Sweet Release (11 page)

They seemed to stand there for an eternity, Cole holding her hand, she looking anywhere but at him. She heard the steady inhale and exhale of his breathing, felt hers quicken. She ventured an upward glance and felt the deep blue of his eyes penetrate her composure.

“That should slow it. Have you any salve nearby?”

“On the second shelf above the worktable.”

In two quick strides he’d found the jar and was back, holding her hand and carefully spreading the ointment over the cut, which now bled only slightly.

“Does it sting?”

“Aye.” Her voice caught in her throat.

His touch was gentle, disturbingly so, as he made delicious, slow circles on her skin. Pain from the cut mingled with pleasure, creating an excruciating sensation that left her nearly bereft of breath and thought.

“I suppose your Indian medicine woman made this concoction.”

He wrinkled his nose.

“Takotah?” Cassie couldn’t help laughing at his reaction. Takotah had created many a smell far more unpleasant than this one with her herbs and potions.

“Aye, but she’s not mine. She can leave the plantation anytime she likes.”

“Why do you suppose she stays?”

“Her people were all but wiped out by settlers. Her husband and children were murdered. We are the only family she has.” Cole seemed to consider this, then nodded his head thoughtfully.

What a strange man he was: gentle one moment, harsh the next. The image of him holding that kitten against his chest leaped unbidden to her mind once again, causing her heart to beat faster.

Since yesterday afternoon she’d watched him play with the children. Following Jamie’s example, they had bombarded him with questions about pirates and sailing vessels. So far he’d indulged their every query with surprising good humor. Yet she’d also seen the way he sprang from his seat tonight, his expression that of a man ready to kill. She remembered the terrifying strength of his arms as he’d cut off her breath and threatened to break her neck not so long ago. That he was dangerous was clear. But he was no common felon. That much was also apparent.

“Is that better?” His voice was deep and soothing, his blue eyes warm.

Cassie nodded, afraid to speak.

He reached for another napkin and carefully wound it around her hand. Dark lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and he frowned slightly as he worked. The day’s growth of whiskers made the skin on his chin and cheeks appear dark and rough. She resisted the urge to stroke his face.

“This should do it.” He tucked one end of the napkin under to create a temporary bandage.

His gaze captured hers and held it unwavering. He should have released her hand by now, but he did not. Nor did she try to take it from him. Then, ever so slowly, he turned her hand over and, without breaking eye contact, brought it to his lips.

Entranced by the deep blue of his eyes, she could at first do nothing but marvel at the warm sensation his lips created when they touched her skin. She’d been kissed this way a thousand times before, but never had this simple act made her pulse quicken. What she had once viewed as a polite form of greeting was with him an act of intimacy. She gasped and snatched her hand from his grasp as reality replaced surprise.

“You’ve no cause to fear me.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“You’re trembling.”

“It’s the night chill.”

“You’re lying.” He smiled.

She started to protest, felt her face flush.
Damn him!
Why did he delight in humiliating her?

“Either you’re afraid of me, or you want to be kissed as badly as I want to kiss you.”

His eyes darkened with an emotion some primitive part of her recognized. Her heart hammered wildly. She knew she should flee or call for help, but her feet refused to move. “You go too far, convict.”

“Do I? Or do I, perhaps, not go far enough?”

Chapter Seven

Cole tucked a ringer gently under her chin, and Cassie knew he was going to lass her.

Though her mind told her she must stop him, her lips tingled in anticipation, and her hands, which should have pushed him away, moved to rest lightly on his chest. She closed her eyes. His breath moved over her face as he bent toward her. One strong arm encircled her, pulled her against his warm, hard body. Then she felt the first tentative brush of his lips against hers, warm and soft. Her heart had nearly ceased beating when she heard the door creak behind them. She jumped away from Cole as if burned.

“Beggin’ your pardon, missy,” Nan said. “I saw the candle still lit and thought someone might be needin’ my help.”

“No. Thank you, Nan.” Cassie felt her face flush and struggled to compose herself. Her heart was still pounding, and her lips burned.

Nan looked from Cassie to Cole to the broken crockery on the floor, concern plain on her round face.

“I was just clearing the table when I dropped the jug and cut myself. Mr. Braden was good enough to bandage the wound for me.”

“With your permission, mistress, I’ll retire now,” Cole said.

She forced herself to meet his gaze. His face was a stone mask.

The passion she’d seen there only moments ago had vanished. “Aye. You may go,” she said, trying to sound indifferent. How could she have lost her head so?

He walked past Nan and out the door.

“You, too, Nan. You’re always up with the sun. I can take care of this mess.”

“Now, don’t go thinkin’ ye can pull the wool over these old eyes.” Nan bent her heavy form to pick up the scattered shards. “Somethin’ happened in here, all right.”

“It was nothing, really.” Cassie joined her, careful this time to avoid the sharp edges. “He missed supper, so I gave him some stew. We had a bit of an argument, and I dropped the jug. That’s all.”

“A tiff, eh?”

“He was just bandaging my hand.”

Nan looked anything but convinced. She rose with a grunt and carried the shards to the tin bucket containing the evening’s oyster shells, “Do ye think he’s cobbin’ us all, missy?”

“I don’t know.”

One minute it seemed obvious to her he was lying in an effort to escape his sentence. The next she was almost certain he was telling the truth. How was she to know for sure?

“Don’t ye think ye should find out before ye fall for ‘im?”

“Fall for him? Me? Oh, Nan, surely you don’t think I would ...”

The cook’s eyes showed she did. Cassie started to object.

“Well, I’m puttin’ these old bones to bed.”

“Nan!”

“Good night, missy.” Nan took the steps carefully and shut the door behind her.

Cassie stomped her foot and swore. This was all his fault. He’d known what he was doing. Why else would he have taken his time bandaging her hand, practically seducing her? He’d probably planned to kiss her all along. She had played into his hands so easily. Now Nan, whose instincts Cassie had always trusted, was suggesting she was becoming enamored of the knave. Was she?
Of course not!
Though she had to admit his being a convict and as handsome as he was made him fascinating in a beastly sort of way, he was hardly the kind of man a woman would choose to love. But then she remembered the heat of his gaze, the softness of his lips as they brushed fleetingly over hers, and she wondered whether a woman could fall in love against her will.

* * *

Alec followed the sound of the drums, letting the pulsing beats drown out the pounding of his own heart. What was happening to him? He’d lusted after women before. He’d even thought himself in love once or twice. But never had he lost control of his own actions.

He had not meant to kiss her. But then he hadn’t expected to find the feel of her skin so tantalizing. He hadn’t planned on being bewitched by her emerald eyes or enthralled by the sound of her voice, the scent of her skin. When he’d seen the effect his touch had on her, something in him had snapped.

This was insane! He was acting like a stag in rut. Of all the women in Virginia, why did he have to lust for the one he could not have, the one he could never trust, the one whose father
owned
him? Perhaps he wanted her simply because he could not have her. Perhaps it excited him to court disaster. He’d not been himself since he landed on these shores.

Or perhaps she was simply the most enchanting female he’d ever met.

Regardless, he had to put her out of his mind for good. The sooner, the better. He could ill afford the consequences should his appetite for her become common knowledge. While even King Carter would have considered him an exceptional catch had Alec wed one of the land baron’s daughters with his name intact, pursuing Miss Blakewell as a convict put at risk his own life and her reputation, though he suspected the latter was already tarnished because of her son. Who was the boy’s father? The man deserved a sound thrashing for abandoning her and the boy.

Ahead, he could see slaves gathered around a bonfire. Women were singing and dancing to the beat of the drums. The rhythm and movements were like nothing Alec had ever seen. There seemed to be no discernible pattern of steps, as with the dances he knew. Instead figures moved about in a combination of leaps and slower, more sensual motions, shouting and singing. All English accounts he had read of African tribal culture described the ceremonies as primitive, but Alec brushed that term aside. Their dancing and singing under these circumstances seemed an act of defiance, of spirit.

He spied Luke sitting just beyond the light of the fire and headed toward him. Rather than returning his greeting, Luke eyed him suspiciously and stood. The drumming and dancing ceased, and Alec realized the slaves were staring at him, even the children.

“I’m sorry,” Alec said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was enjoying the music.” It had not occurred to him he might not be welcome among them. Though Alec was aware that many of the indentured servants did not like Africans and disliked having to live and work with them, he had not realized the slaves felt the same way about the English. Certainly Socrates had never pushed him away. “Please continue. Forgive my intrusion.”

Somewhere in the crowd, hushed words were exchanged in an unfamiliar tongue. As he turned to go, someone placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Stay.” Luke motioned for him to sit on a tree stump.

Alec looked from Luke to the other faces, illuminated by the light from the fire so their dark skin seemed to glow. Their eyes held suspicion and curiosity, but not the outright hatred he’d glimpsed in some of the bondsmen. He sat. The drumming resumed, the dancing and singing with it.

Luke smiled. “You are a strange one, Cole Braden.”

“Do bondsmen never join you around your fires?”

Luke laughed loudly. “The white servants, they’d rather choke to death than sit with a slave.”

“But they work beside you all day.”

“That’s why they hate us. They’re ashamed to work same as us, to live same as us. They know they’re gonna be free again one day and we won’t. See for yourself.” Luke pointed.

Alec glanced across the field toward the cabins to see redemptioners staring at him, surprise and disgust etched on their faces. He had obviously violated an unspoken rule everyone here accepted without question. He’d always believed Socrates had embellished his stories of cruelty and bigotry to make them more exciting, but now Alec was beginning to think Socrates had been restrained in the telling.

He dismissed the bondsmen and turned his attention to the dancing women. Their bare feet kicked up dust. Their limbs glowed with sweat. Their sensual movements did nothing to calm his overly stimulated blood. Someone tapped him on the shoulder and handed him a cider jug. Welcoming the chance for a drink, he smiled his thanks, tossed back the jug, and swallowed deeply. Unholy liquid fire burned its way down his throat and into his stomach, making him gasp for air and causing his
eyes
to water.

Luke and the men around him laughed. This was not fermented cider, but the strongest, most lethal whiskey he’d ever tasted.

“Satan!” He shook his head, feeling like a young lad given his first taste of Scotch. “You might have warned me.”

Luke grinned and shrugged.

Not willing to be outdone, Alec took another swig and, apart from a slight grimace, managed to control his response.

“Where’d you learn to make that?” he asked hoarsely, passing the jug to Luke, who swallowed it as if it were water.

“Old Charlie say the master taught ‘im.”

“The master?”

“In the old days he used to come and share a jug with us,” said the elderly man Alec assumed was old Charlie. “But Miss Cassie, she don’t know ‘bout it. It seems she thinks corn ought to be for eatin’,” the old man said with a wide, toothless grin.

The men around him burst into laughter.

Alec smiled at their good humor, pondering what he’d just learned. The master used to drink with his slaves.

“I’ve never met Master Blakewell. What kind of man is he?”

Someone cleared his throat. Old Charlie looked at the ground.

“We’re just his slaves,” one of them said at last.

What were they hiding?