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IN THE WIND’S EYE
Chapter Five
Not to return one good office for another is inhuman; but to return evil for good is diabolical. There are two many even of this sort, who, the more they owe, the more they hate. Seneca
Ivonne's hand tensed on the lace curtain, a tremor running down her body. She stood staring south where, on a slight rise, a dark horseman sat. For three days in a row, he had come, late in the afternoon, just as the sun was beginning to set. Venturing no further than the serpentine creek which separated WindLass from the Brell's property, the rider held his mount still on the crest of that small rise and watched the plantation house. No one had mentioned seeing this daily apparition, but Ivonne knew everyone at WindLass was aware of the solitary visitor's presence. A sound in the hall outside her boudoir door made Ivonne jump and she let go of the curtain, moved away from the window just as there was a sharp, demanding rap at her door and the thick oaken portal swung inward. "How are you feeling today, my love?" Edward asked. He walked to her and gave her his perfunctory kiss on the cheek. He reeked of cheap perfume, cigars, and the brandy fumes on his breath were nearly overpowering. In his right hand he carried his leather riding gloves and he tapped them impatiently into the palm of his free hand as he waited for his wife's answer. "I am well," Ivonne said quietly. She moved to her settee and, with some effort, sat down. "To what do I owe the honor of your visit, sir?" Edward glanced at the lace curtain fluttering at his wife's window and frowned. "I really must insist you keep these windows closed, Ivonne. It is the time of season for the fever and you do not wish to become ill." He walked to the offending window and shut it. Ivonne lowered her head. "It gets very hot in here, Edward." "Then go downstairs," her husband snapped. He walked back to her and stood looking down at her bent head. "I will not be here for supper I have a business engagement in town." He took out his pocket watch and made a great show of studying the time. "I am late as it is." Returning the pocket watch to his vest, he bent down and planted a light kiss on Ivonne's hair. "Don't wait up for me." With that, he was gone as quickly and as impersonally as he had come. He left behind the scent of cheap perfume and stale cigar smoke. And indifference. Ivonne got up from the settee with some effort and went to the window. Pushing back the curtain, she was disappointed to find the rise vacant of its vigil keeper. With a long sigh of regret, she went back to the settle, sat down and buried her face in her hands. He had been watching the house for over a week now, carefully scrutinizing the comings and goings of the staff. No one ventured out this way and no one had come to challenge his right to be where he was. Throwing caution to the wind, he finally rode down from the rise, crossed the stream, and came onto WindLass land. He wanted no trouble with Delacroix or his men, but should it come, he would meet it head on. Despite no longer being the owner of his birthplace, Sinclair would be damned if anyone would drive him or keep him away from his destination. He had thought long and hard about coming here and he saw no reason to deny himself what little comfort the trip would give him. There was a darkness in his soul that needed light and the family cemetery at WindLass was like a beacon drawing him to its flame. It was with genuine surprise that he found the gravestones well-tended, the grass mowed and the wrought-iron railing around the plot newly-painted. There were flowers on his mother's grave and, though not fresh, they were better than no flowers at all. Sinclair dismounted and tied his horse's reins to the wrought-iron. He opened the gate, surprised again when it did not squeak, and ventured inside the plot. His mother and father were buried side by side, the black granite headstone proclaiming their tragedy. "Devon and Felicity McGregor: Taken in death together September 5, 1843." How old was I? he tried to remember. Seven? Eight? That evening stood out in his memory so sharply, but the little details of his own existence during that terrible time were long forgotten. Not so much because of what had happened to his parents, but because that had been the day his grandmother had come to live at WindLass and his life had changed so drastically. "Had you been a better child, Rory Sinclair, your parents would still be alive," she had thrown at him. With his young heart breaking, his world shattering around him, Sinclair's spirit had been thoroughly crushed by the old woman's meanness. To this very day, he wonders why she blames me for his father's death. And why his father's passing would mean more to his grandmother than her own daughter's tragic end. Shaking away memories of a lonely, unloved childhood, Sinclair went to his mother's grave and knelt down on one knee. He swept the hat from his head and laid it beside him on the grass. "I'm here, Mama," he said. Lovingly, he put his fingers to his lips, then reached out and touched the cold gravestone. He lifted his hand to make the sign of the cross, bowed his head, and began the prayers for the repose of his parents' souls. When he became aware he was not alone, he would never remember. It would always seem to him that things which happened in relation to his parents and their untimely deaths would forever exist in a limbo of their own. Passing ghost-like images would always hover just beyond his ability to see them and memories would vanish almost as quickly as they came. Nothing seemed to stick and like the will-'o-the-wisps along the seashore, one moment they were there and the next they were gone. Yet what he perceived behind him meant him no harm and he finished his prayers, once more making the sign of the cross before he looked around, somehow knowing who would be there. "I did not mean to intrude," she said. Sinclair did not trust himself to speak. She was on the other side of the railing, a bouquet of flowers clutched tightly in her hand, and the distance between them had never seemed so great. Ivonne knew she was trembling, but there was no chill to this August day. It was her emotions playing havoc with her body that caused her to shiver so. She hoped he did not notice, but from the way he was staring at her, she knew well he was missing nothing. She tore her eyes from him. "I bring flowers every Wednesday," she said lamely, half-extending the flowers toward him as though they were a peace offering. Sinclair flicked his attention to the flowers. "Today is Saturday," he reminded her. Ivonne looked up. "I was not feeling well Wednesday and I.........." Her voice trailed off. Why should he care whether she had been well enough to come here? The look on his face was so distant, so blank. Even his voice was noncommittal, as passionless as though he were speaking to a stranger. Or someone he no longer trusted. "I will just leave them here," she said, meaning to lay them on one of the two wrought-iron benches which flanked the gate. "They belong on Mama's grave," he said a bit too harshly and instantly regretted his tone for he saw her flinch. He stood up, annoyed with himself, and moved away from the grave. "I won't bite you, Ivonne." A flicker of a smile drifted over Ivonne's lips and she put out a hand to open the gate. With more courage than she actually felt, she pushed it wide and went inside. The closer she came to the man standing so stiffly in the corner of the enclosed plot, the harder Ivonne trembled. She could actually hear the flowers rustling in her hand and would be relieved to place them in the marble urn which sat in the middle of the black granite headstone. Sinclair watched her bend over the urn and take out the old flowers then drop in the new ones. He said nothing as she artfully arranged the lockspur, lavender, coneflowers and daisies that he remembered were his mother's favorites. He folded his arms over his chest and observed this woman he had loved more than life itself say her own prayers for his parents' souls, then straighten up. He met her look, careful not to give any of the hurt and loneliness in his soul away. He looks so angry, she thought. There was none of the sweet warmth that once had been in this man's handsome face. There was no welcome, no semblance of forgiveness in his eyes. He was looking back at her with such indifference, you would have thought she had never meant anything to him. "I hear you will be managing the cotton gin at Willow Glen," she said, wanting so much to take the blankness from his face. Sinclair nodded. "I have to live somewhere and the Brells were good enough to offer a small salary so I won't be completely penniless," he replied and could have kicked himself for the hateful remark. A sharp pain ripped through Ivonne's heart and she turned, needing suddenly to get away from this man she had helped to destroy. "Why?" She stopped, but didn't turn back around at his harsh question. She stood still, her head lowered, her hands clutched in the folds of her skirt. "Ivonne, why?" he repeated, his voice so lost and so hurt. Like a small boy who has been whipped for no good reason. How could she tell him? What could she say that would make him understand? He waited, his heart in his tormented gaze, but she did not turn around. Instead, she pushed open the gate and hurried out. For the first time, he noticed the black woman who had obviously accompanied her mistress for Silky rushed forward and put an arm around Ivonne's quaking shoulders, bending her dark head to speak to the white woman. "WHY?" he yelled, now more angry than hurt. "I loved you, Ivonne! Why did you marry him? Why didn't you wait for me?" He started after her, intent on stopping her and making her answer, but Silky held out a warning hand, denying him the right to come any closer. "Go home, Mister Sin," Silky told him. "We don't want no trouble." "Ivonne?" he questioned one final time, hoping she would say something, but the two women increased their pace and were soon lost among the magnolia trees which grew thick on the edge of the cemetery plot. Sinclair had been given a cottage near the cotton gin because he had not wanted to be under the same roof as his grandmother. The old woman's piercing scrutiny followed him everywhere he went at Willow Glen and her scathing tongue was more than he could bear. He simply could not endure her one more night, yet he had not said it that plainly to Leland. Although Sinclair was sure his cousin understood well enough the reasons for vacating the room allotted to him, he nevertheless had no choice but to take his evening meals with the rest of the family. "Can you afford a cook?" had been Leland's argument. "Well, no, but......." "CAN you cook?" Leland had taunted. Sin's chin had lifted. "My men and I existed off parched corn before we were captured at Cumberland Gap, Lee. I think I can cook biscuits and......." "You will eat with us," his grandmother had insisted and that had been that. Now, sitting alone in the kitchen of his small cottage, Sinclair was fuming over the old woman's demands that he attend a soiree she was giving for Conor and Tina the following week. The newlyweds had honeymooned in Paris and were due back home late the next morning. "We will welcome your cousin and his wife home in style," Grace Vivienne had stated. "The cream of Savannah society will attend." "I have business to see to," he had argued, but his grandmother had been adamant. "You have family obligations, young sir, and you will attend to those first!" "Gods-be-damned hateful old crone!" he named his grandmother and snatched up the canister of brandy he had swiped from Leland's study. You are getting far too fond of this stuff, he told himself as he took a long, hard pull on the fiery plum-flavored liquor. Almost as much of a fondness as Lee seems to have developed. Not that it mattered. Tomorrow was Sunday and the only thing he had to do was go to Mass with the rest of the family. If he was hungover, no one would notice. He'd just sit there with his head down, pious and saintly, and sleep if he had to. At least with his eyes shut he wouldn't have to see Ivonne sitting beside Edward Delacroix, her belly plump with the Creole bastard's offspring. With absolute rage flowing through his body, Sinclair lifted the brandy canister and flung it as hard as he could against the fieldstone fireplace. The expensive Waterford crystal hit the stones, shattered on impact and rained shards of glass all over the kitchen floor. He stared at the pieces, seeing his drunken reflection staring back at him from one of the jagged remnants, and thought what a wonderful metaphor for his life: shattered pieces. "Why?" he asked aloud and thrust his hands through his hair. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and clenched his fingers through the sable curls, tugging brutally at them. "Why did you do it, Ivonne?" To someone who did not know this tormented man, the words and their tone would have sounded hopelessly defeated. But there was no hopelessness at that moment, only blind fury that threatened to suffocate Sinclair McGregor. He sat as he was for ten minutes, perhaps longer, than sprang up from the table as though yanked by unseen hands. With a murderous glint in his demon-dark eyes, he snatched up his hat and slammed out of the cottage.
Dorrie Burkhart smoothed the satin of her scarlet-red gown, adjusted the bodice, then headed for the man who had just entered her establishment. "Looking for company?" she inquired. Sinclair swung his attention from the two women in corsets he had been staring at to the saucy blond woman walking his way. The exaggerated sway of her hips as she approached caught, and held, his attention, and he grinned. "How much?" Her eyesight wasn't as sharp as it used to be but Dorrie, pushing thirty and looking older, recognized gentry when she saw it. Her cornflower blue eyes gleamed as she anticipated the purse this tall, dark man carried. "Depends on who you'd like to spend time with, I suppose," Dorrie replied. She reached out and linked her arm through Sinclair's. "And what you'd like to do" Sinclair looked down into the overly-made up face of the prostitute and thought one whore was as good as another for what he needed. He looked from Dorrie to the two women who had first gained his notice. One was looking his way, smiling coyly; the other was leaning on the piano, her full attention on the man plying the keys. Neither of those women really interested him so he returned his attention to Dorrie. "How 'bout you?" he asked. There was a wavering scar on the man's left cheek, but rather than detracting from his handsomeness, it added to it. The damage done made him appear dangerous and the glint in his cinnamon-brown gaze told her this one would be a handful. He was the kind of man Dorrie preferred: potentially lethal and devastatingly goodlooking. "I am free for most of the evening," she returned. She was held spellbound when the man's finely-chiseled lips stretched brutally over white teeth and his grin became predatory. A shiver ran down her spine and for one moment she thought better of taking him above stairs with her. Sinclair sensed the whore's sudden misgiving. He realized the anger in his heart, seething in his brain, must has somehow communicated itself to her. He relaxed the tenseness of his face. "All I want is a warm body for an hour or so," he told her, letting the sincerity of his request show through. "Nothing weird; nothing exotic. Just a nice warm body." Dorrie's brows drew together. There was just a hint of quiet desperation in the man's words. She became aware of the loneliness in his face. He wasn't begging her with his words to ease that loneliness, but the need was there, nevertheless. And the blazing knowledge that someone, some …woman, had hurt this man very deeply. "Shall we retire to my boudoir, then?" she asked and watched as relief shifted subtly over the man's thin face. Had he thought he would be rejected …here of all places? "I'd like that, mam'selle," he replied and the smile he gave her made Dorrie's heart pound. She had a glimpse of the man he must have been before the wicked scar had damaged his self-image. She led him to the stairs, casting a glance to the two women she thought were most unfortunate not to be taking this man to their bed. "What's your name, Sugar?" Dorrie asked. "Just call me Sin." She watched him sleeping, his hair tousled on the sweat-dampened pillow. There was a frown on his face and his breathing was short, raspy. He was obviously locked in the throes of a nightmare for now and again he would whimper and twitch, his legs thrashing out as though he were running. Ordinarily, as soon as business had been taken care of, Dorrie would eject the customer from her bed. Since she owned the Thorny Rose Gentleman's Club, she could do as she pleased. She had, of course, her regular customers--men of means with deep pockets and generous notions--yet most nights, she simply acted as policeman and overseer of the five girls who were in her employ rather than turning the tricks herself. If Dorrie did not wish to receive 'company' as she called it, she did not. It was rare for her to take on a new client and when she did, she made certain the terms of their relationship were discussed in detail beforehand. Finances always came first with Dorrie Jean Burkhart. But this one was different, she thought as she lay beside the thrashing man and watched him. Her head was propped on the support of one fist; her other hand lay gently on Sin's sweaty shoulder. "Why demons haunt you, Sugar?" she whispered as a loud groan of absolute torment escaped the dreaming man's lips. She reached out to ease a thick lock of hair from Sin's eyes, and as she did, those tortured windows to his soul flew open. For a moment it seemed he did not recognize her; did not know where he was. There was a wild, trapped look on his sweat-glistening face. He stared at her, fear and incomprehension stamped across his countenance like the imprint of an inquisitor's brand. Then he pushed himself up in the bed, his hand shaking as he plowed it through his damp hair. "How long have I been asleep?" he asked, his voice gruff. "An hour or so," she replied. She knew it was longer than that, but it didn't matter. Sinclair drew in a long breath then let it out in a wavering rush. His mouth tasted as though a herd of buffalo had tramped through it and his head was pounding fiercely. "What the hell did I drink?" he demanded, licking his lips. "I don't know what you had before you came here, honey, but you drank a bottle of my best cognac as though it were lemonade," she laughed. "Cognac?" he repeated. My god! How much am I going to owe this woman? he thought. He tried to remember exactly what he'd had in his pockets when he'd come here, but couldn't remember. He looked out over the room, searching for his trousers. "Don't worry about that now," Dorrie told him, instinctively knowing what he was thinking. "I haven't been loved like that since I lost my........" She stopped, chuckling silently. "Well, let's just say I had a good time," she finished. Sinclair couldn't remember what had happened from the time he'd walked into the Thorny Rose Gentleman's Club and the moment he'd awakened to find this strange woman leaning over him, her hand on his cheek. He couldn't even remember her name. "I gotta get outta here," he said lamely and started to throw the covers back from his naked body; but the effort made his head swim unmercifully and he gagged, instant nausea galloping up his throat to burn and warn. "I don't think you'll be going anywhere anytime soon," Dorrie predicted. She tossed the covers back from her side and stood up, hurried to the chamber pot tucked under his side of the massive brass bed and sat down beside him. She had barely dented the mattress before he got sick. Grimacing, Dorrie held Sinclair's forehead as he relieved his supper into the chamber pot. "I don't think you're all that use to drinking, are you, Sugar?" she queried. "No," he answered weakly before another round of nausea turned his world into a series of sickening strains. When it seemed there was nothing more for her patient to bring up out of his spastic gut, Dorrie left him with the chamber pot clutched tightly in his hand and went to find the soothing powders that would ease his sickness. She mixed the powders with water and brought the green-tinted milky cure back to him. "Here, drink this." As sick as he still felt, Sinclair didn't question her order. He meekly drank the godawful mess, hoping the whore hadn't poisoned him. He was grateful when she helped him lie back down because he didn't think there was any way he could get up and navigate on his own. "I think you'd better just spend the night here, Sugar," Dorrie advised. "Can't," he whispered, although the pain was easing from his pounding temples and the fur was being shaved from his teeth. "Afraid the little woman will come looking for you?" Dorrie teased. She had looked for a wedding ring when he'd first come in and hadn't seen one. But that didn't make much difference in this day and age. There were men who refused to wear a wedding band and those who took the tell-tale sign of commitment to vows off when they ventured in establishments such as hers. "I don't have a woman," came the soft reply. "It seems she couldn't wait." Ah, Dorrie thought. This was one of the walking wounded, then. A man who had gone off to war, leaving behind a sweetheart, only to come home and find another man had usurped his place while he had been risking his life for his country. "She didn't deserve you, then," Dorrie pronounced with firm resolve. Sinclair shook his head. "I wasn't good enough for her." Dorrie's lips tightened. "Well, that's a load of horse shit if I've ever heard it! You are certainly one hell of a man!" she snapped. When he looked over at her, surprised, she arched a brow. "Professionally speaking, of course." Sinclair blushed and had to look away. "It has been a long time," he mumbled. "Once you learn to ride, you never forget how," Dorrie proclaimed and was delighted to see the blush on Sinclair's face deepen. How many men did she know who were still capable of blushing? Not many! "I, ah,......." Sinclair cleared his throat. He looked once more for his trousers and finally saw them folded neatly on the woman's desk chair. "I have to go." Dorrie didn't say anything as her bedmate tossed back the covers and swung his long legs over the side of the high bed. For a moment, she watched him hover there, gripping the mattress tightly, his head hanging down. She knew he was still feeling the powerful effects of the potent cognac he'd consumed and was certainly in no condition to leave, let alone climb atop a horse; but she kept silent, waiting for him to realize he wasn't going to be able to get up on his own steam. As she watched him and waited, her gaze roamed over the broad expanse of his back and lingered on the three long grooves which had been cut into the flesh across his shoulders, down his spine and along one hip. The daughter of a muleskinner, Dorrie knew damned well what had caused such destruction and wondered what Sin had done to warrant such inhumane treatment. "I don't think I'm gonna be able to get up, mam'selle," she heard him say. Dorrie smiled. "I didn't think you would." He tired to turn his head to look at her, but the nausea came galloping back and he had to swallow hard to keep it down. "Just lay back down and let's get some sleep. Dawn isn't that far off," she reminded him. Despite his drunken agony, Sinclair's head snapped up. Dawn? He could feel the blood draining from his face. How long had he been in this woman's bed? "If you're worried about what you owe me," Dorrie told him, "don't. First time's on the house." "No," he managed to say. Business was business and he'd pay for what he got. "It may take me awhile to pay you for last night, but......." "Lay down," she cut him off. "We can discuss our future arrangements later. When you feel better." Sinclair was finally able to twist around so he could see her face. "Future arrangements?" he questioned. Dorrie inclined her head. "Let's just say I would prefer you reimbursed me in kind, Sugar." His brows drew together. "In kind?" She reached for him, pulling him unresisting back down to the bed. "Let's negotiate our terms," she said and her hands set out to do the explaining for her.
The sun was well up in the sky before Sinclair was able to make his way out of the Thorny Rose Gentleman's Club. He had to put up a hand to ward off the harsh sunlight. Squinting against the glare, he walked to his horse and mounted. How he was going to explain his absence from Mass this morning was uppermost in his mind as he took the road out of town. By now, the family would be gathered at Willow Glen, having lunch. Would Conor and Tina be back by now? he wondered and thought briefly of going down to the docks to see if the Northwind had docked. But in his condition--rumpled and with a day's worth of stubble on his unwashed face--he certainly wouldn't make a presentable figure to greet his returning cousins. No, he thought. Best to go home, take a bath, and then head on over to Willow Glen. He was already mentally preparing himself for the vicious lecture he could expect from his grandmother and the knowing looks from Lee and Brendan. "Who was she?" he could hear Leland asking. "How MUCH was she?" Brendan would need to know. What was her name again? Dorrie, he remembered. A slight smile slipped into place on his lips. Maybe life wasn't going to be so bad in Savannah after all.
THE LEGENDS BEGIN WITH THE KEEPER OF THE WIND Go To Chapter Six
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