actions were so untypical of him. Usually, Edwin was the soul of caution, constantly considering every aspect of a situation before acting upon it. But now—now he had won a slave in a card game, was making the slave into an overseer, and expected her to tutor the uncouth man. She seriously considered that Edwin might have lost his senses, that he might also be more ill than she’d imagined. Yet, Edwin didn’t seem to be a lunatic, and his cheeks weren’t pale lately but slightly pink. Clearly, he was excited about something, but about what, Jillian couldn’t fathom.
Something very odd was going on, very odd, indeed.
~ ~ ~
The next afternoon Jillian waited in the library for her pupil. Full sunlight streamed through the open windows and carried a warm but not unpleasant breeze. She fiddled with the writing materials atop Edwin’s desk and repositioned the parchment paper for the third time, but each time she did so, she scowled her displeasure. Why was she so nervous? she irritably wondered. Donovan was only a slave, and she was the mistress here. There was no earthly reason why the man should disturb her. He should be the one who was nervous, for after all, he’d come into her room and bed of his own accord. She hadn’t invited him to kiss her—but he hadn’t invited her response either.
Jillian gritted her teeth and flushed anew at the memory, her cheeks matching the peach color of her gown. She’d never forget how she’d awakened to discover herself clutching at him, aching for his kiss. Over the past weeks, she’d buried the incident in her mind, and now she was forced to deal with it again—all because Edwin had lost his good senses and required her to tutor a slave!
She was so deep in her thoughts that she didn’t hear the scraping sound of Donovan’s boots upon the floorboards outside the room or see him as he peered uncertainly around the door. “I’ve come for my lesson, ma’am,” His deep voice cut through her imaginings. She jumped as if she’d been caught at a theft, and her hand knocked a piece of parchment paper to the rope rug at her feet.
“Gracious! You frightened me,” she chided him, and bent down to retrieve the paper but Donovan got to it first. He picked it up and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed against each other. Jillian stiffened and quickly she straightened, barely nodding her thanks. She saw that he wore a clean shirt with a small ruffle of lace at the cuffs—a shirt which had belonged to Edwin’s late son, but Jillian realized Donovan’s broad-shouldered frame filled out the material better—and a pair of brown breeches which clung to his torso like a second skin. The breeches definitely looked better on him than they ever had on Jacob. She purposely turned her attention to his face. “You’re late. You were to be here at two o’clock. ’Tis now half past the hour.”
“Somethin’ happened in the fields, a small fire. Master Edwin thinks Injuns might be responsible.”
“Indians?” A pulse beat hard in Jillian’s throat, and fear washed over her like a cresting wave. Her grandmother had been killed in the Indian attack of 1622 at Martin’s Hundred, and Jillian’s mother had recounted the horrifying incident, declaring herself lucky to have escaped with her life and not been taken prisoner. Ever since, Jillian had had an abiding fear of being tortured and scalped. Over the past year, the savages had terrorized their neighbors with small attacks and fires.
Governor Berkeley, a personal friend of Edwin’s and Jillian’s, had assured the colonists that he’d put an end to the attacks. He had ordered forts to be built, but taxed the colonists for the defenses. A distant relative of Berkeley’s a young man named Nathaniel Bacon who was newly arrived in Virginia, insisted that the governor wasn’t doing enough to insure the colony’s protection from attack. Edwin considered Bacon to be a rabble-rouser though he had never personally met him.
Something very odd was going on, very odd, indeed.
~ ~ ~
The next afternoon Jillian waited in the library for her pupil. Full sunlight streamed through the open windows and carried a warm but not unpleasant breeze. She fiddled with the writing materials atop Edwin’s desk and repositioned the parchment paper for the third time, but each time she did so, she scowled her displeasure. Why was she so nervous? she irritably wondered. Donovan was only a slave, and she was the mistress here. There was no earthly reason why the man should disturb her. He should be the one who was nervous, for after all, he’d come into her room and bed of his own accord. She hadn’t invited him to kiss her—but he hadn’t invited her response either.
Jillian gritted her teeth and flushed anew at the memory, her cheeks matching the peach color of her gown. She’d never forget how she’d awakened to discover herself clutching at him, aching for his kiss. Over the past weeks, she’d buried the incident in her mind, and now she was forced to deal with it again—all because Edwin had lost his good senses and required her to tutor a slave!
She was so deep in her thoughts that she didn’t hear the scraping sound of Donovan’s boots upon the floorboards outside the room or see him as he peered uncertainly around the door. “I’ve come for my lesson, ma’am,” His deep voice cut through her imaginings. She jumped as if she’d been caught at a theft, and her hand knocked a piece of parchment paper to the rope rug at her feet.
“Gracious! You frightened me,” she chided him, and bent down to retrieve the paper but Donovan got to it first. He picked it up and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed against each other. Jillian stiffened and quickly she straightened, barely nodding her thanks. She saw that he wore a clean shirt with a small ruffle of lace at the cuffs—a shirt which had belonged to Edwin’s late son, but Jillian realized Donovan’s broad-shouldered frame filled out the material better—and a pair of brown breeches which clung to his torso like a second skin. The breeches definitely looked better on him than they ever had on Jacob. She purposely turned her attention to his face. “You’re late. You were to be here at two o’clock. ’Tis now half past the hour.”
“Somethin’ happened in the fields, a small fire. Master Edwin thinks Injuns might be responsible.”
“Indians?” A pulse beat hard in Jillian’s throat, and fear washed over her like a cresting wave. Her grandmother had been killed in the Indian attack of 1622 at Martin’s Hundred, and Jillian’s mother had recounted the horrifying incident, declaring herself lucky to have escaped with her life and not been taken prisoner. Ever since, Jillian had had an abiding fear of being tortured and scalped. Over the past year, the savages had terrorized their neighbors with small attacks and fires.
Governor Berkeley, a personal friend of Edwin’s and Jillian’s, had assured the colonists that he’d put an end to the attacks. He had ordered forts to be built, but taxed the colonists for the defenses. A distant relative of Berkeley’s a young man named Nathaniel Bacon who was newly arrived in Virginia, insisted that the governor wasn’t doing enough to insure the colony’s protection from attack. Edwin considered Bacon to be a rabble-rouser though he had never personally met him.
Similar Books
