The Men of Pride County: The Pretender (11 page)

Fairfax’s drawl shocked Deacon back to the reality of the situation. Garnet Davis may have been his onetime lover, but she was here before
him now as Garnet Prior to purposefully strip away his pride.

And he’d be damned if he was going to let her.

“Why this place?” His eyes skewered Garnet’s, demanding she tell the truth. “I’m sure there were many other homes of far finer quality from which you could evict their owners.”

He learned something about Garnet Davis Prior when she smiled in answer. She was no longer a naive little girl.

“I wanted this place because it feels so familiar, almost as if I’m already family.”

He wanted to tell her the incredible irony of the situation: that if he’d found her, she would have been family—part of
his
family. This would have been her home—theirs, together. But that wasn’t how things had happened, so he said nothing.

It was too late.

“Do we discuss business here in the hallway, Sergeant? Or should I call you Colonel Sinclair?”

“It’s Mister, now,” he corrected, wondering how much she knew about the details of his deception. Enough. Enough to want to hurt him and his family as deeply as possible. By pulling their home out from under them, she was going to succeed.

“Won’t you come with me into the parlor? I’m sure you’re thirsty after your travels.”

“Mother, they are not our guests.”

Hannah Sinclair gave him a reproving glance.
“Deacon, your manners, please.” Then she smiled at the couple and even at Tyler Fairfax. “Please forgive my son. He was not raised to behave so badly. If you’ll follow me.”

Deacon trailed behind them, movements stiff and angry. Why was his mother shaming him in front of these people? They didn’t deserve any courtesy. They deserved to be driven off his land. They were like Tyler’s sneaking night riders, who terrorized under the cover of darkness. Only these robbers were bolder, coming out in daylight to do their dirty deeds. And his mother was treating them like welcomed visitors. His hands clenched at his sides. He thought he was showing extremely good manners by refraining from throwing them out into the muddy drive like dirty dishwater.

“You’ve a lovely home, Mrs. Sinclair,” the Englishman was saying. “It seems to have survived your war quite nicely.”

Only to surrender to this new British invasion. Deacon’s teeth ground.

Hannah smiled and tilted her head proudly. “That was Deacon’s doing. I’m afraid, in truth, it weathered the war rather poorly, but he restored everything to its prior glory with his own hands.”

Deacon looked away, bitterness closing up his chest. Not with his own hands. He’d gone to Fairfax, allowing pride to take precedence over common sense. He’d bargained with a devil, and now the devil was here to claim his due.

“We shall be very comfortable here. Perhaps we should thank your son for his industry.”

Deacon glared at Garnet. His voice was a low, lethal purr. “Don’t thank me, Mrs. Prior. Believe me, I didn’t do any of it with your comfort in mind.”

Liar. What a liar he was. He’d replaced every rotten board foot, restored every ornately carved section of molding, while in his heart and mind he’d pictured her living as hostess in these rooms—as
his
hostess. As his
wife
. While he sweated and toiled, he’d held the image of her awed pleasure as he showed her from room to room, inviting her to make it her home. A wry smile shaped his lips. Well, she’d done just that, hadn’t she?

Clever girl.

His eyes narrowed.

After the obligatory drink in the parlor, not his first of the day by any means, Tyler thanked Hannah prettily for her hospitality and enjoyed a moment of complete satisfaction as he bowed to the Priors. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you folks. I wish you all the best in settling into your new home. I’ll have everything sent out to you.”

Garnet nodded. “You’ve been very … helpful, Mr. Fairfax, and I thank you.”

He grinned. “As I said, my pleasure.” And his grin faded into a thin smirk as he met Deacon’s glare. He held it for a long moment, long enough
to convey his contempt and a sense of sweet vengeance for what he considered Deacon’s betrayal. If Sinclair had just gone along with things the way he’d promised, it never would have had to have come to this. The planter’s vanity was at fault for his family’s circumstance, and not Tyler’s for simply doing good business. His grin broke wide again. “Good day to you all.”

With just the four of them in the parlor, an awkward tension settled beneath the civility. Hannah was the consummate hostess, but even her innate gentility couldn’t overcome the fact that she and her son were being pushed from their home. And she wasn’t such a fool as not to see something looming, dark and dangerous, in the history between her son and this woman.

“So,” Deacon drawled, with deceiving nonchalance, “Fairfax is having your things sent over. All ready to occupy enemy territory, then?”

“We wouldn’t want to put you out,” Prior vowed, with what seemed to be sincerity.

“I thought that was your intention … wasn’t it, Mrs. Prior?” When Garnet wouldn’t answer with more than an impenetrable stare, he concluded tightly, “Don’t concern yourself with our welfare.”

Prior cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I know this is rather bad form to be discussing such things, but Mr. Fairfax confided that you were without funds.”

“That’s none of Mr. Fairfax’s or your business, sir.”

“I would not wish to be accused of tossing a widow from her only shelter.”

Deacon smiled thinly. “Then you’ll return our property?”

“No.” Garnet’s flat statement was followed by a more benign intention. “What we had in mind was an offer of employment.”

Deacon went white with rage. “You want my mother to become your servant? You can go to hell, Mrs. Prior.”

He was surprised by the feel of his mother’s hand upon his sleeve.

“Deacon, mind your language. I would like to hear the offer.”

“Mother—”

She regarded him with a calm censure. “There is no shame to be found in honest work. And I would rather support myself than be a burden to my children.”

“But Mama—”

She turned from his dismayed look to smile at Garnet. “What is it that you have in mind, Mrs. Prior?”

“I would like you to stay on, Mrs. Sinclair, in your own rooms, of course, to act as our housekeeper. It’s a role you are well familiar with, and it would not be taxing … except to your son’s pride, perhaps.” She slid Deacon a cool glance, observing the way his lean features sharpened with compressed fury.

Hannah thought for a moment, then nodded. “I think I should find that satisfactory. I’ve no
desire to leave this place, and I would take pleasure in teaching you its history.”

“
Our
history, Mother. Why would the Priors be interested in that?”

“Of course I’m interested,” Garnet corrected. “I’m interested in discovering everything I can about the things I’m involved with. Ignorance is one’s own worst enemy, I’ve learned.”

Though Deacon didn’t wince outwardly, inside he cringed at her flat summation. She’d had the best of teachers, hadn’t she?

“And you, Mr. Sinclair? Have you any plans?”

Deacon met Prior’s polite inquiry with a dismembering stare. “Do you mean to offer me a position in your household, as well? Blacking your shoes, snipping the ends off your cigars, putting a crease in your trousers?”

“Nothing so insulting as that, dear fellow.”

“It’s all insulting, sir. Your presence here, your smug charity, every bit of it.”

Prior drew back, nonplussed by the fierce verbal attack, but Garnet took it in stride, saying smoothly, “Don’t aristocrats work, Mr. Sinclair? Is it an insult to do whatever needs to be done in order to survive? I hadn’t thought your sensibilities would be so delicate.”

Deacon said nothing, so she continued.

“Believe me, Mr. Sinclair, I am well aware of your talents and would not waste them employing you as a valet. I’ve something else in mind, something that would involve you with the growth of your properties.”

“My
former
properties, you mean.” But he was listening now, very carefully.

Her gaze chilled. “Exactly.”

“So, Mrs. Prior, how exactly do I fit into your plans? I assume you have plans.”

“Oh yes, carefully laid plans. For the properties.”

And, obviously, for him.

“And they are?”

“I understand your acreage used to be put toward hemp production. Since the bottom has fallen from the cotton market, that is no longer a profitable endeavor. I—that is,
we
—plan to turn the majority of the acres over into planting rye. We’ve made an arrangement with Mr. Fairfax—”

“Fairfax?” He spat out the name. “Dealing with Fairfax is how I ended up with nothing but the shirt on my back. You’re a fool if you think you can do business with the likes of him.”

Her stare cut through him. “I’m not interested in hearing your advice, Mr. Sinclair. It hasn’t served you particularly well, after all.”

He clamped his jaw shut. Let her learn the hard way, then.

When it was clear he had no more to say, Garnet went on with her vision for Sinclair Manor. “The remaining acres we’ll share out, collecting off a portion of the crops.”

“So I’m to scratch in the dirt for a living while you live off my toil like a fat tick?”

“Charming illustration. But no. I daresay you would not make a tolerable farmer. We plan to
set up a store in town where those who work our lands can obtain supplies and necessaries on credit against their harvests.”

“Another means to suck off them,” he murmured dryly. She ignored him.

“I—we should like you to run that store for us. I already know you have a talent for mathematics and have seen proof of your merciless business dealings. In return, you can earn a decent wage to apply toward repurchasing some of your acreage, if you choose, and you can continue to live here. I want to be in close communication with those who work under me.”

“So you are in charge?” He glanced over at Prior, who seemed more interested in the carved molding on the fireplace than in matters of finance.

“Yes, I am. What is your answer? Are you too proud to work for a woman?”

He wasn’t thinking about that at the moment. He was calculating rapidly. The offer was no longer an insult, but an opportunity. “I could buy back my lands.”

“An acre at a time, Mr. Sinclair. Have you that kind of patience?”

“I can wait forever for something that I want.”

She looked away quickly, as if hiding something in her expression. Before he could wonder what it was, a familiar sound came from the foyer: dog toenails scrabbling for traction on the polished hardwood floors.

Boone burst into the parlor, skidding halfway
across the room on the first rug he came to. He’d grown from a gangly pup to half the size of a horse, and all of it muscle. He scrambled up, focusing on Deacon with a remembered ire. In two great leaps, he’d crossed the room, and with a single lunge, knocked Deacon to the floor. As he grabbed the massive head to hold the snapping jaws away from his face, he heard a small childish voice intrude.

“I’m sorry, Mama. I tried to keep him outside, but he gots loose.”

“Get back, Boone.” Garnet was hauling on the animal’s collar. “As you can see, Boone has fond memories of you, too, Mr. Sinclair.”

The moment he was freed from the dog’s weight, Deacon rolled to his feet in search of the child who’d called Garnet “Mama.” The boy stood just inside the door, shyly regarding him. A terrible pain twisted through Deacon’s insides, for here was evidence of Garnet’s relationship with the much older Brit. The fragile-looking boy studied him through Garnet’s dark eyes beneath a shock of tawny hair inherited from Prior.

This was the child they’d made between them.

But in looking at the boy, Hannah Sinclair saw something totally different.

She saw the boy her son had once been.

She knew
.

Garnet watched Hannah Sinclair’s features
purse with confusion, then brighten with recognition.

But would she say something and spoil all Garnet’s plans?

“William, please take Boone back outside.” As the boy came to grab onto the leather collar with both hands, she admonished, “Go with William, you big ox.”

Boy dragging dog exited the room, leaving a new tension behind.

“William,” Hannah whispered. “Is that his name?”

“After my father.”

“How
is
your father?” Deacon asked, dreading the answer.

Garnet stared at him through emotionless eyes. “He died in a federal prison. Thank you for asking.”

If he took that information like a double-barreled blast to the gut, he absorbed the impact without flinching.

“How old is your son, Mrs. Prior?”

She met Hannah’s soft gaze without betraying her inner panic. “He’s four.” She watched the woman doing the math before sliding a look at her son to see if he’d done the same figuring.

But no questions crossed Deacon’s tight expression. His stare was deadened.

“A handsome boy.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair. We’re very proud of him.”

“There’s a room on the west side of the stairs
just right for a child. Plenty of shelves where the sun won’t wake him. It was Deacon’s when he was a boy.”

Garnet forced a smile. “I’m sure it will do nicely.” Anxious to turn the topic elsewhere, she asked, “Mr. Sinclair, have you decided upon the job?”

He was silent for so long, she felt sure the answer would be no. Then he surprised her by saying tonelessly, “I’ll move my belongings back into my room.”

“Would that be the master suite?” At his nod, she supplied a taut smile. “I think it’s only fitting that that room belong to my husband and me, don’t you? I’m sure there are other suitable quarters.”

“Perhaps one of the old slave cabins would appeal to your sense of fairness.”

“Whatever you feel appropriate, Mr. Sinclair.” His sense of pride still moved her.

Everything about him still moved her.

Had she expected any different? If she had, she wouldn’t have gone through the elaborate lengths it had taken to reach this point in her plans for the future. She couldn’t afford to forget what a dangerous man Deacon Sinclair was, because of his former profession and because of the way he still acted upon her heart.