The men had the fire out before it could destroy the mill, but it had damaged the second floor and much of the roof. In the predawn light, Cain stood wearily off to the side, his face streaked with soot, his clothing scorched and smoke-blackened. At his feet lay what was left of a kerosene can.
Magnus came up beside him and silently surveyed the damage. 'We were lucky,' he finally said. 'The rain we had yesterday kept it from spreading too fast.'
Cain stabbed at the can with the toe of his boot.
'Another week and we'd have been installing the machinery. The fire would have gotten that, too.'
Magnus looked down at the can. 'Who do you think did it?'
'
'Hard to say.'
'They couldn't have found a better way to hurt me. I sure as hell don't have the money to rebuild.'
'Why don't you go back to the house and get some rest? Maybe things'll look better in the morning.'
'In a minute. I want to take another look around first. You go ahead.'
Magnus squeezed his shoulder and headed for the house.
Twenty minutes later Cain spotted it. He bent down on one knee at the bottom of the burned staircase and picked it up in his fingers.
At first he didn't recognize the piece of tarnished metal. The heat of the fire had melted the prongs together, and the delicate silverwork across the top had folded in on itself. But then, with a sudden wrenching in his gut, he knew it for what it was.
A silver filigree comb. One of a pair that he'd so often seen caught up in a wild tangle of black hair.
The twisting inside him turned to agony. The last time he'd seen her, both combs had been tucked into her hair.
He was crushed by a vise of raw emotion. He, of all men, should have known better than to let down the barriers he'd so carefully erected. As he stared at the misshapen piece of metal in his hand, something tender and fragile shattered inside him like a crystal teardrop. In its place was left cynicism, hatred, and self-loathing. What a weak, stupid fool he'd been.
He stood to pocket the comb, and as he walked out of his ruined mill, his face twisted with a vicious, deadly sense of purpose.
She'd had her revenge. Now it was his turn.
14
It was midafternoon before he found her. She was huddled beneath an old wagon that had been abandoned during the war in some brush at the northern edge of the plantation. He saw the soot streaks on her face and arms, the scorched places on her blue dress. Incredibly, she was asleep. He prodded her hip with the toe of his boot.
Her eyes flew open, but he was standing against the sun, and all she could see was a great menacing shape looming above her. Still, she didn't need to see more to know who he was. She tried to scramble to her feet, but he settled his boot on her skirt, pinning her to the ground.
'You're not going anyplace.'
Something dropped in front of her. She looked down to see the melted silver hair comb.
'Next time you decide to burn something down, don't leave a calling card.'
Her stomach churned. She managed a hoarse whisper. 'Let me explain.' It was a stupid thing to say. How could she explain? He already understood too well.
His head shifted slightly, blocking the sun for an instant. She winced as she glimpsed his eyes. They were hard, cold, and empty. Mercifully, he moved and the sun blinded her again.
'Did Parsell help you?'
'No! Brandon wouldn't do such a-' Brandon wouldn't, but she would. She wiped the back of her hand over her dry lips and tried to get up, but he wouldn't move his foot.
'I'm sorry.' The words were so inadequate.
'I'm sure you're sorry that the fire didn't get it all.'
'No, that's not-Risen Glory is my life.' Her throat was raw from the smoke, and she needed water, but first she had to try to explain. 'This plantation is all I ever wanted. I… needed to marry Brandon so I'd have control of the money in my trust fund. I was going to use it to buy Risen Glory from you.'
'And how were you going to make me sell? Another fire?'
'No. What happened last night… it was…' She tried to breathe. 'I saw the ledgers, so I knew you were overextended. All it would have taken was a bad season, and you'd have gone under. I wanted to be ready. I wasn't out to cheat you. I'd have given you a fair price for the land. And I didn't want the mill.'
'So that's why you were so determined to get married. I guess even a Parsell isn't above marrying for money.'
'It wasn't like that. We're fond of each other. It's just…' Her voice trailed off. What was the use? He was right.
He lifted his foot from her skirt and walked over to Vandal. There was nothing he could do to her that was worse than what he'd already planned. Sending her back to New York would be like dying.
He came toward her again, a canteen in his hand. 'Drink.'
She took it from him and tilted the rim to her lips. The water was warm and metallic, but she drank her fill. Only when she handed the canteen back did she see what dangled from his fingers.
A long, thin cord.
Before she could move, he caught up her wrists and wrapped the cord around them.
'Baron! Don't do this.'
He tied the ends to the axle of the old wagon and headed back to his horse without responding.
'Stop it. What are you doing?'
He vaulted into the saddle and spun the horse out. As suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone.
The afternoon passed with agonizing slowness. He hadn't fastened the cord so tightly that it cut into her wrists, but he'd done the job well enough that she couldn't free herself. Her shoulders ached from the strain of her position. Mosquitoes buzzed around her, and her stomach rumbled with hunger, but the thought of food made her nauseous. She was too filled with self-hatred.
He returned at dusk and dismounted with the slow, easy grace that no longer deceived her. He'd changed into a clean white shirt and fawn trousers, all of it at odds with her filthy condition. He pulled something from his saddlebags and moved toward her, the brim of his tan hat shadowing his face.
For a moment he gazed down; then he squatted beside her. With a few deft motions, the cords she'd struggled to untie came loose. As he released her wrists, she sagged against the wagon wheel.
He tossed her the canteen he'd brought with him, then opened the bundle he'd taken from his saddlebags. Inside was a soft roll, a chunk of cheese, and a slab of cold ham. 'Eat,' he said roughly.
She shook her head. 'I'm not hungry.'
'Do it anyway.'
Her body had a more pressing demand than food. 'I need some privacy.'
He pulled a cheroot from his pocket and lit it. The blaze of the match cast a jagged, blood-red shadow across his face. The match went out. There was only the glowing ember at the tip and the ruthless slash of his mouth.
He jerked his head toward a clump of bushes barely six feet away. 'Right there. No farther.'
It was too close for privacy, but she'd lost the luxury of freedom when she'd piled the sawdust around the supporting post at the mill.
Her legs were stiff. She climbed awkwardly to her feet and stumbled toward the bushes. She prayed he'd move farther away, but he stayed where he was, and she added humiliation to all the other painful emotions she was feeling.
