Ever My Love: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 2) (12 page)

Pearl nuzzled his neck, beginning to waken. He palmed the
side of her head and kissed her. She ran her hand over his work-hardened chest,
then down his ribs, deepening the kiss. “Pearl,” he breathed. He imagined for
the hundredth time taking her with him, but he didn’t see how she could make
it. She wasn’t like the women in the fields. She couldn’t run all night, huddle
in fear all day, starve – in the cookhouse, Pearl was next thing to a house
slave. She didn’t have the stamina she’d need to run. She didn’t have his
hunger to be free.

She pressed herself against him, rousing him. Love tore at
his heart. He might not make it, might not ever see her again. Fighting the
tightness in his throat and chest, he pulled at Pearl’s night shift. She untied
the strings of his pants. In desperate passion, he rolled over onto her.

When they lay quiet in each other’s arms, Pearl said, “You
leaving, ain’t you?”

Luke didn’t answer.

“You make love to me like dat, it cause you going.”

He kissed the top of her head, stroked her bare hip where
his hand rested. He marveled how she knew him, could see him in the dark, hear
unspoken words.

She pushed his hand away and sat up. “I know it.” Her voice
broke. “You might as well say it.”

He tried to pull her back to him, to hold her, but she
fought him.

“You said you’d stay. You said till I have a baby on de
way.”

“Pearl, it been two year since we partnered. Dere not gone
be a baby. Not fo us.”

She cried, heedless of how much noise she made. She wouldn’t
let him hold her, turned her back to him. But as the sobs shook her small
frame, Luke tried again. He touched her with one big hand, then the other, and
she let him take her into his arms. He cradled her, rocking her, until she
quieted.

“It be light soon,” Luke said. “You gone be able to act like
nothing happening?”

She nodded her head against his chest.

“Dey’s a man in Joseph’s cabin gon’ need food during de day.
And we both gon’ need food to take wid us tonight. You get us something?”

The darkness was lifting. “You coming back for me. Swear
it.”

He put his hand on her face. “I coming back for you, dere be
breath in my body.”

“I can see yo eyes, Luke. Swear it.”

“Befo God, Pearl, I swear it.”

The moon down, Yves returned to the stable in the dark and
unsaddled his horse. It had picked up a stone and its foot was sore. Another
task ahead of him, he rode Marcel’s bay and guided it to the road that he and
Marcel and Adam had taken the day they’d heard the hounds in the back country.

He didn’t know what he was going to do with the dogs. How
many were there, which of them were man-hunters, would they be guarded? Damn,
it was dark. He hoped the horse could see better than he could. As he approached
the patch of woods where the dogs were, he dismounted and walked on, a hand out
to deflect branches he couldn’t see. Through the trees he caught the flicker of
fire and headed for it.

Hidden, he observed the clearing where the hounds slept. The
wind blew in his face, else he surely could not have come so close without
rousing them. A boy perhaps ten years old lay near a waning fire. Warm as it
was, likely he wanted the fire to keep away the hobgoblins of the night. The
smoke helped some with the mosquitoes, too, that and the thin burlap over the
boy.  Yves counted eleven dogs. Fine looking brutes, their coats shimmering in
the firelight.

He couldn’t shoot them. He understood Marianne’s disposing
of the two who’d attacked the child, but these hounds, sleeping peacefully –
no, he couldn’t shoot them.

What am I doing here anyway? He hated to think he was about
to interfere so blatantly in another man’s business because he admired Marianne
Johnston’s high bosom and fiery eyes. But here I am.

He thought again of Marianne in the garden the night the
little girl died. Her eyes, bluer than the gown she wore, had seemed bruised
she was so hurt, so spent. A woman of feeling, and impulsive, too, blasting
shot into those dogs. Couldn’t blame her, however. Spirited, and she’d shown
herself a woman who used her mind – in his experience, not many young women
were accustomed to that activity.

But had she asked for his help? Was it his place to act when
her brother did not?

Nevertheless, training dogs to hunt slaves was an abysmal
practice. The dogs themselves, however . . .

He entered the circle of firelight and sat down. First one
and then another dog scented him and opened sleepy eyes. Just a man, sitting
near the boy. Yves cleared his throat, and a few more dogs woke, finding no
cause for alarm. Good.

The slave boy slept on as only an exhausted child can. Yves
thought of waking him, but it was just as well the boy didn’t know who’d taken
all the dogs away. He added sticks to the fire for him to make it last until
morning.

Yves gathered the lines. They were all tied to a length of
chain that snaked among them, but he didn’t want the encumbrance or clanking of
a chain. He counted the dogs, counted the lines. He had them all.

Amid the stretching and grumbling of the hounds, Yves pulled
the lines and had them up. He glanced again at the child. What a sleeper. Poor
lad. Hope he doesn’t get a licking for this.

Yves led the dogs back to his horse. As docile as they were
at the moment, it was hard to see them as man-eating beasts. But they’d been
blooded; they were a menace, and they needed to be removed.

He rode the horse back toward the river, the pack jostling
for position behind him. By the time he reached the banks of the Mississippi
some three miles north of the Johnston’s, the sky had begun to lighten. Yves
led the pack up the river road until he came to the old Nixon place. The dock
in disrepair, the house itself hollow-eyed and empty, he decided this was the
place to wait for a boat.

He tied his handkerchief to the dock pole, signaling he
wanted to be picked up. South-bound or north-bound, it didn’t matter. He tied
the horse and the dogs, then sat on the rickety dock to wait.

An hour after sunrise, he hailed a large raft riding the
slower outer current. Flatboats weren’t seen much on the river any more, the
steamboats having taken the trade, but Yves thanked the stars for the luck of
it. Bargemen weren’t likely to inquire too closely about a pack of fine hounds
being sold on the edge of the river.

Unwieldy as a flatboat was, the men managed to guide it over
to the bank not far downstream from the decrepit dock. They were a notorious
lot, bargemen, little more than cutthroats some of them. A rough bunch. Yves
was glad of the small pistol snug in the back of his waist. These men, however,
merely wanted paying passengers, and so negotiations were quick. The bargemen
took the dogs aboard, incurious about the well-dressed fellow’s willingness to
accept a token sum for prime hunting dogs, and allowed the current to take them
back into the stream.

By now Yves’ head ached and he wanted his morning coffee.
He’d have to concoct some story about why he’d been out so early if he couldn’t
slip into the house unnoticed. And he’d have to pretend he’d had a full night’s
sleep. It was going to be a bear of a day.

By the time Yves returned to the Johnstons’, a man and a boy
were mucking out the stables. He left his horse in the corral, the slave
assuring him he’d unsaddle and brush his mount, then give him a bag of oats.
Yves walked up to the house and entered the back door, avoiding the dining room
where Adam or Miss Johnston or Marcel might be breakfasting.

He reached his room unseen and closed the door behind him in
relief. He washed his face and neck, changed his linen, buffed his boots, and
prepared for breakfast as though he had only just risen. Late night with a
bottle of bourbon, he thought he’d tell them. Disgust generally dampened
conversation.

Downstairs, only his brother lingered with his coffee. Yves
ran his eyes over Miss Johnston’s red damask chair, disappointed it was empty.

Marcel examined him over his cup. “You don’t look good,
little brother.”

Yves gave him a rueful smile.  The headache made it easy to
play the part of a hung-over wastrel. “Bourbon,” he said.

“What was the occasion?”

“Why, the presence of a bottle of bourbon.” Yves poured
himself a cup of coffee and sat down. “Where are our hosts?”

“Miss Johnston is in her garden. The roses, you know. Adam
is dealing with McNaught. Seems someone has taken off with his dogs, and the
man is in a fury.”

Yves put a hand to his brow, hiding his face. “God, my head
hurts,” he complained.

Marcel finished his coffee. “Have a quiet day. And finish
the coffee pot. I’m off to see the roses.”

The roses, or Miss Marianne Johnston?  Evil thoughts came to
his mind about his brother, poetry, roses, and a certain blue-eyed gardener. He
groaned and poured himself another cup of coffee.

Marianne had breakfasted early. On her way to the compost
heap, she passed the stable.

Curious, she thought, that the man was unsaddling Marcel’s
bay gelding. Where had he been so early?

She and Joseph were going to oversee the tending of the
compost this morning, having more muck forked in and water filtered through. An
hour later, Marianne had her arms in black dirt up to her elbows. More new rose
canes needed potting up, and she preferred to do it herself. When Marcel found
her in the bottom of the experimental garden, she had already wiped her
forehead with a dirty wrist, and tendrils of hair hung around her face. She was
a mess.

Marcel strolled down the path toward her. Oh no. Here I am
hot and sweaty, and he’s the picture of . . .

 “Good morning,” she answered him.

“I’ve come to interrupt you, if I may,” Marcel said. “I
don’t know a thing about cross-breeding. Will you instruct me?”

“Gladly.” Who else ever showed any interest in her project?
Certainly not Adam, and Father had merely listened out of politeness when she’d
been excited about the white-streaked petals.

She pulled off her gardening gloves and wiped her hands on
her apron. “These are the newest saplings. Seed grown, of course. This one
derives from a Damask Perpetual and a Pink Gallica.” She went on about breeding
extraordinary pinks, hoping for something spectacular.

I believe he’s actually interested, she thought. She warmed
at his questions, at the simple touch on her elbow as she knelt to lift a pot.
He does have beautiful eyes. And he’s a gentleman. No leering at her bosom, no
making her blood run hot. Yves Chamard was a rogue. She’d always known it.  But
Marcel – gentleness itself.

“You were out riding early, I believe?” Marianne said,
simply to make conversation.

Marcel looked at her quizzically.

“I noticed your horse being unsaddled when I came out.” She
really shouldn’t be so inquisitive. He clearly didn’t appreciate explaining
himself.

“Did you?” He looked at his boots.

Damn, she thought. Now he thinks I’m nosy and rude.

He lifted his head and smiled at her. “It was a fine
morning,” he said.

They strolled through the gardens, Marianne commenting on
this bed or that, until they reached the back veranda. “Thank you, Mr.
Chamard, for your interest in the roses.”

Marcel bowed his head and she admired the sweep of wavy
black hair off his forehead.

“My pleasure,” he said. “It’s a fascinating project.”

“Well. I’ll go in now. I have a transformation to effect
before dinner,” she said as she smoothed her rough apron. Feeling shy, she
touched her hair where it frizzed from under her bonnet.

He laughed. Such a sweet kind laugh. “I’ll look forward to
the butterfly, then,” he said. He left her to have a look at the river while
she turned back into the belle.

Marcel did indeed spare a moment to examine the river. Muddy
brown. Running swiftly. Same as yesterday, the day before, tomorrow. Miss
Johnston had time to be safely upstairs by now, and he strode into the house to
find his brother.

“There you are,” he said. Yves was in the library with the
newspapers. “Where’s Adam?”

“With his overseer, I believe. There’s talk of a search for
the hounds. Though without hounds,” Yves said with a grin, “it will be
difficult to track them.”

“You did it, damn you. And a guest in this house.”

Yves snapped the newspaper, hid his head behind it. “Don’t
know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“You had my horse out before dawn. You don’t have a hangover
at all. The dogs menaced your precious slaves. No. I amend that. Mr. Johnston’s
precious slaves.”

Yves peered at him around the paper. “Circumstantial
evidence.”

“You admit it then. Yves, by God, the world does not belong
to you. When are you --.”

“Please, Marcel. Not the ‘When are you going to settle
down?’ speech. ‘Get yourself a gal, set her up in a nice little cottage, have a
brown baby or two.’ Marcel, I do not act out of boredom or because I suffer
from lack of female companionship.”

“Of course not. But having Lucinda and the boy in my life
makes me a contented, cheerful man. If you had a woman, Yves, you’d --”

“If your placée keeps you happy, Marcel, I’m happy for you,
but I want neither a wife nor a mistress.”

They heard footsteps in the hallway, and Adam walked in,
disheveled and distressed. “Would you believe it? The boy watching the dogs
didn’t hear a thing. Didn’t see a thing. He swears it must have been voodoo.”

“Is the child in trouble?” Yves asked. He’d been fretting
about having set the boy up for a switching with a stick.

“The boy?” Adam looked puzzled. “No, he’s just a kid.”

Yves breathed more easily. Then I have no regrets about last
night.

“Valuable pack of hounds like that, the thief, or thieves,
must be long gone by now,” Marcel said.