Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Something was wrong with the American governess.
Brodie had known it the moment their eyes met across the courtyard three days ago, had felt it like a shift in the wind before a storm.
Now, watching her teaching Philippe his Latin declensions in the schoolroom while Brodie waited to take the boy for swordwork, he cataloged the evidence like a sailor reading the weather.
The way she held herself—her spine too straight, movements too fluid, none of the deferential hunching of women who’d spent their lives in service.
The way she spoke to Philippe, meeting his cruelty with a dry wit that would have gotten any other governess dismissed within an hour.
The way she looked at ordinary things—candles, books, the silver inkwell on the desk—with a mixture of fascination and confusion, as if she were seeing them for the first time.
And the way she flinched whenever a servant was struck or whipped.
“Your pronunciation is improving,” she was saying now, her accent distinctly American but somehow different from any colonial voice he’d heard, and he’d heard a few during his time aboard the Corbeau.
Flatter. More casual. Words clipped in places they shouldn’t be.
“But you need to watch the gerundive constructions. They’re tricky. ”
“Tricky.” Philippe drew out the word mockingly. “That’s not a very scholarly term, Miss Carter.”
“No,” she agreed without taking the bait. “But it’s accurate. Would you prefer ‘grammatically complex with multiple dependent clauses’?”
The boy’s lips twitched despite himself. He liked her, Brodie realized. Liked that she didn’t cower or weep or try to win his affection through flattery the way the previous governesses had done.
But she’d best be careful, as it made Philippe more dangerous, not less.
“I think we’re done for today,” Maddie said, closing the Latin text. “Unless you’d like to conjugate another fifty verbs?”
“I’d rather die.” Philippe stood, already heading for the door where Brodie waited. “Is it time for swords yet, Mr. MacLeod?”
“Aye.” Brodie stepped into the room, nodding to Maddie. “If Miss Carter has finished with ye.”
“She has.” Philippe grabbed his practice sword from where he’d left it propped against the wall yesterday—breaking at least three rules of weapon care that Brodie would have to correct.
“Though she made me translate that dreadful passage about Cincinnatus again. As if anyone cares about dead Romans.”
“The Romans understood discipline,” Brodie said, following the boy out of the schoolroom. “And how to hold an empire through force of will. Might serve ye well to learn from them.”
He glanced back as they left. Maddie was gathering the books, her movements efficient but wrong somehow. Too quick. Too modern, though he would have been hard-pressed to explain precisely what he meant.
Their gazes met for just a moment. She appeared exhausted. Scared beneath the competence.
He knew that expression. Had seen it in his own reflection aboard the privateer, when he’d been trying to survive through sheer stubbornness and lies.
The courtyard was bright with afternoon sun, the air thick with the scent of jasmine and the distant sweetness of molasses from the processing house. Brodie ran Philippe through his drills with half his attention, the other half occupied with the puzzle of Madison Carter.
Where had she really come from? No shipwreck—that much was clear.
Her skin bore none of the marks of survival, no rope burns or salt blisters or the telltale rawness of sun poisoning.
Her hands were soft, uncallused except for a strange mark on her right index finger that looked like the indent of something she’d held often. Not a pen. Something else.
And the way she’d studied his sword during their first meeting—not with fear or even interest, but with a kind of analytical distance, as if she were trying to place it in a category she understood.
“You’re not paying attention,” Philippe complained, lowering his practice blade. “I could have struck you twice already.”
“Then ye should have.” Brodie circled the boy, forcing him to adjust his stance. “In a real fight, hesitation means death. If ye see an opening, take it.”
“Even against you?”
“Especially against me. I’m the only opponent here who’ll actually teach ye something instead of letting ye win to curry favor with your mother.”
Philippe’s expression sharpened. “You don’t fear her.”
“I respect her. There’s a difference.” Brodie demonstrated a defensive sequence and waited for Philippe to copy it. “Your mother is a woman of power and intelligence. Only a fool would underestimate her.”
“And Miss Carter?” The question was too casual, too pointed. “Do you respect her too?”
Dangerous ground. Philippe was testing him, trying to understand the dynamics between the adults in his household so he could exploit them later.
“She’s your governess,” Brodie said neutrally. “Whether I respect her is irrelevant to your education.”
“But you watch her.” Philippe attacked without warning, a thrust Brodie deflected easily. “I’ve seen you. During lessons. You watch her like you’re waiting for something.”
Because I am, Brodie thought but didn’t say. Waiting for her to slip. To reveal whatever truth she’s hiding beneath those careful lies.
“I watch everyone,” he said instead. “It’s how a man survives in hostile territory.”
“Is the plantation hostile territory?”
“Anywhere can be hostile if ye don’t pay attention.”
They worked in silence for a while, the crack of wooden swords punctuating the afternoon heat. Philippe was talented—quick reflexes, good instincts, natural aggression he’d need to learn to channel. But he was also spoiled, used to winning through status rather than skill.
“She doesn’t know how to curtsy properly,” Philippe said during a water break. “Did you notice? The depth is wrong. And she called my mother ‘ma’am’ yesterday instead of ‘madame.’ Mother pretended not to notice, but I saw her expression.”
“Perhaps American customs are different.”
“Perhaps.” Philippe’s smile was sharp. “Or perhaps she’s not what she claims to be at all.”
The words hung in the humid air between them. Brodie kept his face neutral, though cold certainty gripped him. If Philippe had noticed the inconsistencies, how long before Madame Delacroix did? How long before whatever protection Maddie Carter thought she had evaporated like morning mist?
“What do ye think she is, then?” Brodie asked carefully.
“I don’t know.” Philippe rolled the practice sword between his palms, considering. “But I’m going to find out. It will be entertaining, at least. Better than Latin.”
Two days passed before Philippe’s curiosity turned vicious.
The afternoon lesson had begun poorly—one of the field overseers had denied the boy permission to ride the new stallion, and Philippe carried grudges like other children carried toys. Brodie had noted the dangerous glitter in his expression, the too-casual questions designed to provoke.
He should have ended the lesson early. Should have recognized the warning signs and found an excuse to send the boy inside before disaster struck.
“Bring me more water,” Philippe ordered one of the house slaves—a boy perhaps eight years old, all gangly limbs and careful deference. The child hurried to comply, pitcher clutched in both hands.
The boy stumbled on the uneven courtyard stones. Not badly. The water sloshed but didn’t spill.
Philippe’s practice knife was out of its sheath before Brodie could stop him.
The blade—blunted for training but still capable of damage—swept low and fast, catching the child across the back of his legs.
Not deep enough to cripple, but enough to cut, to send him crashing to the stones, water pitcher shattering, his cry of pain sharp in the afternoon quiet.
“Clumsy,” Philippe said, examining his blade. “Don’t you think, Mr. MacLeod? Servants should be more careful.”
Rage surged white-hot through his veins. His hand found the hilt of his own practice knife, knuckles white against the worn leather. Every muscle in his body screamed to move, to put himself between the boy and Philippe, to teach this spoiled child what real pain felt like.
But he’d seen what happened to servants who raised hands against the widow’s son. Had watched them dragged to the punishment post, had heard their screams carry across the plantation like warning bells. And some never returned.
He couldn’t help if he was dead. Couldn’t protect anyone if he was chained.
“Accidents happen,” he said, his voice scraped raw with control. “The pitcher is broken. Have him fetch another.”
“He’s bleeding on the courtyard stones.” Philippe’s smile was cold. “Mother won’t like that. Perhaps we should—”
“Let me see.”
Maddie’s voice cut across Philippe’s words. She’d crossed the courtyard before Brodie even registered her movement, was kneeling beside the injured child, her skirts pooling on the stones as she examined the cuts on his legs.
“Miss Carter.” Brodie kept his voice level, warning. “The boy is being dealt with.”
“By whom? You?” She turned her attention to him, brown eyes blazing with fury and reckless determination. “Or by Philippe, who just cut him for spilling water?”
“It was an accident,” Philippe said, all innocence. “My blade slipped during training.”
“Your blade slipped straight into the back of a child’s legs while he was walking away from you.” Maddie focused back on the boy, who was staring at her with wide, terrified eyes. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you. Let me see how deep these cuts are.”
“Miss Carter.” Brodie moved closer, lowering his voice. “Maddie. Ye need to step away. Now.”
“Why? So Philippe can finish what he started? So we can all pretend this was an accident?” She was examining the wounds with steady hands, her touch careful despite the anger in her voice. “These need to be cleaned and bound. Do you have a cloth? Water?”