The Winds of Fate

by Michel, Elizabeth

  “Release my horse at once.”

  “And deny a rare treat for this poor slave to feast his eyes on his wife’s beautiful visage? Eternal lovers. I went to bed with that thought on my mind, now having you caress me with those lovely eyes of yours again, has destroyed my common sense.”

  “As if you had any common sense. You will cease to mock me with your vulgarities.”

  “But a promise made is a bargain to be kept,” he reminded her. “Do you know how I ache to put my arms around you; to draw you near, to feel your softness?”

  His fingers stroked the hem of her dress where it molded around her calf. Her pulse raced. He made her feel like she was on fire. “Dr. Blackmon.” Claire jerked the bridle away.

  He held firm, her departure arrested. “It’s a fine day. I promise to behave if you throw me a morsel of conversation. In fact, let’s negotiate. I’ll consider your time in payment for services rendered in curing your Cookie.”

  Why was a slave moving freely about the island? To gain any profit her uncle would rent out the slave and extract a heavy fee for his services. Claire sighed. Devon would be everywhere.

  His face remained as innocent as a schoolboy. Did he not bring Cookie through her illness when all hope was lost? That reminder touched her heart. She remained grateful to him for what he had done. And then too, the isolation of the past days had grown wearisome, leaving her feeling neglected. Not giving him an inch, she said, “Like a blade returned to its scabbard. Very well, begin your prattle, but don’t stretch my charity.”

  He laughed at her insult and took off his hat, his black hair gleaming in the sunlight. “And since you are dying to know what I am about−” He held his hat to his chest in mock humility. “I’m calling on the Johnson sisters.”

  Her interest heightened when he mentioned the three spinsters. “With none of them married and reaching their majority, I imagine your visits are the bright light of their day.”

  One dark eyebrow arched. He grinned. “It’s out of favor I am with the vinegary virgins.”

  “I find that hard to contemplate. Your silver-tongue can cajole the hardiest of maidens.”

  Devon tossed his hat onto a bush. “Most hardened and ancient maidens. Each with not one pink tooth left in her mouth and a tongue like an asp if you earn their displeasure.”

  Claire laughed, his depiction accurate. “You are disrespectful.”

  Devon shrugged his shoulders, his appearance sublime. “Summoned often to care for their complaints as is my duty thrust upon me to answer that command.”

  “Your humility is an art.”

  “No humility at all. The spinsters feed and clothe me well.” He spread his arms. “These fine clothes are in appreciation for my services.”

  “For a slave, your status is much altered,” she said and could see the meals the spinsters fed him had filled him out quite well.

  “It’s not everyone who has the luxury of freedom.” His eyes flashed.

  “I’d hoped there would be some civility between us, but that is for naught.” She prodded her horse forward, but Blackmon again seized the reins.

  “I’m not done with you yet.”

  “Let go.” She raised her whip, but found herself yanked off her horse. She slid down against the total hard maleness of him. His hands came up, skimming the sides of her waist and breasts. She felt nothing but shock in those first moments, then fear. She pushed away from him. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “So why have you been avoiding me?” He laughed. “And why did you buy me?”

  “I am not avoiding you.” She wanted to slap that smug smile off his face. Her emotions swirled like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed. Suddenly, he seemed less formidable. “You did not seem like the others,” was all she would admit for now.

  “I am not,” he said.

  “Your conceit is noted.”

  “There is a striking difference. The others stand worthy rebels where I am innocent. History would find me content plying my trade as a country physician. My betters desired to rid the pestilence of the English empire. The rebels’ goal to drive out the tyrannical King James and his ill-bred following with cost to their own blood. My regret is that I did not.”

  “Your words are treasonous to the King.”

  “More-so since our brief meeting in the gaol. I stand here before you, royal generosity in human flesh. Hangings for his Majesty proved to be a heedless waste of human chattel. Why not fill the King’s coffers? Fifteen hundred prisoners distributed to the colonies for ten years. Dead or broken in their wake, makes no difference when there is profit to be made.”

  “You could be flogged for your treasonous talk.”

  “I think not.”

  Was he mocking her? She searched his countenance. “You are very sure of yourself.”

  “As I am of the governor’s feet. It is Lily I have to thank for that. Add the governor’s wife’s vapors, and by word of mouth, the rest of the island followed suit. My condition compared to my comrades, relatively easy. However it was you who bought me off the docks. I resented you buying me, but I’ve forgiven you.”

  Claire suppressed a smile from his lofty absolution. “Why do I suspect that your tone is not complimentary?”

  “Because I’ll carry your uncle’s marks to my grave.”

  “If you knew the truth−” she faltered. If only she could tell him how her uncle had beaten her when she had foiled his plans to marry her off to that hideous old man. She was no different than a slave.

  “I see the truth every day. Men in agonizing misery, toiling the sugar plantations sunrise to sunset, and if they dare to rest are scourged by the whips of the overseer and his men to speed them along. Ill-nourished, half-naked in rags, your uncle sees fit to brutalize them more despite their sickness and deprivations. God forbid they are misguided and run off. If they are fortunate they’ll die from their flogging, at least finding peace.”

  She began to walk, and he alongside her. The complexities of their thoughts and lives disregarded for the moment as they lapsed into companionable silence. The sun climbed its zenith and they withdrew onto the shade of a narrow rainforest path, walking shoulder to shoulder.

  Claire breathed in the heady scents of ferns, jasmine and−the scent of him, felt the heat from his body next to hers. Every breath wove into her brain and spiraled there. Despite the noise from parrots fluttering above, she could hear his heartbeats, feel his pulse pounding along her nerves. She glanced at him. There was something powerful about the aura of forbidden maleness of this man. It was almost as if the perfection of his face and form was at constant war with the scarred bitterness of his soul. A flash of pity softened her discomfort. The warm afternoon stroll lulled her. The moment felt so perfect...so perfectly right. It was possible to imagine...

  No. She did not delude herself any further. A relationship with him was impossible.

  “What if I paid for your freedom?” She would find the money somehow. “You could escape.” And she would escape…him. She glanced at him from beneath her lashes. Did he guess the vein of her thoughts?

  “I am not so honorable,” he laughed.

  A stream of fury boiled up inside of her. She spun around and stalked away. She’d taken but a few steps when a hard hand fell on her shoulder, stopping her dead. Those green eyes lay upon hers with the same power as that of his hand upon her shoulder.

  “That was not wifely of you.”

  “I am your wife in name only. You have taxed my generosity long enough. I am anxious to be rid of your company.” Claire pried his hand from her.

  “Are you a wicked enchantress, weaving her spell around me, dooming me to the depths of the underworld? When all I desire is to have your heart beat close to mine, knowing that all of what I want the most is so near yet held so far away.”

  He moved her straight back...until she was flush against a tree, the whole of his long, lean body pressed tight against her. Claire wanted to glance away, but couldn’t. The
man was like an elemental force, like the changing seas, a force so fierce that nothing in his vicinity could turn away or remain unchanged−least of all her.

  “Claire−”

  “It is Mrs. Hamilton to you. The formality, I find, keeps a necessary distance.”

  “Mrs. Blackmon.” He scowled. “Yet you keep your flesh and blood husband far.”

  “That was a brief madness, a means to an end.” Her eyes never left his.

  They hung in frozen silence, his eyes darker green, as if engaged in swordplay with every thrust and every feint, a matter of life or death. She must remain in control.

  “You are mistaken, sir. I regret to say I could never be your wife.”

  “Regret you say. Then what is this?” He held up her hand and pinched the gold ring. “We were bonded and wedded. A condemned man I was, and as fate would have it, here I stand.” Claire bristled. “You have my utmost sympathy. You risk too much in what you require. You are in my judgment foolhardy, unreliable and selfish. Do not confuse what you want from me to be given on whim or intimidation.”

  “You struggle with that hidden part that disallows you to be a woman, afraid to see the beauty you are, dismissing your intelligence, and lacking confidence then trying to shore it up with wit. Perhaps you shrink from being a woman because you are weak, imperfect and afraid to be accountable to your promise. Be courageous, Claire. Be bold.”

  He seized her wrist in a grasp of iron and pinned it behind her back.

  “Martyrdom does not suit you.” His voice came hard, fierce and biting. “I only tolerate such behavior for so long.”

  His mouth came down on hers. He wanted to hurt her, to make her pay. He was hurting with wanting her; fueled with anger toward a world where he struggled for survival and for desiring her. Then his senses fled him, but inside he knew he couldn’t…wouldn’t…do any more than kiss her.

  Except he hadn’t anticipated he would have a reaction to this kiss, particularly when Claire leaned into him, holding onto him for support, her soft full breasts flattening against his chest. He brought his own experience to bear, coaxing, gently persuading, enticing her lips to open, and when they did, he swooped in and claimed her sweetness. He reached down and pulled her tight against him. Her stiffness relaxed, and she melted into him. He thrust his tongue deeper, to wield her passion. Devon took full control. He breathed her, tasted her, and savored her. His mouth brutal on hers, twisting, bruising, rousing, his tongue thrusting through her like a brand, searing her, having her.

  A part of him wondered what had come over him. He only meant to subdue her.

  But another part of him, the hard part of him, understood his motives well. The kiss was more than just bending her to his will. He wanted total possession.

  He stood on the precipice of desire. Any longer and they’d both be lost.

  Claire felt nothing but shock in those first few seconds, then fear. She feared that her feet weren’t touching the ground; with her hair gripped back in a savage grasp so she couldn’t avoid the ravenous onslaught of his mouth, her body behaved wantonly, crushed to his. She gave up struggling, clinging to his arms.

  She didn’t like what he was doing to her. His kiss felt like a punishment, ravishing and confusing her. The arm holding her up was going to crack her ribs. Her own struggle did not loosen the smallest bit. Breathing was impossible and she felt she would expire from suffocation.

  Her hands groped to his chest, firm healthy male flesh tingled beneath her fingertips. Her mind desired to touch him everywhere, to explore every part of him. She brushed her fingers over muscle, heat, moisture then slid her arms around his neck, sighing.

  With every touch, he made her realize how very female she was. A wild sensuality stirred to life inside of her and she recognized it for the dangerous sensation it was. A wealth of hidden feelings leaped from her, blossoming, exploding.

  His lips left hers. She seemed to slide until her feet touched the ground, her arms clasped to his neck to steady her.

  He drew away. The gap between them gave way to chill. Claire managed to gulp in sweet air, her bosom still heaving. He rested his head against hers.

  “Is it so bad to be a woman?” he asked, leaning back to study her.

  Golden eyes were puzzled as he stared at her for a moment−then they filled with fury. “I hate you.”

  “So you’ve said. But tread wary, my wife, someday I will collect on your promise.”

  “And what of me,” she spat. “Revenge is your master. Lust your resolve. To be married to a dirty slave−so selfish of you to lay me in everyone’s scorn. Is that my punishment because you decided to betray the King? You have no home to provide, no commitment, no freedom−” She laughed sardonically. “You don’t even have a country.”

  She twisted free and ran, then stumbled through the trees until she reached the road. Sobbing uncontrollably, she mounted her horse. But he was there beside her.

  “One night of conjugal rights, no more, no less.” He slapped the back of her mare, and it sprang forward with a jolt, his taunt echoing in her ears.

  “Hear ye! Hear ye! His magistrate, Lord High Governor of the Caribbean holds court this 15th day of February in the year of our Lord, 1686.” The crack of the gavel boomed throughout the courtroom. The governor remained seated through the clerk’s recitation. Devon worked on the governor’s rheumatic feet, taking in the day’s proceedings.

  He hated the poverty of spirit and sordidness of slavery. Seized with an overwhelming sense of loneliness, he allowed his mind to drift to an image of her. Since their meeting in the rainforest, he’d done everything to erase her from his memory. A test. Some demon determined to test his mettle. He was going to fail.

  He had wedded a woman and kissed her. An unfamiliar ache haunted him and a taste of her clung to his mouth. He ground his teeth. She was right in everything she said. Who was he to demand her attentions? A slave. No home. No country.

  But he wanted her. Like nothing he could have imagined, like nothing that was proper and good, he wanted her. He had never been so disgusted with himself.

  He didn’t love her. He couldn’t love her. He was certain he could not love her. She was part of the aristocracy that chained him. The answer was pure and simple lust. Lust for a woman farthest from his reaches.

  The governor cried out when Devon wrapped his foot too tight. With apologies he commenced the procedure again. Perhaps Devon shouldn’t feel so bitter. Claire was young and stunningly beautiful, unequalled among women in his opinion. But in her world marriage was a matter of gain and convenience. And he had nothing to offer as she grew quick to remind him.

  Yet the searing, fiery flash of her eyes, loomed before him. Ah sir, in my judgment you are foolhardy, selfish, and unreliable. He’d submit to keelhauling before he confessed to that shaming fact.

  So passionate, so furious. Lovely indeed and she didn’t even know it. Definitely equipped with two full breasts, he mocked himself. He knew that full well because he had touched her. He hadn’t really meant to do so; he hadn’t wanted to touch her, but when his Irish temper flared he couldn’t have stopped himself from seizing her when he did.

  “Next case.”

  The barrister stepped forward. “Mr. Tom Dooley is in debt, milord. He owes several merchants the sum of ten pounds. My recommendation is to put him in jail until he pays off his debt.”

  The governor stood on his feet as Devon instructed. “Wonderful.” he cried. “Not Tom Dooley’s debt,” he laughed at his own little joke. “I’ll ask Dr. Blackmon’s counsel if you don’t mind. Dr. Blackmon, what say you about Tom Dooley’s predicament?”

  Devon ground his teeth, the sorry state of Tom Dooley and the rich attire of the barrister who wanted Dooley imprisoned. “If you lock him up, how will he pay his debts? I say let him go about his business, pay the merchants, and a tithe to your governor as his earnings allow.”

  “Good,” said the governor. “Let the man go, but be mindful, I’m in a good mood today. If I h
ear those debts are not paid then I will have my soldiers’ hunt you down and lock you up.”

  Tom Dooley trembled, faint with relief. He addressed the governor but stared at Devon. “Thank you. I am indebted to your generosity, and I do not forget a favor.”

  “Thank my doctor for curing my feet and dispensing my good graces. And you Dr. Blackmon, my arthritis is so much better. But my wife has a ball planned this evening. I shall not wish you to return to the compound, so I’ll ask you to be present.”

  “But…Sir Jarvis?” Devon reminded him.

  “Sir Jarvis will do as I command.” The governor chuckled, and light of heart, he twirled on his foot. “Now off with you to my wife. She suffers terrible megrims and has much to do. If you are to attend as my physician, you cannot appear as you are. Tell my wife to find you decent attire. My nephew left a few of his belongings. I believe they are about the right size. Now run along. Sir Jarvis’s nieces will be in attendance, and my wife has not left me a moment’s peace with her matchmaking plans.”

  Devon stood alone next to the French windows. Strains of music floated through the room and the delicate scent of beeswax candles wafted through the air mingling with the fragrance of splendid flower arrangements. The west wing had been cleared of furniture, granting the ballroom enough space to spare them the heated crush of such gatherings. Beneath the glittering chandeliers, the governor’s wife had so carefully procured from London, the cream of Jamaica’s aristocracy, officers and their wives, and other notable island guests gathered in a rainbow of lush silks and satins. A feverish murmur swept through the ballroom. Devon turned and followed their gazes to find his wife standing on the stairs.

  The first time he laid eyes on Claire in the gaol, Devon could barely get over her beauty. But this−this was beyond perfection. Both bewitching and captivating, her grace defied mere earthly mortals. The hint of defiance in her unflinching eyes only made her that much more enchanting.