Freedom's Price

by Christine Johnson

  Black hull. Black sails. It would blend into the night unseen.

  The only reason for that was smuggling. But what? Whatever it was, it brought such a hefty profit that Lafreniere didn’t question DeMornay’s management and DeMornay was willing to kill to protect his secret.

  Catherine watched helplessly as DeMornay handed Tom to a large and impressively muscular Negro, who pressed a knife to Tom’s neck and led him away. Tom was quick and strong but no match for this armed man whom DeMornay addressed in another language. Not French. Perhaps Spanish.

  Tom cast her a defiant look that promised he would attempt to escape, but Catherine could not leave this to his skill, not with such a jailer. For all she knew, the man would shackle Tom or lock him in a windowless room. For how long? DeMornay had threatened to drown Tom. Something had held him back from doing so at once. From what Aurelia had told her, Tom would soon vanish—either dead or sent away. She must convince DeMornay to let him go.

  “This is not necessary.”

  DeMornay’s gaze was inscrutable. “We have much to discuss.”

  He took her hand and placed it on his arm. Though every fiber of her being revolted at his touch, she did not resist. Better he think her agreeable.

  “He is mistaken about my affections,” she added, spinning a new tale. “Poor, deluded man. I could never love someone of his class.”

  That caught DeMornay’s attention, judging by the glint in his eye. “Do you make no exceptions?”

  Catherine sensed he was no longer talking about Tom, but she would not stray from the subject until she extracted a promise to release him.

  “Not in Mr. Worthington’s case.” She forced a sigh. “Though I long to rise to the standards set in the Bible, society dictates a certain amount of separation between the classes. Mr. Worthington is in the worker class”—how it hurt to say that—“and thus never capable of rising to marry a gentlewoman.”

  “Is a plantation manager also considered part of the worker class?”

  Catherine had to carefully navigate this answer. “It is possible for a steward, or manager as you call it, to rise.” She searched her memory for any instances but could find none in her acquaintance, so she turned to fiction. “A steward’s son might capture the heart of the master’s daughter.”

  DeMornay walked her up the front steps. “And that is accepted?”

  She truly was in trouble. “These days, with love taking precedence over arranged marriages, such a thing would be accepted.” But not with him. Never with him.

  He led her into the house, which still retained a bit of last night’s coolness. “We will go to the study.”

  She instinctively tightened her grip. The last time he had brought her there, he’d locked her inside. She struggled to hide her discomfort.

  He noticed. “Are you nervous? I would never harm you, Catherine. My plans for you are for your well-being.”

  She could not miss the echo of Scripture in his words, though he had twisted them to his own purpose. What did the Bible say about men who did such things? Aurelia had called him the devil.

  She managed to choke out, “What is in the study?”

  He opened the door and motioned for her to precede him.

  By now her legs felt like jelly and her heart was in her throat. He clearly had something planned. The loss of control was unsettling. She must seize the advantage.

  After a deep breath and prayer for strength, she strode across the room and threw open the shutters. “It’s stuffy in here.”

  To her surprise, he made no move to close them.

  She next went to the strongbox and lifted it from the shelf. “I recall a box like this from my childhood. Papa sent it away with a dark stranger, a man much like you.”

  “It was me.”

  The confirmation shook her to the bones. “But you said—”

  “I saw no reason to explain the past when I was not yet certain of your claims.”

  “But you seemed to accept my story.” Only his slip in referring to Staffordshire had betrayed his prior knowledge of her.

  He waved that away as inconsequential. “I wanted to learn your purpose before passing judgment.”

  “Then you are certain now that I am who I say I am.”

  “Of course.” He settled behind the desk.

  “You received my letter from England.”

  Some men appeared small behind a desk, as if using it as a shield. Not DeMornay. If anything, he appeared larger and more menacing.

  “We have been through this before.” He gazed out the window as if unconcerned about anything. “Soon we will be rid of all distractions.”

  Tom. That’s what DeMornay considered a distraction. But he was much more. If only she’d acknowledged her feelings for Tom sooner, if only she’d listened to his pleas to leave, neither of them would be in this situation.

  “Bring the box here,” the man said. “There’s something inside that I want to show you.”

  Perspiration dotted her forehead. Her fingers slipped against the metal bands binding the strongbox.

  “It is light.” That surprised her. For years she’d wondered if Maman’s jewels were inside. “No jewelry?”

  “Jewelry? What use would that be to me? Ah no, my dear, this is something much more precious.”

  Her hands trembled as she carried the box to the desk. DeMornay sat tall, as arrogant as cousin Roger. She set the box before him.

  “It is locked?”

  “Not at all.” He turned the box toward her. “Unlatch it.”

  All these years she had wondered what was in this strongbox. Today she would find out—assuming he had not removed the contents or replaced them with something else.

  “Papa would have locked it.”

  “I am not your father, but if you wish to lock it afterward, I will give you the key.” He pulled it from a desk drawer and dangled it before her.

  The key looked like any other. She didn’t know what she’d expected. She unlatched the box and grasped the lid. All these years of wondering.

  She caught her breath and lifted the lid.

  The box was empty. No, not empty. A single piece of paper lined the bottom.

  “That’s all?” She stared at DeMornay, incredulous. “The contents are missing. What did it once hold? Maman’s jewels?”

  His expression gave nothing away. “Many years have passed. The paper will explain.”

  The paper. A single sheet of paper would answer all her questions? She pulled it out.

  To every appearance, it was a legal document, signed by her father.

  “Read it,” DeMornay urged.

  She took the piece of paper to the window, where the light was better. Though the stiff legal language was difficult to read, the document’s intent could be easily deciphered. In exchange for a large infusion of Lafreniere money, Papa had signed away her portion of Black Oak. This was the document she and the judge had sought. It would take the plantation and everything belonging to it away from her. Including Aurelia and the children.

  “Oh, Papa.” Her heart broke, though she understood her father’s reasoning. He hadn’t wasted the money. He’d used it to keep Deerford running long enough for her to marry well. Her father must have believed it the only possible solution. Still, when she did not settle on a suitor and begged off the marriage mart, he had yielded. He’d done it all for her. Yet on his deathbed he’d regretted signing this paper. He had indeed lost her inheritance.

  “The document has not been recorded.” DeMornay had drawn close while she was lost in memories.

  She had to feign surprise. “What?”

  He turned her gently from the window so she faced him. “It has not been recorded. You can still be mistress of Black Oak.”

  “But cousin Henry—”

  “Does not know that it was never recorded. He believes he is the full owner.”

  She pressed a hand to her midsection. “Why wasn’t it recorded?”

  “Your uncle left the matt
er to me. I told him it was done.”

  “But you didn’t record it. Why? What possible reason could you have?”

  “You, dearest Catherine.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “You remember me. You told me as much. I will never forget the moment I first saw you in your father’s house. I knew then that I loved you.”

  “I was just a girl of thirteen.”

  “Girls grow up. I am a patient man. I waited, and you came to me, just as I predicted you would.”

  “I don’t believe it.” The idea that he’d planned this ten years ago was preposterous. It also made her ill. “A grown man can’t possibly fall in love with a child.”

  His lips curved into a covetous smile. “Was Juliet merely a child to Romeo? She was just thirteen, the same as you at our first meeting.”

  “But Romeo was nearer her age, and that love ended tragically.”

  “It needn’t have. I’ve been waiting for you, Catherine, waiting and hoping.”

  Lies. All lies. No man in his right mind would believe a girl halfway around the world would mysteriously arrive on his doorstep ten years later. She might easily have married or inherited Deerford. DeMornay couldn’t possibly know the calamity that had befallen her beloved home or her sudden decision to return to her mother’s family. No, his purpose in not recording the document was not to reinstate her inheritance. He intended Black Oak for himself. This story he was now weaving had another purpose—to weaken her defenses.

  She edged away slightly. “How could you know I would come here? There was no communication between the families.” She shook the paper. “The terms of this document ensured it. Moreover, I never knew about this.”

  He took the paper from her hand. “Curiosity, dear Catherine. I could see it in your eyes that day ten years ago. You wanted to know about me, and your father forbade any questions.” His grin chilled her. “I knew you would come to me.”

  She shivered and rubbed her arms. “I came to Chêne Noir, not to you.”

  “It is one and the same, don’t you see? I am Chêne Noir now.”

  “My cousins own it.”

  “You can own the vast majority.”

  “I don’t. That paper ensures it.”

  His voice curled around her like black tar smoke. “All it would take is for this document to disappear.” He carried the paper to the fireplace and lifted a burning candle from its holder.

  “You would do this? Why?” A sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach as his plan became perfectly clear. On his own, he could only drain Black Oak dry. With her, he might rule it.

  He replaced the candle. “For us. For what you’ve wanted all these years. We will reign over Chêne Noir, restore it to glory, and begin a new dynasty together.”

  “Together?” Exactly what she’d feared.

  “Our children will inherit for generations to come. The DeMornay name will loom large in Louisiana. You will have the finest winter house in the city, every entertainment and diversion, and a husband utterly devoted to you. Marry me, and I will destroy this document.”

  Every limb shook. “But I do not love you.”

  His gaze grew black. “You will grow to love me.”

  “No, I won’t.” She edged to the side, but he blocked her. “I love another.”

  “Worthington?” He spat the name with such vehemence that she knew she’d erred. “That distraction will be removed.”

  She’d just sealed Tom’s death unless she could convince DeMornay she loved another. But who? He could not be in England. A woman would not travel halfway around the world when in love with someone at home. She had met no one here. Rourke was married, and DeMornay knew it. That left Tom.

  There was only one way to save Tom. It made her stomach heave, but DeMornay would never let him go under any other circumstances.

  “I-I-I made that up.” The words stuck in her throat. She instinctively moved away from DeMornay.

  He gripped her arm and pulled her close. “Did you?”

  “I’m not ready to marry.” The words came easier, for they were closer to the truth. Still, if Tom had asked for her hand, she might well have agreed.

  His grip tightened. “You are no longer a child.”

  “I-I might be persuaded.” She must word this right. It was her only chance. “For a price.”

  He looked into her eyes, delving deep for the truth in her words. “What price?”

  “Ownership of Aurelia and her children must be given to Tom Worthington.”

  “A woman and three children? Do you know what you ask?”

  “It is costly, but we have others. You said they are in the field.”

  “Male slaves do not produce babies.” He ran a finger down her jaw. “Fertile women are worth a fortune. Their offspring can be sold.”

  The way he said that made horrible ideas crowd into her mind. The contents of her stomach threatened to come up. She swallowed. For their sake she must remain calm. “Then we shall buy another. Aurelia is getting up in years anyway.”

  His grip loosened. “That is true. Another can be gotten.”

  While his temper had eased, she broached the last part of her request. “You will ensure Tom, Aurelia, and the children reach Captain O’Malley’s ship. They will then be allowed to leave. No one will pursue them or attempt to stop them. I must learn that they have safely reached Key West before I will speak the vows.”

  “Four lives in exchange for one. A steep price.”

  “Five,” she corrected him. “You’ve forgotten Tom.”

  “His only value to me is how much someone would pay for him.”

  Pay? Her skin crawled. DeMornay would sell a man? He had sold slaves. Aurelia’s assertion that servants had disappeared made sense. “But he is a free man.”

  DeMornay gave her a pitying look. “Any man can fall into indenture and need to work off his debt.”

  “Surely no one would agree to that. Not here.” Yet she was certain of nothing. She did not know this land, knew nothing about it except that coming here had been a terrible mistake.

  His lips curved into a cruel grin. “There are places hungry for workers, places not that far from here. He is strong and would bring a good price.”

  Her heart pounded. He was holding Tom’s future over her as bait. If Black Oak was not enough incentive, Tom’s freedom might force her to give in.

  He ran a finger across her cheek, setting each nerve on edge. She tried to steel herself but trembled ever so slightly. She bit the inside of her lip. Better to suffer pain than give DeMornay the impression that she liked him in the slightest.

  “Dear, innocent Catherine. There is no need to trouble yourself with such things. I will take care of everything. Your only concern is my pleasure.”

  This time she could not quell the heaving of her stomach. She ran out of the room and fell to her knees on the veranda.

  23

  Tom shook the door to the pigeonnier, but the Spanish-speaking servant had bolted it. When his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he surveyed the interior. He stood on bare ground, packed hard over time and coated with guano. Above, small slits gave access to the pigeons who had largely abandoned the dovecote. He heard very little cooing from nesting birds. A ladder led to the nest boxes and could be moved from side to side by leaning it against crossbeams a few feet over his head. The lower level had some bins and nothing else. Certainly not the comforts he’d enjoyed in the garçonnière during his first visit.

  Aside from the bolted door, the only other opening larger than pigeon-sized was a small shuttered window on the upper level. He shifted the ladder and climbed up to it. One of the residents objected, and he had to ward off the flapping wings with one arm while testing the shutters with the other. They didn’t budge. There must be a latch somewhere.

  Now that he was still, the pigeon had stopped flying around. He ran his hand over the rough boards, picking up plenty of splinters. Where was it?

  He found the hinges and the gap between the shutters, but no l
atch on the inside.

  Tom groaned. It must be latched on the outside or nailed shut since this pigeonnier wasn’t tended. He was trapped.

  He pounded a fist on the ladder with frustration. DeMornay had divested him of his dagger. He couldn’t even hack his way out.

  Think.

  Escape from the upper level was not possible. He descended the ladder and looked again at the ground level. Servants would have shoveled out the guano here, taking it out the only door. Did they feed the pigeons? Was that the purpose of the bins? If so, then the grain would be stored in the bins. Food brought mice and rats, both adept at gnawing through wood. Perhaps the wood inside one of the bins had been compromised enough that he could push out the boards.

  The sun must be lowering, for the light was diminishing. Within an hour or so, darkness would fall. If he found rotten boards, he could escape this prison tonight. He hoped the servant who’d thrown him in here wasn’t posted outside.

  Breaking out boards would make a racket. Any fool would hear it. Tom must risk waiting until everyone fell asleep. Catherine would not sleep tonight. When upset in the past, she paced back and forth in front of the window. Today’s events couldn’t be more upsetting.

  What was DeMornay doing? Clearly he wanted Catherine. It made Tom sick to think of her in that criminal’s arms. The man must see her as the means to become master of Black Oak. Tom could not let that happen, even if it cost him his life. But first he had to get out of this prison.

  The light had gotten so low that he had to feel along the walls to locate the bins. Shadows cloaked much of the room. He edged along until he bumped into something solid. There it was. Rectangular. Deep enough to contain a great deal of grain. It had a lid. No clasp or lock. He lifted.

  Squee!

  The squeal of a rodent sent Tom flying back a step. He hated rats. They boarded the ship using the mooring lines and gangway. They came aboard in cargo. They ate precious stores. They wormed into and behind anything.

  He shuddered.

  Investigating the bin meant sticking his hands—or feet—into an unlit, rat-infested place. He opted for a foot. His leather shoes covered him to the ankle.