Authors: Kat Martin
Morgan’s look said she had some kind of nerve. “What for?”
“It’s been so long since I’ve been home … I was wondering if I might have a word with my friends?”
He glanced around the island, looking for other houses, but saw only the tiny workers’ cabins, the lush green fields, and the sea. “Where are they?”
“Quako usually works the tobacco. Delia won’t be far away.”
His brow quirked, telling her he remembered the woman’s name from the slave they had passed on the road. “This had better not take long.”
“Thank you.” Silver flashed him a bright warm smile. Thadeus took a turn in the road, and the wagon rolled off toward a field of waist-high dark green-leafed tobacco. Workers bent over hoes, weeding the troughs between the rows, but one man stood out from the rest, his body so huge it dwarfed the others.
“Quako!” Silver shouted to the massive black man, and he grinned. Not far away, balancing a jug of water on her head, Delia smiled and waved and started in Silver’s direction, her graceful movements keeping the water jug perfectly balanced. She was a beautiful cocoa-skinned woman with fine features, very short hair, and intelligent dark eyes, and even her faded smock could not disguise the willowy curves of her slender body.
While Thadeus set the brake, Morgan jumped to the ground and helped Silver alight. He was looking at her oddly, surprised, it seemed, that her best friends should be slaves.
“Yo’ all right, Silver?” the black man asked with obvious worry, reaching her in long powerful strides. He eyed Morgan warily. “I mean … Miz Silver.”
“It’s all right, Quako. This is Major Trask. He’s taking me away with him.”
Quako smiled and then grinned. He was several inches taller than Morgan and at least thirty pounds heavier, though their bodies had the same masculine V shape. Both had broad powerful shoulders, but Quako’s arms were massive, his thighs the size of tree trunks. As big as he was, when he grinned like that, Silver thought he looked more like a little boy.
“I tol’ Delia you would find the kind o’ mon you deserve.”
“She’s only going with me until her father returns,” Morgan corrected. “I’ll be bringing her back, and once things are straightened out, she’ll be stay-mg.”
Silver heard the words but didn’t care. Morgan had come back for her. Sooner or later she would find a way to make him understand.
Quako looked him up and down, looked at Silver,
whose cheeks grew pink, and then back again. His grin only broadened, splitting his face with the slash of his large white teeth. “She good wooman,” he said, and Silver fought not to smile—though Morgan didn’t look amused.
Delia interrupted whatever brusque retort he might have made. “We heard about da reward, Silver. We was so worried for you.”
“I’m all right, Delia. What about you two?”
“The work is still hard, but we be all right.”
Quako flashed another smile. Reaching out, he patted Delia’s stomach, which was no longer flat but now gently rounded. “Soon we have new baby.”
Silver shrieked with joy and hugged them both. “That’s wonderful!” They had tried before, but Delia had lost the baby three months before it was born. Silver felt an uneasy twinge at the bitter memory.
“You’ve worked this young woman too hard,” the doctor had said to Silver’s father. “Her female parts have somehow been damaged. She’ll have to get a great deal of rest the next time she conceives.” Silver believed her father’s harsh treatment was responsible for Delia’s fragile condition, but she didn’t say so.
The time before, she had interfered on her friend’s behalf and both of them wound up with a beating.
“Congratulations,” Morgan said, and Quako assessed him once more.
“Silver good woman,” he repeated, glancing down at her, “but she need strong mon.” He smiled at Delia, and it was easy to see the love in his eyes. “Silver t’ink all mon bad. Once my Delia feel same. Now Delia know better. Right mon, Silver know, too.”
Silver flushed. “I think we’d better be going.”
“Yes, it is getting late.”
“Take care of yourself,” she said to Delia, who knew the words for the warning they were. Silver hugged them both again. “I wish you could go with me.”
“Take goot care of her,” Quako said to Trask.
Morgan only nodded. He was seeing a side of Silver he hadn’t suspected. The love she felt for her friends was obvious, and he hadn’t missed the fact that they spoke to her as if they were her equal. Apparently that was the way she wanted it, and Morgan admired her for it.
Though he lived in Georgia and made his money off the cotton trade, he owned no slaves himself and hoped one day to see the institution abolished. Most of the West Indies had been freed, and the island economies had survived. It would take some doing, but altering the system in the South did not seem impossible.
After a last farewell, Morgan helped Silver climb back aboard the wagon and they rode the rest of the way in silence. Both Flagg and Gordon openly gaped when they saw him help Silver alight and walk toward them.
“Miss Jones has decided to accompany us to Barbados,” Morgan said simply. “Why don’t you help Thadeus with her trunk?”
Both Flagg and Gordon grinned. “Aye, Cap’n,” they said in unison. For the first time, Morgan realized the enormity of what he had done. The men were already busting their breeches every time they saw her walking on deck. The new clothes might help some, but it wouldn’t erase the memories they carried of seeing her in her water-soaked, nearly translucent nightshirt or the snug-fitting breeches that had outlined her pert little derriere when she had climbed into the sails.
Morgan cursed roundly. He must have been crazy. Stark raving, salt water-drinking crazy. Because the men in his crew weren’t the only ones who thought of her that way.
The balance of the afternoon passed swiftly, Silver greeted warmly by Demming and Riley and especially by Jordy, who seemed on the verge of adopting her as a member of his somewhat ragtag family. Only the major seemed displeased to have her back aboard.
To Silver it didn’t matter. All that counted was leaving Katonga, reaching Barbados and safety, at least for the time being.
As evening approached and the ship creaked its welcome, Silver dressed for supper, using far more care than she had before. Tonight she would wear her dark blue watered silk gown, one of her favorites. It rode low on her shoulders and dipped to a deep V in front. Before putting it on, she had bathed in freshwater, since the stores had been resupplied, and fashioned her hair in elegant silver swirls beside each ear. Tiny sapphire earbobs, a cherished memento of her mother’s, sparkled in the lamplight.
With a last glance in the broken mirror above Morgan’s oak bureau, she picked up her painted fan and headed for the door. A fresh breeze blew in off the water, and a mantle of stars shone overhead. Walking into the salon, Silver was surprised to find the table set with expensive porcelain and crystal.
“The seas are calm.” Morgan stepped from the shadows. “I thought you might enjoy a bit of formality for a change.” His eyes swept over her, taking in the full silk skirts of the lovely blue gown that emphasized her narrow waist and the high, lush curves of her bosom. With her hair swept back, the sculptured
planes and valleys of her face were revealed, the delicate cleft in her chin.
Bloody hell! He never would have dreamed she could look so refined—or so breathtakingly beautiful.
“That was very considerate, Major. Thank you.” She seemed different since her return, softer, almost shy.
Morgan felt a tightness in his chest and a stirring in his body a little lower down. God, he wanted her—badly. Instead they sat on the carved oak settee and made pleasant conversation while he fought to control his growing interest and wished like hell the others would arrive.
Eventually Demming and Riley wandered in, Demming in his seaman’s uniform, Riley in one belonging to the Texas Marines. Lamplight reflected off Morgan’s own spotless brass buttons.
“You look lovely, Miss Jones.” Ham’s youthful face flushed a little with his words.
“Thank you.” Silver rose from the settee and moved gracefully toward them.
“You’re a vision, Miss Jones,” Wilson Demming put in, kissing her hand. “More lovely than I would have dreamed.”
Morgan scowled, already sorry they were there. “Then why doesn’t one of you two gentlemen offer Miss Jones a seat?” Both men leaped to the task, pulling out a high-backed oak chair and helping her alight.
Silver smiled at them warmly. The evening progressed as if the four of them were sharing their first meal. As though the beautiful woman who sat across from them couldn’t possibly be the scruffy, ragtag hoyden who had threatened the lieutenant at gunpoint,
gone fist to fist with Morgan, and climbed the yardarm in an effort to escape.
Morgan watched Silver play the role of lady and silently saluted her finesse. He wouldn’t have believed her capable of the task, but then he’d done nothing but underestimate her since the first time they’d met.
“We should reach Barbados just about dawn,” Morgan said as Jordy served them thick dark coffee, along with a slice of warm apple pie topped with cheese. “I’m to meet with Owen Moore, the man who’s made most of the trading arrangements, as soon as it can be arranged.”
“How long will we be there, Major?” Silver asked.
“Just until the Brits arrive, if they haven’t already.” He wasn’t about to tell her she’d be staying there until his return from Mexico. He’d save that piece of news until he was just about to leave—and pray to God for once she’d keep her word. Of course, the governor was a personal friend who owed him a favor or two. He’d be happy to provide a watchdog, and Morgan intended to be certain he did.
“Wilson, you can leave the ship as soon as Jacques comes aboard. I want you to know I appreciate the job you’ve done, and if you ever need a berth, I’ll be glad to help you find one.”
“Thank you, sir,” Demming said.
“What about me, Major?” Riley asked.
“You may as well enjoy yourself. Nothing for you to do until we sail.”
Hamilton grinned, and Morgan knew exactly what he. was thinking. As a matter of fact, he intended a little of the same. Lydia Chambers, Lady Grayson, the beautiful black-haired widow of the earl of Grayson, a prominent assemblyman, was awaiting his arrival. They had been lovers off and on for years,
neither demanding much from the other, their relationship little more than a satisfying of physical needs.
Lydia had a tranquil disposition, even if it was a bit contrived, and was forever amenable to doing Morgan’s bidding. She epitomized the woman of breeding who always knew her place.
In contrast he glanced across at Salena, engrossed in lively conversation with Hamilton Riley. Though tonight she looked the part, Silver was as far from a gently reared lady as any woman could get. She was nothing like Lydia, nothing like any of the women he sought to warm his bed.
So why in blazes was he so damned attracted to her?
Surely it was just her physical beauty and the close proximity in which they’d been forced to live.
Silver laughed, a soft, tinkling sound, at something Ham said, and Morgan felt an unexpected ripple of anger. When she bent down to retrieve her napkin, which had fallen on the floor, her full white breasts threatened to burst from the top of the gown. Though it was cut in the latest fashion, acceptable in any social circle, Morgan wanted to drag her from the table and insist she put on something else.
Bloody hell, the woman was enough to make a man turn to drink.
Shoving back his chair a little harder than he meant to, Morgan crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy. He took a long, steadying sip before pouring for anyone else. Both Demming and Riley joined him in a glass, and Silver accepted a sherry.
In the glow of the lamplight, Morgan watched her tongue slide over her bottom lip to catch a drop of the amber liquid, noticed that her skin seemed to
shimmer with the same bright sheen as her hair. Her neck arched gracefully above her slender shoulders, and her fingers curled delicately around the crystal stem of her glass. Morgan remembered how gentle they had felt against the scar on his cheek, the way, when he had kissed her, she had laced them through his hair.
Bloody hell! Desire knifed through him like a white-hot bolt of lightning. Morgan shifted in his chair. Damn her to hell! He clenched his fist against the bittersweet ache that made his loins feel taut and heavy, hating the power she unknowingly wielded against him.
Silently he thanked God for Lydia. Tomorrow he would see her, put an end to his days of torment.
They approached Barbados from the southwest, careful to skirt the barrier reef off South Point. Even from a distance, Silver could see the bold, rocky cliffs looming sixty feet above the water.
They passed along the coast and headed for Carlisle Bay just south of Bridgetown, the best anchorage on the island. Silver had never been to Barbados, but her father had been there once or twice. Through him and his few friends, she’d heard stories of the wealthy society of sugar planters, knew of their lavish homes and gala parties. She thought of the expensive dresses Morgan had urged—no commanded—her to bring and suddenly felt grateful. At least she wouldn’t be embarrassed by her shabby, faded clothes.
The day, mild and sunny, beckoned pleasantly. Only a few gauzy clouds dotted the horizon, and a gentle breeze puffed out the sails.
“Barbados is a coral island, not volcanic, like Katonga.” Morgan approached her at the rail. She
stood beside one of the ship’s two big five-pound cannon. There was a swivel two-pound carronade aft. “That’s why the beaches are pink and white.”
“How big is it?”
“A little over twenty miles long and fourteen miles wide. It’s the most heavily populated island in the West Indies.… I gather you’ve never been here before.”
“I’ve never been anywhere, Major. Except Katonga—and Georgia.”
Morgan eyed her speculatively, apparently wondering, since Barbados was only a day’s sail away, why William had never taken her. “Then we’ll have to make certain you get a chance to see it.”
As Bridgetown drew near, Morgan excused himself, returned to the wheel, and began to call the orders to shorten sail. They passed through the bay, entered the inner harbor called the Careenage, and gently eased up to the wharf. Normally there was a quarantine period for incoming ships, but since his business benefited the British, the authorities were ignoring procedure, baldly looking the other way.