Renegade (6 page)

“On Beckett.” And those two words brought back a flood of memories: the smell of the salt marsh, the sound of the crickets, the way a barefoot woman looked in the twilight. He’d been thinking about Beckett a lot since that night, wondering if it was as idyllic as it seemed, and if she was thinking about him. He’d been thinking about kissing her. He’d been thinking about the way she smiled up at him, and that spot where her neck met her shoulders. He’d imagined kissing that spot while he stroked himself, and damned if he didn’t feel guilty about it, like he’d used her somehow.

She was Eugenia’s daughter, and that meant she wasn’t for him. He took his kisses from widows and whores and women who didn’t expect marriage.

“Beckett…” Robert’s speculative rumble made Mac open his eyes again, and when he saw the look his friend was giving him, he sat up straighter.

“What?”

“You sure it’s Creel you’ve been thinkin’ about? And not a woman who likes to climb trees?”

“Becks isn’t relevant.” But she was, in a way. Was it because of his business arrangement with her mother? Or because he couldn’t stop thinking about her? She wasn’t the prettiest woman he’d ever met—hell, her sister was more beautiful—but he’d been attracted to her sense of adventure.

“Maybe… maybe not.”

Mac scowled at his friend. “If it bothers you, we’ll slip into Beckett after midnight, like we used to.”

“So you don’t have to risk seeing her.”

It wasn’t a question, but Mac answered anyhow. “Exactly. Eugenia can’t be bothered to go to sleep before then anyhow.”

“So we
are
going back?”

Mac propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward into his hands. Rubbing his temples, he sighed. “Yeah. If McMillan shows up tonight, we’ll have at least one more shipment.” The short Irishman was the one who’d originally approached them with the idea of
supplying
lace from Lyons to the vapid Charleston debutantes. For the last two years he’d sold them bolts of it smuggled in dummy barrels to blend it with the rum, and Mac hadn’t ever cared enough to find out where McMillan got it. “We’ll drop off the barrels with Eugenia, collect when we get to Baird’s Cove, and then…” Mac took a breath. “Then we’ll see.”

“If you’re serious about quitting, you know you’ve got my support.”

“I know it. I don’t like the idea of your neck at risk.”

Robert snorted. “It’s
your
neck I’m worried over, little man.” Pouring himself another glass of the rum, he rumbled, “Things’re changing around Charleston, Mac. Makes sense we should change with ‘em.”

Mac sighed, knowing his friend was right. They’d had a good run, a few good years making money while the South was so disrupted. But now things were going to have to change. “All right. One more run to Beckett. Then we decide if we want to keep this up, or find a new business.” And a new business contact.

Robert nodded slightly, thinking it over. “Sounds fine to me.” He drank. “And looks like you’re going to get to visit the ‘irrelevant’ Miss Becks again.” Mac looked up at that. “Here comes McMillan.”

Sure enough, the skinny little man was threading his way around the bar in their direction. Mac told himself that the way his chest tightened just a bit was because this was the start of another adventure.

But part of him suspected that Robert was right; Mac was just looking forward to going back to Beckett. To see her.

CHAPTER FOUR

Seelay’s fever broke a little after noon, thank the Lord. Becks had been sitting beside the girl since before dawn, when Pearl had stumbled back to the house totally exhausted, and asked her sister to spell her. Of course Becks gathered what she could from the kitchens and followed Thomas back towards the largest of the old slave cabins.

Thomas and his wife Gretel had six other children, all cute as could be, and all in real danger of catching whatever their eldest sister had. It had seemed like nothing worse than a cold, until Seelay started coughing so badly, and her temperature had spiked. Pearl had been up all night with Gretel, wiping the girl’s brow with cool cloths and trying to get water down her throat. When Becks arrived, she’d sent the exhausted Gretel to bed, leaving Thomas to care for the other little ones when they woke.

She wasn’t sure if she’d managed to actually
do
anything—although Lola’s elderberry honey had probably helped some—but Becks was glad to have been able to be there. Whatever Seelay had, it was important that the younger children not be exposed, and Becks’ presence meant that the children’s parents could keep them away.

But it also meant that she’d spent hours hunched over the bedside of a sick little girl, trying not to be coughed on while offering comfort. Seelay had been fairly incoherent, and Becks had to hold her down more than once. Her back ached, and her neck and shoulders burned, but it had been worth it. The twelve-year-old was now sleeping peacefully, and Becks had even managed to change the blankets under the girl. While Seelay’s cough still sounded ugly, Becks was sure the girl was mending.

After assuring Thomas that she’d send some more honey down from the house for his eldest, and giving hugs and tickles to the rest of his round-cheeked brood, Becks wearily shouldered her satchel and headed back towards the house. But when she reached the main drive, she placed her palms against the small of her back and stretched, letting out a satisfied groan. She rolled her head from side to side, and then smiled.

The long drive leading up to her home—the home that her mother and grandmama had fought so hard for—was one of the most beautiful sights of Beckett. She was partial to her river, of course, but she’d always loved the deeply-rutted road that led to her front door. The long, straight drive bordered one edge of the field with pecan trees, and was overhung with Spanish Moss and live oaks. The best part, however, was the edging of thick azalea bushes that stood higher than her head in some places.

On a clear spring day like today, the colors were a riot against her senses, and could lift her spirits even from the deepest funk. The pinks, whites, and purples were gorgeous, but the small coral-colored azalea was her favorite. Their scent was overpowered by her absolute most-favorite flower, the wisteria that wound its pale purple vines through the oaks above.

She often wondered what it said about her, that her favorite flower was a clinging, parasitic vine. In fact, her next favorite—the honeysuckle that grew up the back veranda of Beckett—was the same way. But it was worth noting that none of these flowers would thrive if picked. They had to stay rooted in their native soil, in their homes, to survive, and she often thought it was the same for her.

Pearl often teased her about marrying, but Becks didn’t think either of them would. Pearl was too unsure of what she wanted in life, and Becks refused to leave her home. Beckett was her life, her blood… hell, she was named after the place. Marriage would mean giving it all up to move someplace else with her husband, and she couldn’t imagine loving any man more than she loved Beckett.

If she were plucked, she’d surely die… just like the azalea and wisteria around her.

Becks blinked, realizing that she was standing beside one of the largest bushes, running her palms across the bright pink blooms, smiling at their simplicity. She fingered one flower, briefly considered snapping it off the stem to place in her bun, but decided that her need for cheering didn’t warrant killing a bud.

Of course, not everyone realized that. Turning, she started for the house, remembering last week when Major Creel had found her in the kitchens, kneading dough. He carried a wrapped nosegay of azalea blooms, telling her it was because he knew she’d liked them. She’d thanked him as politely as possible, trying not to let her dismay show, and placed them in a porcelain teacup.

They’d wilted by dinner.

She hadn’t been surprised. Major Creel had been courting for a month now, stopping by Beckett twice a week or so, and she didn’t see anything to prove that he really understood her. He probably wanted to marry her and pluck her from her roots and carry her off someplace to watch her wilt.

And not only did he not understand
her
, he didn’t understand her life, or why she would rather live here alone than with a husband elsewhere. He didn’t understand how she could love this land—which he called a “salty swamp”—and these people with all her heart.

“He’s a Yankee,” her mother had said, by way of condolence. “He doesn’t understand how to love a place.”

But that wasn’t true—couldn’t be true. Surely there were some Yankees who loved their homes, and didn’t want to leave them. Becks didn’t believe in damning an entire people because of the actions of some. Certainly, she’d met plenty of Yankees she didn’t give two figs for, but there were others who were decent, hard workers. If she tarred them all with the same brush, she’d be no better than people who looked at Zeb and Gretel and Lola and saw them as less than human because they’d once been owned.

Creel himself didn’t have any of the annoying hubris the Yankee carpetbaggers normally displayed. She’d been insulted and cursed by men who fought for the Union, just because her family had once owned slaves. And part of her agreed with them, while the rest of her wanted to defend her heritage. But in the years since her family had moved back to Edisto, in the years since she’d come to rely on the former Beckett slaves, since she’d adopted their ways of life as her own, since she’d come to know them as family… well, the Middleton ladies’ relationship with the people who lived on Beckett was complicated, and she didn’t need any lectures from anyone else.

But she also didn’t need Creel’s bigotry. He might be from Ohio, and he might not come from a slave-owning family, but he certainly had some
views
about Negros. Why, Becks had been downright sickened by some of the things he’d said in her own dining room with
Pearl
sitting across from him. Did he not realize how insulting he was being? Or did he not consider her a Negro because of her beauty?

He was infuriating, and Pearl agreed. But, as her sister had pointed out one evening last month as they brushed one another’s hair; he hadn’t actually announced that he was courting. He’d just started to visit, and attempted to flirt… he’d never formally discussed anything with Eugenia or Becks. Becks had retorted that perhaps he was there to court Pearl, and her sister had smacked her in the head with the brush.

“You hush your mouth. We’re sisters. You’re not supposed to wish evil on me.”

Becks had rubbed her crown and glared at Pearl in the mirror. “I don’t wish it. I’m just sayin’ it’d be nice if he weren’t trying to court
me
.”

“For all you know, he’s not. Maybe he’s here because of those smugglers.”

Becks breath had caught in her throat then, remembering the April night they’d met two men under the oak tree. “What smugglers…?”

“The ones Creel is always talking about.”

Pearl hadn’t seemed to notice her distraction, and Becks slowly exhaled. “Oh. Those.” Creel was in charge of a half-dozen men who patrolled the island to keep the peace. No one cared for their presence, but they were offered quartering, and they
did
provide a valuable service. He’d apparently been tasked by his superiors with finding the source of some smuggled goods that occasionally came up from the St. Helena Sound. Creel spoke of it often, and Becks should have recalled that.

“Unless, of course—” Pearl had gone back to braiding Becks’ sand-colored hair with a nonchalance that didn’t fool her sister one bit. “You’re talking about those
other
smugglers.”

Blue eyes met their twins in the mirror, and Pearl’s smile slid into a smirk. Becks went pale, and knew that her sister knew. She managed to croak out, “They weren’t smugglers!”

“Regardless… if you hadn’t kissed your mystery man, Creel probably wouldn’t be so intent on courtin’ you right now. You poked a sleeping gator.”

Becks had felt weak then, wanting to refute her sister’s teasing, but finding her words stuck in her throat. It had been over a month—not that she’d been counting—since that encounter under the oak tree, and Becks had tried her best to forget it. To forget him, forget his touch, forget his kiss.

She hadn’t been entirely successful.

Pearl had chuckled, and patted Becks’ shoulder. “And now you gotta just deal with Major Creel’s courting. He’s a pig.”

A sigh. “At least you’ll be there with me, right?”

Pearl had met her gaze again. “You know it. Always.”

“It wouldn’t be so bad, if he would just keep his bigotry to himself. Or if he understood any of us at all.”

“Your lips to God’s ears, girl.”

She’d been right that evening. Creel
would
be easier to bear, if he’d made the least attempt to understand her way of life or her love of the people around her. Why, last week, when he’d brought her those flowers, he’d proven that he had no idea what life was like on Beckett.

He’d found her in the kitchens, and complimented her on her charity for those less fortunate.
Charity?
Did he just not comprehend how life on the island worked now?

She’d been standing in front of the bread board, her sleeves rolled up and flour everywhere
while she kneaded, and she’d asked him distractedly what he meant. He’d smiled through his thick mustache and clasped his hands behind his back, which made him look like he was about to give a lecture. “Why, the way you care for the nigras on your estate, of course.” His reply had been so off-handed that she knew he’d meant it. “You’ve lost the war, my dear, and are no longer legally obligated to provide for them. But here you stand like a common kitchen slave, toiling to make more bread than you could possibly eat, for them.”

To say she was flabbergasted would have been an understatement. She stood there, her hands sunk up to the wrists in wet dough, and stared at him. He grinned, like he’d said something charming. “You need a man to take care of you, Miss Middleton. To take you away from this drudgery.”

She wanted to rail at him, to explain that this was her home, and she wouldn’t survive away from it. Instead, she took a deep breath, swallowed, and focused her attention on the dough in front of her. “Major Creel, I’ll allow that you’re new to this area—”

“On the contrary, my dear. I came to South Carolina with Sherman in ‘65.”

Becks thought she could be forgiven for slamming the dough down extra-hard against the wood. Had he thought
that
little tidbit would be welcome news? She tried to ignore his interruption. “But you must understand how things work here on Beckett. Our people have stayed here because they care for the land and what they have built. They stayed even when my family left. They stayed, and they own parts of Beckett now. This is their home as much as it is mine, and we work together to make sure we’ll all survive.”

He hadn’t understood then, and she doubted he’d understood since. He’d just smiled indulgently at her, like she was a girl who didn’t understand life, and had told her he’d see her at dinner. He’d been back once since then, and each visit was becoming more and more painful.

Her mother sympathized, thinking Creel to be as much of a bother as Becks did. But Eugenia wasn’t ready to alienate him yet. She put up with his predictable visits, kept making polite conversation, kept trying to smooth his feelings over as best as possible. Becks didn’t understand why her mother didn’t just toss the man out, and explain that he wasn’t welcome. But her mother usually had sound reasons, even if she didn’t see fit to share them.

The smell of the early honeysuckle drew Becks from her melancholy. She found herself at the back door of Beckett, under the veranda and beside the old well. The yard—not quite as pretty as it had been when Becks was a girl—stretched out to the river, and the sun sparkled merrily on the water. The sight always lifted Becks’ spirits, and today was no different. An unfamiliar boat was tied to the dock, in between her skiff and the barge they occasionally used to move goods up to Peter’s Point. Eugenia must be entertaining today, and Becks would have to be on her best behavior. All she wanted to do was take a nap, but at least she could stop in the parlor and pay her respects.