Surrender to Love (35 page)

Sabine tilted her head toward him inquisitively
, her brow furrowing skeptically.  Perhaps she ought to apologize to Javier later this afternoon; maybe
she
was the one who was hard-of-hearing.  Had he said what she thought he did?  Fifteen thousand dollars…Never in her life had she imagined so much money.

“It took quite some time to find you in Havana,” Delacroix said.
  “The Cubans are pretty close-mouthed about the illegal slave auctions, but it’s rather interesting what a full billfold and some persuasive questioning can accomplish.  I wasn’t sure of your situation in Havana, so I didn’t take the liberty of setting up financial dealings for you in the city.”

He paused, looking to her curiously as Sabine tore her gaze from the paper she held in her trembling hands, her blood racing madly in her veins.

“Is there something wrong?”

“No,” she managed, her voice no more than a strangled whisper, “I – I’m rather wealthy, now, aren’t I?”

“It’s a modest sum,” Delacroix offered, “if you take into consideration Clinton’s total assets.”

“Yes, but imagine all you could do with just this.”

The roof of the barn…the third step on the back porch…and if she could persuade Luís to sell off some of the south cane field…

If Michael would give her a second chance to listen.  If he could learn to accept her stubborn nature while she gladly embraced his.

If he could find it in his heart to let her make their dreams come true.

“Do you have a desire to leave this country, Miss
DuBois?” Delacroix inquired, breaking into her thoughts.  “I am well aware of the circumstances surrounding your arrival to Cuba, and I will gladly handle the legal matters for you.”

“No,” Sabine replied softly, “I belong here, in this country.  The culture, the people…”

“Is Roderigeus holding you against your will?”

She giggled at his remark, and Delacroix arched an eyebrow at her.

“Luís Roderigues and his wife are two of the dearest people I know. They’re my friends.”

“You wish I should make the deposit, then?”

“Please,” she told him, clasping his hands warmly in hers with reassurance.

“I’ll come by later this week with the banking information.  Will you be here?”

Nodding, Sabine allowed the odd stillness to overcome them until squirmed in her seat, her feet twisting among the rungs of the chair impatiently.  How would she say it?  The indecision prodded sharply in her brain.  She needed to know, once and for all, the answers to the questions and doubts that now rose again in her memory with fresh hurt.

“What of my parents?  John and Adele
DuBois?   You haven’t even mentioned them to me once.”

Her request was met with silence, and Delacroix averted her gaze
to the papers laid out before them, his hands resting on the paunch of his stomach.

“I regret to inform you that your father has passed on, Miss
DuBois,” he said uncomfortably.  “Shortly after your disappearance.  Yellow fever.  There was an outbreak in their section of the city.  Thankfully, it was contained from growing to epidemic proportions.  Adele is currently living with her sister Marie in Baton Rouge.  The loss of both you and John is such a short period of time was too much for her to bear.”

A wave of numbness washed over her,
and she knew she ought to feel something.  Sorrow….  Anguish….  Shouldn’t she burst into sudden hysteria, racking sobs torturing her body as blinding grief swept her into mourning?

But she felt
absolutely nothing.  Empty.  A huge void where there ought to be some sort of emotion.  John and Adele – Mama and Papa – had raised her.  Loved her.  Showed her things that, by law, no colored person should know, and, as a result, she could read and write and do a million things so many people couldn’t do.

Sabine swallowed the  lump in her throat, and clasped her hands neatly in front of her.  Now Papa was gone, and there was nothing she could do to bring him back.  Nor could she demand answers to her questions.

“Why didn’t they tell me?  About not being free, I mean.”

Delacroix shook his head, offering a shrug as he gathered his papers.  “I suppose they had their own reasons.  They raised you from infancy, thought of you as their own daughter.
  Perhaps they simply deluded themselves into believing that you were truly theirs.”

“And Clinton Markham?”

“Shame, from what I can gather.  On his deathbed he admitted you were the only child he had sired from one of his slaves.  He could never admit to the parentage publicly, Miss DuBois – not while he was alive.  The money and freedom, I suppose, are tokens of what he wishes he could have given you.”

Robert Delacroix fastened his papers in his satchel and rose from the table.

“I’ll be in Havana for a few more days,” he said, tucking the packet under his arm.  “I’m staying at the Hotel
Ciervo Rico
if you have any additional questions.  If you ever venture to New Orleans, I’d welcome your stopping by my office,” he added, handing Sabine a card.  “Should I deliver my papers here in case you find an opportunity to return to America?”

Return?  The concept was unthinkable; not when she finally managed to find a place where she belonged, a place where the people accepted her
for who she was, not just some “nigra girl” who ought to be kept ignorant and in her place.

“Yes, Mr. Delacroix,” she answered graciously instead, “that would be fine.”

Robert Delacroix left, and Sabine watched him from the window as he climbed into the rented hack and proceeded down the street.

She was free.

The word still tasted delicious to her, and she rolled it around on her tongue, savoring its sweetness as she would a juicy peach.  Free to run, free to walk anywhere at any time, and no one could question her or demand of her anything she didn’t want to give.

She rested her forehead against the cool glass and released a sigh.  And she was rich. 
Fifteen thousand dollars rich…

But what was the point of having all that money if there was no one to share it with?  Of course, she could surround herself with lovely clothes and jewels and set herself up in a fancy city apartment…but she had no interest in those things any more.

She wanted him.  Michael.  She wanted to hear the sound of his voice so badly the need ached mercilessly in her heart.  She wanted the opportunity to listen to his words.  She wanted to make him happy by giving him the things she felt he’d always deserved…and they’d never have to scrimp or do without ever again.

She needed that part to make her feel whole, complete.  The part which caused her heart to swell, her soul to soar.

She wanted – no,
needed
– Michael.  Her Michael.

She wanted to live in her little house in the Cuban countryside and be content knowing that everything was right in her world, in her tiny slice of heaven where dreams might still come true if she was given a second chance.

She would get that chance.

Picking up her skirts, Sabine ran to the kitchen, her face warm with the life, the love, that encompassed
her.

“Miguel,” she insisted breathlessly as she skidded to a stop, quickly smoothing her tousled curls with an unsteady hand. 
“Quiero ir a casa.” 
I want to go home.

Chapter Twenty-three

Oh, dear Lord, what had happened here?

Sabine stood in the doorway, her heart hammering a wild tattoo against her ribs as she surveyed the ruin that lay before her, and disbelieve churned sourly in the empty pit of her stomach, writhing and twisting until she thought she might become sick at the sight of it all.  The overturned kitchen table.  The chairs – one broken beyond repair now.  The shambles that used to be her neatly organized pantry.

Her house.  Her beautiful, beautiful house.

Stooping she picked up a
china shard and examined it, her fingers stroking the scalloped edge that was once part of the tiny shepherdess Michael had brought from Havana.  And as quickly as it had appeared, the warm softness of remembrance sobered and was replaced by a heavy, sinking feeling that settled deeply within her bones.

Carefully, Sabine straightened the remaining Windsor chair as she lifted her skirts, stepping over the layer of scattered flour that spread across the kitchen floor as she made her way to the sitting room.

In her heart, she knew she wouldn’t be surprised by what she found.  The drawers of the secretary had been pulled from their rightful places, papers strewn haphazardly, angrily, across the worn carpeting.  The tiny jewel box that held what miniscule cash they had lay broken on the floor, its contents gone.

The muffled sounds of cautious footsteps in the attic sent Sabine’s pulse racing in panic as she instinctively snapped her head
toward the noise, apprehension plucking at her strained nerves as the iron bands of anxiety squeezed mercilessly around her chest.

“They’ve tracked me as far as here…”

The echo of Michael’s words shot through the fear that tightened in her throat, and it all became so very clear as the steps approached down the flight of stairs – his words, his story.  They were still here, those filthy men who had relentlessly hunted Michael.  They were here in their house, rummaging through their belongings, and –

And what have they done to him?

Dear God, she prayed, please let him be all right.  Please let it be Michael who walked down those stairs.  Not them.  Not those men he had begun to tell her about. Not those men who may have –

No.  She wouldn’t even think of it.  She hadn’t come so far only to lose the happiness that was rightfully hers.  Michael was coming back.  Coming to her.

Swallowing her fear, Sabine bent down and grasped the splintered end of a chair leg while her brain passionately repeated the thousand prayers she held fast in her heart, praying for Michael’s safety, praying for her own.

“Sabine?”  From the shadows of the stairway came the rich, fluid
tones of Castilian-laced English, the words a mixture of surprise and disbelief.  “What are you doing here?  You should be in New Orleans.”

She released the
breath she hadn’t realized she held captive, and her makeshift weapon clattered uselessly to the floor as Enrique stepped into the light, his handsome face worn with concern as he wearily raked a hand through his dark hair.

“Where is he?” she whispered unsteadily, her words catching in her throat as she fought back the chills of foreboding that raced along her spine.

He didn’t answer right away, his gaze dropping to the floor instead as he shifted his weight uncomfortably.  It wasn’t like him to act so awkwardly – not the Enrique she knew; the suave gentleman who charmed the ladies with his smooth tongue while flashing his easy smile.

“Where is he?”

Sabine asked the question again, her hesitancy rapidly waning as she observed him more closely.  Good, sweet Jesus, he looked as though he hadn’t slept for days; a rumpled shirt and trousers had replaced his tailored garments; his neatly slicked hair was disheveled, untidy strands falling across his brow; his eyes, almost unseeing as they slowly looked over the shambles that surrounded them.

The heel of her shoes connected with
the floorboards as Sabine felt the growing pressure of frustration build behind her eyes, and Enrique looked at her suddenly, almost surprised to see her still standing before him.  Why wouldn’t he answer her?

“Enrique,” she insisted sharply, the shrill edges of panic rising in her voice as she grabbed hold of his arms firmly, her small hands shaking him, pleading with him to give her the attention she so desperately needed. 
“Where is Michael?”

Reaching for her hands, he squeezed them.  Squeezed them in…relief?  Sorrow?  What, exactly, was it she saw in the tired recesses of his eyes? 
She was so unsure – and that uncertainty frightened her all the more.

“At
Fortuna
,” Enrique said quietly, staring at her hands intently.  “But, Sabine, I wish to warn you…”

The remainder of his words were lost as she turned and dashed from the house, the clatter of her heels echoing in her ears.
  Warned?  She didn’t want to be warned.  She wanted him – wanted to see his face, hear the sound of his voice.  And, oh God, she wanted to feel the touch of his hand once more, caressing the base of her neck, the curve of her cheek.

The wild rhythm of hooves pounded in her ears as Miguel urged the horses to
Fortuna Áureo.
  Sabine didn’t care to fight the tears that came to her eyes, or even bother to wipe them away angrily as she had so often done in the past, chastising herself for being weak.  That one small piece of heaven she had dreamed of for a lifetime.  Those sparks of happiness and love and acceptance that she had asked God to grant her were there in him – in Michael.

But was she too late now?  Had she thrown away her second chance that night?  That night she had let her pride and stubbornness plant the seeds
of false suppositions and doubts in her brain?  Doubts that Michael could never love her for who she was?  Not once had he given her cause to believe those things.  Not once had he treated her as though she were beneath him.  How foolish she was!