Leslie LaFoy (19 page)

He cleared his throat and frantically searched his brain as he ambled toward her across the newly planted furrows. When close enough to speak without shouting, he stopped, bowed briefly, and asked, “Did you come down here alone?”

“It's broad daylight and the road is clear and wide
enough that no assailant could attack me by surprise even if he were of a mind to.” She didn't give him a chance to rebut her claim. Neither, to his relief, did she point out how boorish the question was. Instead, she leaned around him to gaze in the direction of the mule and observe, “If I were in England, I'd think that you were planting wheat. Isn't that one of Mr. Jethro Tull's early seed-drilling machines?”

“It is,” he said, wondering how the devil she recognized the implement. “My grandfather bought it on a whim. As it turns out, his whim may be my salvation.”

She shifted her attention to the furrow he'd just planted. “Are you using it to sow tobacco seeds?”

Devon smiled. She might know a seed driller, but she didn't know the first thing about the growing of Virginia's sacred plant. He shook his head in answer to her question, then explained, “Tobacco is a rich man's crop. Cultivating and processing it requires incredible amounts of labor, which—thanks to my father's spending habits—I don't have at my disposal. Besides that, the plants themselves consume the fertility of the soil and give nothing back. A man growing tobacco has to expand his holdings so that there's always virgin ground on which to plant it. Since I can't afford to do that, I've been forced to find another crop to sustain Rosewind. Wheat, oats, corn, and rye are my experiments for this year.”

“Very wise ones,” she replied, smiling up at him. “I've been given to understand that very few Virginians grow the staple crops—favoring tobacco as they do. I'd think that you could get premium prices for your grain in the local markets.”

“Oh?” She knew philosophy, planting machines, and commodity trading?

“Everyone needs flours,” she said, nodding, her expression solemn and most businesslike as she surveyed his half-planted field. “And a locally produced supply
can be had more reliably than one imported from another colony. People are usually inclined to pay a bit more for what they can have in hand at the moment than they are to save a few shillings by waiting to buy what may not ever arrive.”

Her reasoning paralleled his own. His curiosity stirred, he asked, “And how is it that you know something of commodity trading?”

“I grew wheat and oats at Crossbridge. The difference between selling a crop well and selling it poorly was the difference between eating and not.” She bent down and scooped up a handful of soil. Straightening to assess its quality, she added, “My skill at grain trading was one of the first my uncle sought to use to his advantage. His Majesty's Army consumes great quantities of grain, and a trader who can buy low and sell high stands to make obscene profits in the transaction. And understand,” she added with a frown, “that dear Uncle George has no compunctions whatsoever about lining his pockets with coins stripped from the King's.”

“You don't approve of profit?”

“Not the way he often goes about it,” she answered, letting the last of the soil fall through her fingers and then brushing her hands clean. “He's not above having his hirelings burn his competitors' fields and warehouses to create scarcity and drive up prices. And he's been known to substitute poor-quality grains for what he's contracted to deliver and then pay quartermasters to turn a blind eye to that fact.”

“Those are serious accusations,” Devon pointed out. “How do you know them to be fact?”

She met his gaze squarely. “It wasn't uncommon for me to negotiate the original contract and then be dispatched to attend to the bribery of the quartermasters. I deeply resented being a party to such perfidy.”

He could understand her feelings on the matter.

He'd have hated it, too. Not that he'd have gone so far as to be involved once he'd understood the nature of the transactions. But then he wasn't a female and dependent on anyone for his daily bread and the shirt on his back. “May I assume that your protests to being involved in such affairs are what led to being offered up for Wyndom's debts?”

She laughed softly, sadly. “People who oppose George Seaton-Smythe are people who are usually found floating face down in the Thames. No, I didn't protest. I knew better.” She mustered a weak smile and added, “But I did make concerted efforts to leave various documents my uncle authored in the care of those I trusted, so that if I were ever hauled into the dock for fraud, I could at least offer a defense.”

Honest, intelligent, and forward thinking. Which were probably characteristics her uncle didn't perceive as being entirely to his advantage. If he knew about them. There was a distinct possibility that he didn't, of course. If Claire had saved her uncle's correspondence as a defense, she'd likely gone to some lengths to keep him from discovering it. “A healthy sense of self-preservation is a good thing,” Devon admitted. “So tell me… Precisely why did your uncle want to dispose of you?”

She considered him for a long moment, her violet eyes darkening, before quietly answering, “To punish me for having the audacity to refuse his advances. And for being strident enough in my refusal to put him in the awkward position of having to explain the six-inch gash across his forehead to his wife and friends.”

She was so serious, so decidedly proper about the whole thing. And for some reason he found it all delightfully amusing. It took monumental effort to contain his smile and feign a decorum equal to her own as he asked, “What did you hit him with?”

“A fireplace poker.”

Oh, God, he wanted to laugh. “It's a wonder that you didn't kill him.”

The corners of her mouth twitched and her eyes sparkled with devilment. “More a pity, actually, because that's what I was trying to do.” Her restraint fell away and she smiled broadly as she added, “Should I ever have chance for a second go at it, I'll remember to swing harder.”

He grinned, and Claire gave up the struggle to be dignified. Lord, he was a handsome man at any time, but never more so than when he laughed. The sound of his happiness reverberated through her, thrilling and powerful in its effect. It made her want to do or say something that would keep his eyes twinkling and his burdens so obviously lightened. He looked young when he laughed. And so approachable, so touchable. Wouldn't it be grand to be wrapped in his arms, laughing with him?

The mental image stole what little air there was in her lungs. She took a half step back, her knees weak and her mind reeling at the unexpected and dangerous path her thoughts had taken. Dear God, what was wrong with her? Why couldn't she keep her head squarely on her shoulders when she was near him? Why was she so drawn to him? Drawn to him despite knowing that there could never be anything more between them than a temporary marriage of convenience?

Would it be so awful?
asked a soft inner voice.
Would being his wife, his lover, really be so awful?

She started even as, deep inside her, something warmed and swelled, filling her and making her pulse skitter with anticipation. She struggled to breathe, to keep her feet firmly under her. She closed her eyes and desperately tried to summon the memory of Crossbridge Manor's golden, sun-drenched stones. All she could see
was Rosewind's rosy bricks. Tears rose in her throat and she struggled to swallow them back, to keep her composure.

He cleared his throat.

She opened her eyes and glanced up to see that the young, carefree man was gone without a trace. Relief slowly rippled through her and although it eased the frantic beating of her heart, it did nothing to soothe the regret she felt for the loss of his laughter. That Devon had regained his normal composure was for the best, she assured herself. She didn't want to make a fool of herself, didn't want to embarrass them both. She didn't want him or his crumbling mansion. She wanted to go home.

He softly cleared his throat again and then, taking a step back himself, tightly asked, “Is there some particular reason you've come down to the fields?”

“Yes, there is, actually,” she hurried to answer, resolutely focusing her thoughts on innocuous matters. She took a wonderfully steadying breath and continued, explaining, “Your mother asked me to. Rather excitedly, I might add. A message has arrived from Wyndom. He's returning home in two days and bringing the Lee brothers with him. I gathered from your mother's reaction to the news that these Lee brothers are of great importance.”

He snorted and gave her a rueful half-smile. “You can't swing a dead cat in Virginia without hitting a Lee. And all of them are of great importance. Especially the Brothers Lee—Francis Lightfoot and Richard Henry.”

Her pulse had quickened again and she slid her gaze back out to the field so that she couldn't see him at all. How could a small, cynical smile have such a powerful effect? “Your mother gave me the impression that the Lee brothers coming to Rosewind was very important to you in a personal sense.”

“Richard Henry is a senior member of the House of Burgesses. If a younger man has ambitions of political advancement, he has to have his approval and support.”

“Ah, and you have ambitions,” she guessed.

“No, I don't,” he corrected with a softly wry chuckle. “But Mother has illusions enough for the both of us. I'm willing to fulfill the basic obligations of leadership that come with being a landowner, but I'm not willing to surrender the whole of my life to public service. If I were to do that, I wouldn't have a chance of saving Rosewind from the auction block.”

“Perhaps someday your finances won't be so precarious,” she offered, chancing a quick look at him.

He shrugged and motioned to one of the field hands as he said, “Then I'll have to find another excuse. The truth is that I don't much care for politics as they presently are. It involves a great deal of talking—talking that seldom results in any sort of definitive action. Every now and then they'll decide to take a stand on an issue, but it's largely symbolic, ineffectual, and either ignored or rescinded the next day. It's pathetic and maddening and makes the whole tedious process a waste of my time and effort. I prefer to take action.”

“And the Lee brothers are aware of your feelings on these matters?”

“They'd have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to have noticed my lack of spirited participation at past meetings.” He cocked a dark brow and began to unroll his shirtsleeves. “And I assure you that they're not deaf, dumb or blind.”

She wasn't either, and the sight of his nimble fingers and the corded muscles of his forearms was oddly, deeply stirring. “But you'll host the Lees amiably,” she said, trying to ground her thoughts again.

“Hospitality in Virginia is a high expectation. One can't scrimp on it without inviting speculation about one's imminent financial collapse.”

“And doing anything to invite speculation would be pulling the cornerstone from the foundation of social illusion,” she added, taking another deep breath to fortify herself before facing him squarely.

“You do understand,” he said, his smile sad and beleaguered. “Saving Rosewind is a point of pride, I suppose. Six generations of Rivards have lived under its roof. I don't want to be known as the Rivard who managed to lose it.”

“But you can't be held responsible for the consequences of the decisions made by those who held it before you.”

He shook his head. “Six generations from now, no one would know the details of how it was lost, just that it was and by me. I'd rather be forgotten completely than remembered that way. To keep Rosewind from the auction block, I'll do what I have to do.”

She could understand his feelings on the matter. Crossbridge had been given to her father when she'd been but a little girl. No long tradition of ownership had come with it. And yet through the years that she'd been its mistress, she'd moved heaven and earth to keep it going. It had been pride beneath her fierce determination to succeed, her refusal to fail. Yes, she could well understand how Devon Rivard felt about Rosewind.

“If there's to be a reasonable hope of impressing the Lee brothers and saving Rosewind, I'm going to need help,” she said, narrowing her eyes to see into the days to come. “Is there any chance that you might borrow Hannah from Mrs. Vobe for a few days? In preparing for such auspicious guests, Meg's skills would be best utilized in the house.”

He nodded. “I can ask. The worst that could happen is that Mrs. Vobe would say no.”

“I'd be most appreciative. I'm going to need every set of hands I can press into duty. The next two days are going to be long ones for everyone.”

Both brows slowly arced upward. “You're not thinking of asking Mother and Aunt Elsbeth to lend a hand, are you?”

“Yes,” Claire replied, lifting her chin, “actually, I am.”

“Doing what?”

Refusing to be put off by his incredulity, she answered, “Polishing, dusting, waxing, washing, cooking. The list of tasks is positively endless.”

“Thank you, Zeke,” he said, accepting the reins of his horse from the waiting slave. “Have a go at the driller while I'm gone, will you? I'll be back as soon as I can.”

Zeke looked at the seeding machine as though it were the Holy Grail. And the way he said “Yes, sir” left no doubt in Claire's mind that, for whatever reason, Zeke felt incredibly honored to have been given the task of planting the wheat.

“I'll do what I can to force their enlistment,” Devon said, calling her attention back to him, “but you should know that neither Mother nor Aunt Elsbeth will work willingly. Keeping them to their tasks will involve more time and effort than if you were to simply do them yourself. It's one of the key drawbacks of forced labor.”

“I don't have any other choice,” she admitted, watching as he smoothly swung up into the saddle. “Not if the house is to be ready in time.”

He pulled his foot from the stirrup and leaned down, his hand outstretched. “Your hand, madam.”

She understood his intention. She also could see all too clearly the consequences. “Thank you, but I'll walk back to the house.”