The Hellion Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 2)

"Ah, yes, my dear, since you have seen a frankly impressive number of naked men, let me tell you that this young man is built very well. He's an ath­lete and his body is lean and strong. Aye, you'll find that Sherbrooke is a fine specimen." He paused again, looking off into nothing in particular. "I think this will work quite nicely, but I must think about it in more detail. The man is not a fool. I was, I sup­pose, expecting another Lord David, but Sherbrooke isn't at all like that young wastrel. I will tell you in the morning what you will do."

At eight o'clock the following morning, Sophie was trying to fasten the front buttons of her gown. Every movement hurt. The flesh over her ribs had turned a fierce yellow and purple during the night. As she worked another button into its hole, she felt the pain so deeply she doubted it would ever ease. She stopped, bending over like an old woman. She'd sent her maid away; she couldn't allow Millie to see her, for it would start gossip and she couldn't allow that.

She couldn't allow that because of Jeremy.

When there came a light knock on her door, fol­lowed by her young brother's head coming around, she smiled despite the pulling pain. Jeremy came into the bedchamber. "Don't you want breakfast? It's growing cold and you know how Uncle Theo is. You won't get a bite to eat until luncheon."

"Yes, I know. Let me finish with these buttons."

Jeremy prowled around her room, forever curious, filled with a nine-year-old's energy. Always on the move, always restless, always ready to work as hard as any slave, only he couldn't.

She finally finished with the buttons. She hap­pened to glance in the mirror and saw that she hadn't brushed out her hair. She looked pale and frowzy and about as seductive as a broken conch shell. Some whore she was. There were dark circles under her eyes. Ah, but it hurt to pull the brush through the tangles. Every stroke sent waves of pain through her chest.

"Jeremy, would you brush my hair for me?"

He looked startled and cocked his head to one side in silent question. When she merely shook her head, he came to her, frowning. "Are you tired or something, Sophie?"

"Yes, I'm something." She handed him the brush and sat down. He did a poor job of it but it was sufficient. She managed to pull back the mass of chestnut hair and tie it at the nape of her neck with a black velvet ribbon.

"Now, Master Jeremy, onward to breakfast."

"You're ill, aren't you, Sophie."

It wasn't a question. She touched her fingers to his cheek for she saw the worry in his eyes, and the fear that something was seriously wrong. "I'm all right. Just a touch of a stomachache, I swear to you. Some of Tilda's wonderful muffins and I'll be right as rain."

Jeremy, reassured, skipped ahead of her. It was, at least, skipping to her. Perhaps to others it looked like clumsy ill-coordinated movements, but not to her. No, he was a happy little boy and he was doing marvelously well. She loved him more than anyone in the world. He was hers, her responsibility. He was the only person in the world who loved her, without question, without reservation.

Uncle Theo was in the breakfast room. The veranda doors, green-slatted, as were all the floor-to-ceiling doors in the house, were open and a slight breeze stirred the still air. In the distance the sea glittered beneath a blazing early morning sun. Just outside the open doors, the air was thick with the overripe summer scent of roses, jasmine, hibiscus, bougainvillea, cassia, frangipani, and rhododendron. During the hottest part of the day, the scent was nearly overpowering. But now, early in the morning, it was a paradise of smells and it stirred the senses. However, Sophie felt no stirring inside her this morning at the beauty of it. There was very little of anything that held beauty for her now. There had been very little of beauty for the past year. No, now it was closer to thirteen months.

Thirteen months since she'd become a whore. Thir­teen months since other plantation owners' wives cut her directly whenever she chanced to see them shopping in Montego Bay. They didn't cut her here at Camille Hall; they admired her dear uncle much too much to hurt him like that. No, they were coldly polite to her here.

"There aren't any muffins, Sophie," Jeremy said. "Do you want me to ask Tilda?"

"No, no, love. I'll have some fresh bread. It's fine. Sit down now and eat your breakfast."

Jeremy did, with his usual enthusiasm.

Theodore Burgess looked up from his newspaper, the imported London Gazette, only seven weeks old, for English ships were regular in their arrivals.

He studied her face for a long moment, was con­tent at the lingering pain he saw in her eyes, and said, "You and I will meet after you've eaten, my dear. There are things to discuss, and I know you always wish to accommodate yourself to my wishes. Ah, do eat a bit more. I know the heat is enervating, but you are growing too thin."

Jeremy continued oblivious, content to smear more butter on his roasted yam.

"Yes, Uncle," Sophie said. "In your study then. After breakfast."

'Yes, my dear, that is exactly what I wish. As for you, my fine lad, you will accompany me to the stillhouse today. There are some processes I wish you to learn. It will be hot as the fires of hell itself but we shan't stay long. Just long enough for you to learn something of the rum-making process and the steps Mr. Thomas takes to prevent the slaves from stealing and drinking all our profits."

The pleasure in Jeremy's eyes made her ribs hurt all the more.

Samuel Grayson had seen Ryder come back into the house, his thick pale brown hair dark with sweat, his white shirt stuck to his back, his face flushed red from the sun. He'd ridden over the plantation the entire morning with Emile, and now, at midday, he imagined Ryder was holed up someplace cool. He found him sitting on the veranda that gave off the billiard room. He was in the deepest shade, the one place where the breezes flowed continuously. He said quietly, seeing that Ryder's eyes were closed, "It's an invitation, Ryder, from Theodore Burgess of Camille Hall. There is to be a ball this Friday and you are to be the honored guest."

"A ball," Ryder said, opening his eyes. "Jesus, Samuel, I can't imagine trying to dance in this infer­nal heat. Surely this Burgess fellow isn't serious."

"There will be slaves waving woven palm fronds about to keep the air stirred up. Also the Camille Hall ballroom, like this one, is lined with slatted doors, all opening up from ceiling to floor. It will be quite pleasant, I promise you."

Ryder was silent for a moment. He was thinking about the woman who was sleeping with three men. He wanted to meet her.

"There's a boy waiting for your response, sir."