Leslie LaFoy (38 page)

“Ah, Lady Claire,” Francis called to her. “We were hoping to see you before we left for home.”

“You're leaving Rosewind?” she asked, glancing out the front windows to make sure that she hadn't lost track of the time of day as she had the weather. “But it's so late. Why don't you wait until morning?”

“A storm front is coming in from the northeast,”

Richard Henry said. “We've been watching the line build since before noon.”

“Even more reason to stay,” she countered. “If you leave now, you'll be drenched to the skin before you're more than a league from the house. And given how chilly it's become, you're likely to catch your deaths of cold.”

Devon slipped past the brothers, saying as he came toward her, “This is a slow-moving storm, Claire. It'll be hours before it gets here.” Stopping in front of her, he smiled and presented his arm, adding, “And since Richard Henry and Francis Lightfoot will be riding away from it, they can easily beat it home.”

She hesitated to take his arm just long enough to remind herself of her determination to keep her wits about her. Just long enough for Devon to cock a brow in silent question and trigger a delightful flutter in the center of her chest.

“Weather this time of year tends to move in and settle, Lady Claire,” Francis explained as his brother led the way to the front door. “If we don't leave now, it could well be a week before we have another opportunity to travel. And we've imposed on your gracious hospitality for long enough already.”

“You haven't been an imposition at all,” she protested as Devon escorted her out of the house in the Lees' wake. “We've thoroughly enjoyed your company.”

Richard Henry paused on the front steps to give her a perfunctory bow and what was undoubtedly a traditional rejoinder for the circumstance. “As we have very much enjoyed our time at Rosewind.”

“Ah, here comes Ephram,” Francis announced as the man came around the side of the house, leading the Lees' horses. “His sense of timing is positively uncanny, isn't it?”

In response, Richard Henry turned to Devon and said, “When you told us two years ago that we were needlessly dependent on slave labor, I honestly thought you'd taken leave of your senses. But having seen for myself the health of your fields and the smooth functioning of your household… all achieved and maintained with only the most minimal labor… If you choose to reintroduce your bill this session of the House, I'd be willing to consider it.”

“As would I,” seconded Francis as he charged down the steps to take the reins from Ephram.

Devon extended his hand to Richard Henry, saying as the other man grasped it, “Thank you. With your support, it might actually pass this time.”

Two years ago? Was this the law Hannah had mentioned? Claire wondered, watching the Lees swing up to their saddles.

Francis called out, “We hope to see you in Williamsburg in two weeks, Lady Claire. Do remember to bring your dancing shoes.”

“I will,” she promised, waving and knowing that she didn't own any. “It's been a pleasure to have you as our guests, gentlemen. You're always welcome at Rosewind. Godspeed and travel safely.”

Richard Henry touched his hand to the brim of his hat and his heels to the horse's flanks. Francis, with one more jaunty wave, took off after his brother.

They were almost to the end of the drive when Devon quietly said, “I thought they'd never leave.”

“Devon!” she laughingly chided.

“Well, it's true. I have work to do and instead I've been playing host.”

The Lees reached the end of the drive, reined in their mounts, and turned back to wave one more time. While waving in return, Claire observed, “But the time appears to have been well spent. The Lees are willing to vote in
favor of your proposed law. Which, apparently, they couldn't bring themselves to do two years ago.”

“No one could. You would have thought I was asking them all to slit their own throats.”

As the brothers galloped from sight, she looked up at the man who was her husband and decided that there was no time like the present. “What did you ask of them?”

He sighed and, staring off into the distance, answered flatly, “That they change the law to allow a slave owner to free his slaves if he so desires. That they legalize manumission.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you couldn't give Hannah and Ephram their freedom even if you wanted to?” she asked, astounded. “That there are laws that say what you can and can't do with your own property? And that you've made these laws yourselves?”

He turned his head to meet her gaze and with a rueful smile replied, “Yes. Yes. And, amazingly, yes.”

“My God, Devon. It simply boggles the mind.”

He looked back out over the front lawn of Rosewind and his smile faded. “Human bondage is an indefensible practice, Claire. Economically, socially, and philosophically indefensible. If we can't bring ourselves to end it, it will someday be the ruin of us all.”

She had misjudged him terribly. “I had no idea you felt that way. I thought you'd reduced the number of slaves you owned simply because you needed the money.”

“If money had been my chief motivation,” he replied, the rueful smile returning, “I could've made a lot more of it than I did. I sold my people mostly to yeoman farmers out in the Piedmont. They have a better chance of living like free men and women there. Society itself isn't as law-bound on the frontier.” With a heavy sigh he shrugged and added, “It was the best I could do.”

And he considered the effort a very personal and painful failure. “Sometimes our best is all we can do,” she said softly, touching his cheek, wishing with all her heart that she had the power to make the world as right as he wanted it to be.

Devon covered her hand with his own and closed his eyes, reveling in the strength she so lovingly poured into him. With her standing beside him, no pain would ever be too deep to bear, no shame so damning that it had to be borne in silence. “I can't tell you how many nights I've lain awake, staring up at the ceiling and wondering how I'm going to face God and explain just why it was that I owned my half brother.” He opened his eyes to gaze down at her. “That would be Ephram, in case you haven't already surmised the truth.”

“I have,” she replied softly. “And I think God will know what's in your heart, Devon. He knows what efforts you've made to change the situation.”

She obviously believed the Maker was a far more attentive and kinder deity than he did. “What's the saying? The road to hell is paved with good intentions?”

“I don't think it applies in this situation,” she replied, smiling. “Besides, the Lee brothers are willing to help you make a difference. You'll succeed this time, Devon. And if there's anything I can do, you need only ask.”

“You've already done it.” He brought her hand from his cheek and pressed a kiss to her fingertips. “You've proven to Richard Henry and Francis Lightfoot that a home can be run without an army of slaves.”

Her smile broadened and she made no attempt to pull her hand from his possession. “It's not the men you need to convince of that particular possibility. It's their wives.”

“And I have every confidence in your ability to sway them as well. I'll make the case in the House of Burgesses,
and you can make it over tea in the meeting room at the Raleigh Tavern. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough, Devon. I'll do my best.” She blinked and a pensive shadow tinged the edges of her smile. “I suppose I'll have to do some needlepointing in the course of my mission, won't I?”

He remembered that first day, the carriage ride from Williamsburg and how vehemently she'd declared her loathing of traditional feminine pursuits. “More than likely,” he admitted, grinning.

“Only for you, Devon,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling. “I wouldn't willingly needlepoint for any other man on earth.”

Just how special was he? Devon wondered, his heartbeat suddenly hammering in his ears. “Does it help to know that I'm most appreciative?” he asked, slowly slipping his arm around her waist and drawing her closer.

“Yes, it does.”

He brought her fingertips to his lips again, watching her as he feathered another kiss across them. Her breath caught and she leaned into him, her lips parting and her free hand coming to rest lightly over his pounding heart.
Make love to me, Claire
.

Abruptly, she turned her head and frowned. Her shoulders sagging, she asked, “Is that Edmund Cantrell coming up the drive?”

He choked back a snarl of frustration and glared out at the drive, only then hearing the thunder of hooves. “Yes, dammit.” Good God Almighty. Had someone put up a sign somewhere inviting the entire world to encamp at Rosewind?

She stepped out of his arms, saying, “I'll leave you to the welcoming while I go tell Hannah and Meg that we're not yet done dispensing hospitality. Do you think he'll be staying the night?”

“More than likely,” he answered morosely.

She softly said, “I'm sorry,” and then stepped into the house. He watched her go, his chest aching with a strange kind of want, his throat scratchy and tight. And beneath the physical sensations, buried deep, was a sense that some great, glorious treasure was lying just beyond his grasp. That anything and everything a man could ever desire would be his if he only had the wisdom to put a name to the prize and the courage to step ward and take it.

AIN POUNDED
against the windows. In the near distance, lightning flashed and thunder rumbled in reply. Claire settled back into her chair, her wineglass in hand, thinking that it really had been a lovely meal. Hannah and Meg had outdone themselves and the food had been divine. Elsbeth and Mother Rivard had pleaded aching joints just after the storm had set in and, like Wyndom, had taken their evening repast in the privacy and comfort of their rooms.

It was something, Claire had decided during the soup course, that she was going to encourage them to do more often. It had been rather nice not to have Elsbeth monopolizing conversations and slinging barbs. And while Mother Rivard was a dear, it had been a relief to pass a meal without having to shepherd her illusions and sensibilities.

Claire's gaze traveled to their guest, who was, at the moment and to Devon's apparent amusement, attempting to bounce a shilling off the tabletop and into his
empty wineglass. It was hard to believe this Edmund Cantrell was the same man who so somberly occupied a law office in Williamsburg. For as long as she lived, she'd never forget looking up from her soup to find him grinning at her, his spoon magically dangling from the end of his nose.

The shilling missed the glass and skipped across the white linen toward Devon. Snatching it up before Edmund could, he declared it his turn to try. Edmund produced another shilling from his pocket and was about to make it a true competition when the door to the butler's pantry swung open. He dropped the coin on the table in the same instant that he came to his feet.

Hiding her grin around the rim of her wineglass, Claire waited for the next act of the delightful performance. Act one had begun the instant Meg had brought in the soup. As she'd begun to serve, Edmund had not so subtly kicked Devon in the shin to initiate an introduction. Meg had been surprised, but handled the decidedly unconventional moment with aplomb.