Page 27 of To Seduce a Stranger

Stepping between them, she laid a hand on Edward’s forearm, feeling the flex of muscle as his fingers curled into a fist. “And what of you, my dear?” she asked, looking up at him, willing his eyes on her. They were intimacies she had never intended to invite, but she could think of no better way to distract him. “How do you mean to spend the day?”

She knew she had succeeded before he spoke. There was surprise in his eyes, but something like gratitude as well, and the coiled spring beneath her hand began to unwind. “I’m bound first for the village to see about ordering some supplies,” he said. With his free hand he patted hers where it lay on his arm. Long fingers. Neatly trimmed nails. A gentleman’s hands, despite their sun-browned color. “Is there anything you require?”

“Turpentine,” she said in her most businesslike tone. “Beeswax. Lye soap.” Many years spent in the company of servants had given her knowledge not only of the necessary items but also how to use them.

Squeezing gently, he lifted her hand from his sleeve and turned it palm upward, tracing his thumb carefully around the evidence of yesterday’s blisters. The gentle touch, skin to skin, felt more intimate than being held against his body. “You needn’t do this, Charlotte,” he insisted, his head bowed. For a fleeting moment, she thought he meant to kiss her hand.

She stepped backward, sliding her fingers from his grasp, but not before she felt her pulse quicken and knew he must have felt it, too. Curse her wild imagination! Hadn’t she cautioned herself just yesterday about such familiarities?

Oui. Right after the stroke of his warm palm had sent a bolt of lightning through her body, once, twice, forcing her to fight a tremor of longing that he might do it a third time, for good measure.

Desire—so unwelcome—felt like a betrayal.

“Someone should,” she said sharply, conscious that both Garrick and Mari were watching. How much had Charlotte just revealed?

She expected Edward to argue with her, but he nodded. “I’ll have the things sent. I’m for Markham’s farm, after that. He and I hope to put in another field of barley. Don’t wait dinner, Mari.” And he was gone.

Garrick followed a few paces behind, a triumphant if tuneless whistle on his lips, leaving the two women alone in the kitchen. Determined to behave as if nothing had happened—for nothing had happened, except perhaps in her mind—Charlotte bustled about collecting the rest of the dirty dishes.

Mari’s eyes had followed the men out the door, some unreadable expression in their depths. She had not taken another bite of her breakfast since Garrick had uttered that terrible word.

Slaves.

Putting aside a stack of plates, Charlotte hesitantly resumed her place at the table and took a sip of her coffee, though it had grown cold. She thought of Garrick’s charge, Edward’s claim. She thought of Edward’s hands, their obvious strength, despite the shocking gentleness of their touch. We can never really know another person, he had warned her. But she needed, suddenly, to know what else those hands had done.

“Was he a good master, Mari?”

The words jarred the woman back to the present, and she leveled a sharp glance at Charlotte. “He was never my master, ma’am.”

“Not your—?”

“Miss Holderin—Mrs. Corrvan, I should say now—managed the domestic servants, of course. Her father saw to the plantation itself,” she said. “He was a gentle soul.”

Charlotte sent her a skeptical glance. “I was under the impression these so-called ‘benevolent planters’ were only to be found on the pages of fiction.”

Mari conceded the point with a nod. “You would find very few in the world of facts. But then, Mr. Holderin was not a planter. Harper’s Hill belonged to his late wife’s father. Because we were not his, it was not in his power to set us free. But he did the best by us he could—including grooming Mr. Edward to take his place when he died. In all the years I’ve known Mr. Edward, he’s never raised more than his voice to anyone—and that was mostly to Miss Holderin, truth be told.”

Charlotte pushed her shoulders down, trying to make herself relax. There was reassurance in Mari’s response. Still, she sensed that something remained unsaid. Perhaps something in Edward’s past he would rather not reveal . . . ? But how ridiculous, given her present situation, for her to expect to learn it.

As if Mari intuited her curiosity, she said, “You asked about my limp.”

Charlotte nodded uncertainly, taken aback by the sudden change in subject.

“It is an old injury. Acquired when I was a child—in Africa,” she began, not meeting Charlotte’s eye. “One night, men from a neighboring tribe raided my village. They captured as many as they could find, and claimed us as prisoners of war to be sold as slaves. I clung to my mother and she to me for as long as we could. Until she was killed. One of the men caught me by the ankle and dragged me away from her body. It felt like being torn in two. Something went pop inside me, and I fainted dead away.” The breath left Charlotte’s lungs in a rush, leaving her light-headed. But she did not make a sound. “When I came to, I was chained together with those who remained and marched to the coast. Days upon days. My hip grew worse and worse. When I was at last taken aboard a ship, the surgeon tried to put my leg right again, but by then, it was too late. I have not walked properly since.”

“I am sorry,” Charlotte whispered, and she was, although she knew that mere words could mean very little, could do very little to heal that injury or any other. “What a painful memory . . . But what made you decide to tell me now?”

“Because I was not ready to tell you before,” Mari said simply, and a little sharply. “I have never told anyone that story. But I have been thinking about you . . . and Mr. Edward. You seem worried about the sort of man he might be, having spent so much time in such a terrible place.”

Charlotte could not even bring herself to nod.

“I could tell you many stories to reassure you,” said Mari. “But know this: He saw me, the day I arrived in the West Indies. Just a boy himself, a few years older than I. He turned to the man with him—Mr. Holderin, although I did not know it then—and said something with such earnestness. I knew no English. But I could guess he was urging my purchase.”

Feeling the handle of her cup slip in her suddenly damp palms, Charlotte lowered it carefully to the table. How bewildering for anyone, but especially a child, to experience such a thing. A human being, bought and sold like an animal in the marketplace. “Why?” she whispered. “Why would he enslave you?”

“I was already a slave. Nothing he did or did not do would have changed that. But he knew . . . A girl, with this limp?” She shook her head. “I would not have survived a year on any other plantation in the West Indies. As I came to learn much later, Mr. Holderin had saved Mr. Edward’s life. And by begging Mr. Holderin to buy me and take me to Harper’s Hill, Mr. Edward saved mine. He was not a good master, ma’am. He was, and is, a good man.”

Who deserves a good woman, Charlotte thought, recalling what Mari had said that first night. So why had he saddled himself, even temporarily, with her?