The Winds of Fate (13 page)

He drew away. The gap between them gave way to chill. Claire managed to gulp in sweet air, her bosom still heaving. He rested his head against hers.

“Is it so bad to be a woman?” he asked, leaning back to study her.

Golden eyes were puzzled as he stared at her for a moment−then they filled with fury. “I hate you.”

“So you’ve said. But tread wary, my wife, someday I will collect on your promise.”

“And what of me,” she spat. “Revenge is your master. Lust your resolve. To be married to a dirty slave−so selfish of you to lay me in everyone’s scorn. Is that my punishment because you decided to betray the King? You have no home to provide, no commitment, no freedom−” She laughed sardonically. “You don’t even have a country.”

She twisted free and ran, then stumbled through the trees until she reached the road. Sobbing uncontrollably, she mounted her horse. But he was there beside her.

“One night of conjugal rights, no more, no less.” He slapped the back of her mare, and it sprang forward with a jolt, his taunt echoing in her ears.

“H
ear ye! Hear ye! His magistrate, Lord High Governor of the Caribbean holds court this 15
^th
day of February in the year of our Lord, 1686.” The crack of the gavel boomed throughout the courtroom. The governor remained seated through the clerk’s recitation. Devon worked on the governor’s rheumatic feet, taking in the day’s proceedings.

He hated the poverty of spirit and sordidness of slavery. Seized with an overwhelming sense of loneliness, he allowed his mind to drift to an image of her. Since their meeting in the rainforest, he’d done everything to erase her from his memory. A test. Some demon determined to test his mettle. He was going to fail.

He had wedded a woman and kissed her. An unfamiliar ache haunted him and a taste of her clung to his mouth. He ground his teeth. She was right in everything she said. Who was he to demand her attentions
? A slave. No home. No country
.

But he wanted her. Like nothing he could have imagined, like nothing that was proper and good, he wanted her. He had never been so disgusted with himself.

He didn’t love her. He couldn’t love her. He was certain he could not love her. She was part of the aristocracy that chained him. The answer was pure and simple lust. Lust for a woman farthest from his reaches.

The governor cried out when Devon wrapped his foot too tight. With apologies he commenced the procedure again. Perhaps Devon shouldn’t feel so bitter. Claire was young and stunningly beautiful, unequalled among women in his opinion. But in her world marriage
was a matter of gain and convenience. And he had nothing to offer as she grew quick to remind him.

Yet the searing, fiery flash of her eyes, loomed before him.
Ah sir, in my judgment you are foolhardy, selfish, and unreliable
. He’d submit to keelhauling before he confessed to that shaming fact.

So passionate, so furious. Lovely indeed and she didn’t even know it. Definitely equipped with two full breasts, he mocked himself. He knew that full well because he had touched her. He hadn’t really meant to do so; he hadn’t wanted to touch her, but when his Irish temper flared he couldn’t have stopped himself from seizing her when he did.

“Next case.”

The barrister stepped forward. “Mr. Tom Dooley is in debt, milord. He owes several merchants the sum of ten pounds. My recommendation is to put him in jail until he pays off his debt.”

The governor stood on his feet as Devon instructed. “Wonderful.” he cried. “Not Tom Dooley’s debt,” he laughed at his own little joke. “I’ll ask Dr. Blackmon’s counsel if you don’t mind. Dr. Blackmon, what say you about Tom Dooley’s predicament?”

Devon ground his teeth, the sorry state of Tom Dooley and the rich attire of the barrister who wanted Dooley imprisoned. “If you lock him up, how will he pay his debts? I say let him go about his business, pay the merchants, and a tithe to your governor as his earnings allow.”

“Good,” said the governor. “Let the man go, but be mindful, I’m in a good mood today. If I hear those debts are not paid then I will have my soldiers’ hunt you down and lock you up.”

Tom Dooley trembled, faint with relief. He addressed the governor but stared at Devon. “Thank you. I am indebted to your generosity, and I do not forget a favor.”

“Thank my doctor for curing my feet and dispensing my good graces. And you Dr. Blackmon, my arthritis is so much better. But my wife has a ball planned this evening. I shall not wish you to return to the compound, so I’ll ask you to be present.”

“But…Sir Jarvis?” Devon reminded him.

“Sir Jarvis will do as I command.” The governor chuckled, and light of heart, he twirled on his foot. “Now off with you to my wife. She
suffers terrible megrims and has much to do. If you are to attend as my physician, you cannot appear as you are. Tell my wife to find you decent attire. My nephew left a few of his belongings. I believe they are about the right size. Now run along. Sir Jarvis’s nieces will be in attendance, and my wife has not left me a moment’s peace with her matchmaking plans.”

D
evon stood alone next to the French windows. Strains of music floated through the room and the delicate scent of beeswax candles wafted through the air mingling with the fragrance of splendid flower arrangements. The west wing had been cleared of furniture, granting the ballroom enough space to spare them the heated crush of such gatherings. Beneath the glittering chandeliers, the governor’s wife had so carefully procured from London, the cream of Jamaica’s aristocracy, officers and their wives, and other notable island guests gathered in a rainbow of lush silks and satins. A feverish murmur swept through the ballroom. Devon turned and followed their gazes to find his wife standing on the stairs.

The first time he laid eyes on Claire in the gaol, Devon could barely get over her beauty. But this−this was beyond perfection. Both bewitching and captivating, her grace defied mere earthly mortals. The hint of defiance in her unflinching eyes only made her that much more enchanting.

The rich, sable velvet of her hair had been swept atop her in a gentle swirl, anchored by tiny delicate red blossoms. A gathering of curls had been allowed to escape, accenting her luminous golden eyes and arched sable brows. Her slender figure was well served by a tight-waisted gown, the bodice boasting a row of wispy lace, plunging low to enhance the deep valley of her swelling breasts. Her pale throat was adorned with a string of red garnets to match the deep red color of her satin gown.

The sight of her arrested him as well as any red-blooded man in the room. A knot of jealousy churned in his stomach. Every other man
could stare and ogle her, yet he could not. From her clamoring legion of admirers, a well-dressed officer leaned into her, touching her hair as he whispered some witticism in her ear. Then he clasped her hand and brought it to his lips.

She lifted her chin, and her smile brightened. Devon viewed the scene through a red haze, and watched as she turned her attentions from one male to another, always smiling and nodding.

Everything had been going well up until now. He had been thinking on a plan of escape. But the gods were not inclined to let him be, leaving the brown-haired witch to weave her spell.

Devon observed Sir Teakle enter, the governor’s wife introducing him and his long list of titles. A fop, adorned in a coat of brilliant yellow with white cuffs and lapels, and white breeches so tight about his girth Devon expected to hear them split. This grotesque form of tropical turkey appeared like a man who would demand strict obedience from a woman and employ force to obtain it. Doubtless the scion of some influential family, he seemed determined to pursue an aggressive mien toward Claire. Devon gritted his teeth, his immediate distrust and contempt of the man filled him with loathing.

Claire was on her way to the punch table with Lily and raised her eyes.

Devon
.

She swallowed down a wave of panic. She hadn’t prepared herself for another confrontation with him. And the encounter definitely took some preparation. He appeared refined in his dress and she wondered where he had procured gentleman’s clothing. He had profited in a better diet from his role as physician for indeed his powerful frame needed no augmentation. His white shirt tucked into unfashionably tight black trousers, clung to powerful thighs, the corded muscles rippling beneath, in what could be considered indecent. He had the appearance of a gentleman, too much like a gentleman, for he already had the presence−and the arrogance.

He did not fit the prescription of a country doctor. No. Not this man. His posture, awareness, confidence belied undertones of a man
who cut his teeth in battle. Just by standing there, he commanded everyone’s attention, a man born to lead. Even at this distance she felt his all-encompassing power pervade the masses−and her.

He paused as Lily and Claire approached, and turned to them as if knowing she was there all the time. His gaze swept over her face then in lazy regard, slowly up and down her body, a sweeping gesture that angered Claire, reminding her of the intimacy shared from their last meeting.

She needed a maneuver to get him alone. To ensure he would disclose nothing. Her heart stopped in her throat. What kind of trouble would he cause her? She clenched and unclenched her hands with the set of events that put her at his mercy.

“Lily, I believe you were going to ask of the menu tonight,” Claire hinted.

“The menu?” Lily questioned, bent on being stubborn. Then she laughed. “Whenever have I been concerned about the menu? Perhaps I should inquire about the polish on the silver or the condition of the weather. What do you think, Dr. Blackmon?”

Claire tapped her foot to the low rumbling of Devon’s chuckle. It galled her how they were on such good terms.

“Weren’t you doing something?” Claire glared at Lily.

Lily arched a brow above her spectacles. “Of course. I shall find Sir Teakle and welcome another litany of his ancestry.” Lily placed her hand over a yawn and moved away.

“What are you doing here?”

“Thank you for your interest in my well-being. You are most gracious,” he said, but she did not fall prey to his passive expression. “I am in duty to my office−”

“Don’t employ that tale with me. You will not mention−”

“It is true
Madame Blackmon
,” he said, reminding her of their relationship. “Do you think I’d slit my own throat−” Devon grinned as he angled his head toward the interest of the people looking at them. “−with your uncle ready at a moment’s notice to set his goons upon me? My luck he’d order a dull blade to make the process more harrowing.”

His admission lessened her fears. She had been remiss to see he had a stake in the situation as well. She cleared her throat. “I see you have new clothes.”

“I stand before you under the patronization of the governor and his wife. Like the servants in their livery, the physician must be well-dressed.” He smiled that rueful, self-deprecating smile that never failed to disarm her. “A thought just occurred to me.”

Curious and with a grudging portion of goodwill, Claire sniffed, “Then do share with me your thought.”

“I desire the fidelity of your promise.”

“Of course you would remind me at this moment.” A merchant strolled by, rather slow in fetching a glass of punch, listening to their conversation so Claire cloaked her response in scholarly discourse. “Indeed, it can be argued that such thoughts tend to be buried in an ocean of insignificance.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment and grinned, his eyes lit with intellectual challenge. “In truthful reflections, a contract broken can weigh heavy on avenging inclinations.”

She choked on her punch. How dare he try to intimidate her! She would have none of it. “The nature of one’s thoughts could be considered menacing.”

“One should not fail in being obtuse,” he said carelessly. The merchant moved away, bored with a philosophical conversation.

“Do you dare to threaten me?” She glared at him.

“Merely promising, Madame Blackmon. Except…
I
keep my promises.”

She itched to dump her punch on him. She darted a glance at the crowd watching them.