by Pamela Clare
She gasped and would have screamed, had the arm that encircled her throat not cut off her breath.
“Who are you, woman, and why do you hold me prisoner?”
Chapter Two
The convict’s voice was ragged, his beard rough on Cassie’s cheek. One arm held her tightly against his bare chest. The other threatened to choke her.
Cassie tried to pull free, but her struggles only made her need for air more acute and forced her deeper into his lap until she felt his . . . She froze.
His grip around her throat tightened. He was going to kill her.
“Scream, and I’ll break your lovely neck. Do you understand?”
She nodded frantically, mouthed aye. Slowly he released the pressure on her throat. But he did not free her.
Cassie drew in gulps of air. “Let me go!” She’d meant to sound undaunted, but her mouth had gone dry, and the words came out in a squeak.
“Answer the question.”
“My name is Catherine Blakewell.” Her voice was shaky. Her heart slammed sickeningly in her chest. “For the next fourteen years you shall serve my father as his bondsman by right of His Majesty, King George. Regardless of the crimes you have committed, my father will treat you fairly, though he would kill you if he knew of this!”
“What are you raving about, woman?”
The arm that encircled her throat drew tighter.
“You’ve been ill for some time. I’ve brought broth.... Please! You’re hurting me!”
“What place is this?”
“You’re at Blakewell’s Neck in Lancaster County, Mr. Braden—”
“Lancashire? In the north country?”
“Lancaster County. Virginia.”
The convict reacted as if he’d been struck by a fist, releasing her just as suddenly as he’d seized her.
Cassie leaped up from the bed and backed away until her back met the clapboard wall. Her hands rose protectively to her throat, her body shaking uncontrollably. Whatever she’d expected when he awoke, she certainly hadn’t imagined this bold assault. She’d not underestimate the threat this man posed again.
“What is the date?” The convict’s voice was strained, his face pale.
“It is the twenty-fifth of May. You’ve been fighting a fever for a week now. I’ve tended your wounds—”
“May? My God!”
“Surely you remember, Mr. Braden.”
“Braden?”
Did he not even remember his own name?
“You were transported to the colonies,” she said, trying to prod his memory. “My father bought your indenture.”
For a moment the convict’s eyes held raw fury. Then he moaned, clasping a hand to his temple. Slowly he slumped, unconscious, back onto the pillow.
Cassie watched as he sank deeper into the bed, her heart still pounding. Arms crossed protectively over her bosom, she inched forward. “Mr. Braden?”
His features were peaceful, his breathing deep and even, but he’d feigned sleep once today already. She would not be so easily tricked again.
London
The crystal goblet shattered on the wall next to Lt. Matthew Hasting’s head, missing Alec’s favorite painting by inches. Matthew tried not to look startled. To do so would only give Philip satisfaction.
“I will not allow you to run this business behind my back!” Philip strode menacingly toward Matthew through the disorder that had once been Alec’s office.
Empty bottles lay on the mahogany desk. Clothing, half-eaten plates of food, and crumpled parchment mingled with wine stains on the plush Persian carpet.
“Someone has to take charge.”
“You have no right to make decisions for me!”
“If you were capable of making decisions, I’d gladly step aside.”
Philip stopped, his face inches from Matthew’s, his brown eyes dark with fury. “I am the heir to this estate, and you will respect me as such!”
“Respect you? You are a debauched fool. A worthless drunk. Not even the lowliest clerk in this office respects you.”
For a moment Philip looked as if he would explode. Then the fight visibly drained from him. He turned away, ran his fingers through his unwashed hair, and reached for a decanter of brandy.
“A debauched fool? A worthless drunk?” Philip faced Matthew again, forcing a smile. “Well, that’s a bit harsh, even if it is true.” He emptied the glass with one swallow. “Do you know that Alec hated me? Never a kind word to spare. Do you hate me too, Matthew? I hope not.”
“Alec never hated you.”
Philip laughed. “I suppose he told you that? ‘Poor Philip! I do so care about him, though I—’”
“Do not ridicule your brother in front of me.” Matthew struggled to rein in his temper. “If you lived a thousand years you’d not become the man he was. The least you can do is pull yourself together and try to live up to the responsibility Alec passed on to you.”
Startled, Philip said nothing. Then his face tightened into a grimace.
“I am the heir to the Kenleigh estate,” Philip said at last, his voice unsteady. “It is my right to take my brother’s place in London society.”
“Inheriting his titles, his possessions, is one thing. Taking his place is quite another. If you want respect, you must earn it.”
“Will you . . . help me, Matthew?”
Nothing Philip could have said would have surprised Matthew more. The beseeching look in his eyes was something Matthew had never seen before.
He stepped forward to where Philip stood about to pour himself another drink and placed his hand over the top of the glass. “Don’t. For Alec’s sake. For your own sake.”
A muscle worked in Philip’s jaw, and for a moment anger flared in his eyes. Then he put down the decanter and turned away. “Leave me! I wish to be alone.”
Taking the decanter with him, Matthew strode from the room and closed the door. Back in his own office he sat down wearily at his desk. It was only noon. The spring sun rode high in the clear sky, and pigeons were busy tending their brood of chicks outside his window. He’d have to bring the children in so they could see the baby birds. Little Anne would be delighted.
He watched the pigeons feed their young and rubbed his right thigh. Since a ball had shattered his leg at the Battle of Malplaquet some twenty years ago, pain had been his constant companion. He’d grown so accustomed to the discomfort that it rarely registered in his conscious mind. If it hadn’t been for Elizabeth, who loved him despite his physical disfigurement, he might have found it impossible to accept. As it was, so many good things had happened in his life that the loss of his limb seemed trivial.
Poor Elizabeth. He’d never seen her so distraught. He would never forget her tears and sobs of grief when she’d heard that Alec had been murdered. Thank God she’d been spared seeing his body. Whoever had killed him had gone out of his way to be cruel. Even in his years on the battlefield, Matthew had seen nothing like it. Alec had been stabbed in so many places the wounds were impossible to count. His face had been hideously mutilated. His eyes had been cut out. Had it not been for the clothes he wore, his dark hair, and the signet ring the murderer had dropped in his haste to flee the scene, Matthew never would have recognized him. Even Philip had been shocked by the brutality. His face had gone pale, and he’d dropped to his knees, sick and shaking.
The investigation was proceeding slowly, with little evidence and no suspects. Matthew himself had questioned Alec’s mistress, Isabelle St. Denis, but she’d had little of worth to say. Alec had been tense that night, she’d said. He’d been in a hurry to leave, refusing to bed her a second time. Isabelle had apparently taken this as a personal slight, but Matthew doubted she would have killed Alec. Adultery, not murder, was her habit. Matthew had discovered this when Isabelle had reached out and cupped his testicles the moment he’d finished questioning her.
Meanwhile, the constable had taken an old beggar into custody after he’d been found in the streets ranting madly about a corpse with no e
yes. They’d hoped once he was sober and calm he might prove to be a witness, but the poor fool had died of gaol fever within a week.
Matthew rubbed the ache at the base of his skull. It was odd so little of Alec’s blood had been found at the scene. Though it had been raining, nothing could have washed away that much blood. The driver had been killed too, his throat slit from ear to ear. There’d been blood aplenty around him. None of it made sense.
Matthew had hoped that Alec’s death would bring about a change in Philip. At first it seemed he’d been shocked into mending his ways. But after Alec’s funeral, Philip had hit the bottle again, staying out all night, paying little heed to the estate that now belonged to him. He’d ignored Elizabeth’s entreaties to cease his foolishness.
Instead he now spent money at an even more immoderate rate, throwing it away on gaming and extravagant nights of drinking and whoring. He’d even brought one of his prostitutes to the office, tupping her on what had once been Alec’s desk, his indecent moans so loud that Matthew had heard from across the hallway.
It had seemed like a desecration.
Perhaps there was still hope. Philip had never asked for help before. Matthew would do his best to encourage Philip on this new path, praise him for his slightest accomplishment, and indulge his desire for admiration. But would Philip stay the course?
Matthew closed his eyes and prayed.
* * *
Cassie gently buried the roots of the last parsley seedling in the dark soil and stood, brushing the dirt from her fingers. Shielding her eyes from the morning sun, she looked across the rows that made up the kitchen garden and smiled with satisfaction at what she’d accomplished.
“Oh, hush,” she answered the magpie sitting on the fence, piercing the day with its discordant squawk.
The bird, its black, blue, and white feathers gleaming in the sunlight, looked at her with one shiny black eye and screeched again in defiance.
“You’re rude.”
Evidently insulted, the bird squawked once more, then flew away. Why had God given such a beautiful bird such a very unpleasant song?
The strawberry plants were already in blossom, their tiny white flowers drawing scores of bees. The onions she had planted around the edge of the garden to discourage insects were nearly a foot tall.
Cucumber vines with small yellow blooms vied with larger squash plants for space on the ground, while bean and pea seedlings crept skyward, slender tendrils grasping for purchase on tall wooden stakes. If she could keep the deer and insects from eating the fragile plants—and the children from trampling them underfoot—she’d be finished planting the kitchen garden by the end of the week. Of course, that meant fixing the rickety worm fence that an angry sow had knocked over in January. Most of the bondsmen and slaves were working under Micah’s direction, preparing the hills for the tobacco seedlings that would be ready for transplanting from their seedbeds with the next rain. The men couldn’t be spared for other work. Zach, the only sawyer, had more than enough to do. She would have asked Luke to rebuild the fence days ago, but he was guarding that troublesome Mr. Braden.
The scoundrel was recovering rapidly. Nan said he was eating well and would soon be up and about. Cassie was glad the cook had volunteered to attend to him. After her terrifying encounter yesterday, she wanted nothing to do with him. He was altogether too . . . alarming. She had decided it best not to tell anyone—not even Nan, who’d been with the family for as long as she could remember and whom she trusted completely—what he had done when he’d awoken. Everyone was worried enough as it was, and though she’d been nearly frightened out of her wits, no real harm had been done.
Since she’d registered the convict in Fredericksburg, as the law required, objections had been pouring in from neighbors who, understandably, didn’t want a dangerous felon living in their midst.
The Carters and the Lees, who rarely agreed about anything, had both voiced their disapproval. Even their nearest neighbors, the Crichtons, who owned several convicts, had sent a letter to her father complaining that Blakewell’s Neck was not secure enough to contain a man who preyed upon women, especially with her father away. It wasn’t only Mr. Braden the Crichtons objected to, she knew, but also her father’s liberal attitudes and his “blackamoor” overseer, as Master Crichton shamefully called Micah.
She adjusted her apron and breathed in the fragrance of herbs in blossom: lemon balm, rosemary, lavender, pennyroyal, and more. Her mother had taught her to identify them all by scent alone when she was just a little girl. Standing here in the morning sunshine surrounded by the excited buzz of bees, she could almost hear her mother’s voice.
Marjoram for a maiden’s blush, hyssop for cleanliness. Speedwell for fidelity, cocklebur for thankfulness...
Her reverie was interrupted by the squeals of a half dozen children, who bounded around the cookhouse and headed straight for the garden. As usual, Jamie was in the lead.
“You can’t catch me, you bloody pirates!” he yelled, turning on his pursuers and bravely wielding an imaginary sword.
His foul language made Cassie cringe. Still, she couldn’t fault him for it, not when he’d learned it from her.
“Oh, no, you don’t, captain!” She caught the towheaded four-year-old from behind in time to prevent his treading on the feathery green tops of newly sprouted carrots.
The ragtag band of bloodthirsty pirates who’d been pursuing her little brother came to a halt and looked up at her sheepishly, their faces—brown and white—sticky from Nan’s blackberry preserves.
“Even pirates know how to take orders.” She looked sternly at Jamie. “I’ve told you more times than I can count not to play near the ovens or the garden.”
Jamie shifted under his sister’s gaze but said nothing.
“Now off with the lot of you before I have to lock you all in chains belowdecks.”
The gaggle of children erupted into cries of imaginary terror and dashed off toward the apple orchard.
Perhaps Zach should fix that fence today. If there was one thing living with small children had taught her, it was that pirates quickly forgot. She shook the loose mud from the hem of her skirt and started toward the sawmill.
The humid morning breeze shifted, carrying with it the rich scent of baking bread. Her mouth watered. Nan made the best wheaten bread in the county. Of course, it was the only wheaten bread in the county. Everyone else was too busy growing tobacco to spare the labor necessary for growing wheat—or anything else, for that matter. Laws had been passed long ago mandating that farmers grow a certain amount of corn each season. Without those laws, the population would likely starve to death come winter. Even Micah had thought her crazy when she had suggested putting in wheat.
“Too much work,” he’d said.
Then he’d tasted Nan’s bread.
On the grassy lawn beside the great house, Nettie was hanging out freshly laundered sheets, the white linen a marked contrast to the brown of her skin and the red of her skirts. She gave Cassie a guarded smile. Cassie smiled back. She and Nettie had been best friends as children, but that had changed when they’d gotten older, put away their cornhusk dolls, and assumed the roles of slave and mistress. Girlish giggles had been replaced by reserved smiles, shared confidences by delegated duties. An impenetrable wall had arisen between them. It was the way of the world, Cassie’s father had told her.
Perhaps it was. But that didn’t mean Cassie had to like it.
Behind the whitewashed cookhouse, Rebecca, her swollen abdomen outlined by the white of her apron, struggled with the butter churn.
“A good mornin’ to you, Miss Cassie,” she called, out of breath but smiling, her round cheeks rosy from exertion. Since she’d taken over the dairying, they’d had more butter, milk, and cheese than ever before. She stopped to brush a long strand of dark hair out of her face.
“Let me help.” Cassie took the paddle. The fence could wait awhile longer. “How are you and the babe faring this morning?”
&nb
sp; “Fine, bless you, mistress. The child grows stronger and more restless each day. Nate says it’s a boy, but I think we’ve got a daughter, and a wild one at that.”
The happy glow on Rebecca’s face gave Cassie a momentary twinge of regret. How wonderful it would be to have children of her own. But with her father so ill and a little brother who was all but an orphan, she could not leave to start her own family, even if by some miracle she managed to find a man she cared for enough to marry. Her father had asked her to protect his honor and Jamie’s inheritance, and she would.
“Have you asked Takotah?” Cassie inquired, trying to shift her thoughts. There was no use in longing for what could not be. “She has the gift. She can tell the sex of a babe long before it’s born.”
Rebecca’s sunny face suddenly grew grave, her hands dropping protectively to her belly. “Nate says I’m not to go near her. He says she’s a witch.”
“Oh, rubbish! Takotah might look frightening, but I have yet to see her be anything but gentle. Nate is filling your head with superstitious nonsense.”
“Aye, mistress.” Rebecca didn’t look convinced.
Cassie knew better than to press the issue. Many of the servants, even some of the slaves, were afraid of Takotah, who had stumbled weak and wounded out of the forest one day long ago. Cassie’s parents had nursed her back to health, ignoring those who advised them to kill her or risk finding a knife in their backs one night.
When she had recovered, Takotah, whose full name was too difficult to pronounce, had asked to stay with them to repay what she saw as a life debt. Her people, the Tuscarora, had been all but annihilated by settlers. Everyone she knew, including her husband and children, had been killed, leaving her no one to return to.
Cassie, only three at the time, had always thought of her as magical. The black tattoos on her dark face seemed a part of that magic.
“Miss Cassie! Miss Cassie!” The shrill voice rose above the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer and the rhythmic rasp of Zach’s saw.
Cassie grimaced. She didn’t have to look to see who it was. She had purchased Elly’s indenture almost nine months ago and still hadn’t found a chore the young woman, whose head seemed to be forever in the clouds, was willing to perform without complaint. Rebellious and contrary, Elly fought Cassie at every turn. Of late, Elly had been assigned to help with the cooking, much to Nan’s dismay.