Surrender to Love

by Sands, Cordelia

  With a desperate yelp, Sabine jerked away, her bare feet skittering to the opposite end of the room, her heart hammering furiously against her ribs as a sour sickness churned in her empty stomach.

  Wildly her eyes darted in search of a place to run, a place to hide, but there was nowhere for her to go, no feasible means of escape. And the room closed in around her, her breath rasping in sporadic gasps as her gaze fixed unmovingly on him.

  “Damn,” he muttered angrily as he buried his head in his hands. “Sabine, I – “

  “Stay away from me,” her shrill, panicked voice warned.

  Blindly, her hand snaked out and snatched a weapon from a nearby table. Holding it high above her head, she braced herself against the wall and prepared to strike.

  “Sabine - ”

  “I’m warning you, Mr. Pierson.”

  “ – you’ve got my hat.”

  Her eyes slowly followed her arm to the object in her hand, and she lowered it, a bright stain of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. Slowly she replaced the fawn-colored hat to the table as she closely gathered the remaining fragments of her dignity.

  “I won’t hurt you, Sabine,” he said quietly, somberly. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  A thousand times, she thought as she silently willed the frantic beating of her heart to quiet. A hundred thousand, if necessary.

  “We need provisions for the kitchen,” Sabine spoke up after a spell, her voice sounding strangely strangled. “You have nothing here.”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “I don’t see how you expect me to do a thing around here without supplies,” she continued, her words rambling in a rush as she fluttered nervously about the kitchen, not daring to meet his gaze for even a second.

  “Make a list,” Michael gave in to her with a sigh. “You can write, can’t you?”

  “Of course I can,” she snapped abruptly, taking an angry swipe at her eyes as she turned to him. “I can do a lot of things you don’t even know about.”

  He wasn’t even going to attempt to argue the fact. Knowing his luck, she’d probably traveled around the world five or six times, spoke a dozen languages, and attended the last presidential inauguration.

  “Well, there’s some paper and ink on the secretary in the sitting room,” he told her. “I’ll see what I can do. I’m going to be in Havana today for Luís anyway.”

  “Who is this Luís Roderigues?” Sabine asked as she cleared away the remainder of the dishes from the table. “I heard Colón mention his name, and Rosa, too. Is he somebody important?”

  “Well,” Michael considered thoughtfully as he ran a hand along his jaw, “he is. In fact, he runs one of the largest sugar plantations in the province. I’m his head overseer.”

  “On a plantation,” she questioned pointedly, turning on him once again, “with slaves? You condone this? I don’t believe! But, then again,” she said with a harsh laugh, “who am I trying to fool? I’m here, aren’t I? Bought and paid for. Or should I say…’won fair and square’?”

  “Damn you,” he exploded furiously as her words shot arrows into her heart. “Don’t you think I’d free you if I could? Don’t you ever accuse me of that again. Luís’s workers are emancipados – free men. Luís pays them and they’re free to come and go as they please. I’m no Simon Legree, Miss DuBois.”

  The strained silence between them plucked at the taut strings of her nerves, and she swallowed the twisted knot of regret from her throat. She hadn’t meant to antagonize him, and her troubled eyes met Michael’s icy blue ones tentatively. She was wrong – all wrong – everything she said, everything she did. His initial words rang in her ears and tore at her heart: Don’t you think I’d free you if I could?

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered as she approached him and hesitantly, almost fearfully, laid a hand on his forearm. “I didn’t mean – “

  Michael started at the weight of her touch, but he dared not move; his anger subsided as quickly as it had surfaced, replacing itself with guilt. She had touched him – willingly come and showed him she was not afraid.

  Closing his eyes, he let his senses take in the very essence of her. What was she thinking? Feeling? God, he wanted to reach out and bring her closer to him, feel her willingly mold against his body as she had at Colón’s.

  But, more than anything, he wanted her to believe in him.

  “Thank you,” he said simply, his words wavering with the relief that swept through his body.

  He could have sworn he felt her tighten her fingers reassuringly before she walked away.

  His heart thudded in his chest as the lingering sensation of her permeated throughout his being, and he involuntarily shivered. Damn, she felt good. She felt so good it scared him; shook him so deep in his soul that he thought he might not be whole again without her.

  “I – I have to go,” Michael said suddenly, and, snatching his hat from the table, he jammed it brusquely on his heat before bolting out the door.

  Sabine stood at the window, her heart heavy as she watched him cross the yard to the barn, and she wiped away the spot of moisture at the corner of her eye. The brightness of the morning sun was always so harsh on her vision, she insisted unconvincingly. She hated it when the rays streamed in the window, causing her to squint until she could barely see.

  But it was barely six o’clock.

  So what if it was, she thought tersely as she quickly turned back to the kitchen. The sun could still cause her eyes to water so early in the day.

  With a sniff she sat down at the table and cupped her chin in her hands, scowling. Michael Pierson was the most difficult person she had ever tried to understand.

  But did she really want to understand him? Even after this morning? Even after the shouting match and her panicked outburst…when she had threaten to bludgeon him with his hat?

  Yes, she decided with a sigh of longing as she rose and returned to the window. Believe it or not, yes, she did.

  And it didn’t even frighten her.

  XXX

  Dropping the scrub brush back in the bucket, Sabine sat back on the floor and pushed aside an unruly curl that fell across her brow. She didn’t even want to know when the last time this kitchen had been properly cleaned

  But her efforts had paid off immeasurably; everything looked wonderful now - so sparkling and clean – right down to the pink and red wildflowers that sat in the tiny tin cup at the center of the table.

  It was just like a real home…and Michael would be so proud of her.

  Rising to her feet, she collected her pail and dumped the soiled water off the back step. Pausing, she allowed herself the luxury of looking out over the countryside. Breathtaking it was. All those greens and blues and the sounds of the birds in the trees.

  She closed her eyes as she faced the soft warmth of the early evening’s waning sunlight, drawing deep breaths of sweet air as a gentle breeze washed over her features. Never had she believed that she could feel so content and secure in her position here – or anywhere.

  But it was different here. Not once had she contemplated escape, nor did she have any intentions of doing so. In only a miniscule amount of time, Michael had made her feel safe, made her feel as though she mattered.

  Was it due to his words this morning? “Don’t you think I’d free you if I could?” How many times had that phrase crept into her thoughts during the day as she set herself to righting his home? And how many times had she found herself pausing in her work, wondering in absolute amazement why she hadn’t seized the ample time given to her and merely disappeared into the Cuban wilds?

  Of course, she wasn’t quite comfortable with his attentions yet…but she wanted to be; for once in her life she wanted to feel confident knowing that every corner she turned wouldn’t be filled with hurt and disappointment.

  Would it happen this time?

  She retreated inside, collapsing wearily in the comfort of an aging, burgundy winged-back chair in the sitting room. She co
uldn’t recall the last time she had ever labored so hard, but it was worth every second and every aching muscle in her back and arms.

  Everything is this house was perfect.

  The clock on the wall chimed seven, and Sabine straightened in her seat, idly poking her toes through the volumes of lace skirting that billowed around her ankles. Would he, perhaps, buy a pair of boots for her if she asked nicely enough? Or maybe even a new dress? She had given up counting the number of times she had tripped over her hem today – or snagged one of the thousands of scalloped edges of a door, the porch steps, the cook stove. And now it had a water stain from when she had cleaned the floor because there was no such thing as an apron in this house.

  The garment was ruined, and, even though she found it utterly repulsive, it was the closest she had to being functional.

  She yawned, stretching her arms over her head tiredly. Well, there was more to be done before she could sit around lollygagging and desiring things she had no right to wish for, she scolded. Michael was sure to be arriving home shortly, and there was supper to be readied.

  There’d be supper if he had purchased the items she needed. He had left so darned fast this morning she didn’t even have an opportunity to write out a list.

  But that was no excuse. Soon he would return, and most certainly he would be tired and hungry from whatever it was an overseer did on a plantation. Sabine did not want to disappoint him; not after the kindness he had shown her.

  There was a scant cup of dried beef left in the larder, and perhaps half as much of flour. That was all, and her choice of dishes was narrow indeed. Well, she hoped he wasn’t too hungry. She would do her best with what she had, but she was no miracle worker. With what she had on hand, there just simply wasn’t enough to go around.

  It shouldn’t be that difficult to stretch things. There was a garden out back; with a good amount of vegetables, a bit of water from the well, and some incredible ingenuity…

  Sabine grabbed a worn basket from the kitchen and headed out the door. This would be fun.

  Maybe.

  She stood at the edge of the neatly weeded plot, her hands set stubbornly on her hips as she surveyed the rows before her. So, this was a garden. Interesting. She had never actually seen one, as her entire life had been spent in New Orleans. All she knew of produce was what she found at the merchants’ stalls in the marketplace.

  Whatever was she going to do here? Perhaps she could pick a few peppers, maybe some tomatoes. She definitely knew carrots when she saw them. But what, in the name of heaven, were the rest of these things? Were there onions hidden somewhere? Potatoes? Yams? Anything?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Confidently, Sabine grabbed onto the leafy greens of a carrot, braced her feet, and pulled as hard as she could.

  Neither budged.

  Darn it, what was wrong with this stubborn thing?

  She tried again, but succeeded in nothing but grinding carrot greens deep into her palms. Releasing it, she creased her brow in frustration as she wiped the perspiration from her forehead and the green stain from her hands.

  Some ridiculous vegetable was not going to outsmart her.

  She seized the carrot’s top aggressively and attempted once again to uproot it, throwing her weight back until the plant finally relented and gave way. Unprepared for its abrupt release, Sabine reeled backward, tripping on the hem of her gown before she fell square on her backside under a tent of cream lace and ribbons.

  In her hand lay the fruits of her labor: a limp and tattered clump of carrot greens. Nothing more.

  “You’re quite a sight there down on the ground,” a deep voice behind her called out.

  Sabine jerked her head around, her face flushed with anger and embarrassment as she glared at him. Michael slouched lazily in the kitchen doorway blond hair poking out from under the fawn-colored hat he had pulled down over her eyes. He was laughing at her!

  “Stop it!” she shrieked as she angrily snatched the lace skirting from atop her head. “Stop mocking me!”

  “I’m doing nothing of the sort,” he chuckled. “May I ask what it is you’re attempting to do?”

  “May I ask,” she countered sharply, “how long you’ve been watching me?”

  “Long enough to know that you haven’t been in a garden before.”

  Grinning, he approached and extended a hand in an invitation to stand. Reluctantly, she accepted and clambered tiredly to her feet, brushing the loose soil from her skirts as she faced him awkwardly, her cheeks flushed.

  “You didn’t tell me you’d never worked a garden.”

  “If you had asked, I might have told you,” she replied peevishly as she attempted to salvage the remaining shreds of her dignity.

  “True. I might as well show you how it’s done. I see no sense in you bruising your backside whenever you come out here.”

  He winked at her conspiratorially and immediately set off for the small shed behind the house. Sabine watched him go, his arms swinging loosely at his sides as he walked with easy strides, and feelings of indignation and longing churned inside her heart. Why did he have to be so darned aggravating and captivating all at the same time? Why couldn’t he just let her emotions decide to dislike him altogether and avoid all this confusion he sent raging through her.

  “This,” he said as he returned, motioning to the tool dramatically as a roguish smile illuminated his countenance, “is called a trowel. You use it to dig in the dirt.”

  She gave him a wilting look.

  “Your harassment, Mr. Pierson, is becoming tiresome,” came her flat reply.

  He reached for her hand and pulled her next to him as he kneeled in the dirt.

  “I’ll get the rest of these out later this week. But, for now, watch. It’s easy.”

  Handing her the small shovel, he patiently instructed her how to carefully loosen the soil from around the root so that it lifted easily from its confines. Sabine sighed, feeling uncomfortable and foolish as the fruits of his labor lay in the basket next to her; as usual, she had been taking the difficult route all along.

  “Anything else while I’m down here,” he teased.

  “I was hoping to make…something. Stew, perhaps,” she confessed, humbled by his patience and her own lack of ingenuity.

  “I’ll get the rest of these. Go in the house, Sabine, and finish up. You’ll find the pantry stocked with everything you need. Go ahead and arrange it the way you want. I hope I got everything you need.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pierson,” she replied. “I’m certain you did.”

  “Michael,” he told her quietly as he glanced up. “My name is Michael.”

  Disconcerted by his forwardness, she could only manage to nod stiffly as she stared awkwardly at the ground. “Yes, sir.”

  XXX

  Michael sat at the secretary in the sitting room, his head bent intently on the papers before him. Writing. Crossing out. Figuring. Writing some more.

  Damn. There was no money. Not even a cent to put aside for her. At the rate he was going, she might be waiting until the turn of the century before he could manage to afford her passage back to America.

  Could he honestly keep her captive until he had the cash? Continue to have her believe that he agreed with this black market trade system that had brought her to him?

  She probably didn’t buy it anyway; not after he had ripped into her this morning when she accused him of condoning the ownership of slaves. Hell, that in itself was a contradiction; his demanding she never accuse him of that when he was holding her here.

  He should just tell her right now that he had no intentions of keeping her. He should just tell her that any papers Colón had given him were burned to a cinder and it was as though she had never gone through the whole ordeal.

  He couldn’t.

  As much as he hated to admit it, he had become rather attached to Sabine over the past forty-eight hours or so. She was sharp-witted or sharp-tongued. Kept him on his toes. Kept him i
n line, too, when he wasn’t scaring the hell out of her, or setting off that temper she never quite managed to keep hidden.

  Unfortunately, that was most of the time, it seemed.

  Where would she go, anyway, if he told her to leave? Havana? She didn’t speak a word of Spanish. Chances were she’d end up in a worse situation than she’d ever find here. Beat up. Or maybe sold off…again. Forced by circumstance to work as a whore as a whore in one of those damned seedy brothels by the waterfront.

  His jaw tightened at the thought of another man touching her. He couldn’t handle knowing some filthy sailor or aristocratic scum was pinning her down on a stained mattress in some cramped second-story room for a couple of pesos. It damn near blew him through the roof when he’d seen what Colón had done…and he wasn’t even sure if the bastard had gone any further than roughing her up a little.

  He’d still love to kill the son of a bitch.

  No, Sabine wasn’t going anywhere, he decided. She was staying right here until he could work something out. It wouldn’t be long; perhaps he’d even get her back to her family by Christmas.

  Damn, wouldn’t that be just the best present anyone ever got?

  Well, maybe for them, he admittedly begrudgingly, but not for him.

  She really had gotten herself deep under his skin, hadn’t she? And she had managed it without even trying.

  Michael looked up from his papers and glanced into the kitchen. There she was again, watching him secretly through the thick tendrils of her dark curls. She thought he didn’t notice. But he did – he always did.

  “Something wrong,” he asked casually.

  Sabine turned away quickly and plunged her hands into the dishwater, furiously scrubbing at a plate, her cheeks pink with embarrassment.

  He chuckled softly as he closed a drawer in the secretary. She certainly was something. A child. A woman. Both mixed together so thoroughly sometimes that he never was quite sure what the heck she was.