Savannah Heat (16 page)

Though the hour was still early, the harbor teemed with activity. Dozens of ships lined the dock, and sailors wearing everything from duck pants and homespun shirts to striped British seamen’s uniforms scurried along the wooden planks in a determined attempt to reach their destinations, whatever they might be.

Probably one of the shutter-fronted taverns that lined the quay. Beneath wide wooden porches, drunken men sang sea shanties, and doxies plied their trade, many dark-skinned, others who looked to be British with their fair hair and freckled skin, and even some Orientals. That they were scantily
clad, with their legs exposed and most of their bosoms, was to say the least.

“Let’s go,” said Morgan, once more wearing his uniform as he strode up to Silver. When he eyed the taverns and glanced down at her, his expression told her he well recalled that she had worked in just such a place. With a look of disdain, he grasped her arm and hauled her off toward the gangway.

“Where are we going?” Ignoring his change of mood, Silver let him guide her along. Today she didn’t give a damn what Morgan Trask thought of her. She was free of her father, safe at last, and excited just to be in such an exotic, bustling place.

“You’ll be staying at the home of a friend, the widow of the late Lord Grayson.”

Silver arched a brow. “You were a friend of her husband’s?”

“I never knew the gentleman.” Morgan’s sure grip steadied her as they crossed to the dock. Following in their wake, Jordy trailed behind them, carrying the satchels she had packed for their brief stay.

Today she wore her best rose silk day dress, the belled skirt open in front to reveal an underskirt of darker rose silk heavily embroidered.

Silver glanced at Morgan, trying to read the look on his face. His expression had changed from scornful to guarded, as if there were something more he wasn’t saying. She wanted to ask about the woman he had mentioned but didn’t, sure she would find out soon enough.

Across the street from the dock, Morgan hired a carriage and settled her inside while Jordy loaded her luggage into the boot.

“Bye, Miss Jones,” he said with such finality Silver blanched.

“It’ll only be for a few days, Jordy. You take care of yourself.”

“You, too, Miss Jones.” He turned and walked away.

Morgan climbed into the seat beside her, stretching his long legs out in front of him, and the carriage rolled away. She could feel the heat of his body where his shoulder pressed against hers, and try as she might to ignore it, her heart began to pound. Morgan cleared his throat and shifted on the narrow seat, trying to put some distance between them. His movements rippled the muscles in his arms, Silver felt them bunch, and suddenly the carriage felt overly warm.

“How much farther?” she asked.

“Not far.” His voice sounded strangely husky.

Outside the window, the Bridgetown streets swelled with the tide of people. Elegant ladies strolled beneath fringed silk parasols while the men wore high hats, frock coats, and dark-striped trousers. Barbadian women carried baskets on their heads, and higglers hawked their wares—everything from yams to sugarcane meat.

“Get your maubey, sweet, sweet maubey,” a wizened old crone called out. It was a bittersweet brew made from dried bark imported from the neighboring islands. The bark was boiled and the liquid flavored with sweeteners and spices.

They passed Trafalgar Square, where a statue of Lord Nelson had been erected almost thirty years before. Huge evergreens towered above the statue, and casuarina trees could be seen.

They passed an open-air barbershop where a long-legged gray-haired man was receiving a shave, his face nearly hidden by the thick white shaving lather. A few minutes later, Morgan pointed out the carriage
window toward a house on Chelsea Road near Bay Street.

“That’s where we’re headed.”

The house appeared to be a mixture of Federal and Georgian designs that had been added onto again and again. It was white and shuttered and architecturally rambling, but attractive with its pointed roof, wrought-iron fence, and yard full of brightly colored flowers. There were neat little hedgerows, as well as heliconia, yellow hibiscus, and pink begonia.

“It’s very pretty,” Silver said, and Morgan’s glance swung pointedly in her direction.

For the first time that day he smiled. “So are you. I meant to tell you that last night, but with Riley and Demming doing such a thorough job of flattery, I didn’t think it mattered.”

Silver smiled in return. She loved it when he looked at her that way. His eyes were warm on her face, their bright green hue bringing a rush of color to her cheeks. “It matters,” she said. “Thank you.”

The carriage rolled to a stop, and Morgan opened the door. He stepped to the ground, circled her waist with his hands, and swung her down beside him. The driver unloaded her bags, which Morgan picked up, and they walked on the flower-lined path to the house. Morgan knocked on the door, and a short black servant, white-gloved and dressed in black, pulled it open. He grinned when he saw Morgan, crinkling the skin at the corners of his big round eyes.

“Cap’n Trask. It’s good to see you.”

“How are you, Euphrates?”

“Fine, Cap’n. I be right back.” The servant glanced at Silver but made no comment, just ushered them inside and left to get his mistress.

“Morgan—” Lady Grayson arrived in a swirl of
ruby silk skirts. The elegant dress, piped in black with matching corded frogs up the front and brandenburgs about the hem, appeared the height of good taste and fashion—the woman even more so. Small, but well proportioned, she had a clear complexion and lovely cornflower blue eyes. Smiling brightly, she kissed Morgan’s cheek. “It’s good to see you. Knowing you as I do, I presumed you would arrive very close to the schedule you mentioned in your letter.”

“It’s good to see you, too.” Morgan still held the small woman’s hands. “There’s someone I want you to meet.” He turned to Silver, who until now seemed to have gone unnoticed. “Lady Grayson, this is Salena. Her father is the earl of Kent.” His bright green eyes dared her to contradict him.

“How do you do, Lady Grayson.” She made a slight inclination of her head.

“How do you do, my dear.”

“My friends call me Silver. I would take it as an honor if you would, too.” A corner of Morgan’s mouth twitched in amusement while a dark blond brow arched upward in silent salute.

“Then you must call me Lydia, for any friend of Morgan’s is surely a friend of mine.”

Silver wasn’t so certain. The way the woman was looking at Morgan made it plain they were more than mere acquaintances. Surely this genteel woman could not be one of his lovers. But catching the intimate look that passed between them, Silver began to have her doubts.

“I need a favor, Lydia,” Morgan said. “I’m looking after Silver until her father returns to Katonga. In the meantime, she needs a place to stay.”

“Of course. There’s plenty of room here and I’m
sure we’ll enjoy each other’s company.” Her eyes, however, said something different.

“Why don’t you have someone show Silver to her room?” Morgan suggested, making it clear he needed a moment alone with the woman. Lady Grayson looked smugly relieved.

“Of course.” With a much warmer smile, she had the housekeeper lead Silver upstairs while one of the other servants delivered her bags.

At the top of the stairs, Silver took a last glance at Morgan. His expression remained unreadable while Lady Grayson was purely beaming. She whispered something in his ear, laughed softly, and Morgan laughed, too.

Damn him! Silver’s fingers tightened on the banister. She might be a little naïve, but she wasn’t a fool. Morgan was planning a rendezvous with the woman—while Silver slept under the very same roof!

Hoisting her skirts in the first unladylike gesture she had made since she’d put on her elegant clothes, Silver lifted her chin, cast Morgan a haughty, disdainful glance, and followed the servant down the hall to her chamber. By the time she had reached it, a lace-trimmed ice blue suite done in Barbadian mahogany and very good taste, she was seething.

Bloody bastard! Obviously she had been right about Morgan Trask all along. He was a man, wasn’t he? To men women meant nothing. To Trask, who liked his women
genteel
, Silver Jones meant less than nothing. He had helped her leave Katonga out of pity, seen her as a poor, bedraggled creature left alone on an island with only the slaves to call friends. Even her elegant clothing hadn’t made him see her as a lady. It galled her, infuriated her!

You have no right to feel this anger
, she told herself
firmly.
Morgan owes you nothing
. Yet she could not control the building rage inside.

Nor end her rising determination to stop him.

Why it was so important, Silver refused to ask. She only knew she wouldn’t stand by and allow Morgan Trask to bed another woman in her presence. She’d do almost anything to keep that from happening.

Damn him!
she railed, pacing back and forth on the thick tartan carpet.
Damn him to hell!
She paced, and stormed, and cursed him—and every other male from Trinidad to Jamaica. But before the hour had passed, Silver had a plan.

The idea began when the tiny, narrow-faced upstairs maid came in to help her unpack. She was as black as Quako, her smile just as warm. Silver had been walking around the notion for the past half hour, but the presence of the girl, who said her name was Marnie, filled in the missing gap in the plan.

“Marnie.” Silver cautiously asked, “is it possible you might know where to find a woman who makes … potions?”

Marnie hung Silver’s yellow muslin dress in the carved mahogany armoire and turned to look at her, a wary expression on her face. “I not understand.”

“I need to find a voodoo mama.” She wished she could remember what Delia had called the slave woman who dabbled in black magic back home. “Can you help me?”

“No voodoo Barbados. Haiti have voodoo.”

“I need to buy something, Marnie. I promise I won’t tell anyone it was you who helped me get it.”

“No voodoo,” Marnie said, vigorously shaking her head.

Silver glanced at the crystal vial of perfume she
had brought from Katonga. Where there were Africans, there was voodoo. “You like this?” She held up the beautiful cut-crystal vial. Sunlight streaming in through the window turned it into a prism, and rainbow colors danced on the walls of the room.

“Very beautiful,” the girl breathed, reaching out to touch it.

“It’s yours, Marnie, if you’ll take me to a voodoo woman.”

For a moment the girl seemed unsure. Then she touched the shimmering glass, grabbed the bottle, and grinned. “Mama Kimbo. She not live far. We go now, must be back before da lady know we gone.”

Silver grinned, too, liking the small, too-thin black girl already. “Just give me a minute to change.”

With Marnie’s help, Silver stripped off the lovely rose day dress and put on the simple yellow muslin gown. They headed down the servants’ stairs at the rear of the house and out through the backyard, passing the garden and the two-story outdoor kitchen, constructed away from the main building to prevent any chance of fire. Several black women who worked at the big iron cookstove eyed them curiously as they passed, but Marnie seemed unconcerned.

“They will say nothing.”

What seemed a short ways to Marnie turned out to be a brisk midday walk. Silver didn’t care. She loved the bustling streets of Barbados, loved the color and the sounds, loved the friendliness of its people. Bajans, she decided, were people who never met a stranger. Nothing like the guarded, hostile men and women who toiled for her father on Katonga. Delia and Quako could be happy here, she thought wistfully, and wished with all her heart the gift of their freedom was something she could give.

Hurrying along, they continued past tiny shuttered houses, through verdant fields, and those of waving cane, finally reaching Mama Kimbo’s. Marnie pulled open the door to the thatched-roofed, tin-walled shack.

“Lady need potion, Mama,” Marnie said without preamble, and surprisingly the broad-hipped woman merely grinned.

“Not a potion,” Silver corrected, “a rubefacient—a nettle or something that will make my skin turn red. I want someone to think I’m sick, but I don’t really want to
be
sick. Do you understand?”

Mama Kimbo’s huge girth shook, jiggling a set of enormous breasts. “You pretty girl. Play lover’s games, I t’ink.”

Silver glanced guiltily away. “Actually I hope to stop a lover’s game.”

Mama Kimbo laughed harder. She struggled out of her rocking chair and moved around the tiny room. Lining the walls behind her were row upon row of bottles and jars filled with liquids and powders, clusters of dried flowers and weeds, and shriveled-up, ugly things Silver didn’t even want to think about.

“Urticaceae,” Mama said, handing her a long-stemmed, green, barbed-leafed plant. “Stinging nettle. Where it touches will burn like the sting of a bee, but the pain will soon be gone. We dry and use for what you call rheumatism. The seeds good for coughs.”