Dangerous Waters (24 page)

“Parrot,” Oscar pointed.

Looking up Phoebe glimpsed flashes of scarlet and vivid blue. More screams were followed by a burst of chattering.

“We eat now,” Oscar announced, throwing one leg over his mule's shoulder and sliding to the ground.

As Jowan dismounted Phoebe unhooked her leg from the pommel of her sidesaddle. She was a competent rider but she hadn't sat on a horse for over six months. Her bottom was sore, she ached in places she hadn't known existed and she had no idea how far they still had to travel. Reminding herself yet again that it had been her decision to make this journey, she smiled down at Jowan, determined not to betray her discomfort.

He did not smile back, but extended his hand. “Allow me to help you.”

For an instant she debated declining, telling him she could manage. But dismissed the thought even as it occurred. How would it prove her self-sufficiency if she twisted an ankle or collapsed in a heap at his feet?
But to take his hand, to feel his touch, his fingers warm on hers – She had no choice.

“Thank you.” Making sure her gown was clear of the saddle she leaned forward and slid off. But as her feet touched the ground and took her weight her knees buckled. She clutched Jowan's shoulders as his hands gripped her waist.

He made a soft sound deep in his throat. It sounded almost like a groan. She felt his breath warm against her forehead and a hot rush of longing swept through her body like a tide. Her legs were weak and trembling but she willed them to hold her as she snatched her hands away.

“Thank you. I – I haven't ridden for a while. So I'm a little out of practice.” Refusing to meet his gaze, painfully aware of her high colour, she turned away forcing him to let go. “I'll – I must – Will you excuse me? I'll just walk a little.” Now that she was on her feet another discomfort demanded her attention, one she had been trying to ignore.

“Of course.” He stepped back. “Take your time. But don't go out of earshot.”

She could hear Jowan's voice as he talked to Oscar and Quamin and guessed he was doing it deliberately so she would know where they were and feel safe while she snatched a few moments of privacy. The relief was tremendous.

Within an hour they had eaten and were on their way once more. The road followed the contours of the land, winding around thickly forested hillsides. Phoebe had quickly grown used to the smell of damp earth and rotting vegetation and the occasional sweet breath of jasmine. She stopped noticing tall nests swarming with white ants. Her anxiety increased. When should she tell Jowan she did not intend staying at Grove Hill?

Need she tell him at all? Once he had delivered her to the door he was free to return to Kingston. She could leave later. But what if Rupert refused to provide an escort for her?
What if he tried to keep her there against her will?
Surely he wouldn't? But if he did, who would know? Who would care? She could not believe in anyone any more.
Except Jowan.
But if she told him what she planned he would feel responsible. Though it was certainly not her intention he might assume she was manipulating him into remaining her protector. She could not do it. The guilt would be unbearable.

It was late afternoon when they came to a wooden bridge on a span of cut stone foundations that indicated the river beneath had once been much wider. Phoebe's head was pounding as they rode into Spanish Town. Like Kingston it was busy. But here uniformed soldiers and militia moved among the throng. The atmosphere of tension was palpable.

Moistening dry lips she leaned towards Jowan. “Who are all these people?”

“Some are probably refugees from Saint Domingue. Others may well be plantation owners and their staff. According to Mr Burley some estates have been attacked by slaves using the Maroon uprising as opportunity for revenge.”

Oscar led the way to a plaza bordered by elegant houses, some with pillared balconies. In the centre of the square a lush garden and shrubbery was surrounded by wrought iron railings. “That is Governor's residence,” he said as they passed an imposing red brick building with a two-storey portico.

Phoebe didn't care. Hot, tired, her nerves strained to breaking point, all she wanted was to reach wherever they were staying so she could get off her pony and lie down somewhere cool.

“Are you unwell? Miss Dymond?” The concern in Jowan's tone pierced her shroud of discomfort.

“Just tired.” She forced her mouth into a smile. But his answering frown told her he wasn't convinced.

“It shouldn't be long now.”

Within an hour it had become clear they had no chance of finding rooms for the night. They would have to ride on.

“You no worry,” Oscar told Jowan as Phoebe wondered how much longer she could remain in the saddle. “I find a place. First I buy food. You give money.”

Jowan handed over several coins and, leaving Quamin holding his mule, Oscar hurried away.

Phoebe wondered if they would ever see him again. Guilt-stricken she glanced at Jowan. “I'm so sorry. This is all my fault.”

As he turned to her she saw that strain had etched deep grooves across his forehead, between his dark brows and either side of his mouth. “You are claiming sole responsibility for this island's influx of refugees and civil unrest?”

“No, I didn't mean – “

“Of course you didn't. Forgive me. That was –” He shook his head. “But apologies are pointless. We are here now and must deal with the situation as best we can.”

He was right. But it was her refusal to wait, her determination to tell Rupert as soon as possible that she could not – would not – marry him, that had put them in this position. And yet – Rose had known the journey would require an overnight stay. Surely she must also have known that Spanish Town would be overrun with refugees? So why hadn't she warned them?
Because she had wanted Phoebe out of her house as soon as possible.

A short time later Oscar returned, a half-full sack slung over his shoulder.“Now we go.”

“You've found us somewhere to stay?” Jowan said.

Oscar nodded. “Not here. All full. But I know a place. We go?”

After the briefest hesitation Jowan gave an abrupt nod. Phoebe wanted to ask if it was far but caught her lip between her teeth instead. They had to go. They had no choice.

Throwing himself onto his mule Oscar clattered off ahead. Jowan urged his mount forward and Phoebe's pony followed.

Soon they had left the town behind. The sun was low, casting beams of gold through the trees, when Oscar turned off the track and onto a narrow overgrown path. Jowan followed, leaving Phoebe no alternative but to do the same. Her doubts were expanding into fear when the trees thinned and opened into a small clearing.

A small wooden shack thatched with palm leaves sagged drunkenly. The doorway was a gaping hole. The door itself – ragged planks held together by a crosspiece – lay a few feet away. Part of the clearing had once been cultivated. But the abandoned vegetable patch had swiftly reverted to a tangle of grass, weeds and creeping vines. The sound of a stream bubbling along a meandering channel cut in the earth increased Phoebe's raging thirst.

Knowing she could not dismount without help she turned, and realised Jowan was watching her. No doubt he was wondering how she would react. Forcing a smile she shrugged. It would soon be dark and riding at night was far too dangerous. They would have to make the best of it.

Swiftly dismounting Jowan tossed his reins to Quamin and came to her side.

Phoebe slid to the ground. His hands steadied her as she flexed aching shoulders and trembling legs. But as soon as she was sure she wouldn't stagger or fall she smiled politely and stepped back. To lean on him now would only make it harder to stand alone when he had gone.

As Quamin unsaddled the horses Phoebe removed her hat and took soap and a towel from her saddlebag. “I'll just – I won't go far,” she reassured Jowan who nodded and turned away, but not before she had glimpsed a spasm of pain tighten his face. Her heart went out to him. He was probably as unused as she was to so many hours in the saddle.

She walked a little way downstream and knelt to cup water in her palms. She drank deeply. It was cold and clear and soothing. After washing her face she pressed wet hands to her throat and the back of her neck, then slipped off her shoes and stockings. The cold water trickled over her feet like silk. Drying herself quickly she tidied her hair as best she could then returned to the clearing. Though still physically weary and aching she was sufficiently refreshed to feel hungry.

Quamin was carrying a huge armful of freshly cut palm fronds into the shack while Oscar knelt on the edge of a grey blanket spread like a rug. From the sack open in front of him he lifted out two roasted chickens and a calabash of cooked mixed vegetables.

Emerging from the shack Quamin bobbed his head respectfully as he passed Phoebe. Untying the reins of the horses and mules, now relieved of their packs, he led them to the lower side of the clearing so they could drink.

Phoebe glanced round the clearing. “Oscar? Where's my saddlebag?”

The creole nodded towards the open doorway. “Doctor put bags inside.”

Both bags?
His and hers?
Of course. Why not? It was sensible to put them out of the way. A shiver tightened her skin. The hut wasn't very big. Edging round the blanket Phoebe had to bend her head to enter. The first thing she saw was a mattress of leaves covering one half of the floor. Her heart tripped on an extra beat. Surely they weren't
all
going to sleep in here? But as her mind raced through the alternatives the reality of her situation hit hard.

Back in Kingston, alone in the little watchtower, it had all seemed perfectly simple. Telling Rupert in person and as quickly as possible that she could not marry him had seemed the only honourable course. Potential risks to her safety or damage to her reputation had not occurred to her. Now she was facing the consequences of that naivety. She tightened her grip on the towel.
They were here at her insistence. Whatever the conditions she had no right to complain.

Hanging her towel on a twig stump sticking out of the wall, she opened her bag and took out a short bottle-green jacket, her teeth chattering as she buttoned it up. She took a deep breath, telling herself she would feel better after something to eat.

As she went outside again she saw Jowan reappear on the far side of the clearing. Holding a towel in one hand he was straightening his coat with the other. His hair was wet and marked where he had raked it with his fingers.

“Shall we light a fire?” Phoebe suggested. The temperature was dropping with the fading light.

“No fire,” Oscar said before Jowan could answer. “People smell smoke maybe they come. Maybe they want our food.” He continued emptying the sack, taking out mangos, bananas and guavas.

Biting her lip Phoebe shivered again. She jumped as Jowan spoke.

“Miss Dymond, I'd like to change Quamin's dressing before it gets too dark.”

“Yes. Of course.” Relieved to be distracted from anxieties she was finding hard to control Phoebe fetched her medicine chest and set it on the far edge of the blanket. While Jowan removed the old dressing from Quamin's arm she soaked a square of muslin with antiseptic lotion. After passing it to him she smeared healing salve on a fresh pad. Quamin sat quietly his head turned away while Jowan worked.

Oscar watched; frowning as he fingered the talisman suspended on the leather cord around his neck. It was almost an inch long, as pale and smooth as ivory and shaped like an arrowhead.

Phoebe realised it was a tooth that had once belonged to a large predator. Refusing to speculate about what kind of animal, or where it lived, she wrenched her gaze away and passed Jowan a clean bandage.

By the time they had eaten night had fallen and bats swooped silently across the clearing.

Quamin edged closer to Jowan. “Please, massa, I take chicken bones?”

“Why?” Jowan asked.

Phoebe was curious too. The food had been shared equally between the four of them so it was unlikely the slave was still hungry.

“For Marinette,” Quamin mumbled.

“Who is Marinette?” Jowan frowned.

“She a devil, live in the forest and hunt at night. We make gift to her, she not hunt us.”

“Tell him yes,” Phoebe whispered.

Jowan's eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “Surely you don't believe – “

“No, but he does.” She saw him shrug. Then he turned to the slave.

“All right. But stay close to the clearing.”

Replacing the remaining fruit in the sack Oscar tied it to the branch of a tree and went to check the animals.

As Phoebe started to get up Jowan rose swiftly and offered his hand. She took it, her heart beating wildly, and forced herself to let go the instant she was upright. She heard him clear his throat.

“I'll just fetch my blanket if I may. Obviously Oscar and Quamin will sleep out here. And though I have no reason to suppose they would steal the horses I think it best that I do the same.”

Gratitude for his tact and consideration battled with a surge of fear.
If anything happened to him –
“Wh – where? I mean, you won't go -?”

“I thought – across the doorway?”

“Yes. Yes, that's an excellent idea.” The tremor of relief in her voice echoed the weakness in her legs. “Please, take some of the palm leaves. Quamin brought in a huge amount. Far more than I need.”
She was babbling.
Though they were not touching his breath feathered against her face and she could feel the warmth of his body. So close, too close. Too far. She felt herself sway, drawn to him like iron to a magnet,
or a moth to flame
.

“Thank you.” His voice was husky. “If you are sure you can spare them?”

Such formality, such politeness.
As she choked down giggles that were making her chest heave Phoebe knew she was on the brink of hysteria. It would not do. She swallowed hard and dug her nails into her palms. “Yes. Of course I can spare them. Let me help – “