The Winds of Fate (9 page)

The raven cawed above him, jerking him back to reality. With Herculean effort, Devon pulled back. He’d forgotten about his men. About finding an escape. He was amazed he’d forgotten that; he was more amazed at his unparalleled lack of control where she was concerned. His jaw tightened and his tone hardened. “You should have
stayed with your friend. It is not proper for a woman like you to come alone with a slave.”

He observed her confusion as he knelt to remove her dress from gnarled vines. Beneath feminine petticoats, he saw a glimpse of ankle. His whole being filled with wanting. He brushed her ankle, soft and warm. She gasped. It would be so easy. He yanked the remnant from the roots and stalked off.

He was a slave, lower than a beast of burden, not fit to hold the hem of her dress.

She was his wife.

Devon came upon an opening. A cliff boasting a broad view of Port Royale’s Harbor, her arms spread wide like a great breasted woman, embracing the sea. Freedom. It slammed into him. The rich sea waters beckoned him, calling him home. A boundless ocean ruffled by the winds of heaven. The contemplation of his dying on this miserable island prison dredged an awful bitterness backed by burning resolve. He surveyed the landscape, taking in everything strategic. But how? He needed a vessel. The chances of obtaining that were next to nil. It would be easier to build castles in the air.

“It is lovely,” she offered, standing by his side. “But where are the herbs?” said the metaphor of his chains.

“I’m sorry. I lost my bearings,” he apologized. He turned, removing himself from the proximity of temptation. He backtracked to a little glade to harvest the precious herbs before returning to the big house.

“D
o you think this will work?” Claire willed the concoction he had blended in the kitchen to perform its magic. She watched as deft hands lifted Cookie’s head, coaxing her to drink the strong medicine. She remained puzzled by his present aloofness. She didn’t really quite understand what had happened in the glade and these feelings irked her. “What else is in it?” She had watched him mix many powders then finally decided to give up trying to figure him out…and, accept his cool cordiality.

“I can assure you it’s not parrots’ tongues or rat’s livers like those other rascals prescribe. I’ve heard tell many have entered the world beyond escalated by their unique talents.”

Claire noted his knowledge of the quackery practiced by the other two island doctors. She also noticed his hands, how gentle they were administering a poultice to Cookie’s chest, like his quick agile hands with her mare, the art of a healer. He returned the blankets over Cookie.

“You will be fine. You are a tough old girl with fighting spirit,” he crooned to Cookie, and for that, Claire stood thankful. He washed his hands in a basin and dried them on linen. From there, his calm, deliberate glance passed on to consider her. “Claire, be seated. It is a waiting game from here.”

He spoke her name with characteristic firmness, defying proper decorum. She had not given him the liberty of using her first name, but dismissed the faux pas for now. If he could indeed help Cookie she would overlook his breach in etiquette. She would remind him later.

He sat in a chair next to his patient, his shirt sleeves folded up on his forearms, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He seemed at home, she surmised a nuance of his trade. Claire could not relax. In the communal silence that fell between them, she felt he was aware of her as much as she was aware of
him
.

Time crawled by as years. No longer could she remain seated. She walked to the curtain and looked outside, allowing the drowsy warmth of the sun to wash over her. In the waning quiet, she could feel his eyes on her. She clutched the drape in her hand, attempting to throttle the dizzying currents racing through her for she remembered that moment in the forest all too well. There was a spell woven between them, and she thought for one brief instant, he was going to kiss her. She wondered how that would feel. She had never been kissed before. Ridiculous! Far be it from her to invite such attention, since she was so plain.

Simmering beneath the surface, her feelings merged into one another like the hues of a prism. Claire’s face grew warm. His gentle touch upon her ankle, burned through her dress, petticoats, stockings, igniting even now, a melting in the pit of her stomach. Oh my. She was by no means blind to his attraction for the man radiated a vitality and energy that drew her like a magnet. But those thoughts were forbidden. He was a slave.

Why had she purchased him? Reason nettled her.
She knew
. He had stood there all alone against the world. No one wanted him. She could not allow that final humiliation. Then there was his spirit that she admired. They were kindred souls, despite their differences. Both of them, she surmised, yearned for independence, freedom to live their own lives.

Claire sat in her chair again, pretending the man opposite her was no different than a piece of furniture. Her nerves were drawn taut as harp strings, and her senses hummed. Without thinking, she stroked the spine of a book, then picked it up and commenced to read. The endeavor remained far from calming. The words she read made no sense at all. She backed up a page to reread what she missed. She sighed, concluding the activity an exercise in futility. “A particular interest of yours?”

Claire jerked her head up. “Pardon me?”

He gave her a patronizing smile. Had he noticed her discomfort? “
The Husbandry of Sheep
. Far be it from me to take you away from such an interesting topic. Must be the rage among ladies.”

Claire clapped the book shut. She colored when he chuckled. “My−my cousin, Lily reads everything,” she said in weak explanation.

“Faith to have knowledge of shearing and−mating practices. One never knows when that information might come in handy.”

Claire inhaled, the innuendo clear. His eyes were lit with humor. He would do anything to provoke her embarrassment. She abandoned all pretenses. “I was ruminating the practice of castration.” With innocent guile, she looked at him. “We are talking about sheep?”

His astonishment was priceless.

“I believe that was a tactical error on your part, doctor. Now we’re even.”

To her dismay, he threw back his head and roared with laughter then quieted himself so as not to disturb his patient.

“You are the most arrogant, insufferable man I have ever met. If it weren’t for Cookie’s well-being, I’d toss you out in a−” But the merriment in his eyes grew infectious, and for the first time in a long time, Claire could not help herself from smiling. “You bring out the worst in me, doctor. Are you always this−ill-mannered?”

He arched a brow in that all knowing impossible male attitude. “Always.”

The whole man was a study in contradictions. He was a slave, her slave, but behaved nothing like a slave. He had the audacity to act as her equal. He was educated and caring, this she’d seen firsthand. Yet he wasted no time in vexing her. She could not help herself from pondering his history.

“You must have been a monstrous child,” she said.

“Left my parents faint with exhaustion. And yours?”

This was far safer. Her feelings had run amok. She likened them to a desperate old spinster. She would not allow
those
feelings to happen again. With that decision, she felt better, genuinely warming up to a topic that held fond and dear memories for her. “I thrived on adventure
as a young child, to my parents’ alarm.” said Claire, slanting the physician a provocative laughing look. “My parents hosted a dinner party with hopes to impress their guests. I recall Lady Winston. She stood the epitome of haughtiness, and she wasted no time in telling me I was doomed to be a ragamuffin. I thought her quite rude. So at dinner, I slipped a frog into her vichyssoise. When the servant removed the cover from her bowl, she fainted dead away. My parents tried to feign horror, but could not stop laughing. The dinner party turned into a fiasco. I was punished. I could not ride my pony for a week.”

She found it so easy to talk to him. Refreshing yet odd, not a discourse one would have with a slave. His camaraderie, his subtle wit and the way he listened intently to what she said as if nothing else in the world mattered. The banter was disconcerting and flattering. It also created a false mood of absolute intimacy and solitude.

Yet, hanging in the air was an unidentifiable acquaintance that she could not quite put her finger on. It was almost as if she had known him before. Claire searched his face for clues but could find none. Then there was that voice of his, resonating with nagging familiarity. She looked away, tracing the molded edge of her chair, thinking her worries over Cookie were causing her to imagine things that were not there.

Claire walked to the bed and lifted the cloth from Cookie’s forehead. “Your journey to Jamaica, was it long?” She glanced to him and froze, those penetrating eyes, fastened onto hers.

“The
Jamaica Merchant
was an abomination, a fertile womb for suffering. The sloshing bilges churned up nauseous fumes and the decks leaked until there wasn’t a dry piece of clothing below. Under the hatches we men wrestled with close confinement. Our nourishment started with salt horse, old meat first, that is, meat that had been returned from a former voyage. On opening one of these hoary casks, the stench flooded the space below decks and hung in the air like a miasma. Add the foul water. A sickness broke out among us and it was all that I could do to avail my skills and prevent heavy losses. We dropped anchor in Carlisle Bay, and we were lucky enough to put ashore forty-three out of seventy-two surviving rebels.”

Claire withstood his fiery blast. His eyes seemed to see everything, so piercing, so swift to study and judge, then explode with his judgment. She could only imagine the deprivations he’d been through. Yet what galled her, stood the fact that he assumed she was responsible for his lot in life.

“There is nothing I can do to change your fate. You are a rebel, a traitor to the King. You are captain of your own destiny, commanded by your own hand. I observed you looking out over the bay. I felt your lust for freedom. I’ll inform you, it is forbidden.”

“Thank you, Madame, for reminding me of my place.” He dismissed her coldly, and commenced to examine the patient.

Claire fumbled tidying up the bedside table. What had made her speak so horribly? He possessed the predisposition to turn her into a hopeless shrew. Every conversation turned into an accomplished act of war. Claire reminded herself that her goal was to heal Cookie, not antagonize him. Her temper was responsible for getting rid the other two island doctors. She didn’t want a battle. She wanted a treaty. With her uncle she had learned to deal with difficult men−the physician was bent on being difficult; therefore, she needed to maneuver him into a more reasonable frame of mind. Pointing out his status would not accomplish that. “I apologize for what I said.”

“Faith, a study in diplomacy?” he mocked.

Claire balled her fists, but kept her voice soft, weary of argument. “I’m trying to call a truce of sorts. Won’t you come at least halfway?”

He folded his arms in front of him. “What if a person owes you a debt? Do you think that person should fulfill it?”

“Why yes,” she waffled, wondering where this cryptic conversation was leading.

“A debt is a promise, an obligation to be fulfilled, is it not?” He smiled benignly.

“A person’s promise or word is his sense of honor.” Why did her chest tighten?

“How important is your sense of honor? Do you abide by it?”

She studied the inscrutable expression on his face, yet had the distinct impression she was a mouse toyed in a tiger’s paw. “Why of
course.” Was there a deeper meaning to his questions she failed to grasp?

He bowed. “I’ll concede to your wishes. If it’s a truce you want, then it’s a truce it is.”

Claire smiled with triumph not really sure what was conceded. She rinsed a cloth in the cool water. He took it from her hands, his long supple fingers, brushed against hers. She shivered. He placed the cloth on Cookie’s forehead with gentleness. Claire speculated the different sides of him. The physician, she stood convinced, was a fearless, brash, capable man, but simmering beneath that exterior facade, one who could be brutal. “How is she doing?”

“Her pallor is good, temperature has dropped and breathing has steadied. She’ll make it.”

Through a haze of tears, Claire bestowed on him her most brilliant smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, his voice husky.

“I’ve just now realized, I’ve never asked you your name.”

“Some call me physician, some call me slave,”

Would he always remind her of his misfortune? She sighed worn from argument, and at once, felt achy and exhausted. She leaned back and stretched her spine.

“Tell me, of your husband,” he asked.

She was so stunned, she couldn’t hide her reaction. She fingered the small gold wedding band she had purchased before she left London. “Why-why he’s passed on.”

“So young? How unfortunate.”

“He suffered a terminal illness. He went quickly. Before I even knew,” she explained. The pit of her stomach clenched.