Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
Edinburgh
September
The road to the Delacroix plantation wound through thick jungle that seemed to swallow every noise.
Brodie rode behind Renard and two other crewmen, his horse picking its way over the roots that had grown across the sandy path.
Sweat soaked through his shirt despite the canopy’s shade, and insects whined in his ears with a persistence that made him long for the clean air of the open sea.
They’d left Port Royal three hours past, following a track that grew narrower with each mile.
The city’s noise and stench had given way to bird calls and the rustle of unseen creatures moving through the underbrush.
Once, something large crashed through the palms to their left, and Jean-Pierre had crossed himself, muttering a prayer in rapid French.
Brodie’s thoughts kept circling back to what Jean-Pierre had said on the beach.
She specifically asked about you. The handsome young Scottish one with the sea-gray eyes.
How did she know him? Port Royal was a small place, especially for those who worked the docks and taverns.
He’d been careful to keep to himself during their visits—no whoring, no brawling, just quiet evenings nursing ale while others spent their coin.
But careful didn’t mean invisible. Someone must have noticed him. Someone had talked.
His jaw tightened. Four years at sea had taught him that loyalty was a luxury, and trust a thing you measured in careful doses.
“How much farther?” he called to Renard’s back.
“Another hour.” The captain didn’t turn around. “The estate sits inland, away from the coast. The widow prefers her privacy.”
Privacy. Brodie’s hand drifted to the dirk at his belt, a familiar weight that offered small comfort. Something about this felt wrong—had felt wrong since Renard first mentioned the assignment. The timing, the urgency, the way the captain had looked at him when giving the orders.
Like a man selling something he’d rather keep.
The trees thinned ahead, and suddenly they emerged into cleared land.
Fields stretched in all directions—endless rows of sugarcane standing taller than a man, their leaves rustling in the breeze.
Indigo plants as well, the dye recipe a closely guarded secret.
The smell hit him next: molasses and rich earth, overlaid with something sharper. Smoke, maybe. Or rot.
Figures moved between the rows—men and women bent under the brutal sun.
Most were European by the look of them—pale skin burned red, hair in shades of brown and gold beneath broad hats.
Irish, English, Scottish, judging by the fragments of conversation that carried on the breeze.
But there were others too, darker-skinned workers whose ancestors had been torn from different shores.
Overseers on horseback watched from the field edges, coiled whips hanging from their saddles.
Brodie had seen servitude before. Port Royal’s docks were thick with it, human labor bought and sold like sugar or rum.
But seeing it here, under the bright Caribbean sky with the jungle pressing close on all sides, made his gut twist. These were his countrymen in those fields.
Men who’d been transported for debts or crimes or simply for being on the wrong side of English law.
They followed the road past the fields toward a great house that rose from the landscape like something out of a dream.
Three stories of white-painted wood and stone, with wide verandas wrapping around each level and shuttered windows that watched their approach like hooded eyes.
Gardens sprawled around it—not the wild riot of jungle growth but carefully tended beds of flowers he didn’t recognize, their colors impossibly bright against the green.
Beautiful things, Renard had said. The widow collects beautiful things.
A groom appeared to take their horses as they dismounted.
His legs ached after hours in the saddle, muscles cramping from the unaccustomed position.
He stretched carefully, taking in the details of the plantation—the ornate ironwork on the balconies, the statuary positioned throughout the gardens, the peacock that strutted past trailing iridescent feathers.
“This way.” Renard led them up the front steps and into shadow.
The interior was cooler but no less overwhelming.
Every surface gleamed—polished wood floors, gilt-framed paintings, furniture that looked imported from France or England.
A massive chandelier hung in the entrance hall, crystal drops sparkling and catching the light from the open doors, scattering it in rainbow fragments across the walls.
“Captain Renard.” The voice came from above. “How punctual. I do appreciate a man who values my time.”
She descended the staircase like a queen moving through her court.
The Widow Delacroix was younger than Brodie had expected—perhaps forty, with skin the color of honey and dark hair pinned in elaborate coils.
Her gown was pale blue silk, cut in the French fashion with lace at the bodice and sleeves.
Emeralds glinted at her throat and ears.
But it was her eyes that made him uneasy. They were the color of amber, bright and calculating as a hunting cat’s.
Those eyes swept over Renard and the crew before settling on Brodie. Her mouth curved in a smile that didn’t reach her gaze.
“And you must be the Scotsman,” she said in accented English. “How lovely. Come, let us discuss our business in the parlor.”
She turned without waiting for a response, clearly expecting obedience. Renard followed, gesturing for Brodie and the others to stay close. They entered a room dominated by windows that overlooked the gardens, furnished with chairs that looked too delicate to actually sit upon.
The widow settled herself on a settee, arranging her skirts with grace. Renard took the chair opposite her while Brodie and the crew remained standing, uncertain of their place in this strange tableau.
“You received my message,” the widow said. It wasn’t a question.
“I did. Though I confess a bit of surprise at your urgency.” Renard’s tone was carefully neutral. “Our arrangement was for next month’s settling.”
“Plans change, Captain. Surely you understand flexibility in business matters.”
She lifted a small silver bell from the side table and rang it once. A servant appeared within seconds, bearing a tray with wine and glasses.
“Besides, you’ve owed me for quite some time now. The cargo I fronted you last spring, the repairs to your ship after that unfortunate encounter with the Spanish—these debts accumulate interest.”
The servant poured wine with steady hands, eyes never meeting anyone’s gaze.
“I’m aware of my obligations,” Renard said carefully.
“Good.” The widow’s smile was sharp. “Then you’ll understand when I say I’m prepared to forgive your entire debt—plus provide you with fifty pounds in gold—in exchange for particular... merchandise.”
Merchandise. His hands clenched at his sides as he looked to the windows, the hall where guards stood outside. Too many.
Her amber eyes slid to him again, lingering on his face, his shoulders, the way he stood with a sailor’s balance.
“I’ve been searching for a particular type of servant. One that is educated. Well-formed and pleasing in appearance. Someone who can serve in the house rather than the fields. Someone with... specific skills.”
The truth settled in Brodie’s gut, heavy as an anchor stone.
“No,” he said, before Renard could respond.
The widow’s smile widened. “How delightful. Spirit in addition to beauty. Captain, your taste remains impeccable.”
“I’m not for sale.” Brodie moved forward, putting himself between Renard and the widow. “I’ve served four years aboard the Corbeau. Earned my place. I’m no man’s slave.”
“And yet you were cargo once.” The widow tilted her head, studying him like a specimen in a collection.
“Taken from an Edinburgh tavern by the English, sold to slavers, freed by French privateers. Did you think that story wouldn’t make its way here?
Port Royal is a small world, Mr. MacLeod.
People talk, especially in the taverns where lonely sailors drink.
A handsome young Scot with gray eyes and a tragic history? ”
The blood drained from his face. He’d thought himself invisible in those port-side taverns, just another sailor in the crowd. But loneliness made people memorable. Isolation drew eyes.
“Captain.” He turned to the man, searching his weathered face for some sign of conscience. “Ye gave me your word. Said ye wouldna trade me without my consent.”
“And I haven’t.” Renard finally met his gaze, and something almost apologetic flickered there.
“But my debt to the widow is considerable—more than I can pay in coin. And she’s offering to clear it entirely, plus gold besides. That’s not an opportunity I can refuse.”
“So sell her something else. Cargo. Guns. Whatever ye have in the hold.”
“She doesn’t want cargo.” Renard’s voice went flat. “She wants you.”
“Fifty pounds beyond the forgiven debt,” the widow said calmly. “That’s enough for the rest of your repairs and provisions, Captain. Surely you can see the wisdom in accepting.”
Fifty pounds plus a cleared debt. Brodie’s stomach turned. That was what he was worth, then.
“How long?” The question came out rougher than intended. “How long have ye known about this?”
Renard had the grace to look away. “She approached me last month when we were here for repairs. Said she’d heard about a young Scotsman aboard my ship—educated, capable, handsome. Offered to forgive my debt and pay gold if I brought you inland.”
“So this whole assignment, watching her, reporting back—that was all lies.”
“Not lies. Planning.” Renard stood, his chair scraping against the polished floor. “You’ll be treated well here. Better than you’d fare on most plantations. The widow is known for caring for her acquisitions.”
“I’m not an acquisition. I’m a man.”