Sweet Release (25 page)

Alec looked down at Cassie’s sleeping face, remorse cutting through him like a knife. She might lie when it suited her purpose. She might be more headstrong and authoritative than was right for a female. But he had never seen her do anything to hurt anyone in her care. In fact, she’d done the opposite, working in the fields, nursing both slave and servant through illness as if they were members of her own family. He’d witnessed the care she’d given Rebecca the night her babe was born, had seen the torment on her face as she’d watched Rebecca’s suffering. That she would deliberately treat her own father with any less concern than she would a bondswoman was inconceivable.

She moaned and stirred in her sleep as if in the midst of a bad dream. He pulled the quilt closer to her chin, allowing his fingers to linger for a moment on her cheek. He’d wanted to believe she was lying to him. It would be so much easier to ignore her if disgust were to replace the desire that tore at his gut day and night. Her outward charm would be eclipsed by unforgivable internal flaws, and he would be free to think of nothing but returning to England. Aye, he wanted to hate her, for if he could not . ..

Alec stood and walked to the door. He’d better see to the horses.

London

Socrates answered the impatient knocking at the front door to find a young lad with bright brown eyes, a street urchin by the look of him, eagerly holding forth a letter in one grimy hand.

“From the colonies, sir,” said the boy. The child stared incredulously at his face, a reaction Socrates had learned to endure with good humor.

“Thank you, young man,” Socrates said with exaggerated pomp, pressing several coins into the lad’s palm. It was more than was customary, but Master Alec had always insisted on sharing with those less fortunate, and Socrates would carry on the tradition in his memory. Socrates found himself hoping the money would not be wasted on ale for a father who spent his life in the city’s gutters, or laudanum for a mother who worked on her back.

“Buy yourself a good meal and some new clothes.”

The boy looked into his hand in disbelief, then smiled. “Yes sir! Thank you, sir!” Then he paused. “’Sir, your color . . . does it wash off?”

“Certainly not. No more than do your freckles.”

The boy smiled shyly and was gone.

Socrates shut the door behind him and glanced down at the letter. It was addressed to the lieutenant, who had just left for the country to visit Elizabeth and the children. Whatever it was, it would have to wait. The lieutenant was in need of a holiday, and Socrates would not ruin his all-too-brief respite with business. He started toward the lieutenant’s study, but something drew his gaze back to the letter. Under normal circumstances Socrates would not have given the missive a second glance before placing it in the hands of its intended recipient. It was not his custom to pry into the affairs of his employer. But this letter was different. Why? It was wrinkled, but that was not uncommon. The youngsters who were hired to carry such dispatches often did not take their errands seriously, smudging communications with dirty fingers, dropping them into mud puddles, crumpling them in pockets. Perhaps its point of origin was what made it seem unique. The Kenleighs rarely received letters from the colonies. Why, even Master Alec, who’d had correspondents across Europe, seldom—

Socrates suddenly felt as if the breath had been knocked out of him. The handwriting! His hands shaking, he turned the letter over again. The crude seal on the back was unfamiliar to him. But the handwriting . . . It was impossible. Master Alec was dead and buried. Both the lieutenant and Philip had identified his body, or what was left of it.

Socrates sat at the lieutenant’s desk and tried to compose himself, his seventy-year-old heart pounding. For fifty years he’d served the head of the Kenleigh household and never once lost his calm. He’d not give in to emotion or wild speculation now.

But he was right. He knew it.

“Socrates, you old buzzard, what have you there?”

Master Philip, still in his nightshirt, stood in the hallway, a bottle in one hand, a young woman at his side. In his preoccupation with the letter, Socrates had not heard him approach.

“A dispatch for your brother-in-law, sir,” he said, masking his excitement. He’d not share his thoughts. Master Philip lived but to taunt him and would no doubt think him daft if he said they’d received a letter from Master Alec. Let him sample the handwriting and draw his own conclusions.

“Give it to me.” Philip snatched the letter from Socrates’ grasp. “Shall we see who is writing to our dear brother-in-law, Lord Matthew Peg Leg, darling?”

The young woman giggled and smiled up at him through her few remaining teeth.

Philip ripped open the letter, the cold smile on his face daring Socrates to try to stop him. He’d taken to interfering in the lieutenant’s affairs ever since he’d decided the lieutenant was making decisions behind his back. Socrates found himself holding his breath, waiting to see Philip’s reaction.

No sooner had Philip’s eyes touched the parchment than his face began to flush. He hastily folded it and shoved the young woman away from him. “Get out.” He turned his back to her and walked across the hall to the drawing room.

Her face paled. “But, sir! My—“

“Get out!” Philip slammed the door behind him.

Socrates heard the key turn.

The girl stood, gaping.

Socrates cleared his throat, unsure of how to proceed. He’d never spoken to a prostitute before, much less paid one. But he’d not let it be said that the Kenleighs did not pay their debts, regardless of how those debts had been incurred. It would besmirch their reputation—and his.

“How much is your . . . wage, miss?”

“Ten quid, sir.” She looked at her feet.

He suspected she was lying but handed her the coin anyway. The young woman curtsied, then turned, and fled, not bothering to close the door behind her.

From the drawing room came a bellow and the sound of breaking glass, followed by silence. Though he was accustomed to Master Philip’s temper, this display of rage surprised him. Could he have been-mistaken about the handwriting? He’d known Master Alec since he was a boy and had grown to respect him both as an employer and a man. Perhaps he missed him so much that he was imagining things. Age and grief could do horrible things to one’s mind.

When Philip appeared an hour later, he was surprisingly sober, subdued. Saying only that he was going out, he quickly dressed and left, not bothering to dine. Socrates entered the drawing room to find the remains of a fire in the fireplace, and among the ashes small fragments of parchment.

It was most odd, he thought, searching the embers, retrieving what he could. The lieutenant would need to know about this. Alec raised his eyes from the book he’d been reading to the sleeping figure in the bed. The ardent words of Catullus were growing tedious.

***

Twice she had awoken, only to lapse into unconsciousness again. Takotah said she was sure Cassie would recover, but he would feel much better if she’d open her eyes and speak to him. He sat down next to her on the bed and felt her forehead, grateful to find she showed no sign of fever.

Takotah had come and gone twice already, once to bring Cassie’s father food and water, a second time to tend Cassie’s wound and to take the old man with her to the lodge she’d built for herself nearby. Cassie was too weak to move, she’d explained with a smile, leading Blakewell out the door behind her.

If Takotah had been surprised or displeased to discover Alec here, she’d kept it to herself. Micah, on the other hand, had been furious. Alec had expected as much and couldn’t blame the man. There was no way to deny the fact that he’d followed Cassie and knew of her father’s condition. Nor could he deny his part in her accident. Only Takotah’s insistence that Alec remain to help her care for Cassie prevented Micah from dragging him back and locking him in chains.

“He has healing hands,” she’d said, reminding Micah of the night Rebecca’s baby had been born.

Both Micah and Takotah had backed up Cassie’s story, Micah alternating effusive praise for Cassie with threats against Alec. Then something had happened to make Micah forget about Alec altogether.

Micah had found the old Scot, Henry, skulking about, apparently lost, in the swamp. Henry had at first insisted he’d been off to look for oysters and lost his way. Then he’d confessed he’d been trying to escape. Warning Henry that they’d send him back to Crichton Hall if he tried to escape again, Micah had taken him back to the plantation and locked him in his cabin as punishment. Alec could still see the worried look on Micah’s face and knew that he, too, felt uneasy with the Scot’s explanation. Had he seen the island?

Alec forced his gaze back to the book in his hands.

Cassie was having the strangest dream. She was at her father’s cabin, arguing with Cole. She was angry with him, angry and hurt. What had he said? She must remember. She had to get away from him. She would ride as fast as she could. . . .

She felt a warm, callused hand caress her cheek, and heard herself moan in pain.

“Cassie?”

It was Cole’s voice. What was he doing in her room? She must be dreaming. Oh, her head throbbed. She struggled to open her eyes, to clear her vision. It was then she realized she was not in her room, but in her father’s cabin.

Cole sat next to her on her father’s bed, looking down at her with a worried frown.

“What. .. ?” She fought to sit up, to form a coherent question. “Rest easy, sweet. You hit your head on a branch and nearly drowned. I brought you back here.”

“You . . . followed me?”

“Aye, I did.”

“Damn you.” It hadn’t been a dream after all.

“How do you feel?”

“My head…hurts.” Cassie gaze about the tiny cabin, her vision blurry, and felt herself grow alarmed. Something was not right. If only she could think.

Then it came. “Where is my father?” Worried, she tried to sit, only to have a thousand glass shards shatter inside her skull. Through a haze of pain she heard herself whimper, felt Cole ease her back onto the pillow.

“Easy, love. Takotah has taken him to her lodge next door. She says you’re going to be fine. She wanted you to drink this,” he said, gently lifting her head and placing a cup against her lips. Cassie grimaced, overwhelmed by the smell of rum and herbs, but drank, aware that the concoction contained poppy and had powerful pain-relieving properties.

“Will you…tell?” she asked.

“About your father?”

She nodded.

“I don’t know. What you’ve done, what your father has asked you to do, isn’t right,” he said after a moment, his brow furrowed.

“Please, I beg you, don’t betray us.”

“As you wish, mistress.”

But this time when he said it, he did not mock her. She read from the glint in his blue eyes that he was merely teasing. “When will you stop calling me that?” she asked, her body already growing warm from the potion.

“Calling you what?”

“Mistress.” Cassie did her best to imitate his husky tone, but couldn’t help giggling. The pain in her head was beginning to dull, and she felt strangely euphoric.

“When are you going to stop calling me Cole?”

She struggled to come up with a clever reply but was distracted when she noticed her chemise and stockings draped over her father’s rocking chair. In a panic she felt beneath the covers. She was completely naked.

“I’m afraid that, in the course of saving your life, I found it necessary to undress you,” said Cole, following the direction of her gaze with a grin. “That makes us even.”

Cassie’s cheeks flamed. How like him to remind her of such a thing! True, she’d seen him unclothed, but that was different. He’d been a stranger then, and it had been her job as the owner of his indenture to care for him. “No doubt you’ve undressed hundreds of women,” she said hotly.

“Thousands.” He smiled.

She gasped, then realized he was teasing her again. What a silly goose she was! She felt light-headed. Perhaps it was the rum. “What are the women like in London?”

He looked surprised by the question. “They’re a self-absorbed lot.”

“Are they beautiful?”

“Not as beautiful as some.”

The look in his eyes as he gazed down at her made Cassie’s heart beat faster. “Kiss me,” she heard herself say.

Cole traced the outline of her lips with a finger, then sat back in his chair, his hands grasping the book in his lap. “You have no idea how much I’d like to oblige you. But I’m afraid, my sweet, that Takotah’s vile brew has gone to your pretty little head.”

She sighed, disappointed and thrilled at the same time. He’d called her “my sweet.” She stretched and yawned, feeling drowsy but determined not to fall asleep. In the weeks she’d known him the two of them had never had an unguarded conversation. This was so much better than arguing. And she loved his smile. “What are you reading?”

“Catullus.”

“Read to me.”

“In English or Latin?”

“English, of course.” She giggled.

Cole smiled—a rather sad smile, Cassie thought—opened the book, and after a moment’s hesitation began to translate. “ ‘Let us live and love, my Lesbia, and pay no attention to the ramblings of bitter old men. Suns may set and rise again, but for us, when ‘our brief light is gone, there is the sleep of one everlasting night. Give me a thousand kisses…’ ”