Bold Surrender Read online

  Finally, in her bedchamber, Ashley lowered herself into a high-backed chair by the hearth. Jai came to offer his comforting presence and Ashley stroked his head as Joan, the serving girl, wrapped a homespun blanket about her mistress's shoulders.

  "Storm's nigh over, miss," the girl said. She knelt on the bricks and began to feed cedar shavings to the slumbering coals. "Be that the new overseer fer certain?" She rolled her heavy-lidded eyes at her mistress. "Handsome as Satan. Oh!" Joan winced as she saw Ashley's knee. "It's bleedin'. Shall I fetch the medicine box?" Her plain face grimaced with concern. "I kin get Mari."

  Ashley's teeth began to chatter as a chill seized her. "No. I want hot water for a bath." She pushed back the blanket and wiggled out of the ruined breeches. "I want soap and some clean linen strips to bind this. Say nothing to Mari; she's tending the Scot." Ashley deliberately ignored Joan's remark about the stranger's appearance. Joan believed any man who walked upright was handsome. To draw attention to the matter would only encourage her fancies.

  Ashley rubbed the dog's head as Joan hurried to fetch warm water. "I should have taken you with me, Jai," she murmured. "I'd hate to think you would have stood and stared like the rest of those pudding heads while I was being manhandled by that oaf. You'd have taken a bite out of the seat of his breeches, wouldn't you?"

  With a sinking heart, Ashley remembered the loss of the barn. Her grandfather had built it with his own hands. The structure would have to be replaced, and she could ill afford the cost. Still, the animals were all safe. She shuddered when she thought what might have been. Squire, Baron, and Scarlet's new colt could never be replaced; each horse was an individual... a friend.

  It would be a pleasure to take the new overseer down a peg or two. Mischief lit her brown eyes as Ashley thought of the interview to come. Saxon obviously believed her grandfather was alive and master of Morgan's Fancy. It was undoubtedly Richard's doing that he thought so. Ashley's lips curved into a sly smile. Master Kelt Saxon was in for a surprise.

  Anticipation kept her thoughts occupied during the bath and Joan's clumsy wrapping of the injured knee. She allowed the girl to brush and braid her hair, then waved her away. "Go to bed. I can dress myself." She smiled. "Thank you, Joan, and a good-night to you."

  "Night, miss." Joan bobbed a curtsy and left the room.

  Biting her lower lip, Ashley forced the swollen leg into a clean pair of gray doeskin breeches. Next she donned a man's full-sleeved linen shirt and leather vest. It was her habit to wear men's attire; she had no time for women's satin and lace. A skirt, even a lady's riding habit, was awkward for attending to the duties of a plantation master. As a child, she'd had her grandfather's permission to dress as a boy. Now that she was a woman grown, there was no one to force her to adhere to custom. Besides, she told herself, if the workers saw her dressed as a man and heard her giving orders day in and day out, in time they might come to forget that she was only a woman.

  After tugging on a clean pair of riding boots, Ashley paused to catch a quick glimpse of herself in the tiny mirror. "You've looked better," she admitted to her reflection. Taking a deep breath, she started for the stairs.

  In the library, Kelt Saxon waited impatiently for Master Ashley Morgan to join him. The dry clothes and hot tea the Indian woman had offered had done nothing to ease his growing suspicion that something was very wrong here at Morgan's Fancy.

  A friend, Captain Philip Fraser of the Merry Kate, had brought him as far as Chestertown that afternoon. Good sense would have bade Kelt remain in the port town until morning, but Fraser's tongue-in-cheek gibing about Kelt's new position had struck a chord. Add that to the amused glances he'd received in the Chestertown Inn when he'd said he'd been hired as the new overseer for Morgan's Fancy, and Kelt was certain something was afoot.

  He tried to remember Fraser's exact words when he'd asked if the captain was personally acquainted with Ashley Morgan.

  "Me and old Ash shared a few drams of rum from time to time," Fraser had admitted.

  "Is he a fair man?"

  "When I knew him, Ash Morgan was as honest as they come. Tough as hickory."

  From a man like Fraser, that was high praise. Kelt and Fraser had fought side by side against the British during a local uprising in Scotland. No braver man than Philip Fraser ever drew breath, for all that he'd accepted the King's pardon and come to America, leaving Scotland and her heartaches behind. But Fraser had followed that statement with an offer to carry Kelt back to Virginia if he changed his mind about working for Morgan.

  "My contract is for two years. I'll need no passage until then," Kelt had replied patiently. What had Fraser been alluding to? He'd been unable to get another word out of him on the subject.

  The innkeeper had been equally closemouthed. "It takes a certain kind of man to work for Ashley Morgan," he'd commented. "Course, coming from Virginia, you might be that kind." A ripple of laughter from the men gathered in the public room had followed.

  It had been enough to send Kelt back to the stable for his horse and set him on the way to Morgan's Fancy within the hour. The weather and sketchy directions had sent him to the wrong plantation. He could have spent the night there, claiming a traveler's hospitality, but by then he'd already been wet and stubbornly set on making his destination as soon as possible. He'd followed the poor excuse for a trail until he'd seen the light of the fire and heard the shouts of the men.

  Nothing Kelt had seen or heard had given him any clue as to what was wrong with the master of Morgan's Fancy, or why he hadn't been in the yard directing rescue efforts.

  Restlessly Kelt scanned the rows of books that lined the walls. "Too many for show," he murmured, half to himself. One finger gently touched the spine of a red leather volume. "William Shakespeare." Well read, or more money than he knows what to do with. Kelt had not seen such a library since he'd left his home in Scotland.

  Ashley paused in the doorway. The Scot was bigger than she'd remembered at the barn; she couldn't help noticing how his broad shoulders strained the seams of his well-cut gray coat. She swallowed hard. "Kelt Saxon?"

  He turned toward her, hat in hand, and their eyes locked. Anger tinted the Scot's high cheekbones. "It's you, again, wench. Did ye tell Master Morgan I'm waiting to see him?" Kelt demanded.

  "If you're waiting for my grandfather, you'll have a long wait. He's been dead nearly a year." Ashley crossed the room and gracefully extended her hand. "I'm Mistress Ashley Morgan, and if you work here, you'll be working for me."

  Chapter 2

  Anger warred with surprise in the Scotsman's rugged face. The silence was so deep that Ashley could hear the ticking of the tall case clock on the landing. A shiver ran down her spine as she stubbornly met the fierce gray eyes. He has the eyes of a hawk, she thought, but he's a man, like any other man, no more and no less.

  "If this be some sort of joke, I'm in no mood for it," he said coldly.

  "I assure you," Ashley repeated firmly, "I am the master of Morgan's Fancy."

  Kelt shook his dark head in disbelief. "No, Mistress Morgan. You've got the wrong of it. I've a contract to work for your grandfather, not you. I dinna work for women. I know not what game ye play, but I'll nae be a part of it. A mon's clothing doesna make a mon." He kept his voice low, controlled. Only a tiny muscle twitched along the line of his granite jaw. Fraser had known! The bastard had known all along! Kelt's face flushed with anger beneath the tan. "I came here in good faith at no little expense." He'd also given up a good job offer in Virginia. Damn! "I expect an explanation for your deceit, Mistress Morgan."

  "I had no part in any deceit!" Ashley flared.

  "Do you deny that your solicitor, Richard Chadwick, was acting for you when he offered me a contract?"

  "No, I don't deny that, but it wasn't my idea to neglect to tell you that I am a woman."

  "So ye do admit that much, that ye are a woman." Kelt let his gaze drop to her breeches and riding boots."'Tis a wonder."

  Ashley fought to control her tem
per. This Scotsman, whom Richard had praised so lavishly, was as narrow-minded as the captains who refused to carry her tobacco. "What I choose to wear or not wear is none of your concern. You have been hired as an overseer."

  Kelt took a threatening step in her direction. Ashley stood her ground, glaring up at him. "I've been deceived, Mistress Morgan—lied to—and ye expect me to stay here and work for you! Are ye daft, woman?"

  "I have your written word, witnessed and recorded," she reminded him. "I need you to ship my tobacco. You'll stand by your contract, or you'll never work as overseer in any of His Majesty's colonies again."

  "A false contract is worthless!"

  "Show me the deception, Saxon! Who told you Ashley Morgan was a man? Where in that contract does it say you are to be employed by a man?"

  Kelt's large hands clenched into fists. He had never struck a woman, though more than once he had been sore tempted. But this time... He turned away, forcing down the waves of fury that shook him worse than a fever's chill. He would not willingly place himself in a woman's power again. "I am an honest man," he said, "and I expect honesty in others."

  "I have as much honor, perhaps more, than most men," Ashley flung back. Her knee was hurting so badly that she wasn't certain how much longer it would hold her. She could feel tears of pain pooling in her eyes, tears she couldn't let the arrogant Virginian see. Time and time again she'd taken insults from merchants, government officials, and fellow planters, simply because she was a woman trying to run a plantation alone—trying, as they claimed, to go against God's natural order. But she'd had enough; she'd not be bullied.

  She hadn't wanted an overseer, but now that he was here, she would use him to ship her tobacco. "Can you blame me if you jumped to conclusions?" she asked tartly.

  Kelt whirled on her. "It was deception and well ye know it! Your grandfather's name and reputation are well known in Virginia."

  "This verbal sparring will get us nowhere." Ashley crossed painfully to an elegant mahogany sideboard and unstoppered a decanter of French brandy. She looked toward the Scotsman questioningly. "A drink, or are you an abstainer?"

  A frown crossed his brow. Tendrils of red-gold hair had loosened to frame her Dresden-china oval face, a face unmarred by pox or the loss of any teeth. Her nose was straight and well formed, the chin a bit too firm for a woman. And her mouth... A hint of a smile crossed her lips. The woman was more attractive than he cared to admit. Kelt shook his head. "Nay, I'm no abstainer."

  Deftly Ashley poured the amber liquid into a snifter and offered it to him. "I don't like having an overseer on Morgan's Fancy any more than you care for the idea of working for me," she admitted. "I am a good planter, Saxon. My grandfather was one of the best, and he trained me." Kelt took the goblet, and she poured a second drink for herself. "But"—her eyes met his—"I have no intention of letting you out of the contract. As much as I hate to admit it, Richard was right. I need you." She took a sip of the brandy. "Since we are forced to work together, I think we should make the best of it." Her smile spread, lighting the almond-shaped eyes with genuine warmth.

  Kelt's fingers tightened on the stem of the snifter until the glass neared the breaking point. In the firelight, her eyes were the color of the brandy. The thought was as disquieting as the tightening of his loins. Resentment and confusion clouded his mind. Did this woman have the audacity to believe she could force him to work for her? Who was she to stand there, as bold as any man, drinking brandy and telling him what he would and would not do? He forced a wry laugh. "And what makes ye think that I would be a very good overseer for Morgan's Fancy—if ye forced me to stay?" The burr came thick in his words.

  "And risk your own reputation? You're too honest a man for that. You weren't hired at random, you know. My solicitor had you carefully investigated before he offered you the position. He knows I'd have no man on Morgan's Fancy I couldn't trust." Amusement lurked behind the amber eyes. For once I hold the upper hand! Ashley swirled the brandy in her glass and drained it. "Help yourself if you'd like another," she offered.

  The crackling of the fire was the only sound in the room, that and the steady pulse of a light rain against the glass panes of the windows.

  Kelt's eyes narrowed speculatively. "And if I don't agree to work for you?"

  Ashley shrugged. "If you were a fool, you'd never have gotten where you are today. I've won, and we both know it. The outcome was never in doubt." She forced herself to meet that steely, hawklike gaze without faltering.

  A darker flush of anger stained his features. "By God! I'll not work for such a—" The stem snapped and glass shattered. The brandy stained the rug at his feet.

  Ashley turned in the doorway. "Leave it. Joan will clean it in the morning. Will your family be joining you soon?"

  "I have no family."

  "Oh. I had assumed you would." Ashley tried to hide her discomposure. How could Richard have chosen a single man when he knew the overseer would have to live in the manor house? "You will be living here. Morgan's Fancy has never had an overseer before; we have no suitable quarters. I hope the chamber you were given will be sufficient. Normally we start work at daylight. I expect no less from my overseer. I'll instruct you in your duties at breakfast."

  "You want me to live here, in the manor house?" he said incredulously. "What of your reputation, Mistress Morgan? Surely an unmarried male cannot—"

  Ashley folded her arms across her chest. "You may as well know the worst of it, Saxon. My grandfather had no sons. I am the child of his daughter, Cicely. My name is Morgan because I was born a bastard. According to the accepted standards of our society, I have no reputation to lose." She smiled sweetly. "I bid you good-night, sir."

  Speechless with fury, Kelt stared after her retreating back. The woman was mad! He'd gather his belongings and be gone on the next boat. His belongings! "Damn!" He'd forgotten. Everything he owned was still sitting in that whoreson's inn at Chestertown.

  There'd been no way to carry his sea chest and his canvases on horseback.

  Kelt swore fiercely, jammed his cocked hat back on his head, and stalked from the room. If he was overseer here, he'd be damned if he wouldn't order someone to go and fetch his things.

  Good sense overtook Kelt before he could wake the servants. Morning would be time enough to send someone for his personal belongings. He would send a shilling along to pay for the night's safekeeping of his trunk and thus would owe the innkeeper no obligation.

  Two full notebooks of sketches were safely wrapped in oilcloth and packed in that sea chest, some of his best work, along with his oil paints and brushes. His clothes could be replaced, but not his paints. The brushes had come from Amsterdam, the oils from Venice. If one brush had been disturbed, he'd have the innkeeper's head on a platter.

  Wearily he turned toward the stairs; a single tallow candle burned on the stand. Gratefully Kelt took it. He felt as if he'd been on his feet for days. At the top of the staircase, he silently made his way down the hall to his chambers. A fire had been laid, and the bedcovers had been turned down.

  To give the devil his due, or in this case, her due, he had to admit his quarters were excellent, consisting of a large bedchamber with windows facing south and east, and a smaller room with a desk and shelves for his books. The south light would be perfect for his painting.

  Methodically Kelt undressed and hung his clothes neatly over a chair, then blew out the candle and climbed into bed. His sleep, when it came, was troubled, full of friends and enemies who were long since dead and the bittersweet memories of Highland heather in bloom.

  * * *

  Ashley woke in the early dawn. For a few minutes, she tossed on the thick goose-down mattress, trying to find a position that would not add to the discomfort of her injured knee and burned hand. Sleepily she rubbed her eyes and sat up, dropping her bare feet to the icy floor.

  Ignoring the chill, she went to the window and stared out through the morning mist at the blackened outline of the barn rafters. So much for th
e foolish hope that the fire wasn't as bad as she'd thought last night.

  Awkwardly she donned the clothing she had worn to meet with Saxon. Her knee was painful, but it would bear her weight. The burn would need careful watching to be certain it did not become infected. Ashley would have liked nothing more than to go back to bed and sleep for two days, but there was no time to coddle herself.

  Ash Morgan had made her tough, not from a lack of feeling for her, but because he loved her so deeply. His unfailing love had sustained her many times during her life and had helped to make up for her mother's rejection.

  For just an instant, the image of Ashley's mother came before her. Even at forty, Cicely Morgan Randall had a delicate beauty that few women could ever hope to match. Blood had been spilt for a dance with her; songs had been written in her honor. Her flaxen hair, her porcelain skin, and her china-blue eyes had broken hearts from Philadelphia to the Carolinas. Ashley chuckled softly. No, Mother would definitely not approve of Ashley's new overseer living in the house. But then Mother rarely approved of anything Ashley did, and the feeling was mutual.

  Ashley had been born at her stepfather's plantation, Rosewood, on the James River in Virginia, but Cicely had sent her to her grandfather in Maryland while she was still a baby. After that, there had been only brief visits with her mother. Cicely's husband, Nicholas Randall, had wanted no reminder that his wife had been pregnant with another man's child when they wed.

  During those visits, Ashley had thought of Cicely as some beautiful stranger, a fairy-tale figure. The fact that this glorious creature had asked Ashley to call her Mama was irrelevant. How could there be any connection between herself, a knobby-kneed, freckle-faced hoyden with flaming red hair, and this exquisite, sweet-smelling lady who never raised her voice in anger? Who even wept daintily?