Devon 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.
“Careful, Claire. Best to control your ire. They are regarding the best looking couple in this room.”
“We are not a couple,” she said through gritted teeth. The briefest of moments passed. Aware of their audience, Claire tamped down her anger then smiled prettily up to him. “I promise that neither life nor death, neither angels nor demons, neither present nor the future, nor anything else in creation will make me keep my promise.”
He laughed to spite her. She had enough of his badgering and moved across the room to where Maybelle Meriweather stood with Lily. She avoided the merchant’s daughter. Maybelle tended to be simple-minded and had a propensity for vicious gossip.
What is he like, Claire?” said Maybelle agog. “He’s your slave. You bought him Claire, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Claire confessed.
“So bold and scandalous.” Maybelle proved provocative. Her wide mouth accented a champing mill of strong yellow horse teeth, and her reedy voice grated on Claire’s nerves. “He is devastatingly handsome for a slave and forbidden which makes him exciting,” said Maybelle. “I can never tire thinking up maladies for my mother to require his attendance. Why the other day, he held my pulse. I battled swooning, but the faint got the best of me and I fell into his arms.”
Claire glared at her, thinking someone like Devon would eat her alive. “Have you ever battled with common sense?” A tug on Claire’s arm drew her attention, saving her from Maybelle’s witless remarks.
“Come humor an old woman,” said Mrs. Bennett, pulling her to a private corner of the room where they sat together on a damask settee.
Claire smoothed her skirts. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
Mrs. Bennett laughed. “Poor Maybelle. She is doomed to ignorance. Her mother believes educating her daughter is an implementation of foolishness, thus the fruit of her womb.” She slanted her gray head knowingly then pursed her lips. “Since our meeting at Governor’s House, I have been thinking about your father. He was dashing like that doctor-slave you bought.”
Claire managed to not roll her eyes, refusing to admit there were some similarities. “My father was a good, kind and generous man. He is irreplaceable.”
“I’ve needed to talk to you. With my age, my memories are scattered. I believe you own the plantation.”
Claire blinked. What could she say to a disclosure like that? “I don’t understand.”
“Your father told me he never trusted his younger brother. He was going to leave everything to charity unless he married and had children to inherit. Be aware of that fact, Claire. I doubt Jarvis owns anything.”
“If this is true, do you realize what this would mean to me? Freedom. If I owned property, I could be free of Jarvis. Lily, Cookie and I could live without his threats.” Claire placed her hand over her heart, reeling with the possible ramifications. “But how?”
A servant intoned dinner was to be served. They both rose and followed everyone into the dining room. Mrs. Bennett tapped Claire’s shoulder with her fan. “That’s the part that has me perplexed. I thought I’d share my reflections with you. Two heads are better than this old one. My mind is not as good as it used to be. I had kept journals but during a fire some were burned and others deposited in a warehouse. I’ll continue searching and pray something triggers my mind to remember why I feel you own the plantation.”
Governor Stark stood at the head-table and bowed a signal for everyone to be seated. Her uncle entered with curt apologies for his tardiness.
“Lord of heaven.” Jarvis ranted when his eyes beheld his slave standing behind the governor. “Was there ever such an insolent rogue? Before I am done with you, I will see you with a halter round your neck.”
Like everyone else, Claire stared in astonishment. Devon’s spine was straighter and his gaze more direct even though he cultivated a pose of well-bred indifference.
“Here, here, Sir Jarvis. Don’t let anything happen to my physician. It would put me in ill temper,” the governor wheedled, his challenge clear.
“I will not eat dinner with a traitor to the King present.” Jarvis pounded his fist on the table. The dinnerware jumped.
“He is my physician in attendance at my request. You are profiting well by this arrangement are you not?” said Governor Stark, grudgingly politic and annoyed.
Jarvis glowered at Devon. “I hope the taste of the food is not destroyed.”
Sir Teakle picked up the gauntlet and addressed Devon. “This slavery in which you find yourself in must be irksome to a man such as yourself. I am no fool, my dear doctor. I know a man when I see one, and often I can tell his thoughts.”
“Faith. Then tell me mine. It would be a new experience for me to be sure,” Devon dared.
Sir Teakle leaned over the table to give a confidential tone, yet spoke loud enough over the hushed whispers and watchful eyes for all to gather what was said. His hard blue eyes peered across the room to the dark-skinned, sardonic face of the slave who challenged him. He took pleasure casting down a slave and his game angered Claire. “I can imagine you staring out to sea, your soul in your eyes. Don’t I know what you are thinking? If you could escape from this hell of slavery, you would escape as soon as you could.”
The knight breathed heavily from the exertion of his speech, smiling for he had everyone’s full attention. But his hard eyes continued to study his impassive prey. “Well,” he said with deliberate pause. “What do you say to that?”
Devon did not answer. Claire noticed the tight flexing of his fingers. It had taken twelve of the King’s good men to hold him down. She imagined the debate in Devon’s mind, taking the sword from the Colonel seated next to the governor and running the grinning fop through. A lot of good that would do him.
The fop laughed at him, his cruel jest at Devon’s expense. Titters broke out from the ladies. The men gave him a condescending smirk before they turned their conversation to their dinner companions. Devon ignored them. They wanted a reaction from him, and he was not going to gratify them.
Claire’s ill-temper toward Devon faded. She observed him in secret admiration from the time he met her uncle’s glare unflinchingly to his casual disregard for Sir Teakle’s needling jabs.
“Remember to curb your imprudence. It would be with regret to lose you,” Sir Teakle threatened. “Or perhaps you’d like to challenge me to a duel.” The knight laughed at his joke.
“My physician can speak. I like debate,” allowed the governor.
Devon smiled though without mirth. “That is to flatter me beyond all that I deserve.” Sir Teakle picked at his lace cuff. “You rest easy now, supplied by the Governor’s good graces. I wonder how brave you would be while not in his august company.”
“Fata viam invenerunt is my own expression,” said Devon.
To Claire, it appeared no one at the table had studied Latin. The phrase, fate finds the way would be interpreted as a threat. A threat from a slave stood intolerable.
In his ignorance, Sir Teakle puffed his chest out. “Is that a slur?”
Devon could be dragged out and whipped for insult to a gentleman. Even the governor would not allow any affront to a member of the peerage. Devon’s impetuousness put him on very dangerous ground. Claire spoke up, exposing herself as a blue-stocking. “It is Latin and means he is in complete servitude to you.”
Her recitation took the air out of Sir Teakle’s goading, his gaze flicked over Devon. And with even more power, they exchanged even smiles. The entertainment of the physician-slave ended and in unprecedented condescension everyone ignored his existence. Claire was still irked by Devon’s spurning of her womanhood. But the turn of events caused her to reflect. Was it pity she felt for Devon? No. Respect. He sat labeled a rebel, a brave mongrel who’d been cruelly thrust into a room of lordly aristocrats. She decided to be a rebel too.
Sir Teakle turned to Claire. “How wonderful to see you, madam. May I say you look beyond compare, as usual.”
Claire waved a dismissive hand. She could no longer tolerate Sir Teakle’s pompousness and a pleased smirk curved her mouth. “Save your Canterbury Tales for more untried ladies.”
“Claire, you will apologize to Sir Teakle at once,” demanded her uncle.
Governor Stark clapped his hands in glee. “Whatever for, Jarvis? Admire her cleverness.”
“Her remark is a gentle female flirtation,” Mary trilled and Claire gagged. “A challenge to encourage Sir Teakle’s attentions.”
Claire became more irritated when Sir Teakle leaned over, watching her with concealed pleasure. As she felt his eyes caressing the white flesh exposed by her gown, she wished he’d drop off the edge of the earth. If he kept up his perusal, she’d be forced to throw her soup into his face. She glanced down the table and saw a pair of green eyes flash upon her, fierce and possessive. As if she was his property.
Sir Teakle kept up his unwanted perusal. There seemed to be nothing for it. Claire pushed her bowl of soup onto his lap. “Oh my. Please forgive me, Sir Teakle. Your white breeches.”
Sir Teakle jumped from his chair in foam of lace. “Look what you’ve done.”
“My bowl slipped.” Claire pasted on an innocent expression. Everything set into motion. Servants ran to assist Sir Teakle, Lily smiled, Jarvis’s face turned red then purple. Mary ordered more servants to clean the mess, and the rest of the room’s occupants sat aghast, expectant of Claire to give response.
Instead she looked to Devon. His eyes twinkled, holding hers in frank approval. For a moment, she let play the slightest corners of her mouth, owning a secret camaraderie then hid it quickly to show perfect contriteness.
“The soup and dinner arrangements are fine Mary; however did you pull it off?” Lily intervened, breaking the awkward silence by changing the subject. The dinner ended and the music started for the dancing to commence.
Claire danced with a young officer and looked down at the end of the dance floor. Devon lounged insolently against the wall, scorn for the young couple dancing together. As her partner took her hand and turned her, Devon caught her eye. She missed a step in her dance, and she bridled from his mirth at her discomposure. He glanced from her to Teakle who had returned with a fresh change of breeches, dancing at the head of the set. Devon raised his glass in a mocking toast, as if to wish her well on her future.
She scoffed at how he still held his torch for revenge. He darted glances at her over and over again, and as he watched her, a smile melted the severity of his expression. Claire whirled around the ballroom. Oh the cad. Hadn’t he had enough of a challenge with her uncle and Sir Teakle? Did he have to maintain a private war with her? What is he plotting in his head now?
She needn’t worry about his attentions again, she told herself, for there would not be another opportunity. She shook her head. She remembered the touch of his lips upon hers then blushed from the memory. So many emotions spun in her mind. Shame. Embarrassment. He read her mind so easily from across the room. There was a moment’s pride at the way his eyes had run over her when they met, and when she had deposited her soup in Sir Teakle’s lap. And then again, the way his eyes roved over her before raising his glass. He made her feel like a woman, vanishing the girl.
His studied relaxation conveyed that he could show her what she wanted to know better than the fledgling youth she was dancing with. The governor’s wife called his attention. He sent a frosty nod in Claire’s direction, the picture of arrogant male omnipotence, and left. Claire lifted her nose into the air and danced and danced the hours away.
After waltzing for most of the evening, Claire grew tired and longed for fresh air. She exited the room, and hurried down the stairs out onto the terrace.
Mary had done miracles arranging the gardens. The paths were lit with tiny lanterns, and benches had been set out for the guests to enjoy. The light of a half-moon rippled on the surface of an ornamental pond. It was a beautiful night for a walk, a fragrant ambush of sweet gardenia and spicy pimento trees drifted with the warm breezes off the sea, lifting her hair and cooling her skin. So caught up in the loveliness of the night, she strode farther, beyond the lanterns. Was it safe to venture this far? Of course. There was nothing to fear on the governor’s properties. She continued farther, the moon lighting her way well enough until an errant rose branch caught her bodice.
Done with settling Mary’s megrims, Devon retired to the far end of the gardens. The rum’s warmth couldn’t melt the chill inside him. What was his wife doing now? Was she entertaining that English bastard?
When he recalled the number of covetous gazes following his wife’s every movement, he seethed with a renewed fury, wishing to put a sword through every man who dared to look at her. He could not breathe when she had descended the stairs. He had never seen her dressed like that and he seethed as every man in the room was affected as much as he. It took every ounce of effort on his part to stay put. Was she planning to seduce every man on the island?
Yet he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Everything about Claire shimmered as if her gown had been woven by fairies out of scarlet sunbeams. He wanted her in every way a man wanted a woman, possessing her until she depended on him for the very air she breathed.
So he had stood apart from the revel, and watched and waited, unable to touch what he knew bone-deep belonged to him. She spent too much time dancing with the fop. Rank, title, family, money, freedom. Sir Teakle’s hand slipped to touch her body, caressing the curve of her waist. Teakle had pretended not to notice the liberty he had taken, so it might appear accidental, but Devon did not. The image of that aristocratic bastard grunting over Claire’s pale naked beauty became too much. Cursing beneath his breath, Devon threw his glass into a garden wall where it shattered in a thousand pieces.
He saw Claire run down the steps and rush into the garden away from the crush of people. Perhaps a designation to meet a paramour? Devon sat in the darkness, nurturing a world-weariness, which both annoyed and intrigued him. It almost made him wish...
He shook himself. He wished nothing other than to be free, away from enslavement, aristocrats and their progeny. Tomorrow, if the opportunity presented itself, he would seek out Tom Dooley, the debtor whose prison sentence he helped waive to see if his cryptic gratitude offered real merit. The eventuality of escape spun in his mind.
He saw her get caught on a rose bush, a painful thorn digging into her flesh.
He moved from the shadows. “Allow me to assist you.”
Devon’s appearance surprised her.
“Please be careful,” she pleaded, her head still bowed in a position both awkward and embarrassing. “My gown might be torn.”
“We can’t have that,” Devon teased, his voice intimate and cordial, making her blush as if this were the sort of secret encounter she devised, but wanted to avoid.
She raised her eyes, observing the man in front of her. Dark brows slanted over quizzical eyes. Any other girl would have had her breath taken away by such maleness. Not Claire. She refused to be like Maybelle Meriwether. He seemed to take overlong in removing the thicket. Her insides began to churn like a northern sea, and he stood next to her as if he hadn’t a care in the world. But even as she tried to ignore his proximity, his deep voice and the warmth of his breath on her neck sent shivers down her spine−although not of fear. Of something else. Something primal…and dangerous. He managed to free her. Claire exhaled.
“I’ve performed a surgery, separating you from Mary’s roses.” He brushed her hair away from the nape of her neck in a gesture like a caress and she pushed him away.
He laughed from her outrage, his face showing his concern. “Do you have a scratch? Perhaps beneath your gown−”
“You’re not looking beneath my gown.”
His lips curved up in an amused, yet gentle smile that made her heart race as if she’d run for miles. “As a physician, I assure you I am only looking out for your well-being. Scratches can be dangerous and fatal if not treated.”
“You are not free to exercise your trade on me,” she snapped.
“But it is true, Madame.” He picked up her hand, kissed it−and she snatched it back. “I am the least dangerous.” He assured her.
Claire snorted and backed away from him. “There is speculation in that.” She put up a great show of indifference, but some link…some invisible thread tugged her toward him. Strange things happened to her when he was close. She needed to get back to the party.
With his arms behind his back, he looked toward the heavens. “Ah there. Do you see? It is Scorpio. Scorpio fascinates me the most.” His head lowered to study her. “Your name, Claire, means clear, bright like the stars in the Scorpio constellation that are clear, bright, and illustrious. They indicate true beauty and demonstrate obviousness…like you, Claire. Perhaps you came looking for me?”
“Why would I look for you?” Claire said. How dare he infer she was chasing him?
“Alone, in a dark garden, and so far away from the other guests. But you are far more dangerous to me, I think. When I saw you this evening in your red satin, glowing under the candlelight, your lips so red and blushing−”
Was he different, or was it moonlight and the headiness of wine she had consumed that made him seem so much more threatening than he did during the day? She glared back at him, hoping he would read her expression and ignore the tremors rioting through her body as he taunted her. “It would serve you right if I had you whipped.”
“Serve me?” He laughed. “Faith, you’d not be the first missed opportunity. I will be wounded, but I shall survive to see my end.”
Here he was to remind her of her promise. “Will I ever be free of you?”
“Did you not persist in allowing far more intimacies with that fop then a lady should allow? Did I not see with my own two eyes how the men touched your hair, whispered in your ear, and held you far too close? Are you forever to hide behind a rueful smile and biting wit? Or do you prefer to be the willing victim, immersing yourself in fawning suitors to avoid being a woman?”
He reached for her except…she held him at arm’s length. Her glance traveled hesitantly across his hard chest before her eyes lifted to meet that steady, predatory stare.
“I am your husband declaring what is rightfully mine.” He shook his head, his smile quite startling in its sensual appeal, no doubt to disarm her.
“Ah, Claire, love,” he said sadly. “Am I really to believe that you will not see to your promise? Faith, did I not see a glimmer of a beautiful woman rise with plucky courage to champion me against Sir Teakle? Was that not encouragement?”
“I saved your reckless head to keep you from a beating so you can work another day on the governor’s rheumatism. Be informed that when I give myself to a man, it will be under the vows of a real marriage with all the love I can summon from my heart.” She shoved him back.
“The real vows have been said,” he snapped. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “What do you fear, Claire!”
Tears gathered in her eyes. I fear for my own heart, my soul, my very being. He made her aware of her vulnerability. She could not be vulnerable. He threatened everything she needed or wanted in life. Just looking at him made her tremble. Slave or not, he made her yearn for things that only a husband had the right to offer. His eyes, riveted in their intensity and his large hand took her face and held it gently, his fingers brushing the wetness away, his touch almost unbearable in its tenderness. His hands slipped into her hair and brought her closer.
There was nothing more that Devon wanted to do but kiss her. He felt her yielding and then restrained himself, for he needed to keep his head. Yet he hadn’t anticipated her to look so ravishing tonight. And then there was his jealousy. She was his, always would be, yet a world away. His body heated like wildfire as her soft curves melted into him. Hungrily his mouth covered hers, his tongue tracing the contours of her sweet mouth.
Her hands slid up his arms and linked about his neck, her fingers winding in the tendrils of his hair in the back of his neck. Aroused now, his one hand lowered to the small of her back while his lips moved down her throat, following the elegant curve to her collarbone, right where the edge of her gown met skin. He nudged it down, tasting one new inch of her, exploring the soft, salty sweetness, and shuddering with pleasure when he cupped the rounded swell of her breast with his hand, feeling her nipple firm under his touch.
He wanted her.
He took her mouth again and it was all he could do to hold himself back. He reached down and brought up the satin of her gown, feeling the long silky smoothness of her knee and thigh. The minute she moaned, his tongue plunged into her mouth and the kiss exploded. His hand cupped the soft flesh of her bottom and pulling her against him, making her aware of his aroused body. She stiffened at the forced intimacy, and then pressed her soft body into his.
She was driving him insane with need. He tasted the wine on her lips as it mingled with the rum he drank. Suddenly she was whispering frantically to him, driving him away.
“Devon. You must stop. Now.”
But he could not get enough of her.
From a haze, she penetrated his senses like a dream and he’d been woken and−
“Jarvis.” Her breath burst in ragged gasps.
Her uncle’s name was a bucket of ice water dumped over his head.
Devon pushed her away and turned to face the ferocity of her uncle.
“How dare you. You filthy slave,” snarled her uncle. “Do you dare think she’s your equal? Get in the house, Claire.”
The governor and Sir Teakle arrived behind Jarvis, their eyes wide taking in the scene.
Devon stepped forward between Claire and the men, shielding her so she would have time to right herself. They had been in the shadows of a bay tree. He was certain they could not have seen anything. “Surely there is a misunderstanding,” he said. “If I may be allowed to explain−” Once. Twice. The lash of Jarvis’s cane came down on him. He did not move.
“I’ll not take your rascally excuses. I’ll blister your flesh to remind you of your place.” Jarvis raised his cane again.
“Stop.” Claire grasped her uncle’s arm, standing between him and Devon. “He has done nothing untoward. I saw him in the garden and asked him to point out the herbs he used to heal Cookie. That is all.”
“I don’t trust him,” said Sir Teakle. “I sense something amiss. Claire, I assure you my lips are sealed and will do and say nothing to tarnish your reputation by being alone with a slave.”
A growl erupted from Jarvis’s throat. “Nevertheless he returns to the stockade.”
The governor huffed from his exertion. “Sir Jarvis, you dragged me from the house on a worthless endeavor. There is nothing to make of any of this. I’m sure the good doctor was sharing his knowledge of healing herbs as attested. The physician will be spending the night tending my arthritis. I will not take kindly if I lose a night’s sleep nor will my wife be happy if you bring on another bout of her megrims by disrupting her party.”
Devon scowled. Claire returned to the mansion with Sir Teakle and her uncle. The governor remained. “Claire is like a daughter to me. Do not tread again above yourself. Your hide was saved, but I lied to protect Claire.”
“I am confidant any suspicion is unfounded.” He met the governor eye to eye. Anarchy swirled in his head.
The governor clapped his hand on Devon’s shoulder. “I was young once too. A beautiful woman like Claire would create a terrible longing. For you, an assignation would mean your death. I like you. I’ll have you stay here for a week to protect you from Jarvis. You were granted a reprieve tonight, but don’t tax my generosity.”