The Winds of Fate (7 page)

Claire raised her head. “Didn’t Captain Johnson say the slave I bought was a physician?”

Lily lifted an eyebrow. “I thought that speech was invented to bargain him for a higher price. But will he oblige you?”

“He has to be a physician. And why wouldn’t he help?” Claire demanded.

“He seemed so angry, as if he had a score to settle with you,” Lily informed her. “Besides it’s improper to go to the fields alone. Sir Jarvis sent Moses into town on errands, so there isn’t anyone to escort you.”

Cookie’s shallow breathing increased. She owed so much to the woman who saved their lives. “I don’t know the man or why he feels hostility toward me.” Claire plunked a hat on her head. “I’ll do anything to save Cookie even if I have to travel through the gates of Hell and bring back the devil himself.”

Included in one of those melancholy droves of human chattel, Devon survived, almost suffocated by the heat. At night, they were crowded into barracks, many with wounds, undressed and festering, caused by incessant floggings and fierce insects. Many were fortunate to die.

In Devon’s mind, Baron Jarvis had far exceeded the foulest work of God’s creation. If he had any regrets, it was not having the opportunity to draw a lance on the baron. A beneficial operation, he mused, beneficial as for the welfare of humanity. The difficulty lay in the opportunity. The man stood robust and clear of any ailments. In any case, the idea had merit.

To keep his sanity, he channeled thoughts of revenge on the brown haired witch who bought him. He had caught a glimpse of her, conversing with three old pea-hens. Her brown curls were caught up in an elegant cluster at the nape, entwined with jasmine flowers, and she emanated a breathtakingly beautiful image of breeding and serenity. She had laughed at something the old biddies said, and her face had acquired a radiance that was mesmerizing. Devon’s shock of seeing her then as on the docks vanished as quickly as it hit him, but he had continued to
study her with the same detached interest as a stable master would a thoroughbred he already knows is flawed.

With habit, he recalled her proud triumph in purchasing him. It had been a game, an entertainment for a spoiled, selfish, frivolous woman, her character no different than her uncle. But she owed him a debt. For Devon it became a game on how he would collect that debt.

The yoke of slavery was an unending agony. Many men like himself were forced into back-breaking work in the fields. Others, not so lucky were chained to the mill-wheel like beasts of burden, the ready lash of the whip reminding them of their servitude. From foul water and ill-nourishment, a sickness broke out between them. Devon protested to exercise his expertise as a surgeon to relieve some of the suffering. He was accounted obstinate and threatened with a flogging. Only from the loss of the men perishing at a high rate did the overseer relent. Without rest, Devon worked to improve the conditions of his fellow captives and checked the spread of disease. The mortality rate would have been higher if not for his skill.

The field work hardened him after the softening influence of Newgate and aboard the ship. If the opportunity of escape occurred he would stand ready in prime condition.

Old Ethan, a convicted rebel collapsed and writhed in misery. “Reckon it don’t matter. May’s well die a sheep as a lamb. They’ll flog me if I don’t get back up.”

Devon knelt beside Ethan. “Nobody will flog you, old one.” He lay so sick and battered, his pallor like a shrunk cedar white with the hoar-frost. “Ames, Bloodsmythe, Wolf.”

Three other convicted rebels he had bonded with on the ship hid Ethan under a palmetto.

“Old Ethan, you rest here in the shade. We’ll do your work. No one need know the difference.” Devon covered him with palm branches.

Ames drew Devon aside. “If they catch us, we’ll all be flogged. Be like they’ll end his life here in the field or tie a millstone around Ethan and let him sink to the bottom of the river.”

Devon frowned. “If I don’t get him out of the sun and let him rest, it will mean the death of him. And while I grant Jarvis has no soul, I doubt he would deliberately murder an old man at expense to his profit.”

Ames shook his head. “Jarvis is a killer. ‘Tis said that after each flogging, he lays Anne Jensen in lust.” He spat in disgust. “It fair makes me puke to set eyes on him.”

Devon picked up his shovel and commenced to work, considering Ames’ warning with cool indifference. Ames was a good lad, third son of an earl, set with principles, gone off to war on the wrong side without weighing the hubris in which he entangled himself. It was a heavy price he paid for that impetuous decision. Each day, Devon swore he saw another piece of hope diminish the light in the lad’s eyes. A raven settled on his shoulder. “Ah here’s our friend, Abu Ajir, father of omens to bid us good day,” laughed Devon who paused to understand the rarity of his humor. Blue-green iridescence reflected on the bird’s head. “You seem the only one in good health, my favorite stowaway.”

“If not for you nursing Abu Ajir back to health aboard the ship, he’d be fodder for the fishes. He has sought you as his master. I wish I could fly away with our friend,” Ames expression went slack.

Devon did not concede to Ames’s misery. Guards pointed at them from down the field. He brushed aside the bird and set his shovel into the ground. “Better to keep the illusion of hard work than to receive a flogging.”

Ames followed Devon’s lead. “Why did you name the raven an Arab name?”

“Half a decade ago, I spent two years in a Spanish prison that lent me the company of many different men.” He did not glance at Ames’s countenance to see his surprise. Instead he looked up to see the object of his enmity riding toward him.

She was like a fair flower disheveled in the wind. Her dress was of simple yellow muslin, the bodice shaped close to her slender figure and accented her tiny waist. Her bonnet lay frivolous upon her back with several silk ribbons flowing in the breeze. Her hair fell
freely down her back, framing her features with gleaming chestnut. With avid curiosity, he saw a spark in her eyes and flushing of her cheeks, a delightful shade of rose. She was a vision to bedazzle the most hardened of men. The convict-rebels, busy with their labors, could not keep their eyes off her. And neither could Devon.

C
laire prodded her mare past several convicts, pulling up short to three slaves removing a stump. They gave her no notice. The guards had indicated this group but none of them looked like her slave. Had the guards been mistaken? The taller man appeared to be the leader of sorts, the rest of the men deferring to him. He arrested her attention. Without considering the impropriety of it, she considered him with thoughtful curiosity, tall, lean, clean-shaven, a countenance revealing every arrogant line of his sun-bronzed features. She even found beautiful the hand that rose to wipe the moisture from his brow, and even the dark hair and the most amazing green eyes−and realized they were staring back at her.

Startled, her heart shuddered, stopping for a moment, and then began beating anew at a frantic pace. She didn’t know what emotion it was he caused to rise within her. It could not be fear, for the guards stood a shout away.

She grew furious with herself. It wasn’t fear. She resisted the same curious sensations as she observed him. Something leaped along her spine. He was devastatingly handsome, forbiddingly severe and his features were hard as granite. Overall she thought his countenance one of the most compelling, and fiercest she had ever seen.

She grew embarrassed as the seconds eclipsed and nothing was said. Her embarrassment became complete when her eyes beheld his half naked dress. He had no shirt and only tight fitting breeches. Claire looked around the field of working men. They watched with furtive glances expectant of the silent tableau between her and the tall slave.

“The guards told me to come to this group. They must have been mistaken.”

“What is it you want?” His green eyes glared at her as hostile as a storm on an Irish sea.

She opened her mouth and closed it, struck by the Irish lilt in his voice. With his eyes meeting hers head on, she almost to her horror, forgot what she came for. A long five seconds passed before she recalled why she was there and blurted out her reason. “I am looking for a slave. It is my understanding he is a physician.”

It was his turn to pause overlong. “Faith and what would you be needing with him?”

It needled her, his magnanimous pontification, as if he sat on the same throne as Zeus. He should know his place. His rudeness, she supposed, was to be expected. But she didn’t care. Cookies’ life was in danger. “I need his help with a personal matter.”

“Ah. A personal matter...truly, how personal is it?”

She drew in a quick intake of breath at his bold inquiry. He laughed, infuriating her, taking undue amount of pleasure by intimating a forbidden nature to his question. “Of course, only one condemned to so lowly as a slave would have the gall to speak to me that way. I don’t see that it is any business of yours. If you’ll direct me to the physician−”

The earth pitched beneath her. Claire’s horse reared. She grabbed at the reins. Her bottom slid back. She jerked on the reins. The horse kicked and bucked. The world spun. She struggled to get the beast under control. Would she fall under the sharp hooves that pawed the air?

Hands reached out and grabbed the bridle. “Why, you witch. Take care of the mare. It’s a gentle beast. Stung by a bee that’s all.” With expert skill he removed a stinger from the horse’s withers. He reached down and grasped some mud and patted it on a swollen pustule. He ran his slim fingers over the horse’s flanks cooing to the mare. Claire’s horse settled, almost half slumbering from the magic of his hands.

Her eyes widened, admiring his quickness in adverting near disaster. What if she had broken her neck? If she weren’t so vexed by him calling her a witch along with his other rude insinuations, she would
have dared to compliment him on his skill. He raked his eyes over her, flustering her. Some women may have found it flattering. Except Claire believed in her plainness and found his perusal a maximum insult. It was certainly something no gentleman would do, but what could she expect from an uncouth felon.

“I’m a valuable man to have around. I have a natural gift for horses, you see, because I handle them all like women−with a gentle hand for the most part, a firm one when needed, and a good slap to the rump when they get too spirited.”

Heat flooded her face. His companions quit their labors and stared aghast.

“Again,” she tried to maintain some modicum of control. “I was looking for the physician slave and informed by my uncle’s overseer you would be able to guide me to him.”

He laughed at her, an out-and-out careless laugh that grated on her nerves and made her brace herself, and with reason.

“I’m your physician.” He made an exaggerated bow. “At your service, madam.”

“Why−you look nothing like the man−” The black beard was gone. No wonder she didn’t recognize him. She had not seen him for quite some time, but she could not deny the resemblance.

“A lady should have knowledge of her own property. I am worth exactly eleven pounds. I remember it well for it was the sum you paid for me. It’s not every day a man knows precisely what he is worth.”

Lily’s warning about this man haunted her. Not only did he resent her, he hated her. Claire swallowed. “I have need of your assistance. My cook is ill and needs a physician.”

“Certainly, but I am not free of my important labors here. Are there no other physicians whose refined skills you could acquire?” He leaned against his shovel with cynical detachment.

“Do you not exercise the compassion of your office?” she demanded.

“For what? To be bartered and traded like a horse,” he said, seething with righteous wrath. “It is a novel experience for me and not one to tender my regard for my owner.”

“You should have gratitude.”

“Gratitude is it.”

“I pitied you. If you had been bought by Mr. Cox you would have suffered at his hands. My uncle is a hard man, but he pales to the ruthless owner of the bauxite mines. Man or beast bear short lives under him.”