in front of the fireplace and scrambled up, reaching for a cudgel. “We
have to flee.”
“Etienne, no. There are no slaves here.” Yvette rushed
toward him. “There is no danger.”
“Just former slaves,” said Beau.
She swiveled to see him leaning against the doorway, his
arms folded. For a second he resembled the boy she had fallen in love with. Her
heart fluttered. God, no, she didn't want to love again.
His glare burned through her. Non, there was no
danger of love. The sunburnt harshness of his face and the hardness of his body
reminded her he had changed. He no longer wanted her. She raised her chin and
turned to retrieve Etienne.
She lifted her son off the chair—a priceless antique he
shouldn’t be standing on—before he managed to free the weapon from its mooring.
“Excusez-moi,” said a big dark man following her son
down the stairs.
Her heart pounding, she took a step back. Stifling the urge
to run, she tightened her hold on Etienne. The slave revolt was never far from
her mind. The smell of fear and fire, slaves she had known all her life bearing
demonic expressions and swinging machetes into white flesh. The blood on the
ceilings, spattered on the wall, slippery underfoot. Swallowing hard, she
fought to hold her ground as a scream lodged in the back of her throat.
“I was trying to find my friend,” the black man’s smooth
voice sounded cultured, a hint of a French accent to his English.
“See.” Etienne pointed. His little body vibrated with energy.
Her son, all four stone of him, would fight the man if she let him go.
“I am here, Mazi,” said Beau.
The black man was with Beau. Relief soaked through her as if
she were a washrag needing to be wrung out.
“He will not hurt you,” she murmured to Etienne. The words
were to reassure herself as much as her son—Beau’s son. The fear would never be
entirely tamped down, but there was no reason for slaves to revolt here. There
weren’t any slaves to revolt.
The duke had wheeled to the doorway. “Is this your servant?”
“This is Mazi. My friend.” Beau’s brow lowered. “And who is
this boy?”
Yvette would have wished for a thousand different ways of
introducing Etienne to his father, preparing him—preparing them both. Slowly
she swiveled and turned her squirming child to face the older image of himself.
Beau stiffened, his eyes widening.
She set her son on the ground. “Etienne,” she whispered in
his ear. “This is your papa.”
Her son shoved her away. “No! My papa is dead!”
Beau sneered, but he couldn’t seem to follow through with
the expression. The harshness fall away leaving his eyes wide, his eyebrows
drawn upwards. Her chest felt as if it would crack open. This was not how the
two of them should have met.
“He looks like you,” he accused, seemingly unable to tear his
eyes away. Every inch of him was taut and he no longer leaned against the
doorframe.
“Only in the shape of his eyes, the color...” She shrugged.
Beau would see for himself.
His right leg buckled, and Yvette hurtled back in time to
the horror of the moment he’d fallen in front of her in Saint-Domingue. She
shrieked and stepped forward, but the big black man moved faster than she would
have thought possible.
Beau felt as if he’d fallen from the top of a palm tree and
coconuts had rained down on top of his head. Mazi gripped him, steadying him,
as he’d done a hundred times before. Ashamed of the weakness in his right side,
Beau swam free. “But it was only one ti-night.”
Yvette’s lips tightened. “I am blessed with fecundity like
that.”
Mazi let go but stood near, tall and straight but silent. He
should be told not to hold and offer support to Beau or others would think he
was a servant—or worse—his slave. But that was nothing but a tiny flair of a
thought, easily snuffed out.
“Now you see why you must acknowledge the marriage,” said
the duke in a subdued tone.
No. Beau didn’t see. He could marry a
have to flee.”
“Etienne, no. There are no slaves here.” Yvette rushed
toward him. “There is no danger.”
“Just former slaves,” said Beau.
She swiveled to see him leaning against the doorway, his
arms folded. For a second he resembled the boy she had fallen in love with. Her
heart fluttered. God, no, she didn't want to love again.
His glare burned through her. Non, there was no
danger of love. The sunburnt harshness of his face and the hardness of his body
reminded her he had changed. He no longer wanted her. She raised her chin and
turned to retrieve Etienne.
She lifted her son off the chair—a priceless antique he
shouldn’t be standing on—before he managed to free the weapon from its mooring.
“Excusez-moi,” said a big dark man following her son
down the stairs.
Her heart pounding, she took a step back. Stifling the urge
to run, she tightened her hold on Etienne. The slave revolt was never far from
her mind. The smell of fear and fire, slaves she had known all her life bearing
demonic expressions and swinging machetes into white flesh. The blood on the
ceilings, spattered on the wall, slippery underfoot. Swallowing hard, she
fought to hold her ground as a scream lodged in the back of her throat.
“I was trying to find my friend,” the black man’s smooth
voice sounded cultured, a hint of a French accent to his English.
“See.” Etienne pointed. His little body vibrated with energy.
Her son, all four stone of him, would fight the man if she let him go.
“I am here, Mazi,” said Beau.
The black man was with Beau. Relief soaked through her as if
she were a washrag needing to be wrung out.
“He will not hurt you,” she murmured to Etienne. The words
were to reassure herself as much as her son—Beau’s son. The fear would never be
entirely tamped down, but there was no reason for slaves to revolt here. There
weren’t any slaves to revolt.
The duke had wheeled to the doorway. “Is this your servant?”
“This is Mazi. My friend.” Beau’s brow lowered. “And who is
this boy?”
Yvette would have wished for a thousand different ways of
introducing Etienne to his father, preparing him—preparing them both. Slowly
she swiveled and turned her squirming child to face the older image of himself.
Beau stiffened, his eyes widening.
She set her son on the ground. “Etienne,” she whispered in
his ear. “This is your papa.”
Her son shoved her away. “No! My papa is dead!”
Beau sneered, but he couldn’t seem to follow through with
the expression. The harshness fall away leaving his eyes wide, his eyebrows
drawn upwards. Her chest felt as if it would crack open. This was not how the
two of them should have met.
“He looks like you,” he accused, seemingly unable to tear his
eyes away. Every inch of him was taut and he no longer leaned against the
doorframe.
“Only in the shape of his eyes, the color...” She shrugged.
Beau would see for himself.
His right leg buckled, and Yvette hurtled back in time to
the horror of the moment he’d fallen in front of her in Saint-Domingue. She
shrieked and stepped forward, but the big black man moved faster than she would
have thought possible.
Beau felt as if he’d fallen from the top of a palm tree and
coconuts had rained down on top of his head. Mazi gripped him, steadying him,
as he’d done a hundred times before. Ashamed of the weakness in his right side,
Beau swam free. “But it was only one ti-night.”
Yvette’s lips tightened. “I am blessed with fecundity like
that.”
Mazi let go but stood near, tall and straight but silent. He
should be told not to hold and offer support to Beau or others would think he
was a servant—or worse—his slave. But that was nothing but a tiny flair of a
thought, easily snuffed out.
“Now you see why you must acknowledge the marriage,” said
the duke in a subdued tone.
No. Beau didn’t see. He could marry a
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