Sweet Release (3 page)

“These two go with her,” the soul driver bellowed over his shoulder, motioning to a slave boy, who quickly unlocked the selected men’s collars and fetters and led the rest away. “Here’s the convict’s papers, miss. If you’re lucky, he’ll die.”

She took the packet of papers and sighed with relief as the odious man turned and walked back toward his vessel.

“You shouldn’t have done this, Miss Cassie,” Micah said. “We got enough to worry about without keepin’ an eye on some convict!”

“Aye, Micah. You’re right.” He
was
right. There was tobacco to plant, merchants to pay. There was her father, not to mention Jamie. Her little brother seemed to need constant watching these days. And her father? Heaven only knew. “What else could I have done?”

Micah placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You got to learn that you can’t save everybody.” But his eyes held no reproach. “Let’s get ‘em home.”

Micah and the new slave, who said his name was Luke, lifted the unconscious man and carried him to the wagon. Cassie opened the convict’s papers and glanced over the first page. Nicholas Braden, known also by the name Cole Braden. In black ink were scrawled the words
Convicted ravisher and defiler of women.
She shuddered. What had she done?

Every muscle in his body ached. Alec struggled to focus on his surroundings, but the room continued to spin and his head to throb, forcing him to close his eyes again.
Damn!
He felt as weak as a newborn pup.

He remembered arguing with Philip, Isabelle’s shouting, leaving in the rain. After that he could recall nothing but random images. A ship. Darkness. The fetid stench of filth and illness. Incessant pain and thirst. Strange faces. Men like Socrates with skin as dark as night. A witch, or so she seemed, with gray hair and a dark face covered with strange markings. He shivered involuntarily. Could it all have been a nightmare?

There was one other face. He remembered a woman with hair the color of polished copper in sunlight, startlingly green eyes, and the voice of an angel. Her cool hands had given him comfort. He had tried repeatedly to reach for her, only to watch her fade into nothingness.

He lifted a hand to his throbbing temple. Chains! Although his hands were now free, he remembered being in fetters. Had he been kidnapped? Alec tested his feet, relieved to feel that they, too, were free. Whoever still held him captive obviously felt he posed no threat now. That was the truth. In this condition he doubted he’d be able to stand, much less escape. He heard children playing outside, someone singing, the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer, and he smelled pine mingled with the scent of newly fallen rain and lavender soap. Wherever he was, it was an odd place to keep a hostage.

He opened his eyes again, willing the dizziness to pass. He appeared to be in a one-room shanty, light trickled through cracks in a small, shuttered opening that served as a window. Next to the bed stood a crudely built pine table holding several nearly melted candles. Next to it stood a rough-hewn chair. On the opposite end of the room was a small hearth, but no fire. Strange that he did not feel cold. Springtime in England was not known for its warmth. He tried to sit up. The ache in his skull forced him to rest on his raised elbows. He was completely naked beneath the thin blanket, his clothes nowhere in sight. Whiskers tickled his chest. Alarmed, he reached up and felt a full growth of beard on his face.

Several weeks must have gone by, much more than he’d first imagined.

No wonder he felt so weak.

Rage coursed through him, making his head throb anew. Elizabeth and Matthew must be beside themselves with worry. Perhaps even Philip was distraught. But who had done this? And why? Perhaps the pitiful souls who called this hovel home were holding him for ransom. But even this life was better than the hangman’s noose that awaited the culprits at Old Bailey. And hang they would. He would see to it personally.

From outside he heard the approach of voices, one of them distinctly feminine, the other deeper. The voices stopped at his door, and the hinges squeaked. He sank back into the pillows, closing his eyes.

“Thank you, Zach,” the woman said.

There was something about her voice....

“Pleased to help, Miss Cassie,” a man answered. “Would ye like me to stay?”

“That won’t be necessary; thank you. I’m sure I’ll be quite safe.

He’s too weak to harm a flea.”

Cassie stepped from the heat of the midday sun into the cool darkness of the shanty. Careful not to tip the serving tray and spill Nan’s good chicken stock, she shut the door behind her. The convict’s fever had broken yesterday afternoon, much to her surprise.

Takotah had tried to feed him last night, but he’d been too exhausted to take more than a few sips of broth. Perhaps’now he’d be hungry. Whoever had transported him had treated him horribly. With broken ribs, a broken nose, bumps on the head, and lash marks on his back and chest that had festered; he’d seemed destined for the grave. But he’d survived, thanks to Takotah’s healing skills and his own stubborn refusal to die.

Giving her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, she placed the serving tray on the table next to his bed. She hated to wake him, but he needed to regain his strength. The man who slept so peacefully now bore no resemblance to the filthy, broken soul she’d brought home a week ago. Despite the thick beard, this man was devilishly handsome, with dark brown hair that fell just beneath his shoulders, indecently long eyelashes, and gentle features marred only by the yellowish tinge of fading bruises and the thickening where his nose had been broken.

She crossed the room and opened the shutters to let in more light. She turned back toward him and felt her footsteps falter. The blanket had slipped below his waist, revealing a broad, muscled chest covered with soft, dark curls that tapered down a flat abdomen. It had been easy to ignore his body when he’d been ill. He’d been merely an assemblage of parts, each needing attention in its turn. Now those parts had healed into a disturbingly masculine whole.

She sat next to him on the bed, ignoring the tickle in her belly. Hesitantly she placed her hand on his chest. His skin felt warm and alive, and his heart beat steadily beneath her palm. She touched his forehead and smiled, pleased to feel the fever had not returned. Asleep like this, he hardly looked a dangerous criminal. She gasped and would have screamed, had the arm that encircled her throat not cut off her breath.

“Who are you, woman, and why do you hold me prisoner?”

Chapter Two

The convict’s voice was ragged, his beard rough on Cassie’s cheek. One arm held her tightly against his bare chest. The other threatened to choke her.

Cassie tried to pull free, but her struggles only made her need for air more acute and forced her deeper into his lap until she felt his . . . She froze.

His grip around her throat tightened. He was going to kill her.

“Scream, and I’ll break your lovely neck. Do you understand?” She nodded frantically, mouthed
aye.
Slowly he released the pressure on her throat. But he did not free her.

Cassie drew in gulps of air. “Let me go!” She’d meant to sound undaunted, but her mouth had gone dry, and the words came out in a squeak.

“Answer the question.”

“My name is Catherine Blakewell.” Her voice was shaky. Her heart slammed sickeningly in her chest. “For the next fourteen years you shall serve my father as his bondsman by right of His Majesty, King George. Regardless of the crimes you have committed, my father will treat you fairly, though he would kill you if he knew of this!”

“What are you raving about, woman?”

The arm that encircled her throat drew tighter.

“You’ve been ill for some time. I’ve brought broth.... Please!

You’re hurting me!”

“What place is this?”

“You’re at Blakewell’s Neck in Lancaster County, Mr. Braden—”

“Lancashire? In the north country?”

“Lancaster County. Virginia.”

The convict reacted as if he’d been struck by a fist, releasing her just as suddenly as he’d seized her.

Cassie leaped up from the bed and backed away until her back met the clapboard wall. Her hands rose protectively to her throat. Her body shook uncontrollably. Whatever she’d expected when he awoke, she certainly hadn’t imagined this bold assault. She’d not underestimate the threat this man posed again.

“What is the date?” The convict’s voice was strained, his face pale.

“It is the twenty-fifth of May. You’ve been fighting a fever for a week now. I’ve tended your wounds—”

“May? My God!”

“Surely you remember, Mr. Braden.”

“Braden?”

Did he not even remember his own name?

“You were transported to the colonies,” she said, trying to prod his memory. “My father bought your indenture.”

For a moment the convict’s eyes held raw fury; then he moaned, clasping a hand to his temple. Slowly he slumped, unconscious, back onto the pillow.

Cassie watched as he sank deeper into the bed, her heart still pounding. Arms crossed protectively over her bosom, she inched forward. “Mr. Braden?”

His features were peaceful, his breathing deep and even, but he’d feigned sleep once today already. She would not be so easily tricked again.

London

The crystal goblet shattered on the wall next to Lt. Matthew Hasting’s head, missing Alec’s favorite painting by inches. Matthew tried not to look startled. To do so would only give Philip satisfaction.

“I will not allow you to run this business behind my back!” Philip strode menacingly toward Matthew through the disorder that had once been Alec’s office. Empty bottles lay on the mahogany desk. Clothing, half-eaten plates of food, and crumpled parchment mingled with wine stains on the plush Persian carpet.

“Someone has to take charge.”

“You have no right to make decisions for me!”

“If you were capable of making decisions, I’d gladly step aside.” Philip stopped, his face inches from Matthew’s, his brown eyes dark with fury. “I am the heir to this estate, and you will respect me as such!”

“Respect you? You are a debauched fool. A worthless drunk. Not even the lowliest clerk in this office respects you.”

For a moment Philip looked as if he would explode; then the fight visibly drained from him. He turned away, ran his fingers through his unwashed hair, and reached for a decanter of brandy.

“A debauched fool? A worthless drunk?” Philip faced Matthew again, forcing a smile. “Well, that’s a bit harsh, even if it is true.” He emptied the glass with one swallow. “Do you know that Alec hated me? Never a kind word to spare. Do you hate me too, Matthew? I hope not.”

“Alec never hated you.”

Philip laughed. “I suppose he told you that? ‘Poor Philip! I do so care about him, though I—‘”

“Do not ridicule your brother in front of me!” Matthew shouted. “If you lived a thousand years you’d not become the man he was. The least you can do is pull yourself together and try to live up to the responsibility Alec passed on to you.”

Startled, Philip said nothing. Then his face tightened into a grimace.

“I am the heir to the Kenleigh estate,” Philip said at last, his voice unsteady. “It is my right to take my brother’s place in London I society.”

“Inheriting his titles, his possessions, is one thing. Taking his place is quite another. If you want respect, you must earn it.” “Will you . . . help me, Matthew?”

Nothing Philip could have said would have surprised Matthew more. The beseeching look in his eyes was something Matthew had never seen before. He stepped forward to where Philip stood about to pour himself another drink, and placed his hand over the top of the glass.

“Don’t,” Matthew said. “For Alec’s sake. For your own sake.” A muscle worked in Philip’s jaw, and for a moment anger flared in his eyes. Then he put down the decanter and turned away. “Leave me! I wish to be alone.”

Taking the decanter with him, Matthew strode from the room and closed the door. Back in his own office he sat down wearily at his desk. It was only noon. The spring sun rode high in the clear sky, and pigeons were busy tending their brood of chicks outside his window. He’d have to bring the children in so they could see the baby birds. Little Anne would be delighted.

He watched the pigeons feed their young and rubbed his right thigh. Since a ball had shattered his leg at the battle of Malplaquet some twenty years ago, pain had been his constant companion. He’d grown so accustomed to the discomfort that it rarely registered in his conscious mind. If it hadn’t been for Elizabeth, who loved him despite his physical disfigurement, he might have found it impossible to accept. As it was, so many good things had happened in his life that the loss of his limb seemed trivial.

Poor Elizabeth. He’d never seen her so distraught. He would never forget her tears and sobs of grief when she’d heard that Alec had been murdered. Thank God she’d been spared seeing his body. Whoever had killed him had gone out of his way to be cruel. Even in his years on the battlefield, Matthew had seen nothing like it. Alec had been stabbed in so many places the wounds were impossible to count. His face had been hideously mutilated. His eyes had been cut out. Had it not been for the clothes he wore, his dark hair, and the signet ring the murderer had dropped in his haste to flee the scene, Matthew never would have recognized him. Even Philip had been shocked by the brutality. His face had gone pale, and he’d dropped to his knees, sick and shaking.