Chapter 15
Devon mashed his pillow. The blasted thing had too much goose down. A man’s head could sink into it like a pinched valley between two smothering mountains.
After supper, Morning Fawn had spent a whole hour with Moyer, walking through the orchard.
All within sight of the house as was proper.
But had there been any chaperone on that two-hour ride of theirs?
LeBeau was likely so giddy from the prospect of acquiring a wealthy son-in-law, he’d be willing to overlook more than a couple steps of impropriety.
Besides, one would think Morning Fawn had had enough of that Moyer’s bragging without enduring it for another hour.
Devon needed his sleep. Tomorrow night, he’d get little. He had to be at Feye’s landing by midnight. Should he sneak off after everyone went to bed, or make up a story about a gambling game in town?
He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.
Surely, Morning Fawn had enough sense to not fall for that smooth-talking dandy.
Cut from the same cloth as his stepfather.
His mother was a wise, caring, good-hearted woman, but none of that protected her from falling for a man whose heart was tied to his purse and who felt the color of man’s skin determined his worth.
Devon blew out a breath and sat up. It was no use. He might as well make good use of the night if he wasn’t going to sleep. Grabbing his trousers, he stuck his legs in. He’d head out to the stables and figure out the best way to slip off tomorrow evening unnoticed.
An hour later, Devon’s feet crunched on the fresh straw as he returned the dapple grey to her stall.
Working with horses was usually a balm to his mind, but not tonight.
Even the familiar smells of fresh hay, oats, and horse did little to unwind the tense cords of his muscles.
At least, the extra brushing hadn’t done the animal any harm.
The elderly stable hand slept on a cot in the corner stall, seemingly content with Devon’s excuse of wanting a late-night ride, his silence purchased with a pouch of tobacco. Hopefully, the excuse would work as well tomorrow night.
Little Ebony snorted in the back stall, restless like him, not asleep.
Innocent animal, but her presence would weasel its way into Morning Fawn’s heart.
Making room for the biggest braggart this side of the Red River, as well?
It’d be mighty convenient if someone left her stall door open, and she wandered off.
He smacked his gauntlets. He wouldn’t stoop to underhanded met—
A scream rent the air.
A chill ran up Devon’s spine. The old man stirred, as did all of the horses up and down the line. What if it was Morning Fawn? Devon dropped the curry comb and ran for the house.
Lights came on in LeBeau’s second-floor bedroom. Moments later, the downstairs glowed, as well.
Devon climbed up the front porch steps two at a time and grabbed the doorknob.
Locked. Curtains covered the narrow windows that flanked the door.
Raised voices sounded inside. He reached for his holster.
Of course, no holster, no gun, nothing. He’d go in the back way.
Down and around the corner, he hurried, almost tripping on a washboard.
Grabbing a small log from the woodpile, he entered the back door of the house and crept down the hall.
A hard smack, flesh to flesh, resonated in the foyer.
“Please, master, there weren’t no man.” Lucy knelt on the floor near the coat rack, dressed in nothing but her chemise, arms curled over her face and head. LeBeau stood over her.
Devon’s stomach dropped to his knees. His fingers hardened on the log as he moved along the shadows close to the wall.
Mrs. LeBeau stood off to the side of the stairs by the engraved sideboard, the hem of her nightgown showing beneath her wrap, her back to Devon.
Flora, the cook, huddled by the front door, her face contorted in a mass of worry. She caught sight of Devon without acknowledgment.
Revolver in his left hand, LeBeau raised his right, as if he would strike again. “Don’t call my daughter a liar, you little wench. Thea said she saw a man in your room. You think she goes screaming in middle of the night for the fun of it?”
“I’s not calling her liar, master.” Lucy’s voice shook. Her dark hair hung down loose about her face. “Maybe’s she was dreaming or seeing shadows.”
“You’re the liar.” Smack. LeBeau struck her on the side of the head.
She wobbled.
“Stop.” Morning Fawn charged down the steps to the first floor. “Leave her alone.
“No.” Mrs. LeBeau grabbed Morning Fawn with one hand, clutching her shawl across her chest with the other. “We can’t interfere.”
“But we can’t—”
“Keep your mouth shut, niece, or you’ll be hauled up to the attic and bolted in until you forget what the sun looks like.” LeBeau jabbed his finger at her.
Thea leaned over the banister. Had she been hovering there all along? Auburn curls spilled from her nightcap and down her back. “I knew Beth was too cozy with that slave girl. Defending her over her own kind.”
Devon clenched his jaw. Maybe Miss Thea and her father would have a change of heart if someone took a whip to their backs. But it wasn’t his place. Confronting LeBeau wouldn’t help anyone. Devon set the log down on the sideboard.
A slight clunk. They all pivoted toward him.
Devon moved into the lamp-lit foyer.
Lucy lifted her face, tears streaming down her cheeks. What did he see there? Pleading? Fear?
“What are you doing there, Reynolds?” LeBeau’s brow furrowed. “Did you see a man run out the back?”
“No. I heard the scream—”
The front door rattled. Flora opened it.
The overseer, Owens burst in, hair awry and rifle in hand, as ready as ever to enforce his employer’s orders. His shirttails hung over his trousers, and one suspender looped loosely over his arm. “What’s wrong?”
LeBeau swore. “Thea went down to ask Lucy for a warm compress for her headache and found her in bed with a man. Get out back and look for him. Get the hounds if you have to. I’ll not have any whoring in my house.”
Lucy raised her hands in supplication. “No, master, please. Weren’t no one.”
Owens sneered and stomped out the door.
What would happen if there was someone, a slave, and Owens found him?
LeBeau shoved his revolver into his wife’s hand and grabbed Lucy by the hair, dragging her up to a stand.
“No,” Morning Fawn cried out.
“Get upstairs.” LeBeau bellowed at her.
Acid crept up Devon’s throat. He had to do something. “It was me.”
“What?” LeBeau pivoted toward him, mouth agape, his fingers still locked in Lucy’s hair. She stumbled against her master, and he shoved her to the ground. “What did you say?”
The three ladies at the foot of the stairs stared at him wide-eyed.
“I said, it was me.” The lie soured in his mouth. God forgive him. But he couldn’t let this girl be beaten and her lover possibly killed.
Thea scrunched up her face like a prune.
Mrs. LeBeau paled and crossed her arms over her bosom. “We’ll not have such goings on in our home, Mr. Reynolds.”
But on her hands and knees, Lucy gazed up at him. New light shone in her eyes. She mouthed two words. Thank you. A new round of crying shook her.
Devon flinched beneath Morning Fawn’s stare.
Flora swung the door open. “Mr. Owens, we found the man.” She threw her lungs into it. “We’s found the man.” Her voice probably echoed all the way to the slave quarters.
“Stop your hollering and get back in here.” LeBeau scowled.
Somewhere, a clock chimed one.
LeBeau flexed his hands at his sides, curling and uncurling his fingers into fists. “You ladies get upstairs.”
“Gladly.” Thea spat out the words. “I wouldn’t want to soil my feet with the dirt from his boots. Maybe that’s how he got his eye poked out.”
Morning Fawn stood immobile, her long red shawl covering most of her nightgown and her honey hair falling over her shoulders, while the other two pushed past. Her gaze flittered between him and Lucy. Her brow furrowed deep as she turned to follow her aunt.
Great. She’d probably think of him lower than scum. Ruin any hope—
Hope of what?
“It’s my fault.” Lucy sniffled. “I lured him to my room. Weren’t Lieutenant Reynolds doing.”
“Shut up and get out of here.” LeBeau scuffed his slippered foot across the floor, stopping just short of kicking her.
She scurried to her feet, shooting Devon a quick glance before she hurried down the hall, swiping her cheeks.
“You.” LeBeau stormed over, toe to toe with Devon. “You have no right to my slave girls. Not without permission. You have a need? There’s plenty down in the slave quarter I could give you to warm your bed, but not Lucy. Do what you like on your own plantation, but this and them are my property.”
Devon walled his face and met the man’s glare. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Owens thundered in, rifle still in hand. Chaw bulged in his jaw. “What happened?”
“Reynolds had himself a little visit.” LeBeau tugged on the shawl collar of his silk dressing gown. “Finally owned up to it.”
Owens snickered and aimed his lips toward a spittoon. Black tobacco juice spewed toward the tarnished brass container. “Should have spoken up and saved me the trouble of heading halfway to the kennel.”
How many little visits had that man had?
Devon swallowed back the retort and turned to LeBeau.
“I apologize, sir. It won’t happen again.
” He slunk up the stairs to the second floor.
It didn’t matter that he had never gone anywhere near Lucy or any slave for that purpose, ever.
Shame hung over his head like a millstone.