Silken Chains

Duncan Macleod glanced toward his friend who was nervously adjusting the black dress tie on his stiff white collar. The houses that lined the street they walked down were impressive. All expensive, newly built brick-fronted townhouses; the type of houses that only a mere half century ago were only seen in Yorktown and Boston. Philadelphia had started to grow, to attract the rich and powerful. Now that the New World was no longer a part of England and had become a nation onto itself, many more rich immigrants were flocking across the waters.

Duncan had been to the new world once before. He had traveled here with Connor, and Amanda had followed. They had lived in Yorktown, and Duncan had traveled across the waters to England with the hope of settling the growing unrest felt by the Colonist, instead he had been ignored. His journey had not been completely in vain for he had found and extraordinary woman to love, and he had felt the searing loss of seeing her die before her time.

After that he had fled the New World, leaving Connor and Amanda behind to fight with “The son’s of Liberty.” He had only wanted to escape, to bury himself somewhere away from everything that reminded him of Josette Kennington. So he had gone to Naples, and then from there, Russia and China. And alas, after almost a half a century, he had returned, but not to Yorktown, where the memories were still alive for him. He had come back to the New world and docked in Philadelphia. David Keogh had offered him a job, and they had become good friends.

Keogh smiled at the memory. “Her father's ships are bringing in the lumber for the houses I'm building.” He turned to Duncan and said passionately, “You should see her, Duncan. The way she laughs, the way she looks at me ... She's the one.” He patted his pocket. “I even bought the ring.”

The butler nodded, his expression polite but closed as he led them into the parlor where afternoon tea was in progress. Julia Renquist was indeed beautiful, young and full of life, she was sitting holding court before two perfectly attired young men, one named Roger. Alan and Geraldine Renquist were smiling indulgently at the gathering, well pleased with the interest being shown to their daughter

Roger was from one of the wealthiest family in Philadelphia, and they were quite sure that a proposal of marriage would be forthcoming in the near future. Roger was everything they had hoped for in a son-in-law. And while his money would compliment there own, the fact that Roger was a Beachamp, of the Beachamps of England, would add class and respectability to their daughters position here in Pennsylvanian society.

“I do believe Miss Renquist is gonna be obligated many more days than she knows of,” Roger dared offer, and managed to start a small struggle over Julia’s favors, which Julia soon grew bored with. She saw David Keogh, standing near the door and smiled at him.

Roger Beachamp caught on to what was about to happen immediately and nudged the other young men. Duncan frowned darkly at the two as he took in the mocking expressions on the faces of Julia’s guests. Keogh was being ridiculed here, and oblivious to it all, Keogh intended to press on.

Alan Renquist was totally flabbergasted. “You come from nowhere. You have no family,” he shouted at him. “Did you think my daughter would marry a tradesman, who only a year before was an indentured servant? You must never have learned your proper place, young man!”

“Not only do I advise you two to take yourselves out of my home, but out of Philadelphia altogether? If either of you are found in the city after dark, I will have papers drawn up on you! If you have forgotten the feel of servitude, I can assure you that two years more of it, will remind you sufficiently to respect your betters, Mr. Keogh!”

Duncan was too concerned for Keogh’s feelings at the moment to take exception to Alan Renquist’s threat. He started to attract his friend’s attention when disbelievingly, he saw Alan Renquist move toward the drawer of a desk and withdraw a pistol. Duncan stepped into the man’s path so that when he made to turn, he was blocked.

“I will not leave....I am a free man,” Koegh muttered darkly and Duncan patted his shoulder. He felt uneasy. It was true, Koegh was a free man, but it might be just as well, if Koegh drove home to his small house overlooking the city. Powerful men could very often arrange to have very earth-shattering things done, but Duncan soon learned that all the coaxing in the world was not going to change David Keogh’s mind.

He was obsessed with Julia Renquist and convinced that her father was forcing her to deny him. Duncan had seen no such thing, but it didn’t do to tell his friend this. Instead they found a local pub, and ordered some ale. Perhaps a few drinks would soften the blow to David’s pride and convince him to move on.

Morrigan Brookes sighed and pulled out the straggling stitches she had just put in her usually meticulous needlework. Frowning over the sampler, she berated herself for having accompanied her step father to Williamsburg. The idea of a few days spent in town, with its fine houses and cobblestoned streets, its stores and their profusion of goods, had seemed rosy at the time. Alas, she wondered now how she had forgotten about what it was like to spend even a day in her cousin Beatrice Hunt’s vapid company. The constant talk of clothes, parties, and the young gentlemen who had come to call on her had made Morrigan undecided on whether she was more irritated or bored at the moment.

Beatrice turned wide accusing eyes upon her cousin. Not for the first time she felt that Morrigan was laughing at her. Not that she had any right to do so. Rather it should be Morrigan who was mortified that her mother had married a merchant, after her father passed on. Of course everyone understood that Elizabeth had done so to keep that damp, moss-draped farmland outside of Williamsburg. Joseph Pratt was a horrid man, Beatrice thought with a delicate shiver. Morrigan hardly seemed worth the sacrifice Elizabeth had made, since she would always be colossal and plain.

A telltale flush mounted Morrigan’s cheeks, and she wished that her fair skin did not betray her emotions so readily. She hated to let a silly little cat like Beatrice sting her so, but short of telling her how rude she was being, Morrigan refused to give the reasons she did not do these things.

“Then Jason said, ‘I want three dances with you, Miss Hunt’ Of course, I put on an offended face and said, ‘Do you want to ruin my reputation, Jason Hurley? What would people say if I danced more than twice with the same man?’ Of course, I wouldn’t have minded at all, because he’s nice looking, and one of the wealthiest men in Williamsburg, too. But it never does to let a gentleman know you’re interest in him.:

“In name only, and now that your poor mama is gone, he has taken up with that Angelina Mittlestadt! You know very well that people are saying that they are more than friends. If you remain out there too much longer they could even begin to dirty your name....”

Morrigan opened her mouth to reply sharply, but stopped at the sound of footsteps on the marble floor of the hall. She recognized her step father’s heavy tread, and she was not about to let him know the subject of their discussion–or he might treat Beatrice to a display of his swift temper. She clenched her teeth and assumed a pleasant expression.

“Morrigan, my dear. Miss Beatrice,” Joseph Pratt stepped fractionally into the room and acknowledged the girls’ presence with a short nod he habitually used in place of a bow. He was a medium height and squarely built man, with a powerful chest that strained the fine brocaded waistcoat and jacket he wore. He had donned a powdered white queue wig, although at home he wore his natural hair. He was a prosperous land owner and his clothes told of this. His speech, walk and stance was not so refined, but Morrigan was used to it while Beatrice stared owlishly at Joseph as he stood with his hands on his hips, watching Morrigan.

“Why, yes, I would like to go,” Morrigan replied, surprising even herself with her alacrity. Normally, she shunned slave auctions and the selling of servants’ indentures, but right now she believed she would consent to go to hell itself in order to escape Beatrice’s conversation.

Morrigan quickly fetched her gloves and bonnet and rejoined her stepfather in the hall. Waving a cheery good-bye to Beatrice, she swept out of the house on Joseph’s arm. Unconsciously, she heaved a sigh of relief as the footman helped her into the carriage, and behind her, Pratt chuckled. “I thought you might appreciate a chance to get away.”

“I do. I felt as if I were drowning in Beatrice’s chatter. She can speak of nothing but tricks to catch husbands–as if a man so easily handled would be some great prize–and parties and scandal.” She stopped uncertainly on her last word, remembering the scandal Beatrice had been rehashing.

The carriage rocked to a stop just then, and she glanced out the window to see the raised platform where the indentured servants would be sold. No blacks were sold at this market. If they were, Joseph Pratt would not attend. He only wanted indentured servants that he could see releasing in two, five or seven years.

Joseph Pratt climbed down from the vehicle, and Morrigan continued to watch from inside. A crowd had gathered, mostly men, although here and there one could spot a plumed or flowered bonnet. The auction began. A man and woman stood together on the platform, their hands clutched together convulsively, their heads downcast, while the auctioneer rattled on about their merits as servants. Technically, Morrigan knew the couple were not being sold as slaves, but yet once purchased, they could do nothing their master did not tell them to do first. The shipping company gave these people passage to the colonies, or in some cases the indentured servants were convicts who selected the New world, to a hang man’s noose. The shipping companies sold the papers these people signed to the highest bidder, and worked off whatever that price was in order to earn their freedom.

It was all perfectly legal, and yet, Morrigan could discover little difference between a regular slave auction and the selling of indentures, except the color of their skin, and that they had made the choice. Morrigan wished she had not come, despite Beatrice’s chatter. The couple were sold, and a slight young man replaced them. He appeared too frail to be worth much, but he was purchased by Mr. Sorenson, the silversmith, to be an apprentice.

It was more acceptable for a lady to remain in the carriage, but the sweat inched down her back, and she decided to do as her stepfather suggested. Standing beside Pratt, she was a several inches taller than he, and her high-brimmed straw bonnet made her even more towering. It was something Morrigan had grown used too, and yet she knew she would always feel singled out because of her height. Five foot, eleven inches was more woman then most men of her acquaintance could top, and she was use to the tops of their heads coming to her nose.

The boy was led off the platform, and a man strode across the stage to stop beside the auctioneer. He was taller than her cousin Jonah, Morrigan thought in surprise, and his shoulders were broad, his arms knotted with muscle. He wore no shirt, only ragged trousers that rode low on his trim hips. He looked to be in almost too good of health to have been transported across the ocean. His stride was arrogant, sure, and he stood now with his arms akimbo, his caramel colored eyes narrowed and his bearded face sneering at the crowd. From his attitude, one would have thought him a well-dressed lord surveying the rabble, not a ragged, shaggy haired indentured servant about to be sold to the highest bidder.

“No, he wouldn’t make a run-of-the-mill servant,” Pratt replied noncommittally. He glanced sideway at his step-daughter than smiled in satisfaction at the fixed expression on her face. This man was of interest to Morrigan, that must was clear. He was also an inch or two taller than she, and that was even more of a benefit to the man.

“Now, here,” the auctioneer began his spiel, “is a valuable worker. He has enough strength to put him in the fields. Look at those arms, that chest!” His fingers jabbed at the parts he extolled, and Morrigan unconsciously gasped, her mouth going dry. “But that’s not all! He can read, write and do numbers. He’s experienced with horses I have been told. Who’ll start the bidding on such a fine specimen?”

“Aye,” came a gruff voice from behind Morrigan, and she shivered a little as she realized who owned that voice. Thomas Weaver, a odious man with a cruel nature. He whipped his workers, housed them in little better than lean-to–and was always in need of replenishing his stock because so many died. “Make it 40 pounds!”

Morrigan’s hand closed around Joseph’s arms, the fingers tightening. Joseph hid his smile and pretended he was unaware of the fact that she was trying to gain his attention. The bidding began in earnest around him, gradually creeping higher and higher. Though out the bidding, the man being bid on held his head high, his tanned handsome face appeared stamped with contempt.

Morrigan truly feared for him. The bidding was taking place between several different men, but at least two of them she knew to be cruel taskmasters. She told herself that was the only reason she had for feeling anxious about the man’s fate. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that he was as the her step-father had said –a fine looking man. His hair had apparently once been long, but it was clubbed clumsily at the nape of his neck. It glistened with reddish highlights in the late afternoon sun. The lines of his face were clean and smooth, the cheekbones broad, the nose straight, and thick dark lashes curving above dark, piercing eyes. A sparse, five o’clock type shadow covered his jaw, and it was the same color as the hair that matted his bare chest.

Joseph felt a deep satisfaction. It wasn’t something that he would have originally done. But he had no time for niceties. He was dying and he needed a man who would take care of his girl. Aye, she was no flesh and blood of his, but he loved her all the same. He would see her protected, taken care of and well loved. And he already knew the whole lot of boys in this county were weaklings, with a fear of being out shown, where as he had seen that the man on the boards was a fighter, and would never surrender willingly to a woman.

Pratt raised four fingers, and Morrigan turned to him in surprise. Before she could question him about out bidding her–which made no sense because it was his money–he called out to the auctioneer, “I’d be willing to pay even more for the man, but first I want to hear him say something.”

The man in question turned his bold dark gaze on Joseph Pratt, his mouth curling. “Is my speech so important?’ he inquired coolly, his deep voice rolling out over the crowd, resonant and possessed of a distinct Scottish burr. “Will it improve your profit any?”

Morrigan turned to stare angrily at Mr. Weaver. No way was she gonna let that brute lift a lash to that man’s perfect body! Absolutely, no way! She turned back around when she heard Joseph push the bidding higher. It was then that her eyes locked with that dark scornful gaze of the man on the boards. Slowly, casually, he inspected her, for all the world as if she were on the boards and he in the crowd. A smile quirked the corners of his mouth, and he swung away to stare into the distance, above the heads in the crowd.

Morrigan frowned thoughtfully at his retreating back. No, it wasn’t true that he always indulged her. In fact, he was the one to pick a fight and continue to keep it alive long after it should have been put to rest. What was he up to this time? And now that the threat to the man was passed she wondered how in the world they were going to get seventy-two pounds worth of anything out of that man! He was arrogant, or just unwilling to admit that he was now no longer under his own control, but theirs! Would he run? Would he look at her with those dark, glowing eyes again? Did he see her as anything but a plainly dressed woman who was ungainly because she was so massive in height!

Angry with herself, Morrigan stepped up into the carriage and sat staring unhappily out the window. Well, her height had always been noticeable, thus reason for comment. She had stood heads taller than her schoolmates and the boys had laughed at her, the girls had avoided her, and in general she had been treated like the giantess of the county. Men simply wanted tiny, simmering idiots like Beatrice. But still, he was taller than she was! Much larger, and the fire in his eyes sure proved that he was worthy of respect–and would demand it!

Morrigan growled something unpleasant under her breath and Joseph started to show a little of his famous temper. “So, what then, girl! Did you want me to allow Weavers to take him? When I got his indenture and arranged to pay the captain of the ship, I took a close look at Duncan. His back was bruised and welted...and clearly he had received those blows between the auction block and the ship.....Weaver would killed him, no doubt, before they even arrived on his plantation.”

Joseph shook his head, not surprised at the enthusiasm he heard in her voice. Innocent as they come, was the girl. And soft for that man! Thoughtfully, he remembered the scene on board the ship. He had come aboard just in time to order the men whipping Duncan to stop immediately. And it had been strange–the blood that had been everywhere, and yet the man had no open wounds–just the bruising and welts. It didn’t make sense, and telling himself that the man was a fast healer sure didn’t change the fact that it was a mite bit strange!

They pulled to a stop at the door of the Hunt house, and Joseph jumped down, then turned to help Morrigan from the carriage. Her aunt’s house was a soft pink color, decorated with stark white ironwork. Narrow and tall, it was set almost flush against the neighbor on one side and had a small bricked-in garden on the other. They climbed the front steps and entered the cool marble hall.

Morrigan could not imagine either having girlish confidences or exposing them to her flighty cousin if she did. But she did not say so, merely smiled at her aunt and murmured a noncommittal response. Thank God they were leaving for Turning Leaf tomorrow–and early! A query as to if she was tired, gave Morrigan an excuse to rush up stairs to her room, where she flung herself across the bed, stared up at the ceiling and found herself sighing almost blissfully as she remembered how Duncan–yes, she would think of him that way–how Duncan had ran those eyes of his over her. She tried to ignore the fact that he had turned away, dismissing her...after all, she was use to men thinking that she was beneath their notice. She was too tall, and she was too plain!

Duncan Macleod sat flat on the wooden deck of the ship and leaned against the railing. The vessel plowed through the thick gray-green water. A breeze caressed his face, and he sucked in a grateful gulp of air. Deeper into the Virginia countryside the humidity thickened and he wondered how the residence could stand to live in such a hellish atmosphere. Of course, it was the middle of August, but still, the air was so thick and moist it was almost solid, and his lungs had had to labor to breathe from the moment the Indentured shipping company docked in Williamsburg.

Duncan was use to heat. He had just come from the Sahara dessert area. However, that had been a dry heat, so unlike this heat! When he stood still, the sweat would pop out on his forehead! He gazed across at the shore, where gnarled gray trees clung to the banks, their roots writhing into the river like great snakes. Gray strings of moss hung from their branches, wafting in the breeze like tattered, dirty lace. He suppressed a shiver. Even the landscape here was bizarre.

Duncan had seen much in his 233 years, but this particular place they travel down made him uneasy. Its strangeness shook his confidence, a thing that had happened rarely in the past. A few months ago, Duncan had been with his friend, David Keogh, in Philadelphia. And Alan Renquist’s threat to see that they would have a taste of servitude had proven to be only too real. As he and David left the pub the next morning, men–hired thugs, no doubt, had seized them, and knocked them both unconscious. Duncan had awakened on a ship, sailing along the coast of the new America. He had been told that his papers had been purchased and would be resold in Virginia. Reasoning with the captain had ended upon the man learning he had no money to purchase his freedom. Pay your indenture, and be free. Duncan could not. As for David, he was delivered to some men in a small boat and taken to shore the day before the ship docked in Williamsburg. Duncan didn’t know what his fate was at the moment.

He did know, however what his own fate had been. Closing his eyes he remembered his shame, the final humiliation after days of beatings by the sailors that his own arrogance had brought upon him– the memory of being pushed up those steps and onto the stage, shirtless and dirty, exposed to the eyes of the eager crowd. He had wanted to curl up into a ball, or burrow into a hole to hide. But his pride had held him erect, made him face them with head high and mouth curling in contempt. They were ignorant of who he was, or of the fact that short of taking his head, they could never truly hurt him.

Remembering that time, he swung his gaze to the front of the boat, where the girl sat idly toying with her closed parasol. A green and gold striped awning shaded her. Earlier, before they rounded a curve in the river, she had opened the parasol to block the rays that crept in from one side of the awning. Her delicate skin must feel none of the sun that blazed down upon his head until he thought his brains would fry, Duncan thought savagely. Just as her delicate derriere must not suffer the rough planks of the deck.

He smiled involuntarily suddenly, thinking of all things–her derriere. He did not know her name, and in his mind he called her “the Amazon Queen!” Truly, she could have been a warrior queen. She was what Connor would have termed a “ healthy girl.” Connor had always put the gold down for the healthy milkmaid types at a brothel, a girl who looked as if she might snap him in two. Duncan had enjoyed such women himself–there was much to be said for being able to lie-- toe to toe, hip to hip, and after making love he didn’t have to concern himself that he might be crashing his lover.

For a time on the auction block, the people in the crowd had been a meaningless blur to Duncan. Then the man Platt had bellowed at him to speak, and Duncan’s eyes had locked on him and the woman who stood beside him. Although he had managed to retort, his whole being had been jolted by the realization that a woman witnessed his shame. He had stared at her, frozen with humiliation, until the slight buzz she emitted penetrated his brain. A saving anger had burst forth inside of him then. A pre-immie! She had no clue yet of how much in need of his help she would someday be, and the thought of refusing her that help, if only briefly, was enough to allow him to tear his eyes away from her.

It was questionable whether she would even want his help. What type of woman was she? Did she take a perverse, lascivious pleasure from watching half-naked men being paraded and sold like cattle? He had seen that look in her eyes! He was surprised she hadn’t asked to inspect him like the merchandise she considered him to be!

The Amazon Queen stood now and opened her parasol, then strolled over to the man who had purchased him. The man pointed to something on shore, and she laughed, revealing white, even teeth. Duncan wondered how it would feel to have those teeth sink into the flesh of his shoulders, sharp with passion. The thought surprised him. Surely he had no desire for this woman! She was quite attractive, with a well defined face that spoke of good breeding. Her skin looked to be soft as silk, and her raven black hair, shown with a glisten in the sun. She wore it in a tight bun that was most unbecoming, but Duncan had already guessed that if it was loose and flowing, she would be stunning to behold. And he was willing to believe that their were long, shapely legs, under all those petticoats. Reining in this surprisingly cardinal spurt of feeling he felt for her, he told himself that he must not allow the fact that she was an attractive woman to cloud his mind. She had, after all, witnessed his debasement and he should despise her for the sick nature that made her enjoy watching it.

Was that perhaps what spurred his arousal for her? Did he really want her beneath him, dominated, writhing, moaning, begging for the pleasure he could show her? Yes, that was it! To have the Amazon at his mercy would soften the blow to his pride! He swallowed and his eyes sought her out again. What was she to the old man? Daughter? Wife? He studied the girl, wondering again how her body would look without the concealing dress. The stiff bodice flattened her breasts, but something told him they were full and ripe, and that the hips beneath the hoop were wide, the legs strong and slender. Simply thinking about it, made the heat rise in his blood.

It did not occur to Duncan to wonder if she would succumb to him. The strange twist of fate that had led him here had shaken him but not to such an extent. He had always been attractive to women, able to smile and win them easily. It was perhaps the one thing he had never had to learn. The one thing that had come naturally to him. Amanda had called it charm. Even the witch from the wood had not been immune, for why else would she have kissed him when he was but thirteen years old?

The boat turned into an inlet, and both Pratt and the girl were gripped with excitement. They leaned over the starboard rail, gazing into the gloom of the lush undergrowth lining the banks. Duncan looked in the same direction, but could see nothing. After a few minutes, a wharf came into view, with sheds for storing and a large wooden dock. Several small children were on the dock, pointing and jumping. The ship pulled to the dock and was secured by two men waiting there. They laid a plank from the ship to the dock, and the Amazon ran down it lithely, despite her encumbering hoops and shirts. Pratt followed her. The children clustered around her while she made a great show of searching her pockets and finally showering them with sweets. A dark-haired man, casually dressed in shirt, breeches, boots, and a wide-brimmed straw hat, came down the path from the opposite direction and halted before the couple. He talked to Pratt for a moment, and Pratt gestured toward the boat. Duncan noticed that the girl stood well back from the newcomer initially, but apparently something Pratt had said to the newcomer was disturbing, because she spoke sharply, and seemed reluctant to follow Pratt when he started down the path the man had come from.

Duncan rose slowly, easing stiff joints. The cluster of children had vanished along with their mistress, and Duncan came face to face with the man who had met Pratt. He appeared impatient as he paced back and forth on the dock. He carried a long, coiled whip in one hand, which he started to tapped irritably against his boot. Duncan straightened to his full height and came to a stop before the man, staring at him squarely, his face carefully devoid of any sign of intimidation. The man glared at him, his eyes suddenly pin points of anger.

Duncan waited silently, determined not to appear to give in to Jefferson. He doubted whether the overseer would damage property he did not own–and Duncan had come to the very real conclusion that he was owned. He was without a sword, without decent clothing, and without a friend–at least for the moment.

Duncan jumped lightly off the dock. He disliked obeying the overseer, but he wasn’t about to test that whip in the man’s hand. The crew members aboard the Indentured ship had not hesitated to use fist and clubs on him to crush his spirit–and his back had almost been lashed to a bloody pulp before Pratt had arrived to order him released. Pratt was no where around at the moment and Duncan didn’t think it wise to test just how afraid this overseer might be to damage his employers property.

Soon the vegetation on the path gave way to a green expanse of lawn. His footsteps quickened, and he emerged onto a wider walk paved with crushed seashells. Duncan stopped abruptly, staring at the well-kept house and yard in surprise. For a moment he felt as if he had travel back in time to Normandy–to Kristin! The house was just the same!

He spotted Pratt, standing on the small rear porch with two women, one the Amazon, the other a petite beauty several years older than the girl. Her red hair was piled charmingly on her head, and her face was dainty and dimpled, her smile bright. Now that was the type of woman he had been expecting Pratt to be married to, Duncan thought–so that left the Amazon free– unmarried, at least. She could still very well be the old man’s daughter.

“Around behind the garden!” Jefferson barked at Duncan, prodding him with the butt of his whip. Duncan tensed. Before his time on the ship, he would have whirled and taken the man down for the insult. But he had learned since then. Sucking in his breath, Duncan suppressed his anger and started along the path that curved behind the garden to the outbuildings - the stables, storehouse, smithy, granary, cistern, and others Duncan did not recognize.

Duncan halted, turning. Jefferson gave him a hard glare before he swung away, stalking into one of the buildings. Pratt left the women and walked toward him, stopping a few feet away to mop his red face. He motioned to Duncan. “Come, man! Let’s sit in the garden.”

Duncan followed him, and Pratt sank onto a stone bench. Duncan remained standing, his feet firmly planted apart, his bound hands clasped in front of him. He had also learned not to sit when others did. Like all his lessons, it had been hard won, and he once had the bruises on his back to prove it. Pratt gazed up at him, shielding his eyes from the sun, and waved impatiently toward the other bench. “Sit. Sit. I don’t want to crane my neck to see you!”

“Sam is the head groom. You’ll report to him.” Abruptly Pratt’s eyes narrowed in and captured Duncan’s gaze and he cleared his throat. “What I wanted to talk to you about was running away.” Duncan did not betray his surprise by so much as a flicker of his eyelash, although his stomach quivered at the words.

“I know a man like you will be thinking of escape. You’re too much spirit to take to being a servant. When I first saw you, I liked the fact that you weren’t cowed. A broken man won’t do for me. But I’m asking you not to run. My daughter has warned Jefferson away from you, but if you run, all warnings are voided.”

Pratt chuckled good-naturedly. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m a crazy old man. I’m not. Nor am I soft. I could put you in the fields under Jefferson–and the man will break you without a single regret. Don’t forget that, but remember also that my daughter stands as you guardian–she protects you–and I expect you to have some feelings of appreciation .....

Pratt stood, a smile wreathing his face that Duncan tried to tell himself did not irritate him. Just like this man asking him to protect his daughter was not a maneuver that could blind side him into actually not attempting to escape. Would the old man really allow him to be alone with the Amazon? Duncan was happy to see Pratt leave as the thought of touching the satin texture of her skin, or possibly making her blushed becomingly, just before he captured that full red mouth in a quick and thorough kiss, heated his blood!

What was it about this damp, humid landscape that cause him to constantly fantasy about tumbling that Amazon? His eyes moved to the small porch and connected with her steady gaze. She didn’t pretend to not be staring, but rather, he suddenly had that feeling of being thoroughly inspected again. Very well, then....all was fair in love and war...and tomorrow would be his chance to inspect the Amazon Queen of this jungle!

“I envy you,” Angelina replied with feeling. “Lord, but it’s been ages since you left. You can’t imagine how glad I am to see you. It gave me chills, being out here all by myself with all the indentured servants–and Jefferson, always giving me the eye.”

“Don’t take it that way,” Morrigan hastily assured her. “I wasn’t implying you did anything wrong. I simply meant men aren’t interested enough in me to hint or glance.” Morrigan smiled. She would hate to hurt the other woman’s feelings, even though her morals were hardly what Morrigan would wish for herself. Angelina had claimed to be head over heels in love with her step-father, and this made Morrigan wonder if the state of being in love was capable of allowing for a slip in one’s moral fiber? She thought of Duncan Macleod, and a flush rose across her skin. Which was more wicked? Fantasizing about doing the act, or actually doing the act? She already could guess which would be more pleasurable.

Angelina sighed loudly and placed her hand on her hip, barely stopping herself from tapping an impatient foot. “Honestly, Morrigan Brookes, you are the most exasperating girl! You’ve never left this backwater parish, yet you think you know more about style than I, who’s lived in London. You could be a pretty woman as well as a sensible one! What does it matter that you are tall? You will never fade into the woodwork, girl, so you might as well take advantage of the wonders you do possess?”

“I do hear what you say, but you have not seen the looks I get from the men. It is embarrassing for me! I do so appreciate your good intentions, Angie, but I’ve been this way for years, and I’m content with myself. Why pretend to be something I’m not? My cousin appreciates me as I am.”

Angelina chuckled. “My sentiments exactly when it come to that young man–but you see that is what courtship and love is all about. All cousin Jonah can do is spout poetry and drone on about dreadfully dull books and ideas. Believe me, that won’t keep your bed warm at night. He’d bore you to tears!”

The stables were clearly visible from Morrigan’s window and Angelina found her gaze turning toward the man who seemed to have attracted the younger girls interest. Angelina could well understand Morrigan’s interest–the man was beautiful, well formed with such wonderfully warm eyes–a girl could simply melt away from the heat of his gaze. As Angelina stood behind Morrigan watching the barn, Samuel, the groomsman walked out with Duncan following him. He still wore those loose hung ragged trouser hugging his hips. Samuel must have found him a shirt to wear, and the reason it hung open, exposing a firmly muscled chest was, no doubt, because of the depressive heat. A recent purchased Arabian that refused to allow anyone to ride him, seem to accept Duncan’s hand.

Morrigan’s hand tightened on the windowsill as she took notice of how his tanned skin gleamed with sweat in the hot moist air, and how his muscled knotted as he leaped up onto the bareback of the horse. She swallowed against a sudden constriction in her throat. Not for the first time, Morrigan wondered what it was about Duncan Macleod that she found so sensual–he both excited and frightened her–and she wasn’t use to being afraid of anything.

Angelina tore her eyes away from the very alluring display of manly power and beastly strength, and raised a questioning eyebrow. “Hmm, and I would think it would be something else you’d be wishing for, but as you say, you are quite happy with cousin Jonah.”

“Of course,” Angelina was aware that Jonah would consider it highly improper to pay his call to Morrigan in Angelina’s presence. It hurt, but she was used to such slights. Besides, she disliked Jonah and frankly preferred to avoid him. If only she could bring Morrigan to realize he was not the man for her.

A very tall man stood gazing out the window. He turned at her approach and returned her smile, although the movement of his mouth did not change his solemn eyes. His willowy frame was clad in dark breeches and a dark broadcloth coat and waistcoat. Tall riding boots reached to his knees and he held a slender crop in his hand. Jonah’s face was long and narrow, his eyes the very same sapphire blue of Morrigan’s. He moved forward and clasped her hand, bending over to place a light, dry kiss upon it as he sketched a bow. “Dear cousin, I heard only yesterday that you had returned from Williamsburg. I know you have been home for almost a fortnight, but please believe I came poste haste to see you!”

Belinda was Jonah’s sister and Morrigan’s dearest friend since childhood. All her life Morrigan had spent her social hours with her cousins. Although Jonah was two years older then she and Belinda three years younger, they had similar interests in music and reading that had set them apart from the children of most planters.

“Thank you.” She felt curiously deflated by his compliment. What were the things that she did well? Reading? Running a household? Keeping Joseph’s books? It seemed like nothing to set a man’s heart beating faster. “Then, if you will excuse me. I must change into my riding habit.”

The riding habit she had–the only one, was a piece of clothing that Morrigan secretly bemoaned. It had a masculine cut to it, and she feared that with her tall frame and pulled back hair she resembled a man too much already. However, in actuality the riding habit suited her well. The fall of lace beneath her chin softened her angular face, and the masculine cut of the cloth hung on her far better than on most women. The militant lines emphasized her full breasts and slim waist. The mannish hat gave her a jaunty, almost playful look. But Morrigan was unaware of the fact that she looked attractive, and so she felt no surprise when Jonah did not compliment her.

Jonah had sent a servant to order a horse saddled for Morrigan and brought around to the front drive. Jonah and Morrigan walked out the front door and down the steps. Their horses stood saddled and waiting for them. Duncan Macleod held their reins. Morrigan blushed when he turned his head and met her eyes. She couldn’t see him without remembering all those little fantasies that crept into her mind about him, and the sudden friendly grin on his face seem to say that he knew exactly what her thoughts were and was amused by it. Morrigan circled around the horse’s head to mount. And Jonah followed to help her into the saddle. Morrigan glanced away to avoid Duncan’s dancing eyes and stumbled slightly. Immediately, Duncan reached out to steady her with a hand on her arm.

He kept his hand there and unceremoniously shoved the reins of Jonah’s horse into Jonah’s hand. Stepping between the two, he effectively cut off Jonah. Jonah gaped, his face flushing beet-red at the servant’s insolence. Duncan bent, cupping his hands. After a moment’s hesitation, Morrigan placed her left foot into his hands, and he lightly vaulted her into the saddle.

Morrigan settled into the sidesaddle and arranged her shirts, then took the reins from Duncan’s hands. Her riding gloves were thin, supple leather, and she could feel the electric touch of his fingers through the material. She could feel as well as hear a slight irritating buzzing inside her head, and thoroughly unsettled now, she touched the animal with her heel and cantered away, leaving Jonah behind. Jonah shot the servant a glance of pure dislike, mounted briefly, and trotted after Morrigan.

Duncan watched them, smiling. He had made an enemy of the pale, boney man, that was sure. He wondered what the man was to Morrigan. Surely not her fiancé? Even the Amazon deserved better than that. She had been beautiful today, and he made a note to make her blush more often because he enjoyed the way the color in her cheeks made her face glow....and her eyes sparkle. After watching her on the horse he had a better understanding of why Pratt had asked him to teach Morrigan to ride. She simply could not ride! His grin deepened to a chuckle as he watched the pair disappear down the driveway! He started to whistle as he reached for a rake. He would idle his time away cleaning the corral area until his lady returned.

He did not have long to wait it would seem. Only a mere half hour after she had left the driveway, he saw her galloping toward him and finally pulling to a halt. Duncan started forward to assist her, but the last thing Morrigan wanted was for him to help her down, so she jerked her foot from the stirrup and began to slide off the horse. In her haste, her flowing habit became tangled around her legs, and she almost fell. Duncan reached her in time, and his strong arms caught her. Inadvertently, her hand touched his shoulder. His skin was warm and smooth beneath her fingers. She snatched her hand away upon realizing that it was inside his shirt..

Morrigan felt her cheeks flaming once again. What he said in itself was nothing to take exception too, but the other meaning that his words made her think of, made her remember that she had fantasized about wantonly flinging all her clothing to the four winds, and tumbling in that haystack behind him...where he could show her most thoroughly how to ride–and find enjoyment in doing so!

Good God, must he say her name like that? She was tempted to scream at him like a fishwife–but not because he was doing anything wrong, but because she was afraid to do the things she wanted to do! He was outrageous! And yes, he was the very first man to drop hints–how very intrigue, and glances, how very exciting!

She frowned darkly at him. He didn’t appear to have the least intention of acting as a servant should–or even as any gentleman should. His eyes said he wanted her. His voice promised husky fulfilment, and for the first time in her life, Morrigan forgot the fact that he should be showing her respect. Well, almost!

Morrigan blinked, surprised that he knew that her name meant warrior princess, or queen. Instinctively her hand came up to slap his touch from her, but he caught her wrist easily and held it trapped. He considered forcing her back until she lay on the ground beneath him. How sweet it would be to sink into her firm body. But, no, he didn’t want her to learn his touch in the midst of anger. She must melt willingly into his arms when the time came. So he simply held her wrist until her arm relaxed, then dropped it.

“Meet me, Morrigan,” he asked her again, his voice deep and unsettling. “I am sorry for goading you–but I do so enjoy watching you fire up. The color in your cheeks and that spark in your eyes–has no man ever told you how alluring your beauty is?”

He flopped down into a pile of fresh hay near the corral and watched her walk away. She moved with none of a woman’s delicacy. Her strides were sure and purposeful, and just watching her move made him harden with longing. “My name is Duncan,” he shouted after her. Morrigan hesitated but did not turn, then continued into the house. Duncan linked his arms beneath his head. The straw tickled his neck, and the air was tangy with its smell. He wondered if she would relent and come for a lesson. Pratt had never once let on that Morrigan would not be a will participant in her riding lessons. Still, Duncan was up to the challenge, and he had learned many years ago to be a patient man. All good things did indeed come to those who could wait.

Morrigan had no intention of going to the stables. She thought often of her lack of intention throughout the evening and the next day. It would not do to encourage the Indentured man. And it was entirely selfish of her to wish to have his eyes looking at her with dark, promising desire. It was wicked of her to be thrilled that he found her worthy of his attention. In general, by the next morning, she had convinced herself that Duncan Macleod was completely innocent of wanting her, and she had simply indulged her imagination a tad too freely.

Her work today was dull. Morrigan was surprise at her lack of appetite at breakfast. She felt strangely restless this morning. After the meal, she retired to the study, which was detached from the rest of the house, to work on the plantation books. Joseph was a money-maker, but he despised keeping records. Elizabeth, had performed the task for him and taught her daughter, so that after her death, Morrigan assumed the job. First she opened the record book containing the names and life events, such as births and deaths, of all the plantation workers. Many of the indentured servants had stayed on to earn wagers after there papers were fulfilled. There was a area in the book for this information. She turned to the current indentured servant listing and carefully penned in Duncan Macleod’s name and date of purchase. Finished with that, she closed the book and reached for the ledger to enter the price Joseph had paid for him, and the cost of the goods that had been taken in trade instead of money.

The ledger contained the full history of the plantation. In it was listed every expenditure for either the farm or the household, and every bit of revenue. She was happily engrossed in checking her figures for the month of August when the door opened and the overseer stepped in

Morrigan looked at him. She wasn’t sure why, but for some reason she doubted his words. Jefferson made her skin crawl, and she avoided him as much as possible. He was a sly, oily man, and she distrusted him thoroughly. She replied crisply, “As you can see, he is not. I suggest you look for him in the house.”

“I’m a plain-speaking man. I tell you what I see, and that’s that you’re past twenty and still unmarried. Unlikely you’ll marry any of the planters around here now, since you haven’t already. Let’s be honest. You might be a bit pretty, but you dress like a man and you’re overly proud. Being like you are can be hard for a man to take.” Morrigan’s eyes flashed. She was so angry she could not even speak. He went on, “But not me. I’m use to your ways. We could deal right well with each other. Fact is, I ain’t after marrying you either....just wanna be a comfort to you as a partner!”

“What!” Morrigan jumped up, all thought of politeness swept away by her outrage. “You dare to suggest that I would lay with you for comfort! Why, you wretched . . . beast! How could you imagine I would accept your offer? And phrased so prettily too! Good God, man, do you think I’m desperate?”

She whirled and plopped back down in her seat, then slapped the desk with both hands. How dare he! How dare he! As if she would let that crawly creature touch her. She rose and paced the room. She should have called Duncan and told him to toss the man out of the room. Morrigan smiled. That sight would have done much to soothe her ruffled feathers. She glanced at the ledger. She was useless for this work until she worked off her fury. Morrigan closed the heavy book and wiped the quill pen clean. Then she left the study and went across the covered walkway into the house and upstairs to her room. Hardly thinking about what she was doing, she yanked her dress off over her head, unbuckled the belt of her hip length pocket hoop, and tossed it onto the bed. She rang for her maid, Joanie, to help her into her riding habit and boots.

Riding was precisely the thing to rid her of her ill humor, she thought. And only Duncan’s company would do after being in that snaky overseer’s presence. So Duncan was an indentured servant and under her control! The man didn’t in anyway let on that he felt controlled, moreover, he made her feel happy, desirable, and wanted for something other than her land! She rammed the tricorn on over her hair and sped down the stairs. Her face still set in its grim lines of anger, Morrigan marched out to the stable yard. “Duncan!” she called, entering the stables, which smelled pungently of hay and horses. “Duncan! I’ve come for my ride!”

“I’d say that’s putting it mildly. All right. Let me saddle your mare.” He went into the tack room and emerged a moment later carrying bridle and saddle. With swift, sure movements, he fastened the equipment on the docile mare. Morrigan watched, admiring the strong, agile movements of his fingers. He snapped a long leading rein onto the bridle and led the horse from her stall. In the yard, he cupped his hands and thrust Morrigan up into the saddle, again making it appear effortless. He positioned her legs and feet, then handed her the reins, arranging her fingers around the leather straps. “No, not so tightly. You needn’t keep a death grip on her. She’s a steady horse with a nice, comfortable gait. Nothing to fear.”

Morrigan swallowed, disturbed by his hands touching such an intimate place as her legs, even though the cloth of the habit. However, he was obviously unmoved by the contact. His face and hands were purely businesslike as he frowningly inspected his work and minutely rearranged it. He was like an artist with a piece of sculpture. She might as well have been a piece of wood or clay as a woman. Morrigan searched for something to say to dispel her own edginess and seized on his remarks. “Mercy’s a Narragansett pacer.”

“Well, she’s certainly merciful to you. Patience might be a more apt name, however. All right, now, tap her gently–gently–in the ribs. No need to go thundering off as you did a few days ago.” Morrigan grimaced, but did as she was told. Duncan stood at the end of the leading rein, stretching it taut, and Morrigan circled him. He pivoted slowly, never taking his eyes off her. “Ease up on the reins. She need little control. You don’t have to fight a horse for mastery. Learn to guide her. Trust her, move with her. Now and then give her a little help by telling her where to go and how fast. Unclench your hands. You can’t force a horse any more than you can force a man.”

“That’s the important word–lead. You don’t jerk and spur and cut their mouths. Husbands or horses. You lead, you suggest, you guide. Haven’t you learned that yet? I thought all women knew such basic wiles.” He grinned at her, his tousled brown hair falling across his forehead.

“You mean I don’t understand my position?” He relaxed the leading rein, and Morrigan allowed the horse to stop as she stared at him. He moved toward her. “I think I do. The sailors on the ship reminded me often enough that I was henceforth less than nothing. You may have me beaten for my insolence, or even put under the lash, which the estimable Jefferson seems to have a fondness for. Will you?” He stopped at her side, his face upturned, the dark eyes piercing as though they would plumb the depths of her soul. “Is it one of your pleasures, milady, to have a man beaten? Does the spurt of blood amuse you, as it entertained you to watch men sold? It fits ill with your careful nurturing abilities that I have seen since arriving here. Which is you as you are? The woman who delights in the sufferings of captives or one who tends to anyone in need of it with unflagging gentleness?”

“Heavens. No. Not Jonah! My cousin on my mother’s side, Beatrice, who lives in Williamsburg and can prattle of nothing but beaux and dresses and parties until I am ready to scream. Even an hour in her company is enough to force me to do anything, even something I loathe just to get away from her!”

Duncan thrust back his dark head and roared with laughter. The sun glinted off the highlights in his hair, and Morrigan was reminded of some Greek god, Apollo, Mars, laughing and powerful. Belatedly she realized she had been conversing in a most inappropriate way with him–and this had not been the first time for that!

Duncan inclined his head as though bowing before her wishes and then grasped her around the waist one more time to lift her into the side. Morrigan hid a grin as she wondered if he felt that he was getting a physical workout with her. After all, all of this lifting her up, lifting her down....

They continued in the same fashion for the remainder of the week. Every day Morrigan had a lesson that lasted approximately an hour. Duncan was insufferably insolent, which she secretly enjoyed, but when he taught her, he was all business and even exhibited a patience that she found wonderfully heart-warming. Once she rode well enough at a walk to suit him, he had her canter and trot, still circling the mare with the leading rein.

“You don’t need to get all fiery-eyed on me,” he said in a low, persuasive voice. “If I do not take you out to practice in a true riding environment, who will watch your form? How often do I have to remind you to loosen up on the reins or straighten or relax your body? Without me to correct your errors, you’ll so be riding the same old way.”

She grimaced at his back as she watched him more to saddle the Arabian, Hercules. The man was really the most infuriating creature! One moment she wanted to slap him, and the next moment she wanted to melt against him! She suddenly felt very anxious and excited, for she would no doubt spend the better portion of the afternoon in his company, and she was not at all sure if she would return unscathed.

Morrigan and Duncan talked almost continually as they rode. He corrected her mistakes in horsemanship and regaled her with stories of his former life in Russia, Africa and Paris. In turn Morrigan expounded on the state in which he now lived, explaining how rice and indigo were grown and processed. He nodded sagely, sometimes asking questions and other times letting her talk uninterrupte