by Pamela Clare
“Takotah,” Zach answered.
“A ta-ko-ta? What is its purpose?”
For some reason Zach found the question amusing, and his face split into a wide grin. “Takotah is a woman—the old Indian healer.”
Alec felt goose bumps creep along his spine. A memory of gray hair, black eyes, and a dark face scarred with black designs flitted through his mind.
“She’s saved my life, aye, and she saved yers. But she’s got a face that could scare the feathers off a chicken, so she does.” Zach laughed. “Ye and me, my friend, we’re lucky. Master Blakewell and Miss Cassie, they’re as fair and hardworkin’ as any ye’ll find in the colony.”
Alec, remembering Luke’s scars, rather doubted that.
“The trouble with planters is that too many of them forget they were bondsmen once themselves. Take Fancy-Pants Crichton,” Zach continued. “His granddaddy was a redemptioner, but that boy is so full of himself...”
He shook his head in disgust, seemed to catch himself, and laughed. “Ye’ll see for yerself soon enough, I’m sure. Now let me show you the gristmill. Built it stone by stone, we did, just last summer. Even King Carter doesn’t have one of these.”
Alec had no idea who King Carter or “Fancy-Pants” were, but he knew he’d never seen anything like Blakewell’s Neck before. It was like a small village. Nearly self-sufficient, the estate, enormous by English standards, supplied most of the needs of those who lived and worked on it. But, if he understood Zach correctly, Blakewell’s Neck, although large at nearly sixty thousand acres, was far from being the largest. That honor went to King Carter, who, if Zach was telling the truth, owned more than 250,000 acres. For one moment Alec felt he could understand what attracted men to this wild land. Estates of this size were unheard of in England, and the possibilities were staggering.
But if the land was vast, the buildings were shockingly primitive. Of all that he had seen, only four were of stone—the mill, the smokehouse, the whitewashed cookhouse, and Blakewell’s house. Everything else was made of the same clapboard as his cabin. The great house itself, which stood separated from the cookhouse by a cobblestone courtyard, was surprisingly small for a holding so vast.
Two stories high with a porch, an upstairs balcony, and glass windows, it was elegant, but exceedingly simple. Vines clung to its sides, and rosebushes, dotted with red, pink, white, and yellow blooms, entwined themselves along the porch railing. It looked like a quaint English country inn, not a manor house. By the time Zach excused himself—the mistress had asked him to fix a fence, he explained—Alec was more than ready to return to the cabin he’d cursed so vehemently only an hour ago. His head ached, and his legs felt as weak as straw.
As he rounded the stables on his way back toward the cabins, with Luke trailing silently after him, he heard a woman’s melodic laughter and saw Miss Blakewell leading a bay mare out of its stall and into the courtyard. He felt his body tense.
Although she was fully clothed in fashionable, if rather out-of-date, riding attire, the red-gold curls that spilled freely down her back to her hips reminded him of Lady Godiva. When they’d spoken this morning, he’d called her a girl. But everything about her, from her full, pink lips to the gentle swell of her breasts, to her delightfully rounded bottom, bespoke her womanhood.
Just then she saw him, and the laughter died on her lips. Her eyes momentarily widened. Was she afraid of him? He couldn’t blame her.
“Mr. Braden,” she said icily. Her greeting to Luke was noticeably warmer.
Alec was so intent on Miss Blakewell, he didn’t notice the horse. As she passed, he realized the mare she had saddled was one of the finest he’d ever seen. With the sleek lines of an Arabian, such an animal would make a welcome addition to the finest stable in England. He reached out with one hand and stroked the mare’s flank. Whatever else he might be, Blakewell was an excellent judge of horseflesh.
“She’s a beauty.” He didn’t realize he had spoken until he heard his own voice.
Miss Blakewell stopped and glared back at him, her cheeks pink. “You’ll not speak about me in such an improper manner.”
“I was referring to the mare, Miss Blakewell. She’s lovely.” He stepped closer and scratched the mare’s withers.
The animal nickered in appreciation and looked at him with a soft, dark eye.
Miss Blakewell’s blush deepened to scarlet. “I suppose, being a gentleman, you know a great deal about horses?” Her tone of voice implied that, since he was really just a felon, he knew nothing.
“Aye. Horse breeding is one of my passions. I’ve got four mares descended from the Darley Arabian, and a stallion whose great grandsire was the Godolphin Barb, though I never got to ride them as much as I would have liked.”
There’d always been too much work to be done.
“And my mother was descended from Queen Elizabeth.”
Alec ignored her sarcasm and bent to examine the mare more closely, ignoring a wave of dizziness. “She’s got clean limbs and good bones.”
A horse inside the stables whinnied, and the mare lifted her tail.
“She’s in season. Have you bred her?”
“I refuse to discuss such matters with you, Mr. Braden.” She turned and led the mare away.
Yes, indeed, the mare’s owner was a beauty as well.
Alec watched Miss Blakewell mount and ride toward the forest. Her decision to sit astride the horse on a man’s saddle would have caused a small uproar at home. What a creature she was.
Another wave of dizziness threatened to engulf him. He continued on his way, eager to reach his bed before his legs gave out entirely.
He’d been thinking about Miss Blakewell all morning. Since the moment she’d laid her hand against his chest yesterday, he’d been unable to rid his mind of her. She possessed none of the qualities that usually attracted him to women. Where Isabelle and the others before her had been petite, buxom, and blatantly erotic, Miss Blakewell was tall, coming nearly to his nose, rather thin, and seemingly innocent. While Isabelle’s beauty had been suited for the drawing room and bedchamber, Miss Blakewell’s was meant for fresh air and sunshine.
Despite her flaws, Miss Blakewell was perhaps the most captivating female he’d ever seen, with wide eyes, translucent skin, and lips full enough to tempt the archbishop of Canterbury. When she’d come to his cabin this morning, clad in that muddy blue dress, dirt smeared on her cheeks, and her hair spilling in curls around her face, she’d looked like a milkmaid who had been caught behind the barn with the stable boy. But, lord, what a milkmaid. Though she spoke like a well-bred Englishwoman, her unruly red-gold hair, together with her startlingly green eyes and quick tongue, made her seem as wild as the land on which she’d been raised. The man who would first teach her the ways of passion would no doubt find her a delightful pupil.
What in the world was he thinking? He entered the cool darkness of his cabin, cursing himself. He should be thinking of his family and the firm, not daydreaming about some colonist wench, the daughter of a slave owner, the daughter of the man who owned him.
His life had been stolen from him, and Miss Blakewell stood between him and his freedom.
Alec sank onto his bed, damning his weakness, and stared at the clapboard ceiling. He, Alec Kenleigh, a man who had built ships for kings, was now another man’s property. Though the state was temporary, the very notion galled him.
He’d always opposed slavery, but he’d never given indentured servitude much thought. He’d always viewed it as the natural station for those who broke laws, fell desperately into debt, or lacked coin but sought a better life. And it was, wasn’t it?
Yet it was now Alec’s lot, as well. Subservience might suit others, but it did not suit him. He must get home soon, before Philip ran the firm into the ground. Before his family gave him up for dead.
He began to review what he’d learned of the land today, but exhaustion soon overtook him. He drifted into a sleep troubled by the scent of lavender and a pair of e
merald eyes.
Chapter Four
Cassie sat in her father’s study, adding the column of figures for the third time. Frustrated, she dropped the quill on the desk and massaged the painful knot in her neck.
Some days it seemed hopeless. Even if this year’s tobacco harvest were as plentiful as the last, she wouldn’t be able to pay off her father’s creditors. It would take five such harvests at last year’s prices to get the plantation out of debt. The chances of that happening were slim.
Even if the new tobacco-inspection law stabilized prices, there were any number of natural disasters that could destroy an entire harvest. Hornworms could ruin the leaves. Too much rain at the wrong time could drown the plants or make the harvested leaves rot before they finished curing. Too little, and summer heat could kill the seedlings or make cured leaves crumble into useless dust. And right now what they needed was rain. The seedlings could not be transplanted to the fields without it.
The biggest threat to Blakewell’s Neck came not from nature, but from other planters. If anyone found out about her father’s condition, everything he had fought for would be lost. She had considered the possible consequences at least a thousand times, always arriving at the same conclusion. While the creditors seemed more than happy with the large sum she had sent them in her father’s name last October, they would be far less generous if they were to discover that the head of the household, who had no grown son, was no longer able to manage his own affairs. A guardian would be appointed to manage Blakewell’s Neck in her father’s stead, and the guardian would start selling land to pay the debts.
The first to go would be the north quarter, which, because it was ideal for growing sweet-scented tobacco and not the more common Orinoco variety, was the envy of all planters in the county. More than one had tried to take it from her father by less than honest means. Next, the old and weak among the slaves would be sold to make room for younger, stronger bodies. Families would be divided. Old Charlie would find himself at a slave auction, mocked by planters who found his age amusing. Cassie felt her temper rise at the thought.
But, she was ashamed to admit, what worried her the most was knowing a guardian would immediately arrange her marriage. Her father had promised to let her wed the man of her choice. A guardian would not be so kind. That she was still a maid at two-and-twenty was unusual. Most young women were mothers at her age, some several times over. But she had turned down more than one offer of marriage, waiting, foolishly some said, for love.
If a guardian were given control of her life, she wouldn’t even be consulted. In the blink of an eye she would find herself the chattel of some planter, bound by oath and law to do as he bade, to surrender her belongings, her body, her soul to please a man she did not love, might never love. While her father had tolerated and encouraged her desire for independence, even hiring tutors to teach her arithmetic, reading, and writing, a husband might not be as understanding. Laws permitted a husband to beat his wife should she disobey. She had seen enough bruised women to know that there were more than a few men who availed themselves of this barbaric husbandly prerogative.
Oh, Father, please, come back to us.
She closed her father’s ledger and tucked the bright red book next to the others on the shelf. Worrying would accomplish nothing. She rose and walked across the study to the open window, hoping to see a storm brewing on the horizon. A defiantly bright and cloudless sky stretched as far as she could see. Though more sunshine was not what they needed, it was a beautiful day. Cassie closed her eyes and let the warm breeze wash over her. The sweet scent of her mother’s roses—roses her father had brought from England as a gift for his new bride—filled her with determination.
Either the harvest would be plentiful, or it would not. She’d done everything she could think of to make Blakewell’s Neck less dependent on tobacco, planting wheat, barley, even hemp. It made no sense to fret over something she could not control. And as for the rest? She could only do her best, and God willing…
Below in the courtyard, chickens pecked at the cobblestones. Rebecca sat on the cookhouse steps squeezing the whey from newly formed curds. A gaggle of children sat on the porch steps enthralled by another of old Charlie’s tales, this one about Pocahontas and Capt. John Smith. Odd that Jamie was not among them. No doubt he was in the cookhouse pestering Nan for treats.
“Are the Indians going to chop off Cap’n Smith’s head, Charlie?” asked wide-eyed Daniel, Nettie’s son and Jamie’s closest playmate.
The two had been born but days apart and had been inseparable since they’d learned to walk. Nettie had never told anyone who Daniel’s father was, refusing to speak of him even to Cassie. But the boy’s light skin and the light brown of his soft curls were evidence his father was a white man.
“Maybe,” the old man answered, drawing out the suspense.
“Nah, silly. They’re gonna eat ’im,” replied ten-year-old Peter.
“Or burn ’im,” added Beth, already at age five as incorrigible as any lad.
“They have to burn ’im first to eat ’im. Right, Charlie?”
Heads turned expectantly to old Charlie, who whittled in silence.
Cassie stifled a giggle. He would not finish the story until the children were still once more. So it had been when she was a child. Her eyes were drawn away from the children toward the sound of masculine laughter. Her breath caught in her throat.
The convict, on his way to the well with Zach and Luke, had shed his shirt and was clad only in sweat and breeches. After a week of working in the hot sun, the gentlemanly white of his skin had begun to darken to bronze, and the red scars on his chest and back were fast fading. As she watched him stride with cougar-like grace across the courtyard, she realized she’d never seen a more beautiful man.
It was a disturbing revelation. She had, after all, met many handsome men. Men from honorable families. Decent men with the manners, pale skin, and soft hands of gentlemen. Yet she’d felt nothing remotely akin to this primitive leaping of the heart that seemed to afflict her every time she set eyes on Cole.
The first time she had seen him clothed and on his feet, his face newly shaven, she’d found it difficult to breathe. The heavy growth of beard had concealed a shockingly handsome face with full lips, high cheekbones, and a firm chin. She flushed with renewed embarrassment as she remembered the humiliation she’d suffered that afternoon. How was she to have known he was talking about her horse? Then a thought struck her. Perhaps she was not really attracted to him at all. Maybe she was simply afraid of him. The man was in all likelihood a convicted felon whose crimes would have brought him a brutal death at the gallows had he not been transported. Any young woman in her right mind would fear such a man. Even Sheriff Hollingsworth, who’d said in his reply that he would come to question the convict as soon as he was able, had warned her to be ever vigilant.
Aye, that must be it. She was afraid of him.
But try as she might to fool herself, Cassie knew the truth. What she felt was nothing less than attraction. She watched as Cole drew a bucket of cool water from the well, the muscles in his arms and chest shifting with each pull of the rope. Water spilled from the tin cup as he drank, trickling down his neck and over his chest. He handed the cup to Zach and wiped the water from his lips with the back of his hand.
Cassie shivered.
More than once she’d allowed herself to daydream about those lips. She’d imagined that Cole was telling the truth, that he really was a wealthy shipbuilder, a gentleman who’d been beaten and sent abroad against his will. In her daydreams, she’d helped him regain his name, and he’d kissed her. Overcome with love, he’d renounced his life in England and stayed to court her with flowers, sweet words, and picnics in the forest, where one day he’d asked for her hand. With her new husband as Jamie’s guardian, they’d been able to protect her family’s interests from the comfort of their own estate nearby.
It was a ridiculous, romantic fantasy. She ought to be ashamed for perm
itting herself such silly, useless thoughts, especially when they revolved around a man like Cole Braden. Were other women afflicted by such musings? She hadn’t the courage to ask. For any woman to think in such a manner about a convict was disgraceful. But in her daydreams he’d been a true gentleman, irresistible, not the half-naked, lash-scarred rake who stood looking up at her with cold blue eyes just now.
Cassie leaped back from the window so quickly she struck the back of her head against the sash. She’d been staring at him shamelessly, and he’d seen! Worse than the pain of the blow was the mocking smile that played across Cole’s arrogant features. He was laughing at her!
“Ooh!” She paced the study furiously, rubbing the lump that had begun to form on the back of her head. That bloody, rotten cad! How she’d like to wipe that grin off his face!
Nettie poked her head into the room. “What is it, Missy?”
“Nothing, thank you, Nettie,” she answered, trying not to take her bad temper out on Nettie.
Micah had been right, Cassie thought as she sank into her father’s favorite armchair with a frustrated moan. Cole Braden was far more trouble than he was worth. And she’d actually allowed herself to daydream about... about that…with him! Geoffrey had already offered to buy the man’s indenture from her. Although she had immediately dismissed the notion, knowing the harsh treatment that would await Mr. Braden at Geoffrey’s estate, the idea suddenly seemed to have its merits.
But no. That would never do. The Crichtons had earned the reputation of being the cruelest masters in the county. She’d seen the senior Master Crichton strike a slave child once for simply bumping into him. Regardless of what Cassie thought of him, Cole had done nothing to deserve such abuse.
Well, almost nothing.
* * *
Alec rose from the bench near the cookhouse where he’d eaten his midday meal of cornbread with butter and cool apple cider. He stretched. Although his ribs still ached on occasion, his body had healed beyond his expectations. His muscles, weakened from illness and unaccustomed to physical labor, had at first protested these long days in the sun. But now he was no longer sore. In fact, he’d grown stronger.