"Oh dear, no!" Meg said drily. And what did you do?"
"Nothing. I was a perfect gentleman."
"I doubt — Sorry," she said, realizing she was about to return to her old ways again.
"I was." He nodded as if to emphasize the truth of his words.
"You mean to say you did nothing at all and the wretched creature called you names?"
"Well, I might have done one or two small things."
"Surely nothing that would give her cause to treat you so unjustly/'
It was obvious that he was growing uncomfortable as memories came back to haunt him. He crossed his legs, uncrossed them, and then looked out the window. "She might have believed she had reason at the time."
"You poor thing."
"Let's talk about something else," Tristan said, his gaze on the moving countryside. "Tell me what it's like to live as a Gypsy. "Where do Gypsies go "to school?"
Meg shot him a wry look. "If that was your sneaky way of asking if I can read or not, the answer is yes, I can." She didn't bother to tell him she could read in French and Italian and speak both languages as well. Meg figured he might not survive the shock.
"I know you can write. Remember the note you sent to your father? What about your numbers? Do you know them as well?"
"Do you?" she returned, not happy at what she interpreted as condescension.
Tristan nodded, never realizing her annoyance, and remarked off-handedly, "I went to Harvard."
"How nice," she said stiffly. Meg turned toward the window. It was no use. She couldn't talk to the man five minutes without finding herself furious.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing." Her nose wrinkled as a thought came. "Harvard? Are you one of those blue bloods? Do you ride to the hounds and all that drivel?" Lord, but she hated that set and purposely, to her father's constant despair, avoided socializing with them whenever possible.
"My family did when my father was alive. Does that make us blue bloods?"
"Oh, God," she moaned. "Do they all talk like they've got cotton stuck up their nose?"
Tristan laughed. "Now that you mention it, I suppose they do. Have you ever . . . ? Never mind."
"Look, we're not going to get anywhere like this. We can't find a thing in common to talk about unless you believe I'm who I say I am." Meg sighed and said again for probably the hundredth time, "I am the daughter of. . .
"John Fairmont," they said in unison, her voice filled with determination, his with disbelief.
"The trouble is, Gypsy, I met Mr. Fairmont's daughter when I was in England."
"I know."
He gave her a hard look! "I mean I met the real daughter."
Meg suddenly realized what he meant. "Lena? You know Lena?" Her eyes were bright with enthusiasm.
"So you admit you're lying?"
"Lena is my sister."
It was Tristan's turn to say, "Oh God."
"If your friend Edward was here, he could tell you who I am."
"What the blazes has Edward to do with anything? And how the hell do you know his name. I didn't—"
"Introduce us? No, but my father did. Edward took Lena and me to the Queen's coronation parade. It was his family's party from which you kidnapped
"But . . ." Tristan stared sightlessly over her head as he remembered Edward leaning over the small woman standing at Meg's side. The two were both small and dark, but where the one had merely been very pretty, Meg had stolen his heart with her beauty.
Could it be? Could this woman have been telling the truth all along? Had he been so stupid, so obsessed with the thought of having her as to disbelieve anything but his own misconceptions? " what did you study in school?"
Meg shrugged. "Much the same things anyone studies, I expect."
"History? Geography? The Classics? What?"
"All of it and some French and Italian? "
"French? You can speak French?"
" I told you I studied it, didn't I?"
"Say something"
"What?"
"Anything"
Meg smiled. He was testing her and knowing as well, that he was in for a shock. She sweetest tone possible, "You sir, are as stupid as a cow, as ugly as a toad, and as fat as a pig."
Tristan laughed and replied also in French, "I thought you said you were going to be nice from now on?"
Meg grinned and gently accused with a wagging finger, "A very sneaky thing to do. You should have told me you understood French."
He believed her. He had no other choice. No one could speak perfectly accented French and not come from the best schools in the country. No wonder she'd appeared so cultured, so elegant in her dress and manners. No wonder she'd hated him so fiercely. No wonder she'd tried so hard to escape. "Why were you with the Gypsies?"
"I told you before. They're my family. My father is half Gypsy. That makes me one-quarter."
Tristan suddenly laughed. "Edward knew you were going to be at that party. That's why he insisted I come."
"I swore him to secrecy. He promised to never tell you who I was."
"He didn't. He told me only that he wanted me to meet a woman. And that I wouldn't be sorry if I came."
"And you met me instead."
"No. He knew I was searching everywhere for you. You were the one he wanted me to meet." Tristan smiled. "Do you realize we might have met at Edward's party just like normal people. We might have danced and talked and fallen in love. We might have married. Even had I never seen you at the Gypsy camp, we might have ... I can't believe it."
"It probably wouldn't have happened that way. The party was too crowded. We wouldn't have met."
Tristan nodded, and his dark eyes heated with pleasure as they moved over her face.
"We would have met. I noticed you the moment you entered the room."
"That was because you knew me."
Tristan shook his head, knowing the truth of it. "I would have noticed you."
Meg grinned as she continued on with her story. "The music was just beginning when Rogers left to change his shoes."
"Why?"
"I don't know. He always put on a specially polished pair whenever we had some social gathering." She shrugged. "Perhaps they were more comfortable than the ones he usually wore."
"So?"
"So, Lena and I were listening at his door when we heard his cry." Her face sobered as she asked in feigned innocence, "Did you know that when cracked eggs crush the moment a foot is placed into a shoe?"
Tristan nodded, fighting back his laughter. "Taking for granted the egg is in the shoe with the foot, of course."
Meg giggled. "Of course."
Tristan grinned. "You little hellion. Go on. What else did you do to the poor man?"
"You have to understand, Tristan. We lived on a large plantation far from town. There were no friends to occupy our time until we went to school."
Tristan hadn't known it was possible to feel such happiness at the mere mention of his name. He smiled as his heart settled back to its normal rhythm. "Tell me more."
Meg sighed. "I've no doubt that Lena and I were the principal reason Rogers never married. I expect we cured him of any urge to procreate lest he find himself cursed with yet another ruffian. The poor man greatly suffered at our hands.
"I can't count the times he had to get me down from the roof of the barn. I used to practice jumping from its ledge, trying to land on my horse." Meg giggled. "I don't think I ever made it."
"Jesus!"
"Oh, don't fret. I made sure there were stacks of hay all around the horse. And then there was always the front door."
Tristan watched expectantly. "The front door?" he asked when she grinned at the memory.
"Rogers was always a bit stiff, but an oh-so-proper butler.
Tristan nodded, saying nothing.
"So it was natural, don't you think, that we tried to ruffle his feathers a bit?"
"Very natural." Tristan bit his lip, holding back his grin at the wicked light that
came suddenly to her eyes.
"He was always there. I don't know how he never missed, but the minute our carriage came to a stop, he was walking down the stairs. It got to be a contest to beat him back to the door. Our front door locked when it closed. If we were fast enough—we weren't always —Lena and I could lock him out. After walking around the house to the kitchen innumerable times, he finally took to carrying the keys."
"Why didn't he knock?"
"And let everyone know we bested him again? Never!"
"I see." Tristan couldn't remember when he'd last enjoyed a conversation more. "What else did you do?"
'To Rogers?" She shrugged. "The usual things, I imagine. Salt in the sugar jar. Molasses water in the decanters, that sort of thing."
"And you consider that usual?" Tristan's astonishment was undeniable.
Meg suddenly laughed. "Have you ever watched anyone drink tea with two spoonfuls of salt in the place of sugar?"
"I can't say that I have."
"You should. Especially if the man refuses to acknowledge a trick had been played. He drank the whole thing. It was wonderful."
"I hope you won't be treating our butler in the same fashion. I'm sure Bennett wouldn't know how to handle it."
"You needn't worry about your butler." Meg laughed. "I believe I've learned to control myself somewhat over the years."
From the sparkling deviltry in her eyes, it was easy to imagine this woman as a small untamed child.
"No salt in the sugar bowls?"
"Not a grain." She hesitated, and her dark eyes danced. "Unless some of your snooty friends come for tea."
'"How do you know they're snooty?"
Meg pinched her nose with two fingers and said, "Because they talk like this." She grinned at his laughter. "You said so yourself."
"I'll watch the sugar bowl," he said with quiet determination.
Meg glanced out the window. "Is it much farther?"
"We won't be getting there till six at the earliest. Are you tired?"
Meg nodded. "A little."
"You were just recently ill. You shouldn't overtax yourself. Why don't you take a nap?"
She nodded again.
"Over here."
Some of the exuberance faded from her eyes, and her smile grew stiff. He knew she was remembering what had happened the last time he'd awakened her from a nap in this coach. Damn. He didn't want to ruin their time together with those kind of memories. "I'm fine here."
Tristan reached for her and brought her to his side. "But you'd be more comfortable here."
Meg didn't fight him. Still, she kept her hands in her lap as she leaned against him. She was deeply asleep by the time he moved her to his lap and cuddled her close in his arms.
For a long time, Tristan watched her relaxed face in sleep, knowing he could watch her forever and never grow tired, for her every expression and movement enticed him. It wasn't possible to love her more. He smiled again as he remembered the stories of her childhood. She'd kept him entertained for hours.
Tristan sighed. He wished he could have seen her then as she described herself. Long braids, a terribly thin body dressed in torn pinafores. He could well imagine that child climbing trees and swimming in a lake. He could see her lean body browned by the sun and toughened by horseback riding and racing barking dogs in meadows and felt a sudden almost overpowering need to have a child like she described as one of his own.
Soon, soon, he promised his aching body. He remembered Morgan's warning. Just in case as they both suspected, there'd been a child, he was to wait before chancing another. And he would wait. It might kill him, but he would.
He put his feet up on the opposite seat and leaned back, bringing her body to lay more heavily against him. Now all he had to do was wait for his raging body to calm itself and he'd sleep.
The coach came to an unexpected, jarring stop, and Tristan almost dropped Meg to the floor. He cursed. "God damn it, Humphreys, what the hell is the matter with you?"
"There's a tree down, sir. It's blocking the road," the driver said, his voice easily carrying through the opened windows.
Tristan cursed again, for Meg was completely awake and removing herself from his arms. "Stay here," Tristan said as he left the coach.
Meg smoothed her hair into place and then sighed as it curled riotously out of control. She needed her brush and a mirror. Meg looked for the articles and then sighed as she realized they were packed in his trunk. She opened the door and was just about to jump to the ground when she saw a small black face peeking out from beneath the undergrowth that grew thickly to the edge of the dirt road.
The sight of a child hiding in the woods gave her a start, but Meg quickly controlled her need to cry out. She was just about to smile and ask what he was doing when the sound of horses approaching the coach interrupted.
"Afternoon, Mr. Hall. Glad to see you back," the lead rider said as his horse moved nervously beneath him. The man was accompanied by four black men. Meg couldn't tell which of the five appeared more fearsome. All were big men, bigger than Tristan in breadth if not height, with rough hard features, possessing an arrogance that came only with authority.
She knew without being told the white man was an overseer. She'd seen enough of his type to know one by looks. The four blacks were probably overseers as well but of a lesser station, for they appeared slightly submissive. What, she wondered, were they doing out here, and how did they know Tristan?
'Jarvis," Tristan nodded at the man still in his saddle, "a tree is blocking the road. Give a hand, will you?"
The overseer looked behind him. "Benjamin, Nate." He nodded his head toward the fallen tree. "Move." And like trained dogs, the two hulking men left their saddles to do the man's bidding.
Meg's lip curled with disgust. Slaves. Her family had never owned slaves. And Meg had long ago vowed she never would.
"What are you doing this far from Johnston's place?"
"Jeremy and his family escaped again."
Tristan caught himself before he smiled, remembering the old man and his constant attempts to be free. "How many times is it now?"
"Six."
"Maybe Johnston should let him go this time. A man is no good if he runs every time he has a chance."
"You know we can't do that, Mr. Hall. If we let them go, others will do the same."
Tristan knew little of the Johnston plantation but suspected the blacks weren't treated kindly there. Slaves never escaped from his father's place, but then slaves weren't mistreated at Oak Tree. In truth, Tristan knew little of the workings of a plantation. He'd been at sea for years and before that, school. During his early years and the rare visits during his school years, he'd never noticed the atrocity of slavery. He was born to a certain way of life and accepted slavery as a necessity, never giving it much thought.
But Meg had not been born to slavery, and she firmly believed it was not the way of things. She'd heard many stories of the horrors those pitiful souls endured. If Tristan owned slaves, and by the looks of things, he did, there was no way she would accept the fact and do nothing to remedy the situation. Her husband was badly mistaken if he believed otherwise.
Meg heard a branch break behind her and knew the little boy she'd seen and his family with him were moving away from the road. She coughed loudly, praying her sounds would detract from any noise they made.
"Are you all right," Tristan asked, moving quickly to her side and pressing a hand to her forehead. "You're not coming down with another fever?"
Meg shook her head. "I'm fine." Her gaze moved quickly about, watching the men still sitting upon their horses. "It's pollen," she lied. "It sometimes bothers my throat." She coughed again, hard and loud, while praying the slaves were far enough away so she might stop before she did some real damage to her throat.
Tristan helped her into the coach again and ordered his driver to hurry them on their way. Meg breathed a sigh of relief, knowing the five men followed. The family was safe. She prayed they'd make it t
o freedom.
"What was that about?" Tristan asked as her coughing fit miraculously subsided. His gaze narrowed as he dared her to lie.
"What was what about?"
"The coughing act."
"I'm not sure I know what you mean."
"Yes, you do."
"Tristan, could we—"
"We can do anything you want, as soon as you tell me the truth."
"I never lie." Well, almost never, she silently corrected.
"Good." He nodded. "Then tell me what that was all about."
"No."
Tristan smiled knowingly. "You saw Jeremy and his family, right? You thought to cover their movements with a bout of coughing."
"How did . . . You saw them? And you didn't do anything?"
Tristan shrugged. "I figure if the man wants to be free so badly that he'd try six times, then he should be."
"You own slaves," she accused.
"And you're not happy about the idea?"
"Not in the least."
"My father owned slaves. Now that he's dead, I imagine they belong to me."
"They don't."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning no man can own another. You'll have to let them go, Tristan."
When she said his name like that, there was nothing he wouldn't do for her, nothing he wouldn't give her. "Will I?" He smiled. "Just like that? What about the plantation. It can't survive without slaves."
"They'll have to work somewhere." She shrugged as if the answer was obvious. "Why not for you?"
"You mean give each of them a salary. That will cost a lot of money."
"I'll give you the money."
Tristan's smile was so gentle it nearly stole her breath. "They're going to love you."
"Who?"
"The people who live at Oak Tree."
"Is Oak Tree the name of your home?"
He nodded.
Meg grinned. "Who's the lady?"
"What lady?"
"When I read your palm, remember? I told you someone said she loved you, but it was trees she really loved. It must have been Oak Tree. I didn't understand it at the time. Who is she?"
"Linda Montgomery. She lives in Baltimore."
Meg made a face. "And you were going Jo marry her?"
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