Patricia Potter (17 page)

“Fury is more like it. You take advantage of my home and my brother.”

“What else can you expect from a blackguard…and gambler?”

His smug tone infuriated her. Her hand balled in an effort to keep from slapping him.

“Don’t even try it, Meredith.” It was the first time he had called her by just that name, and his mouth lingered over the sound. Grudgingly, she noted that it had never seemed quite as sensuous. To protect herself, she wondered whether he also caressed the names of other women. But of course he did. It was all part of his practiced seduction.

“I did not give you permission to use my name,” she said.

He laughed, and once more it didn’t touch his now-hard calculating eyes. “Didn’t you, Meredith? How could I make such a mistake?”

She straightened. “I want you to leave Briarwood.”

“But my business isn’t done,” he countered smoothly.

“I’ll tell my brother—”

“Tell him what? That you returned my kiss? Before you do, I must remind you that I am very good with pistols.” His eyes became colder. She always brought out the worst in him, he thought angrily. And tonight, for whatever reason, he couldn’t resist goading her even as he wondered why he was wasting his time.

He saw her fingers curl into tight fists, and then without another word she whirled around and fled. A tendril of hair came loose from a tortuously pinned sausage curl, and fell down her back, the soft gold color glinting in the moonlight.

Quinn stood there silently, watching her awkward movements in the ruffled yellow gown and wondering what had happened to his usually faultless taste in women.

C
hapter 9

QUINN FOUND CAM
alone in the servants’ quarters, pacing impatiently.

“She’ll go,” Cam said.

Quinn nodded. He doubted very much now whether Meredith Seaton would sell Daphne, particularly to him. He didn’t even think that Meredith would talk to him again.

“Her brother confirms that Daphne belongs to
Miss Seaton,”
he said. The emphasis he placed on the last two words surprised Cam. “I think the Parson’s our best bet. We’ll visit him tomorrow and hope to God he’s there.”

Cam agreed. “If you don’t need me, I’ll go see what I can find out ‘bout the Seatons, what they do when there’s an escape.”

Quinn nodded. Some owners posted bounties, which brought every slave hunter out from under the rocks. Others, not wanting trouble, just chalked it up as a business expense.

After Cam left, Quinn undressed himself, his hands lingering over the expensive wool and linen. Fine clothes were one of his indulgences now. He caught the sight of his back in the mirror and winced, as he always did. He hated the scars that crisscrossed his back. They would always be there, branding him a convict….

He was relieved when the guards came to his cell and told him he was being transferred to a prison ship. He was thankful even as they placed irons on his wrists and linked them with those on his ankles.

How naive he had been, he would soon realize. Newgate had been a palace compared to his next lodgings.

Along with others sentenced to transportation, he was put in the
Black Maria,
a horse-drawn van specially built for prisoners. It was a unique contraption, and if he had not been one of its victims, Quinn’s inquisitive mind would have appreciated its ingenuity. He was pushed down a passageway in the middle of the van. There were doors on each side, and one was opened and he was shoved in. He found himself in a tiny cubicle, too small for him to stand or sit. He could do no more than crouch in the dark as he heard other doors open and close. Finally he felt the jolting of the van over cobblestones. His legs seemed to go numb with pain, and despair, which he had managed to keep at bay, descended with all its black poisoned hopelessness. For the first time, he realized his complete helplessness. They could do anything to him, and he was defenseless, utterly powerless.

When the coach finally came to a stop and his door opened, he could barely move, his legs were so cramped and numb. But a blow from a club made what seemed impossible possible. His chains dragging, he and his fellow prisoners emerged into a sunlight that temporarily blinded them until another blow made them stumble forward. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, he realized he was in Portsmouth, and in front of him in numbers too numerous to count were the hulks, not the graceful sailing ships he had taken from America to Europe and then to England, but ugly, patched, pensioned-off warships.

The prisoners were herded to a long boat and made to awkwardly climb the nets to the quarterdeck. Quinn was singled out by a Marine captain and ordered to stand apart from his fellow convicts as their chains were removed. They were then told to undress, and each man was searched intimately, a ritual that was both painful and extremely humiliating. But that was only the beginning. He was bathed in icy water, and then his hair, of which he had always taken pride, was cropped to the scalp and the whiskers, grown long now, shaved carelessly, leaving nicks and cuts over his face. He was then given prison garb: canvas trousers, a rough shirt that scraped his skin, and a gray jacket.

The blacksmith came over to him and after a few words to the Marine captain, he knelt and riveted heavy leg irons on his ankles. When the last bolt was hammered in, the weight on his ankles enabled him to do little but shuffle as he walked. Then he was pushed down a narrow ladder to the hold. Wooden bars enclosed a large area where lanterns showed dozens of men on the floor or in hammocks. He was pushed beyond that, down a narrow corridor, to another barred area, which was little more than a cage, four feet wide and six feet long. A man lay on the floor, and he blinked at the approach of the lanterns.

“Company for you, O’Connell,” one of the guards said as he unlocked the door.

“Why, bless ye,” the man said, cropped red hair flaming in the light and a broad smile on his face. He seemed not at all intimidated by his surroundings, or the fact that he too wore double leg irons that were chained to the wall.

With a scowl, the guard ignored the good cheer and roughly pushed Quinn inside. He chained Quinn and O’Connell together, then left, taking the lantern with him.

“Ye must be as out of favor as meself,” the man said in the darkness. “Terrence O’Connell at yer service.” The comment was wry but there was nothing apologetic or vanquished in it.

“Devereux,” Quinn said. “Quinn Devereux.” He knew defeat was heavy in his own voice, but he couldn’t help it. Sethwyck had said he would know hell, and God knew he was finding new meaning to the word. His hand went to his cropped head, then to the heavy iron around his ankle, and he wondered if hanging would not have been the better choice.

He felt a huge hand on his shoulder. “Don’t let the bloody bastards get ye down, boyo,” the man’s booming voice gentled. “They can’t win if ye don’t let them.”

Those words and O’Connell’s spirit carried Quinn through the next eight years.

Quinn put on a linen nightshirt. In his cabin on the
Lucky Lady,
he slept naked, but he took no chances here. His past was his secret. He didn’t want a helpful servant to wander in and see the scars around his ankles. His hands told enough tales with their hard calluses.

He went to the window and looked out. Briarwood was a beautiful place, well-tended and obviously prosperous. Magnolia trees lined the front drive, and huge oaks shaded the house itself. Yet there was an emptiness here, a lack of love that had filled his own boyhood home. This plantation seemed passionless to him.

But, he suspected, there was nothing passionless about Miss Seaton, despite appearances to the contrary. He knew he had not imagined her response to him tonight, the banked fires that had flared so briefly at their kiss.

It didn’t matter, though. He would keep away from her. He and Cam would find the Parson, make arrangements for Daphne, and then he would forget this place.

They can’t win if ye don’t let them.

Quinn went to his bed and lay down, hoping sleep would come quickly.

O’Connell. Teacher. Protector. Savior. I
miss you, my friend. I miss you.

Meredith brushed her hair with long furious strokes, trying to work out her confusion and frustration.

She had worked hard to become an effective agent for the Underground Railroad. She was finally confident of herself and even felt a certain contentment, though it was tempered by her failure to find Lissa. She was doing something important, and she was doing it well. That, and her painting, had given her a sense of self-worth that her father and brother had once systematically destroyed.

But now her carefully built defenses were crashing like a house of cards, and all because of a kiss. A mocking, meaningless kiss from a blackguard and rogue.

Perhaps, without quite knowing it, she longed for intimate contact. She had not known a day without loneliness since Lissa had been taken away. It must have been her isolation, emotional and physical, that had responded to his kiss. Nothing more. Certainly nothing more.

It still amazed her that anyone could change so much. She bent over and lifted the lid of the trunk in her room. She picked up the lining at the bottom and took out the pictures she had drawn of Devereux. She recalled how he had once ruffled her hair and called her “pretty little Merry.”

But “pretty little Merry” was gone now, and so was the kind young man. He had become the most arrogant man she had ever met. And one of the cruelest. That she felt even the slightest attraction for him made her doubt her own self.

If only he were ugly. Or simply plain. No one had a right to be so handsome, so darkly attractive. Especially someone with a black soul. His room was only down the hall, and his proximity sent shivers through her and warmed her blood.

To distract herself, she thought about her brief conversation with Daphne when she had helped Meredith undress. It had been most unrewarding and even less illuminating.

When Meredith had mentioned she had seen Daphne leave the barn, the girl had frozen like a statue.

Almost unconsciously, she had reached over to touch Daphne, but the girl flinched. “Is something wrong?” Meredith had asked. “Did someone hurt you?”

Daphne shook her head. “I jest needed some fresh air. I didn’t mean to be gone so long.”

Meredith’s brow wrinkled in concern. “No one tried…to take advantage of you?”

Daphne hung her head. “No, Miss Meredith.”

“You would tell me if…”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Has Mr. Devereux said anything to you?”

“No, Miss Meredith, I jest needed some air, that’s all.”

Meredith knew she wouldn’t get any more from the girl. She could only try to keep Daphne away from Captain Devereux during his stay at Briarwood, which she hoped fervently wouldn’t be long.

“You won’t be punished,” she said softly. “Not for something someone else does.”

Daphne stiffened. “Is there anything else you need, miss?”

Meredith knew she was defeated. She shook her head.

Morning dawned, golden and bright. And she had not slept. Feeling dull-headed and fatigued, Meredith accepted Daphne’s silent ministrations, including hot chocolate and fruit, and then a hot bath. She would stay up here in her room all day, if she must. A prisoner once more in her brother’s home, in
her
home. But she could not face Devereux again, or listen to his veiled, and not so veiled, mockery without answering in kind.

She stretched and went to the window, her eyes drawn to two riders, one dressed in black and sitting a gold horse, the other on a bay riding a little behind. They were heading toward the main road.

Forever, she prayed. Perhaps he was leaving forever.

She nearly ran down the stairs in her eagerness to find Robert and hopefully learn that Devereux had indeed left for good. She prayed earnestly that such was so.

Robert Seaton was talking with several guests who had remained overnight, and she bit her tongue to keep from blurting out the question, then went in search of Evelyn, who was directing the cooks.

“Has Captain Devereux left?” she asked.

Evelyn’s eyes opened wide. “Do you have an interest in him?”

“Only that he leave,” Meredith said unwisely. “I don’t understand why someone of his…nature was invited in the first place.”

“Well, he’s not leaving, not today. He went over to see Gil MacIntosh and a few other planters. He plans to leave day after tomorrow.”

Dismay ran through Meredith. Two more days. But at least she had the next hours to herself. She would go down to the river, and be back well before he returned.

Quinn and Cam kept a fast pace. They planned to go by the MacIntosh plantation and then on to the Parson’s. The directions were indelibly written in Quinn’s mind, although he had never visited the Parson in his home before. He had met the man in Cincinnati, soon after he’d carried his first illegal cargo.

Quinn remembered him as a plain man whom he had immediately liked and trusted. Which was well, he thought wryly, since the man held both his and Cam’s lives in his hand.