Tonight he smelled of rum punch and rain. His shoulder beneath her hand was wide and strong. Her eyes were on a level with his neck. It was very brown against the whiteness of his cravat. A faint black stubble shadowed the strong lines of his chin and jaw. His mouth was beautifully shaped, his lips a brownish shade of rose and firm-looking. His nose was straight, his cheekbones rounded and high.
Preoccupied with her inventory of his features, Jessie let her gaze drift higher. With a shock she saw that he was watching her, his sky-blue eyes twinkling with amusement. Jessie blinked, embarrassed to be caught looking at him, and hastily dropped her eyes. Her loss of concentration caused her to stumble over his 92
feet again. His arm tightened around her waist, holding her upright.
And it was then that Jessie made an appalling discovery. Celia had said that Stuart Edwards sent shivers down her spine. Suddenly, vividly, Jessie knew just what Celia meant. She dared not raise her eyes above his chin, terrified that her new awareness of him must be written on her countenance for him to read. Stiffening in his arms, she held herself as far away from him as she could, only to have him pull her closer impatiently. There was still the prescribed amount of space between them, but Jessie was acutely conscious of the strength in the arms that held her, of the hard muscles that lay beneath the immaculate linen shirt, of the sheer overwhelming masculinity of the man.
Forever afterwards, when Jessie remembered that dance, she remembered it as the time when she truly began to grow up.
"Smile, Jessie, or you'll have everyone thinking you don't like me," he chided in her ear, and twirled her about in the first of another series of dizzying turns.
"What else could she do? Jessie smiled.
XII
Veni, vidi, vici: I came, I saw, I conquered. Julius Caesar had said the words once, and Clive McClintock repeated them with silent satisfaction as he stood solemnly before the flowerbedecked altar of the small church, watching his soon-to-be bride walk down the aisle behind her stepdaughter. The wedding march swelled, the spectators leaned forward the better to see 93
Celia in her bridal garb, and Clive smiled. Everything he had always wanted was headed his way.
As prizes went, Celia Lindsay and her plantation did not quite equal the riches of ancient Rome, but she'd do. Oh, yes, she would do very nicely. She was lovely, well bred, malleable, a lady. And rich. Very rich. Land rich. Without Mimosa as an incentive, Clive would never have offered marriage. Bed, maybe, but not marriage. He supposed, in a way, that the stepdaughter had been right when she had called him a fortune hunter. But he meant to see that Celia did not lose anything in the deal. Or the stepdaughter, either, if it came to that. He meant to do his damnedest to make Celia a good husband, and if ever a chit had needed the proverbial iron hand in the velvet glove, it was Jessica Lindsay. They'd both benefit from having him take control of their plantation and their lives.
The way things had worked out was nothing more or less than poetic justice. He'd vowed, that never-to-be-forgotten morning on the deck of the Mississippi Belle, that someone would pay for stealing his money. And that someone had turned out to be Stuart Edwards, who had unwittingly repaid what he had stolen by giving Clive something he no longer had any use for—his identity. And the unused portion of his life.
Assuming Edwards' identity was not something that Clive had originally set out to do, of course. Hoping to find anything that would lead him to Hulton and his money, he had shrugged off all offers of treatment for his hand to conduct a furious search of Edwards' belongings. He'd found a little cash, a few mementos—
and a letter. The letter he'd pocketed for its address: Tulip Hill Plantation in Yazoo Valley, Mississippi. Perhaps Hulton was headed there.
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Then Luce, with a doctor in tow, had found him and insisted that he let the man look at his hand. For days after that, Clive had done nothing but curse the heavens, drink, and search for Hulton and his money, both of which seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth.
When Clive finally got around to reading the letter and learned that it was from Edwards' two elderly (and slightly dotty, from the sound of them) aunts, he'd nearly crumpled the thing up and tossed it away as useless. But for some reason he'd kept it. Only later, after the best doctors in New Orleans had assured him that they'd done all they could, but that it was doubtful he'd ever recover full mobility in the fingers of his right hand, did he remember Edwards' aunts.
The knife thrust had severed nerves, muscles, tendons. He would suffer some degree of paralysis in that hand for the rest of his life.
A gambler's hands were his livelihood. Since boyhood Clive had been able to do anything with cards; sleight of hand was something at which he'd excelled. The quick dexterity of his fingers had enabled the onetime "dirty bowery boy" to provide himself with the trappings of a comfortable, sometimes even luxurious, existence. A few more years, and he would have been set for life.
But no longer. His means of earning a living had been stolen from him along with his money. Losing the mobility in his right hand was far worse than being robbed.
It was only after weeks spent alternating between drunken selfpity and even more drunken rages that the idea had come to him. He had searched frantically for the letter and read it again, carefully this time.
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Edwards' aunts owned a cotton plantation, which undoubtedly meant that they were rich. And they were prepared to leave the whole kit and caboodle to their nephew if he would only come and visit them. They were old and lonely, and he was their last surviving male relative. They loved him already, although they hadn't seen him since he was a babe in arms.
There was more on that subject, three pages worth with the lines crossed and recrossed so many times that it made making sense of the letter difficult. But Clive managed to grasp what to him were the essential facts: two not-quite-sane old ladies, with no other relatives in the world, were prepared to leave their (vast) worldly goods to their nephew if he would only visit them. Unfortunately for them, their nephew was dead. But Clive was not. Stuart Edwards had robbed him of forty-five thousand dollars and his livelihood. Stuart Edwards owed him. Clive never let a debt go uncollected if he could help it. That there would be a few unanticipated problems in the execution of his scheme Clive never doubted, but he also never doubted that he could overcome them. In his many years of living by his wits, he'd learned, by and large, that people saw only what they expected to see, and believed most everything they were told. If he were to present himself to the two doddering old ladies at Tulip Hill Plantation as their prodigal nephew, who was there to say him nay?
Racking his brain for what he could remember of the dear departed, Clive recalled that Stuart Edwards had been tall, with black hair. Clive had no idea of the color of the fellow's eyes, but if the old ladies hadn't seen their thieving nephew since he was an infant, they probably wouldn't know that detail, either. 96
Besides, the chances that Edwards' eyes had been blue were fifty percent. Not bad odds, if it came to that.
And if there should by chance be any question about his identity, Clive had the letter, addressed to himself as Stuart Edwards in Charleston, South Carolina, as proof that he was whom he claimed to be. That and an agile brain, which had never in twenty-eight years failed him. Deceiving two old ladies should be ridiculously easy. Besides, he'd probably make them a better nephew than Stuart Edwards, thief and would-be murderer, ever had.
Clive had planned to visit with them for a while, establish himself in the neighborhood as Stuart Edwards, and then, when the old ladies passed on to their reward (from the sound of their letter, it couldn't be too long), come back and collect his inheritance with the entire community to vouch for who he was. The best plans were always simple ones.
Indeed, everything had gone even better than he had expected. Miss Flora and Miss Laurel had fallen on his neck from the moment their majordomo had announced who he was, and accepted him instantly as their nephew. Not a singl
e question had been raised as to his identity.
The only catch was that the two old ladies, for all their dottiness, seemed to be in the best of health. It was brought home forcibly to Clive (from the Misses Edwards' chatter about their long-lived antecedents) that it might be a considerable number of years before his scheme could come to ultimate fruition. Not that he wished the old ladies any harm, but . . . And then he had met Celia Lindsay, wealthy widow.
Until her exact marital and financial status had been made clear to him by Miss Flora, the cannier of his two aunts, Clive had 97
paid her scarcely any attention. Her looks were well enough, but certainly nothing to catch his eye amongst a bevy of dewy-fresh debutantes.
But a wealthy widow had much to recommend her. And a wealthy widow who was doing her utmost to lure him into her bed made it almost ridiculously easy.
Clive was nothing if not adaptable. Instead of waiting for the Misses Edwards to pass on to their reward, he would change his plans. He would turn his much-heralded charm on Mrs. Lindsay, sweep her off her feet, and wed her and her plantation without further ado. Thus would he acquire the land he had always dreamed of, and a way of life he had never even thought to aspire to.
He quite liked the idea of Clive McClintock—no, make that Stuart Edwards—Esquire, gentleman planter.
XIII
Dearly beloved . . . "
Jessie stood a little to the left and behind her stepmother, clutching Celia's bouquet of white roses and lilies of the valley with fingers that were not quite steady. The sweet scent of the flowers teased her nostrils as she listened to the words that would give Mimosa over into Stuart Edwards' keeping.
In truth, she didn't know what she felt. Less than a fortnight ago, she would have sworn that she would have shot the man rather than see him take title to all that should have been hers. But that was before they had become friends, at least after a fash98
ion. Before she had discovered a kindness in him that was completely foreign to Celia's nature.
The bitter truth was that Mimosa wasn't hers, but Celia's. And in the many sleepless nights she had passed since the disastrous engagement party, Jessie had come to believe that Stuart Edwards would be a far better steward for the property and the souls who came with it than Celia had ever been.
It was also possible that he would continue to be a friend to her. Jessie had discovered that she very badly wanted Stuart Edwards for her friend.
So here she was, acting as her despised stepmother's sole bridesmaid, tricked out in a voluminous silk gown in the same hideous shade of pink as the ruffles Sissie had sewn on her old muslin dress. The gown was new, but that was all Jessie could say for it. Celia had personally selected the style and the material, and Jessie could only suppose that she had chosen both with an eye to making her stepdaughter look as unattractive as possible. Flounces cascading down from her shoulders to her hem, with only a wide sash to announce that she even had a shape, certainly did nothing to flatter Jessie's figure. In fact, when she had looked at herself in the cheval glass in her bedroom before heading for the church that morning, she had decided that she resembled nothing so much as the beruffled pin cushion on Celia's dressing table. The shape and the color were the same.
She had also decided that violent pink was not a good color for a female with glints of red in her hair.
Celia, on the other hand, looked lovely. Her petite figure was shown to best advantage in a shoulder-baring satin gown in the shade of ice blue so pale as to look almost white in some lights. 99
Her blond hair was dressed in an elegant knot of curls that cascaded from beneath the brim of her wide picture hat. As a second-time bride, Celia was not permitted the romanticism of a white gown and veil, but there was a wisp of veiling beneath the ribbons and flowers on her hat, and her dress was lavish with lace. On the whole she looked very bridal.
And, though Jessie hated to admit it, very young and very pretty.
"Do you, Celia Elizabeth Bradshaw Lindsay, take this man…" They were saying their vows. Jessie watched, trying not to look as anxious as she felt, as Celia swore to love, honor, and obey her new husband.
Then it was Stuart's turn.
"Do you, Stuart Michael Edwards . . . "
His voice was very steady, low and perfectly clear, as he promised to love and cherish Celia for the rest of her life.
"The ring, please."
Seth Chandler had agreed to stand up with Stuart, and he fumbled in his pocket for a minute before finding the ring and handing it over.
Stuart slid the ring onto Celia's finger. His hand was large and long-fingered, brown and strong-looking, its masculine beauty marred only by a reddish puckered scar that sliced diagonally across both its back and its palm. Her hand was slender-fingered, delicate, and lily-white, tiny compared with his. Looking at those two joined hands, Jessie felt a spurt of what could only be described as longing.
But what she longed for she couldn't have said.
"I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride." 100
Stuart kissed Celia, his dark head bending over her fair one. She clung to his shoulders for an instant, her nails digging intimately into his dove-gray coat. Then he was straightening, and she was looking around, laughing and rosy as triumphant music filled the air. Again Jessie felt that stab of longing. Then she was handing Celia her bouquet, and Celia and Stuart were retreating down the aisle arm in arm, the epitome of the happy bride and groom.
Just how it started Jessie never knew. When she arrived on the church stoop on Seth Chandler's arm, the guests spilling out behind her, the scene was already in progress.
"She's mine! I tell you, she's mine! She gave herself to me—she promised me—!"
"Why, that's Mr. Brantley, our overseer," Jessie said, shocked, to no one in particular. Stuart and Celia, seemingly frozen in place, stood poised at the top of the steps leading down into the churchyard. Stuart heard her words; Jessie saw him stiffen, and as she realized the significance of what was happening she felt her stomach clench.
Celia's sins had just caught up with her in the person of Ted Brantley. She had been sneaking down to the overseer's cottage for years. Jessie had even seen her headed that way in the evenings after supper. The only thing that surprised Jessie about it was that she hadn't tumbled to the meaning of those solitary walks before this. But then she'd thought that Celia, who was at least as intelligent as a bird, had enough sense not to foul her own nest.
Apparently she'd been wrong.
The churchyard was filled with people from Mimosa and Tulip Hill. Only the most favored of the house servants had been 101
allowed to occupy the rear pews of the church. The rest of them had waited outside to cheer the bride and groom when they emerged. Most had come on foot, but there were a few wagons drawn up outside the gate.
"She's mine! She's been mine for years!"
Mr. Brantley was on horseback. Surrounded by a sea of mostly black faces of well-wishers on foot, he was as visible as a mountain on a flat plain. He was weaving in the saddle, clearly drunk, so drunk he could barely keep his seat on the horse, so drunk he was crazy with it.
But not too crazy not to recognize Celia on the steps of the church.
"Celia! Celia, my darlin'! What about me? You love me, not him! You said so!"
Celia stood without moving, white-faced and silent, clutching her new bridegroom's arm as she stared out over the crowd at her erstwhile lover.
"He's insane," she said disdainfully. Then, more quietly, "Get him out of here."
The slaves nearest Brantley shifted uneasily, looking up at him and trying with gestures and low-voiced pleas to shut him up. But none of them, even the ones most loyal to Mimosa, dared to lay a hand on the white overseer. None of them cared enough for Celia to take the risk.
Behind Jessie, the crowd continued to swell out of the church, milling about on the stoop and, for those who couldn't get out, in the vestibule, standing on tiptoe as they tried to peer over t
heir neighbor's shoulder to get a look at what was going on. Shocked murmurs rose on all sides.
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"Insane, am I? You bedded me, said you loved me! You can't deny it! What about those times you came to me, those things you said? You're mine, mine, mine!"
Everyone watched and listened with fascination. The crowd was alternately appalled and titillated depending upon the hearer's individual disposition, but no one seemed to know what to do to bring the dreadful scene to an end. Until Stuart, his face utterly expressionless, freed himself from Celia's hold and ran lightly down the steps toward the burly, ginger-haired drunk. The crowd parted like the Red Sea before Moses. Stuart gained Brantley's side, reached up, and grabbed the man by the coat.
"Hey, what the hell . . . !" Brantley sputtered as he was dragged from the saddle. Then, apparently recognizing his danger, he swung a haymaker at Stuart that would have taken his head off if it had connected.
But it didn't. Stuart answered with a punch to the man's face that snapped his head back and sent bright droplets of blood spurting from his nose to shower those nearby. That one punch left Brantley dangling limply in Stuart's hold.
"You there, haul this trash out of here," Stuart said to a nearby field hand, dropping the unconscious Brantley to the ground as if he were no more than the garbage Stuart called him.
"Yes, suh," the worker replied, wide-eyed as he looked from his new master to the fallen overseer. Then the wagon was brought and Brantley, still unconscious, was lifted into it. The buzz of conversation behind Jessie had risen to feverish heights. It quieted abruptly as Stuart swung around and came back toward the stoop and his bride.
Instinctively Jessie drew closer to Celia. She was less than fond of her stepmother, but they were family, nevertheless. Despite 103
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