Slowly, so as not to alarm anyone, he placed the kitten he had been holding in the straw, where its nervous mother quickly retrieved it.
“Guess what! He builds ships. Real big ones!” Jamie seemed unaware of the tense drama that centered on him.
Alec watched as the boy raced to his mother, who scooped him up and hugged him as if her life depended on it, silent tears spilling down her cheeks. He felt something twist in his stomach.
“Only a monster would hurt a child.” Alec wanted somehow to comfort her. He met her gaze and held it. Her eyes were as green as a meadow in spring, and he found himself reaching to brush a tear from her cheek.
The sharp sting of a riding crop across his chest stopped him.
“Keep your distance from Miss Blakewell, convict!” The fop glared at him, riding crop gripped tightly in a gloved fist.
It took every ounce of will Alec possessed not to strike the man in the middle of his pretty face.
“Geoffrey Crichton!” Miss Blakewell stared wide-eyed at the bewigged fool. “Here, we do not strike our servants.”
“Of course.” The dandy bowed stiffly. “Forgive me.”
So this was Fancy-Pants. No wonder Zach disliked the man. He was a pompous ass. Alec exchanged a knowing glance with Zach, who rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Braden. Master Crichton sometimes forgets himself.” Miss Blakewell sent Crichton a scathing look.
Alec saw a muscle twitch angrily in the fop’s cheek as her comment struck home and felt a grudging respect for Miss Blakewell. No doubt many men cowered before this fool, yet she had insulted him without worry.
“I’ll get salve for your wound.” Her gaze met his and she turned to go.
He looked down to see an angry red welt spanning his chest. “Thank you for your concern, Miss Blakewell, but it’s nothing.”
The worry in her lovely eyes seemed genuine. It was almost enough to make him forget for a moment who she was, who she thought he was. Almost.
“Everybody back to work.” Micah led the curious gawkers away from the stable. “Everything’s fine. Just a misunderstandin’. Back to work.”
“Nan, take Jamie to the cookhouse, please,” Miss Blakewell gave the child one last hug and kiss before putting him down. “And this time, young man, stay where I can see you, or I’ll take a switch to your backside!”
“Eleanor!” The cook turned and glared at the younger woman as they walked away. “I thought ye said ye checked the stables.”
“I did!”
“Ye did a bloody poor job of it!”
Alec heard Zach’s laughter as the sawyer followed the object of his affection out of the stable, teasing her along the way. Slowly voices faded, leaving only Alec, Miss Blakewell, Luke, who was standing guard again, and Fancy-Pants, who was looking Alec up and down as if he were some sort of exotic animal.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Braden. We thought … that is, Jamie was missing, and when we couldn’t find you, we thought ... ” Miss Blakewell stammered apologetically.
“I know what you thought.” Alec spoke more harshly than he’d intended. “You were wrong.”
Crichton was still staring at him, disdain on his face.
Alec met Crichton’s gaze, then looked at Miss Blakewell again. “Am I your new prize stud to be displayed before curious neighbors?”
Although he’d addressed Miss Blakewell, who started at the vulgarity of his words, the comment had been aimed at Crichton. When the riding crop was raised this time, Alec was ready for it and caught Crichton’s wrist in midair.
Miss Blakewell gasped. “Geoffrey, no!”
“Miss Blakewell said they don’t hit servants here.” Alec’s gaze locked with Crichton’s. A full head taller than the younger man and of a bigger build, Alec knew he had the physical advantage despite his recent injuries. He smiled icily at the fear and surprise that showed on the other man’s face.
“Stop it, both of you!”
Finally Crichton relaxed and lowered his arm, nostrils flared, gray eyes cold with hatred. “You’ll live to regret this, convict.”
And Alec knew he had made an enemy. It was a strange feeling for someone whose disagreements with others had been limited to business disputes and drawing room debates.
“If you’ll excuse me, Miss Blakewell, I am needed elsewhere.”
Cassie watched Cole leave, feeling ashamed for having jumped to so hideous a conclusion. She’d expected to find him holding Jamie hostage or worse. Instead he’d been cradling a kitten, a sight she found strangely unnerving. Not that she trusted Cole Braden now, but she was sure he had not meant to harm or frighten her brother. The shocked expression on his face when he’d realized what they believed him guilty of was enough to convince her he’d never considered hurting Jamie.
Geoffrey stepped back, flicking the ruffles at his wrists and throat. Cassie could tell from the ticking muscle in his cheek that he was furious. A heavy silence stretched between them.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sell his indenture now that you’ve had a taste of what might happen?”
“No, Geoffrey. Thank you. This incident was a misunderstanding, nothing more. It was our fault for not checking the grounds more thoroughly.” The admission was not easy to make. She’d talk to Elly later.
Geoffrey eyed her doubtfully. “Very well. But I’m going to take the liberty of sending over one of our most trustworthy men to help keep an eye on him.”
“He is already under guard—“
“And has already managed to elude your darky once. I’ll listen to no objections, Catherine, not when your safety is at stake. I’ll send him tomorrow. I hate to think of you here unprotected.”
Cassie started to object but was interrupted again.
“Assign my man whatever task you like. He’ll be yours to do with as you choose. I know your father left you in charge. Despite whatever I might think of his . . . unusual decision, I will respect it. But enough of that. I came by to give you this.” He reached inside his waistcoat and removed an envelope.
She opened it to find an invitation to Geoffrey’s twenty-third birthday party, to be held, as usual, the last weekend in June.
Geoffrey took a deep breath and smiled at her, the anger having left his face. “I hope you and Jamie will be able to attend. I don’t think you’ve missed my birthday celebration since we were small children. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”
Cassie felt a twinge of regret for having admonished him in front of the others. Although it was inexcusable for him to have struck Cole, he had done so in a misbegotten attempt to protect her. Though she often disliked the severe man Geoffrey had become, it was hard for her to forget she had once adored him.
“Thank you, Geoffrey. Of course we’ll come.”
The smile that now brought dimples to Geoffrey’s handsome face reminded her of the boy she’d grown up with.
“Would you stay for tea?” she asked, remembering her manners.
She tried not to seem too relieved when he declined.
* * *
As soon as Blakewell’s Neck had disappeared behind him, Geoffrey let out an exultant whoop. The horse beneath him broke into a gallop. He finally had a plan. With Henry’s help, he’d have Catherine at the altar before winter. And then . . .
The thought of bedding her was intoxicating.
He wouldn’t tell his father about this. He’d surprise him instead. His father would be proud of him, proud that he’d been a man and taken action on his own. He’d wait until his father had gone to Williamsburg for the season, and then Catherine would be his.
As for the convict, Braden would pay dearly. Not just for humiliating him in front of servants and slaves, although that in itself was reason enough. There was something about the way the felon and Catherine had looked at each other that had made him want to kill the man. Clearly the knave’s story about being kidnapped had captured Catherine’s overly romantic imagination in some way. Geoffrey’s anger flared anew a
s he remembered the way her eyes had softened when she’d seen him. He kicked impatiently at his horse’s flank with his good leg, driving the animal beneath him to a frenzied pace.
No matter how unconventional she might be, he loved Catherine. His father wanted the match so he could acquire her dowry—fifteen hundred acres of riverside land. They’d be able to build the wharf they’d always talked about and have direct access to the river like the other good families. But Geoffrey wanted only Catherine.
He’d decided long ago to make her his wife. He’d been six then, she only five. She’d come to visit him as he lay in bed recovering from the accursed fever that had left him lame. She’d shown him kindness when his own father, sickened by the sight of Geoffrey’s infirmity, had refused even to enter the room. Her beautiful green eyes wide with concern, she’d lifted herself onto her toes and kissed him on the cheek.
“Feel better, Geoffey,” she’d said, calling him by his pet name and putting a single wilted rose on his pillow.
He’d known from that moment he loved her. Surely she’d turned down all her previous suitors because she was waiting for him. Yet she seemed to go out of her way to avoid him, rejecting his advances, however mild they might be. Why?
One thing, however, was certain. The moment he had control of Blakewell’s Neck, he would make Nicholas Braden regret the day he was born.
Chapter Six
“I’ve told you everything I remember.”
Candlelight danced on the brick walls of the darkened cookhouse, over the copper pots that hung neatly on their hooks and across the faces of the two men sitting opposite each other at the table. The sheriff seemed to Cassie to be enjoying himself, having devoured three bowls of Nan’s oyster stew, several slices of cornbread, and most of a jug of cider. Cole, who’d not yet eaten, sat back lazily, his arm draped over the back of the chair beside his, the tense line of his jaw the only sign he was under any strain.
For three hours Cassie had watched and listened from where she stood near the hearth as Sheriff Hollingsworth had relentlessly interrogated the convict on the details of his supposed kidnapping. Her feet hurt. Her lower back ached from standing motionless for so long.
The sun had long since set. The beating of slave drums and the pulsing song of katydids floated on the warm night air. So far, the sheriff’s efforts had yielded naught. Cole held firmly to his account and was so convincing she would have believed him had he but one shred of evidence to bear out his claim.
“Now back to your journey.” The sheriff buttered the last piece of cornbread. Crumbs littered the linen tablecloth around his bowl. “You were at sea for at least six weeks, yet you claim to remember so little of the voyage. Perhaps—”
Cole slammed his fist on the table and sprang to his feet. “Damn it, man! Must we continue this useless interrogation?”
The room was so still, Cassie could hear her own heart beat. The only movement was that of trembling candlelight.
Then the sheriff’s young deputy, remembering his duty, stepped timidly from the shadows and aimed a cocked and loaded pistol unsteadily at the convict’s head.
Sheriff Hollingsworth, seemingly unaffected by the convict’s outburst, broke the silence with a belch and, wiping cornbread crumbs from his stock and waistcoat, motioned for Cassie to refill his cup. Only then did she realize she had been holding her breath. She did as he directed and went back to stand by the hearth.
Cole glanced at the pistol, rolled his eyes in seeming disgust, and slowly resumed his seat.
“Suppose what you’ve told us is true.” Sheriff Hollingsworth packed his pipe with tobacco and lit it with a bit of kindling he’d touched to flame. Drawing deeply on the aromatic smoke, he sent a series of white rings floating toward the ceiling as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “Who in bloody hell would want to ship you here? Surely the culprit would know you’d fight to reestablish your name. Why not simply lop off your head and be done with it?”
Cassie nodded. This part of the convict’s story made no sense.
“I don’t know.” Cole shook his head. “For money. Or perhaps the kidnapper thought I’d die on the journey or perish before I was seasoned to the colony. Then there’d be no body in England to give the crime away.”
“Who would want to kill you?” Sheriff Hollingsworth asked.
“I’ve no idea.”
“Your heir, perhaps?”
Cole seemed to consider this for a moment, then shook his head. “Philip has many flaws, but he’s not capable of this.”
“You’ve no enemies?”
“None.”
“Business rivals?”
“Several, but none who would stoop to kidnapping or murder. Of course . . .” Cole paused.
“Out with it, man. If you’ve anything to convince me what you’re saying is true, you’d best tell me now. You must know I don’t believe a bloody word you’ve said tonight.”
“There are a few irate husbands in London who would not be heartbroken were I to vanish suddenly.”
The sheriff guffawed, slapped his knee, and gave Cole a conspiratorial grin.
Cassie did not bother to hide her look of censure. Men! That a sheriff and a felon could find common ground when it came to violating the sanctity of marriage spoke volumes about their sex.
* * *
Elly felt a hand slip over her mouth, her surprised gasp cut off by a man’s callused hand.
“What have we here?” Zach whispered in her ear, his lips caressing her cheek. “Ye wouldn’t be eavesdroppin’, would ye, Elly?”
“Shhh!” She turned her attention back to the conversation in the cookhouse.
Despite the infernal slave drums, she’d been able to hear almost everything from her hiding place beneath the window near the woodpile. When the convict had jumped to his feet, she’d gasped out loud. She didn’t want to miss a moment of this.
She felt Zach’s lips touch the back of her neck, sending warm shivers down her spine. She ignored him. Then his lips nibbled at her ear and traveled down the side of her throat.
“Zach! Stop it!” She fought not to laugh.
“Never mind me.” His hands moved near her breasts. “Spy to yer heart’s content.”
His lips and tongue caressed her nape. She started to protest, but the words never left her mouth. Before she could speak he had turned her toward him and captured her lips with his. She would have pushed him away had the feel of his mouth on hers not driven all thought from her head. She felt her arms slip behind his neck in surrender and invitation. Something deep within her ignited as he probed her mouth with his tongue. With one of his hands he pressed her body against his. With the other he cupped her breast, teasing an already taut nipple through the cloth of her dress and chemise. She felt her knees weaken.
It was happening again, and she did not want it to happen. Not with him.
“Stop!” She pushed his hand away and turned her face from him, struggling to regain her poise.
Zach released her. “I love ye, Elly.”
His brown eyes said all that and more, a wistful smile on his lips. Moonlight played across his blond hair and sun-bronzed skin. And she couldn’t deny she desired him.
“Oh, hush.” Her heart still beat wildly, and her skin tingled where he’d touched her. “You’d best forget all your silly ideas right now, Zachariah Sawyer, for you must know I’ll never marry you.”
His real surname was Bowers, but she called him Sawyer to remind him—and herself—of what he was and why she could not spend her life with him. She tried to ignore the shadow that passed over his handsome face. She was destined for something better than this. She’d not waste her life cooking, cleaning, and bearing children for a man who could barely provide a roof over her head and a meal for her belly. Even if that man were Zach.
“Still dreamin’ of Fancy Pants, are we?” His lips brushed her throat. “I can make ye forget him.”
He claimed her lips fiercely this time. Despite her resolve she found herself e
mbracing him, her fingers running over the smooth muscles of his bare back, returning the kiss with a fervor equal to his.
“I know ye want me, Elly.” His voice was hoarse, strained.
She moaned in defeat and let her head fall back. His lips brushed the tops of her breasts. Liquid warmth spread throughout her body, gathering between her thighs. Her fingers pushed through his hair and pressed him against her. The scent of newly cut pine, sunshine, and male sweat filled her head.
She felt him lift her skirts and nearly gasped when he cupped her bare sex with his hand and began to caress her slowly. Her body, craving what he had to offer, moved rhythmically against the pressure of his hand. God help her, she did want him.
“Oh, Zach.” She moaned, arching against him. He was driving her mad.
The musky scent of her desire made Zach’s head spin. He gripped her bare bottom, pulling her mound against the swell of his breeches. The contact sent heat through his loins. She whimpered in response and spread her thighs for him, leaning against the cookhouse for support. He lifted her, sought the silken folds of her womanhood. She was hot and wet and cried out softly as he slid a finger first over her swollen bud and then inside her.
“Elly!” He throbbed as much from the sight of her awakened passion as from his own need. Her eyes were half-closed, her lips parted, her golden hair spilling in a disorderly, shimmering mass over her shoulders. Her breath came in heated gasps. God above, he wanted her. He wanted her so badly it hurt.
But this wasn’t right. If he didn’t stop now he was going to tup her up against the cookhouse as if she were a common whore. He reluctantly pulled his hands to her face and rained kisses along her nose and lips. She moaned with frustration. Aye, he wanted her, but not like this. It was her first time. She deserved better.
“Let me come to yer cabin tonight, Elly.”
Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked at him with undisguised longing. For a moment he thought she would say aye, but then the passion fled her face and was replaced by fury. “No!” She stepped away from him and smoothed her skirts into place.