Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
The drawing room was exactly as he remembered from his first days here—beautiful in the way a well-made trap was beautiful.
Crystal caught the lamplight. Silk cushions arranged just so.
Fresh flowers, whose scent couldn’t quite mask the underlying smell of beeswax and power.
The air was close despite the tall windows, heat lingering even after sunset.
And in the center of it all, the Widow Delacroix.
She sat in her favorite chair near the window, though the curtains had been drawn against the night. She tracked their entrance with the patient focus of a predator watching prey venture too far from safety.
“Mr. MacLeod. Miss Carter. How kind of you to join me.” Her voice carried a false warmth that made the threat beneath more chilling. “Please, sit.”
Two chairs had been positioned facing her. Not side by side, Brodie noted. Separated by several feet of expensive carpet, angled so they could see each other as well as the widow. Calculated, like everything else in this place.
He waited for Maddie to sit first—the gesture automatic despite his own precarious position—then lowered himself into the chair. The velvet cushion was soft beneath him, but he kept his spine straight, his hands loose on the armrests.
Never show fear. Never show weakness. The lessons from Edinburgh and his time aboard the privateer ship still served him well.
The widow studied them both for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she lifted a delicate teacup from the table beside her—he hadn’t noticed it before—and sipped, watching them over the rim.
“I find myself troubled,” she said at last, setting down the cup with a soft clink.
“My household runs on order. On hierarchy. On the understanding that each person knows their place and performs their duties without... complications.”
The word hung in the air like smoke.
Brodie kept his face neutral, but his mind raced. What had she seen? The conversation in the library had lasted mere minutes before Margaret appeared. Had someone reported them talking by the window? Had the widow been watching?
Beside him, Maddie sat rigid, her hands folded in her lap. He could see her knuckles were white as she fisted her dress, wrinkling the linen.
“You’ve both been in my service a relatively short time,” the widow continued, her gaze moving between them like a blade deciding where to cut.
“Mr. MacLeod, a few weeks. Miss Carter, not quite a fortnight. And yet...” She paused, letting the silence stretch.
“And yet I’ve noticed something curious.
A... connection between you. Wouldn’t you say, Mrs. Browne? ”
The housekeeper emerged from the shadows near the door—Brodie hadn’t realized she was there—and stepped forward. Her face was carefully blank, but he caught the flash of warning in her expression. Or perhaps it was pity.
“Yes, madame,” Mrs. Browne said. “I’ve observed it as well.”
“Observed what, precisely?” The widow’s smile could have drawn blood. “That when my governess makes a mistake in protocol, Mr. MacLeod positions himself to block my view? That when she helped that clumsy boy in the courtyard, he stepped forward to claim responsibility?”
She leaned forward slightly. “That they spend their evenings in my library, alone, with the door conveniently ajar but not quite open?”
Brodie’s jaw tightened. She’d been watching them far more closely than he’d realized. Every protection he’d offered Maddie, every small intervention—the widow had noted them all.
“Madame,” he started, but she held up one elegant hand.
“I wasn’t finished, Mr. MacLeod.” Her tone stayed pleasant, but ice ran beneath it.
“You see, I’ve built something here. Something that requires absolute control.
My servants understand that they are extensions of my will.
When they forget that...” She paused, and her expression hardened.
Pure satisfaction. “Well. I’m certain you’ve noticed that Duncan is no longer with us? ”
The name hit him like a fist to the sternum.
Brodie had noticed. Everyone in the servants’ quarters had noticed. Duncan, the old Scot who’d been so broken by the widow’s service that he’d lost all fire. Who’d warned Brodie on his first day to keep his head down and survive.
Duncan, who’d been there at breakfast three days ago.
And then vanished that same night.
Thomas had whispered what little anyone knew—one of the kitchen girls had seen the widow’s men taking Duncan through the gardens after dark. Not toward the road. Not toward the fields or the docks. Toward the old garden. The place servants were warned to avoid.
And then... nothing. No body. No announcement. No explanation. No one knew if he’d been sold… or worse.
Just an empty place at the table and a cold certainty that asking questions would be dangerous.
“He was becoming unreliable,” the widow continued, her voice soft and terrible. “Making mistakes. Growing... difficult. I had to make certain adjustments to ensure the smooth running of my household.”
The word adjustments sent a cold revulsion through him.
“The point, Mr. MacLeod,” she said, holding his gaze, “is that servants who become problems have a way of... disappearing. And I would hate for you or Miss Carter to become problems.”
Beside him, Maddie’s breathing had gone shallow, her shoulders rigid.
“I understand,” Maddie said, her voice steadier than Brodie expected. “I understand perfectly.”
“Do you?” The widow stood, silk skirts rustling as she moved closer. “I don’t think you do. Either of you. So let me be perfectly clear.”
She stopped between their chairs, forcing them both to look up at her. “You are not friends. You are not confidants. You are certainly not anything more. You are my property, bound to me by contracts and debts, and you will conduct yourselves accordingly.”
The word property settled in Brodie’s chest like lead. He’d been called worse, been treated as less, but hearing it said so casually—as if it were simply fact—sent rage burning white-hot beneath his careful control.
“If I see you speaking privately again,” the widow continued, her tone conversational despite the threat, “I will assume you’re plotting something. Planning to run, perhaps, as others have tried. And we all know how that ends.”
She moved back to her chair, settling into it with the grace of a queen reclaiming her throne.
“Mr. MacLeod, you’ll be reassigned. No more combat lessons with Philippe.
He’s learned enough. You will no longer have access to the main house.
You’ll work and sleep in the stables, where Thomas can keep an eye on you. ”
Not the fields, then. Not yet. But a demotion. A warning.
“Miss Carter, you’ll continue your duties with my son.
But Mrs. Browne will be present for all lessons from now on.
And you’ll take your meals separately from the other servants.
I want you to understand—very clearly—that protection from Mr. MacLeod or anyone else is an illusion.
You survive in this house because I allow it.
Not because of anything you’ve done or anyone who might think to help you. ”
The widow looked at them both, her expression almost bored. “Now. Do either of you have anything to say?”
Brodie met her gaze directly. “No, madame.”
“Miss Carter?”
“No, madame.” Maddie’s voice was quiet but firm.
“Excellent.” The widow picked up a small bell from the table beside her and rang it once. The clear tone seemed to echo in the silent room. “Margaret will escort you back to your quarters. Separately, of course. I suggest you reflect carefully on your conduct going forward.”
Margaret appeared in the doorway. “Take Mr. MacLeod to the stables,” the widow ordered. “Mrs. Browne, see Miss Carter to her room.”
They were being separated immediately. Not even allowed to walk back through the same corridors.
Brodie stood, and Maddie rose at the same moment. For just an instant, their eyes met across the space between the chairs.
Everything he wanted to say caught in his throat. I’m sorry. I’ll find a way. Don’t be afraid. I won’t leave you alone in this.
But he could say none of it. Not here. Not with the widow watching like a hawk and Margaret already moving toward him, a look on her face. Bloody hell, he would have wagered that it was her who informed on them. Was she paid for her information?
So he said nothing. Just held Maddie’s gaze for one more heartbeat, trying to convey in a look what words couldn’t express.
Then Margaret’s hand was on his arm, pulling him toward the door, and Mrs. Browne was guiding Maddie in the opposite direction.
The last thing Brodie saw before the door closed was Maddie’s face—pale and frightened.
The corridor was cooler than the drawing room, or perhaps it was just the absence of the widow’s presence that made him feel like he could breathe again. Margaret led him through the darkened hallways without speaking, her grip on his arm surprisingly strong for such a thin woman.
They emerged into the courtyard through a side door.
Night had fallen completely while they’d been inside.
The plantation lay under a blanket of stars, cicadas singing their relentless chorus.
Heat radiated from the sun-baked stones beneath his feet.
The air smelled of jasmine and something darker—cane smoke from the processing house.
Beautiful, if Brodie had any capacity left to notice.
Instead, all he could see was Duncan’s face. The warning in those weary eyes during their first and only real conversation.
The widow breaks people, Duncan had said. Makes examples of them. Best to keep your head down and forget everything else.
And now Duncan was gone. Taken somewhere in the night. Disappeared.