Sir Edmund Jarvis sat in his library. Where was the little twit? Gone for hours with that goose-eyed cousin of hers and no one knew where they were. Never did he expect the damned duke to appear and demand to see his prospective bride. A growing stack of bills from the money he spent on Claire to hook a fat benefactor lay stashed in his drawer. Creditors camped on his doorstep. He swallowed hard against the pinch of his cravat and nodded a tight smile to the duke seated across from him. If his niece did not return, he’d lose everything he risked on his hated brother’s progeny. He still remained in the shadow of his handsome, intelligent, and prosperous first-born brother. It ate at him like acid. This business with Claire reminded him of all his failures. His fingers tightened on the top of his cane.
After his brother’s death, he had assumed his role as baron. His habit for women and gambling had forced him to sell off his estates in England. There was not enough to pay off his debts. His recourse was the plantation in Jamaica where he had eked out a living for the past ten years.
What luck to run into Claire on his first trip to England. Even if the clerk in the store had not called her name he would have recognized her. To think he had paid to have her dropped off in St. Giles when she was nine to get rid of her. She had been rescued by the meddlesome cook. Jarvis smirked. He had covered his trail well. No one could point a finger at him. As the affair turned out, fortune smiled for she had grown into a lovely young woman. He saw the diamond in the rough and decided to capitalize on her. How easy to enforce his guardianship. The taste of money swelled his palate.
The front door opened. Jarvis scrambled into the entry hall of his rented townhouse. The luxuriant appointments at an appropriate London address, window dressing, orchestrated to dupe a wealthy lord, forgotten for the moment. He narrowed his eyes, skewering his niece yet she maintained a benign expression as if she trumped him. How like his hated brother. Her cousin fidgeted with her spectacles. “Where have you been at this late hour? The duke demands to move up the wedding to crush the rumors of you proposing to that nobody, Sir Durham. What a mess you’ve created.”
“You can tell his Grace there will be no wedding.”
Did he hear right? The twit dared to challenge him.
“Sir Jarvis?”
Drat. The duke followed him from the library. Jarvis swallowed bile.
“I hope you can rectify this insubordination,” the duke rasped.
Rectify? He longed to beat every inch of her. Rumors insinuated the duke possessed a sadistic trait. He’d let the duke have his own fun. “Claire, you will marry the duke.” He clenched his cane but he wished it was her neck.
His niece shook her head and said calmly, “I married a felon at Newgate.”
“You what?” Jarvis choked. A coldness hit his core.
“The betrothal is off,” said the duke and hobbled to the door, his servant running to open it for him. I refuse to have my name linked with scandal.”
“Wait, your grace. There must be something we can bargain,” Jarvis cried. He gritted his teeth. How he hated groveling. At this point, he’d do anything to keep the negotiation going.
The duke turned and sniffed, studying his intended from head to toe. “How am I to know she is pure?”
His niece gasped. Jarvis rocked back on his heels. “I would have her checked even if I have to do the task myself with your lordship in full audience.”
The duke sneered apparently pleased with the prospect. “To learn obedience.”
Jarvis had him. His niece’s humiliation drew the old lecher as a leech to raw meat. Claire’s face paled. Victory smoothed like warm honey over his tongue. If he had to, he’d throw her on the hall floor and begin the inspections immediately.
Bold as brass, his niece drew herself up and moved to within inches of the duke. “The marriage is consummated.”
Jarvis’s blood pounded in his ears. The bitch. She destroyed all his hard work.
The duke’s face flushed red. “The contract is broken, Jarvis. Your niece’s conduct is offensive. My family’s name is above reproach. I won’t have malicious gossip and public disgrace bring it down.”
With Claire’s lack of maidenhead, Jarvis’s fortune vanished, perishing with the duke’s departure. The nightmare of prison loomed. He had no other option than to depart for Jamaica. By God, he’d force the girl to go with him. He could feel his blood pulsating through the veins in his throat. He raised his cane. He’d teach her to fear.
Claire took in the heavy fragrance of honeysuckle, nutmeg and logwood flower. She listened to distant seagulls and grew lulled by the steady clomping of the horses as the carriage drew along a sandy path beneath a warm tropical sun. The sharp turn of events rolled over in her mind…how she found herself in Jamaica−a God-forsaken wild outpost of the King’s realm.
A clearing of her uncle’s throat drew Claire’s attention to his disproving gaze. She could never get over his resemblance to a large toad on its hind legs.
“I detest this heat, but the savages have arrived this morning. The governor warned me, I must arrive early to get the best of the lot,” said Sir Jarvis.
Claire winced. She dreaded being forced to accompany her uncle and worse yet, to a slave auction.
“Who are they?” Claire asked. Three months before she had learned the truth of the backstairs advice she’d received on marrying the felon to be in mortal error. Consultation with her solicitor, an old family friend confirmed her uncle’s complete control over her life. Her solicitor who shared an immense loathing of Sir Jarvis, spun legal rhetoric to mislead and informed the knight his niece would not be able to marry until far into the future, governed by the strict rules of her widowhood. Yet the most disastrous consequence remained. Jarvis informed her of their immediate departure to a plantation he owned in the Caribbean. Her dreams of living on a quiet little corner of London for the rest of her life evaporated.
“Scoundrels. Rebels,” Jarvis spat. “Those moved and instigated by the Devil to stir up war and rebellion against the King. They’re a savage lot taken up against his Most Illustrious and Most Excellent Prince, Lord King James II in an attempt to strip him of title, honor, and regal name of the imperial crown with no fear of God in their hearts.”
Did her uncle have a heart? Claire would have done anything to stay in her beloved London. Trapped, she had cried as she packed. When would she return to England? Everything she had held familiar and secure would be left behind. An outright railing at all her misfortunes, and fears of traveling to the unknown ends of the earth had plagued her. To minimize her cousin’s and Cookie, their guardian’s fears and concerns, she kept her worries hidden. She had to be strong enough for both of them. She had boarded a ship with Lily and Cookie, realizing nothing would ever be the same.
Jarvis’s lips compressed, forming a veritable sneer. “They deserve to be executed for their crimes, but the King, bless his soul, has sent them to us to use as slave labor. By God, the touch of the lash and years of labor toiling in the tropic sun will teach them the value of disturbing the peace and tranquility of England.” He rapped his cane on the carriage door.
Claire cringed. Her limbs shook. Images of Jarvis striking her with that cane again and again, raging that he would not be able to marry her off.
In the bright light of the day, she shaded her eyes and looked about as their carriage neared Port Royale. She sat impressed with the town now as when she first laid eyes upon it. On the ship, she had fretted, expecting mud-huts with cannibals lining the shoreline. With surprise, her initial impressions were corrected when her eyes beheld homes built upon European archetypes boasting imposing proportions without the crowding seen in European cities. A church with its tall spire reached heavenward above a collection of red roofs while a fort guarded the entrance of a broad sweeping harbor, cannons thrusting their muzzles between merlons.
She read the common English street names as their carriage rambled through the city. Thames Street, St. James Street, Oxford Street. The city bustled with activity. Everywhere carpenters, goldsmiths, pewterers, sailmakers, shipwrights, and seamen plied their trade. In the fullness of ease and plenty, merchants arrayed in opulent fashion scurried about, attended by their slaves. Rounding to the docks, they passed a large number of Port Royal’s notorious taverns and brothels primed to serve numerous merchant ships moored to careen, repair and trade.
She thumbed the gold ring on her finger she had purchased in London after her marriage in Newgate. Under normal circumstances, the ring represented an outward expression of two hearts united as one for eternity. Claire flinched. What a fraud she was.
Why did she think about Devon Blackmon, the felon who had given his name? Claire let her hand with its fraudulent reminder fall to her knee. Was it sympathy? His circumstances by outward appearances seemed unfortunate. Yet he was a felon, and his words were not the most reliable. She had traveled to Newgate Prison to confirm his execution and burial, but obtained little information. For additional coin she could ill afford, Mr. Goad pointed to four fresh mounds in the church cemetery, one of which, he explained lay the final resting place of her husband. Since they were unable to tell which one, Claire had paid to have flowers laid over each of them. It had been a final token farewell to her husband and released her from any lingering sentiments.
But the sentiments still lingered. No matter how she tried to forget her fateful day with Devon Blackmon, he had made an impact on her life. She remembered how he infuriated and toyed with her. She remembered the richness of his voice, the strength of his hand wrapped around hers, and the warm intimacy of his fingers as they brushed over hers. Then she remembered her promise. She could feel those fingers of his sweep over her. Heat rushed to her cheeks. She reached up, hands fluttering at her bodice, dampened beneath the sun. The carriage came to a stop.
“Ooh. Look at the fine ladies. Lordy, come on up. I’ll give you a job, loveys.”
Claire glanced from beneath her bonnet. A woman with all her charms hanging out for the world to view laughed at her.
“Sir Jarvis, when will I see you again?” trilled the woman, her bright rouged lips and cheeks, a harsh contrast to her white skin. Claire dared a glance at Lily, whose expression beneath her spectacles remained a study in stern restraint.
Umph, grunted Jarvis. He tapped the door for the coach to stop and heaved out his bulk. “Stay in the carriage.”
“We will stretch our legs,” Claire objected.
“You must resign yourselves to the carriage, I’m afraid.” It was a petty command.
As he moved away, Lily spoke low and confidingly. “You should never provoke him.”
“I do not fear him.”
“Nevertheless−” Lily cautioned, seeing through Claire’s careless bravado. “So Jarvis patronizes the foul woman above us?”
Claire found herself laughing. “Oh Lily, it is so good you came with me to Jamaica. How could I have withstood my horrid uncle and the loneliness without you?”
“It is I who am grateful to you. I see it as a challenge. I am failing to achieve a sense of order about this deplorable wilderness, but I am working on it.”
Laughing again, Claire marveled at her cousin who was related to her on her mother’s side. Fortune smiled on Lily for she was not related to Jarvis. Claire’s parents raised Lily after Lily’s mother died in childbirth. Claire emerged the outgoing one while Lily grew adept in practicality and order. Claire laughed easily and Lily’s nature leaned more serious. Never one to shirk her duty, Lily had helped Claire make lists and pack everything for the journey in a meticulous, logistical manner that would have done the King’s admiralty proud.
“She’s the most celebrated woman of ill repute in Port Royale,” Lily began, never ceasing to amaze Claire with her scandalous knowledge. “Her name is Annie Jensen. Born in Canterbury, her penchant for thieving doubled with bigamy resulted in her arrest and transport to Jamaica. She is cunning, crafty, subtle and in hot pursuit of her designs. Her shocking behavior is likened to a barber’s chair. No sooner is one out, but another is in.”
Claire put her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle.
“Look Claire.” Lily pointed to a raven, settling on top of the carriage seat. “That’s a good omen. The Greeks and Romans believed ravens were connected with the art of the healer. The Welsh believe it is a bird of prophecy. I believe he is a creature of paradox.”
She turned and observed its feathers, black as coal. The raven moved its head from side to side, eying her. Small hairs on the back of Claire’s neck stirred. “I don’t think a raven passes as a good omen. It appears to be a mischievous rogue. Really Lily, isn’t a raven synonymous with devilry and destruction?”
“I disagree. Like the Greeks and Romans, I believe he is an omen for good things to come.” Lily gave a perfunctory nod of her head to emphasize her point. “And that’s a promise.”
Promise? Claire flinched. Was the raven prophetic? What if the raven was a premonition for disaster? Would her lie come back to haunt her? The felon was dead in a cold grave an ocean away. She could live her life in peace. So why did she have a terrible sense of foreboding? She thrust her parasol at the creature and watched in fascination as the raven lifted on sea winds then circled to the roof of the brothel, crowing at her in rebuke. Or was it fair warning?
A raised murmur of voices from the brothel interrupted her uneasiness. Several more scantily clad women leaned out windows. Claire followed their gazes to a ship. A gangplank had been lowered. Several ill-kept men, starved and sick, laden in heavy chains shuffled single file onto the docks. Claire’s insides railed, condemning the injustices of men.
“They are wretched,” Lily whispered behind her.
“These are a terrible lot,” her uncle cried, but without Lily’s compassion. His sympathy tendered for his purse. Beneath his tri-cornered hat, a powdered wig covered his balding pate. His simian face stayed bloated, smooth of all wrinkles.
Under the guards’ wary supervision the convicts were examined by a number of planters and merchants. There remained something about the cowed group of rebels, their heads bent low that struck a chord with Claire. “Lily, we are leaving the carriage.”
“But your uncle said not to−”
“I no longer care for my uncle’s dictates,” Claire said as she descended from the carriage. “Governor Stark stands over there and will desire female companionship. Uncle will not dare to challenge the governor.”
Lily gave her a long speculative look. “I should rescue you from your impulsive nature, but I have noted you have our dear governor wrapped around your finger.”
With their availability and lively camaraderie, both girls were often invited to teas, dinner parties and other celebrations at the Governor’s House. Claire and Lily took full opportunity of their open invitation as a way to get out from under her uncle’s roof.
“Good day to you, Governor Stark,” Claire addressed him. “It is a fine day, is it not?”
“Mistress Lily, Madame Hamilton,” he acknowledged, slightly bent over his cane, his regal bearing evident despite his age.
Claire had chosen to keep her maiden name. The islanders did not need to know different. In London, there had been no time to legally change her name to her husband’s surname. Why had her uncle booked their passage the day after she had announced her marriage to the prisoner?
“It is always a bright day when you two are around. But this infernal heat. How I long for my native England.” The governor mopped his forehead with a lace handkerchief. “It is good you’ve come to keep me company. It will take my mind off my sufferings.”
“Your foot? Is it acting up again?” Claire threaded her arm through the governor’s and patted his hand. “I guarantee your sufferings will be laid to rest while we are here.” Claire maneuvered her cousin to her left to make a united front in case her uncle looked behind.
The formal bidding began. Sir Jarvis took the lead since he held special office as the largest and only titled planter. “Faith, they are a scrawny lot, not to be much value on a plantation.” He moved up and down the line of prisoners. His contempt of them seen in the set of his shoulders and haughty lift of his chin. “They are in terrible condition. Captain Johnson, I wish to have a word with you.” Jarvis poured over lists that the captain produced.
“You have first choice, Baron Jarvis, at your own price. Hurry now so the auction may begin for the rest of the planters.” The governor’s high-pitched voice wheedled.
Her uncle thrust the lists at the Captain and walked the row of rebels-convicts. His cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such tight dealing implied.
Lily moved to Claire’s side, startling her. “I feel so sorry for him. He reminds me of a lost stray I cared for once.”
Claire turned to stare at her cousin. Lily normally repressed her feelings. Claire followed her cousin’s commiseration to a fair-haired, young prisoner, his head bent low. Unremarkable at best, he stood under the scrutiny of her uncle.
“This is awful business,” her cousin whispered. “He doesn’t belong, does he?”
Claire had no reply for her. She resisted the irrational inclination to release the prisoners from their bonds and tell them to flee. The rational side of her mind realized it was the world of men and their means. Wasn’t she just a woman struggling to find her own freedom? What was the difference?
But it was the man next to the slave that Lily had pointed out that caught her attention. He stood there sweaty and dirty, and despite his pathetic state she thought him the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Without considering the impropriety of it, she cast her eyes over him with the same avid intensity as the other planters. He stood tall with thick wildly unkempt hair, dark in the sunlight, waved to cover his temple, and a straight nose. Then he looked directly at her, catching her staring at him. She felt herself blush as red as the scarlet plume in her hat. He had the most amazing eyes. Green she guessed although she could not really tell at this distance, but green eyes would suit the face. He stared back at her.
The jolt she received from those eyes, made her conscious of what she was doing, and she looked away, willing the wide brim of her hat to conceal from all concerned the burning color of her mortification. She was as brazen as the prostitutes yelling out the windows and could not countenance her behavior. What was the matter with her? There was no excuse for the way she stared at a complete stranger, a felon no less. She puzzled over her interest of the man.
Still stamped on her mind remained a picture of him, the poor quality of his attire, worn rags from his long ship voyage and his lean frame from meager food. Despite his deprivations, there arose in his stature a spirit of defiance. His posture spurned the world, his eyes bitterly laughed at its hypocrisy, and his overall attitude claimed to resentfully submit to disrespect. She dared to peek at him again. She marveled at this man, pondering his circumstances. An inner voice warned her of danger. This man was not to be trifled with. Behind his unrevealed mask, she felt lay a creature of great intelligence, and if the opportunity arose, would for certain seek his revenge. The raven cawed above her. Claire shivered under the tropic sun.
“Sixteen pounds for this one,” said her uncle. Claire turned back and watched, embarrassed as her uncle fingered the muscles of the fair-haired man Lily had pointed out. Jarvis commanded him to open his mouth so he could note his teeth.
The Captain bridled but honeyed his voice. “Sixteen pounds. It isn’t half what I expect.”
“It’s double what I should give,” snorted her uncle.
“But he would be cheap at thirty-three pounds, Baron Jarvis,” objected the Captain.
“I can get an African for that. These white animals don’t live. None of these men will last a day in this sun. They aren’t made for the heat. I’ll pay a good sum, and I’ll get nothing for it.”
“Look at his health, his youth, and vigor,” protested the Captain.
Claire looked to Lily, noting her cousin’s pale countenance. They had never witnessed a slave auction. The young prisoner stood silent and inert. Only the waning of color in his cheeks revealed the inner battle by which he retained his self-control. Claire squeezed her cousin’s hand, growing nauseated from the vile haggle as her uncle moved up and down the line then stopped to examine a tall Goliath with a black patch over one of his eyes. “It is not a man they are discussing but a beast of burden.”
Her uncle halted before the dark-haired man who had so disturbed her. “This one’s worthless,” he said. She had made a point to ignore the prisoner. More planters drew near anxious to view Jarvis’s leavings. Claire stood on tiptoes to see over them. The governor motioned to his slave to bring a box for her to stand on. Improper as it was, Claire could not refuse. Curious from the excited murmurs uttered from the buyers, she stepped onto the box. She should have been embarrassed the public display she made, but it was hard to look away from so interesting a performance. A duel of sorts had erupted between the convict and her uncle. Out of spite, she silently cheered the convict. He would never win, but by the snorts of the planters he was close to succeeding. Her uncle would never be made a fool, yet this man was doing his best.
Without warning, the felon turned to face her, and caught her staring for a second time.
He wasn’t merely a devil. He was Lucifer himself. He grinned at her under a thick black beard showing, even white teeth. He held her gaze as if it were some long lost recognition. She could not quell the rioting in her stomach.
His gesture was odd. But significant of what? Not a condemnation, still an indication of something else. A nagging familiarity touched her very soul, but for the life of her, she could not name it. She twirled her parasol and glanced away in confusion. If only counting the crates piled on the dock would hinder the pounding in her heart. Oh the horrible man.
She dared to look again. Those eyes flashed upon her, flustering her with their directness, and now that he had her attention again, moved over her in that same slow manner that she had done to him− deliberately, she did not doubt to turn the tables on her. And there was not one thing she could say about it. To do so would proclaim to the world that he was returning the compliment. The downside, she knew was no compliment, but the worst insult any man could offer. Good God. Had he assumed she invited his personal attention? He needed to be taught a lesson.
Her uncle whacked his cane against the convict’s thigh, a signal to separate his legs. It was an action that embarrassed her, not for herself, but because it was a humiliating gesture. Why should she care? Because she had felt the lash of that cane before. The prisoner hid his anger well and seemed not the least perturbed. He refused to answer any questions. Her uncle forced his cane between his lips to view his teeth. In a flash, she saw a wall of hate emerge. He mimicked her uncle. In a reckless stance, the prisoner held his arms akimbo and viewed her uncle as if buying him. The other planters gasped. Everyone, even the prostitutes were stunned into silence. Despite his dangerous situation, he still mocked the world. In secret admiration, she watched as he met her uncle’s withering glare.
“Bah. This scarecrow would give me nothing but trouble. I’ve had my pick. Let the auction begin.” Her uncle withdrew, his first and final pickings of human merchandise satisfied.
A look of anguish appeared on the blond-haired prisoner beside her hero, as if upset he would be separated from the dark-haired felon. She noted a shifting of chains and downcast eyes from the other prisoners shifting to the man with spirit. She paused to wonder.
“Oh, Claire.”
She heard so much despair in Lily’s hopeless appeal.
A plan sprung into her mind, a daring, and most improper scheme. She was shameless, and the whole world would know it. Wouldn’t it serve her uncle right for his high-handedness toward her? She lifted her gloved hand and let her voice rise above the crowd.
From the dark bowels of the ship and the grim shadow of Tyburn Tree, the day emerged fantastic. To be bought and sold was a new kind of experience for Devon Blackmon. He noted the fervor and emotionalism of the crowd eager to make a quick bargain. He was in no mood for conversation, so he ignored the foam of white faces that heaved before him in speculation, then passed on. He considered his fortitude, fortunate that in all the circumstances he should still have his sanity. He marveled in the fact that being convicted and innocent, he had cause for thankfulness for he stood beneath the same firmament as she.
“What the devil were you thinking?” Ames said beside him. “You have separated us.”
Devon’s eyes gravitated to the cheering doxies as each remaining man was auctioned off. Then his eyes drifted to the gentleman someone had greeted as Governor Stark, a short, stout, red-faced fellow in puce taffetas burdened with an exceeding amount of silver lace. Next to him stood two ladies, one of which had seized his immediate attention. All that luxurious chestnut-colored hair. Memory and emotion surged in his soul like a tempest.
He had caught himself staring at her, fully conscious of his sorry state, and knowing there was no sheet to conceal him from her view. Unwashed with rank and matted hair and a disfiguring black beard upon his face, he must appear a fright. The clothes in which he had been taken prisoner reduced to rags. It was the pity in her eyes he resented.
“Five Pounds.” She pointed to Devon.
Did she recognize him? Everyone turned to her, shocked. Angry murmurs rose and the woman standing next to her gasped. The doxies cheered. Devon realized a woman bidding at a slave auction would create a stir.
“Six pounds,” said another male bidder.
“Ha.” The Governor laughed. “My dear Claire, you better bid higher, or your merchandise will be foisted off to Mr. Cox and his bauxite mines.”
Devon ground his teeth. The months of inhuman, unspeakable imprisonment, pending execution, chained below decks on a voyage where men perished had moved his mind to a cold and deadly hatred of King James and his agents. Worse than the insults and outrages upon his person, there came the final humiliation of being bartered for their amusement.
“Seven pounds,” said the girl with the warm amber eyes. The man who did his best to humiliate Devon forced his ponderous, rolling girth through the crowd to get to her.
Devon’s senses intensified, so aware, so focused. Unbattened sails flapped in the breeze, and a raven cawed overhead. The air rose fragrant, exotic scents unlike any he had ever breathed. Black ragged slaves bargained over bananas, coconut, and strings of black and white striped fish. In the distance, a great fort guarded the harbor, its cannons pointing potently to sea. But beyond all this, his senses stayed intensely focused on his wife, the new object of his enmity.
“Eight pounds. Get your niece under control, Baron Jarvis,” cried the mine owner.
Devon’s eyes hardened. Niece. So the same blood ran through her veins as the foul beast, and he judged, the evil with it.
“Stand down Claire, this instant.” The baron’s face contorted with malevolent fury.
Claire. Devon remembered her name well. To imagine he felt pity at one time for this vain creature. Images emerged of that despicable eve in the gaol. Her moving confession dosed with fear and tears. Blood scorched his veins as she looked down on her uncle.
“Nine pounds,” she challenged.
“He’s worth nothing,” spat the baron. “He could not last one day in the fields.”
“Ten pounds,” demanded the owner of the bauxite mines, determined not to allow a woman to beat him.
Captain Johnson stood up on a crate and protested. “He has value. He is a doctor, kept his legs and saved many men aboard the ship. Don’t be fooled by his leanness. He is tough and healthy all right. He has just what it takes to bear the heat when it comes. The climate will never kill him. I’ll stake my honor on him.”
“Let the lady have her amusement,” Governor Stark chuckled and waited for everyone around him to join his witticism. “She knows a good bargain when she sees one. Jarvis, you’ll own him one way or the other.”
A dark cloud of annoyance swept across her face while her uncle reflected on the bargain to satisfy the Governor’s humor. The baron pursed his lips into a pout while stroking his fleshy chins, contemplating his new lucrative investment. Beside Devon, Ames scarcely breathed.
“Eleven pounds.” She spoke up, daring the other bidder to defy her.
“I’m done,” Cox, the mine owner hissed and stalked off.
Devon heard Ames utter praise to a higher power, but not before he observed the exhilaration in his wife’s eyes. He was hauled before her.
“I have never−I really don’t know what to−” She cleared her throat. “Do you have nothing to say?” She flushed beneath his glare.
Did she recognize him? He made an exaggerated bow to mock her. “I am your slave, ready for your amusement,” he seethed the words. He saw her lips part in surprise. He almost laughed in her face. To think she bought her own husband and didn’t even realize it.
“You should thank your benefactor. I saved you from a horrid life in the bauxite mines,” she cut him off.
“I suppose I should thank the disgrace of humanity that buys and sells human flesh.”
She returned an icy look then turned her dainty nose upward, dismissing him like an outgoing tide. Repugnance filled his soul, the thought of being the property of a golden-eyed witch and her uncle, an ill-formed creature. He came face to face with the beady-eyed monster.
“Good God. What medical college?”
“Trinity College. And since I’m to be bought and sold like a horse−”
“Found your tongue did you?” Baron Jarvis’s cheeks exploded with color and he whacked him hard with his cane. “You’ll learn respect.”
Devon stepped toward him, but held back a retort. Better to hold his tongue then profit from a beating. His angry gaze swung over his wife. The crowd sped her away with hearty congratulations. He hated the impotence of being sold into slavery, and with that hatred, he vowed all thoughts of revenge upon her person.
The men were divided and herded into wagons. The procession remained slow. The massive chains lay heavy, an encumbrance to climbing in the wagons. The guards collected beneath the shade of a palm tree, the prisoners in their sights, waiting for the planter’s orders.
“You lost your bloody wits.” Ames chastised him. “So what if she bought you. At least we’re together. Be thankful for that.”
“I’ll be thankful to get off this hellhole of an island.” Devon chafed and watched her ride away with her uncle.
“So that’s the lay of it,” said Ames.
Devon laughed to the bemusement of his friend. “It’s a strange twist of fate that I escaped the hangman’s noose into another world of slavery. And an even stranger fate that I be put here of all places.”
“Fate?” Ames asked.
“Without question,” Devon replied. But since that increased his friend’s confusion, he added, “I do believe you were right, Mr. Ames. My wits were lagging, and they haven’t come back yet.”
“Don’t get all starry-eyed over the Baron’s niece,” Ames cautioned. “He’ll be ready to teach you a lesson real quick.”
“You’re right. I’ll be laid to waste. But you know, Mr. Ames, I’m inclined to think now that I might enjoy our sojourn in this tail end of the world.”
“At forfeit to your life? I hope that doesn’t mean you’ll amuse yourself, harboring a grudge against the lady.”
“Amuse? Certainly, or didn’t you observe, the lady and I have declared war.”