A woman with an infant in her arms burst through the doorway of the wooden structure. "They're killin' each other, Mistress," she cried. "You got to stop them!"
Ashley untied her cloak and let it fall, then unfastened the leather whip from her saddle. "I'll tend to it, Cara. This is no place for your baby. Get back to your cabin." She glanced toward the stallion. "Send someone to look after Baron." Taking a firm grip on the bull whip, Ashley entered the prize house.
The interior of the large building consisted of space from the floor to the massive beams and high, peaked roof. The small windows were shuttered against last night's weather; the only light came from several torches along one wall. At the center of the room stood a huge horizontal press, or prize, used for packing the cured tobacco leaves into casks. Beyond the filled casks and hogshead, in the far corner of the structure, a knot of men and women surrounded the struggling opponents. Thuds of flesh against flesh sounded above the catcalls and cries of the crowd. Her mouth dry, Ashley pushed her way through the circle.
"What's going on here?" she demanded.
A man appeared at her shoulder, doffing a worn cap with exaggerated deference. "Gideon called Short John's wife a dirty whore. You'd best let one kill the other one an' hang the one what's left." He nodded toward a screaming black-haired woman. "She told Short John that Gideon jumped her and tried to—"
Spying Ashley, the woman began to shriek louder. "He tried to have his way with me, Gideon did." The sensual features twisted as she waved clenched fists. The bodice of her gown was torn, exposing large, heaving breasts. "Kill him, Johnny!" she urged. "Kill the Welsh bastard!"
"Stop it, both of you!" Ashley ordered. "Short John! Gideon!" Deliberately, she uncoiled the whip. "Do you hear me? Stop fighting at once!"
The Welshman was a head taller than his opponent, with long, muscular arms and hamlike fists. But the smaller man had the quickness and cunning of a street fighter. With a wild cry, Short John drove his head into Gideon's belly, knocking the big man to the floor and flinging himself on top, fists flying.
The jeering mob surged around them as they rolled over and over on the hard-packed floor, locked in mortal combat. Short John caught the Welshman square in the nose with a well-placed blow, and the sickening crunch of bone came clearly to the spectators. Blood flew, and a knee in the little man's groin doubled him up with pain. The Welshman swore and came to his feet, pulling a wicked-looking knife from his boot. The onlookers screamed in outrage. A man stepped forward, then stopped as the big man cut an arc through the air with the gleaming blade.
"Stand back! I'll kill any man who comes near me!" he threatened. With an animal cry, he advanced on Short John. "When I finish with you," he promised, "you'll need no woman, slut or nun!"
* * *
As Kelt galloped up the road toward the prize house, he saw Ashley's bay stallion being led away by a young black boy. He pulled the dappled-gray up sharp and threw himself out of the saddle. "Where's your mistress?" he shouted.
"In there, sir." The boy pointed. "In the prize house. There's a fight between—"
"I know that!" Kelt dropped the reins and ran through the open doorway. He had crossed half the distance between the entrance and the inflamed throng when the crack of a bullwhip cut the air. The crowd scattered, stunned to silence, and he saw Ashley advancing slowly on the struggling figures. For an instant Kelt froze. Didn't she have sense enough to realize how much danger she was in?
With a sound as sharp as a musket shot, the whip snapped again. A man screamed in agony and something flashed through the air, struck the floor, and rolled almost to Kelt's feet. He stooped and picked up a razor-sharp knife.
The two men parted; the smaller man, covered in blood, threw up his hands in surrender. The other lunged toward Ashley, his eyes distorted with rage. Time seemed to slow as Kelt shouted a warning and pulled his pistol from the shoulder holster. "Halt or you're a dead man!" He leveled the weapon at Ashley's assailant, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Ashley held her ground, and the whip snaked around the bondman's legs. He fell heavily, and before he could gather his wits, Kelt had one knee on the man's chest. His left hand was at the Welshman's throat, the right held the pistol inches from his skull. "Don't even breathe," Kelt cautioned. The gray eyes held no mercy."'Tis easier to make an end of ye here and now, than to turn ye o'er to the high sheriff for trial."
Ashley moved to stand beside Kelt. "Will you go quietly, Gideon?" she asked.
Beads of sweat broke out on the man's head as he grunted his assent. Ashley rose and turned toward the onlookers. "This is the new overseer, Master Kelt Saxon. You'll obey his word as you do mine." She coiled the whip and turned her attention to Short John. "Go to your cabin. You and your wife have been warned about these fights before. Master Saxon will deal with you tomorrow."
"You and you"—Kelt pointed to two men—"bind him securely." One muscular arm yanked the bondman to his feet and shoved him into their grasp. "If he escapes, ye take his punishment." The angry hawk eyes scanned the room. "The rest of ye—ha' ye no chores to attend to?"
Quickly the men and women dispersed. Kelt watched Ashley out of the corner of his eye, still shaken by what he had seen. Her composure surprised him. No, he admitted to himself, it rankled. His irritation was all the more pronounced because of its irrationality.
"What manner o' woman are ye?" he demanded through clenched teeth.
"A self-sufficient one." She stared back at him arrogantly, with no hint of feminine timidity. "But a sensible one, I hope. That was quick thinking and quicker action. Thank you."
"Ye handle that whip like a drover," he said, ignoring her thanks.
Mischief lit Ashley's brown eyes. "Thank you again. Old Ash would be pleased at the compliment. He taught me how to use a whip and had this lighter one made especially for me."
"An odd choice of gift for a lady." Unbidden, a hint of sarcasm crept into Kelt's burr. He knew he'd been badly frightened for her, and now that fear was fast becoming irritation.
Ashley laughed. "I'd say that depends on the lady." She nodded at the departing workers. "My grandfather was a small man, and in his later years too weak to enforce his authority with his fists. He knew I would have the same problem, so he made certain I could take care of myself." She arched one auburn eyebrow in amusement. "I can shoot, too. I trust that doesn't offend you, Scot."
Kelt frowned. "Damn it, this is no matter for jest. Ye should have left this trouble to me. The mon could have taken that whip from you and killed you! A fight between men is no place for a woman."
Ashley shrugged. "It was a woman who started it. It's only fair that it be settled by a woman." No need to tell him that her men would have come to her rescue if they'd thought she was in danger.
"If one mon had killed the other, ye would have shared in the responsibility." Kelt's expression softened. "Ye show more courage than common sense, lass."
Ashley fought to control an inner trembling. Did he want her to admit she was frightened? Of course she was. Old Ash had taught her never to show fear, never to admit doubt. She had become a skillful actress, but the fears were still there, some real, some childish, like her overwhelming fear of thunderstorms. "On the day I can't control a fight between my workers, that's the day I lose my authority as master of Morgan's Fancy," she said.
"A woman is a woman, and a mon a mon. There are things ye canna do, and the sooner ye learn it, the better." Kelt fumbled with the clasp of his cape. "You're shivering. Let me give ye—"
"No!" She waved him away. "I have a cloak. It's outside." She'd not invite the familiarity of accepting his clothing. "Since you're so eager to take charge, I'll leave the settling of this matter in your hands. Both men are indentured servants. The one with the knife has been here only a short while; he's lazy and a troublemaker. Short John's wife... Well, you must talk to her and form your own opinion. Short John's a good hand with the oxen, and he can even read and write a little. We can ill afford to lose them. We don't have enou
gh workers as it is."
"Ye want me to get rid of them all?"
"That's for you to decide, Master Saxon. The Welshman must be dealt with severely. It is forbidden for him to carry that kind of knife, let alone to threaten me with it." Ashley pushed a strand of hair away from her face. "I'm not such a fool as you think. On the Tidewater, only a madman would kill a woman in full view of witnesses. I was in less danger than you would have been. If he had harmed me, the others would have torn him to pieces."
Kelt nodded reluctantly. "Aye. It's the same in Virginia." There was an odd thickness in his voice. When he had seen that man advancing on her with the knife... What was there about this woman that had affected him so? It had been more than a man's natural protective instinct toward a woman in danger; the fear had touched a deeper chord. He shrugged, pushing away the unsettling thoughts. "Tomorrow is time enough to deal out punishment. Give them a night to worry on it." He grimaced. "Is there a chance of a decent meal in this godforsaken place? I've not been so empty since I came to the Colonies!"
Ashley laughed. "We've shown you poor hospitality, haven't we? Come with me. We'll warm ourselves at Cara's hearth and sample some of her cooking. She always has something in the kettle, and her cornbread is the best I've ever eaten." She moved briskly toward the door, then paused and looked over her shoulder. "Well, Scot, are you hungry or not?"
"My name's Kelt, and I am."
She nodded. "Kelt, then, and you may call me Ashley when we're alone or off the plantation. I hear naught but 'mistress, mistress' from dawn until dusk until I'm sick of the word." She motioned toward the door. "Come on. You might as well meet some of our people."
With a sigh Kelt followed her. Leftovers snatched in a servant's kitchen wasn't what he'd had in mind when he suggested a meal, but it seemed all he was likely to get.
In the afternoon Ashley gave Kelt a tour of the plantation, beginning with the prize house and continuing through the fertile fields and meadows. The corn stood in shocks, evenly spaced, running down to the banks of the Chester River. Rabbits and game birds leaped up before the horses, and the sky overhead was filled with flocks of ducks and geese. The cloud-strewn sky echoed with their mournful cries.
Kelt stood in the stirrups and looked around him. He'd never seen a land so hauntingly beautiful since he'd left the misty glens of Scotland. "'Tis bonny, this Tidewater country," he conceded. The autumn colors blended one into another until he ached with an artist's bittersweet longing to capture the blue-green waters of the creek framed in marsh browns and cedar green.
"My grandfather carved every foot of it from wilderness. He traded with the Indians for this ground, even though Lord Baltimore claimed it. He gave three wives to this soil; one by drowning, another by fever, and my grandmother by childbirth. He was already old, some said, when my mother was born. His other children all died in infancy."
Kelt sighed. "I ken your love for the land. 'Twas so in my native Scotland. The house I was born in had been in my family for centuries."
"Your family, are they still there?"
"Nay." He looked away, blinking at the moisture gathering behind his eyelids. "They are all dead; the land belongs to a fat English lord who has probably never traveled the distance from London to even look at it." Unconsciously his fingers tightened on the leather reins. "The memories are bad ones; I'd rather nae speak o' it."
"As you please." Ashley had known enough pain to recognize it in another. Quickly she searched for a safer subject. "Being from Virginia, you may have met my mother. She is married to Nicholas Randall of Rosewood on the James."
"I've heard of Randall, but I've never seen his wife."
"A pity. She's quite a beauty." Ashley dug her heels into the horse's side. "We'd best get back. The woodland and the northern fields you can see another day."
"How many fields have ye got in tobacco?"
"Four. The crop was good this year. Now we've got to worry about getting it to England." Briefly Kelt glimpsed the concern in her eyes.
He didn't need to ask if she was in debt. Every planter he knew was. A plantation needed hundreds of items to function; hoes and axes, shovels, harness buckles, leather, iron for cart wheels, fish hooks, barrels, shoes and boots, cloth and china, even glass for windowpanes. All these things came from Mother England and cost dearly. Each piece was taxed, and surcharges were added over and over until the cost of even a pair of boots was beyond belief.
Tobacco was the cash crop of the Chesapeake, the crop that supported the planters' way of life. The price of tobacco fluctuated. Maryland farmers sold according to the word of their factors in England, often going in debt for the year until the proceeds were in.
Matters were made worse by the law that said colonists must buy and sell only with England. Dutch traders might offer far more profit on a cask of tobacco, even three times as much as the legal market. But a planter who sold to such a trader was branded a criminal, a smuggler, and might lose everything, including his life, if he were caught.
"Between the pirates and the weather, tobacco's a gambler's game," Kelt admitted. "Have your shipments been hurt?"
"None of ours so far, and that's a near miracle. They used to say my grandfather had the devil's own luck." Ashley reined in her stallion to ride beside him.
Kelt couldn't help but admire the ease with which she rode astride. Her back was ramrod straight, her hands light on the reins, yet ready to show firm control if the animal shied. "Since His Majesty's warships have been pulled back for that cursed war in Europe, they say you can follow the Carolina coastline walking on water. Pirate ships are so thick, ye can leap from ship to ship without ever getting your feet wet."
She laughed, sounding younger than he remembered, then her brow furrowed in concern and she grew serious. "I can no longer afford shipping insurance on my tobacco. It's jumped ten times over the last three years. Richard, my solicitor, says that by next year no one will be able to insure his cargoes."
"Ye have no insurance?" Kelt frowned. "That's poor business. If the decision were mine, you'd have insurance, regardless of the cost. I know of five ships that were taken this summer, four sent to the bottom."
"Well, it's not your decision." She clicked to the bay, urging him into a canter. Why had he spoiled the first pleasant conversation they'd had together? She had sense enough to know a tobacco shipment needed insurance; she also knew that there was simply no money left to pay for it.
Kelt cursed under his breath and gave the dappled-gray his head. Was he expected to spend the next two years eating her dust?
When they reached the farmyard, Ashley was pleased with the progress the workers had made on the barn site. Ashley introduced Kelt to the people he hadn't met yet and explained to him what orders she had already given.
"There are plans of the barn somewhere in the office. My grandfather recorded everything he did," she said proudly. "I want the barn replaced exactly as it was. We can give all our attention to it as soon as we load the tobacco crop."
Kelt walked around the ruined structure, pausing now and then to kick a beam or tap an upright. Ashley waited patiently, something he was certain didn't come easy to her. "Do ye want an honest opinion?" he said finally.
She nodded. "I may not agree, but I always welcome a man's thoughts."
"Tear the whole thing down. Put in a new brick foundation over there." He pointed. "Maybe a hundred feet from this one. And build from the bottom up; too many of your main supports are weakened. If ye patch this one, it will always be just that, a patched job."
A tenseness crossed her face. "You're right, but a new barn won't come cheap."
"We can log and pit-saw all we need here on the plantation. I know how to set up a brick kiln if you don't have one. It will take a lot o' hours, but winter's a slow time anyway. I think it will be worth the extra effort and expense."
Sentiment warred with good sense behind Ashley's cool facade. Slowly she nodded again. "We don't start planting tobacco seed until late January or Feb
ruary. We'll do it your way, Master Saxon." Already he was changing things, and she resented it. Ash Morgan's barn would be gone forever.
"Do it then," she said softly. "Spend not a shilling more than you have to, but build something that will last two hundred years and more." It was what her grandfather would have ordered if he'd been alive to say so. "You can begin as soon as the tobacco goes out. I'll hold you responsible." Ashley tossed her horse's reins to a boy and strode toward the house. "I've some figures on the tobacco," she called over her shoulder. "I'll send them out to you. It's prime oronoco, and I want it loaded carefully. I'll have none of the casks spoiled by water on the voyage."
* * *
Kelt was so engrossed in his planning for the new structure that it was sundown before he realized it. When the light began to fade, he went inside to clean up for the evening meal, entering through the kitchen. The girl, Joan, murmured something to him and pulled a smoking skillet off the hearth.
Except for a hound lying on the bottom step of the grand staircase, the house seemed empty. Kelt stopped at the foot of the steps and glanced around him, frowning. A candlestand stood beneath a gilded mirror, the mahogany soiled with melted wax. Dust lay thick in the corners of the hall and cobwebs hung from the ceiling. "Lazy wenches," he muttered. He knew what his mother would say about such careless housekeeping. Womanly and every inch a gentlewoman, she would have no slacking in her household. The manor house at Morgan's Fancy would have fitted neatly into one wing of his father's house in Scotland, but every surface, windowsill, and tapestry had been spotless and sweet-smelling. Mistress Morgan could take a few lessons in managing a household from a woman such as his mother.
He took the steps two at a time, nearly knocking down old Thomas as he came out of Kelt's bedchamber.
"Evenin', sir," Thomas said. "Your things have all arrived safely from Chestertown. I was just lightin' a fire to take the chill off yer room."
"Thank you, but next time I'll tend to it. I prefer to care for my own needs." Kelt frowned, wondering how long it would be before the household staff took his request for privacy seriously. He'd never been lodged in the main house since he'd become an overseer, and certainly never when he'd been an indentured servant. At his last position, he'd had his own cottage; he needed solitude to paint.
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