it."
"That's
enough, Cassie! Get started on those peaches!"
Taking
up the tray, I left the kitchen abruptly, my cheeks burning. The girl had meant
no harm, I knew, but her remarks had been much too close to the bone. Derek
Hawke had not touched me, not once during the two months I had been here, nor
had he shown the least inclination. His manner had been cool and stern and
remote. Although I knew he was pleased with my work, he never commented on it,
and he rarely spoke unless it was to issue an order. I told myself that I was
fortunate that he didn't expect me to perform those more intimate services, but
deep down I had to admit that I would have performed them almost willingly.
The
wide main hall that intersected the house was still dim, the walls washed with
soft blue gray shadows, although rays of early morning sunlight slanted through
the glass panes above the front door. Shadow Oaks was much smaller than those
houses we had passed on our way back from the auction. Its one-story white frame
structure had a wide verandah on three sides and a bricked-in kitchen in back.
Shabby, run down, sadly in need of a new coat of paint, it had no impressive
columns, no elegant trimmings, and the furnishings could hardly be called
splendid. The giant oaks that surrounded the house added a touch of regal
beauty, but the "plantation" was actually little more than a farm.
I
tapped softly on the door of the master bedroom, then pushed it open. The faded
gold brocade draperies had already been parted, sunlight spilling through the
windows to make bright patterns on the threadbare rose-and-gray carpet. The
huge mahogany four-poster was empty, pillows dented, sheets and gold brocade
counterpane pushed back in a tangle. Hawke stood at the mirror, shaving, his back
to me.
"You're
late, Cassie!" he said sharply. "You should have been here a good
half-hour ago. I should already be out in the fields. Set the tray on the
bedside table and then get out of here. I'm in a foul mood!"
"So
I see," I remarked.
Hawke
had put his razor down and was wiping his face with a wet cloth. He turned
around, startled by my voice.
"Where's
Cassie?" he demanded.
"She's
in the kitchen. She's not feeling well this morning."
"Oh?"
"I
think she's pregnant."
"Pregnant?"
Hawke looked pleased. "She and Adam are both splendid creatures. Their
child—a son, I hope— is bound to be superb, worth a good deal of money."
"Undoubtedly."
I
set the tray down and turned to leave.
"You
think me callous?" he inquired.
"It's
not my place to judge you one way or another, Mr. Hawke."
"That's
quite true. You do, though. I can see it in your eyes. You think me a callous,
mercenary brute. Slaves are like cattle, extremely valuable livestock. Mine
receive much better treatment than most."
"I
don't doubt that."
"I
feed 'em, I cloth 'em, I see that they have a warm, dry place to sleep, fetch a
doctor for 'em when they're sick. I work 'em hard, yes, but that's what they're
for."
"Indeed."
"I
don't breed 'em for a profit—a number of planters I could name run regular
breeding farms, even hire out their bucks for stud service. I don't do that,
though I've been offered a pretty penny for Adam's services. When my fellow
planters couldn't buy him from me, they wanted to rent him to service their
wenches. I—hell, why should I be justifying myself to you!"
"Why
indeed," I replied.
Hawke
stared at me, not certain whether or not a rebuke was called for. Had I been
impertinent? He had already pulled on his tail boots and gray breeches, but his
chest was bare. His torso was lean and smoothly muscled. The sight was mildly
disturbing, and I lowered my eyes, wishing he weren't so young and strong and
handsome, wishing I could hate him as he deserved to be hated.
"If
there's nothing else—" I began.
"We'll
want to lighten Cassie's duties somewhat," he informed me. "I
wouldn't want to risk anything happening to the child. She's not to take on any
of the heavy work, no lifting, no
"That's
enough, Cassie! Get started on those peaches!"
Taking
up the tray, I left the kitchen abruptly, my cheeks burning. The girl had meant
no harm, I knew, but her remarks had been much too close to the bone. Derek
Hawke had not touched me, not once during the two months I had been here, nor
had he shown the least inclination. His manner had been cool and stern and
remote. Although I knew he was pleased with my work, he never commented on it,
and he rarely spoke unless it was to issue an order. I told myself that I was
fortunate that he didn't expect me to perform those more intimate services, but
deep down I had to admit that I would have performed them almost willingly.
The
wide main hall that intersected the house was still dim, the walls washed with
soft blue gray shadows, although rays of early morning sunlight slanted through
the glass panes above the front door. Shadow Oaks was much smaller than those
houses we had passed on our way back from the auction. Its one-story white frame
structure had a wide verandah on three sides and a bricked-in kitchen in back.
Shabby, run down, sadly in need of a new coat of paint, it had no impressive
columns, no elegant trimmings, and the furnishings could hardly be called
splendid. The giant oaks that surrounded the house added a touch of regal
beauty, but the "plantation" was actually little more than a farm.
I
tapped softly on the door of the master bedroom, then pushed it open. The faded
gold brocade draperies had already been parted, sunlight spilling through the
windows to make bright patterns on the threadbare rose-and-gray carpet. The
huge mahogany four-poster was empty, pillows dented, sheets and gold brocade
counterpane pushed back in a tangle. Hawke stood at the mirror, shaving, his back
to me.
"You're
late, Cassie!" he said sharply. "You should have been here a good
half-hour ago. I should already be out in the fields. Set the tray on the
bedside table and then get out of here. I'm in a foul mood!"
"So
I see," I remarked.
Hawke
had put his razor down and was wiping his face with a wet cloth. He turned
around, startled by my voice.
"Where's
Cassie?" he demanded.
"She's
in the kitchen. She's not feeling well this morning."
"Oh?"
"I
think she's pregnant."
"Pregnant?"
Hawke looked pleased. "She and Adam are both splendid creatures. Their
child—a son, I hope— is bound to be superb, worth a good deal of money."
"Undoubtedly."
I
set the tray down and turned to leave.
"You
think me callous?" he inquired.
"It's
not my place to judge you one way or another, Mr. Hawke."
"That's
quite true. You do, though. I can see it in your eyes. You think me a callous,
mercenary brute. Slaves are like cattle, extremely valuable livestock. Mine
receive much better treatment than most."
"I
don't doubt that."
"I
feed 'em, I cloth 'em, I see that they have a warm, dry place to sleep, fetch a
doctor for 'em when they're sick. I work 'em hard, yes, but that's what they're
for."
"Indeed."
"I
don't breed 'em for a profit—a number of planters I could name run regular
breeding farms, even hire out their bucks for stud service. I don't do that,
though I've been offered a pretty penny for Adam's services. When my fellow
planters couldn't buy him from me, they wanted to rent him to service their
wenches. I—hell, why should I be justifying myself to you!"
"Why
indeed," I replied.
Hawke
stared at me, not certain whether or not a rebuke was called for. Had I been
impertinent? He had already pulled on his tail boots and gray breeches, but his
chest was bare. His torso was lean and smoothly muscled. The sight was mildly
disturbing, and I lowered my eyes, wishing he weren't so young and strong and
handsome, wishing I could hate him as he deserved to be hated.
"If
there's nothing else—" I began.
"We'll
want to lighten Cassie's duties somewhat," he informed me. "I
wouldn't want to risk anything happening to the child. She's not to take on any
of the heavy work, no lifting, no
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