by Shirl Henke
"All in good time, Mistress Blackthorne, all in good time," he replied, ringing for a guard. "In the meanwhile, I shall have a maid attend your needs. Consider yourself a guest here at Fort Charlotte." He turned to the guard who had just entered and said, "Give her the room adjacent to mine...across from the one my wife is occupying."
At her shocked gasp, he smiled that cold, awful smile once more. As she was led away, she thought of Rupert Chamberlain touching her with that ghastly clawlike hand and her stomach churned.
The hour was very late when the door to her room swung open, its rusty hinges creaking as Sir Rupert entered. He held the branch of candles high to better illuminate the curtained bed. When he placed his knee on the mattress, Joss awoke with a start. A low scream tore from her throat as she rolled away from him, scrambling to sit up.
"It will do no good. Scream down the whole bloody fort."
"What of your wife? Surely—"
His harsh bark of laughter interrupted her. "That voyeuristic little slut would relish watching us. She does that, you know. Don't look so shocked. Your Methody innocence is really quite appalling. However, I shall enlighten you," he purred, continuing to unfasten his trousers. "There are places in London, very expensive playgrounds for the nobility, where one can obtain gratification that way. Perhaps your Alex frequented such. I know his uncle has done so.”
As he spoke the nausea, quite familiar now, began to churn once more in her stomach. She knew the meal they'd fed her earlier was coming up, along with the large tumbler of water she'd drunk before retiring. Just when he reached out and seized a fistful of her hair, yanking her back across the bed, she gave a great shuddering heave and vomited all over his arms and chest.
He released her with an obscene oath and scrambled from the bed, still cursing violently as he tried to brush the noisome mess off his jacket. Oblivious to him, Joss hung her head over the side of the bed while the wracking spasms continued, gradually subsiding into painful dry heaves. She collapsed onto the mattress, utterly spent and miserable as the colonel stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
For the next several weeks, Joss had a reprieve because the colonel was summoned to a meeting with the British high command in the Bahamas. In spite of her status as his personal prisoner, she cajoled the Spanish commandante into allowing her to walk along the terreplein with a soldier for escort. By the end of the week she was permitted to go into the town under guard and browse through the public market. Owing to her far greater proficiency at French, she gleaned much from the predominantly French-speaking inhabitants regarding the comings and goings of trading and naval vessels in the Spanish seaport that was effectively controlled by the British at present.
She formulated her plan, which necessitated waiting for the arrival of a British man-o'-war, the HMS Runnymede, three days hence. If only Sir Rupert did not return first, she would have her chance. Not wishing to bring retribution down on her maid Esmeralda, Joss confided nothing to the faithful servant. On market day the following Tuesday, she went to town as customary but carried hidden inside her unopened parasol a heavy iron poker from the fireplace.
After wending her way into the most densely packed area of the market between the fresh fruit vendors and fish sellers, Joss slipped behind a canvas tent that held barrels filled with lobsters. Grateful her morning indisposition had abated, she waited as the guard came searching, calling her name in alarm. When he walked past, she raised the parasol and coshed him squarely on the head, then made her way to the docks posthaste, searching frantically for a small boat to take her out to The Runnymede.
She was busily haggling with a fisherman for the use of his boat when a low familiar voice interrupted. "I should advise you, my man, to tend your nets and leave this troublesome Englishwoman to me."
Joss whirled around just as Chamberlain seized her arm, squeezing so hard the parasol tumbled from her numb hand and fell to the ground with a loud clunk. "Let me go. You have no right to hold me prisoner. I am a British subject. Please, Monsieur, you must get word to the captain of The Runnymede that this man is holding me against my will."
The little fisherman paled and stepped away, almost stumbling backward into his boat to escape.
"It's fortunate indeed I happened to see that bright hair and fair English skin from afar. Wouldn't it have been a pity if you'd set out in that leaky old boat and drowned in the bay?" Chamberlain said.
"Better to drown than suffer your touch," she gritted out, trying to wrench free of his cruel grip. The pain in her arm was excruciating now but she refused to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.
"Ah, so your listless spirits are gone. No more blue devils? Dare I hope your indisposition is ended?" he asked, reaching up with his clawlike hand to snatch her eyeglasses from her face and pocket them. "You're quite helpless without them, I warrant, aren't you?"
"Please give them back," she asked levelly.
"Not just yet," he said with a nasty laugh. Then he studied her face and figure and said conversationally, "You look the bloom of health, m'dear."
As they neared the fort, the soldiers at the gate stood at rigid attention when he walked by dragging her with him. Joss was shuffled off under guard to her room, where Esmeralda waited for her with a frightened expression on her face. She clucked over Joss's injured arm and ordered a tub of warm water, then went in search of herbs to make a poultice for the bruised flesh.
Later that afternoon, Chamberlain entered the room without even the courtesy of knocking. Joss sat in one of the chairs near the window staring out at the open water and beyond to Pinto Island. She looked up but said nothing, squinting at his blurry figure with mutiny in her eyes.
"Still defiant, eh? Good. A sure sign you've recovered. I've been making inquiries with all the servants about the state of your health over the past weeks since you, er, joined us. It seems you alternated between bouts of indisposition and hearty appetite. You still sleep a good deal...and you've had no menses."
She sucked in her breath, knowing her face must have given away the utter terror she felt rushing over her. "If you harm this child, you'd best do away with me, too, or I swear, as God is my witness, I shall kill you."
"So dramatic—and such un-Christian sentiments coming from a Methody miss. But then I forget that you've given yourself to that American mongrel who's no doubt corrupted your finer English sensibilities."
She felt so helpless without her glasses, hearing his mocking drawl yet barely able to make out his figure moving across the room. I can't let him hurt Alex's baby! The thought hammered at her relentlessly yet she could not think of a way to stop him—until he spoke again.
"I've given considerable thought to your, er, delicate condition," he said, standing beside her chair.
When he placed his claw on her bruised arm, she fought the urge to bolt and bit down on her lip, holding her spine stiff, waiting.
"I do not intend to harm you or the child. No, not at all. I've come up with a far better way to revenge myself on that half-caste bastard. I shall raise his child myself. If it's a son I shall teach him to despise the name of Blackthorne. If it's a daughter..." He felt her flinch, then continued, "I shall groom her to replace you as my mistress—and make no mistake, m'dear, as soon as you are safely delivered of the red mongrel, you will be my mistress."
Chapter Twenty-three
Barbara scanned the letter worriedly, then sighed and rubbed her eyes, forcing back the tears. Dev, who had waited patiently as she read her friend Madelyne's letter, walked around the table and took her in his arms. "What word of Alex, darling?" He knew it could not be good.
"Madelyne says he's still drinking. He's scarcely left the house since he arrived nearly two months ago, just sends servants out to buy him more liquor. Dev, he's trying to kill himself." She broke down and began to sob, letting out all the pain for Joss's death and her son's inconsolable despair.
"I prayed he'd come out of it if we left him alone as he asked, but..." Dev struggled for
words.
"We should go to him, Dev. You've talked with the mic- cos of every major town, even the great council. There is little more you can do now."
He nodded, stroking her back as she struggled with her tears. "We'll go to him, beloved. Perhaps I can prevail upon him now to take an interest in helping me stop the men responsible for his wife's death."
* * * *
By the time they reached Savannah, a chill early winter rain was falling. The skies were leaden and the wind off the Atlantic bit deeply. Devon was reminded of his years as a ranger in the War of the Rebellion, freezing and starving on the British side while Quint did the same with the rebels. And where had all of it gotten them?
Now they were embroiled in yet another senseless war. No one would profit; neither the Americans nor the English, least of all the hapless Muskogee who even now faced a bitter civil war of their own. Did he even have the right to ask for Alex's help? Damned if he knew, but his son needed a reason to start living again. Perhaps this was it.
Alex was closeted in the library when they arrived. Their worried old butler confided, "Mastah Alex done shut hisself away from th' world like a wounded animal whut cain't take no mo'."
Barbara knocked and pleaded for him to unlock the door. He refused. Frightened, she headed for the pantry to search out a master key. Devon took her aside, saying, "I think he's ashamed, afraid to let you see him in a condition with which I am all too familiar—unshaven, unbathed, red-eyed and reeking like a distillery." At her look of alarm, he said, "When I sent you away after Uncle Robert's funeral I went on a two-week drunk. Let me beard the lion in his foul-smelling den. We need to talk man to man."
Tears glistened in her eyes. "He's in such awful pain, Dev. Go easy on him."
He pressed a kiss on her forehead, holding her close for a moment, then whispered, "I will. Give us some time. You retire upstairs and rest from our trip while I make him presentable," he instructed gently as the butler handed him the master key, then walked away shaking his grizzled head sadly.
Dev let himself into the dark interior of the big book-lined room, which doubled as both family reading center and his business office when he worked at home. The place smelled dank and noxious just as he feared, reeking of stale food, mostly unconsumed, and copious bottles of whiskey, mostly consumed.
Alex sat sprawled on a wingback chair beside the hearth, where the fire was long gone out. His eyes looked as lifeless as the cold ashes. He slouched with his long legs stretched out in front of him, dressed in wrinkled stained clothes he'd no doubt slept in for a week or more. Thick gold whiskers bristled on his face, which was haggard as a death mask.
"I forgot about the damned master key," he said, gesturing with an upraised whiskey glass. A half-full decanter sat by the side of the chair, surrounded by several dishes with beef, cheese and vegetables, untouched. A bowl of soup with the lid half off congealed in the chill air. On the other side of his seat lay half a dozen empty whiskey bottles. He looked at them, then rubbed his eyes, saying, "Odd, but I can't even seem to sustain a decent drunk any longer."
"Drink yourself sober. I've done it a time or two," Dev replied, easing into the opposite chair.
"Every time I close my eyes I see her face. Nothing blocks it out, Papa, nothing."
"Only time will make it ease...or so conventional wisdom tells us. I don't know if it's true. I can't say I understand your grief, son. I've tried to imagine how I'd feel if it was your mother who'd been killed...." He shuddered. "I'd probably be doing the same thing you are—hell, I know I would."
Alex polished off the rest of the amber liquid in his glass, then set it on the rug and leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees, cradling his head in his hands. "I never had any idea that I loved her so much, that she filled every part of my life...and I was too big a fool to recognize what was happening. I left her without even saying good-bye—ran like a stubborn, stupid schoolboy too proud to take a chance on telling her the truth."
"Your mother got to know her well, son. She's certain Jocelyn loved you—and that she had hope for your marriage. What happened...it had nothing to do with the two of you or what you could have made together. It was a terrible, senseless tragedy caused by men whose greed and ambition care nothing for the cost in human life. We can't let them get away with this, Alex. What if Polyanne or Susan were taken next? Or any of the other innocent women on the frontier? Alex, if you had been the one killed, what do you think Joss would have done?"
Alex sat very still for a moment, staring down at the litter surrounding him. It signified the wreckage of his life. He was a wastrel and a drunkard, good for no one. "Joss was a fighter," he said hoarsely. "She spent her life tilting at windmills and never felt her causes were hopeless. She was teaching the children at Coweta. I imagine she'd have gone back to them and worked even harder—no, I know she would."
"The Red Stick leaders have turned on their own people using British guns. They're laying siege to Lower Creek towns one at a time. Then they'll strike out against the whites. We might make a difference, Alex, if we went to the Lower Towns and convinced them to unite and defeat the Red Sticks first."
The question hung unspoken between them for a moment. Then Alex replied, "I'll go with you, Papa."
* * * *
The winter of 1813 was soft in Mobile. As Joss's impending delivery drew near, she was alternately thrilled with holding Alex's child in her arms and sick with the realization that both she and the babe would be completely under Rupert Chamberlain's control. Even the colonel himself felt confident enough of his power over her to return her spectacles.
Her health, so long stressed by nausea and fatigue, bloomed in the latter stages of confinement. She had never felt better or stronger in her life. The small kicking being carried under her heart gave her hope. Somehow she would be reunited with her love. Failing all else, she enlisted Esmeralda in her cause. She and the young servant had grown close over the past months. Without the girl's gentle ministrations and fierce loyalty, Joss feared she would have abandoned hope.
"Here is the letter, Esmeralda," she said, handing the maid a sealed envelope. "Only pray God that this one gets through." To date she had attempted to smuggle out half a dozen letters to Alex through various means—bribing Spanish soldiers and local merchants and fishermen. But as yet it appeared none of the couriers involved had truly delivered the missives.
This time Esmeralda was taking a great risk. Her brother- in-law Jacques was bound for New Orleans to purchase a shipment of wine for his employer in Mobile. He was willing to carry her letter to the American city, from whence she hoped it would be delivered to Alex. The risk was great, both for Esmeralda to smuggle it from the fort and for her kinsman to deliver it across the gulf. As an additional enticement for the French Creole to aid them, Joss had included several key bits of intelligence regarding British military plans in the gulf that she was able to glean during her time spent with the colonel and his staff.
Tucking the slender missive inside a hidden pocket in her heavy skirts, Esmeralda smiled at Joss. "Esta bien," she said, hugging her mistress.
"You are good—as good and loyal a friend as ever I have known in my life," Joss replied in Spanish, which had grown quite fluent now.
After Esmeralda left, Joss walked outdoors into a small garden courtyard where she was allowed to take fresh air when weather permitted. Upstairs on a balcony overlooking the grounds, Chamberlain watched her standing in the sunlight, her face upturned to catch the first warm rays in over a week. A breeze off the bay ruffled her heavy mane of hair and pressed her soft loose dress against her body, revealing the fecund outline of her breasts and belly.
"You are salivating, Rupert. Do contrive to contain your perverse lust," Cybill said nastily. "Why, she looks a perfect cow, lumbering and ungainly. I cannot imagine what you can find attractive in that."
He turned to look at the coldly perfect face of his wife. Her voluptuous curves were revealed in a low-cut violet silk
gown that accentuated both the color of her eyes and the whiteness of her skin. Not a hair on her perfectly coifed ebony head was out of place. Somehow she even contrived to stay cool and unmussed after sex.
Reaching out he pressed his palm against the flat surface of her stomach. "Can you not imagine what it would be like to carry my child, pet?" he asked, knowing the answer. "A man can find such fertility most appealing...even erotic."
"Pah! The brat isn't even yours," she sneered, somewhat surprised at the direction of his thought.
"Are you volunteering to give me a child, Cybill?" he purred.
"Do not even consider it in jest. I've gotten rid of several already—yours...and others. I'd not hesitate to do so again if necessary. I shall never shamble about with a swollen belly," she said with loathing.
He shrugged and turned back to watch Joss as she strolled serenely across the grass, stopping to pluck several jonquils and inhale their fragrance. He did not see the expression on Cybill's face as she, too, stared down on the tawny-haired woman below with slitted eyes turned from violet to black with hate.
* * * *
Tensions simmered and violence erupted along the Georgia frontier in the spring of 1813. Using Coweta as a base, Alex rode with a force known as the Law Menders under William Mcintosh, a mixed-blood planter from a prominent white family. Attempting to stop Red Sticks' depredations across the frontier, Alex threw himself into the heat of battle like a man possessed. He risked his life again and again on the front lines, volunteering for the most dangerous reconnaissance, leading wild charges and seeming to court death at every opportunity.
"His grief robs him of judgment," Charity said to Devon when a group of Law Menders rode in and dismounted from their spent horses. Alex had led them into the interior to an Upper Creek town and brought back numerous Red Stick prisoners.