DEVON BIT his lip to keep from crying out. It hurt to breathe, and his whole body felt like it was on fire. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew there was danger, that the governor’s guards were close, but he didn’t have the energy to move.
He gasped for breath, writhing in pain. Hands touched his shoulders, and Devon tried to curl in on himself, to shield his body from the blows that would cause further injury.
The hands became insistent, though surprisingly gentle, as Devon was carefully rolled onto his back. He looked blearily up and saw a man leaning over him. Devon forced himself to meet the oddly concerned gaze of green eyes before his vision faded to black.
IN HIS feverish delirium, Devon found himself back at his father’s forge, a place he had called home all his life—watching as it burned to the ground and listening helplessly as his father cried for deliverance that would never come.
“Father!” he cried out in agony, but he didn’t move, couldn’t move. “Father, no!”
Locked in his nightmare, Devon dug his fingers into the ground as he sobbed on his knees, head lowered in defeat. He couldn’t find the will or the energy to even attempt to rise. He lay there, feeling the rain pouring down on him, washing away the ashes of his life and the acrid smell of death.
As his fingers curled around a fallen button, one that belonged to the uniform of one of the governor’s guards, Devon knew he deserved this; speaking against Governor Campbell’s ruthless reign without a thought-out plan was asking for trouble. As his father had said, actions always had consequences.
With the last of his strength, Devon collapsed onto his back. Eyes closed against the heavy drops of rain, he gave himself over to unconsciousness.
DEVON GROWLED angrily as he clashed blades with another guard, quick and frantic, wanting to demolish all barriers between him and his goal—the governor. He would destroy the man and avenge his father or die trying.
Devon sneered as he bested his enemy. Instead of striking the final blow, though, he merely knocked the man unconscious. There was only one man’s blood Devon wanted on his hands. The guards were only doing their duty.
Another guard stepped forth, and Devon thrust forward with a strong blow to initiate the fight, annoyed when his opponent deflected it with one smooth flick of a wrist. Before Devon could retaliate, the guard went for a lower cut, slicing the bottom half of Devon’s shirt.
Devon quickly jumped back, narrowing his eyes. “You are good,” he admitted. “But not good enough.”
The guard lifted his chin defiantly. “We will see.”
Before their blades could engage anew, a sharp sound cut through the night air, and the highest tower of the fort burst into a shower of dust and debris.
“Pirates!” someone shouted over the sudden chaos. “Battle stations! Battle stations! Man the cannons!”
In the blink of an eye, Devon found himself standing alone. Thinking there would be no better time to find his prey, he rushed to the main house. He was nearly there when the crack of a whip and the rumble of wheels announced a departing carriage. Devon barely had time to avoid the galloping horses as he recognized the governor’s transport.
“Coward,” Devon muttered, realizing the governor was running for cover. “I will get you one day. I will.”
“Shh,” a voice said gently. “Your fever is a little higher. Elijah said fevers do that at night. You have to stay covered up, though.”
Devon frowned; that didn’t make any sense. Gentle hands touched him, running a cool cloth over his skin, pushing his hair back off his forehead, softly stroking his cheek.
“What…?” Devon muttered, confused.
“Shhh, now,” the voice said soothingly. “No more talking. Rest.”
Devon sighed and closed his eyes, letting the darkness take him.
DEVON’S FEVERED mind took him back to yet another memory, as he regarded the chimera carved into a tavern’s sign, admiring the workmanship for a moment. The lion’s mane was full and mighty, the wings open wide in obvious aggression, its spiky tail ready to strike at any second. It was a stunning piece of work among the poor streets of Tobago.
Shrugging, Devon stepped inside and was assailed by the overpowering stink of rum, sweat, and bile. Swallowing hard, he swiveled through the crowd, chose a table in the far corner, taking advantage of the limited lamplight, and sat with his back to the wall.
“What will ya have, lad?” the innkeeper asked as he approached the table.
“Rum,” Devon said, handing over a coin. “Leave the bottle.”
Devon nodded his thanks when the innkeeper brought him a wooden tumbler and bottle of cheap rum. He prepared to get himself drunk, ignoring the noise around him that could drown out a round of cannon fire.
He was barely feeling the buzz from the half-empty bottle when the scraping of a chair on the filthy floor alerted him to the man sitting down in front of him.
“I have no wish for company,” Devon warned through clenched teeth.
The man grinned, not looking ruffled by Devon’s gruffness.
“I won’t stay long,” the man said. “I’ve been looking long and hard for you, lad.”
Devon raised an eyebrow, hand moving inconspicuously to his pistol. “Is that so?”
The man looked at Devon’s pistol for a moment before regarding him shrewdly, smile still firmly in place. “No need for that. I come in peace, as it were.”
“I have no interest in anything you have to say.”
“Might want to hear me out first,” the man replied. “Do you know who I am?”
For the first time, Devon looked up and eyed the suntanned, wrinkled face of the man before him. There was something oddly familiar about the head of thin graying hair and the man’s brown eyes.
“You do seem familiar,” Devon said curiously in spite of himself.
The man glanced around cautiously. “You may have seen my wanted posters in Port Royal. I am Captain Eames.”
Devon did recognize him—a pirate who Governor Campbell had been desperate to capture for a while now. His wanted posters were spread throughout not only Port Royal but most of the islands in the Caribbean Sea.
Devon leaned back in his chair with a nonchalance he didn’t really feel and nodded. “All right, you’ve caught my interest. Exactly what does an infamous pirate like you want with me?”
Eames turned serious. “I have been battling Campbell for as long as he’s been governor.”
“Five years,” Devon said.
“Five years,” Eames nodded. “He stole my plantation under the guise of collecting overdue taxes, he kills or makes disappear anyone who opposes him, and little by little he is sucking the life out of anything worth money in the islands. He needs to be stopped.”
“I still don’t see what that has to do with me,” Devon said, sipping his rum.
Eames rolled his eyes. “Don’t play with me, laddie. You and your father dared to speak ill of the governor. I witnessed it myself about three months back, you and your father in the town square talking to anyone willing to listen. Most people know what Campbell has been doing, how he came by his newfound wealth. But you were the first to bring those facts out into the light, and your father’s forge burned down with him inside for it. You’ve made numerous attempts at killing that treacherous little man, with little success. You’ve almost as many wanted posters around as I have.” Eames leaned back in his chair. “If you can’t kill him, hurt him some other way.”
Devon wasn’t even pretending to be indifferent any longer. “How?”
“By fighting his troops, creating havoc on his plans to pillage the Caribbean. We can attack any of his ships unfortunate enough to cross our paths, return its spoils to the poor or those whom Governor Campbell saw fit to persecute. We can make a stand against that greedy miscreant. What do you say, lad?” Eames said eagerly. “I need a first mate, and with us joining forces, Campbell will not stand a chance.”
For the first time since his father died, Devon felt hopeful. He shook hands with Eames. “I accept.”
“Excellent,” Eames said. “This deserves a celebration. Innkeeper, bring us a bottle of your best whisky.”
When the libation arrived, Devon filled both tumblers, and they toasted to their partnership. Devon took a deep swallow, frowning when it tasted cool and fresh instead of the smoky, earthy bite he was used to.
“Take some water, small sips,” a voice said, the same one that spoke constantly in the back of his mind. “You are faring much better, my friend. Rest now.”
Devon wanted to answer, but he couldn’t find the will. Gradually his awareness of the voice faded, and he slipped back into sleep.
DEVON REGAINED consciousness, shivering and clutching at the sweat-soaked sheets tucked around him. His limbs felt heavy, and drowsiness attempted to overpower him, though he fought against it.
For a second, Devon thought he was still in the jungle, doomed to be captured. However, as he focused on his surroundings, he found he was no longer in the field he had crossed during the night. Instead he was in a spacious room, lying on a comfortable, soft bed. He felt infinitely better and realized someone had tended to his wound. Sitting up slowly, he looked around but did not see anyone. He strained his ears and could not hear anything; it was eerily quiet outside.
He turned his attention to the bedroom and began to examine its contents in detail. It was a wide room, elegantly decorated and lit by two large windows through which Devon could see immense palm trees. He spotted a piano at one end of the room, on which were scattered some pages of music. A mahogany table took up the middle of the room.
“Where am I?” he said softly. “And who tended to my wound?”
Suddenly the handle of the door rattled and turned, and a man entered, walking slowly, carrying several pieces of white cloth and a small basin. He seemed younger than Devon, shorter but sturdily built. He had chestnut hair and pale green eyes that lit up as they settled on him.
The man’s clothes were simple but clearly of good quality. He wore what looked like a white linen shirt with a double ruffle in the front, tucked into a pair of tight black trousers, and knee-high riding boots.
“You’re finally awake,” the man exclaimed with a smile. “I was afraid we might lose you to the fever. You have been senseless for three days.”
“Three days!” Devon said, surprised, his mind conjuring images of the green-eyed man bathing his face and crooning softly to him as he writhed feverishly. “How did I get here?”
“I was riding through the plantation when I found you unconscious. Your injuries did not seem fatal, but I worried about the blood loss,” the man said. “How are you feeling now?”
“Better, thank you,” Devon said. “Not in much pain.”
“I’m glad to hear it. May I be so bold as to query, what happened to you, sir?”
“I don’t know,” Devon lied smoothly. “Several men attacked me on the road. I have no idea who they were, but they took all my money and possessions and shot me.”
The man hesitated, and for a moment, Devon was certain he was going to be called a liar to his face. Finally the man nodded. “Probably bandits. We have been having many problems with such miscreants. No matter. All you should care about at the present is getting better. You will have to remain here for at least a fortnight. You have lost a lot of blood.”
“Where am I? And who are you?”
“You are on the governor’s plantation. I’m his nephew, Brett Campbell.”
“The governor?” Devon said, his expression darkening. He quickly recovered himself. “I am—”
“Please, say no more,” Brett said quickly, hand raised slightly to prevent Devon from speaking.
“Why not?” Devon asked, curious as to the reason Brett refused to hear his name.
Again Brett seemed to hesitate. “You are still weak, tired. Later, when there is time and you are more rested, we can speak further. You will not be bothered here. Uncle Rupert is staying in Port Royal for the next three weeks due to business affairs. By the time he returns, you should be long gone.”
“I don’t understand. I’m a stranger. For all you know, I could be one of those bandits you mentioned.”
Brett chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m a good judge of character, sir. I don’t believe that. Now, let me check your injury and change the bandages.”
“You were the one here with me all this time, weren’t you? I remember someone bathing me, cleaning the wound.”
“Yes, it was me,” Brett said, his attention already on Devon’s wounded leg.
Devon held his breath in anticipation of the pain that was sure to follow. However, Brett unwrapped the bandage with the utmost care, using a moist cloth to clean the wound. Once Brett was done, he abandoned the bloody cloth inside the basin and wrapped a clean bandage around the injured area.
“Thank you. That was not as painful as I was expecting it to be,” Devon said wryly.
Brett’s lips twitched. “Thank you, I think. You are overly warm, and the sheets need changing,” he said with a slight frown. “I will see to it myself. Perhaps some tea and broth as well?”
Devon’s stomach clenched at the thought of food. “Yes, please.”
Brett nodded. “I will return soon with a light meal.”
“Mr. Campbell, wait,” Devon called out before Brett could leave.
“Brett, please.”
Devon nodded. “Brett. I just…. Thank you… for, well, for everything.”
Brett smiled. “You are most welcome. I will see you later.”
Devon smiled weakly back, wanting to say something further, but suddenly talking took too much effort, his body warning him that he was still healing. Unable to stay awake, his eyelids fluttered closed.
MORNING DAWNED clear and bright. Devon was sitting back in his bed, sipping hot, spicy tea while Brett browsed through some documents, something that was fast becoming a ritual in the three days since Devon had regained consciousness.
“I saw your face at the mention of the governor,” Brett said, breaking the silence.
Devon froze, pondering what to say. By unspoken agreement, they hadn’t touched the subject of his identity or how he ended up at the governor’s plantation, choosing instead to talk about trivialities whenever they were together.
“What?” Devon asked, trying to forestall for time.
“I saw your expression when I told you who I was, where you were… who my uncle was.” Brett’s gaze turned to the window, appearing faintly guilty. “When… when you were senseless, you spoke. You were delirious. You recalled the death of your father, ranted against my uncle….” Brett turned back to Devon, smile turning wry. “I know who you are. Lord knows, I have seen enough of your wanted posters in the house to recognize you with my eyes closed.”
Devon swallowed thickly around the lump in his throat. He didn’t want to be captured, but he was still too weak to fight. He also found himself reluctant to see Brett as an enemy. Brett had been nothing but kind and warm since the beginning.
“What happens now?” Devon asked.
“Nothing,” Brett said with a shrug. “Or rather, you heal. I meant what I said, Mr. Hall. You are safe here. The servants are forbidden from entering this room, and most of the slaves are not allowed in the main house. That will limit the amount of people who might find out who you are and tell my uncle. Even if you’re seen, I believe you will be taken for one of my uncle’s guests. To be safe, I will keep tending to you myself.”
“Call me Devon, please. Brett, why take the risk? If your uncle finds out, I don’t think he would be too pleased with you. I don’t understand.”
“Pleased?” Brett said with a snort. “He would be furious. Devon, he may be my uncle, but that does not mean I agree with his laws or the way he rules over this exquisite island. I know what he did to your father, what he did to countless others. I wish I had the strength to go against him, but I am too set in my cowardly ways.” He smiled, self-derogatory. “Maybe this is my chance for atonement.”
“I do not believe you’re a coward, Brett. Sometimes it is difficult to break free from what holds us captive. Harboring a wanted man under your roof, on your uncle’s plantation, seems incredibly brave to me.”
Brett laughed. “Or foolish. May I ask, how did you come to be known as the Phantom? That is a somewhat odd alias.”
“It was given to me by Captain Eames after I joined his crew aboard the Flying Horse. He took me in at a time when I was close to losing my reason. All I could think about was avenging my father, and I was getting nowhere.”
Brett winced. “I recall hearing about your attempts to kill my uncle. He would arrive at the plantation in a rage, destroying everything in his path. So, you joined Captain Eames and you set out to destroy Uncle Rupert.”
“Yes. I realized I was a good strategist, became known for plotting surprise attacks on your uncle’s fleet, and escaping unscathed.”
“And thus the legend of the Phantom was born,” Brett said. “I was sorry to hear Captain Eames died. I actually met him once, before my uncle repossessed his plantation. He seemed like a good man.”
“He was,” Devon said, heart suddenly heavy.
Two years earlier Eames had been struck by a bullet while in battle, and it still hurt to think about it. The man had given Devon a sense of purpose, hope. Devon would never be able to repay that debt, but he hoped his friendship, his unwavering support, had helped Eames. That they had also shared a bed on those long, cold nights, when the ocean touched the sky until there was nothing surrounding them but the solitude of darkness, was a secret Devon planned to take to his grave.
“You have a foreign accent,” Devon found himself saying abruptly, wanting to change the subject to a less painful topic.
“I have been most fortunate. I have spent most of my youth traveling throughout Europe,” Brett said, a sadness invading his eyes before it was quickly replaced by a carefully neutral expression.
“Why do you live with your uncle if you don’t agree with him?”
“It’s a long story. One best left alone,” Brett said grimly, making to rise.
Devon reached for him and closed a hand firmly but gently on his wrist. “Please?”
Brett shook his head. “Later, Devon, I promise. I must see to the plantation. I will return for lunch.”
Giving Devon a parting smile, Brett walked out quietly, leaving Devon to wonder about his host and his mysterious predicament. There was an aura of pain and sadness around Brett that Devon wished to see gone.
It still seemed beyond the realms of reason for Devon to be recovering from his injury in the house of his greatest enemy, especially without his nemesis’s awareness of the fact. Even more amazing was that Devon might just have found an ally in his war against the governor—an ally inside his enemy’s own home.
THE NEXT morning, Devon woke up with a touch of fever, his mind once again feeling somewhat sluggish and his body weary.
He waited patiently while Brett examined his wound before asking, “Well, how does it look?”
“It seems to be healing well, does not look infected,” Brett said as he finished bandaging the wound. “Perhaps I should let Elijah take a look at it again.”
“Elijah?” Devon asked, the name sounding familiar.
“He’s one of my uncle’s slaves. He helped me treat your wound when I first brought you here. He’s completely trustworthy, but just to be sure, I never told him who you are.” Brett looked contemplative. “Perhaps we can make you a little more comfortable.” He glanced at the basin standing by the bedside table. “It might be time for a wash as well. You, sir, have definitely smelled better,” he finished with a teasing grin.
“I would feel offended,” Devon said, sniffing at his armpit, “if you were not absolutely correct.”
“Can you move forward just a little bit so I can take off your shirt?”
“I will try.”
Devon let Brett pull him forward carefully and work his arms out of the shirt before discarding it to the side. Brett then helped him lie back on the bedding. “All right, just relax and try to breathe easy.”
Devon couldn’t hold back a low moan as Brett bathed his face and chest with careful measured strokes of his hand. Devon took a number of slow, deep breaths, enjoying the way the cloth moved down his throat, over the curve of one shoulder, then the other, brushing softly over his chest and nipples until they were hard.
“Feel better?” Brett asked, chuckling as his only answer was a low, throaty grunt. “Good.”
Devon kept still as Brett moved the cloth over Devon’s chest and abdomen, fighting to keep his body from reacting. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him in such a way, with care and gentleness, and it was difficult not to want more.
When Brett finally finished, Devon realized he was clutching the sheets and forced himself to relax. He took a deep breath when he saw Brett’s cheeks were flushed and he was avoiding Devon’s gaze. It seemed Devon wasn’t the only one affected by the impromptu bathing.
TWO DAYS later, Devon found he was strong enough to at least get up from bed. He was tired of spending so much time lying down and locked inside the same four walls. For someone used to the immensity of the ocean, it was an unbearable feeling.
He donned the clothes Brett left for him and exited the room. He soon realized the rest of the house resembled his bedroom—wide, spacious, richly decorated with all sorts of fancy paintings and china, expensive furniture, and golden touches everywhere. He went to the window that looked out onto the immense garden.
There, sitting in the shade of a palm tree, was Brett. He was alone, deep in thought, a book resting on his knees. Devon remained motionless, eyes fixed on him, holding his breath as if afraid of bothering him.
He felt close to Brett, which was surprising considering the little time he had actually known him. Devon had thought it to be gratitude at first. After all, Brett had cared for him through his recovery and had spent nearly every waking hour by his side. Devon would probably be dead if not for him.
But deep down, he knew it was not so. The more time they spent talking, getting to know each other, the closer Devon felt to Brett. In Brett, he saw someone who hid a gentle heart behind a bland mask, who hid his true nature in order to survive a harsh world.
Finally coming out of his daze, Devon walked out the front door, taking slow, careful steps until he was standing behind Brett.
As if realizing he was no longer alone, Brett looked back and grinned when he saw him. “Well, it seems you are feeling better, Devon,” he said, rising from the ground.
“I needed to get some fresh air.”
“I can understand that. Maybe a guided tour of the plantation would help?” Brett suggested with a smile.
“Considering I’m still feeling as weak as a newborn, maybe a tour of the garden will have to do. But who is going to be my guide?” Devon asked with a grin.
Brett chuckled. “Since we have no other guides available at the moment, I’m afraid you are stuck with me.”
“In that case, let’s go.”
They took their time walking through the main garden, and when Devon began to tire, they sat on a wooden bench.
Brett exhaled softly, eyes lost up on the blue skies. “You once asked me why I lived here, with my uncle. This plantation originally belonged to my father. I don’t remember much of my younger years or my father, only his foul temper and the beatings should I happen to cross him. When I was six, mother and I escaped his tyranny and traveled to Europe.”
“Why did you return?” Devon asked curiously.
“Last year we received word my father had died in a riding accident. Mother decided we should return so I could claim the inheritance, but when we arrived, Uncle Rupert was here and had taken over. He threatened to kill us both if I did not sign the plantation over to him.” He sighed unhappily. “I did, obviously. He is a powerful man, as you know. There was nothing we could do. He did let us remain here, which to answer your question, is the reason I live with him. I have no money of my own, no place to go. I must stay. Besides, should something befall Uncle Rupert, I will be the sole heir.”
“And your mother?”
“She left a few months back. I assume to return to Europe. I have not heard from her since then. I thought of joining her, but I was weary of her ways. She also does not have any money of her own, and her way of getting around that problem is to swindle innocent souls of their hard-earned valuables. That was how we survived the first time. I had no wish to do it anew.”
“Thank you for telling me,” Devon said, touched by Brett’s story.
Brett nodded. “May I ask… you have spoken of your father often since we met, but what about your mother?”
Devon shrugged. “She died of consumption when I was two. I don’t really remember her.”
“I’m sorry,” Brett said. He exhaled softly as he looked around the plantation. “I have thought about leaving before, you know? Sometimes I think anywhere would be better than here, but other times… I actually love this land. How could I leave it all behind?”
The look in Brett’s eyes was so anguished that Devon reached out and squeezed his arm. “It will be all right, Brett. I promise.”
As they sat side by side on the bench, Devon wondered if his words would ever come true. They were both stuck in an endless moment. Devon locked in an unfair war with a much stronger opponent and no end in sight. Brett caught in his love for his family’s land and his hate for a man who cared for nothing more than his power.
THE DAYS flew by quickly, and by the afternoon of the tenth day, they were watching the slaves working when suddenly the sound of a whip hitting flesh and a small cry caught their attention.
“What the—” Brett said, running toward the scene unfolding before them. On the ground was a small black child, curled up into a ball, while a huge white man whipped him fiercely. “Thompson! Damnation, man! What are you doing?”
“He disobeyed my orders, Mr. Campbell,” Thompson said, hand pushing his hat back from his eyes, locks of black, greasy hair falling onto his forehead. “I told him no water until lunch break.”
“And for that you saw fit to whip him, Mr. Thompson? May I remind you, you are but the foreman here, not the master? You can’t make such decisions.”
“The master is not here,” Thompson said, beady eyes narrowing in clear challenge.
“But I am. Now get back to work.”
“I—”
“Get. Back. To. Work,” Brett gritted out angrily. Once the man walked away, Brett knelt beside the little boy. “What is your name, child?” he asked softly.
“Timothy, young master.” The child sniffed, uncurling slowly, his small face a mask of pain.
“Well, Timothy, let’s take you to the healer.” Brett gently picked him up.
“Healer?” Devon said, following Brett to the slave quarters behind the main house.
“Elijah Jackson. I told you about him before. My uncle bought him six months ago. Elijah makes the most obnoxious concoctions you can imagine, but I trust him with my life. He knows more than any of those quacks calling themselves doctors these days.”
“Don’t get me wrong, but I am surprised at your reaction to what happened,” Devon said honestly. “Most plantation owners don’t care what happens to their slaves, just as long as they keep working.”
Brett sighed sadly, looking from the child in his arms to Devon. “I was not always like this. I grew up believing slaves were nothing more than farm animals, with not a thought among them. And as advanced as Europe is, I saw nothing there to make me believe otherwise.”
“But?” Devon prompted.
“But living here has been an eye-opener. My uncle is a ruthless master. He mistreats the slaves, enjoys torturing them. He advocates regular beatings and administers most of them himself. When you see their suffering, their will to survive….” They reached the slave quarters and walked inside. “Elijah, where are you?”
“In the back room,” a man replied, and they walked over to the back of the building.
They entered a small room, and Devon watched Brett set the child on a small table. “Elijah, Timothy here needs your care.”
“What happened?” Elijah asked, nodding to Devon as a way of greeting.
Elijah was tall and strong, probably in his thirties, and by the way he was examining the little boy, Devon realized he had a gentle manner and knew what he was doing.
“Thompson again. That man truly loves his profession.”
“And you stopped him from whipping Timmy? I’m surprised he let you.”
“Well, I’m sure he will complain to my uncle as soon as he returns,” Brett said with a sheepish smile. “I will be lectured again on the ways a master should handle his slaves.”
“Just be careful, Brett. Your uncle is a dangerous man, and he does not take kindly to being defied.”
Brett nodded, grimly. “I know. I’ll be careful, I promise. Take care of the little one for me?”
“I will. It is not too bad, a couple of deep lashes only. Could have been a lot worse. Now, you better go. It’s not proper for the young master to be seen in the slave quarters.”
Devon followed Brett out of the building, and they proceeded on their walk in comfortable silence. “You are an enigma, Brett Campbell,” he finally said.
Brett laughed. “I hope you mean that in a good way, sir.”
“Oh, I do. I do,” Devon said softly, feeling his heart swell as he watched Brett’s beautiful smile.
Devon’s journey to dry land had certainly earned him more than just a bullet. Each passing day, he felt more drawn to Brett. The man was fascinating, and Devon had never been able to resist mysteries. He was already dreading the day he would have to leave.
THEY WERE having lunch in the dining room when they heard someone crying out, “Young master, young master! Come quickly!” Both men rushed to the yard and saw little Timothy trying to prevent Thompson from chaining Elijah to the post.
“Mr. Thompson, what is the meaning of this?” Brett snapped angrily.
“This slave nearly killed one of my men,” Thompson said, hand brushing the coiled whip he held. “He must be made an example of. He must pay for what he did.”
“And what did your man do to cause such a reaction? Well?” Brett challenged when the foreman hesitated.
“My man went to fetch Timothy back to work. He was needed in the kitchen.”
Devon saw Brett’s eyes darken with rage. “I took Timothy to Elijah to be treated for the lashes you inflicted on him. He was not supposed to work again today.”
“That still does not give the slave the right to turn on my man,” Thompson said, looking spitting mad. “He must be whipped. The punishment in these cases is fifty lashes.”
“Very well,” Brett said suddenly, much to Devon’s surprise. “Chain him to the post.”
They watched Thompson raise Elijah’s arms over his head and lock the shackles in place around the healer’s wrists. However, when the foreman reached for the whip, Brett stopped him.
“That is enough. No one but the master can see to his punishment. Since my uncle is not here, it is my responsibility. For the next ten days, this man shall only receive a cup of water and some food every twelve hours.”
“What?” Thompson shouted. “That’s not punishment! I will—”
“You will do nothing, Mr. Thompson. You work for my uncle, thus you work for me. Are we clear? You either obey me, or you will be fired,” Brett said, although Devon guessed he was bluffing. “Now, get out of here.”
Once Thompson was out of hearing range, Brett looked down at Timothy. “Thank you for calling me, little one. I will need your help for the next few days. Can I count on you?”
“Yes, young master.”
Brett ruffled the child’s hair. “Good boy. I want you to pay close attention to the foreman’s whereabouts. Especially near meal times. Understand?” When the boy nodded, Brett said, “Good. Now, when you know for sure he is away, I want you to bring Elijah some food and water. If by any chance someone tries to stop you, I want you to shout out as loud as you can and I will come running. Agreed?” he asked, holding out his hand for the child, who shook it with a grin.
“Agreed, young master. I’ll make you proud, you will see.”
“I already am,” Brett whispered, watching the boy run back to the slave quarters. He turned his attention to the chained man. “Elijah.”
“You should have let him whip me,” Elijah told him softly, his head resting tiredly against the post.
“Fifty times?” Brett said, sounding incredulous. “He would have killed you, Elijah.”
“Why not just let him go?” Devon asked. “You are the master.”
“I can’t,” Brett said with a pained grimace. “My uncle would never let this stand. If Elijah was not punished in some way, my uncle would kill him when he hears what happened. This way, he will be furious with me for being too lenient, but he will let it be.” Brett patted the slave’s back gently. “Courage, my friend. I will come to see you in a few hours. Come, sir, let us go back inside.”
“That is the real reason why you don’t leave, isn’t it?” Devon asked as they made their way back to the house. “The slaves.”
Brett smiled dismally. “During the course of the last year, I rediscovered my love for this land and its people, yes. I’m the one thing standing between them and both Thompson and my uncle. If I left… I believe many of them would die. And I can’t let that happen.”
They sat back at the table, but their need for food was gone. Devon suddenly found himself wishing he could stay, wishing he could somehow help Brett, make things better for him. He had no doubt Rupert Campbell was going to be furious when he realized he’d had an uninvited guest and that his nephew had been challenging his foreman every step of the way.
WHEN IN the middle of the night there was a knock on his door, Devon had yet to go to sleep. He jumped out of the chair in a flash and opened the door. Brett appeared at the entrance to the room, two black men, both armed to the teeth, accompanying him.
“Brett, what’s wrong?” Devon asked, frowning at the armed men.
“I just got word my uncle is on his way back to the plantation.” Brett’s green eyes locked with Devon’s. “I’m afraid it is time for you to leave. Come with me.”
“What about you?” Devon asked as they rushed through the corridors.
“I’ll be fine,” Brett said, although Devon would swear there was a note of hesitation in his voice.
They went into the drawing room. Its walls were covered with a wide variety of modern weapons. Brett rummaged through one of the desk drawers and grabbed a set of keys.
“There is a horse waiting outside,” Brett said a little breathlessly. “He is fast, resilient. He will be able to take you far from here. Certainly far from my uncle’s clutches. Take any weapons you want.” Brett moved closer to Devon. “I would only ask one thing of you.”
Devon swallowed, touched by the intensity of Brett’s gaze. “What?”
“Take Elijah with you?” Brett asked softly, handing him the keys to the shackles.
Devon reached for the keys, then held Brett’s hand captive, making no effort to release him. “Come with us. Your uncle will turn on you when he finds out what happened.”
Brett smiled sadly. “Perhaps. But I can handle him. You know why I can’t leave.”
Devon clenched his jaw. There was little he could do besides trying to drag Brett with him. He grabbed a couple of pistols. “These should do the trick.”
Brett nodded, expression grim. “Then you better leave. Come.”
“Thank you,” Devon said.
“What for?”
“For… everything,” Devon said, repeating the words he had once said.
Brett smiled. “You are most welcome.”
They ran out of the house, and Devon freed Elijah while Brett waited by two magnificent black horses. Elijah mounted the second horse while Devon took the reins of the other animal.
“You sure I can’t change your mind?” Devon asked Brett. “About coming with us?”
Brett shook his head. “I would love to. But I can’t.”
Devon nodded, and then acting on impulse, he hugged Brett tightly to him. “You are one hell of an amazing man, Brett Campbell,” he whispered around the lump in his throat.
“So are you, Captain Hall,” Brett said, his own arms going around Devon. “You better go.”
Devon hesitated, wanting to say more, do more. “Brett, I—”
“Go!” Brett snapped, sounding almost angry.
Without another word, Devon jumped on his horse and together with Elijah took off at a gallop, his mount whinnying in protest at the sudden departure. Devon looked back one final time, watching as Brett and the plantation drew farther way until they vanished under the thick cloud of dust lifted by the horses’ hooves.
IT WAS nearly dawn when Brett retired to his bedroom. Instead of lying down, he began to pace the room in a state of agitation.
It had been easy to convince Thompson that Brett had been overpowered by Hall and Elijah and forced to surrender the weapons to his attackers. Thompson and his men might be good at carrying out orders, but they all seemed to lack brains. Making his uncle believe the lie, however, was another thing altogether.
That would be the worst part. His uncle should be arriving any minute. And Brett would have to play the part of his life or face the consequences.
He shook his head ruefully; he had to be insane. He had harbored a known pirate, worse, one his uncle hated with a passion that bordered on madness. Then to make things worse, he had given him and Elijah, one of his uncle’s most treasured slaves, weapons and horses, and had even helped them escape. Insanity indeed.
So why had he done it? His heart knew the answer. He had felt drawn to Devon Hall from the moment he had laid eyes on him. Maybe it had been Hall’s vulnerability that had gotten under Brett’s skin, the way Devon had trusted Brett to take care of him. No one had ever needed him that way before; it had been a heady feeling. Whatever the cause, Brett had been lost when he had found those dark blue eyes open and staring curiously at him.
And as the days flew by, he’d kept feeling closer to Devon, letting his guard down for the first time in years, allowing a perfect stranger to see the real Brett, to see the man inside. He sighed sadly, wondering if Hall had felt that same inexplicable connection between them.
He shook himself out of his reverie. It didn’t matter now. It was too late to have such foolish thoughts. Had she been there, his mother would have berated him for allowing someone to break through the mask he wore. It was a dangerous thing to do. It gave power to the other person, power over him, over his emotions. He would have to remember that if he ever saw Devon Hall again.
He threw himself on the bed fully clothed, convinced he would never be able to rest, but exhaustion took over and soon he drifted off to sleep. He awoke a little after noon, as the sun was streaming in through the windows that had remained open. He summoned a servant and asked after the governor’s whereabouts but was told his uncle was resting after his strenuous journey.
Brett washed and dressed for the new day, deciding to go down for something to eat. At the very moment he finished his meal, his uncle entered the living room. He was frowning, his cold brown eyes gleaming dangerously.
“Brett,” he drawled. “Thompson told me what occurred last night. What is this about a guest?”
“Welcome home, Uncle. I found the gentleman unconscious over a week ago and brought him to the plantation.”
“Very charitable, Nephew. And who was he?”
Something in his uncle’s voice made Brett swallow hard. “I did not want to be too intrusive. I know he was a traveler, injured by bandits on the road to Port Royal. He was a salesman, said his name was John Singer.”
“Is that so? That is interesting. You see, a patrol spotted this John Singer not far from here. The soldiers managed to get very close before they let those men escape. And Sergeant Hutchison swears the blond man riding one of my horses was Devon Hall, the Phantom himself. And by Thompson’s description, he was your poor, wounded guest.”
Brett gasped in fake surprise. “Uncle, I didn’t know. You had mentioned that miscreant’s name before, but he didn’t look anything like his wanted posters. I had no way of knowing who he was.”
“True, true. And Elijah? Why didn’t you punish him?”
“I believed the slave’s actions were Mr. Thompson’s fault, not his own. There was no call for the fifty lashes.”
His uncle shook his head, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I wish I could believe you, Brett. I really do. Thompson!” he called.
“Governor?” Thompson walked in almost immediately, and Brett knew he had been standing just outside.
“Take my nephew to the post. I will give him the fifty lashes he would not allow you to give the slave.”
“Uncle, no!” Brett pleaded brokenly.
“I’m sorry, Brett, but it is time you learned your lesson. I will not be disobeyed or defied. This was the last time. Take him!”
Brett fought against Thompson’s hold, but the man was bigger and stronger, and it was useless. He was chained to the post, his shirt torn from his back. As the leather slashed cruelly into his flesh, he closed his eyes, biting his lip to stop from crying out. He allowed his mind to wander, thinking back to the beautiful blue eyes of the pirate he had lost his heart to. And while pain invaded his whole being, a sense of relief filled his heart. Devon was far away and safe from his uncle’s clutches. And that was worth all the suffering in the world.