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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed; In war, he mounts the warrior's steed; In halls, in gay attire is seen; In hamlets, dances on the green. Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, And men below, and saints above; For love is heaven, and heaven is love.
Sir Walter Scott
They hadn't been able to stop him from getting out of the bed. Despite the obvious pain wracking his body and the lightheadedness that made him grab for the bed post to keep from passing out, neither could they dissuade him from getting dressed and hobbling down the stairs. Not Tina's shouts of reprimand nor Conor and Brendan's bellows of outrage could deny him. The hands which had reached out to stop him had been batted away angrily and the sturdy bodies of his cousins shoved brutally out of his path as he strode purposefully to the door where Leland stood, blocking the exit. "Get the hell out of my way, Lee!" Sinclair growled, his face harsh in the gray light filtering in through the fan lights. "You are in no condition to go anywhere, fool!" Lee pronounced. He thrust out a restraining hand and shoved Sinclair's shoulder. "Get your tail back upstairs." Sinclair's nose crinkled with absolute fury. "GET THE HELL OUT OF MY WAY!" he repeated, his voice thundering. "No," Leland replied and braced himself. He doubted his cousin would dare to shove him as he had Leland's younger brothers. A red haze of pure rage overshot Sinclair McGregor and he would have plowed headfirst into Leland Brell's gut to move him out of his path had not Conor and Brendan made a grab for him, imprisoning his arms. He bucked in their grip but they held on for dear life, keeping him from getting free. His bellows of unsurpassed irrational fury shook the rafters, but his young cousins were tougher than they looked and stronger than he could have imagined. "Take him back upstairs," he heard his grandmother ordering. "We will shackle him to the bed if need be." "You would not dare!" Sinclair thundered, swiveling his head around so he could glare at the old woman. "I would and I will," Grace Vivienne answered. She turned to one
of the field hands who had come running at Bossie's bidding. "Isaac, get me those
shackles Colonel Brell used for his recalcitrant slaves." When he came to, he was lying spreadeagle in his bed, his wrists and ankles shackled to the bed posts. At first, he just lay there, staring blindly up at the ceiling, ignoring the old woman who sat in the chair beside his bed. The longer he lay like that--utter silence and stillness weighing like a marble slab on his temper--the more he hated his grandmother. And wondered why she hated him the way she did. "Are you rational?" he heard her inquire, but he refused to answer. He blinked, then resumed his steady stare at the ceiling. "She will hang, you know," Grace Vivienne said in a matter of fact tone. Slowly, he turned his head so that he was looking at his tormentress. Had his hands been free, he would have wrapped them around her neck and squeezed until there was no taunting life left in the wrinkled, sagging old body. The thought made him smile, but it was a smile of such evil, such inhuman intent, it made his grandmother lift a white brow in tribute. "You would like to break my neck, wouldn't you, Rory Sinclair?" she asked sweetly. He just stared at her, the hatred in his face as tangible as the iron manacles confining his arms and legs. "Do you want to hear the particulars of what happened at Wind Lass last evening or do you just want to lie there and wonder how and why your whore killed her husband?" He looked away from her, knowing she'd tell him what he was desperate to know all in her own good time. If she could drag it out, make him suffer, make him beg to hear the whole sordid story, she would. He had no intention of giving her the satisfaction of hearing him ask. "When you were little," she said, brushing away a piece of lint from her gabardine gown, "I remember having to whip you for lying to me." She glanced over at him. "Do you remember that, Rory Sinclair?" He remembered every beating the old woman had ever given him. Part of his punishment had always been standing in front of her, being made to remove his shirt and britches and bend over the old table in the potting shed while she vigorously applied the peach tree switch that would cut the blood out of his legs and rump and lower back. He had learned not to whimper; not to utter a sound while she was whipping him for the more he cried, the longer the rein of blows on his unprotected skin. "You had sneaked off to see that little tart," she reminded him. "Do you remember that?" He had sneaked off many a time to see Ivonne, he thought, but the old bitch had caught him only once. When she had asked where he'd been, he'd known better than to tell her he'd been over at the Bouchard place. Her plans for him did not include Ivonne Bouchard. So, he had lied and been caught in the doing of it. "Do you remember what I told you that day, Rory Sinclair?" He remembered, he thought. There was little of his childhood--save any happy times there might once have been--that he did not remember in full, ungodly detail. That day, she had nearly crippled him with the old leather strap that his grandfather had used to sharpen his razor. The leather had sliced into his thighs and rump like a hot knife through butter and he had screamed near the end, begging her to stop. "That little whore will be the death of you, Rory Sinclair!" his grandmother had warned him. "Mark my words: she will end badly and you will pay the consequences of her sins!" Tolbert, his grandfather's overseer, had had to carry Sinclair to his bed that day for the fifteen year old had been unable to walk. Blood ran down his legs and stained the sheets, angering his grandmother even more. When she had stormed into his room, her satchel of potions and remedies in hand, he had pleaded with her not to touch him for he knew well the sting of the brews she kept in that black bag of punishment. "I warned you she would have a bad end, didn't I, Rory Sinclair?" Grace Vivienne asked, bringing him back to the present. Sinclair clenched his jaw, determined not to be baited. He knew all too well his grandmother's propensity for saying just the right words to make a man lose his temper. Or a child, his self-esteem. "Leland and Conor have ridden back into town to consult with Mr. Olson." At the name of the family barrister, Sinclair turned his eyes back to her. He would be gods-be-damned if he'd ask her why Wiley Olson was being consulted; so he just stared at her, waiting; pitting his patience against hers. Grace Vivienne's weathered face slowly crinkled into a pleased smile. "You are learning, boy," she said, a touch of admiration in her tone. Her smile widened. "I may make a man of you, yet." How many times over the years had she accused him of not being man enough to suit her? he wondered. How many other insults had been flung at him? A thousand? Two? Three? Over and over again she had thrown such hurtful barbs at him and many had struck, causing deep-seated scars on his very soul. But none as sharply--and with as much pain--as the one which suggested he was less a man than he should be. "Oh, well," the old woman sighed. "Let it not be said I did not try to mold you into half the man your father was." The dreamy look which always came over his grandmother's face when she mentioned her son-in-law had always puzzled Sinclair. Had he not known better, he would have wondered if the old crone had not been in love with the man who had married her favorite daughter. But he knew that wasn't the case. She had hated his father even more virulently than she hated him, if that were possible. "We will, of course, retain Wiley to represent her," he heard his grandmother saying. He looked at her, narrowing his eyes. "Why?" he asked, hating himself for giving in. Grace Vivienne had won their battle of wills and was satisfied that she had put her grandson in his place once more. She relaxed in her chair. "She admits to killing him," the old woman said. "She shot him squarely in the chest with her derringer." Sinclair flinched. There was no reason for his grandmother to lie to him about the circumstances of Edward's death; the gory details would be known by everyone in Chatham County by now. If Ivonne had killed Edward, he had given her more than ample reason to do so. "Was she hurt?" he asked, dreading the answer. "Not in the least," his grandmother replied. "I believe she pulled the gun from her reticle and shot him before he could react." "He deserved it," Sinclair whispered. "Of course, we will use a defense of insanity," she continued. "What with the miscarriage and all, we will say she was not in her right mind when she did him in. Given his reputation for having……….." "In exchange for what?" he ground out, knowing his grandmother did nothing without a reason. Having Ivonne cleared of murder charges would exact a very high price, he had no doubt. One he would have to pay. "Mark my words: she will end badly and you will pay the consequences of her sins!" She cocked her head to one side. "You will not be allowed to see her, Rory Sinclair," she told him. "Not now nor in the immediate future." "In exchange for what?" he repeated, his heart thundering in his chest for he knew full well that whatever the old woman asked, he'd have no choice but to do. "She was not in his will, by the way," his grandmother continued as though she had not heard him. "That will be a saving point with any jury since she did not stand to gain anything by his death save her freedom from him." His forehead crinkled with concern. Edward had not left Wind Lass to Ivonne? Then who……… "You will marry Evangeline Hardy." Like a bold of lightning from out of a clear blue sky, he began to see where this was going. It hit him hard--like a cannon shot to his heart--and he saw his life stretching out before him in one long, bleak landscape. "Marry Evangeline Hardy," he echoed, disbelief turning his amber eyes a deep brown. "She is the new owner of Wind Lass," Grace Vivienne explained, "and she has agreed to the joining of the two families." Agreed? he thought, wondering just when the snooty bitch had agreed to this hell-spawned marriage. By the gods, she didn't even know him! Had only spoken to him once or twice and then with as much disdain as a woman could put into her tone of voice. He thought back to the way her blue eyes had latched onto the scar on his cheek. He had actually seen her shiver with distaste before looking away. "When was all this decided?" he asked, feeling his happiness slipping further and further from his grasp. Grace Vivienne stood up and stretched daintily, covering a slight yawn. She sat down beside her grandson and laid a gentle hand on his left cheek. "We discussed it at length night before last," she grandmother replied. "She wants a husband who will not make demands of her." Her palm caressed the livid scar bisecting his flesh. "One she can control." "I see," he whispered. And he did. Evangeline no doubt wanted Wind Lass, but she also wanted a man who could make the plantation work for her. With Edward gone, eligible bachelors would begin pouring out to the mansion, vying for the hand of the wealthy woman who now owned the most productive and valuable lands in Eastern Georgia. Hungry men with their eye on the land, not the pretty widow who had inherited it from her deceased brother. Evangeline Hardy would be inundated by offers, but not for herself. "Ivonne will be cleared of all charges and we will see that she is sent to the Continent for a long rest." Grace Vivienne's face became full of womanly concern. "To get over the death of her child and husband and recuperate." "How long?" he wanted to know. "Two years," came the ready reply. Those two years would be hell on earth, he thought, but he had done without her the two years he had wasted away at Camp Douglas. Yet if Ivonne would be cleared…….. "Wiley will see to it that she doesn't serve one day in jail beyond these next three weeks," his grandmother said. Sinclair looked up. "I want her out of that filthy place now!" he snapped. "I'm not about to leave her in there for three weeks!" "The banns must be read," his grandmother reminded him. Grace Vivienne shook her head. "No. The marriage must be performed and the joining consummated before she will be set free." "Consumm………….." He stared at her. "You want me to sleep with the bitch?" "That is what the word means, Rory Sinclair." "No," he said. "I will not. I……." "I would venture to say she is cleaner than Dorrie Burkhart," his grandmother snorted. He ground his teeth, wanting to hurl the filthiest words he could at the old woman, but he doubted if anything would embarrass the hag. He shook his head. "I will not bed that woman." His grandmother's hand slid down to his chin and she took his jaw in a grip that surprised him with its strength. The pressure increased until he locked stares with her. "You either do what I tell you, boy, or that slut will remain where she is until they come to drag her out to the scaffold!" The pressure became an agony of its own as she tugged at his chin. "And I can promise you she will hang." The old eyes flared with purpose. "Do you question my sincerity?" No, he did not question any threat the old woman made because he knew she'd like nothing more than to see Ivonne out of his reach for all eternity. He tried to pull free of her grip, but she anchored his chin, not allowing him to look away. "You'd better listen to me, young man!" she warned him. "I will not have her in that rotten jail cell!" he seethed. They stared at one another for a long moment, then Grace Vivienne gave him enough rope to hang himself with. "All right, Rory Sinclair," she said, releasing his chin. "There is no law that says you have to marry within the church. There are the odd itinerant preachers riding about the countryside. Any one of them could come out to Wind Lass and perform the ceremony today." Sinclair winced. "Today?" he repeated. "The quicker the ceremony, the quicker Ivonne will be released." The very thought of being tied to Evangeline Hardy, Edward Delacroix's vacant-headed sister, was enough to turn his stomach, but nothing mattered except Ivonne's freedom. If he had to exchange the shackles confining his body for shackles confining his soul, it was a bargain he would undertake to keep his woman safe. "What happens after those two years are up?" he asked. "When she returns to Savannah from abroad, she will naturally return to live with her sister-in-law." Grace Vivienne's mouth quirked with disgust. "What you and she do then will be of no concern to either Evangeline or myself." He could not believe any wife would let her husband carry on a liaison with another woman under her roof. Especially not with servants' tongues wagging gossip. He said as much to his grandmother. Grace Vivienne waved her hand in dismissal of his question. "I would imagine you would take that whore and get as far away from Savannah as time and space would allow." She locked her stare on him. "As a matter of fact, I will insist on it!' "And what happens to Wind Lass?" he asked, knowing there had to be a reason his grandmother would agree to any of this and it had to be the family home. Nothing mattered to her as much as Wind Lass. "What's in this for you?" "Evangeline will deed the mansion over to her child," Grace Vivienne explained, "then it will revert to the McGregor family." "What child?" he asked, confusion turning his handsome face blank. There was supreme satisfaction in his grandmother's chuckle. "The one you're going to make gods-be-damned sure you get off her!" she laughed. "You've got two years in which to get her pregnant." Nothing could have stunned--or hurt--him more than that. He felt every muscle in his body give in to the hopelessness of it. She'd make sure Ivonne was kept in--where?--France for those two years and if Evangeline had not conceived in that time……..longer still until the deed was done? "Don't do this," he asked, knowing it was useless to ask. "I'm begging ….." "Don't grovel, Rory Sinclair," she warned him. "It does not become you." There it was: lying there like a coiled serpent ready to strike. Either you accept her deal, Sinclair, he told himself, or Ivonne pays the penalty for your stubbornness. What choice did he have? "Well?" she asked, reaching out to stroke his scarred cheek. "You hate me that much?" he wanted to know. "Yes." He watched her eyes for a moment, then closed his own, giving in to the awful fate she had reserved just for him.
THE LEGENDS BEGIN WITH THE KEEPER OF THE WIND
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