her.

  Claire snorted and backed away from him. “There is speculation in that.” She put up a great show of indifference, but some link…some invisible thread tugged her toward him. Strange things happened to her when he was close. She needed to get back to the party.

  With his arms behind his back, he looked toward the heavens. “Ah there. Do you see? It is Scorpio. Scorpio fascinates me the most.” His head lowered to study her. “Your name, Claire, means clear, bright like the stars in the Scorpio constellation that are clear, bright, and illustrious. They indicate true beauty and demonstrate obviousness…like you, Claire. Perhaps you came looking for me?”

  “Why would I look for you?” Claire said. How dare he infer she was chasing him?

  “Alone, in a dark garden, and so far away from the other guests. But you are far more dangerous to me, I think. When I saw you this evening in your red satin, glowing under the candlelight, your lips so red and blushing−”

  Was he different, or was it moonlight and the headiness of wine she had consumed that made him seem so much more threatening than he did during the day? She glared back at him, hoping he would read her expression and ignore the tremors rioting through her body as he taunted her. “It would serve you right if I had you whipped.”

  “Serve me?” He laughed. “Faith, you’d not be the first missed opportunity. I will be wounded, but I shall survive to see my end.”

  Here he was to remind her of her promise. “Will I ever be free of you?”

  “Did you not persist in allowing far more intimacies with that fop then a lady should allow? Did I not see with my own two eyes how the men touched your hair, whispered in your ear, and held you far too close? Are you forever to hide behind a rueful smile and biting wit? Or do you prefer to be the willing victim, immersing yourself in fawning suitors to avoid being a woman?”

  He reached for her except…she held him at arm’s length. Her glance traveled hesitantly across his hard chest before her eyes lifted to meet that steady, predatory stare.

  “I am your husband declaring what is rightfully mine.” He shook his head, his smile quite startling in its sensual appeal, no doubt to disarm her.

  “Ah, Claire, love,” he said sadly. “Am I really to believe that you will not see to your promise? Faith, did I not see a glimmer of a beautiful woman rise with plucky courage to champion me against Sir Teakle? Was that not encouragement?”

  “I saved your reckless head to keep you from a beating so you can work another day on the governor’s rheumatism. Be informed that when I give myself to a man, it will be under the vows of a real marriage with all the love I can summon from my heart.” She shoved him back.

  “The real vows have been said,” he snapped. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “What do you fear, Claire!”

  Tears gathered in her eyes. I fear for my own heart, my soul, my very being. He made her aware of her vulnerability. She could not be vulnerable. He threatened everything she needed or wanted in life. Just looking at him made her tremble. Slave or not, he made her yearn for things that only a husband had the right to offer. His eyes, riveted in their intensity and his large hand took her face and held it gently, his fingers brushing the wetness away, his touch almost unbearable in its tenderness. His hands slipped into her hair and brought her closer.

  There was nothing more that Devon wanted to do but kiss her. He felt her yielding and then restrained himself, for he needed to keep his head. Yet he hadn’t anticipated her to look so ravishing tonight. And then there was his jealousy. She was his, always would be, yet a world away. His body heated like wildfire as her soft curves melted into him. Hungrily his mouth covered hers, his tongue tracing the contours of her sweet mouth.

  Her hands slid up his arms and linked about his neck, her fingers winding in the tendrils of his hair in the back of his neck. Aroused now, his one hand lowered to the small of her back while his lips moved down her throat, following the elegant curve to her collarbone, right where the edge of her gown met skin. He nudged it down, tasting one new inch of her, exploring the soft, salty sweetness, and shuddering with pleasure when he cupped the rounded swell of her breast w
ith his hand, feeling her nipple firm under his touch.

  He wanted her.

  He took her mouth again and it was all he could do to hold himself back. He reached down and brought up the satin of her gown, feeling the long silky smoothness of her knee and thigh. The minute she moaned, his tongue plunged into her mouth and the kiss exploded. His hand cupped the soft flesh of her bottom and pulling her against him, making her aware of his aroused body. She stiffened at the forced intimacy, and then pressed her soft body into his.

  She was driving him insane with need. He tasted the wine on her lips as it mingled with the rum he drank. Suddenly she was whispering frantically to him, driving him away.

  “Devon. You must stop. Now.”

  But he could not get enough of her.

  From a haze, she penetrated his senses like a dream and he’d been woken and−

  “Jarvis.” Her breath burst in ragged gasps.

  Her uncle’s name was a bucket of ice water dumped over his head.

  Devon pushed her away and turned to face the ferocity of her uncle.

  “How dare you. You filthy slave,” snarled her uncle. “Do you dare think she’s your equal? Get in the house, Claire.”

  The governor and Sir Teakle arrived behind Jarvis, their eyes wide taking in the scene.

  Devon stepped forward between Claire and the men, shielding her so she would have time to right herself. They had been in the shadows of a bay tree. He was certain they could not have seen anything. “Surely there is a misunderstanding,” he said. “If I may be allowed to explain−” Once. Twice. The lash of Jarvis’s cane came down on him. He did not move.

  “I’ll not take your rascally excuses. I’ll blister your flesh to remind you of your place.” Jarvis raised his cane again.

  “Stop.” Claire grasped her uncle’s arm, standing between him and Devon. “He has done nothing untoward. I saw him in the garden and asked him to point out the herbs he used to heal Cookie. That is all.”

  “I don’t trust him,” said Sir Teakle. “I sense something amiss. Claire, I assure you my lips are sealed and will do and say nothing to tarnish your reputation by being alone with a slave.”

  A growl erupted from Jarvis’s throat. “Nevertheless he returns to the stockade.”

  The governor huffed from his exertion. “Sir Jarvis, you dragged me from the house on a worthless endeavor. There is nothing to make of any of this. I’m sure the good doctor was sharing his knowledge of healing herbs as attested. The physician will be spending the night tending my arthritis. I will not take kindly if I lose a night’s sleep nor will my wife be happy if you bring on another bout of her megrims by disrupting her party.”

  Devon scowled. Claire returned to the mansion with Sir Teakle and her uncle. The governor remained. “Claire is like a daughter to me. Do not tread again above yourself. Your hide was saved, but I lied to protect Claire.”

  “I am confidant any suspicion is unfounded.” He met the governor eye to eye. Anarchy swirled in his head.

  The governor clapped his hand on Devon’s shoulder. “I was young once too. A beautiful woman like Claire would create a terrible longing. For you, an assignation would mean your death. I like you. I’ll have you stay here for a week to protect you from Jarvis. You were granted a reprieve tonight, but don’t tax my generosity.”

  Claire’s cheeks reddened as she stood naked in front of the mirror in her bedroom. Memories of Devon kissing her, his lips hot and hungry against her mouth. His eyes gleaming. His desire raw and consuming and her breasts flattened against his muscled chest, the hardness of his long lean frame and evident arousal. More kisses, then hands on her breasts, legs and hips, everywhere testing, touching and teasing. She emerged bold and womanly, bringing forth some kind of hidden awareness interred in her from birth.

  If only she could manage to forget those last moments. She had kissed him back with a mounting fever, her tongue tasting the hot salt of his skin, her fingers twining in the soft silk of his hair. All she could think−all she could think of at all−was that it could not happen again.

  They had been nearly caught.

  How fortunate Devon had the presence to conceal her like he did, so she could pull up her bodice, fix her hair, and steady her breathing. How lucky to gather her wits to offer a plausible excuse.

  Scandal treaded close on her heels. Her reputation, as Sir Teakle was quick to point out would have been in tatters. A woman of nobility with a slave−the gossips would take great pleasure. Gossip equaled recreation to negate the dullness of island life. And the speed of scandal would have traveled faster than fire through a cane-break.

  Claire turned to the side, wondering how Devon would view her. She ran her hands down the sides of her rounded breasts, patting her small flat waist then smoothed her palms over the back of her firm hips. He said she was beautiful.

  This was a new notion for Claire. He made her feel glorious. A magical blossoming of her womanhood stood ready to unfold. It was as if someone had taken a burning ember and blown upon it, lifting her from the dormant shadows of her inner self to a burning brightness.

  Did she want him? Devon−his quicksilver moods, laughing one moment then quick to challenge the next. He provoked her and annoyed her and she cursed his mocking demands of her. Why would he not go away? Why did she feel trapped?

  Lily called to her. She scanned the room, throwing on a silk robe as her cousin entered.

  “You look tired, Claire.”

  If only she could sleep. No matter how long she laid awake thinking about Devon, she could not sort out her thoughts about him. He had called her weak, lacking confidence and afraid. What did he know? He was insufferably rash, and domineering.

  Lily’s eyes riveted in their intensity and rested on her far too long for comfort. “Have you asked yourself why you championed Doctor Blackmon at the Governor’s ball? How he follows you with his eyes?”

  They stared at each other across a ringing silence.

  “It has been my misfortune to cross his path is all. I assure you there is nothing between us.” In her mind, she saw the flash of Devon’s eyes and the slight, scornful curl of his lip. She had looked inside him and seen his revenge. He did not deserve her affection. Love was for idiots. Fools. And she was the biggest fool of all.

  Lily moved to the vanity, picked up a perfume bottle, removed the top and sniffed. She replaced the cap and placed it on the dresser. With great care, she arranged the perfume bottles, brushes, and combs and smoothed out the linen. She watched Claire in the reflection. “He seems to want something from you. What is it, Claire? What do you owe him?”

  “You are being silly, Lily,” Claire said. Leave it to Lily to sense the truth of things. “I owe him nothing, and I really didn’t notice his interest in me. Why do you champion him, Lily?” Claire needed to know this side of her cousin.

  Lily was silent for a moment. She pushed her spectacles up her nose and gave Claire that all-knowing superior stare that said she was far from satisfied with Claire’s explanation. “I believe he is innocent. I also believe that the laws that rule England are not the same laws that rule the natural order of man. I feel empathy for his plight as I do the other slaves. It is a moral wrong to own and punish another as if he were an animal.”

  “Like you, Lily, I could not tolerate the haughtiness of everyone last evening and I do not wish to belong to that overbearing part of humanity. I had to say something!”

  Lily exhaled. “The laws of James’s England stretch far and over the colonies. I love you as a sister. It is incumbent upon me to warn you the dangerous path you journey on. He’s considered a rebel. My advice is for you to discourage any intentions. I fear for you. The repercussions would be disastrous and would not only hail your demise, but destroy us all. I have come to tell you Sir Jarvis awaits you in the library.”

  Lounging behind his massive mahogany desk, hand-built and hand-rubbed to a polished gleam by slaves, Jarvis entertained Sir Teakle.

  “She cannot marry so
soon,” said Jarvis. “She is widowed and has legal rights forbidding another marriage within two years of her last as informed to me by her solicitor.” His stomach roiled with the threats from Claire’s solicitor. He had a desire to beat her senseless again, thinking how she duped him in marrying the condemned felon. So far, he had been successful in keeping the affair a secret. Jarvis twirled a candlestick in his fingers. If Teakle was interested in the girl, he could up the price for a profit and recoup what he lost from the duke.

  “Legal rights, you say. I say she has no legal rights. I have many years behind me as a barrister and there are no such laws. Widowhood can be shortened, can it not? I believe we can come to an advantageous conclusion for both parties, if you understand what I mean.”

  “Go on,” barked Jarvis, his eyes narrowing. “But I will tell you, your price will have to be high for me to consider. I have had many profitable offers−”

  “What I have to offer you is more−expedient. I happen to have knowledge that creditors in London would love to find you. It might be painful to be without resources and have to go to debtors’ prison under the reign of King James. You might find yourself a slave here in the colonies. Ironic, don’t you think?”

  Jarvis snapped the candlestick in two. “You have my complete attention.”

  “Before we become mired in financial details, I do have one outstanding question. Could there be an interest in the slave that might cause her to be difficult?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Teakle examined his nails. “Let me make this as painless as possible. For my silence, I will get the girl, take seventy-five percent of the profits reaped from the plantation, and give you in return, one-fourth. So let us not pretend games. I see you as a man of commerce,” said Sir Teakle. “Will you accept my terms?”