He stopped short just inside the door. Curled in the center of his bed was a black and white cat and her assortment of kittens. A curse slipped between his clenched teeth. "Out!" he yelled loudly. "All of ye!" Kelt clapped his hands and cats flew in all directions. Two kittens dived out the door and the mother cat disappeared under the poster bed.
Ashley came running. "What's wrong?"
Kelt noticed that she'd changed into a blue man's shirt made of something silky, but she still wore men's breeches and riding boots. "There's a cat in my room. To be exact, there are several. I want them oot. Now!"
Ashley's eyes widened. There was no hint of a smile on her lips, but her eyes revealed her amusement. "You're afraid of cats?"
"Of course I'm nae afraid of them. I just don't want them in my room." His voice sounded petulant to his own ears. "I dinna like cats," he repeated lamely. "I've never liked them."
"My grandfather liked them," Ashley said, as she dropped to her knees and began to coax the mother cat out from under the bed. "They're independent animals and very intelligent. Here, kitty, kitty," she called.
"I dinna want anyone in my room."
"So you've said. I'll speak to Thomas, but he's been here more than thirty years. He and my grandfather were friends. I'd have to be careful not to hurt his feelings. Thomas will think you're afraid he'll steal something." Ashley got up with three kittens in her arms. "He won't, you know. Your things are perfectly safe here."
"I'm accusing no one in your household o' being a thief, but I am a private person."
A man who has shared a tiny prison cell values his own space, his own possessions, Kelt thought. And any man who survived the voyage to America in the hold of a convict ship must forever live with the memory of filthy, diseased bodies pressed close around him. He became aware that he was blocking the doorway and stepped aside quickly. "Ye didna catch the big cat."
"Gypsy? She'll follow her kittens. Just leave the door open and don't frighten her."
"What time is supper?" Kelt tried to ignore the mother cat curling around his ankle, purring.
Ashley shrugged. "Whenever Joan gets it on the table. She'll yell."
"I've nae wish to interfere with your staff, but your slave Thomas—"
"Thomas isn't a slave!" Ashley snapped. "There are no slaves on my plantation! Thomas Weaver was born as free as you were."
Kelt threw up a hand. "Peace, Mistress Morgan. I'd no intention of insulting the old man, free or slave. Do ye think me an ogre to mistreat your servants?"
"Thomas isn't a servant... not exactly. This is his home as much as mine."
Kelt ran his fingers through his hair. What kind of place was this, where a woman ruled and servants were not servants? He struggled with his temper. "I just want my rooms undisturbed, by people or animals."
She lowered the kittens safely to the floor and shooed them toward the stairs, then turned to face him. "If you dislike animals, Scot, you'll find it quite uncomfortable on Morgan's Fancy."
"I dinna, say I didna like your damned animals!" The burr grew thicker as his temper heated. "I am fond o' God's creatures—most of them—but they have a place, and it isna in my bed."
"Would you rather have mice running up and down the stairs? Burrowing though your precious possessions?"
With a snort of disgust, Kelt retreated into his room. "If ye dinna mind, I will dress for supper," he said sarcastically.
Swiftly he stripped to the waist, filled the washbowl from the water in the pitcher, and began to lather his face and neck with the soft, scented soap on the washstand. Kelt was especially fond of bathing, a trait he'd acquired from his mother.
At home, in Scotland, there had been a special bathing room that his father had ordered built for his mother. It contained a huge soapstone tub, heated by its own brick hearth and equipped with piped-in water from a spring outside the castle walls. Many a day in Virginia, after a hard day's work in the fields, he had missed the sheer luxury of that bath.
Kelt stared down at his hands, scarred and callused—not from wielding a burnished claymore, but from a farmer's hoe and ax. Strange were the ways of God, that a hotheaded young rebel from the Highlands could ever find peace in the rich, red soil of Virginia, especially on land that belonged to another.
Kelt sighed deeply as he rinsed away the suds and grime with fresh water, then dried himself with a clean towel. The soil here in Maryland ran to sandy brown and even black. Would he come to love the smell of it as well?
He sat on the edge of the bed and removed his boots and stockings and the tan breeches that smelled of horse and sweat. I'll nae be here long enough to learn the land. Not if she keeps up her kelpie ways! Damn, but the lass got under his skin! Like a fistful of burrs, whichever way he turned and twisted, she dug in deeper.
The arrogance of the woman with her mannish ways! "Nay." He spoke aloud in the empty room. "Not mannish." There was no mistaking the soft curves of a lass in her boy's attire. The skin-tight breeches showed her rounded bottom all too well.
"By God, she is a kelpie!" he swore under his breath as his finger touched a hot spot on the iron caldron he was lifting off the fire. He sucked at the reddened skin, then used his discarded shirt to grasp the handle. He'd been too long without a woman—that was his problem. He should have stayed the night in Chestertown and demanded the innkeeper search out a likely wench to warm his bed. If he could not keep his thoughts off the thorny mistress of Morgan's Fancy, it was not her charms but the lack of feminine attention that was the cause.
Ashley Morgan was definitely not his type. Kelt liked his women small and soft, gentle-mannered and laughing. Ashley had a seductive smile when she used it, but he had never met a female with such a foul temper. She was as touchy as a Lowland Scot at his daughter's wedding.
Kelt began to whistle a saucy tune as he rummaged in his trunk for clean clothes. His eyes caught a flash of silver and he reached for the source, a flask of excellent Scotch whisky. Slowly he removed the cap and took a long sip. The warmth seeped through him, calming and relaxing. Now that he knew Ashley had no attraction for him, he could go below and enjoy a well-earned meal.
His optimism was short-lived, however; the supper was a disaster. Although the table and dishes were clean, Joan's mutton stew was only one step up from prison fare, and her beaten biscuits were fit only to slip under the table for Jai.
Kelt ate alone, trying patiently to chew the stringy chunks of meat. When he asked where the mistress was, Joan only shrugged. "'Spect she's workin' on them ledgers again, Master Saxon. Lots o' times she don't come down to eat at night."
I can guess why, Kelt thought. He tried to ignore Joan hovering around his chair. The wench left little doubt as to her intentions; she brushed against him suggestively every time she filled a plate or removed a dirty one.
Despite a missing front tooth, the girl was not without charm. But he had never played with the females that worked for him. It was a rule that had proved to be a sensible one over the years and one he wasn't about to break now.
Kelt finished his portion of stew, took one look at the ancient bread pudding, seized an apple off the sideboard, and went back upstairs to his rooms.
Ashley heard his tread on the hall floorboards and tried to concentrate on her records. She had deliberately decided not to go down to supper. This dark Scotsman stirred emotions within her that were too disturbing. Doubtless it would please him no end to know she could not banish his rugged face from her mind, could not forget how his dark hair lay on his neck.
With an oath she slammed the ledger shut and went to retrieve a book from the mantel. If she couldn't make sense of her figures, she would read. She'd be damned if she'd sit there dreaming over a man's lean backside like some tavern slut.
An image of Kelt's hand holding the pistol to the Welshman's head came to mind. Although his hands were large, the fingers were long and well formed, the nails clean and cut straight across. A faint scattering of black hair covered the backs of his hands.
A tantalizing possibility tormented her brain. What would it be like to be touched by those hands? "Not worth the cost," she whispered into the empty room. She might admire Kelt Saxon's physique, but she didn't need him complicating her life. In a few weeks, at most, he would be gone. And since she saw where her weakness lay, she would make sure the next overseer was gray-haired, overweight, and happily married. Chuckling, she opened her book as a picture of Kelt Saxon, twenty years older and surrounded by a nagging wife and throngs of children, skittered across her mind.
Across the hall, behind a locked door, Kelt settled into a comfortable chair before the fire and balanced his sketchboard on his lap. Swiftly his fingers flew over the paper, creating ghostly outlines of Morgan's Fancy—the two-story brick manor house, the barns and dependencies, horses. And almost of their own volition, the charcoal lines and smudges began to form the face of a woman... the hauntingly beautiful face of Ashley Morgan.
Chapter 4
Ashley gazed thoughtfully at the merchant vessel as wind filled the square sails and carried the tall ship swiftly across the sparkling waters of the Chesapeake. The bite of the autumn wind brought spots of bright color to her cheeks and filled her cinnamon-brown eyes with tears, but she didn't notice. Her thoughts were with the ship and the precious cargo in her hold. If anything happened to this year's tobacco crop... Ashley shivered and pushed away the lurking fear.
The tobacco would be safe. It had to be! Wasn't old Ash Morgan's luck a legend in the colony? "If you've got any pull with the Lord, now's the time to use it," she whispered. If her grandfather's spirit was anywhere, it would be here on Morgan's Fancy at tobacco shipping time. Somehow she didn't think even death could stop the tough old man from watching over what he had loved most in life.
Ashley sighed and walked back toward her horse. The Morgan luck had seen them though some tough times; the plantation had survived political upheaval, drought, and Indian attack. Once a forest fire had swept down toward the house and barns, only to be drowned in a rainstorm at the last moment. Old Ash had even argued publicly with a royal governor once and got away with it. So far, Morgan's Fancy had never lost a tobacco crop to pirates on the high seas or to insects in the fields. There was no reason their luck should change now.
Ashley nodded to the serving boy and took Baron's reins in her hands. Why do I feel so uneasy? she wondered. Kelt Saxon was a better overseer than she'd expected. He was intelligent, and he was fair with the plantation workers. Although she didn't care for his arrogant manner, the Scot had solved her most pressing problem by finding a captain to carry her tobacco to England. She had to admit Kelt was a good man, and if Ash were alive, he and Kelt would probably be friends.
Sadness came over her as she realized how acutely she still missed her grandfather. They had always celebrated on the day the tobacco sailed. They would ride into Chestertown and have dinner, and he'd buy her some special gift. "I miss you, Ash," she murmured as she swung up into the saddle. The bay stallion tossed his head and snorted, pawing at the fallen leaves with his powerful hooves.
"It's chancy, sailing with such a small fleet."
Startled, Ashley whirled in the saddle to stare into her overseer's face. She'd been so intent on watching the ship sail she hadn't heard the Scot ride up behind her. "It wouldn't be if we had the protection the King owes us," she answered sharply. "A man-of-war would go a long way toward making the Isobel's voyage a safe one. She only carries eight cannons, not much defense against a Spanish or French privateer. It's open season on tobacco ships."
Kelt's gray eyes burned into her own; the soft burr of his voice made the skin on her arms and the back of her neck tingle. Damn him! How could he affect her so strongly just by being near? She forced herself to listen to what he was saying.
"Word is, Morgan's Fancy's never lost a tobacco shipment. I told Captain Dayton he should charge the other planters extra to ship with him just because your tobacco was aboard."
"And he agreed, I suppose?"
"Nay. He said, 'Morgan luck or not, you're lucky I'm carrying your mistress's crop at all.'"
Ashley couldn't help but notice the dark circles under Kelt's eyes. She wasn't the only one who'd been putting in long hours. He'd worked harder than the men the last few days. "We usually take the day off... shipping day," she explained. Her mouth felt dry. Was she coming down with something? She tried to sound normal. "The people expect it. Feel free to do the same if you want to ride into Chestertown or just catch up on some sleep."
She'd heard of no involvement with the serving wenches; surely a virile man such as Saxon must have physical needs, needs that only a woman could satisfy. Likely he'd welcome time off to seek out a willing bed partner. God knows, there were plenty who would welcome his advances, even without payment.
Kelt nodded. "The men deserve a day off. They've earned it." He stared at her intensely. "It's a good crop, and if it gets through to London, you should get a prime price for it. "
"Not if, when." Ashley's gaze met his squarely. "You'd better hope it gets through if you expect to be paid." Her features softened. "You're right about the price, though. With fewer ships getting through, the tobacco that does arrive in England can command top money."
She guided her horse back along the dirt road and Kelt fell in beside her. The man had said nothing about whether he intended to take the day off. Double damn him! Even when he said nothing, he annoyed her.
The dappled-gray moved with a smooth gait, ignoring the tossing head and laid-back ears of Ashley's stallion. "You did a good job," Ashley admitted, breaking the silence. "Dayton refused to carry my tobacco before."
"He told me so. Said he didna do business with ladies."
"Captain Dayton called me a lady?" Ashley's eyes sparkled with mischief. "That's a first."
"Well," the Scot conceded solemnly, "perhaps that wasna his exact word." He grinned.
"I didn't think so."
Dry leaves, their brilliant colors faded to dusty brown, skittered before the wind, tumbling and rolling across the dirt road in front of the horses. Ashley kept a tight rein on Baron, tensing her leg muscles as he danced sideways. "Whoa," she soothed. "None of that now."
As if to test her, the animal snorted and reared, pawing the air with his powerful front legs. Ashley threw her weight forward in the saddle and smacked him sharply with her riding quirt. The stallion leaped ahead, plunging down the road at a full gallop. Ashley let the big horse have his head for almost a quarter of a mile, then gradually slowed him to a canter and finally a trot.
Kelt frowned as he brought his dappled-gray up beside the stallion, both animals streaked with sweat. "Ye ride well for a lass," he admitted, "but that's too much horse for a woman. Ye lost control of him on the bend. 'Twould make more sense for ye to ride a mare. You'll break your neck on him one o' these days."
Heat rose in Ashley's cheeks under the Scot's fierce glare. "I did not lose control. I gave him his head on purpose." She forced herself to swallow the oath that rose to her lips. "I ride well for a lass?" She looked up at him through thick, dark lashes and smiled sweetly. "Thank you, sir," she replied smoothly. "You ride well enough yourself, for a man."
"Ouch!" He nodded, the anger draining from his expression. "I suppose I deserved that." His deep voice softened. "But the advice was given sincerely, not to insult ye. I'm nae used to seeing ladies riding astride in such"—he raised one eyebrow quizzically—"gentleman's attire." Kelt reached up to touch the brim of his cocked hat in salute. "Can we call a truce for the day? You did promise me a day of rest, and I've no wish to begin it with a quarrel."
"And do you make a habit of instructing your employers in horsemanship?" Ashley demanded. "Your male employers?"
"I have apologized, and you'll get no more from me on the subject, mistress." The gray eyes warned her not to push too far. "Other than the fact that the stallion is high-spirited, too much so to make a dependable riding animal. Ye'll come to grief wi' him, mark my words."
Ashley noticed tha
t Kelt's Scots' burr increased with the intensity of his emotion. "I accept the apology, but not the advice. We suit each other well enough, Baron and I. My grandfather taught me nothing if not how to stick on a horse. I want no plodding draft horse. If I did, I could ride Squire."
"Falcon is a gelding, and he's served me well. He's fast and levelheaded. A mon can ask no more of a horse." He leaned forward to pat the dappled neck. "A stallion wastes too much time thinking of other matters to be a steady mount."
"I like the fire and the stamina," she explained softly. "I've been in the saddle from dawn to dusk many a day. Can your gelding match that endurance?"
"If I ask it of him." Kelt gazed at the dirt lane ahead. Did this damnable wench always have to have the last word? She was a stubborn shrew. A man would have to have his head examined to work under her. "I have made arrangements to sell the Welshman's bond to Martin Hopkins of Canterbury. Do I have your approval?" he asked, changing the subject. "I thought to keep the man and wife on and give them a second chance. As ye said, you're short of hands already, and he does have skill with the oxen."
"As you see fit. Did you talk with the woman?" Ashley could imagine that Short John's wife would put her best foot forward for such a lusty specimen as the new overseer. "She has caused trouble before."
"I've warned them both there'll be no more. I'm not soft, but I'm fair. I was a bondman myself when I first came to this country. I know where they stand." Kelt shot Ashley a hard look, then continued when he saw no scorn on her face. "If ye can scrape up the coin, I'll buy more slaves when tobacco planting time comes."
"No slaves."
"What did you say?"
"'Twas plain enough, Scot. I've told you before we have no slaves on Morgan's Fancy. My grandfather used only free men and bond servants. I see no reason to change."
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