Sweet Release (13 page)

Certainly she should thank the cook for her timely intrusion, though how she’d bring herself to tell Nan the truth she did not know. She had to get control of her feelings before she compromised everything that mattered to her. Gaining the respect of the bondsmen and slaves, who were not predisposed to taking direction from a woman, had been difficult enough to start with, even though she’d had help from Zach, Micah, and Nan in winning them over. She could not afford to lose any ground.

Yet even as she swore never to let it to happen again, she remembered how gently he’d touched her, how warm his lips had been as he kissed her hand. Though his actions had at first surprised her, there’d been no force or coercion. That was the worst of it. She’d
wanted
him to kiss her. She’d dreamed about it all night. Had he? He’d seemed as affected as she, his eyes blazing with an intensity that made her insides knot up even now. Why, then, had he looked at her as if he were made of granite just moments later? Clearly the kiss had meant nothing to him. He was merely toying with her.

“Mornin’, Miss Cassie,” called Zach with a dimpled grin when he spotted her. He was drenched, his hands full of seedlings. His right eye was bruised and swollen.

“What happened?” Cassie and Elly asked almost in unison. Elly stood on tiptoe and touched her fingers to his cheek, making him wince.

“Nothin’.” He pushed Elly’s hand away.

“Does it hurt?” asked Elly.

“Did corn whiskey have anything to do with this?” Cassie demanded. “You know I don’t approve of that vile brew. Or brawling for that matter.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Does it hurt?” Elly asked again.

“Who hit you?” Cassie asked. “Don’t bother trying to protect him. I’d wager he looks a sight worse than you do. It won’t take much to find him.”

“Would ye let a man speak?”

Chagrined, Cassie realized they’d been hurling questions at him without giving him the chance to answer. Elly stood beside her, arms akimbo, glaring up at him.

“Last night I was talkin’ with Braden, and my mouth got the best of me. That’s all.”

“Cole hit you?” Of course. It had to be. No other man on the plantation would have dared to strike Zach.

“Aye, and a good one, too.” Zach smiled and rubbed his cheek.

“But don’t worry. I deserved it, so I didn’t hit him back.”

“You
let
the convict hit you?” Cassie would never understand men.

“Well, I didn’t let him exactly.”

“Very well,” she said. She’d have to talk to Cole later. Or perhaps Micah could do it. Right now she didn’t want to be anywhere near Cole. “Would you care to teach Elly how to transplant tobacco?” Zach was sweet on Elly. This would give them a chance to be together, and it would get Elly out of her hair.

“I think she’d rather have someone else teach her.”

Cassie caught a quick exchange of glances between the two, who now faced each other as if they were carved from stone.

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know whom she could have in mind. You’re more experienced than most.”

“That’s what I keep tryin’ to tell her.” Zach grinned.

Elly turned beet red, looked away.

Cassie got the feeling she was missing something. “Go with Zach,” she ordered, her patience gone. Why was everything about this morning proving to be difficult?

“This way, Miss Lanham.” Zach turned and strode toward the fields. Elly followed sulkily behind him.

Glad to be rid of the quarrelsome girl, Cassie turned toward the seedbeds, acknowledging the greetings of those she passed. She joined Takotah, busy unearthing seedlings and passing them to waiting hands. Despite her age, which no one, including Takotah, knew for certain, Takotah worked tirelessly. Even though she’d often questioned the English obsession with growing large amounts of tobacco only to put it on ships and send it halfway around the world, she nonetheless treated its cultivation with great respect. It was sacred to her people.

“Good day.”

Takotah gave her a quick smile. Cassie took up a trowel and began unearthing the tiny plants. Her palm was stiff and sore where she’d cut it, forcing her to dig with her left hand. Despite the awkwardness of it, she quickly established a rhythm. Muddy hands took up the seedlings as fast as she and Takotah could dig them up.

If racing to and from the fields, tiny plants in hand, was tiring, working on one’s knees in cold mud digging up seedlings was utterly grueling. Soon her fingers grew numb from the cold and her back began to ache. She put these small discomforts from her mind, knowing this was only the beginning of a very long day. Planting usually lasted until late in the evening, only to begin again the next morning if the rain held.

The leaden sky concealed the passage of time. Only when she ran out of seedlings did she realize it must be close to the noon hour. She stood stiffly and stretched. Three seedbeds identical to this one awaited her, mere footsteps away. The rain still fell softly, and a cool southwesterly breeze brought a chill to the damp air.

She wiggled her stiff fingers, urging them back to life, and moved down to the next seedbed.

She hadn’t been working for long when a cheer went up around tier. The hands that had been eagerly taking seedlings from her turned into feet running the other direction. She looked up to see old Charlie driving the long-awaited lunch wagon toward them. She, too, felt famished. The seedlings would have to wait. A crowd had already converged on the wagon, and old Charlie and Nettie were trying to turn chaos into an organized food line.

“Now, hold on. Nobody’s gonna starve. There’s plenty. I said jack off, you ragamuffins! You heard me!” Charlie was waving a ladle at some of the more boisterous young men who were trying to climb over the sides of the wagon. Raucous laughter filled the air as one of them fell backward and landed on his posterior in a puddle. Then, without warning, a shoving match broke out between Cyril, one of the younger slaves, and Henry, the old Scot Geoffrey had sent to help.

“I said whites first.” Henry pushed his way to the front. Cyril clenched his fists but stepped away from the wagon, making room for the line of hungry redemptioners, who had no qualms about taking advantage of Henry’s bullying.

“There is no pecking order here!” Cassie shouted, trying to pierce both the din of the storm and the chatter of the hungry workers. She had to repeat herself twice before she had their attention. She rushed through the wet, muddy bodies to the wagon. “Everyone will get his fill, slave and bondsman alike.” She took a water jug and poured the clean liquid over Cyril’s hands. “Nettie, feed this man, please. He’s hungry.”

Nettie nodded and handed a surprised Cyril a tin bowl heaped with steaming corn porridge, a biscuit, and a tin cup brimming with hot cider. As Cyril passed her, the smell of the porridge made lassie’s mouth water and her stomach growl impatiently. The women had tossed in salted pork as an extra reward, and she could almost taste it. Men and women passed, one by one, rubbing their lands together under the thin stream of water she provided. Henry scowled at her as he passed, his displeasure with her clear. She and Micah had both made it plain to him when he arrived that things were different here and bigotry would not be tolerated, but it was obvious he respected neither of them enough to obey. If he didn’t listen, she’d send him back to Geoffrey.

The problem was forgotten the instant she saw Cole approaching. Wet, his dark brown hair looked as black as a raven’s wing. He’d managed to keep it tied back despite the rain and physical labor. His white shirt clung to his body, outlining the muscles his arms, abdomen, and chest with disturbing clarity. His breechcloth which stuck to his strong thighs like a second skin, were muddy. He looked like an English squire who’d been caught in a downpour while hunting on his estate. Even had he been coated in muck, Cassie suspected his proud bearing and refined features would still lend him the appearance of gentry.

But if he looked like gentry, she must look like the poorest peasants. Mud coated her from her feet to her bosom and was caked under her nails. No doubt it was also smeared liberally across her face. And her hair, of course, was only partly contained by the ribbon in which she’d tied it this morning. It stuck to her cheek and neck, disappeared under the mud on her bodice. She had never managed to look as beautiful and ladylike as Lucy Carter and her sisters or the other Northern Neck planters’ daughters. They never worked in the fields. Their hair was always neatly coifed on top their heads and seemed to stay in place. Their gowns were cut the latest fashions from England and France. It had never really bothered Cassie before, but now that she’d made the comparison she found herself severely lacking.

She silently cursed herself for her silliness and resolved to put such thoughts from her mind. As Nan was fond of saying, work was a blessing. If Cassie looked like she’d been working hard, she had no reason to be ashamed. If she wanted to she could stay inside all day, chatting about fashion and beaux and worrying about the size of her waistline. She didn’t want to. Besides, who was Cole Braden that she should care what he thought of her appearance. When he’d first seen her this morning, he’d not recognized her bent over in the dirt, her wet hair hanging in limp curls to her head and tied back by a single frayed ribbon, she appeared at first to be another servant. Alec had noticed her curves, the way her work dress clung to her back and hips. He’d noticed her pink toes peeping out from underneath her where she’d tucked her feet. He noticed the curve of her shoulder, the shapeliness of her arms. He wondered how he could have missed such a jewel in a relative confined space. Then he’d seen her face.

Her cheeks smeared with mud, raindrops rolling from the tip of her nose, her brow furrowed with concentration, she had seemed not the domineering plantation miss he knew she was, but a charming peasant wench. She had not noticed him, although more than once she’d placed tiny seedlings in his hands. He’d sworn last night he’d not let himself be deceived by her physical charms. For although he could not condemn her for her lifestyle without also condemning himself, he knew she was not to be trusted. Not when she continued to gain from his loss of freedom. Not when her very presence shattered his self-control.

When she’d waded into the argument between Cyril and the grizzled Scot—the same man he’d thrown in the dust last night—he’d been surprised. He hadn’t expected her to care. But then, she
had
intervened on his behalf when Crichton struck him. She had fed him at her own table. Of course, all this really proved was that she—and her father, if the man really existed—were kinder masters than most planters. That was faint praise at best.

As they drew nearer the wagon, Alec noticed Nettie watching Luke, though they still stood behind several men in line. Nettie smiled warmly at Luke, who ignored her and stepped to the front of the line. Miss Blakewell poured a thin stream of water over his hands, acting as if she did not notice Alec. Luke nodded his thanks and accepted a bowl and mug from Nettie without acknowledging her. Nettie frowned ever so slightly.

“How’s the hand?” Alec asked, rubbing his palms together vigorously under the clean water.

“Fine, thank you,” she muttered, looking determinedly elsewhere. Had she thought about last night as much as he had during the past several hours? Then he caught sight of her bosom and felt heat rush to his loins. Somehow she’d managed to squeeze herself into a dress made for a woman with half her natural endowments. Streaked with mud, the rounded tops of her breasts swelled above the bodice. Her nipples, taut from the chill, strained against the cloth of dress, and her skirts clung to her legs, giving an enticing outline of her thighs. Even spattered with mud, she looked disturbingly desirable.

Damn!
He’d forgotten what he was doing standing here in the rain. He accepted a bowl of porridge from Nettie and, spilling a bit of the hot cider on his hand, managed to extract himself from Miss Blakewell’s presence.

By the time Cassie had managed to eat, everyone else was already finished and back at work. Using her biscuit to scoop up the last of the warming porridge, she quickly finished and helped Charlie and Nettie secure the contents of the wagon. It was piled high with crocks, bowls, jugs, and pots. It looked as if the women had raided every cabin on the plantation in search of enough bowls to feed them all. Now they’d have the dishes to contend with.

Cassie joined Takotah at the seedbed again. The afternoon passed slowly. Her hands and feet again went numb from cold, but she distracted herself by listening to the gossip of the bondswomen working nearby.

“Rebecca is near as big as a barn. She’ll not find it easy to birth that babe of hers.”

“Since when is birthin’ ever easy?”

The women laughed ruefully.

“Me mother always said to drink a tankard of ale each mornin’.

It keeps the babe small. And I’ve given birth to nine so far.”

“Did you do as your mother said?”

“Aye.”

“And did it work?”

“Nay. But it helped me keep me sense of humor.”

The women’s merry laughter made Cassie smile. She did not notice that the cut on her palm had reopened and was bleeding again until Takotah took her wrist and turned her hand over.

“It’s nothing.” Cassie began to dig again.

“It will not heal well wet and filled with mud. You should clean the wound and let someone else take your place.”