by Meara Platt
“Ambitious,” Benedict said with a nod of understanding.
“Very,” Suzanne sighed. “But before all that, we had much more freedom to play and to enjoy ourselves. Robert and I were very fond of each other. He taught me everything from how to row to how to read the moods of the ocean. I even know how to fix bait to a fishing hook.” The proud and slightly impish grin that followed her words went straight to Benedict’s heart.
All the same, he frowned. “If the two of you are so close, why did you not turn to him for help in escaping marriage with Mr. Stanley?”
The expression that filled Suzanne’s face was tragic. “Robert died when I was seventeen,” she said in a small voice. “Or so we assumed. He was lost at sea.”
“Perhaps he washed up on some foreign shore?” Benedict suggested, hating the pain he saw in her eyes.
She shook her head. “His ship was traveling with others. There was a storm. The other ships reported witnessing Robert’s ship go down.”
“I see.” Benedict was quiet for a moment. He had to concentrate as he took them past the breaking waves and out to calmer waters. Once they were settled, bobbing along merrily, he said, “Your beloved brother was lost at sea, and yet you still took to the sea to flee your father and Mr. Stanley.”
She glanced up at him, blinking out of her thoughts. “I supposed this was as close as I was going to get to enlisting Robert’s help. And if whatever ship I sailed on went down into the briny deep as well….” She let her words trail away, lowering her eyes to the water.
Benedict allowed her a moment of silence. He set the oars inside their boat and busied himself with the fishing rods and tackle he’d brought with them. When he felt as though he’d given her enough time for her memories, he held up the end of his fishing line and its empty hook.
“You say you are an expert at baiting a hook?”
She peeked up at him.
“Show me.”
Her smile returned and she reached for the line. He’d brought a tub of worms with him, and to his surprise, she fished one out and affixed it to the line without so much as a hint of squeamishness.
“Shall we make this a wager, Benedict?” she asked, arching one brow. “Whoever catches the most fish wins?”
“I’ll take that wager,” he said, beaming with a kind of joy he hadn’t felt in…ever.
Suzanne was as adept with a fishing rod as she claimed to be. She knew how to cast her line, how to coax the fish that swam beneath them into taking the bait, and how to reel them in without letting them get away. She even knew the proper way to remove the hook from a fish’s mouth, and she wasn’t afraid to do it. Without his help. It was so fascinating to watch her lose herself in the activity, to watch the cares of her situation and the strain that Benedict now guessed the last few years of her life had thrust on her melt away.
Within an hour, they were talking and laughing like two children without a care in the world.
“You’re never going to catch enough for a decent meal if you don’t concentrate on what you’re doing,” she told him as she reeled in her third fish. “How do you expect to feed a family this way?”
He laughed. “I’ll leave that up to you. You can be the breadwinner and I’ll stay at home, conducting business and readying the larder for all the fish you catch.”
“That’s no way to live a life,” she giggled, grabbing her fish as it flapped its way above the water. “A man should be independent and resourceful if he plans to have a family.”
“Yes, my lady,” he jokingly said.
There was nothing droll in the feelings that coursed through him, though. An independent man with a family. In truth, he was neither of those things. He had a title, an ancient estate in England, distasteful responsibilities in Antigua, and an expectation to produce another heir to carry the load when he was gone. There was nothing independent about that. He supposed it was Suzanne’s American spirit that made her so confident in a man’s ability to be independent. The thing was, the more time they passed in the balmy sunshine, the more he wanted to be the man she dreamed of.
“Can you swim, Benedict?” she asked, shaking him out of his thoughts.
She’d also caught him staring at her. He shrugged, glancing down at his fishing rod as he set it aside, and said, “Yes, I can. Can you?”
A mischievous grin filled her eyes. “Watch me.”
As fast as lightning, she removed her shawl and bonnet, unfastened the ties of her threadbare gown, and shimmied out of it. Then, in just her stays and shift, she hopped over the side of the rowboat and into the ocean. Her boldness took Benedict’s breath away. He gripped the sides of the boat as it rocked from her leap, but it felt as though he was holding himself down to keep from spinning off into a world of fantasy he wasn’t sure he could indulge in.
The water around them was clear, and he could see her push her way through it before surfacing with a gasp. “It’s cooler than I thought it would be, but not cold. You should come in.”
“I think I might,” he said, then proceeded to remove his boots, jacket, and everything else except his drawers.
He splashed into the water with her, his heart lighter than it had been since he was a boy. “It’s always easier to swim in salt water,” he said, feeling foolish for stating the obvious. He didn’t know what else to say, though.
“It’s easier to splash as well,” she said with a giggle, splashing him, then swimming off.
He chased her, diving beneath the water and grabbing her ankles. She wriggled free, laughing like a child and swimming like a mermaid. There was something innocent and joyful about the way they played, chasing each other and doing somersaults under the water. They vied to see who could spew a stream of water higher into the air, then race to the boat when it drifted away from them.
All the while, nagging thoughts about whether everything they were doing was right, whether it fit the arrangement they’d made, whether Lucy would approve, and even whether so much activity would impede Suzanne conceiving, niggled at the back of Benedict’s brain. But the simple fact was, he didn’t care. He was enjoying himself too much.
“I’m going to need a fish feast to recover from all this activity,” Suzanne said at last, breathless as she climbed back into the rowboat.
“A feast and a nap,” Benedict agreed, climbing in after her.
They collapsed onto their backs as best they could, letting the sunlight dry them.
“I could sleep for days,” Suzanne said with a sigh. “It has been far too long since I’ve felt so—”
Benedict turned to her, curious about what she’d been about to say and why she had stopped herself. She turned her head to look at him. Their eyes met. In that moment, the world was perfect in every way.
“Safe,” she said at last. “You make me feel safe.”
“And you make me feel—” It was his turn to be at a loss for words. He wasn’t sure how he felt. He doubted there were words for it.
In lieu of words, he pulled her closer, closing his arm around her waist and kissing her lips. Her mouth opened hungrily for him, which only encouraged him to kiss her more deeply. Their lips caressed each other and their tongues tasted all that the other had to give. Heat infused his blood, and his cock responded as intensely as the rest of him. It was the happiest Benedict had ever been.
“We should row to shore,” he said, clearing his throat and sitting up.
“Should we?” she asked, disappointment clouding her eyes.
He cleared his throat and shifted so that he could take up the oars. “I’m not quite certain that my prowess extends to preventing a rowboat from rocking so hard it tips over.”
A fetching smile spread across her kiss-pink lips. “Oh. I see.” She sat straighter, lowering her eyes coyly. “Then by all means, row to shore.”
Benedict laughed in spite of himself. He couldn’t reach the shore fast enough.
Chapter Five
It struck Suzanne as odd that the next few weeks were some of t
he happiest of her life. She was doing something reckless and immoral. The fiancé she’d left on their wedding day continued to stalk St. John’s, searching for her. She spent most of her time hiding out in Benedict’s plantation house, unable to travel freely or see the few friends she’d made, like Mrs. Lacey, for fear of Hugh finding her. But her days were filled with nourishing meals, comfortable surroundings, and all the books she could read. And her nights….
They were glorious.
They were productive as well. Within a few weeks, she was certain her and Benedict’s efforts to conceive a baby were successful. Her monthly courses never came, and the curious spells of dizziness and mild headaches she started to experience were like nothing her body had ever felt before.
She wasn’t certain how to break the news to Benedict. In spite of their cheery afternoon fishing, and a few other stolen moments here and there, he was a busy man. Not only was he trying to run a plantation that he’d only just inherited, he was mired in all the legal aspects of inheriting his family’s title—something he was attempting to take care of thousands of miles across the sea from England. Furthermore, he was in the midst of trying to sell the plantation—without the enslaved people who worked it. It did Suzanne’s heart good to know Benedict had every intention of freeing those people who had been chained to the plantation before signing over the deed to someone else.
But still, he had a right to know his plan to produce a child had borne fruit. And even though a tiny part of her burned with disappointment every time she remembered exactly why he needed a child—because he had a sweetheart in England—she knew the parameters of their arrangement.
She finally worked up the courage to tell him she was with child three weeks after she should have had her monthly courses. It wasn’t her habit to wander through the more public parts of Benedict’s house, but she found herself walking the halls, her hands pressed to her stomach, rehearsing the words she would use to break the news to him, one morning. She had almost reached his study when she heard a set of unfamiliar voices around the corner.
“I can assure you, my plan to convert the land from sugar cane production to housing for the burgeoning community in St. John’s is fiscally sound,” one man said.
“Housing? When the production of sugar cane is so lucrative? Ridiculous.”
Suzanne nearly jumped out of her skin at the second voice. She would know Hugh Stanley’s voice anywhere. The hard, nasal edge to it gave her chills. She pressed her back against the wall outside of Benedict’s study, listening harder to see if there was any sign Hugh knew she was there.
“You both make valid points,” Benedict said. The sound of a spoon hitting the edges of a teacup and of someone sipping floated into the hall along with his voice, indicating the call was both business and social. “My views on slavery are fairly well-known,” he continued.
Hugh snorted in derision. “Be an abolitionist all you want, but the hierarchy of mankind is a fixed one. Fixed by God himself.”
“And we all know God is a European male,” the unidentified man said with a sarcastic drawl.
“Can you prove he isn’t?” Hugh growled in response.
Suzanne pressed a hand to her stomach. As far as she knew, Hugh had no interest in God one way or another. He rarely attended church, that much was certain. But it didn’t surprise her that he would cling to any justification for his dictatorial views.
“Theology has no place in business,” Benedict said in a gruff voice. “I can assure you, my main interest is in fetching the best price for this land, no matter the purpose it will be put to, and in completing the transaction as swiftly as possible so that I may return to England unencumbered.”
The unfamiliar man hummed in agreement.
Hugh was silent for a moment before saying, “Unencumbered, eh?” Another pause followed before he went on with, “I’ve heard rumors that you’ve acquired a mistress, Lord Killian. A fetching one with auburn hair.”
Suzanne pressed a hand to her mouth, panic filling her.
“My personal business is none of your concern, Mr. Stanley,” Benedict answered in a commanding voice.
“This mistress of yours wouldn’t by any chance, be named Suzanne Porterfield, would it?” Hugh asked.
“No, it would not,” Benedict answered, managing to sound absolutely truthful.
“Because if this woman of yours is a Miss Porterfield, you should know she is mine,” Hugh growled.
The silence that followed was filled with tension. Suzanne could easily imagine Benedict and Hugh staring each other down.
At last, Benedict said, “I believe today’s meeting is over, gentlemen. You have given me much to consider. I will make my decision shortly.”
The sound of the men rising from their seats followed. Suzanne scooted down the wall, wanting to flee, but also needing to hear what happened next.
“If you wouldn’t mind, Lord Killian,” the unfamiliar voice said. “I do have one other question.”
Suzanne pushed away from the wall and hurried to the end of the hall. She needed to get away, but the flash of movement coming out of the study that she spotted out of the edge of her eyesight as she rounded the corner spelled disaster. She picked up her speed as she raced down the hall toward the private section of the house, but she could tell by the heavy clomp of Hugh’s boots that he had seen her.
Thinking as fast as she could, she dashed into the first room she could reach. It was an unused parlor with somewhat feminine furnishings, most of which were covered by cloths to protect them from dust. Hugh’s footfalls ran in the hall, so she dashed behind the first piece of furniture she could find, a tall cabinet covered in canvas that stood just far enough from the wall for her to wedge behind.
“I know you’re in here,” Hugh’s menacing voice came from the doorway only seconds later. “You cannot hide from me indefinitely, Suzanne.”
Suzanne held her breath, praying for all she was worth, as Hugh’s boots clicked against the room’s tile floor.
“You think you’re so clever to steal away from Charleston,” he went on, speaking in a low growl, “but you’re nothing but a bitch who needs to be taught her place. Did you really think you could hide from me for long?”
He continued to walk the room. Suzanne didn’t dare come out from behind the cabinet. Since he hadn’t marched straight to her and dragged her out into the open, then he must not be completely sure she was there or certain where she was hiding.
“You think that whoring yourself out to a British bastard will save you?” he scoffed. “Nothing is going to save you. The more you run, the worse it will be for you. The longer you play me for a fool, the more displeased I grow. And you do not want to see me when I’m displeased.”
Suzanne trembled, squeezing her eyes shut and praying for him to give up and go away.
“We can play this game as long as you’d like, but we both know I will win in the end.”
His threat was followed by the sharp sound of him cracking his knuckles. Suzanne’s knees nearly gave out in fear.
“Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Stanley?” Benedict’s voice sounded from the direction of the hall.
Tears of relief slipped out of Suzanne’s eyes. He had come to her rescue. He would keep her safe.
“I was merely investigating the property that will soon be mine,” Hugh said. The sound of his boots moved back to the doorway, where Benedict’s voice had come from.
“I see,” Benedict said, gruff and masculine. “Then perhaps it would be best for me to inform you, Mr. Stanley, that after careful consideration, I have decided to take Mr. Mortimer up on his offer in favor of yours.”
“What?” Hugh hissed. “Are you a fool?”
“No,” Benedict answered, full of strength. “I am, as you alluded to, an abolitionist, and seeing this plantation plowed under and made into housing is the only way I can be assured that the people who were enslaved by my father and grandfather will truly be freed and not merely re-enslaved
by the next owner. Mr. Mortimer has just informed me that he plans to train the men and women who have been trapped here in the construction trade, if they do not wish to pursue other endeavors, once freed.”
“Weak men like you disgust me,” Hugh growled. “You insult the name of man with your bleeding heart and your foppish ways.”
“There is nothing foppish about enabling others to live free lives, Mr. Stanley,” Benedict said. “I cannot redeem the people my father enslaved, but I can let go of them so that they may redeem themselves.”
“They will be in chains again within a year,” Hugh said with a snort. “And your Mr. Mortimer will be a pauper.”
“Perhaps,” Benedict said. “But it is none of your concern now. I reject your offer of purchase. Please leave my property at once, and do not return. If you are seen trespassing, I will use whatever force necessary to remove you.”
Rather than leaving as ordered, Hugh laughed. “You’re hiding her,” he said in a voice that sent a chill down Suzanne’s back. “I know you are. And I will watch you like a hawk until you slip up. Then, she will be mine.”
“I have no idea what you speak of, sir,” Benedict said, raising his voice. “Please leave before I am forced to remove you.”
Hugh didn’t answer. Suzanne listened as his footsteps exited the room and disappeared down the hall. Even then, she didn’t move for several, anxious seconds.
“Suzanne?” Benedict called softly into the room at last. “Suzanne, he’s gone.”
The breath Suzanne had been holding left her in a rush. She wriggled out from behind the cabinet, pushing aside the cloth covering it and stepping nervously into the open. Benedict turned to face her with a look of surprise that fell into a frown. Then he did the most wonderful thing he could have. He held out his arms to her.
She let out a strangled cry, expelling the last of her fear, as she ran to him, throwing her arms around him.
“I’m sorry you had to endure that,” he said, holding her close.
“Now you see what drove me into your arms,” she said against his shoulder.