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  Bold Surrender

  The Triumphant Hearts Series

  Book Three

  by

  Judith E. French

  Award-winning Author

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-897-2

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 1988; 2016 by Judith E. French. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Meet the Author

  Chapter 1

  Morgan's Fancy, Maryland Autumn 1743

  The storm gathered fury as it rolled eastward across the dark, turbulent waters of the Chesapeake. Thunder shook the cosmos; jagged bolts of lightning joined heaven and earth in terrifying splendor as the tempest unleashed its raw power against the land.

  Sheets of driving rain assaulted the house, rattling the windows and cascading down the steep shingle roof in drenching waves. Streams of water made their way down the insides of the chimneys, causing dying fires to hiss and crackle, and sending off sparks that bounced against the wide brick hearths.

  Groaning, the giant poplars that sheltered the house bent under the wind as leaves and small branches were stripped away and tumbled into the darkness. A weakened limb gave way under the strain and crashed against the house, shattering a precious multipaned window.

  The sound of broken glass was followed almost immediately by a low whining and scratching at Ashley's door. "Just a minute, Jai." Ashley pulled the ledger closer and ran a finger down the neat rows of figures written first in her grandfather's bold hand and then in her own, mentally verifying the sums and subsequent balance. The dog's whining became more insistent. "All right, all right."

  With a sigh, Ashley replaced the goose quill in the inkwell, stepped over a half-mended saddle, and strode across the shadowy bedchamber to throw open the door. Instantly a huge, shaggy dog bounded into the room, nearly knocking her over in his enthusiasm. A wet tongue scratched against Ashley's face, and she pushed him away. "Down. Down, Jai," she scolded, halfheartedly. "You're in, but you're not going to make a habit of it."

  The dog pushed his nose under her hand, and she capitulated, kneeling on the cold floor and wrapping her arms around him. "Good dog, good Jai." She ruffled his shaggy fur. "You're not a coward, are you? Not afraid of a little old thunderstorm?"

  Ashley knew she should investigate the broken glass, but Thomas or one of the servants would see to it. If anything serious was wrong, they would have been shouting for her by now. She gave the dog a final pat and returned to the plantation accounts on her cluttered desk. Jai settled onto the small rug by her chair, laying his massive head against her high leather boots.

  Secretly glad for the company, Ashley picked up the quill and resumed her calculations. The flickering firelight cast a golden glow on her features as she concentrated on the precise figures. Like most of the tobacco planters on the Tidewater, Ashley was heavily in debt. But unlike most of them, her problems were compounded because she was a woman.

  Since her grandfather's death nearly a year ago, she had discovered that it was almost impossible for her to carry on the day-to-day business affairs of the plantation. Ships' captains who had done business with old Ash for years had suddenly had no room on their vessels for Ashley's tobacco. A neighbor, from whom they had purchased woodland, was demanding immediate payment, even though he had given her grandfather five years to pay.

  If she couldn't ship her tobacco, there would be no money to pay the debts, no money to order precious goods from England such as iron tools, needles, or salt for preserving meat.

  "Men don't like dealing with a woman," her solicitor, Richard Chadwick, had declared the morning of her grandfather's funeral. "You must hire an overseer, someone to placate the merchants and sea captains, not to mention your London factor. I'm certain he won't renew your contract next year, and then where will you be? Without a factor, you can't sell your damned tobacco if you do get it to England!"

  "Morgan's Fancy has never had an overseer," Ashley had declared. "My grandfather didn't believe in them. I'm perfectly capable of conducting my own affairs. Besides," she'd admitted, "I couldn't afford an overseer even if I wanted one." But she knew that once Richard had something in that brain of his, he was like a dog with a bone; he kept gnawing at it. She'd hoped this time would be different.

  Ashley slammed the ledger closed and leaned forward to rest her forehead on her clasped hands. Richard or these figures, she didn't know which was worse! Her financial situation was desperate; she had to sell this year's tobacco crop or else.

  She'd let Richard convince her that the plantation would be better off with a male overseer, yet secretly she'd hoped he wouldn't be able to find one who would consent to work for a woman. To her delight, Richard's succinct missives had included references to blunt refusals by prospective candidates for the position. As months had passed and the mention of an overseer had disappeared from his reports, Ashley had begun to think the matter was closed.

  Richard's latest lengthy letter, received several weeks ago, had proved otherwise. An overseer has been hired for Morgan's Fancy, he'd written. He is a former bondman, but has ten years' experience and comes with a superior recommendation. I'm certain you will be pleased with him. As your solicitor, I've signed a two-year contract with Master Saxon of the Virginia Colony.

  Damn Richard! If she hadn't been able to afford an overseer last spring, she certainly couldn't afford one now. But it would be impossible to break that contract without paying Master Saxon's full salary for the entire two-year period, or without destroying any thread of credibility she had as master of Morgan's Fancy. Like it or not, she would have an overseer as soon as he arrived.

  Ashley's thoughts were drowned in a roll of thunder, then forgotten as a bolt of lightning struck so close it lit the bedchamber as bright as day. The resul
ting thunder shook the house and momentarily deafened her. For two long heartbeats, primitive terror held her transfixed, then her brain snapped into action and she ran to the rain-streaked window. The driving rain made it impossible to see anything, but she was certain the lightning had hit something nearby.

  Ashley grabbed a worn cloak from the back of a chair and threw it around her shoulders. "You stay here!" she ordered Jai. Carefully closing the bedroom door behind her, she hurried down the wide stairs and into the entrance hall.

  The shadowy form of an old man thrust forth a lantern. "I think it hit close, Miss Ashley," the thin voice quavered. "I was goin' to take a look-see."

  "I'll go." She took the lantern from his wrinkled hand.

  "You got no business goin' out there. It's a powerful bad storm. You know how you hate thunderstorms. If Master Ash was here..."

  "Well, he's not here, Thomas." Her voice softened. "I'll be all right. You stay inside where it's dry."

  Outside, the rain soaked her cloak in seconds, and she pushed the heavy, sodden mass off her shoulders. Wind tore at her unbound hair and drove needles of icy rain against her skin, threatening to drive her down into the slippery, cold mud. Ashley closed her eyes against the flying sticks and debris, making her way slowly by memory across the familiar farmyard. The wind filled her ears and the rain drenched her linen shirt and breeches, chilling her body.

  Another flash of lightning illuminated the barn ahead, startling her so that she slipped to one knee in the mire. A mare's whinny was borne on the wind, high-pitched and full of fear.

  Struggling to her feet, Ashley ran the last hundred feet to the barn and yanked open the heavy wooden door. Smoke and the acrid smell of burning hay enveloped her. Flames danced at the far end of the center walkway. Bits of wood flew from the stall on her right as the bay stallion lashed out with powerful hooves against the plank door.

  "Whoa! Whoa, boy!" Ashley shot the iron bolt and shielded herself with the door as Baron reared, then plunged through the opening to safety.

  She had no need for the lantern. The growing fire provided light enough as Ashley ran from stall to stall, opening doors and trying to drive the terrified horses to safety. The thick smoke choked her and her eyes streamed with tears.

  A shrill whinny came from the last stall on the right. Flames had already spread to the walls. Sparks rained down on the chestnut mare, and her colt cowered in the far corner of the box stall. Ashley seized the metal bar, crying aloud as the intense heat raised blisters on her hand. The stall was knee-deep in straw, smoldering now in a half dozen places. Frantically Ashley cast about for something to force back the latch. On the far wall hung a pitchfork; she grabbed it and used the wooden handle to beat against the bar and open the door.

  "Where are you?" a man shouted above the din.

  Ashley turned toward the voice. "The far side! The stallion! Get him out!" she ordered, then ran to the plunging mare and caught hold of her halter. A hoof grazed her knee as the chestnut reared, driven beyond reason by the fire. Ashley saw stars and gasped to keep from passing out. Pain shot up her leg; it would barely hold her weight. Still she clung to the halter.

  "Come on, Scarlet," she pleaded. The mare rolled her eyes until the whites showed and backed farther against the wall, pinning the spotted colt behind her. The colt gave little snorts of fear as he struggled to keep his footing in the smoldering straw.

  Ashley felt as though her arm was being pulled from its socket. Her blistered hand was an agony against the leather strap. She let go and grabbed the pitchfork, using the handle to smack the mare's rump. "Get out of here!" she screamed. "Go!" A spark burned through her sleeve below the elbow, and she tore off the voluminous shirt she wore over her cotton shift and wrapped it around the plunging mare's head.

  Unable to see, the animal quieted, permitting the woman to lead her, step by trembling step, out of the stall and down the walkway, her colt pressing close on her heels. Strong male hands grasped the halter near the barn entrance, and Ashley would have run back into the inferno but her knee failed, throwing her to the ground. Suddenly someone grabbed her, pulling her to her feet, dragging her toward the open doors.

  "No!" she protested. "Let me go! I have to get—" A horse's terrified scream drowned her words as she was swept up into a stranger's arms. "No!" Fiercely she struck out at the bearded face close to hers. "Put me down!" An iron grip closed around her wrist.

  "Hit me again, and I'll gi' ye the taste o' my fist!" a gruff voice threatened.

  Rain beat against her face, and Ashley coughed, fighting for air. "Put me down!" she repeated.

  "Give her to me." The soft lisp of Mari's familiar voice came from the darkness. The Indian woman's arms caught Ashley as the man let her fall. "It's all right," Mari soothed.

  "Squire's still in there!" Ashley cried.

  "The bearded man went for him," Mari explained. "It's all right. Come away, child. There's nothing more you can do."

  Someone threw a cloak over her shoulders. Choking, she wiped at her streaming eyes and stared back at the barn. Flames shot high in the air, piercing the shingled roof in several places. Reason flooded her brain. "Who is he, Mari? Who went after Squire?" Vaguely she made out the forms of Joshua and Edgar in the crowd carrying buckets of water. "Who's in the barn?"

  A shout went up as a big man and a horse loomed in the glowing doorway. The stranger was bare-chested, his shirt wrapped around the stallion's head.

  "Are you all right?" Ashley called. Her eyes traveled over the valuable workhorse before coming back to rest on the man. A frown creased her face. "Who are you?" she demanded, gazing into the smoke-stained face. His craggy features were obscured by the dirt and ashes, but Ashley would have remembered those blacksmith's arms and broad, muscular chest if she had ever seen him before.

  Joshua came forward to catch hold of the stallion's halter. The stranger released the horse and glared at Ashley.

  "I asked who you are," she repeated. "Are you hurt?"

  "No thanks to you." The burr of the Highlands clung to the deep voice. He rubbed at his cheek, assessing her boldly. "What place is this, where a wench risks her life while men stand back?" His insolent gaze took in the ragged cloak and the clinging breeches. "Your husband should be ashamed."

  Ashley stiffened, conscious of the spectacle she must look with her face blackened and her hair hanging in strings. Her lips whitened with anger. "I have no husband," she declared, "nor do I wish any." She met the man's brazen stare with one of her own. "I owe you thanks for saving the stallion; it was a courageous act. A death by fire is not one I'd wish for man or beast."

  He nodded. "It seemed none of these"—he glanced about him at the milling men and women—"were willing to go in after ye. Ye showed bravery yourself, or at least more bravery than good sense. Do you make a habit of assaulting your rescuers?"

  Ashley bit back a rising oath. "Until you interfered, stranger, I was managing. I could have gotten the stallion out."

  "You're a fool if you think so," he snapped back, indicating the bloody gash where she'd been struck by the mare's hoof. "That knee would have been your undoing. You and the stallion would have died."

  "You're welcome to your own opinion!"

  "A rare bit of feminine logic." Ignoring her discomposure, he arched one dark eyebrow quizzically. "Would it be too much to ask if we could get in out of this damned rain?" He nodded toward the barn. "The rain will put out the fire, and the animals are safe. There seems little to be done here until daylight."

  Ashley fought back a rising antagonism as she turned to lead the way back to the house. She paused, her brown eyes narrowing suspiciously. "You didn't give your name. Are you a runaway bond servant that you are ashamed to tell it? A ship's deserter?"

  He chuckled deeply. "Do I have the look of a sailor? I've nae the time to bandy words wi' a saucy serving wench, as pleasant as that may be. My business is wi' the master of Morgan's Fancy. I'm Kelt Saxon, his new overseer."

  "You? You're Saxon?"
Ashley was aware of Mari's twitter of amusement behind her.

  "Aye, sweet, I am."

  Morgan's Fancy's new overseer, was he? Ashley dropped her gaze to the Scot's muddy boots and affected a meek reply. "I did not know, sir." She turned to the Indian woman. "Mari, will you show Master Saxon to the house?"

  "Is your master ill?" Kelt searched the yard for a man in authority. "Is he at home?" Why wasn't the old man here at the barn? Could he be an invalid? "I want to speak with him right now."

  "You must have time to change into dry clothes and have Mari look at your burns," Ashley insisted, painfully aware of her own throbbing hand and the knee that would barely hold her. She forced her voice into a servant's humble tone. "I'm certain the master can meet you in the library in..." She hesitated, tempted to put off the confrontation until morning. "In perhaps an hour. All your questions will be answered then, I assure you." An hour would give her time to compose herself, to prepare the type of reception this arrogant Virginian deserved. "Please, sir, go along with Mari."

  With a final glance at the lass, Kelt followed the Indian woman toward the manor house. He hoped he hadn't made a serious mistake. The sassy wench was well spoken for a servant. Could she be old Ash Morgan's mistress? he wondered. Not likely; a man would take better care of such a shapely wench if she warmed his bed at night. Who was she then? Surely not a decent woman, garbed in men's clothing with her hair unbound like a common slut. Kelt supposed he'd find out soon enough. God, but he'd be glad to get out of these wet clothes! He was nearly frozen to death.

  The storm seemed to be slackening as Ashley limped back toward the house. The wind dropped and the rain fell more slowly. The pain in her knee was enough to bring tears to her eyes with every step. Childlike, she held her injured hand palm up to the cooling drops and wondered if she'd be able to manage the stairs without help.