The Winds of Fate (22 page)

Devon straddled the nag and paused. “Someday, I promise I will finish what we started.” He smiled wickedly and bent over for one last kiss. He turned the nag, gave a sharp tap with his heels. She watched the forest consume him. He was gone, vanished, with not even a bush stirring on the side of the forest to mark his passage. Claire hesitated
lost in a wave of confused emotions, unable to explain the painful knot in her throat.
Was it fate brought on by more than mere chance that brought them together?

Her hands flew to her face. She had lain with a slave, a felon. Oh the things he’d done to her. The pink rose from her toes to her hair roots. Was the bargain complete? As far as she was concerned the promise was fulfilled.

“D
id you like the coat I sent you?” The husky voice took Devon by surprise. Anne Jensen, Port Royale’s leading prostitute, invited herself aboard the wherry, docked at the end of the harbor where the vessel would be out of sight. Devon’s patience flared. Anne would be noticed. Women on shipboard were nothing but problems. The last hour he devoted to going over plans with Dooley would have to end.

Dooley had done well, finding a serviceable wherry, its prior owner inclined to dispose. For extra coins, Dooley concealed necessary stores of a hundredweight of bread, a quantity of cheese, a cask of water and some bottles of rum, a compass, quadrant, chart, half-hour glass, log and line, a tarpaulin, some carpenter’s tools, and a lantern and candles. Dooley, of course, would accompany them, a man owed to the sea as a seasoned shipwright, and eager to be free of his debts. Devon looked to the sky and fair-weather clouds. If all went well, their escape would go as planned, but a crosswind shifted from the west, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. The weather, like a woman, reared unpredictable and ruthless.

He could not be caught on a vessel, and now with Anne aboard, he was surely to capture attention. Anne had made it clear on more than one occasion that Devon was far more to her taste despite his lack of coin. He took great care where she was concerned for her power reached far, including the ear of Jarvis who for change of a shilling fattened her purse for services rendered. To hear of his slave upon a boat readied for sea would spell disaster.
Best to cajole than to earn her scorn
. Devon sighed. He looked down at her,
posturing and preening before him, her ample breasts bared by the scarlet low-cut blouse she wore.

“Faith Anne, I loved the coat more than you’ll ever know,” said Devon, putting his thumbs beneath the lapels, feeling the lightened weight of the coat, lessened from his dealings.

“Was it adequate payment, if not, I could offer you something more−”

“Ah lass, it’s an inspiring thought to be sure, but a simple kiss is all the thanks I need.” He swung around on a rope to offer his cheek. Anne had different ideas. With strength born of an ox, she clutched him to her, kissing him long and hard. Vise-like arms hooked around his neck to anchor him to her massive breasts. Devon lost his balance and fell in a hard snap to the deck. Anne sprawled on top of him. Her ample weight pinned him, her skirts flew up over her naked hips. Devon wrestled to remove her bulk from his person, but it only encouraged and excited her.

“I knew you’d like it rough, my proud peacock. You’ve been avoiding me, but you’ll love me when I’m done with you.” Her wide tongue licked up the side of his face. Sharp teeth bit his ear. She laughed then stuck her tongue in his mouth. The foul taste of stale rum disgusted him. Cheap perfume mingled then lost to the scent of her unwashed body, nauseated him. But what revolted him more was when her hand worked its way down to his breeches to clutch his manhood.

On the hill above Port Royale, the three Johnson sisters hailed Claire from their open carriage. She reined in her horse to chat and bit her lip, calling to mind, Devon’s ‘Vinegary Virgins’ and the ever-present pinched expression on their faces. “How are affairs on your side of the island?” she asked, wondering what possible need for conversation the sisters desired. They had never sought her out before, mainly keeping to themselves.

“Interesting don’t you think, your slave with Anne Jensen and on a ship,” said Agatha the eldest, her nose halfway down to her mouth.

Claire blinked. “Pardon me?” What were they talking about?

The middle sister smiled, two of her front teeth missing. “The physician enjoys the tawdry fruits of the island.”

Claire frowned. Were they referring to Devon? If only she had come from the north side of town, she would have been spared from meeting the sisters and this frivolous conversation. “I’m sure, I do not know what you are suggesting.” She attempted to move forward but the third sister equally grotesque pointed with her black parasol.

“Take a look at the physician. Just like an animal, tossing with that whore and in broad daylight. I think I’ll inform Sir Jarvis. He should give him double lashes even triple to teach him proper behavior for the respectable people of Port Royale. And on a boat no less. We can’t have this kind of shenanigans going on in our community.”

Claire sat in full view of the erotic display. She held her head up, tears forming in her eyes, turning to rage. She swore beneath her breath and kicked her mare into motion.

Devon shoved Anne off, holding her at arm’s length. He stood, adjusting his coat, keeping a wide berth between them. “Surely, now that’s thanks enough.” He was angry with the whore, for she could put his entire escape at risk. He looked around. Not many were about and others were too busy with their labors to give notice. His fury faded. It was impossible to get really angry with her, exasperating as her behavior persisted. Did she not unwittingly bring him good fortune to buy his freedom?

Anne laughed and hauled herself up. “I would hope to thank you more. But to tell you the truth, I was beginning to think of you as a eunuch, with no woman on the island to entertain a man with your, how may I say−treasures. I feared they were laid to waste.”

Devon roared with laughter. “Anne, you do amuse me. I am a man with my hat set for all but one.”

“Who is she?” Anne tempted, her provocative smile concealed a flash of jealousy.

Devon cursed. His loose tongue trumpeted a dangerous slip to a woman like Anne, her brothel a harbinger of gossip. To reveal anything about his and Claire’s relationship would destroy Claire not to
mention a certain death to a slave. He pinched Anne on the cheek. “For me, a slave, the only tender woman offered me is mother earth. Now off with ye, fair lady.” He escorted her to the plank, slapped her on the rump to hurry her along and bid her fair well.

“Oh Devon,” Anne protested sulkily, and to his secret relief, she flounced away, her full hips swinging provocatively beneath their covering of full scarlet skirts.

“My, oh, my.” Dooley scratched his head. Anne expected them to watch her go, and, watching, to lust. Devon blew out his breath for Anne was a smart one. A season of life bred on the streets of London enhanced her education. To see her depart, properly cajoled, stood a testament to his patience or miracle from his maker.

All was ready. The wherry prepared and crew to sail it. The day was to be his last in Port Royale, a day of hope and full of promise, yet weighted with anxiety. What pained him the most was the thought of leaving Claire and that fact, rested heavy in his heart. The journey to the Lesser Antilles lay far too dangerous.

Near sundown, he had the last reports from Dooley revealing all remained well at a prearranged mooring. On his way to the Governor’s House, Devon passed the slaves driven from their labors in the fields. He let them pass, but each man who was designated to go followed him with a bare nod, a message of hope communicated to them.

Claire had no appetite. After witnessing the outrageous public display between Devon and Anne Jensen, her stomach roiled with disgust. Most of her anger she directed at herself for she had no more sense than the dull-witted hen-twit, Maybelle Merriweather and other rumored island ladies who crooned over him.

All day, she had worked to get the blackguard out of her mind. She had baited him, even encouraged him. She needed to remember more than yesterday, her confrontation with Jarvis, feeding him an explanation as to why she and Lily were at the artist’s hut. She needed to remember what had come before, in all the days they spent together, and what he had done to her. He had seduced her with a lie, always goading her with the debt she owed him. He preyed on her honor to
pay that debt, taunting her with her lack of womanhood. She fell to his seduction, becoming an easy conquest. What a fool she had been to allow such intimacies. Claire stomped up the steps and found Lily in her room.

“That blackguard. That devil. He cavorts with all kinds of women and here I−” Claire collapsed on the bed. “And to think I threw myself at him and he, laughing at me behind my back.”

“What are you talking about?” Lily came to her side…and then her eyes lit, her cheeks taking on high color. “Oh−”

“Devon. I saw him with that harlot, Anne Jensen doing all kinds of disgusting things on a boat in the harbor. I am a fool to have been taken in by that loathsome, lowest, vilest excuse for a man. The roaming stud deserves the fate of a shipwrecked tar on a deserted island.”

“There has to be more to the story. I do not feel he is like that at all. He is well respected. I believe he is honorable as is Robert Ames. Robert Ames would never do anything of the like.” Then Lily sat straight up. “A boat in the harbor? What could that mean?”

The door slammed against the wall. “What’s this about Ames you say?” demanded Jarvis, breaking into the room.

“Nothing,” Lily paled.

“I see it in your eyes, Lily. Tell me, or there will be repercussions.” Trembling, Lily stood mute.

Claire saw the hatred grow in her uncle’s eyes from Lily’s defiance. How long had he been listening? She wiped her eyes and moved between them. She could withstand her uncle’s abuse, but not Lily. “I was making a little joke about a slave, you see. He worked in the hospital during the epidemic,” Claire offered, but the explanation was pathetic.

“There’s something more at play here. Fess up.” His beady eyes narrowed.

As much as she hated Devon she would not wish her uncle’s wrath upon him. “There is nothing, Uncle Jarvis...really.”

He slapped her. “There is much more to this story. I heard you say boats and harbor. Is there an escape hatching beneath my very nose?”

Both Claire and Lily remained silent, too stunned to think of that revelation.

“Since neither of you will answer me, I’ll be forced to get it out of Ames’s hide. He’ll crack soon enough.” Jarvis turned and slammed the door.

“Claire!” Lily wailed. “What have I done? His cruelty is merciless. He’ll kill Robert.”

“Do not blame yourself, Lily. It is my fault. I should never have been so careless to speak when Jarvis was present. My anger has wrought this destruction.”

Lily wrung her hands. “We have to stop him. Robert is so gentle. What can we do?”

“We’ll ride into town and solicit the governor to intervene. He’ll stop Jarvis.”

“But what are we going to say to convince him?” Lily asked.

“I don’t know, but I’ll think of some scheme on the way.”

In record time, Devon made it back to the stockade, the combination of a heavy sleeping draught for the governor to cure his woes and whipping the nag into a race horse. The timing of the governor’s affliction could not have been more disastrous. A delay in escape would ring alarm bells. Dooley’s purchase of a wherry, illegal by a debtor would appear suspect for an escape. Questions would follow Dooley on where he procured the money for such a venture.

Devon came up short in front of the gate and bid the guards to allow him to enter. It was well after midnight, later than he required for his plan to hatch, but if they hurried, they could make it. Lanterns were lit at the center whipping post, some poor wretch on the wrong side of Jarvis. Devon dismounted, deciding to take the long way around to his hut when a scream of agony caught his attention. He glanced over and his heart dipped belly-low. Ames.

Jarvis hauled his bulk forward, swinging his bamboo cane onto Ames’s naked shoulders and back again with full force. “My genius boasts a dozen ways, some of them quite diverting of conquering stubbornness in these convict scoundrels. Answer me, you dog. What plan
is there for escape? I heard it from my niece, Claire’s own lips. Tell me what you know of it.”

“Claire!” Devon swore beneath his breath. What hellish plot had she devised?

“I don’t know,” Ames sobbed. “I do not know of what you speak.”

“You must learn manners to your master at the cost of a striped hide.” Jarvis lashed his victim about the head and shoulders. Soon his cane was reduced to splinters by his violence. Several long splinters each taking on the keen edge of a knife. Ames’s back was a bleeding pulp from neck to back; moaning he sank huddled in a heap. A cruel smile lit Jarvis’s brutish face. “You shall be taught proper submission. No drink or food for ye until ye tell me of this plan,” he spat on Ames. “When you’ve had enough of this, send word, and we’ll have the branding irons for you.” He strode to the overseer’s hut.