Surrender to the Fury (2 page)

Aimee’s hands shook as she slowly and carefully shuffled the deck. She was all too aware of Nick’s amused scrutiny and she did her best to avoid looking into his eyes. When she finished, she placed the deck on the table between them.

Nick gestured toward the deck. “Ladies first.”

Aimee held her breath as she reached out and quickly cut the deck. She turned over the ten of spades. Not bad, she thought. She gave a loud, shaky sigh.

Nick rewarded her with a devastating smile. “Very good, sweetheart, but is it good enough?”

His mocking endearment infuriated her, but her eyes remained on his large brown hand as it paused briefly atop the deck before dipping down and flipping over the top card. The queen of hearts!

Aimee groaned.

Nick laughed.

The gun clattered to the floor.

“My win, sweetheart.”

Utter disbelief seemed to turn Aimee to stone. How could she have lost?

“Are you prepared to honor your debt?” His voice held a note of contempt that made Aimee bristle indignantly. She considered a gambling debt a debt of honor.

Unable to speak, she merely nodded her head in affirmation. Grinning with slow relish, Nick bowed and offered his arm. “I’ll collect my debt in private. Actually, I’ve thought of nothing else since
I set eyes on you. We’ve many hours left before the
Dixie Belle
docks.”

Aimee moved on wooden legs as Nick led her from the gambling salon to his cabin. She entered Nick’s cabin just as the first blush of dawn made an unheralded appearance in the eastern sky.

Nine months later
.

“Push, Aimee, push dat baby out. C’mon, chile, dat’s it, I can see his head.”

“The devil take you and this baby!” Aimee sobbed, nearly senseless with pain. “He’s the spawn of the devil, just like his father.”

Savannah shook her gray head. Her black face was bathed in sweat, her clothes soaked with it Her beloved Aimee was bearing a child she didn’t want, and Savannah could do or say nothing to ease her pain. “Don’t talk like dat, chile; de babe is innocent in all dis. You got only yourself to blame, Aimee LaMotte. I done tole you you were in over your head when you started gambling on dat boat and called yourself Aimee Fortune instead of the name your parents gave you. I knew no good would come of it. We woulda survived somehow.”

“Oh God!” Aimee let out a loud shriek. The dreadful knowledge of giving birth to a child she knew she would hate made her pain even more difficult to bear.

“I can see his head!” Savannah cried, jubilant. “He’s got dark hair, honey. Push; it’s all gonna be over in a few minutes.”

“Over,” Aimee panted bitterly as she bore
down. “You’re wrong, Savannah, it’s only the beginning.”

The words were ripped from her throat as her body contorted in agony. She uttered a single scream and the baby slid into Savannah’s waiting hands.

“It’s a boy, honey, a perfect baby boy with dark hair.” As if to confirm her words, the room suddenly reverberated with the child’s lusty cries. Savannah chuckled in delight as she gently cleansed mucus from the baby’s mouth and nose, and wiped his body clean with a soft doth she had prepared beforehand. Still smiling, she held him aloft for Aimee’s inspection.

Aimee stiffened and turned away, refusing to look at the tiny mite she had given birth to. “Take him away; I don’t want to look at him.”

“Honey lamb!” gasped Savannah. “Don’t talk like dat.”

“I mean it. I’ll have to live the rest of my life knowing how this child was conceived. His father walked out on me without a backward glance.”

Savannah looked troubled. “He’s your own flesh and blood, honey. Who’s gonna look after him if you don’t? He needs his mama.”

“Don’t you understand, Savannah? I don’t want him. Every time I look at him I’ll be reminded of his father.”

Shaking her head and ducking her tongue in obvious disapproval, Savannah lay the babe in a small cradle beside the bed while she tended her mistress. Then, her lips compressed in a thin line, she gathered up the soiled linen and carried it from the room. Aimee was nearly asleep when the child’s whimpers jerked her awake. For a long
time she tried to ignore him while his soft mewlings continued. Then Savannah’s words came back to haunt her.
He’s your own flesh and blood. He needs his mama
. Rising on her elbow, she cast a resentful glance at the tiny mite lying in the cradle, expecting to see the face of a devil. Instead she saw an angel.

The tiny, wizened face was screwed up into the most endearing expression she had ever seen. He was sucking vigorously on one fist while waving the other in the air. A tuft of dark fuzz covered the perfect, round head, and his eyes were wide open, staring back at Aimee in a bold, demanding way that reminded her of his father.

Nick Drummond.

The handsome, arrogant rogue who had demanded her body in payment for a debt of honor and took her virginity without ever realizing she had been a virgin, piercing her innocence in one swift thrust that changed her life forever. He had assumed she was a whore and took her in a fury of passion. She had gained no honor by submitting to Nick Drummond. In a few short hours he had cheated her out of her winnings, robbed her of her virginity, and planted his Satan’s seed in her. What made it all the more unbearable was the damning fact that she had surrendered to the fury.

He had introduced her to a splendor she had never imagined existed. He had taken something only a husband had a right to take, and made her feel as if it belonged to him. His sizzling passion had made him senseless to her virginity, not that it would have made any difference to the rogue.

She hated Nick Drummond.

Hated him for transporting her to paradise, despised
him for being a Yankee and for planting his babe in her. Detested him for walking out on her the next morning without a word of good-bye. Loved every damn minute she had spent in his arms.

She had relived those perfect moments so often, they were etched forever in her brain. The thought of looking at a part of him every day for the rest of her life filled her with dread.

A soft whimper interrupted her reverie, and a force stronger than her own sense of survival compelled Aimee to reach out a finger and touch the child’s cheek. His skin felt like the softest velvet. He gurgled contentedly. One tiny fist closed around her finger, trying to drag it into his mouth. Despite her solemn vow to hate the product of Nick Drummond’s loins, Aimee lifted the baby from his cradle and snuggled him in her arms.

Savannah watched from the open doorway, holding her breath as Aimee cuddled her child. When Aimee placed him at her breast to suckle, the faithful old nanny offered up a prayer of thanks. For one terrible moment she feared Aimee would reject her child utterly.

For Aimee, this special bonding with the child she was prepared to hate was for life. In a flash, she realized the tiny, helpless being she had given birth to was innocent of his father’s sins and had a personality all his own.

“What are you gonna call him, honey?”

Aimee smiled up at Savannah, gratefully aware that she couldn’t have managed without the loving care the aging woman had lavished on her. “You name him, Savannah.”

Savannah looked startled, then inordinately
pleased. It took only a moment to make the choice. “Brand. His name is Brand.”

Aimee couldn’t help but ask, “Why Brand? It’s an unusual name. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it before.”

Savannah grinned. “The instant you held him in your arms, he placed a brand of love on your heart.”

“Brand. Brand LaMotte. I like it; it’s a good name.”

Tall Oaks Plantation, Atlanta, Georgia 1864

C
aptain Nicholas Drummond halted his company of Union cavalrymen at the entrance of a winding dusty road lined with stately oaks that appeared to stretch up to the sky. It was a surprisingly peaceful setting amidst a land ravaged by war, curiously untouched by time and man’s injustice to his fellow man. Yet the bloody, senseless war between the North and South, pitting brother against brother, had been raging for three years.

Though the issue forcing the war was slavery, Nick knew the reasons went far deeper than that, and for the sake of humanity, he prayed it would end soon. But until then he had a duty to perform. He had joined the Union army because the cause was just and his honor demanded that he fight for justice and equality for all men.

Nick twisted in the saddle, waiting for Lieutenant Dill to ride up beside him. “Is this the place, Lieutenant?” His voice was gritty with exhaustion, and his gaunt face gave mute testimony to the many battles he had fought and survived through sheer grit and determination.

“Yes, sir,” Dill acknowledged. “Tall Oaks. It belongs to the Widow Trevor and her young son. Because of its size and proximity to Atlanta, it was purposely left standing to serve as an observation post in the area.”

“I suspect Widow Trevor won’t take kindly to having her home occupied by Union soldiers,” Nick mused, stroking his stubbly chin. He felt grubby and dirty and couldn’t wait to feel a real bed beneath his aching bones. “How long has her husband been dead?”

“Intelligence reports he was killed at Richmond back in sixty-two.”

“Very well, Lieutenant,” Nick said dismissively, “Mrs. Trevor will just have to live with our presence whether she likes it or not. Warn the men that she’s likely to be bitter over the death of her husband, but that neither the widow, her son, nor any of her people are to be harmed. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll see to it.” Dill wheeled his mount and rode back to convey Nick’s orders to the men.

Younger than Nick, Lieutenant Clifton Dill was a handsome man with a wry sense of humor and boyish charm most women found irresistible. In contrast, Nick was a seasoned soldier who learned the hard way to protect his back, be wary of the obvious, and trust no one but himself. His philosophy had brought him through the war unscathed thus far, and he expected to outlast most of the young, inexperienced men under his command.

The tough veneer Nick had assumed made him no less appealing to women. He was the kind of man women found challenging. The hard planes of his face were saved from austerity by the deep
cleft in his square chin and by his devastating smile, when he chose to show it.

The plantation house sat majestically at the end of the driveway nearly one half mile long. As Nick drew near he could see signs of ravage wrought by years of neglect. In his mind’s eye he could picture how the house must have looked at one time with slaves bustling about performing all the chores necessary to maintain such an imposing mansion. The entrance rose three stories high, supported by tall, stately columns. The paint was peeling now, the acres surrounding the house lay fallow, and the slave cabins out back sat rotting beneath the hot Georgia sun. Nick saw no signs of life as he rode into the yard at the head of his company.

Had Widow Trevor and her son vacated the premises? he wondered curiously. As a precaution against an unwelcome reception lying in wait for them, his hand hovered inches from his gun. Nick dismounted. His men followed suit. “Spread out,” he snapped. “Sergeant Jones, take some men and search the slave quarters. Lieutenant Dill, follow me into the house. The rest of you set up camp beneath those trees yonder.”

“The place looks deserted, Captain,” Dill observed. “It must have been difficult for a widow to survive out here on her own.”

“More like hell,” Nick muttered. Food was so scarce, his men had to scrounge for enough to keep them alive between quartermaster deliveries. He could well imagine what it was like for a woman with a child and no means of support.

They approached the door, and Nick used the butt of his gun to knock. The sound reverberated
hollowly inside the house. When no one answered, he tried the knob. It turned easily beneath his fingertips. The door was thick but somewhat battered, as if someone had tried at one time or another to hammer it down. Nick shoved it open with his foot.

She stood facing him, an old, rusty pistol aimed at his midsection. Her face was set in grim lines, and Nick was assailed by a vague memory of having lived this same scenario one other time in his life. It was eerie, yet so vibrant that he had to squint his eyes in the dim recesses of the vast foyer in order to bring the woman’s features into sharp focus.

Neither the purple shadows marring the delicate flesh surrounding her honey brown eyes nor the gaunt hollows beneath her cheekbones detracted from her beauty. The much patched and faded blue dress hung loosely on her spare frame. But Nick noted that she still had sufficient curves to identify her as a lovely young woman. Her blond hair was pulled back from her face in a taut bun, emphasizing fine bone structure beneath pale ivory skin.

Nick’s heart beat a rapid tattoo as he gazed into those hate-filled eyes. He felt himself being swept five years into the past to a night of unforgettable passion aboard the
Delta Belle
. His gaze rested on her, steady, unflinching, unfathomable.

Aimee Fortune.

He had taken her in a moment of splendid madness in payment for a gambling debt.

And he had never been able to forget her. The first time he had seen her, he’d felt lust, pure and simple, and he had satisfied it, handily, unforgettably.
He regretted the haste with which he had left her the next morning, but she was sleeping so soundly, he didn’t have the heart to awaken her. He had slipped ashore at Natchez and immediately boarded a train for Chicago. But he had thought of Aimee Fortune often since then, and made an effort to travel aboard riverboats several times in the ensuing years, hoping to encounter once again the enchanting lady gambler who portrayed innocence so effectively. She was either a very talented actress or so experienced, she knew all the right moves.

There were so many questions he wanted to ask her. Yet no one in New Orleans or Natchez seemed to know a lady gambler named Aimee Fortune or what had happened to her. She had virtually disappeared from the face of the earth, and Nick was forced to relegate the memory to a part of his past that somehow refused to die.