by C. K. Brooke
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
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Commanding His Heart
American Pirate Romances
Book 2
By C.K. Brooke
Commanding His Heart
Copyright © 2017 by C.K. Brooke.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: September 2017
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
www.limitlesspublishing.com
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-210-1
ISBN-10: 1-64034-210-9
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For my Limitless sisters.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
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Chapter 1
Jamestown, Virginia
1785
It was only springtime, but a hazy heat hung in the atmosphere, already promising a hot summer to come. Out in the barn, a queue of cows lowed impatiently, their udders full. They would have to wait their turns for the milking room. The methodical squirting of fluid into a bucket permeated the still morning air. One of the slaves, probably Daisy, had been out milking the creatures, one by one, since before sunup.
Emeline Winthrop stepped into a dewy tussock of ankle-high grass. She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder. When she was certain no one would see, she removed her linen cap. Layers of waist-length raven hair tumbled down, and she shook it out. Sprawling it over her shoulders, the young woman hoped exposure to the brilliant sun might help lighten it a touch. Of course, she had never been so fortunate to see it fade a single shade, no matter how much sun she stole. But it didn’t stop her from trying.
How was it that her sister’s hair boasted such a delicate hue of pale oak, kissed with golden threads in summertime, while Emeline was perpetually stuck looking like crows had lain to roost on her head? Perhaps she would need more than just a fistful of sunlight each dawn. But her mother didn’t approve of Em removing her cap. Practices of vanity, Mrs. Winthrop called it.
From behind her frame of midnight strands, Em watched her father’s dairy farm awaken. A plain wooden fence encompassed the modest property, from the dirt front yard to the very last henhouse in back. It appeared her younger brother, Jackey, had neglected to latch the gate again, and a few ducks had wandered in overnight. They waddled around the perimeter, rasping from their throats and inspecting the soil for seeds to eat. If too many of the creatures got in, Daisy’s husband would be summoned to catch them, and the Winthrops would dine on duck.
A welcome breeze tickled Em’s chin and rippled back her hair. It smelled so fresh, she fancied it had carried over from the James River. Another of the slaves, Henrietta, would be out any moment to stoke the fire pit. Em reluctantly twisted back her hair and pinned it up. She was adjusting her cap in place when, sure enough, old Henrietta lumbered across the yard carrying heavy buckets of what could only be grease and lye.
“Good morning, Henrietta.”
“Mornin’, Miz Emeline.” The black woman dropped the buckets by the great pot at the pit. Fronds of overgrown weeds licked up at the buckets’ bases. “Hooh, but it already hot out here.” Henrietta licked her lips, fanning herself with a wave of her chapped brown hand. “I go an’ git the rest now. Your mama’ll be expectin’ ya for breakfast.”
The soil beneath Em’s leather shoes was dry as she treaded back to the largest structure on the property. She was admittedly looking forward to the day ahead. She would be at her favorite sort of work—soap-making. Which also meant that her sister, Pru, was coming by. Emeline had a knack for selecting just the right herbs, flowers, and oils to blend into their soaps, along with the Winthrop sisters’ secret added ingredients of milk and honey. Pru usually selected the tart molds within which to press the jellied bars while their mother supervised the slaves. They wrapped the finished products in dyed cheesecloth and ribbon. While the same couldn’t be said of their plight in the Revolution, the Winthrops at least had good luck with their soap.
Em stepped onto the porch and opened the door. Her father was awake and reclining in the fireroom, his bad leg elevated by the glowing cinders at the hearth. “There you are.” He looked up as she came in. “Why aren’t you helpin’ Mama oversee breakfast?”
Em smelled eggs frying in the second fireplace, heard the comforting clink of china as one of the negroes set the table. “It’s soap day, Papa,” Em reminded him. “I was checking that Henrietta had our supplies in order.”
Mr. Winthrop grunted, apparently satisfied by the answer, and Em rounded the corner.
“Smells like those eggs need turning, Sara,” came Mama’s voice.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Em brushed by the scullery slave and opened the cutlery box. She gathered a handful of silver spoons and laid one by each dish. Finishing, she glanced up at her mother and frowned. Mrs. Winthrop wore a white mob cap that fell in flaps over her ears and fastened beneath her dimpled chin. Em privately swore that she’d never put on something so hideous, no matter how old she got.
Mrs. Winthrop caught her daughter staring. “Where is your apron?”
“Oh.” Em snatched the spare apron from the peg on the wall and fastened it around her petite waist. Her stays and stomacher were doing a fine job, it appeared.
Well, that and the lack of food.
Papa’s leg was too sore to permit him to walk to the table, so the women served him in the fireroom. Em, her mother, and young Jackey spooned their eggs and divided the remainder of the previous day’s bread at the table.
“Don’t forget,” Mrs. Winthrop rolled a spoon through her eggs, “you’ve a delivery this morning.”
“We do?” Em looked up.
“Didn’t I tell you? Mr. Grady placed a large order of cheese and soap to swallow the rest of our inventory.” Her mother looked pleased. “I thought you should deliver it promptly, in appreciation for his generosity.” She then pursed her lips, setting down the spoon, and Em felt a dull prod of shame.
Ever since her father had injured his leg in the war, and they’d lost her brother Danny, coin had been scarce. They’d had to sell the strongest of their slaves, including Henrietta’s sons. The woman had wept for months. The awful, anguished sound still haunted Em.
Their well-meaning neighbors had taken to purchasing more supplies than truly needed from the Winthrop Dairy, including Em and Pru’s specialty soaps, which were admittedly frivolous, but a novelty their friends hadn’t time to make themselves and were happy to buy. It was one way to supplement the family income, as Mr. Winthrop couldn’t do much with his lame leg, and Danny wasn’t around anymore to work the farm. All the same, Em didn’t much fancy being Jamestown’s local charity.
While the young woman was grateful someone had invested in their goods, her feet were already sore at the prospect of walking all the way to Lawrence Grady’s plantation. “I don’t have to make the delivery, do I?”
There was something disapproving in the furrow of her mother’s brow. “Of course, you do. Jackey will escort you.”
The boy threw his elder sister an impish grin. “I’ll race you.”
“Not with a basket of my soaps, you won’t,” Em warned him.
“Sara.” Mrs. Winthrop beckoned the young slave.
The family rose as the black girl collected their plates, and Em helped her mother prepare Mr. Grady’s baskets. Mrs. Winthrop took care to lay down a swath of checked fabric over the contents to shield them from the sun. Em wondered why her mother hadn’t chosen something plainer. Mr. Grady was just a cranky old widower. Why waste their few decorative fabrics on his order?
“We won’t be long, then.” Em lifted the heaviest of the woven baskets and indicated for her brother to carry the remainder. Jackey swept up his cargo with a sense of importance.
Bidding their parents farewell, the siblings set outdoors. Henrietta was already stirring the great pot over the fire pit in the yard, perspiration beading on her brow. Jackey dodged a rogue duck and trotted in every manner but a straight line to the gate.
Em sighed at the ten-year-old boy. “Do make haste. And mind the gate, will you?” She squeezed through the opening, her hands full. “You mustn’t keep forgetting to latch it at night.”
The boy’s cheeks rouged, and he made a show of securing the gate carefully before they ascended the road. Their shoes kicked up rings of dust, and Em angled her head away. It was all she could do to keep from coughing over their merchandise.
Though his legs were shorter, Jackey was quicker. Em shuffled to keep up amidst her petticoats. Already, a trickle of sweat dribbled between her shoulder blades. It was blasted hot.
“Why does Mr. Grady want two whole baskets of your smelly old soaps, anyway?” asked her brother.
“Same reason he wants that basket of smelly old cheeses, I reckon.” Em gestured to the goods he was carrying cockeyed.
He arched his eyebrows. “To eat it?”
Em chuckled. “Everyone in Jamestown knows that the Winthrop Dairy produces the most premier products, goosey. And I suppose Mr. Grady wants it all to himself.” She tried to adhere a smile to her face as she uttered the lie, keeping her chin pointed with confidence. But she wasn’t going to tell the child the truth, that they were growing poor…that a wealthy plantation owner like Lawrence Grady saw it as his begrudging civic duty to procure the wares of a family in need.
They trailed purposefully along the dirt bend, keeping abreast of their neighbors’ white painted fences and rolling pastures. A wild turkey strutted past, looking equal parts determined and lost. The odor of manure hung thick as vapor, blended with the heady scents of late spring, ripe flowers in full bloom, and a slightly fishy stench emanating from the brook that babbled sluggishly by the roadside.
Two miles later found them at the sprawling tobacco plantation. Em and her brother made their way up the long, rocky pathway, passing ghoulish, ragged shapes huddled over in the fields. Em averted her eyes, and Jackey copied her. For as fine as the property was—and it was one of the finest in Jamestown, particularly with its stately Georgian brick house—Em was never too fond of visiting Mr. Grady’s abode. Perhaps it was the way the foyer reeked of rotting meat and stale tobacco. But there was something more sinister, off-putting in the way his slaves slinked about, cowering in the shadows to conceal their scars or bruises, and fixing Em with wide, fearful glances whenever she said a word to them, no matter how gentle.
Drawing a breath, she climbed the steps of his grand white porch, balancing her baskets in each arm. She longed to be relieved of them and return home. Giving Jackey an encouraging nod, she permitted him to knock. The boy grasped the cast-iron knocker and gave it a series of thumps.
“Not too many,” Em muttered, and he reluctantly let go. They waited in the shade of the porch’s great overhang, listening to the idle buzzing of a horsefly.
The door groaned open. A stony-faced black woman appeared, a filthy-looking kerchief wrapped around her head. Deep lines framed her soulful eyes, although she couldn’t have been very old. She looked like someone who had never seen a wink of sleep.
“Good morning. We’ve come with Mr. Grady’s order.” Em smiled, offering out the baskets.
The negro did not take them. Instead, she stepped back, holding the door open wide and tucking her head between her shoulders. “Please, come in.” Her voice was so faint, Em wondered if she’d really spoken.
The siblings remained on the porch, Jackey clearly no more willing to enter than his sister. “No, thank you, actually,” Em asserted. “We’re in a bit of a hurry this morning…”
She was interrupted by a surly grunt issuing down the hall, followed by a succession of heavy footsteps. “Matilda?” a man barked.
Em took an involuntary step back. Oh, not the master himself, the young woman begged inwardly, although she kept her posture erect and her expression mild, if only for her little brother’s sake.
To her chagrin, a middle-aged man materialized in the doorway. His shirt was tucked in too tightly for his portly stomach, and his calves bulged from their ivory hose. His face, ever a shade of crimson as though he spent a good deal of time yelling—and he probably did—lifted into a syrupy smile for Emeline’s benefit.
“Miss Winthrop,” he greeted her, baring teeth outlined with tan stains. He turned to his slave, and Em noticed, despite his grin, that his eyes remained small and hard-looking. “Now, Matilda…”
The black woman flinched.
“Why are our guests waitin’ outside? You ought to have invited them in.”
Em spoke up at once. “Forgive us. Matilda was just offering your hospitality when I explained that we must be on our way.”
Lawrence Grady leaned his heft against the doorframe in a most ungentlemanly manner. “Busy today, eh?”
“Oh, very, sir.” She nearly thrust the baskets at him, desperate to get the transaction over and done with. Mr. Grady nodded lazily to Matilda, who finally relieved the Winthrops of their merchandise. “Since you’ve so kindly bought out our inventory,” Em forged a grateful grin, “we must make a new batch of soaps today.”
The man hummed with satisfaction. From one of the baskets in Matilda’s arms, he plucked up a delicate soap bar wrapped in cheesecloth and turned it in his thick fingers. “Yes, well.” He held it to his nose. “Since my dear wife passed on, as you know, I haven’t any ladies in my household to make such fine soaps and candlesticks and cheeses as you and your sister so expertly craft.”
Em knew she ought to feel sympathy for his loss, but couldn’t bring herself to. From what she remembered of the late Mrs. Grady, the woman had seemed as downtrodden and timid as any of her husband’s slaves. Em strongly suspected who had been to blame for that.
“You sure I can’t offer you something to drink?” asked the man, for whatever reason seeming keen to have them linger.
Before Em could stop him, Jackey blurted, “Yes, please!”
“Matilda.” Mr. Grady shooed the black woman without looking at
her. She turned, disappearing down the hall to do his bidding. Mr. Grady dug into his vest pocket and withdrew a small but dense pouch. “Here you are, then.” He plopped it into Emeline’s hand, flashing his stained teeth at her once more.
Em took it uncertainly. From the weight alone, she could tell he had overpaid. “Mr. Grady, I think you’ve given us too much.”
“Nonsense,” he crowed.
Matilda returned with twin cups of fermented cider. The china shook slightly in her hands as she gave one each to Em and the boy. The liquid was warm and bubbly, and alerted Em more than it refreshed her. She drew but one more sip before handing the cup back. They had idled enough. Jackey downed his serving and, thanking Mr. Grady again for his business, they prepared to leave.
“Good luck with your soap today,” he called after them. “With certainty, I shall be seeing you soon,” he added, just before Matilda closed the front door.
Em descended the porch, wondering what the last part of his farewell meant. Surely the man didn’t need to place another order with them? They wouldn’t be back so soon, would they?
Jackey’s steps became uncharacteristically jittery. He danced on his feet, cocking his head every which way.
“Fidgety, aren’t you?” his sister remarked. In fact, he was making her downright dizzy.
“Em,” he whispered urgently. “I’ve got to…” He motioned to the front of his britches, and Em understood. They boy had drunk all his cider, not to mention his milk at breakfast.
“We’ll be on the road soon enough,” she assured him.
“It cannot wait for the road.” His eyes were round.
“Oh.” She exhaled. “Well, find somewhere discreet, I suppose.” While it surely wasn’t good manners, she wouldn’t necessarily protest to the boy relieving himself on Mr. Grady’s property. Even while the old man’s payment hung heavy in her apron, there was something about him that Em couldn’t shake. Something she didn’t trust.