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CHAPTER ELEVEN
Oft in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, Then words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken.
Thomas Moore
Leonie looked over her shoulder and frowned. Sinclair was sleeping still, but fitfully. His battered face lay in a beam of sunlight filtering in through the window and the depth of the savage beating he had taken was overwhelming. It hurt her tender heart to see the physical reminder of the further pain this man had suffered and she turned away, unable to look upon that battered visage much longer for fear she'd run screaming like a banshee into the forest in search of his attackers. Not that those sons-of-bitches would go unpunished, she thought grimly as she set about fixing a meager breakfast for her patient. She vowed that if it was the last thing she ever did, she'd find the men who had brutalized Sinclair McGregor and make them pay dearly for what they'd done to him. There is no greater concept of vengeance in all the world than a female intent on righting a wrong done to one of her own; and in Leonie Emerson's mind, Sinclair McGregor was hers. "Ivonne!" Leonie's hands stilled on the bread she was slicing and she lifted her head to stare blindly at the cabin wall in front of her. She didn't hate Ivonne Delacroix. Never had and probably never would despite the fact the woman had hurt Sinclair more than any beating ever could. But she envied Ivonne her delicate beauty and shapely figure; her glorious black hair and beautiful brown eyes. And the love of the man whose plaintive cry had cut a long slice through Leonie's heart. "IVONNE!" She turned and went to his bed, sat down, and reached for him, drawing him to her. "Hush, now, dearling," she whispered, smoothing the sweat-dampened hair from his forehead. "I am here." Sin felt the warm arms around him and in his semi-conscious state, believed it was his love who held him. The scent of her perfume filled his nostrils; the touch of her hand on his brow filled his soul with a need that overpowered the pain in his body. He could hear her crooning to him, but his head hurt so unmercifully bad, he could not make out the words. All he knew was that she was talking to him, comforting him, and he reveled in having her hold him. But Sinclair McGregor needed more from the woman he cherished more than life itself than the sweet pleasure of her arms around him. The moment his hand slid up to her breast, Leonie was lost. She drew in a shocked breath--started to protest, to push the hand gently away--but the glorious feel of those strong fingers caressing her, touching her where no man's fingers had ever strayed, stilled the denial on her lips and overrode the guilt in her lonely heart. Instead of stopping what she knew was wrong, she reached out to press that questing hand tighter to her chest. Somewhere in his soul, Sinclair knew what he was doing wasn't right, but he ignored the warning. Yes, she was married to another man. No, she was not his to do with as he pleased. But, damn it all to hell, she was his! She loved him as he loved her and why could he not consummate that precious love if she wanted it as much as he? She was willing--her hand on his told him as much. Her shallow, quick intakes of breath told him she was as aroused as he; as eager for him as he was for her. Yet still, he was a gentleman and he would not take what he was not given permission to have. "Please?" Leonie heard him ask. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, knowing full-well he did not know whose body he was touching; in whose arms he lay. "Beloved?" There was one brief moment when she could have stopped it from happening; one tick of the clock that would have made the difference between heaven and damnation. A single flicker of time when a single word would have sufficed. A simple removal of his hand would have put an end to the madness. Getting up from his bed would have been enough. But she did none of those things. Instead, she laid down beside him and gave herself up to the wonder of his hands on her unfulfilled body.
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Ivonne woke with a start, her heart thudding in her chest. She sat up, pushing herself up in the bed, wincing a little. She turned her head to the window where sunlight streamed through and wondered what had pushed her so rudely from slumber. The storm which had raged over Willow Glen the night before had washed the heavens clean and it was a bright, sunny day filled with promise. And the surety that she would see Sinclair. So why did she feel this heavy burden in her chest? Why were her hands trembling and her mouth dry? It was almost as though she had had a premonition in her sleep of some terrible tragedy to come and the spirit of darkness had nudged her awake. "Damn foolish woman," she called herself, yet the unease, the dread she was experiencing would not leave her. When Bossie tapped gently at her door with her breakfast meal, Ivonne was still nervous and full of uncertainty. "Dat was some downpour, huh, Miss Ivonne?" Bossie asked. "Yes, it was," Ivonne answered. She smiled shyly at this mountain of a woman she'd known most of her life and trusted as much as she did her own Silky. "Has Mr. Sinclair arrived yet or are the roads impassable?" She knew he had not returned the evening before. Bossie frowned. "We ain't seen him yet dis mornin', but dat ain't nothin' unusual with dat boy!" Ivonne looked down at the coverlet. "How has he been, Bossie?" she asked. "You knows how he's been, Miss Ivonne," Bossie replied with a touch of bitterness. "You done went and broke his heart when you married dat man. How you 'spect him to be?" Ivonne nodded. "I know I hurt him." "Dat you did," Bossie said with emphasis, "but what's done, done be done and cant's be changed." "I know," Ivonne said quietly. She looked up. "Do you think he will forgive me for hurting him?" Bossie shrugged. "Knowing dat boy, I'd say he's already done dat." She started to say something else, but there was a discreet knock at the door. "It's Dr. Doorenbos," came the pronouncement. Bossie opened the door for the physician and left him with his patient. She trudged her bulk down the stairs and into the kitchen where Miss Grace Vivienne was nosing through the cupboard. "Whatchu doing, Miss Grace?" the black woman inquired. "That woman," Grace Vivienne snapped, "says she has a belly ache and I was looking for some castor oil." Bossie knew her mistress was talking about Delacroix's sister, Miss Evangeline. She grinned. "You gonna give her castor oil for a belly ache?" "I'd give her strychnine if I knew no one would find out," Grace Vivienne snapped. "Don't she know what castor oil be for?" Bossie chuckled. "That gal doesn't know her tail from a hole in the ground!" Grace Vivienne snorted. "If she hadn't stuffed her prissy mouth full of our food last evening, she wouldn't be having a belly ache today." The old woman's sharp eyes narrowed with lethal intent. "Find me that gods-be-damned castor oil, Bossie!" Bossie walked to one of the cupboards, opened it and pulled out an amber-colored glass bottle. "If'n you gives it to her in some apple juice, that'll make it work that much quicker, Miss Grace." Grace Vivienne's smile could have equaled that of her girlhood when she was of flirting age with all the gallant young beaux of Chatham County. "A very good suggestion, Bossie." She watched as the black woman filled a large tumbler with apple juice then poured a goodly amount of castor oil into the juice. "Dat should do the trick!" Bossie proclaimed and extended the glass to her mistress. "That looks good," Conor said as he came through the kitchen door. "How 'bout fixin' me some, Bossie?" "You don't wants none of this, Mr. C.J.," she told him. Her mouth stretched into a wide grin. "Dis be for dat woman." Conor didn't need to ask which woman. Bossie certainly would never do anything to harm Sin's beloved Ivonne and if that knowing smirk on his grandmother's face was any indication, what was in the tumbler was certainly not something he'd care to drink. "On second thought, I'll just have a glass of milk," he suggested. "Good choice, young man," his grandmother agreed. She took the glass and walked regally from the room, a smile of pure spite on her weathered face. "Sin ain't here, yet?" Conor asked Bossie. "Ain't seen him." Bossie poured him a large tumbler of milk and handed it to him. Conor frowned as he sat down at the kitchen tale. "That's strange, don't you think?" "Reckon he's still smarting," Bossie decreed. "Blames himself for what happened." She set to work making Conor's breakfast. "Where yore lady dis mornin'?" Conor wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "She was feeling a touch sick to her stomach and said she didn't want no breakfast." Bossie looked around. "Sick to her stomach?" she repeated. "You're too good a cook, Boss Lady," Conor laughed. "She ate way too much last night." "Wouldn't my food what's made her sick, boy," Bossie grated, narrowing her eyes at him. "She been sick 'fore now?" The young man shrugged. "A few times over in France, but you know how rich that food is." "Uh, huh," Bossie agreed. She turned around, hiding the smile she didn't want him to see. "Leland already out?" Conor inquired. "Had him up and fed early and he be over to the sawmill, I reckon," Bossie replied. "Well, he'll see Sinclair, then," Conor stated. "Don't guess I need to ride over to check on him." "Reckon not," Bossie concurred. ********************************************** Evangeline grimaced terribly as she returned the tumbler to her hostess. "That has to have been the most god awful mess I've ever put in my mouth!" she exclaimed. I'll bet you've put something even worse in your mouth many a time, Grace Vivienne thought viciously, but didn't utter her comment. Instead, she put on a false face of sympathy, set the tumbler on the night table beside the bed, and stooped over to adjust the Hardy woman's covers. "You just rest today, dear," Grace Vivienne commanded. "I'll have your meals sent up." "I don't believe I can eat a thing right now," Evangeline declared. "Well, just ring when you're hungry," the old woman told her. "Don't worry," Evangeline snapped. "I will." She cast her hostess a stern look. "You are taking care of Sister, aren't you? Edward would not be pleased to know his wife was being neglected." Grace Vivienne stiffened. "She is getting the best of care, I assure you, Madame." Her tone became hostile. "I would venture to say she's getting far better care here than she received at WindLass!" Evangeline's eyes narrowed into thin slits of malevolence. "What the hell is that suppose to mean?" "You know perfectly well what it means," the old woman ground out. "I don't know what you gave her, but you gave her something to make her lose that baby she was carrying." "How dare you!" Evangeline hissed, but her face had paled, her eyes widening with instant fear. "I would never do anything to hurt……….." "Shut up," Grace Vivienne commanded. "I don't give a rat's tail what you do to that whore. I care about as much for her life as I would a rattlesnake's." She leaned over the bed. "As long as she is under my roof where Sinclair has cause to worry about her, then I'll see to her comfort and safety. " Her eyes filled with an unholy light. "But once she's back at WindLass, you can do whatever the hell you want to her. " She straightened up, wincing at the pain in her spine. "Do we understand one another?" Evangeline stared at the old woman, not believing the true evil she saw reflecting in the watery gaze, but recognizing it well, nevertheless. It was an evil she'd often viewed in her own eyes through the reflection of a mirror. Like always recognized like, her old grandmother use to say. "Do we understand one another?" Grace Vivienne repeated. A slow nod lowered and raised Evangeline's head. "Yes, I believe we do." "Good," the old woman pronounced. She turned away, putting an end to the dangerous conversation. Whatever the tramp decided to do was fine by her as long as it wasn't done at Willow Glen. Evangeline sat perfectly still as the door to her room snapped shut with a finality that was almost as purposeful as the grave. She stared at the closed portal, going over the old woman's words in her mind, then shuddered. She'd hate to make an enemy of Grace Vivienne Brell. ***************************************** Leland barely glanced up as Conor rode by. He waved at his brother, realized he should have asked after Sinclair, but there didn't seem much need. He hadn't expected his cousin to come to work to day because he knew the man would be too worried about Ivonne. Besides, Brendan needed the experience of running the crew if the boy was ever going to make anything of himself. "Hamp!" Leland called out. "Where's that idiot going with that load of pulp wood?" The black foreman looked around. He wished Mr. Sin was here. Already this morning--and it wasn't even ten o'clock yet, Mr. Lee was slurring his words and smelled like Brooks' still down the road from the sawmill. Lord, but that white man could put away the white lightning. Sighing heavily, he hunched his shoulders in his dirty old brown cotton shirt and starting ambling toward his boss, wishing he knew what was keeping Mr. Sin. ************************************** Sin was sleeping again, lying on his back with one arm flung over his eyes. His gentle snores were comforting to the woman who sat in the rocking chair beside the bed, watching him. There was a slight ache between her thighs, but other than that, and the tell-tale stains on Sinclair's sheets, there was no sign Leonie Emerson had, after all these years, finally become a woman in the truest sense of the word. As she sat there, her hands on the rocking chair's arms, and gently rocked, she was as content with the world as she had ever been. Despite the slight niggling sense of sinfulness that now and again flickered across her dyed-in-the-wool Protestant brain, she was at peace with herself. Her dreams had come true with the man of her dreams and she would allow nothing, nothing, to get in the way of the happiness that had made her world mellow this morning. All that concerned her were the lies she had formulated to keep Sinclair from ever knowing what he had done. Not that would be all that difficult, she reasoned, as her gaze drifted over the numerous blood stains spotting his sheets. What were a few more little specks? He wouldn't even notice them; she intended to see he didn't. No, she thought. He could never know that he had crossed the threshold and taken her with him. It would not do and his guilt would be a cruel master she knew he could ill-afford at this juncture of his life. Protecting him from his folly--one in which she had wholeheartedly participated and, if truth were told, wanted to happen--would be the kindest thing she could do for him now. The thought of the possible consequences of this morning's endeavor slipped insidiously across her brain. She stopped rocking. Well, she thought, what would be, would be. Her hand went to her belly and she caressed the overweight bulge there. If she conceived, it was meant to happen. She would have to leave Savannah for the child's sake, she lamented, but that was better than having to raise Sin's son or daughter with the stigmata of being a bastard attached to his or her name. In a new town--away from the gossiping tongues and knowing eyes of Chatham County--she could hint of a tragic, untimely death of her 'husband'. No one would know; no one would care. Widows always received special respect in a community and a widow, alone and raising the child of a deceased war hero, would garner extra sympathy. She began to rock again, her eyes steady on Sinclair's still form. Oh, Lord, but how she loved him, she mused. Had loved him for so many years. Her virgin dreams had been filled with his handsome face and tall, straight form. His laughter had always sent a shiver of delight through her body and his smile………well, his smile had sent shivers elsewhere. "'From childhood's hour I have not been as others were--I have not seen as others saw--I could not bring my passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken my sorrow; I could not awaken my heart to joy at the same tone; and all I lov'd, I lov'd alone'," she quoted her favorite writer, Poe. Yes, she thought. She had loved him alone. He had never known nor would he ever know. She meant to keep her secret from him. That was the kindest thing she could do for him, she thought again. She closed her eyes and laid her head on the rocker's tall back. In her mind's eyes, she was seeing his dear face hovering over hers as he made her his woman for all time. Her body felt his hands once more. Her senses filled with the scent of him, the warmth of him, the weight of him as he pressed her body into the mattress. No other man would ever touch her again because in her heart, Leonie knew no other man could possibly live up to the expectations Rory Sinclair McGregor had fulfilled so expertly. "Miss Leonie?" Her eyes flew open and straight to the bed. She could feel the heat rushing to her face as she saw him looking at her, struggling to see her through the puffiness that swelled his eyes. She bounded from the chair and rushed to him. "How are you feeling, Captain?" she inquired, putting out a hand to feel his sweat-dotted brow. "May I have some water, Ma'am?" he responded. "You certainly can!" she exclaimed and hurried to pour him a glass from the pitcher she'd placed on his night table. Sitting down beside him, she gently lifted his head and helped him to drink. "Not too much," she cautioned. His lips were painful and it was difficult to drink, but he was parched and felt feverish. When she eased her hand from behind his neck, he lay back down and groaned, the pain throughout his body rushing over him like a runaway train. "Tell me what I can do to help, Captain," Leonie asked. "How long have I been out?" he asked. Leonie bit her lip. "Since noon yesterday," she lied. He lifted the back of his hand to his torn lips. "I must apologize for………" "You have no need to apologize to me for anything, Captain," she was quick to tell him, her gaze wandering to a particular splash of crimson on his sheets. "Tuck will no doubt be coming back to check on you and when he does, I'm sure he'll go on to Willow Glen to let them know what happened." Sin's jaw clenched. "They'll come back to finish the job once they find out I'm still alive." Leonie nodded. "I would imagine so. Did you know them?" "No, Ma'am, but I got a good enough look at them to recognize them when I see them again," he answered. He shifted in the bed, flinching at the renewed agony in his ribs and gut. "Lie still," Leonie advised. "We don't know how much damage was done." "More to my gods-be-damned pride than to my body," he sighed. He tried to look up at her, but his vision was still blurred and it was difficult to see through the swelling. "How bad is my face?" "They whipped you good," she replied, her scrutiny wandering over the livid bruises and battered nose. "Your nose is broken and you're damned lucky they didn't break your jaw. All in all, I'd say you'll heal fairly well. Maybe a cut or two will leave scars, but nothing as harsh as the one you already have." Sin winced. He was very conscious of the scar down his left cheek. "It makes you look very dangerous, Captain," Leonie told him. The scar fascinated her and although the pain it had caused him hurt her to her very soul, she rather liked it on his handsome face. It gave him a maturity and manliness that had not been there when he ridden off to war. All through the night they had passed together, she had lovingly touched that material source of his torture and wished she had been there to help him adjust to it. She knew he hadn't--perhaps never would--but to her, it was a sensual mark that set him far apart from other men. Rather than detracting from his male beauty, it only heightened it. "My back feels like it's caved in," he said, changing the subject. "There's a pretty bad cut back there," she told him. Her brow furrowed. "I didn't know they whipped prisoner's of war, Captain." "The man that did that had a particular grudge against me, Miss Leonie," he replied. "I remembered him the moment I saw him and I know he remembered me." Leonie cocked her head to one side. "You knew him before the war?" Sin nodded although it nearly cost him his consciousness. He squeezed his eyes shut to keep the nausea and blinding pain from pushing him over the edge. Keep talking, he said, or you'll pass out again. "I had the displeasure of making his acquaintance up in Boston when I was there with Leland just before our Carolinian brothers seceded," he explained. "When y'all went up to buy that stallion from that Arabian fellow," she added. There wasn't much she didn't know about Sinclair McGregor and what he had been doing before the War. She had made it her business to find out all she could about the man. "Ben-Alkazar," Sin acknowledged. "A nice man. Good horse breeder." He ran a hand over his sweaty face. "That Yankee s.o.b. was working for the American agent who was handling the sale. I got a look at him when he was unloading the stallion off Captain van de Lar's ship. Later that evening, I saw him again." "Under less than pleasant circumstance if your expression is any indication," Leonie observed. "Aye," Sin agreed. "The bastard was trying to
rape a little girl." "Lee and I pulled him off her, but he swore she was a…….." He stopped, his face flaming. "Prostitute?" Leonie supplied. "Ah, yes," he answered, his mouth tight with embarrassment. "That may well be true up there in the heathen North, Captain," she reminded him. "All the same, he didn't need to be pawing that child," Sin grated. "That goes without saying," she agreed. "So when you come across him a few years later and he recognizes you, he undertakes to make you sorry you interfered with his night's pleasure." "Something like that," Sin mumbled, acutely uneasy with the turn the conversation had taken. "I paid dearly for interrupting him, I assure you." "Whatever happened to him?" Sin looked up. There was fire in her eyes and he figured she could handle the truth. "I strangled him with my manacle chains," he admitted. "Good," was her firm pronouncement. "I hope he suffered." A slight smile touched Sin's split lips and he moaned. "Ah, Miss Leonie, I need……." He stopped, trying to push himself up. "I've got to…….." "Use the chamber pot," she finished for him. Before he could answer, she bent over and pulled the porcelain appliance from beneath his bed. "Miss Leonie, you'll………." He was embarrassed beyond measure and didn't know how to ask her to leave him to his own devices, but he didn't need to. She got up from the bed and, in a matter of fact and business way, calmly walked out of his cabin and firmly shut the door behind her. It took some doing on his part to swing his legs from the bed and stand, but relieving his bladder was well worth the head-swimming and the bruised muscles that screamed in agony with every breath he took. When he was finished, he thought for a moment of going to the cheval mirror and taking a look at the damage done to his face, but what difference did it make anyway? Who was there to really care what he looked like? The only woman whose opinion counted didn't seem to care one way or the other. Dorrie said it didn't matter and Miss Leonie had indicated that it was of no real importance, so what the hell? Lying back down, he flung his arm over his eyes again and sighed. He'd give himself time to heal. Let the broken bones mend; the split skin seal itself together again. Then he'd do what the war had taught him to be good at doing: he'd kill Edward Delacroix.
THE LEGENDS BEGIN WITH THE KEEPER OF THE WIND
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