He'd been terrified at first, after it happened. He was horrified with himself. He'd taken her like a man possessed and no amount of her reassurances could convince him that he hadn't hurt her. What was worse was just how good it had felt. He would have done it again if there'd been time. The terror was compounded by the fact that he would most certainly run across her husband. Was Abigail right in her assessment? He didn't think she would intentionally mislead him, but that didn't mean she hadn't been mislead, or simply misunderstood what he gathered was a largely unspoken agreement. Unspoken agreements were the worst kinds of agreements: far too much room for differences in interpretation.
When he did come face to face with Albert - the very next day - he'd frozen like an idiot while the other man smiled congenially, nodded and said, "Good day, Mr. James!" then went along his way. Swann had cast a curious look over his shoulder, but shrugged whatever thought he had about the exchange away. Billy brushed it off, assuming Albert simply didn't know.
What really changed Billy's persistent assumption that this had to go wrong was when Albert asked him to take a look at a loose floorboard in the chapel. Except when Billy knelt to inspect the offending wood, there wasn't a loose floorboard in the chapel.
"I wanted to thank you, for your discretion." Albert tugged at his collar.
"Sorry?" Billy looked up from the quite secure floorboard. This could not be happening.
Albert cleared his throat. "I understand you might think less of me, of my ability to do my job here, but… oh, there's just so much ugliness in the world, isn't there? I think I'd be squandering one of His most precious gifts by standing in the way of two people who love each other." He fell silent and Billy could only gape at him. Any second now, the tide would change, the other shoe would drop, and Billy'd be in manacles getting dragged to the noose. Albert frowned, misunderstanding Billy's confused silence. "You do love her, don't you?"
"Yes." It was maybe one of the easiest, most natural things he'd ever said. He hadn't thought about it before, at least not in those words. Love was for other people; good people with good futures, simple lives, people like Abigail and Albert. Not him. But he did love her, didn't he? That's what he felt when he carried her out of the belly of Lowe's ship, so utterly helpless yet still trying to fight her way free of him. It was there when he stood outside her house, letting his mind revel in a fantasy life he could never have. It was the crushing heartache he felt when he finally saw her again, only to see her married. It warred with him when she took it upon herself to venture into a storm to save her husband's life. He had been so scared that she would get hurt, yet fiercely proud of her selfless bravery. It washed over him, painful and exhilarating, when she smiled and laughed next to him, the sun shining down on her upturned face. It was in the brush of their hands and the way he could tell exactly what she was thinking from a single look. It was elemental, as natural and necessary as oxygen.
Albert's face brightened and he nodded happily. "Good, good." He pulled off his glasses, rubbing them clean with an old handkerchief. "I believe," he replaced the glasses, "there are a number of carpentry jobs in the house. Just little things that need tending. I'm not very handy, I'm sure you know. Abigail can show you what needs to be done."
Just like that, he went about his business, humming as he gathered his notes and books, leaving Billy still on one knee, flummoxed.
"The side door," Albert gestured blindly over his shoulder, head still buried in his work, "will take you the back door of the cabin."
Billy knew this. He helped build the house, including the private pathway between the two buildings. It was there to make it easier for the minister to get to and from the chapel.
He didn't have to be told twice. He was out the door so quickly, he missed Albert's quiet chuckle.
That bloody trunk weighed a bloody ton. It might have weighed less if she hadn't packed the better part of a library, but she hadn't been able to part with any of them. It was the only heavy packing item she'd allowed herself when she left Philadelphia. Dragging it from the bedroom to the sitting room had been a Herculean effort.
Abigail ran her thumb down the spine of another familiar volume, sighed contentedly, and placed it next to the others. The shelves were now almost full, and the trunk nearly empty.
It was raining again. The smell of wet earth filtered into the little home and Abigail found that for the first time in her life, she liked the rain. She didn't have an elaborate coiffure or expensive dress and shoes to worry about, nor any stressful luncheons or teas at which her appearance would make or break her reputation. She could appreciate it for what it was: beautiful and life-giving. The gray sky brought out the vibrant greens of the grass and leaves. The crops would grow and the earth would soften for the men working it. The river and streams would swell, maybe even bring more fish. Rain was a miracle.
The back door opened and heavy boot falls echoed from the kitchen, mingled with the heavy patter of rain. "Did you forget something?" she called as she shelved another book.
"Not exactly," Billy's voice rumbled in response. Abigail dropped the book she'd fished from the trunk and squeaked in surprise. Billy was filling the door frame between the kitchen and sitting room. He rushed forward and crouched at the trunk to retrieve what she dropped. Abigail sucked in a breath; even on one knee, when he lifted his head and held out the book to her, he was only barely shorter than her. At this angle, she could look down into his eyes. He wiped moisture from his face with his free hand and dried it on his shirt. Little rivulets of water dripped down the corded muscle of his neck, disappearing beneath the open collar of his rough shirt. She wanted to know where it went. Their fingers brushed on the spine of the book. "The reverend said you have a few things that need fixing." There was a rasp to his voice that sent liquid warmth pooling between her legs, a sensation that had plagued her since their last encounter.
He was looking up at her expectantly. He said something, something about… work? Did they need something done to the cabin? His expression shifted from wide-eyed caution into something almost playful. He slid the book onto a shelf, letting his knuckles brush against the fabric at her hip. Her breaths were coming short and shallow already. His hands found her waist, holding her as gently as if she was a piece of fine porcelain. Some of the remaining moisture on his hands was seeping into her dress and she didn't care.
"I have no idea how to do this," Abigail said.
Only the briefest flash of confusion lit his eyes, before the corners of Billy's full lips curved up. "Me neither."
Abigail let out a relieved chuckle. "Really?"
"Not a clue." Billy shrugged. "I did a lot of things as a pirate, but this wasn't one of them."
It was hard to concentrate this close to him, with his big hands splayed out around her waist, rubbing unconscious circles with his thumbs. Candlelight reflected in the rain water still clinging to the golden hairs on his forearms, casting shadows and highlights there that were downright hypnotic.
"I guess we'll have to figure it out as we go."
Billy nodded. "That works for me." His hands dropped lower to encircle her hips. "I still feel terrible about how I treated you."
Her heart sank. She didn't know how many different ways to tell him that not only had he not hurt her - well, it hurt a little at first, if she was being honest with herself - but he'd finally given her something she'd wanted, without fully understanding precisely what she wanted, for years. "Billy, it wasn't-"
"It can be better." His fingers gripped her tighter. His eyes slid around the sitting room, looking for help or an answer that wasn't there. His brow furrowed. "There's not actually anything broken in here, is there?" Abigail shook her head. "Fantastic."
He dropped her hips and found her ankle, which she now realized was impossibly small. Honestly, who had ankles this small? Should they be this small? Were other women's ankles this small? She hadn't the occasion to know. His fingers traced up her calf, then, horribly, left to find the hem of her skirt. He pushed it up to her knee and found and untied her garter with a familiar deftness, discarding the ribbon on the floor. The sight of the item right there, next to the bookshelves in the sitting room, was arresting: that's not at all where that article of clothing was supposed to be. The stocking followed.
Billy moved to the other leg, removing and dropping the other stocking as quickly and quietly as he had the first. He belatedly noticed her lack of shoes, frowning at the floor.
"Where are you shoes?" "What are you doing?"
They spoke over each other then abruptly stopped. He lost interest in why she hadn't been wearing any shoes, and his mouth quirked in a small, teasing smile. His fingertips ghosted up the side of her leg and back down to her calf, sending gooseflesh rippling all the way to her neck. The warm pulsing at her sex demanded attention, but from this angle, she wasn't quite sure what there was to be done about it.
He brushed his lips along the bare skin of her leg, pushing up her skirts further as he went. The scruff of his beard was both tickling and rough, leaving sparks of lightning in its wake. He gathered her skirts higher, until she was exposed, still trailing his lips and tongue along her inner thigh. She stumbled over a protest, but she wasn't quite sure she wanted him to stop. He spared a hand to press his fingertips to her lips, silencing her. They stayed there even though she stopped trying to speak. She closed her lips around the calloused pads of his fore and middle fingers. Wanting to kiss him there must be strange, but she couldn't stop herself. She wanted to know what it was like to kiss him everywhere, as he was doing to her.
Her anxiety mounted in time with her desire. She was so exposed and he was so close. He groaned into her when she scraped her teeth over his fingertips, and he finally pressed a gentle, cautious kiss to her sex. Abigail sucked in a short breath and froze, her hands gripping the wooden shelf at her back. This was beyond her, so wildly out of step with anything she'd ever heard of, and if he stopped now she might scream.
He kissed her again, this time lingering, tasting her. Her stomach was flipping in erratic circles and she was keenly aware of the moisture gathering where his lips were moving against her. Billy's tongue delved between her wet folds and a shudder rocked her entire body. He finally let his hand fall from her mouth, trailing down her neck, lingering over her breasts, then lower until she was dimly aware of him hooking her leg onto his shoulder.
She was white-knuckling the shelves at her back. She knew Billy wouldn't let her fall, but the things he was doing with his mouth was making her feel like she might simultaneously melt and burst into flames. God only knew what might happen if she let go.
Any reservations he might have had were gone. He laved and sucked with an uninhibited vigor that was pushing her faster and faster toward a precipice she'd hadn't crossed before. His tongue found the sensitive nub that only she had known about until very recently and her hips jerked in response.
Her breath was coming short and shallow and she found she could hardly keep her eyes open against the spinning sensation that threatened to overwhelm her. She finally ventured a look down and, as if sensing her, Billy paused long enough to turn his eyes up to her. Slowly, deliberately, he closed his lips over her sex and slid his tongue inside her.
It was her undoing. She dissolved against the waves of sensation. She might have even cried out, but she was only aware of the consuming, pulsing eruption that originated from him. He kept at it, slowly easing off as the tidal wave receded and she was left swollen and sensitive, her internal muscles still throbbing like an echo.
That was different.
An hour and two more repeats of that experience later, Abigail nestled herself into the crook of Billy's shoulder. He was lazily running his fingers through her hair while she explored the hard planes and dips on his torso. He had much more hair than she expected, though given the state of his beard when she first arrived at Camp Jackson, it shouldn't have surprised her. It was light and golden, dusted from the top of his chest all the way down below. She colored and tucked her head to hide her blush. After everything they had just done, feeling shy was downright silly, but she felt it nonetheless.
"I told you." She could feel his voice rumbling beneath her cheek.
"What?"
"It could be better."
Abigail shifted so she could look up at him, her hand still idly tracing patterns on his bare skin. Her cheeks were pulling up in a shy smile. "Yes, you did."
His brow knitted in concern and the hand laced in her hair stopped moving. "It was better, wasn't it?"
She giggled and nodded. "Yes." He was so warm and solid beneath her. She felt like a noodle that had been left in a pot too long. "But," she bit back another smile at his immediate frown, "I still enjoyed myself by the lake."
His arm tightened around her and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. They couldn't stay like this forever. They couldn't even stay like this for the rest of the afternoon, not before someone would notice Billy's absence, or Albert might want to return to his own home. She supposed that at some point the three of them would all be in a room together, but for right now this moment was all their own.
At some point, the rain had stopped pattering on the roof. The smell of wet earth mingled with the fading scent of sweat. It was the most comfortable she'd ever felt in this bed.
"Do you think, maybe you could come back tomorrow?"
He held her gaze, steady, warming at the edges. "I intend to come back as long as you'll have me."
Abigail shifted in his arm to rest more fully against him. The heat radiating from his skin made the cool air at her back almost unnoticeable. "How long is your sentence?"
"About nine years left." Billy relaxed and chuckled.
"Will you stay here?"
"I haven't thought that far ahead in a very long time."
They were both too sated to properly brood, but there were dozens of unspoken questions lingering between them. Abigail still longed to know how he'd come to this place, wearing his darkness like a shroud. She knew he would tell her when he was ready, but it still pained her to think of him bearing it alone. His manner had improved considerably since she first arrived at Jackson. Sometimes he was almost the same man she'd known on the Siren, optimistic and devoted to his ideals, to his brothers. Almost. Maybe, if they were very lucky, they could keep what they had and he might start to hope for good things again.
"And then," Gertie stirred a spoonful of sugar into her tea without a few light clinks, "she tells me we're completely out of silver polish!" She and Clarissa shared a long-suffering scoff. Abigail nodded and smiled along. "Apparently we're so far removed from the real world we're expected to eat on dirty silverware."
Afternoon tea was painful, but tomorrow would be Sunday. Abigail took a large amount of pride in fully shirking a lifetime of upbringing and embracing people and a lifestyle her peers would have her strung up for. However, that lifetime of training taught her a number of valuable lessons that even someone as clever as Lizzie didn't know. Lizzie had plenty of experience on the outskirts of the peerage, but never a seat among them. She knew how to avoid ladies like Clarissa and Gertie, to make herself as invisible and unoffensive as possible, but not how to win them over, and certainly not what they could offer her.
Clarissa and Gertie knew - and loved to share - every detail of their husbands' plans for the land and people here. Clarissa droned on about the mind-numbing legal and financial record keeping she was now responsible for, given the impracticality of hauling a secretary or notary this deep into the "bush."
She and Albert had yet to talk in detail about how they could help anyone at Camp Jackson, but years spent in dining rooms listening to adults all trying to out-maneuver each other taught her there was no such thing as bad information. If she listened carefully, she would eventually learn something worthwhile from these awful women.
"Perhaps you could have packed extra silver polish inside the great clocks." Abigail wasn't sure what compelled her to say it. It was something Billy would find hilarious. She hid her face behind a sip of tea, but she couldn't miss the way Gertie blanched at her.
Clarissa's eyes danced merrily between the two women and she let out a light chuckle. The tension left Abigail's body and Gertie forced out a brittle laugh of her own.
"I suppose it must seem excessive after all you've had to give up," Gertie said.
Every interaction she had with Mrs. Rowling was riddled with velvet daggers. Lady Kent wasn't much better, but she seemed to have less interest in establishing her superiority over Abigail. There was no need.
Abigail searched for a retort. She'd happily remind Gertie that she'd chosen to marry a reverend and live a more simple life. Not that she'd had much of a choice. Auba saved her from an awkward, stilted attempt at countering Gertie's dig. She appeared silently at Abigail's shoulder with a kettle of hot water to refresh her tea. They shared a warm smile before Auba averted her eyes and moved on to serve Gertie. The Kents liked to serve from the lowest up. Clarissa once explained that it helped her feel like she was leading by example. According to Auba and Mimba, that did not extend to the slaves.
"Auba," Clarissa spoke with a ringing clarity, "please bring me the June book and check on Harrison. We both know how the boy likes to wander and I would like the dining room presentable. For once." She waited for Auba to collect the tea service tray and leave before offering them an apologetic smile. "I know it's terribly rude of me to start work while I have guests, but everything here has become so informal. Necessity dictates that we make the most of what we have to work with, wouldn't you agree, Abigail?"
Billy's face flashed in Abigail's mind, flushed, intense, and so real a sweat broke out on her palms. "Indeed." She coughed to clear her throat.
A large leather journal appeared on the side table, along with a quill and ink pot. Auba backed out of the room as silent as a whisper. Clarissa opened the journal and traced her pristine fingers over the pages and pages of information. "Honestly, ladies, I am thankful every day that I paid close attention to the way my mother managed a household. This," she gestured with her pen across the almost-full page, "alone is the work of two accountants and a foreman, and it's all fallen to me!"
"You have truly risen to the occasion," Gertie toasted her. She turned her attention to Abigail. "Did you know she is singlehandedly managing every slave in the camp?"
No, Abigail did not know that. How interesting. Again, it was information she didn't quite know what to do with, but it was undoubtedly important.
A soft cough from the doorway drew their gazes. "Ma'am," Auba curtsied, "Little Harrison was not in the dining room. If you'll permit me, I'll check the-"
"Do." Clarissa didn't look up as she traced perfectly-formed notes into the log. "As this is the third time this has happened, I will expect both of you at the post before supper. The foreman will see to it."
A chill ran down Abigail's spine. "The post?" Her voice cracked on the question.
Clarissa looked up from her notes, then offered another simpering feigned apologetic smile. "I know it's terribly uncouth, but we're all quite intimate here. It's honestly like training dogs. These people will try to get a free pass at every turn and nothing would ever get done without proper discipline."
It was of continuous amazement to Abigail that someone so beautiful, so refined, so educated, could be so horrendous. Clarissa had a face that would have inspired Botticelli. She was kind to her children, doted on her husband. She continuously extended her hand to Abigail in what passed for friendship to her and had absolutely no qualms doling out brutal physical punishment to human beings in her service.
She shot a look to Auba, who had gone ashen and backed out of the room with a mumbled "Yes, Ma'am." She tried to focus on her tea, but that was a mistake. She wanted to smash the cup into Clarissa's perfect, pale face.
"Poor thing," Gertie patted her hand, "she doesn't have to handle these little ugly every day realities the way we do."
Abigail twitched, almost spilling her tea. The blood ran in her ears, drowning out the natural sound of the quiet sitting room. She set her cup and saucer aside and stood, straightening her skirts. "My apologies ladies, I just remembered I promised to help Albert with his sermon this afternoon."
"Don't think too harshly of me, Abigail." Clarissa's eyes sparkled, but there was nothing deeper than that. "I do look forward to the reverend's sermons."
I'll give you something to look forward to.
She stomped all the way back to their cabin. She hadn't been this single-minded and agitated since the night she and Billy had nearly made love on the cabin floor. Now, though, her agitation was directed outward. The idea of Auba and that little boy being lashed for any reason was unbearable. She poured over all the possibilities: she could intervene, but to what end? She had no authority over people considered property. Captain Jacobs wouldn't care and neither would the foreman.
Her only hope was if Albert could convince them, as the camp's minister, that this was un-Christian and unnecessary. She would just have to convince Albert, and help him craft the perfect argument. She was so busy going over all the important points they'd need to discuss, muttering to herself, she didn't hear the quiet voices from inside the cabin, or notice the way the shutters had been pulled closed.
She pushed through the door, opened her mouth to call for Albert, then yelped in surprise and clapped her hand over her open mouth. Albert and Ned shoved away from each other like there was a fire between them. Neither were wearing jackets. They had been standing together in the sitting room, embracing each other. Albert's hair was mussed and, if she wasn't mistaken, his lips were swollen and pink. His face flamed and his visibly scrambled for an answer. Ned coughed and straightened his tie. When neither Albert nor Abigail moved, picked up his jacket off the table. "I should be off. Lovely to see you, Mrs. Locke." He bent at the waist in a short bow. Abigail managed to step aside from the door so he could leave, but she didn't get far.
They stared at each other in taut silence until Albert made to shuffle to the bedroom. "I am feeling unwell. Perhaps, I should go to bed." The sun was still up.
"Stop." She strode fully into the room and put a hand on his arm, preventing his escape. "Will you really not talk to me about this?"
Puzzle pieces began to fit together in her mind, from his reticence at her contact to his happiness with her relationship with Billy. Lizzie and Billy had both tried to tell her, hadn't they? That some men simply don't want the touch of a woman. Albert spent more time with Ned than anyone else, and Ned had been the one to join Billy in her rescue. He'd been beside himself over Albert's illness.
Albert's head dipped low. "I don't know how you can bear to look at me," he whispered.
She stepped in front of him, blocking his path and forcing her way into his sight. "Why would I not be able to look at you? After all you've forgiven me-"
"This is different!" He recoiled from her, his dark eyes wide. "This is different and you know it."
"Is this what you've been so upset about? Albert, I don't care. I love you. I want you to be happy as much as you want me to be happy." It was a lot to take in, to be sure, but Abigail had weathered worse than this. If this was Albert's biggest crime, she considered herself a lucky woman.
He pulled away and ran a hand through his hair, making it more messy than it already was. "This is an abomination. It will not continue."
It was a marvel that someone so progressive in his worldview could be so harsh with himself. He freely allowed her to carry on a relationship outside of the marriage, but would not allow himself the same freedom. She reached for him again but he jerked out of her grasp. His cheeks were wet. He trudged into the bedroom and sat slumped on the edge of the bed, his face in his hands.
Abigail followed him and knelt at his feet. She took his hands and pressed a kiss against his knuckles.
"Is this not the soul of depravity?" He looked so lost. Every insecurity he harbored, every fear, was now on the surface like an open wound. How long had he felt so broken in his heart?
"To be completely honest with you, I have never truly understood the concept." She shifted on her knees to rest more comfortably against his legs. "I don't think God would make people just to send them to Hell."
He didn't respond for a long time, until his hands finally tightened around hers. "What a pair we make." He offered a sad smile and let her lean up to kiss his cheek.
"You're a good person." She stood, still clasping his hands. "I know it's a lot right now, but I need your assistance with something this evening, otherwise I wouldn't ask. I think you can help some people. Will you?"
For a moment, she was afraid he'd say no. He was tired, all the stress of trying to force himself to be something he wasn't was finally out in the open. His shrill dedication to his faith must have been exhausting and she was sorry she hadn't understood it until now. She'd been too busy worrying over herself and her own unhappiness to see beyond the surface of his controlling behavior and rigidity.
But he stood, swallowed and took on a determined set to his soft features. "What do we need to do?"
Jacobs watched the Locke couple resolutely marching to the Kent estate. It wasn't tea time and they weren't dressed appropriately for supper, not that either of them dressed finely. They were putting their noses into something and stirring up more trouble, of that he had no doubt.
As if his day needed more trouble. His scouts had just escorted a cadre of French soldiers, with a pair of Chickasaw warriors, into his tent. This was surely in response to the missing fur traders and not at all what he needed. It did not bode well that they were willing to send six armed men and two warriors into British territory to investigate.
He ambled back to his tent. He'd made them wait a sufficient time for him. He breezed inside, past the crush of Frenchmen. The Chickasaw were made to wait outside.
"Gentlemen," he swept behind his desk, arching a dark brow at the rank of their leader, "welcome to Camp Jackson. How may we be of assistance?"
Their captain's lip curled. "You know why we are here. I want to know what happened to my cousin."
Jacobs flicked his eyes up and down the other man. They were all dirty and tired. God only knew how long they'd been searching the woods. "LeBlanc, I presume?"
"Oui."
Captain LeBlanc was not impressed. Like a good seasoned soldier, he could smell the lies a mile away. "I will tell you gentlemen exactly what was in my report: I have no idea. My executive officer encountered both men while on an emergency supply run to the fort, and did not see them again after. These mountains are a big place and fur trading is dangerous business."
"What about the woman? Or the other man? I saw a convict who shared his impressive height. What do they say?"
Fuck. This what he'd been afraid of. Someone had seen them. They probably saw everything.
"I'm afraid I only know what was reported to me. However, I trust my executive officer and wouldn't put it past some of the locals to shill out falsehoods in exchange for coin or beads or whatever it is these people want."
LeBlanc's hand rested on the butt of his pistol. "What a strange tale to fabricate. The man who told me is one of our most trusted trackers. He came to me immediately with news of my cousin's murder. Perhaps you would permit me to talk to some of your residents? The woman, she is the reverend's wife, is she not? Hows strange for her to be in the woods with a convict without your knowledge. In a blizzard, no less, mon dieu."
"No." This could rapidly get out of hand. All six pairs of eyes widened in surprise. "As I am responsible for the welfare of everyone in this camp, I cannot permit a troop of foreign soldiers to interrogate any of my residents, even if they are convicts." And troublemakers. "If you have further questions, you can submit them to my higher command at the fort."
"This is not over, Captain."
"I imagine it's not. Good day, gentlemen."
They left without argument, if a few muttered French curses. Only when their party was escorted off the camp did Jacobs finally sink into his chair. He deflated. Even his palms were sweating. He called for his clerk, a young private who made a poor secret of his chronic drunkenness. His pasty cheeks were bright red. Still feeling last night's indiscretions, most likely.
"Sir?"
"Tell the sergeant of the guard to double the rotations, and I want a four-man patrol circling the camp's perimeter at all times."
"Aye, Sir." He shifted from one foot to the other. "Is this about Mr. Kanuna?"
Oh, for fuck's sake. He tossed his pen to his desk. "What? What now?"
The private's eyes shot up. "Well, he's gone, Sir. He took a few of his things and made off into the woods not an hour ago."
A muscle jumped painfully in his jaw. His teeth hurt from clenching them so hard and so often. He closed his eyes and silently counted to three before responding. "No. Let him go. He was never a prisoner, anyway. I'll brief the sergeant of the guard at the next change-over."
Kanuna had been an unwilling guest of Camp Jackson for so long, most of the men forgot he'd originally been considered a prisoner. It was of no real matter to Jacobs or the British government. One less mouth to feed. But he'd been able to leave for the better part of a year now. Choosing to walk away the moment a troop of French and Chickasaw raiders crossed his path was telling. What had been communicated between those men that prompted Kanuna to finally surrender his claim to this land? With that in mind, he began scrawling out an emergency missive to the fort.
They would need more men.
