Silver Moon (6 page)

Fenmore knew the type well. A titled and foppish lord—and a wastrel, if his intuition were correct.

They were bound for Jamaica, most likely to prey upon some wealthy relative.

The one thing about this unlikely trio, of which the captain was certain, was that they were in a hurry. A fact for which he had ample evidence, as they were willing to pay a bonus for each day they arrived earlier than scheduled.

Captain Fenmore was unsure of this bonus, for one could never know what might happen in the open sea.

However, the captain was sure that they would arrive in Jamaica no later than the first week of June.

Finishing a light breakfast of fruit, Elyse stood and went to the stables. As she walked, she smiled to herself, just a little. Her clothing was vastly different from anything she had ever thought she would wear. Instead of a dress, she wore a special riding outfit that Cory had made from Elyse’s own design.

On the voyage from England to the island, Elyse learned the many benefits of sailor’s pants, and found them among the most comfortable of clothing. In Jamaica, having her own seamstress gave her the ability to design new clothing.

Rather than have Cory make a man’s breeches, she designed a pair of wide-legged pants that, when she stood straight, could pass for a full skirt. She secured the pants at her waist with a sash of bright material. Tucked into the waist of the pants was her simple cotton top; its wide sleeves gathered at her wrists fully belled. The light cotton combined with the looseness of the garments kept her cool while preventing the sun’s harsh rays from reaching her skin.

She had decided on this type of outfit so that she could ride comfortably and walk about the plantation. Dresses were too much of a bother, and she’d found herself tripping more than walking.

Taking a deep breath, Elyse looked around. As it had happened every day for the last few weeks, a sensation of calmness stole over her. With each passing day, the feeling of being home and the certainty of belonging grew stronger.

Not even Brace’s disturbing words or sullen stares of the past weeks were enough to effect these feelings for more than a short time.

Within two days of signing the legal papers, making her the sole owner of Devonairre, her needing to know every acre of the plantation was turning into an obsession.

For the past three weeks, she had ridden daily with Charles, or by herself, exploring the eleven thousand acres. The sugar fields were so large that there were times, while riding through the cultivated acres, that she did not see the sun for stretches of time. The tall cane hid her effectively; some of the thick green stalks reached to four times her height.

The heavy sweetness that clung to the air told her the harvesting would begin very soon.

“’Morning, Miss Lisa,” said Robert the stableman.

Smiling brightly at him, Elyse laughed quietly to herself. He wasn’t the only worker on the plantation who had trouble with her name, but she didn’t mind at all. “Good morning, Robert, is Thistle ready?”

“She be ready,” he said, his gray-haired head bobbing. “She’s more than be ready.” With that, he went into the stable and brought the saddled mare out for Elyse.

When she was mounted, and her feet comfortably set in the stirrups, she looked down at Robert. “Has Brace gone out?”

“That mon, he be getting up earlier and earlier each day. He be gone ’fore the sun be up again today.”

“Thank you, Robert,” she said, urging the mare from the stables. She rode the horse to the west bridle path and, once on it, gave the mare her head, letting the powerful thoroughbred gallop for the first kilometer. When she reined her in, Thistle’s coat was bathed in a light sweat; her breathing was deep and powerful.

She patted the mare’s muscular neck. “Good girl.” She turned the horse into a sloping cane field and rode north toward the ocean. When she emerged on the sands of Bluefish Bay, she gazed at the way the sun scintillated across the easy swells.

Dismounting, Elyse drew Thistle’s reins over the mare’s head and, holding the reins loosely, started walking along the beach. Thistle followed obediently behind. This walk, too, had become part of her daily habits. Before doing any explorations of the plantation, she would walk on the beach for half an hour. This stolen slice of solitude and introspection helped rest her mind and strengthen her body.

A week ago, she had walked along this beach, wrestling with her conscience and with the problem of telling the Denhams the true situation in England, the real reasons she had come home shrouded in secrecy.

Today the same problem rose to plague her.

Although she’d decided to leave the past buried, the sixteen years she had spent under her aunt’s watchful eye taught her that the truth was most important. After growing up in lies and deceptions, the truth held a strong significance for her.

Elyse believed she owed the Denhams the truth, but something within her was holding her back. Finally, gazing at the blue-green expanse of the Caribbean, she accepted that it was the realization of the cloud of shame she’d always felt she was under in England. She was ashamed of what had happened to her. She loathed the docile way she allowed her relatives to lead her around, unable to accept, until the very end, that her father’s sister would stoop to such lengths to take away her inheritance.

Still, she was aware that her aunt and uncle had acted even more stupidly than she had, for Elyse would never have asked them to leave the estates in Devon. England was their home, not hers; her home was Devonairre.

If they had not tried to take her inheritance, she would have let them live out their lives in the ancestral home, supporting them without a second thought as had Harlan Louden, for money was not a problem.

Taking a deep breath, Elyse understood that the past no longer mattered; it was over. There was no need to tell anyone of her humiliation. She would forget it, and eventually it would become a hazy memory. When the time came, when all the legalities were completed, and her aunt could cause no more problems, she would have Chatsworth Hall looked after properly.

As soon as she accepted her decision, another nagging problem came snapping on its heels. The same problem that struck whenever she wasn’t forcing herself to think of something else—anything else but Brace Denham. 

Today, she could not make her emotions follow any order. Whenever she thought of Brace, his handsome face floated before her, his haunting blue eyes stared at her, his full, sensual lips taunted her with their closeness—and the fact that they would never meet hers in the way she so desired.

“Stop!” she shouted. Behind her, Thistle shied from the sharp anger in her voice. Turning, Elyse stroked the mare’s neck to calm her.

When Elyse’s thoughts were once again in some semblance of control, she mounted Thistle. Riding east, she cut across and through the cane field’s twenty-five foot stalks. When she emerged on the other side, it was in the clearing where the sugar processing plant stood.

Although it was not yet eight in the morning, a steady line of workers moved to and from the building. Off to one side, Elyse saw Brace’s horse tied to a post.

She rode to the same post, dismounted, tied Thistle, and went into the sugar plant. Waves of heat struck her when she stepped inside. It felt like stepping into an oven.

Twenty vats, four rows of five each, sat in even lines. Suspended above them were mesh wheels to separate and refine the sugar cane. Sluice channels for water crisscrossed the ceiling. Huge fires roared beneath the vats, and three workers cleansed each vat in preparation for the arrival of the sugar cane. Brace stood off to the right, directing several workers. He wore only breeches, his massive chest bare, filmed with a sheen of perspiration. An errant ray of sunlight poured through a chink in the woven roof to glance across his chest, making the dark mat of damp hair shimmer.

Elyse’s breath caught. The instant Brace turned she knew he had seen her. His face changed, and emotions flashed across it until he caught himself and settled his features into a stiff mask.

A moment later, he stood before her, his eyes searching her face. “Are you looking for something?”

Elyse shook her head. “Education. I want to learn how everything is done.”

“Why?” He accented his question with the arching of his left eyebrow.

Elyse fought down the stab of irritation. “Why?” she echoed. “Why must you be so hostile? Why can’t you accept me at my word?”

“People like you don’t come into the fields. That’s for people like me,” Brace reminded her. His voice wasn’t harsh this time, just matter-of-fact.

Elyse understood that the only way to get past his barriers was not to try…yet. Ignoring his words, she glanced around. “What are they doing? Why are they doing it that way?”

Brace took in the questions she asked along with the perfectly sculptured features of her face. He wondered, briefly, if she was playing a game, but heard within her tone an underlying seriousness.

Shrugging his shoulders and forcing his emotions to stay beneath the surface, Brace spoke. His voice took on the tone of a lecturer while he led her deeper into the sugar plant and pointed out everything, putting names to unfamiliar objects.

When they emerged an hour later into the burning sun, she shielded her eyes and looked at Brace. “Thank you. When do we start the processing?”

“The harvesting starts tomorrow morning—if there’s no rain. We’ve been lucky so far this month. Usually there is a fair amount of rain. By the day after tomorrow, the first loads of cane will be here.”

“I intend to follow the entire process,” Elyse stated.

“It’s not ‘lady’s’ work.”

“Did my father sit in the house while the fields were harvested?”

Brace shook his head.

“Then I shan’t, either.” Saying that, Elyse went to her horse. She could feel Brace’s eyes boring into her skin with every step.

Only when she had mounted did she allow herself to look at him. His face was set in tight lines; the muscles in his neck knotted together.

“Perhaps tonight, after dinner, you could tell me more about the processing?”

“I don’t think so,” Brace replied.

They stared at each other until Elyse felt his eyes setting her body afire. Finally, when she could stand no more, she whirled the horse and rode away.

Brace stood still until she had disappeared into the cane. His eyes never left her back, his heart never stopped its rapid beating.

He wanted to hate her, to have her act like the other women of high breeding on Jamaica, but she would not. Brace knew that he could not stay near her for too long. For him it was the slowest of tortures; whenever she was near, he wanted to hold her, pull her to him, and kiss her with all the desires raging so powerfully within him.

It had taken all his willpower to keep his emotions under control. The instant he had seen her standing in the doorway of the sugar plant, his blood raced. Her clothing, so different from other women’s, had accented her full, womanly body, and made him want to take her in his arms.

Forcing himself to push her from his mind, Brace turned back to the plant and prepared himself to enter the inferno that was cold, compared to the heat flaring through his body.

*****

The darkness was a never-ending blanket, and only the small fire in the clearing gave any illumination. There was but one person sitting before the flames, Lucea, the Obeah woman. She stared into the fire, her eyes glazed and far away. Her body was stiff, her breathing shallow.

She remained in that position for an hour, until she shook herself free of the trance and blinked her eyes. She knew she was a rare person, gifted since birth with a special ability.

Even as a young child, she was different from the others, not alienated, but different. She had found it easy to speak English without the dialectic differences spoken by the other slaves. She learned quickly, absorbing all the teachings, while thirsting for more and more knowledge. Damian, the Obeah man, the voodoo priest, had seen how different Lucea was, and had taken her as his student, teaching her the ways of his religion.

As she learned, she became a true Obeah, gifted with the sight, and the Loas—the possession of spirits. When Lucea went into a trance, her spirit advisor would enter her body and speak with her tongue.

Yet even in this, she was different, for other obeahs never remembered what they spoke during possession; Lucea always did.

Tonight she was deeply troubled. She sensed terrible things afoot. Mysteries within mysteries, all centering on Elyse Louden. Lucea sensed it was not the young woman who would bring trouble; rather, Elyse was the one trouble followed.

Brace, too, who was like no other planter, was marked with the sign of trouble. That the green-eyed woman had been born for him, Lucea did not doubt; that Brace himself would recognize this truth, she prayed daily.

She had seen through the heat of the fire that unless these two people accepted their destiny, either of them might lose the other forever.

“I call upon you, Erzulie, eternal female that you are, to help us, to protect us from what is about to happen.”