drift on the morning air.
Well then, she would just find something to do. The sting left from his blow was far better company in her opinion.
Plenty of pairs of eyes watched her, but none of them appeared surprised by her treatment.
Everyone was working, although many of them glanced up to stare at her while their hands
slowed. She walked without knowing her destination. Moving along the green inner yard and up onto one of the walls. The wind whipped at her skirt, but it was cool coming in off the open sea.
The water was a deep azure and the sand a shimmering white.
It was paradise, but one that included a demon.
From the top of the wall, she could see the entire harbor, but new sounds came from the section of uncompleted walls beyond the fort itself.
The snap of a leather whip and the harsh grunts of men. Long lines of them toiled in the
scorching heat of the tropical sun. The pounding of chisels mixed with the groans of hard
physical labour. An entire army of them worked to bring new blocks to the growing wall. Groups of them were shackled together but they walked in unison, proving that the chains were a
normalcy for them. The ones working high up on the cliffs with chisels didn't wear chains but suffered in the full heat of the blazing sun. Bobbing in the harbor were old ships which had roofs built right over their decks. Godford had been correct, the law had no mercy. Many of the
convicts feeling the bite of the whip were guilty of little more than theft. But the House of Lords deemed any fall from grace a reason to be shipped away from Britain. More than one young lad learned that lesson when his shackles were locked around his ankles.
Horror clogged her throat. Her intended groom was little better than a slave master. Men in uniform wielded the whips. They stood above the lines of men, raising their weapons over their shoulders before striking the bent backs of their charges.
Her flesh crawled. Revulsion surged through her so thickly, she almost retched. The mere
suggestion that Adam Mordaunt might touch her was horrific. Right before her eyes was a
testimony to how he treated his fellow man. A man such as him would use her body to please his appetites and then discard her the moment he was satisfied. She would never be anything more than a pet. Although she feared his dog might fare better than she.
St. John shipping. How had her father's dream turned into something that dropped her into such a deplorable situation? Clearly Mordaunt craved her dowry more than the wife which came along with it.
Not that his opinion was an uncommon one.
Depression caught her in its grip and she refused to struggle against it any longer. Walking along the wall, she sank into her despair, for at least it drowned out the stares of pity being cast her way.
Many were soldiers and she might have pitied them if she had any thoughts to spare. Their faces were red from the sun and their collars stained with perspiration due to their thick English uniforms. But not a single button was open, even in the tropical heat. It was a horrible sign of what would be expected of her as well.
She didn't cry. There were no tears for the demon who thought he was her master. No, her eyes remained dry. Many of her history lessons suddenly took on greater meaning. She was not the first bride to prefer the elements to her intended groom.
She refused to care and she refused to bend.
Her feet ached before sunset. Penned up on ship, her calves were weak. Standing in the shade, Lorena looked up toward the house but her tormenter had yet to appear. Well, she would not
meekly await him. Not yet anyway. Her belly rumbled but it was her thirst that threatened to buckle her resolve. Her tongue felt like a dry piece of wool inside her mouth. The surface of her lips was chapped from the ocean wind. Even the skin on her face felt tight and hot. No one could endure without water very long. Even the men working on the walls had been given a measure of it.
Well then, she would just find something to do. The sting left from his blow was far better company in her opinion.
Plenty of pairs of eyes watched her, but none of them appeared surprised by her treatment.
Everyone was working, although many of them glanced up to stare at her while their hands
slowed. She walked without knowing her destination. Moving along the green inner yard and up onto one of the walls. The wind whipped at her skirt, but it was cool coming in off the open sea.
The water was a deep azure and the sand a shimmering white.
It was paradise, but one that included a demon.
From the top of the wall, she could see the entire harbor, but new sounds came from the section of uncompleted walls beyond the fort itself.
The snap of a leather whip and the harsh grunts of men. Long lines of them toiled in the
scorching heat of the tropical sun. The pounding of chisels mixed with the groans of hard
physical labour. An entire army of them worked to bring new blocks to the growing wall. Groups of them were shackled together but they walked in unison, proving that the chains were a
normalcy for them. The ones working high up on the cliffs with chisels didn't wear chains but suffered in the full heat of the blazing sun. Bobbing in the harbor were old ships which had roofs built right over their decks. Godford had been correct, the law had no mercy. Many of the
convicts feeling the bite of the whip were guilty of little more than theft. But the House of Lords deemed any fall from grace a reason to be shipped away from Britain. More than one young lad learned that lesson when his shackles were locked around his ankles.
Horror clogged her throat. Her intended groom was little better than a slave master. Men in uniform wielded the whips. They stood above the lines of men, raising their weapons over their shoulders before striking the bent backs of their charges.
Her flesh crawled. Revulsion surged through her so thickly, she almost retched. The mere
suggestion that Adam Mordaunt might touch her was horrific. Right before her eyes was a
testimony to how he treated his fellow man. A man such as him would use her body to please his appetites and then discard her the moment he was satisfied. She would never be anything more than a pet. Although she feared his dog might fare better than she.
St. John shipping. How had her father's dream turned into something that dropped her into such a deplorable situation? Clearly Mordaunt craved her dowry more than the wife which came along with it.
Not that his opinion was an uncommon one.
Depression caught her in its grip and she refused to struggle against it any longer. Walking along the wall, she sank into her despair, for at least it drowned out the stares of pity being cast her way.
Many were soldiers and she might have pitied them if she had any thoughts to spare. Their faces were red from the sun and their collars stained with perspiration due to their thick English uniforms. But not a single button was open, even in the tropical heat. It was a horrible sign of what would be expected of her as well.
She didn't cry. There were no tears for the demon who thought he was her master. No, her eyes remained dry. Many of her history lessons suddenly took on greater meaning. She was not the first bride to prefer the elements to her intended groom.
She refused to care and she refused to bend.
Her feet ached before sunset. Penned up on ship, her calves were weak. Standing in the shade, Lorena looked up toward the house but her tormenter had yet to appear. Well, she would not
meekly await him. Not yet anyway. Her belly rumbled but it was her thirst that threatened to buckle her resolve. Her tongue felt like a dry piece of wool inside her mouth. The surface of her lips was chapped from the ocean wind. Even the skin on her face felt tight and hot. No one could endure without water very long. Even the men working on the walls had been given a measure of it.
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