Flight of the Hawk, page 5
Hands intertwined, they sat together in silence.
When the sun had almost set, leaving just enough light for the walk back, Leona rose. She pulled on Trace, not wanting to speak, but needing him to rise.
He pulled himself up but did not relinquish his hold on her hand. They headed back down the path in silence, hands joined as if they were really a couple. In a sense they were.
She fit perfectly next to him. Was the right size for him. Only for me. That thought gave him a start.
Unable to stand the directions that his thoughts were going, he had to break the silence. “Thank you for that. It was a nice walk.”
Trace could feel her trembling and knew that he was the cause. For that single moment in time he had no other life. His soul was content. He had no thought of his former life, his wife or his command. The fact that he had lost his sight held no meaning. The emptiness, longing and yearning for something that had eluded him, that had plagued him for the past fifteen years was gone. He was complete.
Merely holding hands with this woman who he had never seen made Trace view life in a whole new way. With her by his side he could face anything that presented itself. Nothing would be too hard.
Trace stopped and pulled her back. To him. Spun her into his broad and muscular chest. While she was still off balance from being spun he wrapped his strong arms around her possessively. Tenderly, as a lover would do to the one who meant more than anything to them in the world, to make them understand just how much they were cherished. Protectively, to show he would protect her at any cost.
Even though he knew what he was doing was wrong, he didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Wouldn’t care. He had to taste her, had to brand her his.
One arm moved up and his fingers trailed down her face until they cupped her chin.
Leona knew what was going to happen. Knew she should stop it. But, it had been so long, she wanted to feel again. Just once more, to have that special feeling.
With her chin cradled gently between his callused fingers and his other strong hand at the small of her back, both of them illuminated by the moonlight, he put his lips to hers. Blind or not, he needed no help to find her lips. They were urgent and searching as he pressed her more fully against him. There was no gentleness in this kiss. It only lasted mere moments and when he pulled away she felt lost.
He raised his head an indiscernible distance from hers and he looked upon her as if he had not lost his sight. His words were nothing more than a low mummer as he spoke into her ear. “I am sorry. I just can’t help myself. I have to kiss you.” His last words spoken in his deep timbre were against her soft lips.
As he reclaimed her lips, she opened herself to him. He ran his tongue around her mouth, seeking entrance and gaining it. Their mouths met hungrily as tongues dueled in a mating dance as old as time.
Time stopped for the two joined as one. Their passions flared as the kiss deepened. Souls became one, halves once separated were rejoined.
Breathlessly they pulled apart. Leona’s lips were swollen and tender. Trace pulled her to his chest as she fought to regain control of her runaway emotions.
His warmth surrounded her and their breath was visible in the cool night. The kiss had gone on for much longer than she had thought.
With the moon fully above them, Leona realized that it was much later. She stayed facing his chest as she spoke. “We should go back.”
“You’re right. It’s getting late.” Trace made no move to release her from his arms and she didn’t try to remove herself.
Leona closed her eyes as she inhaled his masculine scent. Her heart had finally slowed down and she tried to close the link she shared with Trace. She couldn’t do it. Her feelings and emotions were wide open to him. As his were to her.
After a few more moments together, they separated and walked down the path in silence. Trace held on to her arm as she carefully chose their path.
Leona’s eyes were sore, and she couldn’t explain why, just they hurt and she was getting a headache as she struggled to pick a safe path for them. The night silence was only broken by her soft-spoken words of, “Step up. Root. Low branch.”
At the door to her house they separated as if by magic. Trace held the door for her as she entered first. Again, more proof he was learning to function without his sight, he was learning.
“Would you like something to drink?” Leona asked as she watched him make his way to the table. His expression twisted like he was in pain as she was.
“Please. Maybe some tea.” He sounded nervous.
Leona put on some water and took out some leftover pie, dished it up and set a piece beside Trace. She was a little nervous as well.
“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” Trace broke through her concentration.
“I have to go into town, but other than that I don’t have any plans.”
Jealously flared to life inside him. She was going to see that other man, even after the kiss they had shared? How could she? Of course, he did have a wife, so he really didn’t have much room to talk.
But what happened on the mountain path had been like a dream, a memory long past. One he thought about only in private. There was something so right, so familiar about Elle, but he just couldn’t figure out from where.
* * * *
“She’s gone. Just wait until father finds her and her mother. He’ll probably just kill them both outright. Maybe I’ll ask if I can have the girl. I’m sure I can break her spirit.” The two brothers had spoken to each other, ignoring the fact that their youngest brother could hear them. Or maybe they’d known he could hear them.
Up on the landing, the sixteen-year-old Trace had had tears welling up in his eyes. She was gone. She had been whipped. Yanked cruelly from his arms and savagely beaten, her beautiful skin covered with blood and welts. His love, his soul mate. He hadn’t been able to protect her, as he’d promised her he would.
And he had not seen her again.
He would never again get to hold her lovely body in his arms. Never get to kiss her full lips. Never get to be complete again. From the depths of his soul, anger had begun to build.
As he’d watched, his eldest brother, twenty-two-year-old David, had risen and left the room with a very reluctant slave girl. There had not been a single doubt in anyone’s mind that the girl was in for a rough time.
His middle brother, Steven, had been twenty. He’d kept speaking, so he’d known that his younger brother was listening to him. His tone had been vicious as he’d tormented his brother with the visions his words would cause. “That girl of yours was something else. I had a taste of her myself. Should have heard her begging. I ripped into her and it was…”
Smack!
The fight had commenced. The brothers had tumbled over the furniture, upending Victorian tables and breaking Chippendale chairs. Rare porcelain items had been shattered under the flailing bodies of the destructive brothers. Steven had quickly gotten the upper hand and his fists had pounded into his younger brother. Then he’d made a mistake, while he had been choking Trace.
Spit had flown from Steven’s mouth into his brother’s face as he’d sneered, “I made sure she’ll never forget me. I told her that you just used her. I told her that the whipping was your fault, that you weren’t there because you were busy sleeping with your next one. The next slave girl to be your toy. But that you had wanted all the details of the whipping and the amounts of blood.”
His brown eyes had bored into blue with a lethal calmness that would have scared a smarter man. Should have scared his brother. Trace, although bleeding and cut, had reached his breaking point and had been about to turn the tables.
With a strength born from resentment, hatred and the loss of a soul he’d thrown his brother off him like he weighed nothing, and jumped up after him, emitting a guttural cry that had stopped everything and everyone that heard it in its tracks.
Before Steven had had a chance to regain his feet, Trace had been on him. Pummeling him to the ground. Smashing his face into the floor. At one point the edge of a table had caught Steven’s face, ripping it open and causing the once pretty boy to scream in agony.
Trace had kept beating him, punching everywhere, even the open cut. All the time yelling at him, “You bastard! I hate you.” Trace had beat his brother into unconsciousness as he himself had been beaten before. Rising over his brother, dripping blood, his own and that of his despised rival, Trace had hissed, “You will never hurt me again. Ever.”
* * * *
“Trace? Trace? Is everything all right? Your tea is ready.”
Hearing her husky voice brought Trace back to the present. His body remained tense and rigid with rage. Trace took a few deep breaths to calm himself down.
“I’m fine. Just getting a headache. Don’t worry about me.” Trace was touched that she was worried about him and he smiled inwardly with male satisfaction. He reached for his drink and found it without spilling a drop—it was in the same place she always put it. The warmth of the drink helped to dull the pounding in his head and lessen the ache around his eyes.
As he sat there, he found himself wondering how she made her living. What did she do? Was it something she didn’t want to? Would she be embarrassed about it? The desire to know, no, the need to know, almost made him choke on his tea.
“What do you do, Elle?” Trace asked as he inhaled the smell of fresh mint and berries from where Elle sat.
“I make things to sell in town.”
“What do you sell?” His voice stayed modulated as he forced himself not to jump to conclusions.
“Pictures. I paint. I make art and sell it. Well, Jackson handles the selling for me. I really just do the easy part.”
His breath left in a rush, making him realize he had been holding it waiting for her response.
Who the hell was Jackson? Was he the man she went to see in town? What did she do for him in return for his handling the sale of her artwork?
He’d known someone from a lifetime ago who had used to love to draw.
Instead of asking the question he really wanted to, Trace asked, “What do you paint?”
“Almost anything. But I’m best at animals and nature. At least I think so.”
Trace wondered just how much of a living she could earn. Maybe that was why she was living on the side of a mountain.
She knew by the look on his face that he didn’t think she could make much of a living doing this. He would be wrong. She was an extremely talented artist. She had acquired an enormous amount of savings from her sales. In fact, she was downright wealthy, as Jackson had invested her money and it had more than quadrupled. Her paintings were being requested over in England now. She had almost more work than she could handle.
Her dream of going to England was almost ready to come true. She just hadn’t been able to leave her mom buried here alone. And she also didn’t want to leave Jackson. So here she was as rich as a member of the peerage in England and living on the side of a mountain, close to nature.
What is he thinking? Leona watched as many different emotions passed over Trace’s face. How he had changed. How he had grown into the magnificent man she had known he would become. He had filled out so nicely. Even her vivid dreams couldn’t have painted him in this model of perfection to her eyes.
* * * *
Trace, aged sixteen
“Come here.” The voice was deep. It probably wouldn’t get any deeper. If it did, it wouldn’t be by much, as it was already a rich baritone.
Trace was tall. Well over six feet, he was a boy who had just about come into his own. And he was used to being obeyed. By almost everyone. But not her. Never her.
“Come here, I said.” He was sitting under a tree, leaning on the trunk, one leg pulled up with one strong arm draped over it.
A demand. A demand it seemed going entirely unnoticed by its intended recipient. The one to whom he was speaking continued to ignore him. He shook his head as he realized she was paying no heed to him and would continue to do so until she deemed him worthy of her attentions. Quite a spunky little woman. He passed the time by committing her to his memory.
She was a little thin, but then, she was just a teen. Her body, however, had begun to bud and show the woman she would become. Her hair fell around her shoulders like black silk. Her skin shone with health. A pert but somewhat flat nose and full lips. Her eyes were stunning, by far her most striking feature. They were tawny, lion-like and different, but it only added to her allure.
Her face was a gentle oval accenting her high and well-defined cheekbones. The promise of stunning beauty to come was apparent. She was beautiful now, but in a youthful innocent way, not with the maturity that would come with age.
“Why don’t you come to me?” The question was asked breezily. Her voice got to him in the depths of his insides, as it always did. It rendered him weak in the knees and removed his ability to tell her no. She had a very powerful voice.
He alone really ever heard her voice, for she never spoke unless directly ordered to do so. Her silence made her a favorite at his father’s dinner parties and functions. She was easy on the eyes and made all the men wonder about her.
Her name was Leona, named for her eyes, which often glowed golden like her namesake’s. He called her ‘little one’ or ‘kitten’. She called him ‘Trey’. There weren’t any secrets between them. What they had was a secret to everyone.
Leona’s mother was the most feared of all the slaves. She was the shaman, priestess or medicine woman, and didn’t like her people to get out of control and cause trouble, so she ran them more effectively than the overseer ever could. For that reason, Leona was given a little extra leniency.
Trace’s father didn’t want a slave revolt on his hands for the mistreatment of the shaman or her daughter. The slaves made a big deal over her voodoo and firmly believed in it. There were times that punishment from the priestess could be more severe than from the master.
Growing up with Leona, Trace had a different view of the whole slavery issue. He didn’t see her as a slave. She was his love, his other half, and he knew this even at the age of sixteen. He had fallen in love with this young woman currently ignoring him by the river. What had started out as a friendship had grown intensely into something more. They had developed into beings that were two halves of the same whole.
Trace knew that his parents’ marriage was a horrible match, as they hated each other. He had heard his father telling the slave woman that he slept with that he loved her. His father would do nothing about it. He would stay married to his bitter wife and continue to sleep with his slave. Not Trace. He was determined not to be in a loveless marriage like his father. Trace was sure he would marry Leona. They belonged together and their love was strong enough to conquer anything.
“Why don’t you come to me?” She repeated her question, still not once looking at him, keeping her focus on the paper in her lap.
Rising smoothly, he moved toward her. As he neared her he saw her looking at him with such love and trust in her gaze it nearly broke his heart. “I’ll come to you, little one. But you’ll regret it, for you should have come to me.”
A very unfeminine snort was her response. With a coy look she taunted, “I am not scared of you. You won’t hurt me.”
His hand causally stroked his chin as he regarded her thoughtfully, as if he were making a momentous decision. The second her guard was down he moved. Like a lightning strike he had her in his possession and her momentary protest faded away to be lost among the chirping and squawking of the animals of the woods.
* * * *
Her eyes aching, Leona rubbed them. She was exhausted. The day’s emotions had finally taken their toll on her. Rising, she quickly cleared the table and got herself ready for bed.
“I’m going to go to sleep. I’ll talk to you in the morning. Good night, Trace.”
As he rubbed his eyes, he answered, “Good night, kitten.”
Just hearing those words again made time slip away for her. Taking her back to a different time and place.
Leona shook her head. These were just memories that she couldn’t afford to revisit. She waited until he had risen from the table and headed for his sleeping area before she took to her own bed.
* * * *
Trace woke early. He lay there just listening to the sound of her breathing. Maybe it was time for him to move on.
He heard Elle bolt out of bed. Her panic was in full force and he could tell this even without seeing her.
Trace demanded, “What’s wrong?”
“Someone’s coming.”
She was frightened. Her breathing was very irregular as she scrambled around.
“Elle, don’t worry, whatever there is we can handle it.” He looked in her direction, or what he thought was her direction. As he blinked, he noticed that he could see the outline of a person. He blinked a few more times, but the shadowy figure was still there.
It looked like a woman. A naked woman for all he knew, for he could only see the shape of her body—of course, it was all fuzzy and shady. She had the shape of an hourglass.
“Trace. Trace? What’s the matter?” Elle stopped pacing.
“Nothing. I was just wondering why you were so upset.”
A knock at the door stopped her answer. Whoever it was had to be known to her for they found the door and knocked. Elle went to open it. He wanted to snatch her back, away from any potential danger.
A sigh of relief poured out of her and Trace bristled.
“Jackson.” The gratefulness in her voice was apparent to Trace. “What are you doing here?”
“I was worried about you. And since when do I need a reason to come see you? I never have before. Is something wrong? What are you trying to keep from me? Don’t think you can keep any secrets from—”
“I believe the lady asked you a question.” Trace’s silky voice broke into Jackson’s question with more than a hint of challenge. He had moved stealthily to her side. He had slipped into his pants but was not wearing his shirt. The top button of his pants sat undone in a silent message to the man at the door.
