“It’s history, Lucy. Don’t think on it,” he said, as tenderly as he was able. Felt her relax under his hand. Without a word she pressed herself against him and he hugged her, encircling her tiny shoulders in his powerful arms.
“You’ve changed, James,” she said at last. “I…I used to be so afraid of you. I wanted you and I was afraid of you, all at once. Now I just feel safe when I’m with you.”
“I’m a free man now.”
A free man. He pressed Lucy closer, thought about those words. Freedom had meant nothing to him when Marlowe had given it. James had not believed he would really grant it, did not believe anything that a white man said. And even if Marlowe was true to his word, there was nowhere that the former
slaves could go. The others had embraced their freedom from the first, but not he. Freedom had come slowly for King James.
It had come with his being taken out of the fields and given a position of authority. It had come with his efficiently running the house, proving to the white men that he was just as able as they. It had come with command of the Northumberland. It had come with a restoration of pride. And finally, it had come with being a warrior once again.
“I love you James. I do,” Lucy said. She spoke into his chest, and her voice was muffled.
James pressed his lips against her head and kissed her, and buried his face in her lovely hair. There were tears in his eyes, and he would not let her see them. Not her, not anyone.
Marlowe was fast asleep when he heard the soft footstep, the quiet squeak of the door opening. He came instantly awake, and his hand shot out and grabbed the hilt of his sword, and in the same instant he realized that there was probably no one aboard the Northumberland who might wish to slay him in his sleep.
The door was at the end of the small cabin and communicated with the great cabin astern. It swung open, ever so slowly. Marlowe released his grip on the sword. Did not dare hope for what might be.
Elizabeth was standing there, wearing nothing but her silk shift. The light from a shuttered lantern in the cabin shone through the gauzy material, silhouetting her slender form beneath the garment.
She stepped into the cabin, reached up, and untied the ribbon holding the shift in place. The shapeless gown slid down her body and piled on the deck, and she stepped out of it and silently climbed into Marlowe’s narrow bed.
She was the most beautiful woman that Marlowe had ever seen. He felt a tremor of excitement building in his gut and rushing out to the extremities of his hands and feet. He put his arms around her, running his hands over her skin, smooth, golden, perfect skin. She lay back on his bed and he rolled
half on top of her, kissing her, his tongue probing her mouth, finding hers.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, running her fingers through his hair, and wrapped a long leg around his thighs. He ran his lips over her neck and shoulders, covering her with small kisses, cupping a breast in his hands and gently caressing the firm nipple with his lips. She shifted under him and moaned softly, and Marlowe felt his passion building to a dangerous peak.
They spent two hours exploring each other, making love, talking in whispers, holding each other. At last Elizabeth lay still in his arms, and her breath became soft and regular.
Through the half-open door of the cabin he could see the first blue light of dawn. He reached over and grabbed the hilt of his sword, moving carefully so as not to disturb her, quietly drew the blade. He put the sharp point against the door and pushed it closed. He laid the sword on the deck, and together they slept.
Chapter 16
THEY MADE quite an imposing sight, pounding down the rolling road. Jacob Wilkenson at the head on his black stallion, George Wilkenson just behind on his chestnut mare, and behind him Sheriff Witsen and four deputies. They were riding hard. They were all heavily armed.
George Wilkenson concentrated on the motion of the horse under him, his own position in the saddle, the condition of the road underfoot. He was an excellent horseman. Thoughts of his horse and his riding kept his mind from what had just transpired, what was about to happen.
He had said nothing to his father, save to tell him that he had formulated a plan but the plan had not worked out.
He did not dare tell him what the plan was, or mention his own stupidity in relying on the cooperation of Elizabeth Tinling. He did not tell him about the humiliation, or the hard money he had given to Witsen to assure his silence. He said nothing about Elizabeth’s note, about his own uncertainty as to her betraying him.
He had mentioned none of those things, but that had not saved him from Jacob’s wrath.
His father raged for an hour, cursing him for a fool and reiterating the need to destroy Marlowe. At last he had announced that he would be taking matters into his own hands. They would take the direct route. They would ruin Marlowe financially.
Or, better yet, they would force him into debt. There was no debt in the tidewater that the Wilkensons could not control. And once they had assumed Marlowe’s debts, then they would choke him to death, slowly.
Jacob Wilkenson was an unsubtle man. George found his approach to the situation frightening. There was bound to be trouble, perhaps bloodshed, and that frightened him more. The presence of the sheriff and his men did nothing to comfort him.
They turned off the rolling road and raced down the carriage road to the old Tinling house. The tall trees met overhead, their summer leaves mingling together high over the way, giving the approach the feel of a nave in a great cathedral.
At the far end, like an altar, stood the white Tinling house. It would always be the Tinling house to George, no matter who owned it. He thought of the many times he had ridden down that road, happier times.
He felt a vague titillation, as if there was something sexually exciting to look forward to, and he realized that he had come to associate that approach with seeing Elizabeth Tinling, and the thrill he got in just running his eyes over her, watching her as she moved, fantasizing about her.
And once he understood that association the thrill was gone, like plunging into a frozen stream. He felt angry. Humiliated. Impotent.
He hated her, even more than he hated Marlowe, even more because he could not be certain she had betrayed him. It was most convenient that her note had been delivered after he had left to confront Marlowe. He was almost certain he had seen her in the window. Almost, but not entirely. He had been a long way back from the house, and his eyesight was not the best.
She had never been anything more than polite to him. No flirting, no vague overtones of desire in her voice. He was far
better looking than that fat pig Joseph Tinling. He was smarter and kinder than his brother, Matthew. But she had ignored him, and now she was off with Marlowe, no doubt making the beast with two backs.
He had not contacted her since that night, had not called in the note of hand. He wanted her to suffer the uncertainty. Perhaps he would use that power over her again, for whatever he wished, and then he would crush her.
He did not have the courage to face her again. From that flowed anger, self-loathing.
His father, he knew, could not care less about Elizabeth Tinling, but she was as much a part of his plans as Marlowe was. He would destroy her just as he and Jacob would destroy Marlowe.
They came at last to the end of the carriage road and bore off to the right, past the big house. A black man came out onto the porch, watched them for a moment, and then ran back inside, but the band on horseback paid him no mind. The only man who might concern them was Marlowe, and they knew for a fact that Marlowe was off on his sloop down by Point Comfort.
They raced down the familiar dirt road that led behind the house, past the gardens and the toolsheds, to the big warehouse where the plantation’s crop was stored, ready for shipment.