Ryan's Bride

by James, Maggie

  He blinked, stunned by her outburst, then, slowly, he broke into a wide grin. “My God, woman, you do have grit, don’t you?”

  She relaxed a little. His anger appeared to be on the wane. “I just like to think for myself, which means I don’t like being told what to do every minute of the day.”

  His grin faded. “There’s such a thing as decorum, and you’re going to have to learn that. As my wife, certain things are expected of you from society, and delivering colts isn’t one of them. You could have told Jasper what to do.”

  “His hands are crippled with rheumatism, in case you haven’t noticed,” she snapped. “He couldn’t have reached inside and turned the foal.”

  Anger rolled back. “I’ve noticed. I notice everything about my people.”

  “Your people, “she spat the word. “Slaves, I believe is the word more commonly used.”

  He let the remark pass, instead saying, “Toby could have followed your instructions.”

  “I was in a hurry. It was quicker to do it myself. Now I’m tired, and I’m going to bed.”

  He tossed down the brandy, and before she got to her door quietly said, “You will sleep in my room tonight.”

  “No. I won’t.” She kept on going, head held high, back ramrod straight. He had made her angry, and she was not about to give in to him this night. He would soon learn she was not in servitude like his people.

  She locked the door, making sure the key clicked loud enough for him to hear.

  Actually, she would have liked nothing better than to throw herself in his arms and taste his brandy-sweet kisses and feel him deep, deep inside her. But pride overrode desire. He had chastised her and tried to make her feel ashamed of what she had done, and that she could not abide.

  She undressed and put on a nightgown, then got into bed. She left the lamp beside it burning low, because she liked to watch shadows flickering, dancing, on the walls.

  Her mind wandered back to the afternoon when Ryan had taken her for a walk along the edge of the cotton fields. It was only a few days after they had arrived at BelleRose. He had told her how cotton was grown, harvested, and then baled and taken to Richmond to be sold.

  That day she had felt so close to him, for he had made her feel he truly wanted her to be a part of his world. Since then, however, he had shut her out more and more.

  And now, rather than be grateful for what she had done, he was more worried about what people would say when they heard about it.

  But she also knew he was chafed over how she had concealed her understanding of English. She blamed herself for not telling him earlier, but somehow the opportunity never came—till tonight—and she was glad it had happened like it had. Otherwise, she might never have had the nerve. Instead, she would have struggled through lessons and been thought a diligent student.

  As she lay there, other worries needled, such as whether he had seen Denise while in Richmond and if he regretted not repeating his proposal to see if she would change her mind.

  Rolling over, she pounded the pillow with her fists and cursed herself for not going to him when he’d wanted her.

  Maybe she couldn’t bring herself to use words to let him know how she really felt about him.

  But she could use her body.

  Only it was too late.

  If she went to him now, he would think she was groveling and weak.

  Ryan had one more brandy. He knew he was drinking too much lately, but the woman was driving him crazy, and drinking dulled his senses to where he didn’t worry about it so much.

  He took off his coat and threw it across the room. Likewise he yanked off his shirt and sent it sailing. Then, bare chested, he went to the window to stare out into the night, hands on his hips.

  Damn it to hell, he had lost his heart to a woman who might not fit into his world after all. Her past was still an enigma. He still worried she would run away once she got her hands on enough money. Yet, he had been amazed, at how she had finally responded to his lovemaking, actually being quite bold about it lately.

  Had she also, he frowned to think, been hiding the fact that she knew how to please a man?

  Just what was in her past that she sought to hide?

  Or was there really anything at all—except his imagination?

  He never should have let himself care about her, but he had, and now he wanted her to stay. And the only way he could ensure that happening was to make her pregnant. Then she couldn’t leave unless she abandoned her own child, because she had sense enough to know he would use all his wealth and power to keep her from taking it with her.

  He thought of the last time they had made love, when she had friskily got down on her knees, turning her bottom up to him and inviting him to penetrate her from behind. He had reached around her to put his fingers between her and massage her hot little bud as he had ridden her. When she climaxed, she had bucked like an unbroken pony, and he had laughed out loud with delight…then moaned with ecstasy because never had he climaxed so powerfully. It had left him shaken.

  And thinking about it now made him hard.

  He wanted her.

  And why shouldn’t he have her? She was his wife, damn it. Besides, if he allowed her to get away with pouting because he dared chastise her, then she’d never get pregnant.

  Unbuckling his belt, he loosened his trousers and took them off.

  He went to her door and tried to open it.

  It was locked.

  “Angele?” he called softly.

  There was no response.

  He jiggled the handle again. “Unlock this door.”

  “Go away. I told you I’m tired.”

  He drew a deep, ragged breath, then drew back his foot and smashed the door in with one mighty kick.

  He reached inside and turned the lock, swinging what was left of the door open.

  She was sitting up in bed, the sheet pulled to her chin, her face pale with fear.

  “You are my wife,” he said with a husky growl from deep in his throat, “and when I want you, I’ll have you.”

  As he started toward her, she reached quickly to extinguish the light.

  She didn’t want him to see how glad she was that he did want her.

  She intended to show him instead.

  Roussel was delighted when he learned that Angele understood English, and summoned her to his quarters the very next day to tell her so.

  She gave him the same explanation she had given Ryan, but guilt was a cold knife to her heart when he said all that mattered was that she was pure-blooded French. Dear Lord, she prayed the truth about that would never come out.

  They went for a carriage ride that lasted all afternoon. She was thrilled as he showed her all around the plantation, something Ryan had not taken the time to do so extensively.

  He had also heard about her delivering the colt and seemed not in the least concerned over what others might say.

  She had offered the same contrived explanation she had given Ryan—that she had lived in England around relatives who had horses. She admitted it had been her first delivery.

  “Then you have extra reason to be proud,” Roussel had praised.

  He also had said how much he was looking forward to the festivities planned for the coming weekend. There would be a ball on Saturday night. An orchestra was coming from Richmond to play. Then, on Sunday, a picnic would be held in the yard beneath the shading oaks, and later the men would jump their horses in competition on a track to be set up on the lawn.

  “It’s something we do at the end of every summer,” he had explained. “All the men contribute to buying a fine saddle trimmed in silver, made by one of the best leather craftsmen in Virginia. The winner of the contest gets the saddle.”

  When she asked if Ryan had ever won, he said no, because Ryan liked to ride for pleasure, not competition.

  She had truly enjoyed the outing, and that night Roussel had come downstairs and joined everyone for dinner. It was the first time he had done so in months, a
nd he carried on a running conversation with Angele after asking that she be seated to his right.

  She loved talking to him and didn’t miss how pleased Ryan looked. Neither did she fail to see how Clarice flashed with annoyance to give up her usual seat next to the master of the house.

  The night before the ball, Ryan retired to his study right after dinner. He said he had to go over BelleRose’s books and might be up late.

  Bored, Angele wandered out to the stable to look at the horses. Just as she was leaving, Roscoe Fordham came around the corner.

  Tipping his hat, he said, “Evenin’ Miz Tremayne. Your husband’s got himself some nice horses. I guess you’re proud, too, since the really fine ones came from your country.”

  He had never spoken to her before the few times she was around him, but then he’d not known she would understand.

  “Yes, I certainly am,” she responded, impulsively adding, “And I can’t wait to ride one of them, especially the mare. I healed her leg from a bee sting, so I can’t help feeling she’s mine.”

  He asked what she meant, and she told him, and before long they were chatting like old friends. She decided he wasn’t frightening, as she’d thought. Actually, he seemed nice and was certainly friendly and polite.

  He said he would be glad to take her riding sometime if Ryan didn’t mind. He knew how busy he was.

  She thanked him and said she might take him up on his offer. Then they went their separate ways.

  It was almost dark. Angele returned to the house but didn’t want to go inside. It was a warm evening, but a cool breeze had managed to drift up from the river. She sat in one of the rockers on the porch and thought about the ball. She had selected a white taffeta dress with lots of lace around the bodice and billowing petticoats beneath the pink, ribboned skirt. She thought the color appropriate since her marriage to Ryan was being formally announced on that occasion. It would make her feel like a bride again.

  She had told Selma she wanted her hair done in a very conservative style, pulled straight back from her face and twined with a white net snood. Actually, she’d have liked to leave her long black tresses flowing down her back but knew Clarice would say it wasn’t dignified enough for a married lady. According to her, only young, unmarried women wore their hair loose.

  Angele made a face in the darkness.

  If Clarice had her way, she’d dress, act, and look like an old woman—as she did.

  All was quiet and peaceful.

  From somewhere in the distance she heard the mournful call of a whippoorwill.

  Lazily, she rocked to and fro, wishing Ryan was beside her in the jasmine-scented air.

  Suddenly a window slid open not too far behind her, and she jumped, startled, then got very still as she heard Corbett’s voice.

  “I don’t know how you stand it so hot in here. If you want to talk to me, I’ve got to have some air…and a whiskey, too.”

  “Help yourself. You know where it is.”

  Their voices were clear. She did not have to strain to hear every word. She told herself she shouldn’t eavesdrop but reasoned she was there first, enjoying the evening. Why should she go back inside the warm house just because Corbett had opened a window? Besides, she liked the sound of Ryan’s voice, and if she couldn’t be with him, at least she could listen to him.

  Corbett sounded annoyed. “What did you want to see me about?”

  “I was just going over the roster of field hands, and I see a couple of names have been crossed off,” Ryan explained. “Has Roscoe said anything to you about it?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? There was an accident on the river while we were gone. Roscoe said they were unloading lumber, and a slave fell in. He couldn’t swim, and neither could the idiot who tried to save him. Both of them drowned.”

  Angele felt a pang of sorrow and made a mental note to ask Selma if it was anyone she had been close to.

  Sounding more than a little upset, Ryan said, “No, I didn’t know, and I’m going to crawl all over Roscoe for not telling me the minute we got home. I want to know exactly what happened, damn it. And if it was carelessness, I want to know who was responsible.”

  Corbett’s tone indicated he couldn’t have cared less. “What’s two slaves more or less? We can buy more if we get short-handed.”

  “We don’t buy or sell at BelleRose. You know that.”

  She could tell Ryan was getting angry, and it was obvious Corbett did, too, because he abruptly changed the subject.

  “Looks like we’ve got good weather for this weekend. I’m glad. Uncle Roussel is really looking forward to it.”

  “So am I.” The tension seemed to have been lifted. “It will be nice to entertain again. There’s a lot of people I haven’t seen in quite awhile.”

  “Like Denise?”

  Ryan didn’t say anything, and Angele could not resist getting up from the rocker and tiptoeing to stand right beside the window. When he did speak, she didn’t want to miss a single word.

  “Well?” Corbett prodded. “You haven’t seen her since we got back from France, have you?”

  “No.”

  Angele breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Clarice has. She says she’s mighty upset over your marriage and thinks you did it to spite her.”

  “She can believe whatever she wants.”

  “Don’t be like that. You two were always close. I still think you’re in love with her.”

  Ryan murmured something Angele couldn’t make out, because just then a bullfrog began to croak loudly just off the porch. She wished she had something to throw at him and thought about taking off her shoe, but Ryan and Corbett might hear, and she didn’t want them to know she was out there.

  From then on she caught only snatches of conversation, but it was enough to know that Denise was coming to the ball, and Corbett wanted Ryan to say something to make her feel better about everything. “After all, she’s my wife’s cousin.”

  “I know, I know,” Ryan said. “And I suppose for that reason I should have gone to see her so there wouldn’t be any tension between us this weekend.”

  Then Corbett asked a question that made Angele snap to attention.

  Washed with dread, she strained to hear how Ryan would respond.

  “Are you sorry you married so impulsively?”

  Before he could answer, Clarice burst into the room to lash out at Corbett, “Don’t think you’re going to sit in here and drink all night. This is our time with Danny. Now, get upstairs right now.”

  “All right,” he groaned. “I’ll be back later, Ryan.”

  Angele didn’t want to go inside. If she saw Ryan, he might be able to tell she was upset and wonder why.

  She decided to go to the slave quarters. She could hear their music from the porch. They were having a good time, and she wanted to join them to get her mind off her worries.

  Selma was happy to see her but full of questions to make sure it was safe for her to be there. “Are you all done for the evening? Did you read to Master Roussel? Is he asleep now? Is Miss Clarice bedded down, too, and Master Ryan busy?”

  Angele laughed. “Yes to everything. Now, what’s that delicious smell?”

  “Brown sugar dumplings with cinnamon and butter. Come on. There’s plenty.”

  Angele followed her, waving to everyone, happy and also at peace, because here she was accepted. There was no need to worry about being criticized or having to please anyone. She could be herself and just enjoy living, and she reveled in it.

  And she also, for the moment, didn’t have to wonder if, had Clarice not interrupted, Ryan would have told Corbett that, yes, he did regret marrying her.

  She raved over the dumplings, and then someone offered to show her how to pick chords on the banjo. She eagerly accepted, losing all track of time.

  Selma gently reminded her that it was getting late, and she should be getting back.

  She didn’t seem so friendly all of a sudden, and Angele wondered if she was trying to get rid
of her. But her feelings weren’t hurt. She was ready to leave, anyway, because the rich dumplings had made her stomach a bit queasy.

  “Yes, I guess I should go,” Angele said, “but I want to ask you about something first. I heard about the drownings in the river and was wondering if you were close to either of the victims. If so, I wanted to offer my sympathy.”

  Selma blinked. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’m talking about the two men who drowned while Ryan was in France.”

  “I ain’t heard, and I would’ve if it happened. The big bell rings a special way when somebody dies, and it ain’t rung. They must have been from another plantation, and we haven’t been told about it.”

  Angele was baffled, because she was sure she had heard the conversation right. “Master Ryan asked Master Corbett why two names had been crossed off the roster he keeps,” she explained to Selma. “Master Corbett said Mr. Fordham told him there had been an accident at the river while they were away, and the two names were the men who drowned as a result.”

  Angele noted how Selma’s face took on a terrified look, but only for an instant before she began to babble, “Yes’m, yes’m, the river, the drownin’. Now I know what you mean, but I didn’t know ’em. Sorry. Now you better go.”

  She walked away before Angele could ask anything else. It was obvious she didn’t want to talk about the accident, but why had she denied knowing about it in the beginning? It didn’t make sense.

  As she headed down the path, Angele heard a faint crashing sound that seemed to come from the woods at the rear of the slaves’ compound. She went back to peek though some bushes to see what was going on.

  A young Negro man stumbled into the clearing. Suddenly his knees buckled, and he pitched forward. The others closed about him.

  She was too far away to hear what was being said. With a cold chill moving up and down her spine, she reasoned it was probably good that she didn’t. Because, if what she suspected was true…if the Negro was, indeed, a runaway slave, then it was best she didn’t know.