Chapter 8 #2
“The servants will tend to him,” Philippe said, boredom creeping into his tone. “That’s what they’re for.”
“They’re for caring about, not for cutting when you’re in a bad mood.” Maddie pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it against the worst of the bleeding. “What’s your name?”
The child looked from her to Philippe to Brodie, clearly torn between answering and maintaining the silence that kept him safe.
“Daniel,” he whispered finally.
“Daniel. I’m Maddie. Can you stand? We need to get you somewhere we can properly clean your cuts.”
“Miss Carter.” This time Brodie’s voice carried real urgency. Across the courtyard, in the doorway leading to the main house, the widow stood watching.
How long she’d been there, he couldn’t say. Long enough.
Maddie followed his gaze and went very still. The handkerchief slipped from her grip, fresh blood seeping through the fine linen.
“Madame,” she said, attempting to rise. The skirts caught under her knees, nearly sending her sprawling.
She caught herself, awkwardly, and Brodie saw the moment she realized how bad this appeared.
A governess kneeling in the courtyard dirt beside a bleeding slave child, challenging the master’s son in front of witnesses.
The widow descended the steps with the unhurried grace of someone who knew she held all the power. Her pale blue dress seemed to float in the humid air, sapphires winking at her throat like predatory eyes.
“What,” she said quietly, “is happening here?”
“An accident, Maman.” Philippe’s voice was respectful, concerned. “The boy stumbled and fell. My blade was out for practice, and he ran into it. Miss Carter was simply helping—”
“Was she?” Madame Delacroix’s gaze never left Maddie’s face. “How charitable. Though I wasn’t aware that tending to injured property was part of a governess’s duties. Perhaps American customs are more... egalitarian than I realized.”
The words dripped with disdain.
Maddie opened her mouth—to argue, Brodie knew, to say something brave and foolish that would get her dismissed or worse—and he stepped forward before she might destroy herself.
“I asked her to help, madame.”
Three heads turned toward him. Philippe’s attention focused with a predatory interest. The widow’s expression remained perfectly neutral. And Maddie regarded him with confusion mixed with desperate gratitude.
“You asked her to help,” the widow repeated slowly.
“Aye.” Brodie kept his voice steady, respectful.
“The boy was injured during the training exercise. Miss Carter was observing as ye instructed, so she’d understand how Philippe’s education is coordinated across subjects.
When I saw the extent of the injury, I asked her to assess it while I secured Philippe’s blade safely.
” He gestured to where the practice knife lay on the ground near Philippe’s feet.
“In the heat of training, accidents happen. But they must be dealt with immediately to prevent... complications.”
“Complications.” The widow’s smile was thin. “How thoughtful. And you believed Miss Carter was qualified to assess such injuries?”
“She mentioned during an earlier conversation that her father was a physician … before his troubles,” Brodie lied smoothly.
“That she’d assisted him when she was younger.
Given that our doctor is in Port Royal, I thought it prudent to have someone with medical knowledge examine the boy before sending him to the slave quarters for treatment. ”
Madame Delacroix studied him for a long moment. Then she turned her attention to Maddie, still kneeling in the courtyard with bloody linen clutched in her hands.
“Is this true, Miss Carter? You have medical training?”
Maddie’s throat worked. “My father taught me basic wound care, madame. Before he…” She cleared her throat. “Before he crawled into a bottle. I wouldn’t call it formal training, but I can recognize when bleeding needs attention.”
“How fortunate.” The widow’s tone suggested it was anything but.
“Then by all means, complete your assessment. If the injury is serious enough to interrupt Philippe’s lesson, it’s serious enough to warrant proper treatment.
” She turned to Brodie. “You’ll accompany her to the quarters.
Make certain she doesn’t overstep her bounds in her. .. enthusiasm to help.”
“Aye, madame.”
“And Philippe.” The widow’s voice softened as she addressed her son. “You’ll come with me. We need to discuss weapon safety during training exercises. Mr. MacLeod may be accustomed to the rougher conditions of military life, but in a household, we maintain certain standards.”
It was a masterful deflection. Placing the blame on Brodie’s teaching rather than Philippe’s cruelty, while simultaneously reminding everyone that she controlled every single thing and person on this plantation.
Philippe shot Maddie a look of pure calculation as he followed his mother into the house. This wasn’t over. He’d been thwarted, and he didn’t like it.
Brodie waited until they’d disappeared before extending a hand to Maddie. She took it, letting him help her to her feet. Her palm was warm against his, smaller than he’d expected, trembling slightly.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
He dropped her hand, stepped back. “Don’t thank me yet. Ye just painted a target on your back.”
“He cut a child.”
“Aye. He did.” Brodie bent to retrieve the practice knife, checking the blade before sheathing it. “And he’ll do it again, because that’s who he is. That’s what this place makes people become.”
“So we just let him?” Disbelief sharpened her voice. “We watch him hurt people and do nothing?”
“We survive.” He met her gaze then, taking in the flush of anger on her cheeks and the stubborn set of her jaw. “That’s all anyone can do here. Survive and hope for better.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“Maybe not. But it’s reality.” He gestured toward the servants’ quarters. “Come on. The boy’s bleeding and the widow’s watching from somewhere. We’d best make this convincing.”
Daniel had been silent throughout the entire exchange, pressed small against the courtyard wall. When Brodie approached, the child flinched.
“It’s all right, lad.” Brodie kept his voice gentle, the way he’d spoken to young sailors aboard the privateer when they were frightened. “We’re going to tend those cuts. Can ye walk?”
“Yes, sir.” The voice was barely a whisper.
“Good man.” Brodie offered his arm for support. “Lean on me if ye need to.”
They made their way across the grounds, Daniel limping between them, Maddie hovering anxiously on the boy’s other side.
Brodie was aware of people watching from windows, from the fields, from the shaded areas where servants found respite from the sun.
Everyone would know about this by nightfall.
Would know that the new governess had challenged young Master Philippe and that the Scotsman had protected her.
The slave quarters were rougher than the servant’s but better than he’d expected—long, low buildings with thatched roofs and proper walls, not the open shacks he’d seen on other plantations. The widow ran her property efficiently, kept her workers healthy enough to be productive.
Inside, the air was close and dim, smelling of smoke and herbs and too many people in too small a space. An older woman glanced up from where she’d been mending something by the light of an open door, took one look at Daniel’s legs, and was moving before Brodie could speak.
“Bring him here. What happened?” Her accent was different from the others—older, rooted in some place Brodie couldn’t identify. African perhaps, though he’d never sailed far enough south to know for certain.
“Training accident,” Brodie said, helping Daniel to a bench. “The cuts need cleaning and binding.”
“I can see that.” The woman’s hands were already moving, efficient and sure, examining the wounds with the confidence of long practice. “These are blade cuts, not falls. Who did this?”
Silence hung heavy in the small space.
“Does it matter?” Brodie asked quietly.
The woman met his gaze—dark, knowing, infinitely weary. “No. I suppose it doesn’t.” She turned to Maddie, who’d been standing awkwardly near the door. “You the new teacher?”
“Yes. I’m the governess, Maddie Carter.”
“Bess.” The woman pulled supplies from a shelf—clean cloth, a jar of salve that smelled sharp and medicinal. “You know healing?”
“A little—” Maddie caught herself, glanced at Brodie. “I know enough.”
“Then make yourself useful. Heat the water, there’s a pot by the fire. And you,” Bess nodded at Brodie, “step outside. This is going to hurt, and the boy doesn’t need an audience.”
Brodie started to argue, then realized she was right. His presence would only make Daniel more afraid, more aware of the power dynamics that had led to this moment.
He stepped out into the shade of the building’s overhang. From here, he could see the fields where workers moved between the cane and indigo rows, the great house rising white and imposing above the plantation grounds, and the distant blur of the jungle against the horizon.
This place was a prison, dressed up in elegant furniture and French wine. A prison for everyone trapped within its boundaries, himself included.
Inside, he could hear the low murmur of voices. Bess speaking in soothing tones. Daniel’s sharp intake of breath. And Maddie, saying something he couldn’t quite make out.
She’d been foolish to interfere. Should have let Philippe’s cruelty pass unchallenged.
But she hadn’t. And Brodie still didn’t fully understand why he’d stepped forward to protect her.
Except that he did understand. Because he’d seen the expression on her face when Philippe cut the boy—not calculation or fear or the careful neutrality most people learned to wear in the widow’s household. Just honest, unguarded horror at unnecessary cruelty.
She didn’t belong here. Not because of her strange mannerisms or wrong accent or the way she held books like they were precious rather than tools. But because she still believed that right and wrong mattered. That justice was worth fighting for, even when fighting meant losing everything.
He’d believed that once. Before Edinburgh. Before Anne McKinnon’s betrayal. Before the chains and the slave ship and the long months learning that survival required forgetting who you used to be.
The door opened, and Maddie emerged, wiping her hands on a cloth. She appeared pale, shaken, but her jaw was still set in that stubborn line.
“He’ll be all right,” she said. “Bess knows what she’s doing. The cuts aren’t deep enough to cause permanent damage, but he’ll need to stay off his feet for a few days.”
“The widow won’t allow that.”
“Then Bess will find a way to make it work without asking permission.” Maddie’s voice carried bitter admiration. “Apparently, she’s been managing worse than this for years.”
They walked back toward the main house in silence.
The sun was lower now, painting the courtyard in shades of amber and shadow.
In a few hours, darkness would fall like a curtain, and the plantation would transform into something different.
More honest, perhaps. Less hidden beneath elegant surfaces.
“Why did you do it?” Maddie asked suddenly. “Cover for me. You could have let the widow believe I’d overstepped on my own. Why didn’t you?”
Brodie kept his gaze forward, watching for servants who might overhear. “Ye reminded me of someone.”
“Who?”
“Myself. Before I learned better.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Thank you. For not letting me face that alone.”
“Don’t thank me. I didn’t do it for gratitude.
” He stopped at the courtyard entrance, turning to face her properly.
“I need to understand something. Why did ye help that boy? Ye knew what it would cost. Knew the widow was watching. Knew Philippe would use it against ye. So why risk everything for a child ye don’t even know? ”
Maddie met his gaze without flinching. “Because it was the right thing to do.”
Such simple words. Devastating.
Because it was right.
Not because it was smart or safe or strategic. Not because she expected reward or recognition. Because a child was hurt and she could help, and in her world—wherever she’d really come from—that apparently still mattered.
The feeling caught him off guard—this shift in his chest, this stirring of what he’d thought calcified beyond recovery, turned to stone by betrayal and bitter survival.
“Ye’re going to get yourself killed,” he said roughly. “Ye know that, aye?”
“Probably.” A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “But at least I’ll die knowing I tried.”
“That’s not as comforting as ye seem to think.”
“Maybe not. But it’s something.” She started toward the house, then paused. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’ve learned as well as you claim. If you had, you wouldn’t have protected me today.”
She disappeared into the house before he could respond, leaving him standing in the courtyard with the practice blade still sheathed at his belt and the uncomfortable warmth of hope burning in his chest.
He should stay away from her—stop watching and let her face her own consequences, learn the way everyone else learned in this place. Through pain and failure and the slow erosion of whatever principles she’d carried with her from Philadelphia.
But he knew, standing there in the fading light with the scent of jasmine thick in the air, that he wouldn’t.
Because Madison Carter was either the bravest fool he’d ever met or she was exactly what he’d stopped letting himself believe existed—someone who still thought honor mattered more than survival.
And fool or not, brave or reckless, lying or true, he was going to protect her.
Even if it meant risking the fragile safety he’d built in this place. Even if it meant drawing the widow’s attention. Even if it meant admitting that survival wasn’t enough anymore.
She’d called the belief back to life in him with those simple words. The conviction that doing what was right mattered, even when the world said otherwise. That principle he’d thought dead and buried in Edinburgh had risen like a phoenix from the ashes.