The Winds of Fate

by Michel, Elizabeth

  “This is wrong−” she whispered and shakily placed her hands in his.

  “This is right,” he answered fiercely and pulled her to her feet. He leaned over, his lips covered hers, parting them with familiar, insistent skill.

  Claire closed her eyes and commenced to dream. Lily’s warning reverberated in her mind, but his mouth tormented and enticed her, drawing from her meager experience, she answered in return. Claire shifted and moaned, with an accumulation of awakening pleasure, and slid her hands to the nape of his neck. She fingered the soft curls, reveling in the silkiness then stroked his neck, the warmth of his body beneath her fingers. His mouth became more demanding, his hands so near her aching breasts, but not touching, thumbs playing over her ribs. Feelings she could not identify shot through her body, tingling with strange, familiar stirrings. Truths so beautiful and painful, it made her ache. All she knew was that Devon’s presence affected her in ways she did not understand, and she grew frightened. She pushed away, breathing heavily. What did he do to her?

  She didn’t understand how this man came to be in her life, but most of all, she didn’t understand why her body felt like it was about to rise up in flames. “I don’t think we should hazard this again,” was her strangled response.

  Devon was struck by how this girl he had vowed to have nothing to do with, could get under his skin. She had kissed him, responding at first hesitantly, tentatively, sweetly to the touch of his lips, and then he felt her open up and give him something incredibly more−her trust. If he had been pleased with their initial intimacy, then it was the soul-drenching assertion relayed in her kiss that sent a profound message of belief in him. It slammed into him, sending him over the edge.

  Given that, she sure as hell wasn’t going to want to risk her heart or her future on Devon Blackmon. The ramifications of getting involved with him were too overwhelming for her to contemplate. The likelihood of having a relationship with a slave lay forbidden and nonexistent.

  She was no coward. Despite the harsh conditions of the hospital and severity of the smallpox epidemic, the backbreaking hours, smell…and death, she exhibited a cheerful disposition, her sense of humor and gentle laughter lit the dreary ward, endearing herself to all of her patients and to him.

  She suffered his insulting attack on her, accusing her of the worst kind of decadent behavior. Jarvis, the worst kind of vile bastard, beat her with a cane and sold her to a monstrous lecher, then when that didn’t work out, he sold her to Teakle. Selfless, she withstood her uncle’s demands at peril to herself. Under Sir Teakle, she’d be treated abominably. He knew the man, had seen his kind many times before. And she did it all to protect her cousin and Cookie. How he’d like to string those poor excuses of humanity up by their entrails. Too think, out of fear, she kept secret her humiliation.

  His face grew rigid, without emotion, except for the tick in his jaw. Images of Sir Teakle pelted him like a hail storm. “What are you going to do about Sir Teakle?”

  “Sir Teakle?” Claire broke out in laughter, and he bridled more. Smiling, she shook her head gravely. “I’m afraid I won’t be seeing Sir Teakle,” she giggled again.

  Devon frowned. It consumed him so completely that at first he didn’t comprehend what she said. “Did you say you won’t be seeing him?”

  Claire nodded. “I think I’ve rid myself of the odious Sir Teakle forever. You see he left on the first boat, frightened of the plague. He’s gone forever.”

  He regarded her for a moment, realizing that he’d made a mistake−a ridiculous one, but that didn’t help to end his agitation either. He concluded he’d had good reason to be angered. And that anger he directed at himself for being such a fool where she was concerned. “I have been unfair. Do you accept my apology?”

  She looked up to him with all the sincerity in the world mirrored in those golden eyes of hers. “Only if you accept my apology for vain and ungracious behavior.”

  “Dr. Blackmon, we need your assistance,” Robert Ames whispered from the other side of the sacristy door, a hint of warning in his voice. “A man named Tom Dooley has arrived.”

  Devon cursed. His fists tightened. The revelation of what she went through with Jarvis created a desire to beat the man senseless. “I must go.” He turned at the doorway. “When you are ready, you will work with me.”

  Devon strode to the garden. Tom Dooley hovered about the table of food, glancing around while secreting foodstuffs into his pockets.

  “Faith. If it isn’t Mr. Dooley filching noonday supper.”

  “Who me?” He spun around, sausages cascading from his pockets, a loaf of bread tucked beneath his arm. His mouth gaped with pretended innocence, but his chagrin grew unmatchable.

  Devon towered over him, his hands fisted on his hips. “A thief in addition to your other crimes?” he provoked. “Your secret is safe with me.” Devon allowed Dooley a moment’s relief and laughed.

  Dooley’s mortification tempered. He was a short spare man, his dark eyes, the shining quickness of a sparrow. “Well, I hear you’ve been asking of me. And I’m wondering what a slave wants with a free man such as meself?”

  “Need I remind you, you’re not a free man until you pay off your debt, and at the mercy of his governorship? I do recall that day in the courtroom rather well. Your fate was determined by my opinion. You should be inclined to thank your benefactor. As the governor’s doctor and main counsel−if you follow my drift.”

  Tom Dooley stood comic, another snatched square of cake arrested halfway to his mouth.

  “A good fellow I am, answered your summons, so the likes of you can blackmail a poor soul like me?” He actually pouted.

  No.” Devon stroked his chin. “You’ve answered my summons to make a profit. A proposed business venture between you and me.”

  Dooley’s eyes grew big-round like saucers. “You, a slave? No way. If caught, I’d be off to Gallows Point, swingin’ in chains.”

  “And off to prison, and a certain future of slavery if not.” Devon let the threat fall on his new business associate. When he trembled, he aggravated him further. “Why not consider a handsome profit and ticket off the island?” Devon flashed a gold sovereign and Dooley’s greed won out. Devon slapped him on the back and laughed. “There’s a good man come to his senses.” Devon put his arm around Dooley’s shoulder. “There’s a skiff to be bought and outfitted with supplies. Enough for twenty men. Bargain on speculation, with promises in the future. The payment will be forthright, but not until we are near to depart.”

  After several minutes of finalizing his plans with Dooley, Devon strode off to the hospital with an extra lightness to his step. Claire startled him standing in the doorway. Warily Devon glanced over his shoulder. Dooley had vanished along with half the booty of the noon day’s meal. He put his mind at rest, satisfied she had heard nothing of their conversation. Her eyes were still puffy and he’d do anything to remove those smudges. “Will you do me the honor of assisting me?”

  “Do you think you could humble yourself and tell me a little of your history?” Claire said an attempt Devon felt to put awkward emotions behind them and build a friendship.

  “With humility?”

  “Is there such a possible thing?” she laughed.

  In a rare good mood, perhaps from the gold in his coat, or more likely from an understanding he formed with Claire, Devon revealed a part of his past. “Conceived in Ireland, I am the son of an Irish doctor and Scottish born lady. From my mother’s veins ran a wildness in me that my peace-loving father, often alarmed, curtailed by resolving to put my quick and ready mind to study. It was my fortune that my father’s singular desire determined my Baccalaureus Medicinae Degree at the age of twenty-two. My sire died three months after my graduation.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Claire said.

  Devon looked up into the massive hand-hewed beams of Christ’s Church for a moment, reflecting the pain of those long ago memories. “Circumstances coupled with my restless nature led me to leav
e Ireland. I signed on with the Dutch in their war against France which served my predilection for the sea. I fought several engagements in the Mediterranean under De Ruyter. Ironic, I didn’t think twice about joining France’s fight in their war with the Spanish. Again, my love for the sea was fulfilled on long voyages. Captured, I rotted two years in a Castilian prison.”

  He searched her eyes, eyes with gold flecks, mesmerizing eyes that searched his soul, weighing with gravity what he imparted. He assessed no negative opinion on her part only curiosity. Had she seen more than he wanted to reveal?

  “At the plum age of thirty-one, a festering war wound and my appetite for adventure abated. I yearned for the smell of my homeland. Destiny brought me to England where hostile seas ran my ship aground. I had significant fortune in my pocket from years of soldiering and discovered a modest village in Somerset County and settled there. My health returned, and soon I set out my shingle to at last take up the profession my father had prepared me.” He shrugged his shoulders. “The rest of my history attaches itself to my heedless mercy with the Duke of Monmouth during his uprising against the King.”

  Claire shook her head. “I don’t understand. You’re trained to be a doctor, yet you−”

  “Lived a decade of my life as a soldier,” he filled in for her. “Medicine, a pastime at best. My true calling, the life of a soldier brought me some fortune where doctoring brought me into slavery. An irony bestowed by the Heavens, favoring more to kill men than to heal them.”

  “I am truly sorry. The fates have not been kind. You deserve so much more.”

  Her reaction stunned him. Here he thought he’d receive some judgmental dismissal, but instead, she apologized for what happened to him. In fact, she looked at him, if he was to believe it, with an expression that looked almost like tenderness and contrition.

  Devon squared his shoulders. “Have you given any thought to the plight of the orphans left from the plague?”

  “It has been impossible to think about the future. Getting through each day has been enough of a trial. There will be orphans and something will need to be done.” If only she could wave some miracle over the populous and make this all go away.

  A duo of pigeons fluttered across the church. In the heat, patients lay quiet except for a few isolated moans. Claire smoothed back a tendril of hair. “What is on your mind, Claire?”

  After a few moments, she lowered her hand to her side. “My father leaving everything to my uncle, and nothing to me, I have always thought strange. Mrs. Bennett, God rest her soul, told me before she died that my father did not trust Jarvis. My father was not married at the time she knew him and informed her, he would leave everything to charity unless he had children.”

  “Seems logical. Knowing Jarvis the way I do, he seized everything for himself. For a change in coin, a dishonest solicitor can have documents changed.”

  “How do I prove I own the plantation?”

  That had his complete attention. “I thought Jarvis owned the plantation.”

  “I believe I own the plantation. I didn’t know of Jamaica until I met my uncle in London. Yet there remains a vague memory of conversation between my parents about the estate. Mrs. Bennett believed that I own the plantation. Her last words to me were, ‘find the deed’.”

  Devon wiped his head with his forearm. “There must be documentation. Duel deeds were given to citizenry of England when they owned foreign properties. Jarvis would have destroyed or forged the deed in England to lay claim to ownership. If Mrs. Bennett was correct in her assertions of your father’s wishes then I’ll bet there remains a deed in Jamaica. Search the house when Jarvis is not about. Look everywhere. Your father would not leave the deed in an obvious place. He would have secreted it behind a wall or in a drawer. I’ll inquire of some elderly patients who might have known your father. Perhaps they can offer more.”

  Claire frowned. “I believe what Mrs. Bennett said to be true. I feel so close to my father in Jamaica. It has to be true.”

  “Ask Governor Stark.”

  Claire nodded. “Mrs. Bennett claimed my father performed many improvements.”

  Devon stroked his chin. “I’ve had ideas on improvements but not inclined to help Jarvis.”

  Her eyes widened. “What would you do?”

  For some reason he wanted to impress her. “I’d build a lumber mill by the river, construct a sugar mill on top of the ridge near the falls, erect a rum distillery and increase production of cane by using an irrigation system with diversion dams I observed the French use.” He warmed to the topic. The Irish in him craved to carve the raw wilderness and make the land productive.

  A slow smile spread across her face. “You are so like my father.”

  He was distracted by the smile that spread across her face. The declaration that he was like her father, the man she cherished and admired, humbled Devon. He’d walk across coals for her, or better yet, kiss her senselessly. Dammit all to hell. He’d keep his impulsiveness in check, for anything beyond the impersonal barrier he erected would serve no purpose for her future. He did not want to hurt Claire. A rare jewel such as she deserved love from a good man. He offered friendship and let it be at that. When the winds blew right, he’d be leaving. It gave him pause. How would he ever forget her?

  Two weeks passed, the pestilence abated with many souls saved on account of a miracle from above, or likely Claire conceded, from Devon’s steady hand. A bottle she reached for wobbled then fell before she had a chance to right it. Glass shards ripped through her hand. She cried out. Devon was beside her and took Claire to the garden behind the church. He began to pull the glass splinters from her hand. Claire bit her lip and focused on a cloud in the sky, attempting to blot out the pain.

  “What were you thinking? I would have fetched it for you.”

  Claire grimaced. The tug of shards from her hand hurt terribly.

  “You’re a brave girl,” he calmed her. “You have gentle hands. Hands that offered a lowly slave such as me a friendship.”

  Friendship?

  He finished bandaging her hand.

  Claire rubbed her forehead with her good hand. Since their understanding in the sacristy, they had worked side by side, yet he yielded nothing but polite cordiality. There was no mention of the kiss they shared or any inclination toward that end. His polite cordiality hurt her the most. He need only to look at her−really look at her, to let his eyes fall on hers, deeply green and penetrating, to see her soul laid bare. Worst of all, he seemed to have no idea the ache he caused in her heart.

  Claire grew stubborn. She had seen him shiver from her touch and decided on an entirely different tactic. With deliberate intention, she became bold, and let both her hands rest upon his face. She saw a light smolder in his eyes, heard his indrawn breath, before he grabbed her wrists.

  “Stop this Claire. I can offer you nothing.”

  They stood like characters in an artist’s portrait, rooted in the bosom of the sun’s dreamlike haze. Claire saw him gazing tenderly into her eyes, her senses ascending to a keen awareness. She smelled the sweet spicy scents of tamarind and nutmeg trees, and she felt the warm caress of the gentle breeze on her face. She listened to the low drone of bees buzzing in the hibiscus flowers that glowed red in layers of verdant foliage. It was as if they stood alone in the palm of the world, as if the sequestered beauty of the garden existed only for them.

  The world seemed to close in on her, and she realized it was because he still held her wrists, his thumb moving in lazy circles across her skin. His gentle caress set off an intense yearning in her. She wanted to be closer to him, but he deliberately held her at a distance. She yearned for him to let down his defenses, to erase the differences that kept them apart. It hurt more than when he had taunted her with his sarcasm and neglect.

  “This can go no further.” He shoved her away from him.

  His denial scourged her like a knotted whip. Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to shed them, refused to let Devon have the sat
isfaction of his denial of her. Frustration slashed a deep, agonizing wound of what could be, and what could never be, and it spiraled uncontrollably, yielding to resentment. Resentment with the way things were, anger for the differences dividing them, and rage against the prospects of no future.

  It galled her that he stood pious enough to make the moral decision for both of them. Her weakness toward him chafed raw and blistering. Her mind wavered and shook like a wind-swept leaf, twisting and perverting, she projected months of tension and aggravations, channeling all her vexations on Devon. “What were you really talking about with Mr. Dooley in the courtyard two weeks ago?”

  “Now lass, never mind your pretty head about minor things like that.” His face hardened.

  “What did Dooley want or what did you want?” He was defensive, hiding something. She was furious with her vulnerability.

  “Ah that man,” Devon commented. “For sure, he’s a rascal, that one. He desired counsel on an infirmed relative, is all.” Devon narrowed his eyes. “Is it not right for a man to have a private discussion? His curt voice lashed out, fueling a cruelty rising inside her. She wanted to wound him where it would hurt the most because thorns were weaving around her heart.

  “You are a slave. You have no rights.

  He glared at her with savage fury.

  “What about husbandly rights?” he blasted her. “Ah then−” he bit out with ruthless sarcasm. “There would have to be a woman for that. I believe there will never be enough of a woman in you for that notion. You guard your independence, yet freedom comes with the chains of a desperate promise made long ago in a faraway gaol. One simple promise, Madame, yet you are not woman enough to keep it nor ever will be.” He stalked away from her.

  Summoned to a patient living up the coast, Devon enjoyed his temporary freedom. In the brilliant sunshine, an extra spring rose to his step for good fortune smiled down on him. He looked out to the windswept sea and counted his blessings, gold to buy his freedom, Dooley’s confirmation of a skiff to carry him away. His crew of slaves came with talent, a shipwright, a cooper, a gunner, but of most importance, a navigator to lead them through a desert of waters. Bloodsmythe and twelve others had been carefully recruited. Young Johnnie, Old John, Robert Ames had all joined the bid for liberty, secretly separating into one hut within the stockade to make their plans. A ladder had been built, concealed in the rafters to scale their prison walls and win the open reaches of the forest. All would be accomplished with silent tread for not one footfall could be detected by the guards or those they left behind.