Chapter 4 #2
“You’re chattel.” The widow’s voice cut through his anger like a blade.
“The moment those English soldiers took you from that tavern, you ceased being anything but property. Captain Renard’s property, transferred to him from the slavers he liberated you from. And now, my property. The law is quite clear on this matter.”
“English law.” Brodie spat the words. “I’m a Scot. English law means nothing to me.”
“It means everything in Jamaica.” She rose, silk rustling as she moved closer. “You can accept this with dignity, Mr. MacLeod, or we can make it unpleasant. I would prefer the former. You seem like an intelligent young man.”
He wanted to draw his dirk, to fight his way out of this perfumed trap. But the door behind them had closed, and he’d glimpsed multiple guards when they’d entered. Fighting would only end with him in chains again—real chains this time, not just the invisible ones forged by debt and obligation.
“How long?” he asked quietly. “How long before I’m free?”
“That depends entirely on you.” The widow returned to her settee, satisfied now that the matter was settled.
“Serve well, cause no trouble, and in five years I may consider selling you your own contract. Refuse, and you’ll find yourself in the fields with the others. Those workers rarely see freedom—the labor breaks them too quickly.”
Five years. Another lifetime of servitude, wearing different shackles in a different prison.
Renard was already moving toward a writing desk in the corner, where papers had been laid out in preparation. The widow had known he would accept. Of course, she had. She collected people as well as objects, and she always got what she wanted.
“I’ll need him to sign the contract,” the widow said. “A formality, but I do prefer things be properly documented.”
The contract appeared—heavy parchment, expensive looking. The kind of paper used for things meant to last.
Articles of Indenture, the heading read in elaborate script.
Below it, clauses laid out in precise legal language.
Five years of service to begin immediately.
Room and board provided at the mistress’s discretion.
No wages during the term of service. Punishment for disobedience at the mistress’s discretion.
The possibility—not promise, but possibility—of purchasing his freedom at term’s end, should his conduct merit consideration.
But without any earnings, it wouldna be likely, now would it?
Should his conduct merit consideration.
Brodie read it through once, then again. The words didn’t change. Neither did his options.
“Standard terms,” the widow assured him, as if reading his thoughts. “Very generous, really, considering you came to me with nothing. No property, no prospects, no family willing to claim you.”
That last bit landed like a fist to the gut. She’d done her research thoroughly. Port Royal truly was a small world, and loneliness left evidence in the stories sailors told over ale.
He thought of Connor then—his brother’s voice across the years, stern and unforgiving. Ye chose a lass over clan, Brodie. Now live with that choice.
But this wasn’t about Anne anymore. This was about Renard’s debts and the widow’s collection and his own cursed luck that seemed determined to keep him in chains no matter how far he sailed from Scotland.
The pen was heavy in his hand when he lifted it. The nib scratched against parchment as he signed his name: Brodie MacLeod, formerly of Skye.
Formerly. As if Skye had released him along with everything else.
The widow took the contract before the ink had dried, examined his signature with satisfaction, and smiled. “Excellent. Captain Renard, a pleasure doing business with you as always.”
“The pleasure is mutual.” Renard pocketed a leather purse heavy with gold, then paused. For a moment, Brodie thought he might say something—apologize, explain, offer some scrap of comfort.
Instead, the captain simply nodded. “Fair winds, MacLeod.”
Then he was gone, taking Jean-Pierre and the others with him. The door closed with a soft click that sounded like a cell locking.
Brodie stood alone in the parlor with the Widow Delacroix, who was regarding him with the satisfaction of someone who’d just acquired a particularly fine painting.
“Now then,” she said brightly. “Let me show you to your quarters and explain your duties. You’ll be housed with the other house servants—not the field workers.
I have standards.” She rose and gestured toward another door.
“Your responsibilities will be varied. I understand you’re educated—you can read and write and do your sums? ”
“Aye.”
“Excellent. You’ll assist in the library when I have guests. Can you pour wine without spilling?”
“I’ve served on a privateer ship for four years. I can keep my balance.”
“Good. I also have a son who requires instruction.” Her voice took on an edge.
“Philippe is ten and needs to learn the skills of a gentleman—but not the soft skills they teach in Paris. He needs to know how to defend himself, how to fight. Swordplay, hand-to-hand combat, the skills of a man who might need to protect his property one day.”
Brodie’s jaw tightened. “Ye want me to teach him violence.”
“I want you to teach him survival.” She began walking, expecting him to follow.
“The world is dangerous, Mr. MacLeod, especially for those with wealth. Philippe will inherit all of this one day, and he needs to be ready. We have a governess arriving soon for his letters and languages, but his martial education has been... lacking.”
They climbed a back staircase, narrower than the grand one in the entrance hall. “You’ll eat with the house servants after the family is finished. Breakfast at dawn, dinner after dark. You’re welcome to the library in your free hours, though I expect you’ll have few of those at first.”
They emerged on the third floor, where the ceilings were lower and the decoration less lavish. A long hallway stretched before them, lined with doors.
“The servants’ quarters,” the widow said. “You’ll share a room with Thomas—he’s English, been with me for two years. He’ll show you where everything is and help you settle in.” She opened a door midway down the hall.
The room was small but clean, with two narrow beds, a washstand, and a single window overlooking the gardens. One bed was neatly made. The other held folded linens waiting to be used. His rucksack sat on the bare mattress.
“Make yourself presentable,” the widow instructed, pointing to a set of clothes hanging on a hook on the wall—the plain garb of house servants, better than field clothes but still marking him as her property.
“Thomas will fetch you for supper. We dine at eight.” She paused in the doorway, her amber eyes traveling over him once more. “I have a good feeling about you, Mr. MacLeod. I think you’ll prove a valuable addition to my household.”
Then she was gone, leaving him alone in a room that smelled of lye soap and sun-warmed wood.
Brodie sat on the unmade bed, his hands gripping the edge until his knuckles went white. The black feather from the beach was still tucked inside his shirt, pressed against his skin like a brand.
Pay attention to who walks through the door, the old woman had said.
Bloody hell. He’d paid attention, all right. And it hadn’t done him any good.
Through the window, he could see the fields stretching toward the jungle, and beyond that, just barely visible through the trees, a glimpse of blue where the sea met the sky.
The Corbeau would be weighing anchor soon, sailing away with Renard’s purse of gold.
By tomorrow, Brodie would be yesterday’s cargo, already forgotten.
He’d trusted Anne, and she’d delivered him into slavery to the soldiers for coin.
He’d trusted Renard, and the captain had sold him to a widow who collected men like other women collected porcelain.
The pattern was clear enough. Trust was a currency he could no longer afford.
Brodie lay back on the thin mattress, staring at the ceiling where water stains bloomed like old bruises.
Five years stretched ahead like an ocean he’d have to cross stroke by stroke.
But he’d survived Edinburgh’s cells and the slave ship’s hold.
He’d survived four years learning Renard’s trade.
He could survive this too—head down, mouth shut, counting days until the contract expired and he could disappear.
No attachments this time. No faith in captains or lovers or anyone who might see value in betrayal.
Five years of service, and then he’d be gone—back to the sea, back to somewhere that wasn’t here. Somewhere without widows or contracts or anyone fool enough to believe in promises.
Somewhere alone, where betrayal couldn’t reach him.
Outside, the sun crept lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Somewhere in the house below, people moved and talked and lived their lives. But up here, in this small room with its narrow bed and single window, Brodie MacLeod closed his eyes and let the exhaustion take him.
When he woke, the sky had gone dark, and someone was knocking on the door.
“MacLeod?” A man’s voice, English accent but younger than expected, educated. “Time for supper. Best not keep Cook waiting—she’s got a temper when the food goes cold.”
Brodie sat up, disoriented for a moment. Then the day returned: the journey, the parlor, Renard’s gold. The contract with his signature drying on expensive paper.
“Coming,” he called, his voice rough with sleep.
The door opened before he reached it. Thomas proved to be not what he’d expected at all.
Young—perhaps twenty-five—with dark hair and features that would have made him stand out in any crowd.
Handsome in a way that probably drew as much trouble as admiration, with intelligent eyes that assessed Brodie in a single glance.
“So you’re the Scot.” Thomas leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Renard’s cargo. The widow’s been talking about you for weeks.”