Surrender to Love (11 page)

Panic seized her heart as it never had, and the uncontrollable urge to flee overwhelmed her.  Violently she attempted to wrest free from the iron grip that held her, tears of frustration streaming down her cheeks.

“Let me go!  I don’t belong here!”

Her words were lost in the din of mocking laughter that filled her ears.  A stinging slap met her cheek, silencing her protests and ending her struggling.

“One thousand
pesos,”
the gentleman in the rear stated in a bored tone as he nonchalantly pulled a cigar from his inner pocket and lit it.

The laughter promptly hushed to polite murmurings, then silence.  Sabine jerked her head up and looked toward him, the sticky tracks of tears staining her cheeks.

“What,” the blond shouting out in English.  “Come on, Colón!  You know I don’t have that kind of money.  What are you going to do with a girl who doesn’t even Spanish?  Can you tell me that?”  He ran an impatient hand through his curls and looked up at the auction block expectantly.

“Do you want to up the bid,
señor,”
the auctioneer questioned.

He sighed, frustrated, and set his hat farther back on his head.

“Any other bids,” called out the man who stood before her, holding her upper arm in a tight grip.

The blond threw his hands up in defeat and scowled, swearing under his breath.

“Sold,” came the shout, “to Manuel Colón for one thousand
pesos
.  I’m sure this woman’s gonna give you your money’s worth.  A cute little bed warmer!”  The auctioneer laughed out loud with the rest of the crowd.

“Please,” Sabine cried out in vain, and she dug her heels into the floor as they dragged her away.  “Stop it!  This isn’t right”

The steadfast exterior she had tried to hide gave way to the frightened child who still harbored deep inside.  Terror seized her as despised tears of weakness trailed down her cheeks.

Frantically she scanned the room in an attempt to catch sight of the blond man who had been a part of the crowd.  She didn’t know why he had suddenly become so important to her, but he seemed to be her only link to a world she once knew.  And, in
the midst of it all, there was just something about his eyes that had drawn her – those beautiful blue eyes that touched deep within her soul.

Chapter Seven

“Stop it,” Sabine protested through gritted teeth as she attempted to wrest herself from the hands who held her fast.  “Let me go!”

Her demands went unheeded, and a small Negro boy of about nine or ten motioned for her to get in the back of a utility wagon; two brawny men silently tied her hands to the seat ahead of her.

Manuel Colón sauntered over to the rig and smiled cordially in the lantern-lit darkness. He summoned the small boy, who immediately darted off to follow his command, and he draped an arm casually over the side of the wagon.

“So.”

Dark eyes set in round, tanned features perused her face and body appreciatively.  With an inviting smile he lifted a finely manicured hand and caressed her cheek.  Instinctively she shrank from his touch.

“¿
Habla español?”

The question came in the lisping accent of
Castilian Spanish.  Sabine stared at him blankly, for the foreign words meant nothing to her.

“You speak English, then.”

Sabine nodded slowly, warily, as she averted her eyes to the straw-strewn bed of the wagon.  His riveting scrutiny unnerved her senses. His eyes were black. Cold.  Like the eyes of a dead man.

“What is the matter,
chica
?”  Colón demanded angrily as he grabbed a handful of her hair.  “Why do you not answer me?”

He jerked her violently toward him and twisted her tear-stained face until it was only inches from his own
.  He was powerfully strong despite his short stature and lean build.  Sabine bit back a whimper as he tightened his grip, and she fought back tears of pain.  Never, she vowed.  Never would she allow him to believe he had the upper hand.

“Do you not wish to speak to me, beautiful girl,” he purred as he stroked her lower lip with his thumb, capturing her with his gaze.  Then, dark eyes softening , he released her and gently smoothed her ruffled curls into place.  “I could make your life very easy, if you let me.  Come,
mi hermosa,
tell Manuel Colón what your name is.”

“Sabine
DuBois.”

Her whisper was nearly inaudible. Heart fluttering, she looked away once more lest she become mesmerized under the spell of his intensity.  But even without looking into
those black eyes, she could feel them bore straight through her.

“What an enchanting name, my dear. You will be very happy where I am taking you.  I have much money, and my home is located on a grand plantation. I assure you, it is much more comfortable than that useless parcel Michael Pierson lives upon.”

The utterance of that name sent a strange surge through her.  Michael Pierson.  The weight of the American’s stare continued to haunt her, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t seem to shake that feeling.  His eyes.  Why did they unnerve her so?

“He is no bother now,” Colón’s voice broke into her thoughts.  “Do not worry your most beautiful head over such an uncouth gentleman.  We will not speak of him again.”

His harsh features transformed into a wide smile; small, white, animal teeth glinted in the moonlight.  He spread his arms wide, welcoming, cornering his prey.

“I realize,” he informed her,
“that this has been a most unpleasant experience for you.  But do not worry.  I will make sure that you are treated well.  All my servants are.  I am sorry,” he said, caressing her cheek, “that I became angry with you, but I am not accustomed to being disobeyed.  From now on, I expect you to speak up at once.  Do you understand what I am telling you?”

Sabine nodded quickly, afraid to speak and terrified of displeasing him.  His volatile temper had already manifested itself once.  She had not answered him promptly, and for that he had virtually torn her hair from the roots; there was no telling what he would do if truly provoked.

“Now that you know what I expect,” Colón said as he swung up into the seat ahead of her.  “I do not think we need to have you tied like a wild animal.  You will not leave, I am sure.”

Turning, he gently loosened the ties that held her fast, and smoothed her wrists where the rough hemp had chaffed them.  His fingers trailed against her skin, burning her with her touch.  She wanted to wrench away, wash herself clean of the dirtiness
he made her feel.

“Thank you, sir,” she replied humbly.

Her manner reverted to the learned subservience she had been forced to display back home.  Eyes downcast, she set her hands, neatly clasped, in her lap.  The sour taste of bitterness filled her mouth, and Sabine clenched her jaw angrily.  She hated this.  Hated pretending to play the role of false humility when all she truly wanted was to lash out and scratch his eyes.

But she couldn’t.  She was bold…but she certainly wasn’t foolish.

“It will not take us long to reach the plantation,” Colón was saying.  “Maybe an hour or so.  When we arrive, I will have Rosa find you some appropriate clothes for your station.”

Her station?  She dared not question him, and she maintained her silence in the straw, the rhythmic monotony of clopping hooves punctuating her thoughts.  Well, whatever it was, it could hav
e been worse, she supposed.  At least she wasn’t on her way to a bordello in South America.

Night creatures whirred and chirruped in the underbrush, their sounds strangely soothing to her ragged nerves.  Sabine stared out at the countryside, its silhouette shrouded in darkness.  There were no dense jungles here, but rolling hills that undulated against the horizon.  Fields of tall cane stretched for miles, growing thick on either side of the narrow, rutted road.  Palmettos and acacias, richly bathed in silver, lined the thoroughfare.

Manuel Colón’s plantation lay just ahead, a looming giant in the darkness.  The architecture of the main house elegant, so much like many of the European-styled building of New Orleans.  The whitewashed brick and red tile roof of the
hacienda
gleamed in the moonlight, and kerosene sconces lit the mahogany doorway, casting an inviting glow, seductively bathing the crimson geraniums that adorned the white flower boxes under the nearest first-story windows.

They were met out front by a small, stout woman wearing a full scarlet skirt and black ruffled blouse, her long, dark hair caught at the base of her neck in a tight roll. She walked out to greet the wagon, gold hoop earrings flashing in the artificial light.

“Rosa, this is Sabine DuBois,” he answered in English.  “She will be staying with us for a while. Get out,” he directed at Sabine.

Obediently she clambered to the ground awkwardly, her muscles stiff from her travels
and the jolting ride from Havana.  Tentatively she took a few steps around the back of the wagon.

“She only speaks English,” Col
ón continued. “You are to be sure she understands what she is to do here. 
“¿Comprendes?”

“Of course,
señor. 
Do not worry. I will take good care of her.  Come with me, Sabine.”

Rosa flashed a grin, dark eyes crinkling in her weathered face as she extended a welcoming hand.

“You are not from Cuba,” she observed slowly in English.

Sabine shook her head wordlessly.

“You come here on your own?”

No answer came forth, and Rosa turned to her charge, hands resting stubbornly on her plump hips.  A frustrated scowl distorted her features.

“Can you not speak?  Is there something wrong with you?”

“No,” she managed to respond quietly.  “It’s just that…”

Sobs burst from her, and Sabine covered her face with her hands as waves of despair crashed wildly over her.  She could not bear to live a life such as this.  She was not a slave!  She had been raised a free person no matter what Troy Markham said.  She knew nothing of the life that fate had cast for her.

“Oh,
chica,”

She enfolded Sabine in her arms
. How could the woman have possibly known?  Could she tell how desperately she needed to feel the warmth and caring of another person?  Sabine wanted to hang on and continue being held in Rosa’s embrace forever.  And she wanted to escape, to disappear from here altogether.

“Now, now, my little one,” the older woman whispered and smoothed Sabine’s hair with a motherly hand.  “Rosa will take care of you.  Do not worry.  Things will not be so bad here.  You will see.”

Sucking in a sob, Sabine broke from her embrace and smeared the remnants of her tears from her cheeks. 

“You will stay here with Juana and Maria,” Rosa continued.  “Maria speaks English.  Juana does not, so you are no
t so lucky.  It will not take long to get used to things here,
chica.
  You look like a smart girl to me.”

Halfheartedly, Sabine smiled as the woman squeezed her hands reassuringly.  Rosa took her gently by the arm and led her to the rear of the house. 

“You need clothes,” the older woman said as she surveyed Sabine’s rags.  “It is not suitable for you to go running around like that.  What do you think you are, anyway, a cane gatherer?”

“I – I don’t know,” she admitted with a reluctant shrug of her shoulders.

Rosa laughed long and loud, and the ample bulk of her body shook.  Her amazement at the young woman’s naiveté filled the room.

“You silly girl.  With beauty like yours – those curls, those green eyes – do you think Manuel
Colón would have you toiling in the cane like a common fieldhand?  That is a job for a man, little one.  Of course he will keep you here to adorn his home.”

“I – I don’t understand.”

“You will, my dear.  Let us get you something to wear, yes?  I am sure there must be something your size in the bottom of this chest of drawers.  Maria is about your size.”

Sabine shifted uncomfortably as Rosa pulled out a violet skirt and a white blouse; they were well worn, but in good repair.  The older woman laid them out on one of the beds carefully.

“The cot by the window will be yours,” she continued.  “Juana and Maria will be in soon.  There is a tub in the corner with water.  It should still be warm.  The girls will help you empty it.”

Rosa left with a smile and a wave of her hand, closing the door behind her.

A bath.  How long had it been?  Forever, it seemed.  The thought sent a charge of desire through her.  Plunging into the small tub, she closed her eyes, and scrubbed vigorously at the layers of dirt that coated her skin.

Drying quickly, Sabine replaced her soiled and tattered clothing with the garments Rosa had given her.  So wonderful and clean she felt.  And her hair.  Gloriously free of filth; now soft and wild with curls.  She never thought she’d look forward to wrestling with her unruly tresses.