"Ye brought me up from Virginia to oversee your plantation. Buying and selling slaves has always been one of my duties. You're shorthanded, ye admit as much. With slaves there's less trouble of the kind you broke up in the prize house. They're good tobacco workers, strong, and easily trained in the tedious day-to-day labor."
"Like dumb animals, you mean?" Ashley reined in Baron and regarded him through narrowed eyes.
"I didna say that. A mon is a mon in my experience, some quick and some stupid. Skin color tells you nothing."
"A man is a man? And yet you think it morally right to hold another human in bondage without hope of freedom?" The cinnamon eyes darkened to ebony. "Slavery is a curse, and I'll not sully Morgan's Fancy with it!"
"Ye treat your workers fair, do ye not? You give them all decent food and tight shelter. What difference does it make if ye refuse to buy slaves? Does it free a single man? Does it send one back to Africa?" Kelt scoffed. "I wasna suggesting we finance a raid on the African Coast. If ye purchase men who are already slaves, you might give them a better life than they have already."
"If I had the coin, I would buy them and set them free," she declared vehemently. "A free man does twice the work of a slave. And why shouldn't he? He has hopes, dreams, something to work for."
"Slaves show a better profit than bondmen. By the time you've trained a bond servant to his trade, it's time to free him. Most are the scum of London and Bristol—pickpockets, highwaymen, and—"
"And rebels?" Ashley dared. "Traitors to the King?"
Kelt pursed his lips. "So we come to that, do we? Aye, I'm one of those rebels ye speak of... or I was. But I've paid my price, and the why and how of my arrest is my own business, Mistress Morgan. Ye knew I was a bondman before you hired me. If it's a problem now, you've only to say the word and I'll pack my belongings."
"You're as touchy as a blueclaw. I meant no insult to your precious Scot's pride, man. I was merely pointing out that a man such as yourself, who has been a bond servant, is in a poor place to condemn them."
Kelt shrugged. '"Or in a better place to judge than a gentlewoman. I've worked beside slaves and bondmen, eaten what they've eaten and slept on the same straw. Morgan's Fancy is in trouble financially. I'd be doing less than my duty if I didna advise ye to bring in slaves."
"And I'd be doing less than my duty if I let you." She dug her heels into Baron's sides and reined the animal around Kelt's mount. "No slaves and that's final. We'll not discuss it any more."
They rode back toward the house in single file with Kelt keeping his dappled-gray a good two lengths behind the stallion's hindquarters. Ashley's temper was evident in the rigid line of her spine, but she rode as though she were part of the animal.
"She's got more spunk than sense," Kelt murmured to the gelding.
Ashley's auburn hair was gathered at the back of her neck with a bit of black ribbon. It spilled over her shoulders in a curling mass, perversely enticing beneath the felt cocked hat. "She dresses like a lad," Kelt fumed. "There's no woman in her." But the slender neck and nipped-in waist belied his speech and he knew it. God, but he couldn't keep his eyes off her! Would that red-gold hair smell like honeysuckle?
Kelt removed his hat and wiped his brow, grinning at his own foolishness. If there was sweat on his forehead, he had worked himself into it, thinking about Ashley. The wind off the bay was sharp. A yearning coursed through his veins as strong as the one that had driven him to his first woman.
He chuckled at the memory. Jeannie MacDuff... as plump a pigeon as ever claimed a boy's innocence. He'd been mad for her—haunting the tavern where she worked, sketching pictures of her face, and even writing poetry extolling her virtues. Jeannie was a sweet piece, but virtue was not one of her strong points.
Jeannie had been the first, but there'd been too many since to name. There had been one special lass, a long time ago, whom he'd asked to be his bride, but smallpox had claimed her before they'd done more than exchange a few chaste kisses. Dark and tiny she was, no bigger than a child, with a soft voice and a gentle manner. Kelt tried to remember her face, but there was nothing... only the sound of bagpipes at her funeral. "Ah, Mary, you were too good for me by far."
Better she died of the pox than was raped and murdered like her sisters. A chill ran through Kelt and he pushed away the bitter memories. "Like my sisters." He bit the soft inner side of his cheek until he tasted the sweet-salt of blood.
"Those times are gone," he said softly. "Best forgotten." A man was wiser to fill his life with something new than to mourn what was finished. A Scot he was born and a Scot he would die, but he'd kill no more for lost causes. His hands had known enough blood. "I'm a planter now, by God!"
He'd ride to Chestertown and find a good-hearted wench with breasts like ripe melons. A man had to be hurting when he developed a yen for a woman as hard and shrewish as Ashley Morgan. "She'd be naught but ice in bed," he assured the dappled-gray. "A sour apple, left too long on the tree."
The gelding snorted and flicked his ears, and Kelt laughed deep in his throat. "Nae much of a liar am I, boy, when I can't even convince you of my prevarications."
A boy on a workhorse galloped down the road toward them, bringing Kelt out of his reverie.
"Mistress! Mistress! There's a message come from Annapolis fer ye!" The towheaded child waved excitedly. "A letter, Miss Ashley! Wi' seals an' such on it! Thomas said to fetch ye right away! He's holdin' it at the house."
Kelt urged his gelding up beside Ashley's mount, glancing from her pale face to the lad's red-cheeked one. "Were ye expecting bad news?" he asked.
"Thomas told me to take a horse, mistress," the boy insisted. "I've rid ole Dan before." The clear blue eyes grew anxious. "Did I do wrong?"
"Ye did exactly right," Kelt said heartily. He dug in his vest pocket for a ha'penny and tossed it to the boy. "You're a smart laddie." Kelt looked the boy over; he couldn't be more than eight, but he rode well enough and he seemed to have his wits about him. "What job do ye hold?"
"I'm kitchen boy, Master Saxon. I turn the spit and fetch and carry. Whatever Joan bids me."
"No more. I'm in need of a sharp lad to carry messages for me. I don't suppose ye can read and write, but no matter. I—"
"Dickon can do both," Ashley assured him. "He'll never make a scholar, but he is fair enough at sums."
Her eyes twinkled at Kelt's disbelieving expression. "We have a school of sorts, two afternoons a week. Thomas is the schoolmaster. All my children learn to read."
"I was not aware, mistress, that ye had any offspring," Kelt said solemnly.
Dickon barely stifled a giggle.
"I meant the children of Morgan's Fancy," Ashley snapped.
"An honest mistake," Kelt soothed, fingering his beard. "Do ye have any objections to my using Dickon as a runner, or had ye planned to make a cook of him?"
"Dickon?" Ashley glanced toward the boy. "Would you like that?"
"Oh, yes, Miss Ashley." He leaned forward on the bay's neck, twisting his thin fingers in the horse's mane. "I'd like that fine. I'm a good rider, Master Saxon. I'll do good fer ye, I promise."
"I intended to offer the boy a better opportunity than Joan's kitchen," Ashley said. "He'll learn more with you than he would scrubbing pots. Just be certain your duties do not keep him from his lessons." She gathered the leather reins in her hands. "Now I must see to my letter." She clicked to the stallion and urged him forward in a canter.
Kelt stared after her for a long moment. He'd read uncertainty in her eyes. She was expecting bad news. What could be coming that would cause such a reaction in a lass who had faced down an angry bondman with a knife? There were mysteries at Morgan's Fancy he did not yet understand.
"Sir." The boy spoke timidly. "Will ye need me to do anything now, sir?"
"Not now. Yes, on second thought you can. Ye can ride to the prize house and then down to the lumber camp and tell everyone that they have the day free." He raised a hand. "Wait. First go back to the barn and t
ake a riding horse and put a saddle on it. The little gray mare will do. Be certain ye touch none of the blooded horses or any your mistress uses."
A smile spread across the child's face. "Aye, sir." He nodded. "I know the horse well. I'll tell the groom you gave me leave to take her."
"She's old but steady. We'll see about a decent mount for ye in time. If you're to carry my messages, you must have good horseflesh under ye. Wait by the well for me after breakfast tomorrow morning. I'll have a task for ye then."
"Yes, sir."
A groom was leading Baron toward the barn when Kelt reached the farmyard. Ashley was nowhere to be seen. Kelt handed his horse to a waiting servant and went into the house. He meant to find out what the message concerned, if it was plantation business.
Thomas was coming down the front steps with an armload of books. "Sir," he called out softly in greeting.
"Your mistress—where is she?"
"In the library, Master Saxon. She had a letter come from Annapolis by boat."
Kelt nodded and made his way down the hall. The library door was closed; he hesitated, then rapped sharply. "Mistress Morgan? May I come in?"
"Yes."
Ashley was alone in the room, standing in front of the fireplace with her back to him.
"Bad news?" Kelt asked. If it was, he hoped she wouldn't start crying. Weeping women distressed him; he never knew what to do or say.
Ashley turned to face him, her russet eyes sparkling with unshed tears. "Good news!" she said, holding out the creased parchment. "I've won." A glow of triumph lit her face. "My stepfather thought to contest my grandfather's will. He took me to court, claiming Morgan's Fancy by my mother's right as daughter, but his claim was thrown out." She took a step toward him. "Don't you see, Kelt? The will stands as written. Morgan's Fancy is mine!"
Chapter 5
Kelt stared into Ashley's shining eyes for a long moment, fully aware of the flood of emotion her excitement caused within his own soul. She stood so near he could have taken her in his arms; the impulse to do so was almost overpowering. His gaze fastened on her parted lips. They were full and sweetly curving, trembling ever so slightly as they both became acutely aware of the silence in the room.
Ashley broke the spell. "My solicitor wouldn't let me go to the proceedings," she said. "He was afraid I might say or do something that would prejudice my case."
"I canna imagine why he would think that," Kelt murmured wryly. "Ye are the image of a Tidewater lady." He dropped his eyes to the muddy riding boots and then solemnly regarded her breeches. Even they had seen better days, he decided. A tiny three-cornered tear had begun to fray just above the knee and the material was wearing thin. What could old Ash Morgan have been thinking to raise a lass as wild as a woods colt? She was in need of a firm hand, male or female, to keep her in line. But as she was, what man would even think of taking on such a handful?
Ashley ignored his gibe. "The royal governor himself bade my stepfather's solicitors hie themselves back to Virginia. Nicholas will be furious, of course. I'd love to see his face when they tell him."
"And your lady mother?"
"Cicely will be secretly glad, I think. Nicholas has run through the majority of her dowry, both land and gold. I can't believe she'd want him to have Grandfather's estate, too." Ashley pulled off her cocked hat and sailed it across the room. "There is no love lost between Nicholas and me," she explained. "My stepfather despised me from the moment I was born." She chuckled. "Cicely told me he called me a worthless redheaded bastard and threatened to drown me in the James if she didn't keep me out of his sight."
Kelt frowned. "'Tis a cruel thing to tell you, even if it's true."
"It's true, all right. Nicholas never referred to me by my name when I was visiting Rosewood; it was always 'little bastard,' or if he had company, the more polite 'you.'"
"Didna your mother try to protect you from him?"
Ashley looked away. "I was proof of her shame. It's why she sent me here to be raised by my grandfather. She said that if I'd been a boy, she might have tried to keep me, but since I wasn't, I was better off in another household."
"Why did ye nae tell me o' the court case? Ye ha' said nothing."
Ashley smiled. "And give you more reason to mistrust me? Would you have stayed if you thought my claim to the plantation was in doubt?" She fixed him with an intense gaze. "You're not certain, are you?" Her expression became serious. "Cicely said that Nicholas wanted Morgan's Fancy for my half brothers, but that's a bald-faced lie. Robert's not sober long enough to make the journey to Maryland, and Henry..." She shrugged. "Henry's not but a whining fop."
"Ye dinna seem overly fond of your brothers," Kelt observed.
"They've shown no great fondness for me. Do you have brothers? Parents living?"
Kelt turned away and walked to a window. "No." He stared out at the gently bobbing sloop moored to the dock. Seagulls swooped down toward the gray surface of the water; their raucous cries came faintly through the glass. "All dead," he said. A sharp pain knifed through his gut. Why did it still hurt so much? Time healed all wounds, didn't it? Why not this one?
"I'm sorry." She crossed the room toward him and her shocked tone penetrated his sorrow.
"It was a long time ago," Kelt said.
"Noon meal!" Joan cried, sticking her head into the room. "You'd best eat while it's hot."
"Coming," Ashley replied. She half turned to Kelt. "I have not told you," she said softly, "how much help you've been to me. I know I've been difficult. I'm not"—She took a ragged breath and plunged on—"like other women, but... Oh, damn it, Saxon, you know what I mean. Thank you."
He nodded. "Aye, you've the right o' that, you're nae like other lasses. But it comes to me that ye may ha' a few good qualities just the same." He placed a hand lightly on her arm. "I dinna—"
Ashley jerked away as though she'd been burned, then tried to cover her chagrin with a hasty jest. "You'd best hurry and wash. I'd not want to keep you from your meal. I know how you enjoy the delicate flavor of Joan's cooking."
Kelt was already seated at the dining table when Ashley joined him a few minutes later. She noticed that he had changed into a fresh white linen shirt and stock. His hair was neatly brushed and tied back with a clean leather thong, and his russet leather vest was spotless.
He stood politely as she neared the table. Despite his size, he moved as smoothly as a dancer—or an Indian, she thought. He'd not learned his fine manners in the tobacco fields. Kelt Saxon was born a gentleman—she'd bet a hundred cleared acres on it. She allowed him to pull out a chair for her, secretly glad she'd taken the time to change her own clothing. Even her grandfather had chided her as a child for coming to the table smelling of horses. She'd give the Scot no such opportunity.
She'd been unprepared for his touch in the library. If she hadn't pulled away, what would have happened? Would he have tried to kiss her? Was it possible he thought she was a desirable woman? Or did he think she shared Cicely's moral code?
No, she admitted honestly, it wasn't Kelt's action that had shocked her; it was her own reaction. She wasn't a child; she'd been held and kissed by other men. But none of those kisses had affected her like the mere touch of Kelt's hand. What was there about him that made her tell him things she'd never told anyone, that caused her insides to feel as if she'd swallowed a butterfly? Whatever Kelt's attraction is, I'll have to get over it. There's no room in my life for a man—not even him.
She glanced sideways under her lashes to the end of the table. Kelt's size never ceased to amaze her. Even seated, he was immense, the rippling muscles barely concealed by the thin folds of the shirt. She pretended to unfold her napkin as she watched him. His attention was fixed on the covered tureen Joan was placing in the center of the table.
There'd be hell to pay, Ashley thought with carefully concealed amusement, if Joan had reheated the fish soup from yesterday. Even then, the extra dose of pepper had failed to cover the burned taste. Kelt had grumbled, but he'd
eaten it. Ashley didn't believe Joan's ruse would work a second time. The cornbread was fresh, but cornbread was never Joan's strong point. In fact, the only thing one could say with honesty about Joan's cooking was that the wench was clean. The food might taste awful, but there'd be no rodent droppings floating in the stew, as she'd pointed out once to her mother at Rosewood.
Joan lifted the lid and began to ladle out generous helpings of the soup. Ashley tried not to giggle as Kelt took a suspicious taste.
"What in God's name is this?" he roared. "By the King's pink backside! Is this hog swill the same ye served last night?"
Joan dropped the pewter ladle to the floor, oblivious to the spilled soup on her skirt. Her eyes grew large in her face as she covered her mouth with her hands and began to wail. "I tries me—me best," she sobbed. "I ain't no cook. I never was train—ain—ained." Throwing her apron over her face, she ran from the room followed by the half-grown girl who helped her.
Ashley dissolved into laughter. "You've frightened the girl half to death. For shame! She'll serve us even worse now until she gets her nerve back."
Glowering, Kelt stood and poured his bowl of soup back into the tureen. "Better starved than fed that muck," he spat. "Enough is enough! 'Tis worse than prison fare. Dickon! Dickon, I know you're out there! Get in here!"
The boy peeked around the door. "Sir?"
Kelt picked up the plate of cornbread and dumped it unceremoniously into the soup. "Take this where it belongs—to the hogs. Now!"
"Yes, sir."
The hawklike eyes fastened on Ashley. "I suppose you're useless in the kitchen?"
She nodded, certain that if she tried to speak, she'd burst into fresh laughter.
"Sit here. Dinna move. Just sit here until I fetch us something fit for humans to eat." The broad shoulders disappeared through the doorway.
Ashley heard rustling and frightened squeaks in the hall, then the sound of hurried footsteps. Still chuckling, she pushed aside her bowl and dug a small book of poetry from her vest pocket. She had no intention of going anywhere until she tasted the fruits of her overseer's efforts. Even an apple and some cheese would be better than the burned soup.
Bold Surrender Page 6