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“Mon dieu, look! It’s a harbor!”
Thank God. Relief flooding Talon, he grabbed Talia’s hand and strode toward the welcome sight in the distance. They’d spent two days walking due south and hadn’t seen a soul. As they rounded the rocky shoreline, the cliffs that had blocked their view of the surrounding environment gave way to a massive mountainous peak covered in lush green foliage.
Clapping her hands, Talia gasped. “We’re in Martinique!”
Lacing his fingers with hers, he kissed the top of her hand. He could have stayed on that desolate beach with her for days. But without knowing where they’d landed, the isolation made him wary. It felt good to see civilization again.
He scanned the small coastal town. Bells clanged from ships moored at the pier as they made their way toward the hubbub. Dockworkers unloaded slaves and stacked crates of sugar and rum on the pier. “This must be the center.”
“Oui... St. Pierre, to be exact.” Glancing over her shoulder at the beach they’d traversed, she scratched her head. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize it. Papa often brought me here on business trips.” She smiled. “When I was ten, I wanted to climb to the top of Mount Pelée” She pointed to the hulking volcanic form that they’d circumvented for days.
Talon chuckled. “I have no doubt you tried, love.”
They approached hundreds of shackled bondsmen lined up along the shore. The traders lashed the bondsmen’s feet with a brutal switch of their hand, and the slaves tripped over one another in fear. Rage darkened Talon’s mood as he thought of Marcus. He’d never see beyond the injustice of such a barbarous trade. “Hell and damnation, those bloody—!”
Talia touched his arm. “We have a mission. We must find passage to Guadeloupe.”
Reluctantly, he followed. As they crossed the main thoroughfare, he blinked, nearly struck blind from the gold, salmon, and mint green rowhouses lining the narrow streets. Towering three stories high with balconies gracing each flat, the edifices donned louvered shutters flapping in the warm tropical breeze. “Blimey, our caravans have nothing on these people.”
Talia frowned. “Pardon?”
He cleared his throat. “Er, it’s certainly a colorful place.”
Giggling, she linked her arm in his, and they headed toward the town center. The British flag soared above a domed building set in stone. Talia paused at the steps. “This is the government seat. We might be able to find help here.”
A nearby soldier wearing a lobster red uniform eyed them suspiciously, and Talon muttered, “I thought this was a French colony.”
She hummed. “They fight back and forth too often. I can never keep track.”
Patting her hand, he winked. “It’s a good thing I’m English. Watch and learn.” They climbed the marble stairs to the front doors.
Two Redcoats stood at the entrance with stoic faces. As Talon stepped up to greet them, they whipped their bayonets from their backs. “Halt, sir. What business have you here?”
Puffing out his chest, Talon gave the men a cheeky smile. “Good day, chaps. As you can see, we’ve had a mishap. My lady-friend and I require passage to Guadeloupe, and as an English national, I thought perhaps we might find assistance here.”
The guards snickered at Talon’s overly dramatic prose. The man in front of him lifted his head and sniffed derisively. “You may talk like a Brit, but ye look like a filthy gypsy to me. Git on with ye! Ye aren’t welcome.”
Insolent buggers! Clenching his jaw, Talon went to invade the man’s space, his play-acting forgotten.
Talia placed a hand on his chest and stepped in between them. “Pardon, Monsieurs, please forgive my colleague his insolence. My name is Talia Montrose. My father, Fernando, has many business associates here.” She traced a path across the taller guard’s forearm seductively. “By chance is Lord Taylor here? He and my father are good friends. He’s expecting us.”
“Lord Taylor, milady? Montrose, you say?” With wide eyes, the guards released their death grip on their weapons and stepped aside with a bow. “Indeed. Please, proceed with caution.”
As they moved from the entrance, she gave them a charming smile, batting her eyes at the smaller of the men. He blushed. She linked her arm through Talon’s and pulled him through the ornate double doors.
Scowling, Talon turned to her with a hiss. “What the hell was that? Do you plan on using your gifts everywhere we go?”
She merely shrugged. “We needed to get in, oui?” Her eyes sparkled. Wrinkling her nose, she squeezed his hand. “Monsieur Barberry, are you jealous?” A chuckle left her lips.
Rolling his eyes heavenward, he scanned their surroundings. Their footsteps resounded off the soaring ceilings as they traversed long hall. Arched Palladian windows towered above them, the warm sun penetrating the gilded interior.
Ornate crown moldings bordered the tall ceilings, and portraits and mirrors in golden frames decorated the walls. Rich mahogany furnishings outfitted in damask upholstery accompanied Aubusson rugs in deep burgundy. It was as ostentatious as DuPont’s office in Paris
Talon smirked. “Aye, the Brits might be in control, but they haven’t eradicated the French.” Sauntering to a desk at the far end of the hall, he tipped his hat at the clerk standing behind it.
The man raised his eyebrows in disdain. “May I help you?”
Talia cleared her throat. “Oui. My father, Fernando Montrose, was supposed to have a business meeting with Lord Taylor a fortnight past. Unfortunately, Papa is ill and sent me and my associate in his stead.”
Eyeing their sad state of dress, the clerk gazed beyond them and raised two fingers. “Perhaps the guards can—”
Seizing his arm, Talia feigned tears. “I’m begging you to help us, Monsieur. We’ve had a tremendous experience. Our vessel ran aground north of here, and we have spent the last two days walking the coastline in the blistering sun. Look at my damaged skin. I implore you to find Lord Taylor. He has known me since I was a child.”
The clerk shook his head, but her woebegone expression and beautiful face, as red as it was, seemed to change the man’s heart. A single tear rolled down her cheek and Talon covered his laugh with a cough.
Squinting at her, the man sighed. “Very well. I will see if Lord Taylor is available.” As the clerk turned on his heels and strode down the hallway, Talia wiped her eyes and grinned.
Talon raised an eyebrow. “You certainly know how to put on a show. Lord Taylor?”
“He’s the governor-general of Martinique—for the moment, at least.”
A set of oak double doors opened. A portly gentleman with kind blue eyes hurried toward them, concern etched across his wrinkled face. “Talia? Dear God, what happened to you?”
Dabbing her eyes, Talia extended her hand, and the nobleman pecked it gently. “Dieu, Lord Taylor, we’ve had the most horrible ordeal.” As the Englishman invited them back to his office, she winked at Talon.
Shaking his head with a slight grin, he silently bowed to her acting prowess. Well done, Mademoiselle.
*****
“IS THIS TAYLOR’S PRIVATE island? We haven’t seen a soul since we left the city.”
Talon scanned the horizon as he and Talia bounced along a desolate dirt road in one of Lord Taylor’s carriages, traveling to his plantation not far from St. Pierre. Without hesitation, the man had arranged passage for them aboard one of his merchant vessels sailing to Guadeloupe in the morning. Talon wasn’t looking forward to being back on a ship, but at least they’d be in friendly company.
A soft smile curved at Talia’s lips. “The island is bigger than you think. Lord Taylor owns but one of the plantations in Martinique.”
He sat back against the velvet seat, immersing himself in the warm tropical breeze. “I thought I’d miss London, but perhaps not.”
She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. “I spent many wonderful years of my childhood on Martinique. Life here can be isolating, but rich in other ways.”
“Indeed. I’ve never seen so much green.” The fronds of the palms were so large they could easily cover a man.
She gazed at the horizon with a wistful sigh. “Oui, c’est magnifique.” Talon laced his fingers with hers and kissed the top of her hand.
They passed a sugar cane field, and Talon grimaced. Slaves were everywhere, cutting the cane low on the stalk. A boy younger than Marcus took branches from the hand of an older man and tied them together with jute rope. He could hardly reach the top of the bundles arranged on the flat wagon in front of them.
Remorse pierced Talon’s heart, his thoughts going out to his little sidekick once more. “All I see are crops... and slaves.”
Talia nodded. “Oui. The cane is all that matters in Martinique. They turn it into cubes... or rum.” She smiled devilishly. “Lord Taylor’s punch is my weakness. See the factory?” She pointed just beyond the cane to the barn-like structure made of stone. “That’s where the crops are processed into molasses and refined into sugar.”
Talon stared at the oversized chimney belching smoke from the thatched roof of the eyesore in the distance. The windmill on its flank churned at an even pace as bondsmen worked diligently nearby.
She directed his attention to the rustic wagons loaded with the raw plants. “The slaves cut the stalks and bundle them, and they’re taken to the refinery by mule. The windmill turns the grinder, crushing the cane to release the juice. Cisterns deliver the juice to big copper vats where they boil and cure the cane. And voilà. Sugar for our coffee and tea.” She clasped her hands to her chest triumphantly. Arching an eyebrow, she whispered, “Making rum is a whole different process.”
With a lopsided grin, Talon stared at her in awe. Everything they’d been through the last two months drifted through his mind, and he squeezed her hand. “You’re quite amazing, Mademoiselle. Not many women can give a detailed description of the inner workings of a sugar plantation, let alone stare down a bunch of dirty sailors.”
A pretty blush pinkened her already-red skin as her lips curved into a smile. “Papa has spent the last ten years trying to learn the process. I merely tagged along.”
Between two large fields, the carriage lurched to a stop. The driver jumped off the horses and opened a large wooden gate. Soon, they were rambling down a winding dirt road lined with coconut palms and foliage. As they rounded the bend, a canopy of beautiful flowering trees sheltered the roadway from the tropical sun.
As Taylor’s luxurious home emerged from the dense tree line, Talon’s breath stuttered. “Jesus, who is this man?”
The manor house was three stories high. The first level sprawled out in a square while the two upper levels were subsequently smaller, the topmost perhaps nothing but a bell tower or single chamber. Arched red tiles lined the roof, reminiscent of the residences in Paris.
Outer shutters in an unusual shade of pink accented the stucco façade, painted sunshine yellow. Every window was thrown open to the air. The doors were nothing but bigger versions of the louvers.
He whistled low. “How many people live here?”
She shrugged. “Lord Taylor and his wife and his servants, I assume. Their daughter Lydia married a few years past.”
He shook his head in astonishment. Madame Claire’s country estate in Northern England had been quite grand by any commoner’s standard, but this was luxury beyond his imagination. Even Edouard Blanchefort’s manor isn’t as grandiose as this monstrosity.
As if reading his mind, Talia waved her hand dismissively. “You should see Temptation Hall.”
His heart sank as he caught her jade gaze. “You can’t be serious.”
Her hand drifted from his. “Most maisons de maître are grand affairs. Lord Taylor is quite proud of his home.” She cocked her head and frowned. “Surely, this is commonplace in London or Paris.”
Stiffening against her, he shifted in his seat. “Not that I’ve seen. I spent most of my life sleeping in ragged tents with my brothers and sisters. My experience with the niceties has been rather limited.”
Her eyes widened as she swallowed. Fidgeting with her ragged skirts, she lowered her gaze.
Before Talon could respond, the driver stopped the horses at the front of the home. “We be here, Mam’zelle. Heaven on Earth.”
Two servants dressed in billowing shirts with white starched collars met them at the carriage door. As Talon descended their transport, they gawked at his rags.
Upon seeing Talia, the older Black man broke into a broad smile. “Is Mam’zelle Montrose!” He extended a gloved hand, helping her from the carriage. “Miz Talia, why you so filthy?”
“Cornelius, you will never believe what happened to us.” And she regaled their fantastic tale once more.
They entered a long gallery with a slanted ceiling. Supported by wooden trusses, the space resembled a covered porch. Several reclining chairs with fancy webbed cane and straight arms that extended out past a man’s natural arm length lined the hallway. Three tables were strategically arranged for guests with chairs gathered around them.
Uncomfortable with the luxuriousness of Lord Taylor’s home, Talon crossed his arms and peeked into the inner domain. The three doorways were symmetrical with the outer windows. As a pleasant breeze kicked up around them, he basked in the relief. The benefits of this style of house in a balmy island climate were evident.
Glancing at the end of the corridor, he frowned. Apparently, the hall continued around the corner. Curious, he strode to the end only to see another passageway with a wooden staircase, presumably leading to quarters above. Classic wainscoting bordered the papered walls as fancy gilded trim framed the ceiling. “Fantastic,” he muttered, walking back toward Talia.
“Talon?”
She stood in silence with the servant, apparently awaiting an answer. Talon blinked at them quizzically, and she elbowed him with a stern look. “As I was saying, Cornelius, this is Mr. Barberry, a friend of the Montrose family.”
Clearing his throat, Talon tipped his hat. “I apologize,” he said, accentuating his clipped brogue. “I’ve never seen such beautiful—” He looked around, attempting to get into his character. His eye immediately focused on the numerous tropical plantation scenes that graced the walls of the grand hall. “—Er, paintings.”
“Are you an art collector, Mr. Barberry?”
The soft, English accent came from behind them as a stylish lady strolled into the gallery. With her golden hair coiffed regally upon her head, she acknowledged them with a nod. “Talia, dear, how nice to see you.”
“Madame Taylor, it’s been a long time.” Holding her ripped skirts from her body, Talia curtsied to their hostess. “I would greet you more affectionately, but as you see, we’ve had a mishap.”
Lady Taylor smiled gracefully, asking no questions. “Lydia has gowns in her dressing room. You’re more than welcome to borrow one.”
Talia’s eyes lit up in excitement as she clapped her hands together. “Dear Lydia. Is she here?”
“She and her husband sailed for the Louisiana Territories a month ago on extended holiday.”
Talia clasped the woman’s hands in hers. “I want to hear all about it. But perhaps we should dress appropriately first.”
“Of course.” Turning to Talon, Lady Taylor said, “Mr. Barberry, our home is yours. Please make yourself comfortable. Apparently, Jonathan will return to the estate tonight instead of staying at our townhouse in St. Pierre. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to have a fellow countryman to visit with. We’ll dine after you are refreshed. I will send for Raymond and Portia to assist you both.”
Talon bowed dramatically to the mistress of the house. “Lady Taylor, thank you for your hospitality.”
“Please, Mr. Barberry.” The grand dame chuckled. “There are no titles of nobility on the islands. Mrs. Taylor suits me fine.”
Hiking the pack over his shoulder, Talon grinned. The woman might be privileged, but her relaxed demeanor was a welcome reprieve from the prejudice he often encountered in England. “Indeed, Madame. Thank you.”
Cornelius bowed. “Mam’zelle Talia, I’s show you to your quarters.”
Touching Talon’s arm, Talia gave him a lingering smile before she followed the old servant. “I’ll see you at dinner, Monsieur.”
His heart slammed against his chest, his body tingling from her sensual touch.
Wiles, indeed.
After a month of trying to decipher Talia’s intentions, he was no closer to trusting her. Who was she? One moment she played the woebegone miss and the next she was fighting burly Spaniards. Or mayhap she was the rich debutante that had greeted Lady Taylor so candidly. No question about it, Talia Montrose had him completely flummoxed.
A young servant boy pulled on his satchel and hiked a thumb toward the door. “M’sieu? Venez-vous?”
Following the lad down the adjacent hall, Talon climbed the wooden staircase with a sigh. Mystery or not, he had no choice but to take her lead.