Tender (The Trelawneys of Williamsburg Time Travel Romance Book 1) Read online

  “What?”

  “And I believe it’s in your best interest—and certainly hers—to allow him to remain in ignorance.”

  “How can you say that? Look at her!”

  “It’s deplorable.”

  “Why didn’t Grey dismiss him?”

  “Lord Windmere would’ve preferred to—ah, I believe his words were, ‘hang the miscreant from the yardarm.’ I persuaded him such emotionalism would encourage a rising.”

  “God forbid a human being should get a crazy notion like freedom in his head. Better they shuffle through life letting people beat them within an inch of their lives.”

  “We do not allow our bondservants to be mistreated. If Manning raises a hand against another without cause, he’ll be dismissed and prosecuted. But if news travels that we’re keeping a free black, it may cause trouble. Proof may be demanded—and that, my dear, would serve no one.”

  She sighed. “Camisha isn’t the most soft-spoken woman I know. How am I to keep her out of harm’s way?”

  “Lord Windmere suggested she be your personal attendant.”

  Oh, wouldn’t Camisha just love that.

  “He thinks she’s merely another slave, doesn’t he?”

  “He’s in fact quite confused, because he doesn’t recognize her.”

  “All right.”

  “Shall I send up a supper tray for you and—er, what was her name?”

  “Camisha. Camisha Carlyle.”

  “Miss Carlyle, then.”

  Another hour passed with little change. Everyone was abed by now, and the house was still. Her gaze fell on the tray a kitchen maid had delivered earlier in the evening. She’d managed to dribble a little herb tea down Camisha’s throat, but the tray remained untouched. A scrap of paper lay where she’d left it, and she read it again.

  Rachel—Emily missed you this afternoon and begs you to reconsider your decision. Ask whatever you need for the young lady, and it’s yours. As I am … Grey.

  Her mouth twisted in frustration, pain, and foolish hope. She tossed the paper back on the tray.

  Camisha’s forehead was still warm, and she smoothed back her hair in grim affection. “Child, you’d have a fit if you could see this hair.”

  Wearily, she dressed for bed and sat in the soft rocker near the bed, reading Pamela. Presently the plot lost her attention, and the book fell unheeded from her lap. She turned in the chair, found a more comfortable position, and slept.

  Sometime later she awoke. The candle had burned low, its flame flickering brightly over Camisha’s face, which was bathed with sweat and contorted in pain. Rachel hastily bent over her.

  “Camisha,” she said, grasping her shoulders. “It’s Rachel.”

  She pressed her hand against Camisha’s forehead and gasped. Dear God, how hot! Dipping the washcloth into the bowl of water, she bathed her forehead, then repeated it. And again. Still her fever raged. Fear battered Rachel, and she grabbed the cup, dribbling more of the tea between Camisha’s cracked lips. Her hand flailed out.

  “No!” She cried out in childlike tones, “don’t hit me! I won’t tell, Mr. Sheppard. I promise.”

  Tears welled in Rachel as she stroked her hand. “It’s all right, Cammie. I swear he’ll never hurt you again, if I have to kill him with my bare hands.”

  Camisha quietened, her head tossing restlessly against a foe she couldn’t escape: memory. For all these years, she had silently borne bitter memories Rachel had been spared. Now, as she fought her most desperate battle, those unspeakable acts returned to torment her anew. What had Max put her through?

  Her dry fever terrified Rachel, and she stubbornly cupped her face once more, forcing the liquid down her throat as she fought tears.

  The comfrey was working, but it needed time; for no more than want of an aspirin, Camisha could die here while she watched. The tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “Damn it, Camisha,” she cried angrily, her hand curving around her jaw, “you can’t do this to me. I need you too much.”

  Her tears fell on Camisha’s cheeks, and as she dipped the cloth into the water and rinsed it, she silently prayed. Presently Camisha went limp, and her head lolled to the side.

  Consumed with her tears, Rachel didn’t hear the door open. She didn’t know Grey was there until he knelt beside her, resting his hand on Camisha’s forehead. Then he straightened, gripping Rachel’s shoulders. He softly murmured her name, drawing her to her feet, and she sank into his strength in weary grief. His arms supported her, holding her close. “Come with me.”

  “I have to stay with her. She needs me.”

  “The fever broke. She’ll be all right.”

  Her tears caught, and she looked at Camisha. She still lay on her side, and her chest rose and fell in deep, heavy breaths.

  “She needs no more than time to rest, and heal. As you do.”

  He wore a robe of charcoal silk. His hair was loose and rumpled, his eyes fraught with concern. Framing her face in large, gentle hands, he traced her eyes with his thumbs, wiping away the lingering tears. His eyes flickered in earnest indecision over her face, and he gave a deep sigh, dropping a kiss on one eyelid, then the other. Inexplicably moved, she slid her arms around his neck, pressing her face against his throat.

  His voice caught in a wordless sound as he scooped her into his arms and carried her down the hall. His room was twice as large as hers, bathed in the soft glow of a dozen or so candles. An oriental rug of charcoal and dove-gray, interwoven with black and crimson, ran the length of the room. Pale, ethereal moonlight spilled in through the window, and a candle burned on a stand near the bed.

  But all was dominated by the bed, framed with deep burgundy curtains. A second layer of sheer white was drawn and hastily flung back, as if he had bolted out of bed.

  He nudged the door closed and crossed the room, laying with her within the rumpled bedclothes. She moved over, seeing the hesitation in him; at last he climbed into the bed, drawing the sheer drapes closed. Bathed by the candle’s flame beyond, their sanctuary was infused with a golden luster. His hair was silhouetted with fiery tones, and gray eyes gleamed silver. “Lie there and relax.”

  She lay her head on the soft, down-filled pillows. He leaned on one elbow, his scrutiny troubled. “Who is that woman?”

  Her gaze fell away as Camisha came between them.

  “Rachel,” he said, lifting her chin. “Please don’t draw away from me. I’m only a man, and—my mistakes are many.”

  She saw the place within him that he’d opened for her, and she sighed. His hand rested on her throat, hesitantly stroking with one long finger.

  “Do you remember the night of the governor’s ball?”

  His eyes kindled. “I’ll never forget it.”

  The memory swept her: fiery blues, reds, and yellows exploding overhead while he held her. She remembered the moment’s sweetness—before she had known he could never be hers.

  “You mentioned a friend that night. You said she was the only person you loved in this world.”

  “Yes. That’s her—her name is Camisha Carlyle.”

  He smoothed a stray strand of hair away from her face, and his hand lingered in her dark curls. “She’ll be fine. Put that out of your mind.”

  He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Get some sleep. I suspect Miss Carlyle will keep you busy in the morning.”

  Flinging the drape aside, he threw his long legs over the side of the bed and rose. The yellow glow in the room slowly went dark as he snuffed the candles one by one, and the moon’s brightness suffused the room with a pale blue light that glimmered in his eyes as he slipped into bed. Spreading the sheet over her, he stretched out and shoved a pillow beneath his head. “Sweet dreams,” he murmured.

  “Sweet dreams?”

  “It’s what I tell Emily. If I forget, she reminds me.”

  “My father used to say that to me.” She stopped. How did she know that? She couldn’t remember—and yet, it was true. Was there nothing about her that wo
uldn’t be revealed in this man?

  He watched her, but his eyes were in shadow. She saw only the grim lines at his mouth. Silently she examined him.

  Tender restorer of time-ravaged treasures, and conscienceless creator of unimaginable atrocities. All in one enigmatic man. Beside her lay the man who was responsible for the cruelty that had delivered Camisha to death’s door; what kind of a woman was she, to welcome his comfort—to exonerate him of his crimes because of the sweet pleasure he gave her?

  Was her hunger for her lost family so great that she would accept him at the expense of her dearest friend? So great that she could forget he belonged to another woman? She’d learned too late; now she could not envision him loving another woman—but he did.

  She abruptly thrust him away, scrambling over him in her haste to get out of his bed.

  He caught her shoulders, pinning her in place above him. She fought it all—the hard, comforting length of his body underneath hers, the slow slide of his bare thigh against hers, the stubborn, impassioned gaze that sought hers.

  “Rachel—”

  “Let me go.”

  “I won’t. Not before you give me a fair hearing.”

  “Fair hearing! You don’t deserve a—”

  “No. I don’t.”

  She stared impassively at the curtains. He caught her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. For a suspended moment, she let herself fall into the hypnotic force of that gaze—sweet, tender, and pained.

  “How can I make you see—”

  She closed her eyes, but the pain in his voice swept her.

  “I’d give all I own to undo the pain I’ve caused your friend. And you. Don’t you understand how it hurts me, to see you grieve so?”

  Her eyes opened, meeting a gaze that was clear and earnest.

  “You’ve brought me nothing but happiness. My daughter lives for the tread of your foot on the stair; she wishes you were her mother, rather than the vicious monster who is. Do you think I would knowingly bring such pain on you? Rachel, my fondest wish would be for the freedom to offer my heart honorably to you.”

  His fingers traced her cheek, then encircled her neck with quiet compassion. Stroking her throat with his thumb, he coaxed her down until her mouth settled over his. His lips parted slightly, enticingly; he hesitated, allowing her to lead the way. When he felt her soften against him, long, strong fingers intertwined in her hair as he gave a soft sigh, his tongue dipping into her mouth with carefully leashed passion. She felt the heat of him beneath her, the hard, hair-roughened strength of his thighs naked against her own, the smooth, male texture of him as she curved her hands around his neck.

  Gasping, she pulled her mouth away from his. Her heart pounded in wild fear and nauseating betrayal. What had possessed her, to melt in his arms as if he were the man she’d once believed him to be?

  Her voice trembled with rage as she spoke. “When Thomas Trelawney sees you on the streets of Williamsburg, does it give his heart pride to say, ‘There goes my son, who deals in human flesh’?”

  Her blade thrust deep. In a moment, his eyes went from the color of soft, crushed cinders to that of polished steel. He pushed her away and rose from the bed, and the slamming door reverberated down the hall as he left.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rachel awoke with a stiff neck. She’d spent the night on the floor beside the bed where Camisha slept, but she rose swiftly, eager to check on her.

  She still lay on her side, but one hand was tucked under her face. She touched her forehead lightly. It was cool.

  Camisha opened her eyes, staring at her in disoriented surprise, with slow suspicion, for several moments.

  Rachel gave a grim smile. “You look like hell.”

  “Come to Williamsburg, you said. It’ll be fun, you said.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “What happened to me? You mean before or after I was mistaken for a runaway slave?”

  “Do you feel like talking about it?”

  “I’m thirsty,” she whispered. “Is there any water? I dreamed somebody kept trying to make me drink swamp water.”

  Rachel stifled her laughter and reached for the tea the kitchen maid had left earlier. “There’s tea. When you feel better, I want you to tell me everything that happened.”

  Camisha started to turn over, then moaned in agony. Rachel set the tea aside and helped her into the only comfortable position—on her stomach. Rachel rested on the side of the bed, supporting Camisha while she sipped her tea.

  “I’ll get you some of Hattie’s tea for the pain. Also known as swamp water.”

  “How—how did I get here?”

  “I had Grey carry you up here.”

  “Grey?” Camisha frowned, then a small smile hooked the corner of her mouth. “Ah, that’d be massa.”

  “Well, that isn’t helpful.”

  Camisha shook her head, her pale smile fading. “Guess not. Tell me where you’ve been.”

  Rachel explained the story, and she nodded. “So you get to hang out with some Jeeves dude, and I get thirty-nine lashes.”

  “My God, Camisha. Did you?”

  “Can I have another sip?”

  Rachel helped her drink, then set the cup aside.

  “Look, honey, I’m not feeling so good right now. Do you think—”

  “Sure.” Rachel started to rise from the bed, then hesitated. “Camisha, last night—you thought—did my father… did Max Sheppard ever hit you?”

  Her soft, dark eyes held the blank outline of distant memory for several seconds. At last, she looked at her. “It was a long time ago, Rae.”

  She squeezed her fingers. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Hey. I did what I had to do. Anyone would’ve done the same thing.”

  “No one would’ve done the same thing.”

  “Only cared about two people … and that man had the power to hurt them both.”

  Rachel’s admiration and respect for her deepened. She rested her palm lightly on her friend’s swollen, discolored cheek. “I love you.”

  Camisha’s slender brown fingers grasped hers weakly. “Love you, too. But I’m gonna kill me an overseer.” Her eyes closed. “I can’t talk anymore, Rachel.”

  Rachel gently stroked her high, noble forehead and rose. She removed clothes from the wardrobe and walked to the door, glancing back; she was already asleep. I’m gonna kill me an overseer.

  Grim resolution rose up within her.

  Not if I get ahold of him first.

  Emily was playing quietly on the floor in her room. When she saw Rachel, she leapt to her feet. “Oh, Rachel! I’m so happy you’re awake. How’s the wench?”

  “Camisha is no wench, Emily. She’s my dearest friend.”

  “A negro?” she asked, stunned.

  “Yes.”

  Emily considered this. “She’s not very pretty.”

  “She’s beautiful, darling.”

  “I peeked in this morning, when you were asleep. She looks like a monster.”

  “She’s been beaten badly.”

  “Then she must have behaved badly. There’s nothing worse than a negro who doesn’t know his place.”

  “Emily! What a horrible thing to say.”

  She gazed at Rachel in shock, her chin trembing. “It’s what Bess says,” she whispered. “It’s what everybody says.”

  Dear God, her mind was well on its way to being poisoned.

  She knelt beside Emily, hugging her. “I’m sorry I was sharp with you, sweetheart,” she murmured. “I wouldn’t hurt your feelings for the world.”

  The child quivered. “I didn’t mean to be horrible.”

  “I know. When you get to know Camisha—”

  “I thought her name was Sassy.”

  “No.”

  “Camisha’s a pretty name,” Emily said, recovering from her chagrin.

  “And do you know what? She absolutely adores children.”

  “Truly?”

  She nodded, and Emily smiled hop
efully. “Then I shall help her get well. Does this mean you’ll stay with us?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Oh! That makes me very happy!” Abruptly, her gaze grew critical. “You’re still in your shift.”

  “So I am. I thought you might let me dress in here. Camisha’s sleeping in my room.”

  “Oh, I forgot. Papa wants to see you.”

  She summoned a servant, ordering one of Hattie’s herb potions for Camisha. The girl bobbed and hurried away. Rachel noticed Emily, too, had vanished. She mused over what Grey might want of her as she dressed, then returned to her room, surprised to find the door ajar. But what she saw inside gave her pause.

  Emily sat cross-legged on an empty spot in the bed, her skirts spread in a dainty circle. She stared at the sleeping woman in silent curiosity. Rising to her knees, she stretched out her fingers and cautiously touched Camisha’s hair. A frown of concentration crossed her face and she jerked her hand away, then returned and lingered, patting gently. Her blonde head cocked as she leaned closer, her palm hovering over Camisha’s head as lightly as a butterfly. The delicate line between her pale eyebrows deepened as she trailed her fingertips along her cheek, tracing the dark, purplish-blue marks. At last, her palm rested quietly over her swollen face, and her fingers patted softly.

  Camisha stirred, and Emily jerked away. But she stopped short, as if paralyzed. Camisha’s eyes opened, and she stared at Emily for only a moment before smiling weakly. “Hello.”

  Emily stared, stricken, her arm still outstretched.

  “What’s wrong?”

  The child gulped and slowly lowered her arm, folding her hands before her. “I only—I wondered …”

  Still smiling, she said, “My name’s Camisha. Who are you?”

  “Emily Trelawney, miss.” She dropped to the floor for a curtsy.

  “How long have you been there, watching me?”

  Emily frowned, kneeling beside the bed. She hesitated, then once more touched Camisha’s bruised face. “Do they hurt you, too?”

  Camisha watched her for a long moment. “Yes. They hurt me, too.”

  Rachel cleared her throat and pushed the door open, and Emily swung around, her eyes bright. “Oh, Rachel!” She sighed in relief.