Claire prodded her mare past several convicts, pulling up short to three slaves removing a stump. They gave her no notice. The guards had indicated this group but none of them looked like her slave. Had the guards been mistaken? The taller man appeared to be the leader of sorts, the rest of the men deferring to him. He arrested her attention. Without considering the impropriety of it, she considered him with thoughtful curiosity, tall, lean, clean-shaven, a countenance revealing every arrogant line of his sun-bronzed features. She even found beautiful the hand that rose to wipe the moisture from his brow, and even the dark hair and the most amazing green eyes−and realized they were staring back at her.
Startled, her heart shuddered, stopping for a moment, and then began beating anew at a frantic pace. She didn’t know what emotion it was he caused to rise within her. It could not be fear, for the guards stood a shout away.
She grew furious with herself. It wasn’t fear. She resisted the same curious sensations as she observed him. Something leaped along her spine. He was devastatingly handsome, forbiddingly severe and his features were hard as granite. Overall she thought his countenance one of the most compelling, and fiercest she had ever seen.
She grew embarrassed as the seconds eclipsed and nothing was said. Her embarrassment became complete when her eyes beheld his half naked dress. He had no shirt and only tight fitting breeches. Claire looked around the field of working men. They watched with furtive glances expectant of the silent tableau between her and the tall slave.
“The guards told me to come to this group. They must have been mistaken.”
“What is it you want?” His green eyes glared at her as hostile as a storm on an Irish sea.
She opened her mouth and closed it, struck by the Irish lilt in his voice. With his eyes meeting hers head on, she almost to her horror, forgot what she came for. A long five seconds passed before she recalled why she was there and blurted out her reason. “I am looking for a slave. It is my understanding he is a physician.”
It was his turn to pause overlong. “Faith and what would you be needing with him?”
It needled her, his magnanimous pontification, as if he sat on the same throne as Zeus. He should know his place. His rudeness, she supposed, was to be expected. But she didn’t care. Cookies’ life was in danger. “I need his help with a personal matter.”
“Ah. A personal matter...truly, how personal is it?”
She drew in a quick intake of breath at his bold inquiry. He laughed, infuriating her, taking undue amount of pleasure by intimating a forbidden nature to his question. “Of course, only one condemned to so lowly as a slave would have the gall to speak to me that way. I don’t see that it is any business of yours. If you’ll direct me to the physician−”
The earth pitched beneath her. Claire’s horse reared. She grabbed at the reins. Her bottom slid back. She jerked on the reins. The horse kicked and bucked. The world spun. She struggled to get the beast under control. Would she fall under the sharp hooves that pawed the air?
Hands reached out and grabbed the bridle. “Why, you witch. Take care of the mare. It’s a gentle beast. Stung by a bee that’s all.” With expert skill he removed a stinger from the horse’s withers. He reached down and grasped some mud and patted it on a swollen pustule. He ran his slim fingers over the horse’s flanks cooing to the mare. Claire’s horse settled, almost half slumbering from the magic of his hands.
Her eyes widened, admiring his quickness in adverting near disaster. What if she had broken her neck? If she weren’t so vexed by him calling her a witch along with his other rude insinuations, she would have dared to compliment him on his skill. He raked his eyes over her, flustering her. Some women may have found it flattering. Except Claire believed in her plainness and found his perusal a maximum insult. It was certainly something no gentleman would do, but what could she expect from an uncouth felon.
“I’m a valuable man to have around. I have a natural gift for horses, you see, because I handle them all like women−with a gentle hand for the most part, a firm one when needed, and a good slap to the rump when they get too spirited.”
Heat flooded her face. His companions quit their labors and stared aghast.
“Again,” she tried to maintain some modicum of control. “I was looking for the physician slave and informed by my uncle’s overseer you would be able to guide me to him.”
He laughed at her, an out-and-out careless laugh that grated on her nerves and made her brace herself, and with reason.
“I’m your physician.” He made an exaggerated bow. “At your service, madam.”
“Why−you look nothing like the man−” The black beard was gone. No wonder she didn’t recognize him. She had not seen him for quite some time, but she could not deny the resemblance.
“A lady should have knowledge of her own property. I am worth exactly eleven pounds. I remember it well for it was the sum you paid for me. It’s not every day a man knows precisely what he is worth.”
Lily’s warning about this man haunted her. Not only did he resent her, he hated her. Claire swallowed. “I have need of your assistance. My cook is ill and needs a physician.”
“Certainly, but I am not free of my important labors here. Are there no other physicians whose refined skills you could acquire?” He leaned against his shovel with cynical detachment.
“Do you not exercise the compassion of your office?” she demanded.
“For what? To be bartered and traded like a horse,” he said, seething with righteous wrath. “It is a novel experience for me and not one to tender my regard for my owner.”
“You should have gratitude.”
“Gratitude is it.”
“I pitied you. If you had been bought by Mr. Cox you would have suffered at his hands. My uncle is a hard man, but he pales to the ruthless owner of the bauxite mines. Man or beast bear short lives under him.”
“And I’m to thank you for trading one kind of Hell for another. Only a fool would set himself up as a healer of a species that was best exterminated. Forgive me madam. My labors are in need of my attention.”
How she hated being forced to beg. “Could you at least do it for Cookie?”
She waited his response, but he stood there a pillar of arrogance. “I could force you, but I won’t begin to condescend. As to buying you like a horse−it-it was no more than you deserve.” She turned and galloped off.
“You fool.” Ames spat, watching her mare kick up puffs of dust behind her.
“So I lost my tongue,” Devon laughed. “It was worth every second.”
Bloodsmythe cursed him. “That was the baron’s niece. The same baron that will order every piece of skin flogged from you. What if she’s riding home to inform him of your refusal? It’s all of our hides that will profit from your loose tongue. Why did you have to insult her?” Devon didn’t know why himself. She was his wife, and he couldn’t have her. He was a slave, lower than an animal. Best to keep his distance with a woman like that. Revenge proved a safer mistress.
“She saved you from the mines. We’re together because of her,” snapped Ames.
Devon’s mood soured. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to take everything out on her, but her words, “lowly as a slave” flared his temper.
“I’ve worked at the big house and Cookie is as kind and gentle as they come. She fed me when she knew no one was about. You should aid her.” Bloodsmythe crossed his arms.
“I don’t need a blunderer like you to handle my quarrels.” Devon scowled.
Wolf looked him in the eye. “I don’t know nothing about your past laddie, but ye have the bleat of a ram what’s trying to play tiger. Maybe you’re used to hunting alone, but now you’re just one more lamb in the flock and what hurts one, hurts us all.”
Ames pointed a finger at Devon. “Get over your hard feelings toward the girl. Use it as an opportunity to scout the island, perhaps find some way to escape. You’re a fool not to try.”
Devon heard enough. “Your opinions come yapping and growling round me like a pack of curs.” Yet…there was truth in what they said, points he’d not considered. He threw down his shovel and stalked toward the guards.