"What other?"
He simply shook his head and looked irritated with himself.
Sophie held herself silent.
He shrugged. "So," he said, "now I am responsible for both you and Jeremy. You will depend upon me and upon no one else. Just me. No, just shut your mouth, Sophie, and shake hands with your new guardian."
He hadn't really expected her to do anything but continue to squawk. She thrust out her hand and he took it in his. She stared up at him, saying in her tortured raw voice, "I do trust you with Jeremy. I do."
"You must learn to trust me with yourself as well."
"Oh no."
"How are your feet?"
"My feet? Oh, I forgot about them. They're fine, nearly well, in fact."
"Yes, I'll just bet they are." Ryder pulled the sheet off her. Her feet were lightly bandaged. Blood had soaked through the white cloth. "Why is there blood on the bandages?"
From walking on them downstairs and then running back upstairs.
"I don't know." Actually, she hadn't felt a thing. Odd, that.
"Sophie, it's obvious you got out of that bed. What did you do?"
"I had to relieve myself."
"Yes, certainly, that sounds like the exact truth. And reaching the chamber pot—all of six feet away— did this. Where did you go, Sophie?"
She looked at her hands. There was still grime under her fingernails. She said absolutely nothing.
'You need a guardian more than Jeremy does."
She looked then at her feet and wondered how she could have possibly forgotten them. Even dashing up and down the stairs to eavesdrop on Ryder and Mr. Cole hadn't hurt her. But now, looking at them, seeing the bloody bandages, she began to feel throbbing pain.
"I will see to them. There's no reason for you to remain, Ryder."
He cursed, fluently and loudly.
Within ten minutes he'd removed the bandages and was washing her feet with soap and hot water. She was trying to keep from crying out. He saw her white face and gentled. He called her a fool and kept cleaning the cuts. He called her a stupid twit when he lightly rubbed at a gash that was ugly and still bleeding.
When he poured alcohol over both feet, she nearly leapt off the bed it hurt so bad. But he grabbed her shoulders and forced her onto her back. "I know it must sting like the very devil but you deserve it. Damn you, don't move. I don't know where you went walking but I'll find out and don't think I won't. Now, I'm going to do it again, just to make sure. If you dare to move, I will tie you down. Scream instead."
She yelled at the top of her lungs when he forced both feet into an alcohol bath. He held them there and she choked on the pain and on her tears.
Jeremy came flying through the door. His fists were up, his face was red with anger and determination.
Ryder stopped him with a look and a simple, "I'm helping her. Come here and hold her hand."
Jeremy clutched Sophie's hand until finally Ryder was satisfied that he'd done all he could. He lifted her feet out of the alcohol and swung them back onto the bed. "Now, we're not going to do anything for the moment, just keep them on top of this clean towel. No walking or I'll thrash you and I daresay Jeremy will help me."
"Yes, Sophie, don't you move. How could you? Coco took care of your feet last night. What did you do?"
"I'm your sister," she said, her voice so raw and hoarse that she was barely understandable. Jeremy didn't understand but Ryder did, and he did sympathize. He was no relation whatsoever to Jeremy, yet Jeremy was perfectly willing and ready to obey him, not her. He leaned down and patted her white cheek. "Jeremy will visit with you for a while. Keep an eye on her, my boy, and don't let her move except to relieve herself. You're in charge, Jeremy. Don't let me down."
"Oh no, sir."
Ryder gave her a small salute. He gave Jeremy a wink, and left.
CHAPTER
9
HE SHOOK HIS head and shook it again. He simply couldn't get over her feet. She'd obviously walked somewhere—certainly a farther distance than to the chamber pot—and it had been only a short time before, for the blood on the bandages was quite fresh.
Then he knew, of course. She'd seen or heard Sherman Cole arrive and she'd been terrified. She'd come down and doubtless listened at the door.
His jaw tightened when he remembered his words about her to Sherman Cole and the man's words about her. Ryder's had been the more damning because she'd come to trust him, at least with Jeremy. He'd given her a clout that was both unexpected and beyond cruel. Ryder realized he was standing in the middle of the entrance hall, simply standing there, doing nothing, looking at nothing in particular when James said, "Suh, you need something?"
"No, James. Was Miss Stanton-Greville downstairs a few moments ago?"
"Yes, suh, she was. In old Mr. Grayson's nightshirt, her hair all wild, that ancient nightshirt flapping around her poor bandaged feet."
"Thank you, James."
"Yes, suh. Ah, suh, will dat Thomas get his neck stretched out?"
"I hope so, I surely do."
Ryder walked out onto the veranda. He saw Emile riding up and waved him down.
"Camille Hall is running as smoothly as I can make it at the moment," Emile said as he dismounted his horse. "The inside smells revolting still but the slaves are working hard scrubbing away the soot and grime. I left Clayton, one of our bookkeepers, over there to meet with the Camille Hall bookkeepers and the head drivers. He's a sharp fellow and a good organizer. He will keep everyone working. I will return this afternoon to see what they've accomplished."
"No sign of Thomas?"
"Nary a shadow. I directed the grizzly job of getting Burgess buried. His body had simply been overlooked, if you can believe that. Jesus, Ryder, it was a mess. At least it's done and over with. How are Jeremy and Sophie?"
"They're fine. Keep an eye out, Emile."
"Certainly. Where are you going?"
"To Camille Hall. Sophie and Jeremy need clothes."
Emile frowned after him.
Clayton was a vigorous, harshly tanned, wiry little man who seemed to be moving even when he was standing still. He met Ryder at the door and began talking nonstop.
Ryder listened carefully to the man as he studied the great house, mentally noting what would have to be done, then dismissed Clayton and made his way upstairs. A giggling young girl with her hair wrapped in a colorful scarf showed him to Sophie's bedchamber. Her name, she pertly informed him with a sloe-eyed smile, was Dorsey. Sophie's bedchamber adjoined her uncle's. He looked over at that adjoining door and imagined it opening and Theo walking in, a whip in his hand.
He opened the armoire doors and saw at least half a dozen of the most garish gowns he'd ever beheld. All silks and satins, the colors too brilliant, all gowns much too old for her, gowns shrieking that she was a woman who knew men and would make a man scream with pleasure. There was nothing else hanging in the armoire save those utterly repulsive gowns.
In the drawers beneath, however, he found gowns that he could well imagine her wearing—soft pastels, light muslins. There were also her underthings—all well sewn and beautifully embroidered, but not what a whore would wear, all lawn, cotton, and linen, no silk, no satin. He shook out a nightgown and held it up. It was batiste, white, and looked as if it would be worn by a little girl.
He made a pile of clothing he would take back to Kimberly. He did the same thing in Jeremy's room.
All the clothes would be delivered in the early afternoon.
When he arrived back at Kimberly, hot, sweat making his shirt stick to his back, he couldn't believe his eyes.
There was Sherman Cole and with him were four men, all armed. Cole was yelling at Samuel to bring down the harlot. She was a murderess and he was here to take her back with him to Montego Bay.
Ryder rode his stallion through the men, stopping only at the first step to the veranda.
Cole whirled around. "You! It doesn't matter, sir, I will take her, and I have
the men with me to do it."
Ryder waved a negligent hand to the four men, all of whom looked vastly uncomfortable, their faces flushed scarlet in the heat.
"Why don't you come in, Mr. Cole? I am sure there are some rather tasty buns for you to enjoy while we straighten out this confusion."
Cole shouted, "No! I want her, now!"
"I'm fatigued from this infernal heat," Ryder said, dismounting, and walking past Sherman Cole, "and from your infernal yelling. Either you accompany me inside or you can stand out here baying in the sun until you melt."
Samuel hurried after Ryder. Cole, taken aback yet again by this damned young man, followed more slowly. He could hear low conversation among the four men and wondered if the bastards were going to leave him here alone. None of them had wanted to come with him. Well, let them leave. He'd bring her back himself. Then he'd lock her in that room and he'd keep the key. She would be dependent on him for the very water she drank.
Ryder faced him in the salon and said without preamble, "You say Miss Stanton-Greville killed her uncle?"
"Yes, and this time I have enough proof. She shot him twice, one of my men found the derringer." He pulled it out of his pocket and dangled it in front of Ryder. "You'll see that it has two chambers. Both are empty."
"Interesting."
"Get her. It's obviously a woman's gun. Get her. I will take her back with me."
"Take her back where, Cole?"
The man's color was high and it went higher. "Why, there is a house we use to keep prisoners in. More a large room, really, but it will suffice for the likes of her."
Ryder could only shake his head. He should allow Cole to see her now—with her bruised face, bent over like an old woman because of her battered ribs, not to mention her bloody feet. Surely his ardor would cool at that sight. If he took her to this house, he would force her. Rape her endlessly. Ryder felt a knot in his gut and he rubbed his hand over his belly as he said easily, "I think not, Cole. Why don't you and your men ride back to Camille Hall. There's a nice fresh grave for you to dig up."
"What the devil are you talking about, sir?"
"Simply this, Cole. It seems that Theo Burgess wasn't buried immediately and thus Emile Grayson was able to examine the body before he saw him buried. It turns out Burgess wasn't shot. He was stabbed three times in the chest. Now, would you like to examine his body yourself? Emile did say that it was quite a messy job. You understand, of course. The heat and all. No? Well, then, why not take yourself and your men off and find Thomas."
"But this derringer—"
"It's mine," Samuel Grayson said. "I appreciate your returning it. And you're quite right, sir, it is a lady's gun. It belonged to my wife."
Cole ignored him, his eyes hard on Ryder. "But what was she doing there?"
"I thought it was her home," Ryder said, an eyebrow climbing upward.
"I will examine the body myself."
"Fine. A man called Clayton is there. He is a Kimberly bookkeeper but he is overseeing things at Camille Hall. He will doubtless provide your men with shovels. It won't be pleasant work, but I'm sure you know that. Good Lord, isn't this heat something? I might add that Emile was rather green when he returned after getting it done. Several more hours have passed. Ah well, how much more unpleasant can it get? Go now, Cole, I'm tired, and speaking with you tires me even more. Good luck with your digging. The result, I daresay, will be even less pleasant than the process."
Ryder turned away then and walked through the open doors onto the front veranda. He said nothing more, merely waited for Cole and his men to leave, which they did, Cole muttering threats under his breath.
"He was really stabbed?" Samuel asked.
"I have no idea. Emile didn't say."
"Are you saying that you just made that up?"
Ryder cocked an eyebrow at Samuel. "Why, yes. It makes for an interesting theory, doesn't it?"
"I'm still worried, Ryder. Cole is determined. He's a dangerous man, despite your contempt of him. We've just bought a little time, that's all. He wants her badly."
"She scorned him, you know. Struck him when he tried to kiss her."
"He isn't the kind of man to ever forget something like that." Samuel shook his head. "Something must be done and soon. Ah, that poor child."
"You mean Jeremy? I agree but he is young and adaptable. He will be just fine."
"No! I meant Sophia."
"Oh, her. I trust she's kept to her bed?"
"Yes."
Ryder said nothing more, merely walked back into the house and headed up the stairs.
When next he visited her, it was late afternoon. Sophie was wearing one of her nightgowns. She looked fresh and clean and very young. Her face was only faintly bruised now and she looked very bored. She frowned at him and said, "It is difficult to bathe and not get your feet wet."
"It's a sight I should have enjoyed witnessing. Perhaps you could bathe again this evening for my entertainment? I suppose that vicious snarl means I am to be denied. Well, it doesn't matter. I have come to talk to you."
"Talk, then."
"Feeling restive, are we?"
"I want to go home. I heard that one of your bookkeepers is overseeing things at home. That isn't right, Ryder. I should be there. Our people are perfectly capable of dealing with the problems themselves. I really must go home."
"Well, you can't just yet, so be quiet. As for Clayton, Emile says he's a diplomat so you needn't worry about lacerated sensibilities. Cole was here again after your lovely hide, but I told him that your uncle was just buried and it turns out he was stabbed, not shot."
She stared at him. "You're jesting."
"Who knows? It got Cole out of here. But I will tell you true. I think Thomas really did kill him and that he was the one you shot. Of course, that means it wasn't a mortal wound for he later spoke to Cole, giving his spurious evidence. But he's gone to ground now. I want to find him and toss him into the mangrove swamp. Yes, that's what I'll do."
"He won't return to Camille Hall. I really do want to go home, Ryder. There is so much to be done. There is no reason for Jeremy and me to remain here any longer. My ribs are much better now and my feet—well, I won't walk much, all right?"
"And just what would you do if Mr. Sherman Cole arrived with his men to remove you to Montego Bay?"
She paled. He remained unmoved.
"Actually," he said, looking beyond her right shoulder, "I've decided that we're all going back to England."
"You're mad!"
"Quite possibly. Jeremy needs schooling. He will go to Eton."
It was a dream come true, only Sophie didn't want it to come true this way, no, not through him. "No," she said. "I won't allow it."
"You have no choice at all," he said and smiled at her.
"I do have a choice. I won't be your mistress, Ryder, I won't."
"I don't recall having asked you. At least not in the past three days."
"I heard you! I heard what you said to Mr. Cole!"
"In that case, you must know that my ardor for your lovely self is quite in doubt now. After having examined you quite thoroughly I'm not sure at all that I am interested anymore. You are adequate for your environs, perhaps, but back in England? I don't know about that."
She picked up a heavy book of Shakespeare plays and flung it at him with all her might. He caught it square in his chest and grunted. Actually, she felt more pain in throwing the heavy tome at him than he felt at the blow. She paid it no mind. She threw a pitcher of water at him, a much easier shot, soaking the front of him.
There was nothing else to throw. She lay back against the pillows, panting and heaving, her forehead damp with perspiration. He hadn't moved, even to wipe the water from his face. "That's the second time you've attacked me," he said mildly. "What do you think I should do about it?"
"You should stop trying to take over my life."
"I want you to be well again."
"So do I!"
"Ah, but my rea
sons for wishing it are quite different from yours. I want you well and thus able to fight me. I want to hear you yowl when I've bested you, which I will do. I want to hear you curse me. I want you to hurl yourself at me again and again, because I know you, Sophie, I know you don't give up easily. When I have bested you, then you will get what you deserve."
"I wish you had never come here."
"Oh? And who should have come in my place? My little sister, Sinjun? I must admit that she would have found all this vastly amusing, but I'm not certain she would have dealt with you as well as I. She is very straightforward and honest, you see, utterly without guile. Or perhaps my pious younger brother, Tysen, who is right now at Oxford preparing himself for vicardom. He, I doubt not, will marry an equally pious girl who will be nauseatingly proper and good. Still and all, however, it's possible that Tysen would have been the recipient of one of your drowsy-eyed smiles and stuttered himself off the island and quite probably drowned. Now, as to the earl, why, my dear girl, he would have eaten you for breakfast. He has no patience, not like I have. He doesn't like games, either, not like I do. He doesn't indulge wholeheartedly in the sport women usually provide, not like I do. No, he would have put a stop to you immediately and walked away, dusting his hands. So, all in all, I think you were very lucky I came here, and I do promise you, Sophie, I swear it, that you will be bested by me, but in my own good time."
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