Moonlight Rebel (15 page)

As she waited for Aaron to speak, she looked about the cluttered room. The heavy royal blue draperies combined with the dark wood paneling created a somber, scholarly atmosphere. There was a smell of leather and old books about it.

Aaron clasped his hands behind his neck as he looked at Krystyna over the barrier of his heavy mahogany desk. It didn't please him that she met his scrutiny head-on. "I cannot say that I am in total agreement with my father's choice of tutor for my son."

The way the woman looked at him made Aaron uneasy. She seemed to be studying him, and he didn't like being scrutinized. He pushed his chair away from the desk, stood up, and began to pace about the small room. He looked small in comparison to the towering shelves that lined the walls on two sides.

"But he is master of the house, and I will abide by his decision for now." He stopped to regard her again. It was a condescending look. "I take it that you do know history."

Aaron's addition of the words "for now" was not lost on her. The colt chafes to usurp the sire, she thought. From what she had seen of Morgan McKinley, it would take more than the desire to do so.

"I said I could teach it," she reminded him patiently. "That would imply knowledge."

She is impertinent, he thought. But impertinence in one so pretty could be overlooked. He felt his appetite sharpening. "Fine. I just want to make sure you will teach my son the right kind of history." With that, he pushed the three books on his desk toward her.

Krystyna simply glanced at the stack. So, along with his other failings, he was narrow-minded. What was it Lucinda saw in the man? "I am afraid I do not understand. History is history. It does not come in 'kinds.'"

She saw that her answer annoyed him. He let out an impatient breath before he explained his meaning. "I don't want any thoughts of rebellion put into Christopher's head." He resumed pacing, his own words agitating him. "My father believes in this rebellion that is forming around us. I do not. The less said about it, the better all around. For everyone. If people are not falsely enflamed, there will be no trouble and things will remain as they are. As they should be." He turned toward her, as if forming a bond. "As a former countess, you can appreciate that." He paused to see if she understood his meaning.

The man is little better than a pig, she thought. "To begin with, I am not a former countess. My title remains even if my lands temporarily are not in my possession. Furthermore, your son is but ten years old. He is a child. I do not think there is any danger of his running off to fight in the rebellion, should it materialize."

He didn't like being opposed. There was enough that was contrary in his life as it was. "My father had me working in the fields when I was ten."

The dark look on Aaron's face didn't intimidate her. She was her father's daughter and refused to be mutely obedient. "Working and fighting are two very different things. It has been a long time since the Children's War." The look on Aaron's face told her that he was unfamiliar with this part of history. "And," she continued, "if talk of this coming 'rebellion' of yours exists, then your son shall hear of it one way or another."

"It isn't my rebellion," he snapped heatedly. "I want no part of the rabble who only want to stir up trouble. It is just a matter of the poor being envious of the rich. It's always been that way."

Krystyna didn't wish to get into an argument about a matter that didn't concern her. Her loyalties lay across the ocean. "I have no part in any of this at any rate. The battle that concerns me is elsewhere." She saw that her sentiments surprised him. Undoubtedly, he thought women had no opinions but those given to them. Another bigoted man to be dealt with. My father has spoiled me, she thought with a silent sigh. "I will teach your son about his heritage as a human being." She hoped that would put an end to the matter.

She crossed to the shelves closest to her and ran a hand along several of the books. The library was impressive. "I am sure I will find books here to help me." She turned to look at Aaron and saw that he was busy studying her. She didn't care for the expression on his face or the way he was looking at her. "Does your son know French?"

Aaron frowned. Her question was arrogant and ridiculous. "There's no need for him to learn that alien tongue."

How small-minded he is, she reflected. No wonder he displeases his father so. "There is a need for him to know a little of everything if he is to grow to be a man of his time. That way, he will never be caught lacking." When Aaron said nothing, she asked, "Shall I start his lessons today?"

Aaron shook his head. "No, today Christopher is to go into the fields with his grandfather." His frown deepened. "Worships the ground that man walks on," he muttered to himself.

"From what I can see, he might have a worse god," Krystyna said.

Aaron made no reply. To his mind, a son should look up to his father, not an old fool of a man who entertained notions of a rebellion that would upset the balance of everything Aaron had worked for all of his life.

"You will report to the nursery tomorrow at nine. The lessons will begin then. I will look in on you from time to time." His expression softened. "If things go well, you may have a pleasant time here."

Krystyna didn't care for the promise she detected in his words.

"I will teach your son well," she replied. "That will be pleasant enough."

With a nod of her head, she left the room, not waiting for Aaron to give her leave. She might have to work here, but no one was going to control her or her mind.

"Handled very well."

Krystyna stifled a gasp as she whirled around. Jason was leaning against the wall on the other side of the opened study door. His words coaxed a smile from her that she was unwilling to give. She had thought the same thing. But her triumph faded as she looked into Jason's eyes. They were dark and did things to her she didn't want done.

What did he want of her now? Was there to be no peace from him? She looked around the hall. Where was Lucinda?

He read her mind. "Lu had to go. She asked me to take you under my wing." He saw her puzzled frown and realized he had used a phrase that was probably unfamiliar to her. "I've come to escort you to breakfast. After that, since your charge is busy all day—Christopher," he clarified when she opened her mouth to ask, "perhaps I could show you around our humble lands, which I'm sure don't compare with yours."

The cryptic remark she was going to offer about being able to find her own way evaporated at the mention of her land. Her land. When would she ever see it again? Sweet Jesu, how she missed it.

Jason saw the look of longing enter her eyes. His own expression softened. He lightly placed a hand on her elbow and began to guide her toward the dining room.

Krystyna drew her arm away. "I know my way."

Jason grinned and bowed. "I'm sure you do, Princess." The teasing look in his eyes said far more than his words. He was acknowledging her independent manner. In an odd way, she thought, we understand each other.

Lifting her skirt, she turned and walked to the dining room.

Morgan missed crossing their path by only a few seconds. He walked in on his son as Aaron sat at the desk, busily going over the most recent accounts entered into the ledger.

"Well," Morgan demanded, "what is it now?"

Aaron jerked at the sound of his father's voice. Morgan shook his head. What a weak, disappointing man his son had turned out to be. How could he possibly carry on the McKinley name when he was frightened of his own shadow? His only hope was that Christopher did not take after his father.

"You did send Jeremiah with a message that you needed to see me, didn't you?"

"Yes, yes I did." Aaron repressed the urge to spring to his feet. He felt at a disadvantage with his father looming over him.

When his father made no effort to come closer, Aaron turned the long, thin ledger around on the desk so that the older man could read the figures. "Here." He jabbed his finger at a column of numbers. "Here's where the problem is. I can't balance the book." He looked up at his father, waiting for some sort of enlightenment.

What Morgan said was not what Aaron wanted to hear. "Doesn't surprise me." He turned away from the ledger. "There isn't much you can do," Morgan didn't bother veiling the disgust in his voice.

Aaron tried not to flinch at the remark. Try as he might, even with hatred curdling his heart, his father's snide comments always stung. "There's no profit for the land in the south forty," he pointed out.

Morgan shrugged carelessly, but his expression was one of annoyance. "With those Redcoats telling us how much they want to pay for the tobacco, it's a wonder there's any profit to write in anywhere." He crossed to the window, purposely turning his back to his son, and looked out. He meant to put an end to the question Aaron was trying to ask.

Stubbornly, Aaron wouldn't let it go. Just this once, he wanted an answer. Just this once, he wanted to be treated like a man by his father and not like a lackey. "We've had no crop failure, and no tobacco is left. What happened to the money? Something has occurred. The crop is gone."

Morgan spun around on his squat heel. "That, boy, is for me to know, and it's none of your damn business."

Aaron felt himself growing crimson. "But . . . but I'm supposed to keep the books, Father. How can I do my job if you won't tell me how much we made and who we sold the crop to? Or if we even sold it?"

Morgan pursed his lips tightly for a moment. He didn't like being defied this way. "If I wanted you to know, I would have told you." He waved at the ledger, flipping the book closed. "Now do the best you can without that."

Aaron tried one more time. "But the ledger—"

" — is for entry of the things that I want entered, nothing more! Is that understood?" He glared at his firstborn. "Why don't you get out into the sun more? You're as pale as a ghost, hovering around with these damn books instead of doing a man's work like your brother. Go on, get out," he ordered. "Let the sun see your face. God knows I'm tired of it!"

Anger and humiliation rose up like bitter bile in
Aaron's mouth. Someday, old man, you'll pay for this. "Yes,
Father."

Aaron left the room. He knew there was nothing he could say that would change his father's mind. He would do the best he could with the ledger. In his hurry to get away from his father's overbearing presence, Aaron almost collided with Savannah. She hardly spared him a second glance as she stormed into the room. It was her father who was the object of her attention.
 
Her father and the woman Jason had brought into their house. She had left the table, angered, her meal unfinished, when Jason had ushered that creature in for breakfast.

"So there you are." Savannah hardly bothered to keep the annoyance from her voice.

"Yes, here I am." One shaggy brow rose as Morgan regarded his daughter and wondered as to the cause of her latest snit. "And to what do I owe this early morning visit? You don't usually get out of bed until noon."

She paid no attention to her father's remark. He wasn't going to divert her from the purpose of her visit. "I want to talk to you about that girl."

"What girl?" He wondered if Savannah had lit into another one of the house slaves. Of his three children, it was Savannah who had inherited his dreaded short temper.

"You know very well which one I mean." She leaned over the desk, emphasizing her point. "The one Jason dragged in last night, like some cat out of the rain."

"I don't recall it raining last night," he said, purposely baiting her. "Oh, you mean the Countess." He knew the title annoyed her, especially since she was so eager for one of her own.

"Countess, ha!" Savannah spat the words out with a toss of her head. Blond ringlets that her body servant had spent half an hour curling bounced madly against her shoulders. "I don't believe any of it. She's probably some tart he found along the way. How can you possibly allow her to stay here—and to teach little Christopher at that?"

An amused smile curved the jowls of Morgan's broad cheeks. His daughter's motives were transparent. "You don't give a damn about 'little Christopher' and you know it. You're just jealous of her. Don't think I don't see through you, miss."

"Jealous?" Savannah's eyes went wide and then drew down into small slits. "Jealous?" she echoed indignantly. "What could I possibly have be jealous about? You're being absurd."

"Absurd am I?" The game was over. He did not care for her attitude or her disrespectful tone when addressing him. "To begin with, she's a damn pretty little thing and that bothers you, being a woman and vain the way you are. I'd rather have you ugly with sense in your head." He shook his head.

Savannah bit her tongue to suppress an angry retort. His pitying glance enraged her. It was demeaning. She hated being treated this way.

Morgan went on. "The Countess seems to have more than a fair share of that, as well as courage. But I think what really sticks in your craw is her title."

"That's ridiculous!" She tossed her head haughtily. "I don't think she's the least bit pretty. And it is unwomanly to parade book knowledge around. As for the title, I shall have one of my own soon enough."

Morgan chuckled as he sat down in the chair and leaned back. He fixed her with a look. "Oh no, you won't."

Savannah squared her shoulders defensively. "Winthrop is almost assured of getting—"

The smile vanished. Morgan sat up. "Winthrop can go to hell! You think I'd really let you marry that disgusting Tory fop?"

Her lips curved into an angry pout. "We are engaged,
sir!”

Morgan shook his head with the finality of a magistrate passing sentence. "I am letting you think you are for as long as it suits me to cool my heels about the matter. When the time comes to marry you off, girl, you'll marry whom I say, when I say. And, before God, it shall not be some weak-wristed pompous ass who spends his time sniffing snuff when he isn't eating people out of house and home."

"I shall elope," Savannah threatened, leaning over the desk, her eyes level with her father's.