Surrender to Love (34 page)

“Michael, I – “

Her heart abruptly stopped its song as the male figure swung to face her, and the familiar, sour taste of bile rose in her throat, her stomach clenching in fear.  The cold blue of his eyes.  The roguish wave of his chestnut hair as it curled at his collar.  The arrogant manner in which he swaggered toward her, his animal teeth glinting in the late morning sunlight.

“I always thought you’d make somebody a good whore,” Troy Markham commented,
his mouth a mocking smile as he stood close, his thighs nearly brushing hers.

Instinctively she stepped back
, her jaw tightening as the revulsion in her stomach twisted, and her hand snaked out, connecting sharply with his countenance, the slap resounding in her ears with satisfaction.

“Get out,” she said, her voice no more than a threatening whisper.

“Still as hot-tempered as I remember,” he laughed softly, his hand rubbing at the reddening imprint on his cheek.  “Do you recall that night in New Orleans, sweetheart?  That wretched virginal act you tried to make me believe?  I still don’t believe it.”

His hand reached out and trailed the curve of  her jaw, and Sabine’s eyes remained locked on his, her pulse racing with contempt as her gaze watched him steadily, his perverse intentions hidden securely within the icy depths of those eyes.

“I always wondered what you’d be like in bed.  Would you be the good girl you pretend to be, all demure and submissive?  Or hot and fiery, screaming like a wildcat?  Would you do that for me, Sabine?” he asked, his voice lowering, thick with desire, as his thumb against the fullness of her lower lip.  “Would you scream in passion when you open your thighs for me?”

Run.
  Get as far as you can before it’s too late.

No.

Instead, she watched him cautiously, her breaths short and even as Troy openly appraised her figure, and Sabine’s hands curled into fists while she fought the urge to strike at him again, to scratch as those blue eyes that bored through her soul so easily, stripped her of the dignity she had fought so hard to salvage.  But she wouldn’t run, and she refused to lower herself to his baseness, to play the role Manuel Colón, too, had desired of her.

“I combed the waterfront for you,” he purred, his hand fondling the ends of her curls as he walked behind her, and Sabine stiffened warily when she felt the heat of his hand at the curve of her back.

Run.

No.  This land was her home now – this Cuba, this island where the wild tropics had accepted her as one of their own – and she refused to allow Troy Markham the satisfaction of tearing her from the land she had come to love as passionately as Marta had promised she would.  He might think of her as his property – even his whore – but he was dead wrong if he thought he would be leaving Havana with
her on his arm.

She wasn’t going anywhere with him.

“Took me a few weeks to find out where you’d gone,” Troy continued, lifting her hand to his lips, and Sabine wrenched away, his throaty laugh hot in her ear.  “”I remember when you used to like that,” he commented slyly, his eyes narrowing as they met hers.

“Go to hell.”

“And the shy little girl now has the mouth of a street urchin as well,” he said, amusement touching his words as he turned from her.  “Did you know I must’ve hit every casino and barroom in Havana over the past two weeks before I found someone who had seen you?  Fortunately, nigras with green eyes aren’t very common, and someone had seen you here.  The home of the great Luís Roderigues.” Troy chuckled, spreading his arms wide as he faced her.  “One of the most influential men in La Habana province.”

“Get out,” Sabine growled dangerously, and the voice she heard was hardly her own, but a stranger’s.  A dark stranger who was so filled with
hate she thought it might consume her entire being.

It didn’t even frighten her, this ferocity that burst forth like the viciousness of a cornered animal – and it wasn’t at all like the same feeling she had had when she had lashed out at Arianna Covington for calling her a “
nigra.”  Now she wanted it to come, wanted to release all the buried rage and frustration and hurt she had so deep inside her.

She wanted him to know how much she truly hated him.

His fingers dug into the tender flesh of her arm, and Troy jerked her to him, his hard eyes piercing her soul, demanding she yield.

“Whose bed do you share, Sabine?” he asked as the shaft of his lust pressed obscenely against her thigh.  “Are you crying out with passion in the arms of the great
Roderigues?  Or maybe it’s his son who takes you repeatedly each night?”

He caught her hand as she swung at him once more, his grip bruising the tiny bones of her wrist
, and Troy forced her against the wall, his body pinning her frantic, struggling form as a surge of panic flared with forgotten intensity within her breast.

“Get off me,”
Sabine demanded, her voice shrill as she struck at him with a booted foot, her body twisting in an effort to free itself from his grasp.

“Not before I take what’s rightfully mine.”

His hips thrust against hers brutally as his mouth came savagely down upon her own, bruising, punishing.  Sabine fought back the sour taste of vomit that rose to the back of her throat, mixing with the repulsive taste of him until she thought she might be sick.

Frantically Sabine fought to free herself of his iron hold, but her resistance only fueled the obscene desire that grew hard against her stomach, and she knew she could never fight the enraged strength that possessed him.

“I couldn’t live knowing another man had touched you…”

But I don’t want him to, Michael, her brain screamed out, tears of humiliation smarting her eyes, cries of degradation arresting in her breasts as Troy’s had reached for the bodice of her dress, touching places no one but Michael had a right to touch, his lips muttering filthy words that no man should ever say to a woman.

“This above all…”

The old words came to her again, bringing with them the strength, the hope, she had almost forgotten.  Yes.  She would be true to herself…to Michael…to everything that represented good to her.  And Troy would be sorry he had ever laid a hand on her.

Her knee connected sharply with the vulnerable area of his groin, and Troy released her abruptly, doubling over as Sabine straightened her shoulders and smoothed her skirts with an unsteady hand.

“I’m not the naïve girl you remember me to be,” she said coldly, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth as Troy
carefully eased himself into a nearby chair, the muscles in his neck tense as his hands balled into tight fists.  “And I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Bitch,” he managed through clenched teeth, “you’re…my…property.”

“I’ve told you time and time again, you no longer have any control over her, Mr. Markham,” came the cultured slur of a Southern gentleman, and Sabine looked up as the silver-haired man entered the room purposefully.  “I wish you’d take heed.”

“She’s a
nigra and she’s
mine,
” Troy ground out, his words edged with discomfort, “and I can do whatever I want with her, Delacroix, so stay the hell out of it.”

Ignoring him, Robert Delacroix laid his papers on a nearby table, shuffling through them casually.  Warily, Sabine watched, her feet prepared to take flight.  It might be a trap – a ruse to permanently secure his claim – and she wouldn’t put it past Troy to try such a thing, to lower himself to any filthy trick just to trap her.  But at the same time…

“As I’ve told you, she is no longer your property,” Delacroix repeated.  “You’ve known that for several months, now, Mr. Markham.  The will specifically states Miss DuBois is to be given her papers of manumission contingent upon her eighteenth birthday.”

Eighteen?  Sabine
felt the beat of her heart still as she quickly counted off the days in her head.  September third.  That meant…the day after she had turned Michael away…the day she had arrived here in Havana…

She was free!  Her soul rang out with the word as her being flooded with rejoicing.  Troy could not lay so much as a hand on her, and she was free to go where she wanted, when she wanted, and she would never have to worry about constantly looking over her shoulder and wondering if he would be fast on her heels.

Free.  How beautiful a word it sounded to her ears.

“She’s been out of my control for at least three months
,” Troy was demanding as her attention turned back to the conversation.  “I insist she make up that time.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,”
Delacroix stated, amusement lacing his words as his grey eyes sparkled.  “The will states eighteen years of age.  The papers have been drawn, and I do believe that particular date has come and gone.  I’m correct in this observation, am I not, Miss DuBois?”

“Yes, Mr. Delacroix,” she answered, her gaze meeting Troy’s
unmovingly.  “And your timing has been remarkably accurate.  Last month I turned eighteen.  And, no,” she added, turning to the older gentleman, her smile flashing in triumph, “before you ask, there were no parties to celebrate the occasion.”

The
muscles in Troy’s shoulders tensed visibly as Sabine noticed him flex his hands.  Soft hands, she noted wryly.  Hands that had been pampered and spoiled.  Hands that had never completed a decent day’s hard labor.  So unlike Michael’s rugged, work-worn ones – hands that had toiled relentlessly to create a dream, a home, a place he could honestly see was his own.

She wanted it to be hers, too.

“Well, then, Miss DuBois,” Delacroix said, tearing her away from her reverie, “now that this whole misunderstanding has been resolved, there are some papers I’d like to go over with you.  And I’m sure you must have questions of me, as well.”

“No, God
dammit,” Troy insisted, leaping to his feet.  “This isn’t going to happen. I came all the way the hell down here, and she’s coming back with me.”

Sabine looked to him, then looked to Javier, who stood in the doorway with his white-gloved hands clasped loosely against the coat of his uniform, his dark eyes waiting expectantly.

“Javier,”
she said flatly,
“accompañe al Señor Markham hasta la puerta, por favor.”

Nodding his head, she did not miss the rare smirk
that flickered across his ever-serious features as he quickly disappeared from the room.

“As you were saying, Mr. Delacroix,” she offered, motioning to a seat at the table as she sat down, her back purposely turned to Troy.

Even so, she could still feel hostility burn through her, trying to reach her soul, trying to ruin the celebration in her heart.

He could never harm her again.

“Last year, Clinton Markham requested another copy of his will be drafted, making provisions for a mulatto child he had sired seventeen years before,” Delacroix began, setting a sheet of paper in front of Sabine, his finger pointing to a paragraph midway through the document.

“I can’t believe you’re playing along with this charade,
Delacroix” Troy spat, but his charge stopped by the two men who grabbed onto his arms.

Sabine turned, her chin lifting as the corners of her mouth curled into a smug smile. 
Today was the day
he
would be treated like the common trash he thought her to be; she hated the way he always tried to make her feel so small, so insignificant, that she wanted to disappear.

She was somebody.

She was Sabine DuBois.  And she was
free.

“
Por favor, Miguel y Israel,”
she acknowledged, and nodded as the two men escorted Troy unceremoniously from the room.  “Javier,” she added, “please be sure
Señor
Markham does not step foot on the premises again.”

He bowed his head in affirmation, the tug of a smile surfacing again
, and he closed the doors behind him as he left.

“As I was saying,” Delacroix began again, pulling
more papers from his satchel, “your father, the late Clinton Markham, cared for you in his own way, and I want to make it perfectly clear that his last thoughts were of you and your welfare.  I’m sure he never imagined he would pass before your eighteenth birthday, and would never have intentionally subjected you to the selfish intentions of his son.”

Her feet tapping impatiently, Sabine listened carefully
to his words, her heart singing out the joyous song of freedom that continued to course, unrestrained, through her body – through every fiber, every pore of her being.

“And, by the way,” Delacroix added with a smile,
“the manner in which you extricated yourself from the young Mr. Markham was certainly a sight to behold.  To say the least, I never could stand the self-centered little bas – pardon my language.” He apologized, clearing his throat, and brought her attention to another document he laid on the table before her.

“My personal opinions aside, Clinton Markham also requested I set aside a sum of money to assure your well-being, and to make up for his own negligence.  I’m in a position to deposit, in the bank of your choice, a sum of fifteen thousand dollars
.”