Ryan's Bride

by James, Maggie

If she could hate him, it would make leaving so much easier. But no matter how hard she tried, feelings of animosity were overshadowed by memories of tenderness in his arms. And though the words were never spoken, she had, if only for a little while, felt truly loved.

  She also couldn’t stop thinking about the way he had begun to look at her so adoringly in the days before she had accidentally caused the loss of their baby. Looking back, she recalled how she had dwelt on every word spoken, every nuance, to ponder whether he might actually be falling in love with her.

  Yet, though it was painful beyond belief, the reality was that all it took for him to turn from her completely was being around Denise once again.

  Suddenly, finally, Selma was there to tell her she would meet her in the shadows off the front porch. First, she had to make sure Master Roussel was taken care of, because Miss Clarice had given all the household servants permission to sleep with their families for the night. “I’m the only one here, thank goodness.”

  “You were smart to arrange it that way,” Angele told her. “I’ll never forget how you helped me.”

  She wondered why Selma looked so embarrassed—almost frightened—as she scurried from the room, again without looking at her.

  After waiting till she felt Selma would be finished with Roussel, Angele snatched up her bag. She took one last look around, bit down on her lower lip to hold back the tears, and hurried out.

  She was almost to the steps when Roussel called out to her.

  Fearfully, she turned to see him standing in the door to his wing of the house. Hiding her bag behind her skirt, she answered, “Yes, what is it? Do you need something, Uncle Roussel?”

  “I can’t seem to sleep tonight. I don’t feel so good. Could you come and read to me?”

  She groaned inwardly. She had no time to spare, but he sounded so pitiful, so lonely, and she did adore him. Besides, it would be the last time she ever saw him, so a few more minutes couldn’t make any difference. He usually fell asleep quickly when she read, anyway.

  “I’ll be right there. Go back to bed.”

  She went back to her room to leave her bag, thankful he had not seen it.

  She found him in bed, looking so pale and tired, she was glad she had agreed to visit him.

  “Why can’t you sleep?” she asked as she fluffed his pillows. “It’s certainly a nice, cool night for it.”

  “I think I napped too long this afternoon. Besides,” his smile was warm, “I like to fall asleep with you reading to me.”

  She made her voice bright. “All right, then. What would you like to hear tonight?” She glanced around, almost wildly, looking for a book, any book. Dear God, she had to hurry, even though she didn’t want to. She enjoyed being with him, and she wanted to cry to think how he would never know she was saying goodbye to him.

  He looked her up and down, eyes thoughtful. “Is something wrong? You’re awfully fidgety.”

  She laughed—a thin, tinny sound that was unnatural to her own ears. “No. Everything is fine. Now, what book—”

  “Is it because you’re lonely?”

  “No. I was just going downstairs for a walk when you called me.”

  “You have to be lonely. Ryan never stays home anymore. He’s always in Richmond. I can tell he’s drinking a lot, too.” He was watching her intensely, searching her face for a clue as to what had her so unnerved.

  Walking around the room, she picked up first one book, then another, but he waved away each one. “You need to choose one, because it’s getting late,” she said impatiently.

  “Come over here and sit down. I don’t give a damn about your reading to me. That was an excuse to get you in here.”

  She was stunned. “What on earth for?”

  “Because I’ve had the feeling you aren’t happy, even before you lost the baby. It’s got worse since. Now, let’s talk.”

  Knowing she had no choice, she sat in a chair next to the bed. “There’s really nothing to talk about.” Dear Lord, let him have his say and be done with it. Selma had said she had to keep to a schedule. People who were going to help her on the underground railroad would be waiting at points along the way but would leave if she was not there by the appointed time.

  “Ryan said you were homesick for France.”

  She stiffened. “He said that?”

  “Yes. I told him to take you back over there for a visit and to stay as long as you wanted.” He frowned. “Hasn’t he said anything to you about it?”

  “No, he hasn’t.”

  He sighed. “Be patient with him. He’s stubborn and headstrong. And I know all this can’t have been easy for you, especially having to put up with Clarice. She can be hell to live with. And Corbett is such a toad.” He screwed up his face. “I’m sure sooner or later Ryan is going to get enough of both of them and tell them to make their home elsewhere.”

  Angele couldn’t help laughing at Roussel’s description of Corbett. “But you were going to leave BelleRose to Corbett.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  She was dumbfounded by how he had suddenly taken on such a mischievous look. “But you said—”

  “I know what I said, and I also know the reason I said it—to make Ryan find a wife and settle down.”

  “But your ultimatum was that she had to be French.”

  He shrugged. “Nothing wrong with that. I preferred that she be, but do you honestly think I could disinherit my own flesh and blood?”

  She breathed on a sigh, and, without thinking, spoke her mind. “So he didn’t have to marry me, after all. And all of this was for nothing.”

  “Nothing?” he hooted. “I don’t know how you feel about him, but I happen to know he loves you, and that certainly cannot be considered nothing.”

  Angele was swept with fresh sadness. If only it were true…

  “You look as though you don’t believe me. Surely you can tell when a man loves you. Hell, I knew it before he told me, but like I said, he’s stubborn. It probably took him awhile to admit it to himself.”

  Angele gulped, blinked. “He told you that he loves me?”

  “He sure did. It was the same day he told you that you’d lost the baby, and also when he was worried about you wanting to go back to France.”

  She almost didn’t say it but told herself she had nothing to lose. “You’re mistaken. He loves Denise.”

  “No, he doesn’t. But she made it obvious to everyone at the ball that she wishes he did. What you need to do is let her know she’s wasting her time, because the two of you are in love, and nobody is going to change that.

  “You’ve got to learn to fight for what you want in this life, Angele,” he continued. “Because if you don’t, life will fight you—and win.”

  His lashes were fluttering, eyelids growing heavy. He was falling asleep.

  Angele tucked the sheet under his chin and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered, “for making me want to fight.”

  She left his room and skipped down the stairs and out the front door and onto the porch.

  Selma emerged from the darkness. “You’re late. We’ve got to go now…right this minute.”

  Hugging herself, Angele turned completely around, delirious in her joy.

  Roussel would not lie to her.

  And Ryan had no reason to lie to him.

  He had said he loved her.

  And now, nothing else mattered…except that she let him know that she loved him, too.

  “I’m not going, Selma. And I’m sorry for any inconvenience I’ve caused. You can go tell everyone, because I’m going to bed to wait for my husband to come home.”

  She ran back to the house, stopping now and then to twirl and dance, because she was suddenly, delightfully, so happy.

  Selma called to her, but she kept on going, thankful she had answered Roussel’s call…thankful she was now ready to do whatever it took to claim her love…her life.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Roscoe grabbed Selma by the front of
her dress, tearing it as he lifted her off her feet. Holding her at eye level, he screamed into her face, “What the hell do you mean, she changed her mind? If you’ve made a mess of this, I’ll whip the skin from your hide.”

  “Nossir, nossir, nossir,” Selma babbled, frantic to make him understand she’d had nothing to do with it. “She just said she won’t be goin’ after all and to say she was sorry.”

  “Sorry, my ass! She’s going.” He dropped her to the ground and as she stumbled backward, he yelled, “Don’t you run from me! You’re gonna show me where she is.”

  With Selma cowering in the rear of the wagon, Roscoe returned to the house. He reined the horses in at the back door and leaped out.

  Grabbing Selma by the nape of her neck and setting her on her feet, he ordered, “Now, take me to her.” The only room in the plantation he had ever seen was the study, and the house was so large he had no intentions of searching each and every room. Time was wasting, anyway. The man who was to meet him would not wait long.

  Selma did as she was told.

  Oil lamps kept burning through the night illuminated the way.

  She stopped at the door of the north wing and pointed with a trembling finger and whispered, “In there. I don’t know which bedroom she’ll be sleepin’ in. You’ll have to look and see.”

  “No, you stupid little bitch,” he snapped. “You’ll look and then come tell me. If she sees me peekin’ in her door, she’ll start screaming.”

  He gave her a shove. “And you better not let her know anything is going on, either, or I’ll cut your throat. And when you find out which room she’s in, leave the door open.

  “And put out any lamps burning,” he whispered after her.

  Angele was in Ryan’s bed, and she was wide awake, listening for any sound of him returning. The second she heard the door open, she sat straight up in the darkness, excitement surging.

  She whispered his name and was disappointed when Selma answered instead.

  “It’s me, Miz Angele. I just came to see if you needed anything.”

  “No. I’m fine. You go on to bed now.” Having noticed how Selma’s voice quivered, she added to comfort her, “And don’t worry about anyone being angry with you because I changed my mind. They won’t blame you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good night.”

  When Selma did not respond, Angele knew she had gone but wondered why she left the door open.

  Angele got up to close it. If she did fall asleep, she wouldn’t know when Ryan came in unless she heard the door open. And she didn’t want him just to find her in his bed. She wanted to tell him right away why she was there, lest he turn around and leave.

  She got out of bed and padded across the floor, annoyed that Selma had extinguished the lamp in the parlor. It was always left burning, and, again, she was puzzled by Selma’s behavior.

  She groped in the darkness for the doorknob.

  A hand closed over her mouth and terror surged as she frantically clawed at it. Twisting from side to side, she struggled in vain, held tight against a man’s huge body.

  “Relax, and you won’t get hurt.”

  A finger slipped between her lips, and she opened her mouth and bit down—hard.

  “You little bitch!” he yelped, the pain causing him to momentarily let her go. He grabbed her again, twisting her arms behind her back with one hand, slapping her face with the other. “You want me to get rough? I will if you make me, but if I mess up that pretty face, you won’t bring as much money, and that’ll sure make Ryan unhappy. He figures you cost him enough, and he’d like to get some of it back.”

  Angele recognized Roscoe’s voice and momentarily froze in horror to realize what he was saying.

  “That’s right,” Roscoe laughed in her ear as he began to drag her across the floor. “Ryan wants you sold. He says it’s the only way to get rid of you. The old man won’t let him get a divorce, ’cause you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger. What did you do to make him so crazy about you? Let him take you to bed? I wish I had time to get some of that sweet stuff myself…”

  Angele started fighting again, her screams muffled by his beefy hand mashing down on her face. But in his attempt to hold on to her, he tripped over the bag beside the door that she had forgotten to put away. It fell open, and he struggled to keep from tripping as the contents spilled out.

  She kicked her leg back, catching him in the shin. With a loud curse, he slapped her again—harder. For a moment, she went limp, and he hurriedly threw her over his shoulder.

  Pain was shooting down the side of her face, her head bouncing against his back as he ran down the hall.

  As they passed a table, Angele tried to grab the vase sitting on it. She missed, and it crashed to the floor.

  “Damn you,” Roscoe muttered, running faster.

  He took the steps two at a time and finally charged out the back door.

  Roussel awoke at the sound of something breaking. “Who’s there?” he mumbled groggily. “Willard? What’s going on out there?”

  When she had heard the vase smash on the floor, Selma had dived from the sofa where she had been sitting to huddle on the floor behind it.

  Roussel shuffled to the door leading into the parlor and opened it. “Why the hell is it dark? How come the lamps are all out? I can’t see where I’m going, damn it. Willard, you better be around someplace…”

  Frightened but not wanting Master Roussel to fall, Selma came out from hiding. “Willard ain’t here tonight, Master Roussel. It’s me—Selma.”

  “Why aren’t the lamps burning?” he demanded. She could have told him it was because Roscoe had wanted the house dark but instead scurried to get a lamp going.

  Then Roussel wanted to know, “Did you stumble into something and break it? Clarice will have a fit if you did.”

  “Nnn-n-n-no, sir,” she managed. “I been right here.”

  “You didn’t hear it?”

  “No, sir,” she mumbled.

  “Then you must be deaf. Bring the lamp.” He shuffled across the parlor. He was weak and had to move slowly. “I’m going to see what’s going on around here. Where is everybody, anyway? How come nobody else heard it?”

  “Everybody’s gone—” She bit her tongue. Miss Angele wasn’t supposed to be gone. She hoped he didn’t notice what she’d said.

  But he had.

  “Where’s Angele? I knew Corbett and Clarice were going into town, but she was just here a little while ago. She can’t have gone anywhere in the dark.”

  Selma tried to remedy her blunder. “Uh, no, sir, I didn’t mean her.”

  “Then why didn’t she hear it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s find out. Hold that lamp up so I can see where I’m going, or I’ll bump into something and fall.”

  He saw the fragments of the vase on the floor. “What the hell? Who did this? Let’s get to Angele’s room. She might have fallen and cut herself.”

  Selma could do nothing but obey, cringing all the while. He saw at once that the door was open, and called, voice on the edge of panic, “Angele? Are you all right? Did you hurt yourself?”

  He stepped into the parlor, and his feet became tangled in the clothing scattered on the floor. “What the—?” Glancing down, he saw the overturned bag. “How come she’s packed? Get in there and find her, Selma. I can’t walk so fast, and I’m feeling dizzy…”

  Selma went through the motions of searching both bedrooms, then returned to the parlor to find Master Roussel slumped into a chair. He was breathing funny, and she was scared. “She ain’t here. You look sick. I’m gonna go get Willard.”

  “No. Wait. Come here.” He beckoned to her.

  Selma stayed where she was.

  He looked her up and down with wise eyes. He knew his people so well and could tell when something was wrong—and there was definitely something amiss with Selma. She was bound to have heard the noise but pretended not to. And in the lamp’s glow
he could see the utter terror in her eyes.

  Gently, he repeated, “Come here, Selma. I’ve never hurt you, have I?”

  She shook her head.

  “And I’m not going to hurt you now. Please. Come to me, because I’m not able to go to you, and I want you to look at me while I’m talking to you.”

  Hesitantly, she went to stand before him.

  “Put the lamp on the table.”

  She did so.

  “Now, I want you to tell me everything you know about what has happened here tonight. You won’t be punished for anything, I promise. And you’ve never known me to break a promise to anyone, have you?”

  She shook her head.

  “And I won’t let anyone else punish you, either. But you have to tell me where Angele is, and why she had her clothes packed, and who broke that vase in the hall.”

  “I…I can’t,” she sobbed, giving way to tears. “They…they’ll sell me.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders. “Who will sell you? BelleRose slaves are never sold, and you know it.”

  “They…said they’d do it, and they will.” She was crying so hard her words were barely audible. “And I’m gonna have a baby. They’ll sell me and tell Toby I died…like the others…and he won’t never see our baby…”

  “What others?” Roussel felt his eyes were about to pop out of his head. Surely she didn’t mean what he feared. There had been unexplained accidents in the past and burials without him having seen the bodies, but he’d not thought about it till now. “Who’s been selling our slaves, Selma? You must tell me so I can stop it from ever happening again.”

  “Can’t…just can’t…”

  He pulled her down to sit on his lap. Slipping an arm around her, he spoke in firm yet tender tones, promising over and over that nothing would happen to her or her baby. She would live at BelleRose with her family and continue to be treated well. She didn’t have to worry. He would see to it.

  Finally, she broke down and told him everything, beginning with how Miss Angele had first asked her to help her run away. She explained she had agreed to do so, but then Miss Clarice made her tell her about it. After that, she was forced to betray her mistress and follow Miss Clarice’s orders…and Mr. Fordham’s, too.