Southern Seduction

by Brenda Jernigan

  She nodded.

  Jeremy threw his head back and roared with so much laughter that Brooke had to wonder what the previous conversation had been about.

  Travis didn’t join in Jeremy’s amusement. Instead he asked him, “What brings you to Moss Grove, Jeremy? I thought you started your own harvest three days ago.”

  “I did,” Jeremy confirmed once he stopped laughing. “My sugarmaker has come down with the grippe, and I’ve got to find a replacement for him. As you are aware, without a sugarmaker, the end of the harvest is in jeopardy. I thought maybe Morgan might know someone.”

  Travis nodded. “I can see your dilemma. Let’s go and find out,” Travis said.

  Both men ignored her completely as they walked toward the building, leaving Brook on her own. Their manners were deplorable to say the least. And she was sure that Travis was sending her a message that she wasn’t needed. And the truth was . . . she wasn’t needed.

  Brooke really didn’t understand Mr. Dubois’s problem, but both men appeared very concerned about this person who they called the sugarmaker. Nonetheless, she wasn’t going to stand outside like a child waiting for her parent to return. She’d never learn anything that way.

  She tied Gray Mist under a tree so the horse could munch on the green grass, then she followed them over to the sugarhouse.

  The sugarhouse, which was nothing more than a simple shed, seemed to be a beehive of activity. Brooke was surprised at the various apparatus used for crushing the cane. She paused and watched, knowing she needed a firm understanding of how her plantation operated. She now realized that it would take her a long time before she could ever attempt to run something the size of Moss Grove. Another reason that marrying Travis sounded better than it first did.

  As soon as she stepped into the open end of the shed, the sweet, pungent air from inside felt like a hot breath in her face. She noticed that everyone working under the shed wore their shirtsleeves rolled up or no shirts at all. And she could understand why. Here she was dressed in long sleeves and full skirts, and her clothing was already damp and clinging to her.

  Over in a corner she saw the piles of stalks that had been brought up from the field. A few of the women were hand-feeding the stalks one at a time into a set of rollers, one on top of the other, designed to crush and force the juice from the cane -- at least, she assumed so since there was a collecting pot underneath. The rollers were turned by mules who plodded around and around in an endless circle.

  As she continued her exploration, Brooke saw three huge boiling pots. The heat from the fires beneath each kettle threw off a tremendous heat. She didn’t know how any of workers stayed in here. Three men, one behind each pot, stirred continuously. They glanced up at her for only a moment, then turned back to the task at hand. She wasn’t sure what they were doing, but it was obviously important. It was apparent that she would have to wait until Travis had time to explain the process because nobody seemed to have time to speak to her, much less explain what they were doing.

  A big black man in a plaid shirt was dragging a bundle of crushed can over to the pots. The two men tossed the cane scraps onto the flames. The fires belched great puffs of black smoke up the chimneys, producing heat so intense the air became hazy.

  Brooke felt like she was choking. He air stung her nose and her eyes began to water. Her eyes were watering so bad that she didn’t see the sparks shoot out from the fire toward her.

  “Watch out!” someone shouted.

  Brooke heard the warning but didn’t know what or whom they were shouting at. She turned to see why everyone was waving at her, but she couldn’t see anything.

  The next thing Brooke knew someone had clamped an arm around her waist and hauled her out of the sugarhouse.

  Once outside, she was sat on her feet where she immediately began coughing. She jerked her handkerchief out of her sleeve to wipe her eyes. It took several gulps of clean air before her coughing subsided and she could see again. What had just happened in there?

  Travis brushed at her skirts as he swore. “You little fool,” she heard him hiss from behind her.

  “What are you doing?” Brooke retorted, jerking at her skirt. “I am not a rug.” She felt much like a quilt that someone was trying to beat the dirt out of.

  “Trying to keep you from setting your fool self on fire,” he angrily informed her. “I don’t have time to hold your hand.”

  “I never ask you to!” she spat and then looked down, gaping at the smoke coming from the hem of her skirt. “Oh, no.” She had no idea she’d gotten so close to the fire.

  “You must be careful around the boiling pots,” Jeremy cautioned. “As you can see, they can be very dangerous.”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know, but it was so smoky in there that I couldn’t see anything. I must have stumbled. I must have gotten too close.”

  “That’s no excuse for your carelessness.” Travis was quick to point out. “You could have been burnt to a crisp.”

  “And no doubt that would have pleased you,” Brooke snapped.

  Travis gave her a slow grin as he came to within an inch of her face. “It might have been one way to rid myself of you.”

  Even though she wanted to hit him for his remark, she wanted to kiss him even more. And that made no sense at all to her. But it just might take that smug look off his face.

  “You’re not that lucky, Mr. Montgomery,” she said with a slight smile. “You’ll never be rid of me.”

  Chapter Six

  That’s what I’m afraid of, Travis thought to himself as he watched Jeremy help Brooke mount. Travis knew he didn’t need to touch the woman -- it was too dangerous -- and he wasn’t too sure he wanted his friend touching her, either.

  Brooke didn’t so much as look his way before she galloped off . . . not that he cared, he tried to convince himself. He was used to getting what he wanted and ignoring what he couldn’t get, but in this case, he was finding it difficult to put Mrs. Hammond completely out of his mind. He had a sinking feeling that no matter how hard he tried, he’d never be completely rid of Brooke, as she had warned him.

  Jeremy rejoined him. “You have some partner there, I’d say,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the departing woman. He nodded his approval, and that irked Travis further. “What are you going to do with her?”

  “Scare her away.”

  Jeremy chuckled. “I hate to tell you this, but she doesn’t look like the type that scares. In fact, I’d say she looked pretty determined just now when she rode off.” He folded his arms across his chest. “So, how did the intriguing lady come to be your partner? I can’t fathom you finding her on your own, nor can I believe you actually want a business partner.”

  “I assure you,” Travis took a deep breath, “I have little trouble finding a woman when I want one,” he muttered, his male pride wounded.

  A slow grin spread across Jeremy’s features. “The problem is you don’t want one,” he said. “And for a man who doesn’t want a woman at all, you now have two.”

  “My father chose Brooke,” Travis answered tersely between clenched teeth. “Why the hell he did such a foolish thing, I cannot imagine. My father might have been many things, but a fool wasn’t one of them.” Sarcasm lay heavy on his tongue. “I guess it was his going away present.”

  “Well, your mother chose Hesione,” Jeremy pointed out. “Your parents must have figured it was time you got married and each had their own idea of who it should be. I should know.” He laughed. “My parents have done the same thing with me in the past. I’ve just been lucky and avoided taking the plunge yet. However, I do believe your father’s choice is far superior to your mother’s, and a hell of a lot better than my mother’s last choice,” he said with a wry chuckle.

  Travis quirked his brow and answered sardonically, “That is my fiancée you are insulting.”

  Jeremy paid no heed to Travis’s warning. It was no secret that Travis didn’t have feelings for Hesione. “And if you were honest, you
’d agree with me. Do you love her?”

  “Who?”

  “Hesione of course,” Jeremy said with a smile.

  A number of emotions flickered across Travis’s face as he tried to formulate an answer, “What I feel for Hesione has nothing to do with the matter. She’s agreeable, so she will suit. Hesione will make a perfect hostess for Moss Grove because she comes from one of the finest families in New Orleans.”

  “Perhaps, once you marry her it will put you back in good standing with your grandfather?”

  “My grandfather . . . .” Travis actually winced at the truth though he tried to hide it. Was there any pleasing his cruel grandfather? Hadn’t Travis heard more than once how his birth had ruined his mother? “I don’t give a damn what the old bastard thinks. It will please Mother and that’s enough.”

  “And that’s a reason to get married? What if Hesione is cold? Who will warm your bed? From my observation, I believe the woman has ice in her veins.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Jeremy, but a mistress will always supply what a wife cannot. And I care for Hesione. She was the best choice.”

  “Should I remind you that your last mistress has left New Orleans?” Jeremy leveled his gaze coolly on Travis. “Perhaps you can talk your new partner into filling the role.”

  “It was Travis’s turn to chuckle, knowing full and well that would never happened. “I consider that an exceedingly slim possibility. As you just said, she is different from the other women I’ve known. The only thing I want from Mrs. Hammond is for her to sign her portion of the plantation over to me, then she can be on her way.”

  “Have you asked?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  Travis shrugged. “She told me that I would never be rid of her.”

  Jeremy couldn’t resist a wry grin as he slapped Travis on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I can’t feel unhappy for you, my friend. The last thing I’d want to do is get rid of her. She is one of the most stunning women I’ve ever seen.” A wicked smile touched his lips. “My blood raced from the moment she spoke. Now there’s a woman to die for. Perhaps I should try for her.”

  Travis scowled. “You need to get control of yourself,” he warned. “The woman is lethal.”

  Jeremy could see how tight Travis’s jaw had gotten. “You mean you don’t want to share?”

  “I’ve nothing to share,” Travis snapped. “And I’m damn tired of this conversation. Don’t you have a plantation to run?”

  Instead of being insulted, Jeremy grinned. “My, my. You certainly are getting angry over the woman you claim not to care about.”

  “I’ve been angry since she arrived.”

  Jeremy saw right away that Mrs. Hammond had gotten under Travis’s skin, something no other woman had ever been able to do. “Then maybe you should ask yourself why,” Jeremy pressed as he mounted his horse, “because I think that Brooke makes you feel something you haven’t experienced before.” He turned his horse to the side. “And do send over a sugarmaker if you can spare one,” he said, looking back over his shoulder.

  “Get the hell out of here before I change my mind about helping you at all,” Travis gritted out. He smacked Jeremy’s horse on the rump, causing him to bolt. “I’ll send Ben over tomorrow.”

  Travis needed to do something to work off his aggravation. Jeremy had done a good job of needling, and it had done nothing to ease his simmering anger. Turning, Travis gazed at the mill. Maybe heat from the cane house could make him sweat the woman out of his system . . . he could always hope.

  When Brooke returned to the main house, Mammy greeted her with the news that Prosper, the cook, had returned and would like Brooke’s input for the upcoming party.

  Brooke forgot her irritation with Travis. Finally, she was going to meet the famous cook whose cooking she’d yet to taste. “Lead the way,” she said with a sweep of her hand.

  Mammy wrinkled her nose. “What’s dat smell? Smells like smoke.”

  “I almost forgot. I singed my ridding habit,” Brooke said, pulling up her skirt for her to see the singed material. “Perhaps I should freshen up. I will be back in half an hour.”

  After Brooke had changed, she and Mammy went to the kitchen, located at the very back of the house. The moment Brooke entered the hot kitchen, she saw the cook acting like a petty dictator, giving instructions to one of his kitchen staff who was stirring a big, black pot hanging over the fireplace.

  Prosper was tall and thin, and his skin was a little darker than Mammy's and gray streaked his hair in the back. He wore a white apron tied over his black and white clothes. After a few moments, he turned and Brooke saw that he had a kind face. His hair was completely white on both sides of his head and his eyes were a rich brown . . . eyes that seemed to be studying her as much as she was him. He held a wooden spoon in his right hand, whether it was used for stirring or for smacking hands was yet to be determined.

  “Mademoiselle,” Prosper said with a slight French accent. “I am Prosper Ernest Fournier at your service,” he said with a sweeping bow. His stern expression was all business as he added, “I understand that you, Mademoiselle, are now in charge of the household staff.”

  Shocked, Brooke realized that Prosper was the first to acknowledge her place at Moss Grove. “I am now part owner of Moss Grove along with Mr. Montgomery,” Brooke said. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  Prosper nodded. “I am the cook extraordinaire,” he said, waving his spoon. “I have been trained in France by the finest chefs, and have cooked for the Montgomerys for the last ten years.”

  Brooke smiled. He sounded as if he were trying to impress her.

  “My requests are simple -- the kitchen is mine to rule, and the dinner hour of seven is strictly enforced.”

  Brooke’s first response was to answer, ‘Yes sir.’ But, she reminded herself, wasn’t he supposed to be asking what she would like for him to do? Who was working for whom here? She wondered. “Thank you so much, Prosper, for explaining the rules. I hope you cook as well as you issue instructions. If so, every meal will be perfection I’m sure.” Brooke saw a smile sneak across Mammy’s face before she could hide it.

  Prosper stiffened, eyes widened, and his face might have turned red, but Brooke couldn’t tell.

  “You will see, Mademoiselle, I am an excellent chef. I would like final approval on the menu for the gala this Friday.” He yanked a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to her.

  Brooke scanned the list. Everything appeared in order and the dishes he had selected sounded heavenly. “You have excellent taste, Mr. Prosper.” She looked toward Mammy. “Have you seen the list?”

  “Oui.”

  Turning back to Prosper, Brooke said, “If Mammy approves, then it is fine by me. Thank you for your help.” She returned the menu to Prosper.

  “As you wish, Mademoiselle,” he said with a stiff nod. Then he turned and went back to the stove. Brooke knew when she’d been dismissed, so she left the man to his kitchen.

  No wonder Travis liked the man. They both had the same kind of sour dispositions.

  Once in the hallway, Brooke turned to Mammy and asked, “Is he always so pleasant?”

  Mammy gave her a sideways glance. “Well now -- dat’s a question.” She chuckled. “You see Prosper don’t want nobody messin' in his kitchen.”

  “Oh, he made that perfectly clear,” Brooke said with a smile.

  “He’s always been uppity, not associatin’ wit de others,” Mammy said, stopping once they were in the foyer. “It’s not his fault, yes. Sometimes folks are not as they seem. Prosper worked under a great chef in Paris. Dat is w’ere His Grace first sampled Prosper’s cookin’, yes. Montgomery persuaded Prosper t’ come and work fo’ him. So he worked fo’ His Grace in England fo’ a year, yes, until Montgomery purchased Moss Grove and broug’t Prosper wit’ him.”

  “I wonder why Jackson didn’t take Prosper back to England?”

  “Mebbe ‘cause de duchess didn’t get al
on’ none wit’ Prosper. An’ Prosper he liked it in Nawlins.” Mammy shrugged, then added. “I always t’ought His Grace would make Moss Grove his home, yes. He loved dis place,” she finished with a sigh as she looked off. It was as if Mammy were talking to herself and forgetting that Brooke stood near. “Somet’in’ went wron’. Shouldn’t have been messin’ with Miz Margaret--” Mammy stopped short.

  Brooke reached out and touched Mammy’s arm. “I understand. I think you were fond of Montgomery, and so was I.”

  She nodded. “He was always good t’ me. Den he sent me his fine son, t’ be sure.”

  “You mean he has another son?”

  Both women looked at each other then burst out laughing.

  That’s how Travis found them when he strolled in through the front entrance.

  “Have I missed something?” he asked.

  “Not really,” Brook replied. “Just something between the two of us.” She gestured between herself and Mammy, then turned abruptly and left him in the foyer, wearing that peculiar expression of his. She might still have work to do on Travis, but Brooke felt that she and Mammy had reached a new understanding, and that cheered her. Finally, Brooke felt that Moss Grove was truly her home.

  Travis remained in the foyer wondering what the two women had been talking about before he walked in on them. It bothered him that Brooke seemed much too comfortable in his house.

  Rubbing the back of his neck, Travis leaned on the newel post as he watched Brooke climb the stairs. Her long blond hair, having escaped most of its pins, swayed across her slender back, and that is where his gaze should have stopped, but it didn’t.

  She’d changed out of her sooty clothes and wore a green day dress without her crinolines. His eyes shifted to her perfectly rounded derriere. He found himself extremely conscious of her virile appeal. He wanted to reach out and touch her, and that was one thing he knew he must not do. His feelings for her had nothing to do with reason.

  Brooke’s luscious body was made for love and there was something provocative about her that made his loins tightened at the mere thought of entering her soft flesh, and feeling her warmth surround him.