Rapture in His Arms (2 page)

The slave said nothing, but he didn’t need to speak. The rigid set of his jaw, and his eyes, burning brightly with defiance, spoke for him. Clearly, these two men detested each other with equal intensity. It was quite evident to Jillian that this white slave wasn’t about to be cowed by anyone, least of all the paunchy Horatio Mortimer. The man’s very silence and arrogance in the face of authority finally undid Mortimer.

Mortimer slid laboriously from his horse with a puff and a huff, his attention on the slave and not about to be removed. “I’ll teach you to arrogantly eyeball your betters,” shrieked the out-of-breath man as he raised his riding crop to the man at his feet.

“I forbid you to strike him!” Jillian cried, startling everyone, but especially herself.

Mortimer stood like a purple pillar; his riding crop fell to his side. Bafflement and anger contorted his face. “What did you say, madam?”

Jillian flushed, aware she’d overstepped the boundary of male authority. A man like Mortimer didn’t take orders from women, especially not the wife of a guest. She knew from visiting with the Mortimers that her host was a blustering man who expected his wife to be docile and subservient to his every whim. She also knew that a man like Sir Horatio didn’t want a woman interfering in plantation business, especially not in the punishment of recalcitrant slaves. She glanced at Edwin, who appeared just as surprised by her reaction as Sir Horatio, but he regarded her in contemplative silence. The arrogant slave coolly assessed her from his spot upon the ground, and it was his very chilling stare that caused her palms to perspire. She wondered what had gotten into her to defend this man, who from all appearances needed to be corrected. But she didn’t like Horatio Mortimer or the way he treated his slaves, and she wouldn’t take back what she’d said. “I—I don’t want you—to hit him,” she stammered and wiped her wet palms on her skirt. “Slaves are never beaten at Cameron’s Hundred. How can you expect loyalty from your slaves if you mistreat them?”

Sir Horatio leveled a heated gaze upon Jillian, though his attitude was politely formal. “I don’t expect loyalty from them, madam, nor do I care to receive their devotion. I do expect them to obey me and my overseer. I also expect a woman to know her place and not embarrass her host or her husband.”

Jillian paled; her mouth trembled. Indeed, she’d gone too far. Edwin must be horribly humiliated by her outburst. More than anything, she didn’t wish to add to Edwin’s pain. Turning to her husband, she whispered, “I apologize if I’ve embarrassed you.”

Edwin surprised her by smiling reassuringly. He patted her hand before addressing Horatio. “My wife isn’t used to brutality. Really, you should think twice before you punish a slave in front of a lady, Horatio. We shall now return to the house for luncheon. I’m certain Lady Priscilla is awaiting us.” Edwin grabbed the reins of the small donkey that was hitched to the cart, but his voice held a warning tone. “And, Horatio, I think it might be a good idea if you don’t overdo your punishment of that slave for I’d like to speak to you about him later this evening.”

Without waiting for a response from Horatio, Edwin clucked to the donkey, and the cart began to roll down the dirt road toward the pink-tinged house in the distance. “I shouldn’t have interfered,” Jillian said contritely as she glanced over her shoulder to find that the slave still watched her.

“Aye, you should have remained quiet, my dear, but I admit I’m embarrassed that I didn’t say something. Horatio isn’t a very fair man sometimes, but he helped me out of debt years ago, and I’m grateful. Now tell me, what do you think of Donovan?”

Jillian looked at her husband. “Who?”

“Donovan Shay—the man whom you defended.”

“He’s a white man,” was all she could think of to say.

“Aye, he is that, and Irish to boot. That’s why Horatio detests him and treats him so badly.”

“Why is he a slave? How can this be?”

“’Tis a sad tale, but the short of it is that Horatio has never liked the Irish. He served with me in the Irish campaign at Drogheda—” Edwin stopped speaking. His gaze suddenly was far away and filled with pain. It took some seconds before he grew aware of his surroundings and cleared his throat. His voice sounded strained. “I’ve regretted my part in Cromwell’s annihilation of the Irish ever since. The senseless cruelty and brutality perpetrated against those people by our own English troops will haunt me until the day I die. Many Irish died, but the survivors were rounded up and shipped to Bermuda and the islands as slaves. Donovan was one of them, a young lad of six at the time. As luck or ill fortune would have it, he ended up here as slave to Horatio. Over the years during my infrequent visits, I’ve seen him grow from a scared child to the defiant man he’s become.”

“How long has he been here?”

Edwin thought a moment. “Approximately twenty-seven years.”

“Is there a chance that Sir Horatio will free him?”

“Nay. Horatio would rather die than free Donovan, He’d as soon free every slave but him. I’ve made offers for Donovan before and been refused.”

Jillian wondered why Edwin would confide this information to her, unless he meant to buy Donovan. “I gather you plan to offer for him again.”

“Do you think I should?” He asked this question with eager anticipation shining in his eyes.

Jillian thought it very strange for Edwin to ask her opinion about a slave at all. At first, she was hesitant to reply, not wishing to sway Edwin one way or the other in a business matter. But she remembered the contemptuous way this Donovan person had looked at her, almost as if he were the master and she an unworthy slave. Yet there was something else in that look, something which caused her flesh to warm and her cheeks to stain even now. Somehow she felt as if the arrogant man had stripped away her gown with his amber gaze—and found her lacking. Why this should bother her, she didn’t know and didn’t care to dwell upon. She just knew that she didn’t want her husband to buy the Irish slave. “That’s up to you, but he won’t be docile,” she said at last. “If he’s a troublemaker here, he’ll cause trouble at Cameron’s Hundred, and I don’t want you upset unnecessarily. There are other slaves, more biddable ones you can purchase. Most probably they’d be very grateful to leave Sir Horatio and his malicious overseer. Besides, if Sir Horatio refused your offer in the past, I doubt he’d accept it now.”

Edwin nodded. “All you’ve said is true. I shall take your comment under advisement.” That was all Edwin said on the matter, but it seemed to Jillian that he’d made up his mind not to purchase the white slave.

When they arrived at the house, Priscilla Mortimer greeted them sweetly. Sir Horatio came home some ten minutes later with an angry countenance but a hearty appetite. For a number of minutes, they ate in silence, until Sir Horatio asked Edwin if he’d care to journey into town with him that evening for a night of gaming. Edwin hesitated a moment but finally agreed. Jillian wondered if he might feel poorly but wouldn’t admit it. Apparently, he felt well enough, for that evening, just before the sun set, the two men departed.

Jillian joined Priscilla in the small drawing room where the two women embroidered red rosettes on white pillowcases. The scarlet thread reminded Jillian of the Irish slave’s back, and she wondered if the man had suffered a whipping despite her vain attempt to help him. Just the memory of her outburst caused her flesh to heat. She’d made a fool out of herself and for what? The man was a troublemaker, and most probably deserved his punishment.

“Are you happy living in Virginia?” Priscilla’s well-modulated tones interrupted her thoughts.

Jillian looked up from her sewing at the pretty blonde whose creamy complexion glowed golden in the candlelight. Jillian thought that Priscilla and Sir Horatio made an odd pair, but evidently Priscilla loved her husband a great deal. She waited upon Horatio, almost like a servant, and took care of his every whim. Horatio adored his wife. Jillian and Edwin had been their houseguests for almost a month, and during that time Jillian had heard him refer to Priscilla as his goddess a number of times. More than once she’d entered the drawing room unannounced to find the two of them in a passionate embrace. “Very happy. I love living on Cameron’s Hundred. Our plantation is one of the most efficiently run and lucrative tobacco plantations on the James, thanks to Edwin’s fine management,” Jillian told her with more than a hint of pride in her voice.

“Really? I’m certain it is,” replied Priscilla but she didn’t sound overly impressed. Priscilla fidgeted with the bodice of her blue silk gown, which Jillian thought was cut much too low for a respectably married woman to wear. Then Priscilla laid aside her needlework and got up to stand just inside the open French doors that led onto a stone terrace. The surf, hidden by the inky dark of night, rumbled gently in the distance. “Horatio and your husband won’t be home tonight, you know. They’ll spend the night at the inn. Once Horatio is at the gaming table, he can’t break away. Gambling is his weakness, I’m afraid.”

“Edwin didn’t say anything to me about staying the night in town.”

Priscilla shrugged a milky-white shoulder, not the least disturbed by her husband’s absence. “Husbands don’t tell us wives everything.”

“Mine does.”

A high, flutelike laugh escaped from between Priscilla’s perfectly shaped lips. “My dear Jillian, surely you don’t believe Mr. Cameron tells you his every thought, his every naughty deed? Just as I’m certain you don’t reveal your naughtiness to him.”

“I’ve always been honest with my husband, and he’s truthful with me,” Jillian protested, not certain what Priscilla meant by naughtiness.

“If you say so, my dear.” Priscilla gazed up at the sky, glittering with thousands of stars, for a few more moments before yawning and declaring she was retiring for the night.

Glancing at the ornately carved clock on the mantel, Jillian saw that it was barely past seven, a rather early hour for Priscilla to retire. Jillian knew that the woman usually did not go to bed before nine, though Sir Horatio always retired much earlier. Jillian wasn’t sleepy, but she couldn’t stay up with her needlework when her hostess had already settled in for the night. That would be horribly rude.

Jillian gathered up her needlework and rose to her feet. “I shall retire, too.”

Priscilla seemed unaccountably pleased and grazed Jillian’s cheek with her lips. “Sleep well, my dear,” she said and hurried away to her room which was next to the one Jillian shared with Edwin.

When Jillian entered her own room, she saw that a small dark woman who’d been acting as her lady’s maid since her arrival was already waiting for her. The woman undid the lacings at the back of her gown, and then she helped her slip her white nightdress over her head. Jillian dismissed her and unbraided her own hair before brushing and fluffing it about her shoulders. She thought that Priscilla had acted peculiarly that evening, almost as if the woman longed to be free of her company. Perhaps she and Edwin had overstayed their welcome. In the morning, after his return, she’d speak to him about making his choice of slaves and leaving Bermuda before the week was out. In fact, Jillian would be most relieved to leave Sir Horatio and Lady Priscilla. She didn’t care for either of them.

She climbed into the bed and, by candlelight, she resumed on the pillowcases. They were to be used on Edwin’s bed at Cameron’s Hundred. Since her arrival at the Mortimer household, she’d shared a bed with Edwin, and she wasn’t totally used to the loss of privacy. At home, she slept in her own bed in her own room, and Edwin slept in his. Quite proficient with a needle, Jillian had not only sewn the bedcovers and draperies in Edwin’s room, but she also made Edwin’s clothes, as well as her own. This wasn’t an unusual accomplishment, for a good wife was handy with a needle and thread. But a good wife also sewed for her children, and Jillian knew that as long as Edwin lived, her desire to have babies was only a dream. And each time she thought about a baby, she felt disloyal to her husband.

Tears misted her eyes; the scarlet stitches wavered before her. She remembered how her dear friend, Dorcas Addison, had labored lovingly over a pair of booties before the birth of her son four years ago. Jillian loved Dorcas as a sister, but she envied her friend for her perfectly beautiful little boy—a common emotion, she decided, but one she carefully masked behind a pleasant smile. Little Benjamin was Jillian’s godson, and she adored the child, but she was careful never to express her wish for a child to anyone, especially Edwin. More than once, when she held or played with Benjamin, she’d found Edwin watching her. The sadness in his eyes always tugged at her heartstrings and caused her guiltily to return the child to his mother’s arms. “I wish I could give you a child, my dear,” he’d said to her after one such play session with Benjamin. Jillian wished the very same thing but wouldn’t confess the truth, because she knew how much Edwin’s impotency distressed him.

In delicate terms Edwin had explained his problem to her before their marriage. She’d known from the beginning that they wouldn’t have a normal marriage. At the time, she’d been very young and hadn’t quite understood all of Edwin’s explanation. She knew only that he’d sleep in his own room, and she would sleep in hers. There would be no chance for children since he’d been unable to perform a husband’s duty for a number of years. This arrangement hadn’t bothered her. In fact she couldn’t imagine performing with Edwin the very act which would beget a child. Their relationship was more that of a father and daughter than that of a husband and wife.

She’d drifted happily along until Benjamin was born to Dorcas and Tyler Addison. Seeing Dorcas’s shining face as the baby suckled at his mother’s breast had caused a painful anguish inside of her. Never would she know what it was like to have a babe suckle at her breast; never would she experience the joys of motherhood as long as she was Edwin’s wife. A marriage to Edwin had denied her children, but she couldn’t imagine a life without Edwin. He made up her entire world. Now that he’d lost his only son, Jillian wished desperately that she could give Edwin a child to carry on his name, but she knew this was impossible.