Little Love Affair (Southern Romance 1)

“He followed his conscience,” Jasper said again. “It led him back home again. And...” He swallowed. How could he put words to the storm Solomon had set in his soul? Jasper wanted to go home, and could not face his own township.

He had been so blind, all these years, believing the words he should have known to be lies. Who could look at the beatings, the haunted eyes, and believe that the slaves were happy?

He opened his mouth to speak, and the words froze on his lips. Cyrus had not moved his eyes from Solomon. His arm came up, shaking, and there was a pistol there.

“Cyrus!”

A cry behind them, and the crashing of feet. Clara was there, radiant in a blue gown, her eyes wide and horrified.

“He betrayed us.”

“Cyrus.” Millicent’s voice, pleading. “This is my son.”

“Who’s a traitor! He raised arms against his own people. He gave aid to the army that would have killed you in your sleep if they marched here. He turned his back on everything he stood for, and he left you to grieve his death as if he had a shred of honor. I can’t let him live after that.”

“Cyrus.” Tears were streaming down Clara’s face.

“You can’t be asking me to forgive him.” The man’s face was incredulous.

“I’m not! I can’t.” Her face twisted. “But I can’t watch you shoot him. Please. Please, for me.”

“Go, Clara.” His finger was on the trigger, and he shot a warning look at Jasper. “Don’t move, Mister Perry. I can shoot before you can reach me, and you know it.”

None of them expected the blow. The branch came out of nowhere, knocking Cyrus sprawling, and Clara gave a scream, her hand over her mouth.

It was the younger daughter, panting slightly and with her hair straggling free of its bun. The branch was still clasped in her pale hands. She looked down at Cyrus, her face pale but resolute, and her fingers constricted once more around the makeshift mace.

“I won’t let you hurt my brother,” she said as Cyrus stirred. “And I won’t let you hurt the man Clara loves.”

Chapter 18

It took a moment for Clara to remember how to speak.

“Cecelia?” she whispered finally. She could hardly believe that this young woman was her sister, but from the pointed little chin to the warm brown eyes, it could be no one else. There were leaves stuck to her skirt and her face was flushed.

“He was going to hurt Solomon,” Cecelia said blankly, as if the choice was self-evident.

Clara gave a disbelieving laugh. “Oh, my darling. Were you here all along?”

“Yes.” Cecelia’s voice was small. “I saw Cyrus coming up the hill, and...I knew Solomon was here.”

“You knew?” Solomon demanded.

“I wanted to know why Clara kept coming up here.” Cecelia’s chin came up. “I saw Jasper coming up here every day too—but you stopped.” Her eyes found Clara’s. “You stopped, and you were so sad. So I came up here and I saw Solomon, and the uniform. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Solomon looked away, a hand over his eyes, and Clara twisted her hands together. Rage washed over her again and she was helpless in the face of it. How dare her brother do this to Cecelia?

“Cee, I was trying to protect you.” She held her hands out, pleading. “I didn’t want you to know.”

“You don’t want me to know anything!” Cecelia flared up. “No one tells me anything anymore, not since Solomon went away. You all want to keep me from knowing how bad things are, but I see what’s happening, you know.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Clara whispered.

“What could I say?” Cecelia shook her head. Her brown eyes were full of pain. “I thought perhaps you’d tell Mother, but then you didn’t, and—” her eyes met Solomon’s “—you didn’t want us to know you were here, or you would have come down, wouldn’t you?”

“Cecelia, I’m so sorry.” Solomon reached out, still shaking with tiredness.

“I know.” She did not move.