Читать книгу Season of The Shadow - Bobbi Ph.D. Groover - Страница 9

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Fletcher found it hard to rouse from the unusually deep, sound sleep. Drifting in and out, it took an anxious few moments to convince himself of where he was. Then relaxing in the intricately carved mahogany four-poster bed, he turned onto his side and languidly pulled the mussed pillow farther under his head, curling his arm beneath it. He lay still, drowsily opening and closing his eyes, unwilling to spoil the luxurious moment with the dreary prospect of rising and having to think.

He had deliberately left the draperies open to provide the sun's light and warmth easy access through the window. His gaze followed the path of the rays to where they made prisms of the crystal figurines on the dressing table. Having spent so many years in that dark, dismal place, he constantly delighted in the morning's brilliant sunlight.

He rolled to his back, locked his fingers behind his neck and studied the pattern of the slate-blue fabric in the canopy that arched above him. Sighing, he drew up his leg and locked his foot into the crook of his other knee. The soft down fluffed around him; the silkiness of the bedclothes felt delicious against his skin.

It wasn't home but this was as close as he could be to home. He had slept in this bed times too numerous to count, just as Caleb had slept at Seabrook. In their wild wanderings, they'd seemed to find their way and collapse into whichever beds were closest.

During their mettlesome years, Rachel Jenkins—Caleb's mother and full fledged fire-breathing dragon that she was at the time—had taken Fletcher's presence in her home as a matter of course and had never registered surprise when he greeted her in the morning. If she viewed Sam Stedman's offspring as an intemperate influence on her son, her opinion remained her own, for she never voiced an objection to their close friendship.

Fletcher spread wide his arms and arched his neck and back, stretching his tight muscles from their long rest. Yawning deeply, he threw his arms over his face and wondered if he might fall back to sleep. He was reluctant to leave his downy cocoon. The only thing missing was a voluptuous, beguiling female to share it with. As he contemplated beguiling females, his mind wandered to Kyndee, and he frowned. He would never be able to drift back now.

With a sigh of resignation, he threw back the covers, swung his legs over the side of the bed and dropped his feet to the floor. A paroxysm of dizziness caused him to grasp the bedpost and rest his tousled head against its wooden sturdiness. Unfortunately, his hastily muttered oath did nothing to stop the room from spinning.

He donned the dressing robe someone had been kind enough to leave on the chaise. Running his hand over his eyes, he decided it had to have been Caleb. Fletcher now vaguely recalled someone having been in his room after he'd gone to bed. The person had whispered something about Fletcher never having a robe when he needed one. He chuckled. While the statement was true, he was touched that Caleb, the consummate host, would have remembered the minor detail. A sudden knock startled him as the door was thrown open.

"Are you decent?" Caleb strode into the room. "Well, it's about time you woke up, you lazy dolt. I waited downstairs to break fast with you but my hunger was past endurance. I see you found the robe. Keep it. The women will think it goes devilishly well with your eyes—had a feeling you didn't have one."

Caleb was already dressed in coat, breeches and boots and looked anxious to be in the saddle. He moved to the window and glanced out and, turning, leaned against the sill. He rubbed his hands together rapidly with an expression of boyish mischief.

"What's your pleasure today?" he asked. "Shall we gallop to Seabrook and challenge Buck to a duel? I'll be certain his second forgets to load his pistol. Or shall we have him slow roasted over an open pit? Come to think of it, I favor the idea of having him hung, drawn and quartered. Have you given it any thought, Rasc? Pray tell, what's the plan for his demise?"

Fletcher shook his head and glinted his friend a one-sided grin. "And to think I was just musing on your excellent manners as a host! But what host barges into his guest's room before that guest has yet to gather his brains from the pillow?"

Caleb shrugged. "I don't consider you a guest."

"Ah yes. Well that accounts for it then." With one hand, Fletcher pushed his hair from his eyes. With the other, he poured a glass of water from the crystal pitcher and downed it in three gulps to relieve the dryness in his throat. He poured himself another glassful.

Swinging the glass by the rim, and leaning against the bedpost, he folded his arms and smiled at his friend. "In answer to your delving questions: one—yes, I'm decent, but I highly doubt you would have cared if I weren't; two—I didn't know it was this late; three—I planned to break fast with you; four—thank you for the robe; I didn't have one; and five—I have no plan whatsoever because I must make inquiries first." Fletcher gasped for air, having shoved out the entire statement on a single breath.

Caleb lifted one eyebrow in an expression of amused incredulity. "Well said, Rasc. I remember any number of mornings when you'd have been hard pressed to put together a coherent thought. Obviously your mind has improved with age." On his way to the door, he jabbed Fletcher's shoulder with his knuckles. "Sorry I can't say the same for your looks. Do try to appear presentable. I believe, due to the hour, Mother will be joining us."

Fletcher immediately sobered. "Caleb, your mother will know me immediately. She has the eyes of a bird of prey—"

Caleb pivoted on the threshold and interrupted him. "No need to be all in a nettle, Rasc. I'll seat you at the far end of the table. Mother's mellowed a bit, and her hawk eyes aren't what they used to be. Besides, it's not as if she's expecting you. I'll tell her you're a friend I met on my last trip. She's grown accustomed to me bringing home all manner of stray animals—" He grinned. "—and with that scraggly hair on your face, that's exactly what you appear to be. Don't take overly long to dress, old boy; Mother hates to be kept waiting."

Fletcher dipped his fingers in the glass and flicked a spray of water across the room. "As I said," he chimed, chortling. "The consummate host!"

Caleb dodged the spray with a dignified wave of his hand and remained in the doorway. His jaw was tight as if he had something important on his mind. Then his face crinkled into that wide boyish smile, and he shook his head. "Bantering with you like this, Rasc; it's as if you were never gone."

"I trust you mean my showing up here is a pleasant reoccurrence?" he asked with a whimsical lift to his brows.

"You're incorrigible, Stedman," Caleb replied as he turned to leave. "I'll wait for you downstairs."

* * *

After the sumptuous meal, the table was cleared and Fletcher and Caleb lingered over their coffee. Fletcher noted that Rachel Jenkins, dignified in dark silk, had indeed mellowed since he'd last seen her. To his immense relief, she had not given him more than slight scrutiny, and she'd kept the conversation within the confines of the weather and the upcoming ball.

"As our guest you will, of course, join in the festivities, I hope," she said; her hair, pulled taut into a chignon, added to the severity of her expression. "Ella Marshall has the most elegant balls. I'm sure she'll be all agog knowing there's another eligible bachelor in town." She rolled her eyes. "The way that woman dangles her daughter, one would think she considers spinsterhood a fate worse than death. Her daughter, Sirrah, is pleasing enough to the eye, but she is a bit of a gaby. One would have more success conversing with a papier-mâché‚ mask."

Her austere expression gave way to a charming frown. "Thank the Lord I was blessed with a son. Now I need only find a woman of good breeding to catch his fancy so that I might live to see my grandchildren—"

"Mother," Caleb hissed. "I'm certain Mr. Brown would rather not be bored with—"

"On the contrary, Caleb," Fletcher interrupted with a grin. "I agree with your mother that it is time you settled down. While I'm here, I'll put my nose to the ground and see if there's not a lovely maiden waiting to be honored by your proposal." He chuckled and cast Caleb a knowing glance.

"I'm afraid 'twould be to hunt the gowk, Mr. Brown. My son is an incurable romantic. He will not marry except for love."

"Enough!" said Caleb, throwing his hands in a gesture of frustration. "Mother, should I have the carriage brought 'round? You don't want to be late to your meeting."

"Quite right," she replied. Fletcher and Caleb rose as Rachel Jenkins prepared to take her leave. "Mr. Brown, you are welcome to enjoy the hospitality of our home for as long as it pleases you. With Mr. Jenkins away, I feel safer with two gentlemen for my protection."

"Thank you, Mrs. Jenkins," Fletcher said with heartfelt sincerity. "Honored to be of service to you. You are most generous to a stranger dragged home by your son."

She gave him a sideways glance. "You do so remind me of another of Caleb's friends." Her face softened. "He was an impudent devil and could try the patience of the saints themselves, but he was also a fine young man."

"You said was, Mrs. Jenkins?" Fletcher asked, ignoring Caleb who had moved behind his mother and was shaking his head from side to side.

Rachel Jenkins grasped the back of the chair as if fatigued by the question. "The boy's disappearance many years ago made me realize how very fragile is our hold on those we love. We have no right to expect that we'll be together when the sun heralds the new day. It was a sobering realization, Mr. Brown."

She straightened her back, and her imperious pose returned. Turning on her heel, she strode out, still issuing orders. "Caleb, if you'll be kind enough to see to my carriage, please. Good day to you, Mr. Brown." As they left, the room suddenly felt hostile and cold.

Fletcher poured himself another cup of coffee and sat in the window seat, viewing the outside world through the steam from his cup. Physically, the town had not changed much in his absence. Fine carriages with matched pairs of high stepping horses still made their way to and fro. Richly dressed young ladies alighted from those carriages to giggle and blush at the attentions of dashing cavaliers, much to the consternation of their mothers. But life had definitely gone on without him. Caleb's mother was right: it was a sobering thought.

He felt as if he were here but somehow not here; as though he had died and come back as a ghost to see how the living had fared. So far, the picture had been grim. If his disappearance could have tamed the fire of a true southern dragon like Rachel Jenkins, then he feared what the Mathew twins had told him was true: it had sapped the life from his serene and gentle mother. Holding the warm cup in both hands, he sipped his coffee and rested his head against the casement. Buck's dastardly act had been accomplished with impunity. The evil had prospered while the innocent had suffered. Fletcher was home, yet he knew the return from hell was just beginning. With that thought, he watched his own hand open wide and close again into a tight fist.

Caleb's voice rang out like a pistol shot. "Are you trying to get yourself recognized?" he snapped through clenched teeth as he entered the room. "What the devil got into you a minute ago? You knew whom Mother was talking about. Why would you encourage her to remember his face with yours clearly in view in front of her?"

Fletcher gave no response.

"Rasc, have you heard a word I've said?"

"Yes, I've heard you. I'm quite certain everyone in the house has heard you," Fletcher hissed with an underlying tone of quick anger. "And I'll thank you not to chide me as if I were a child." He didn't mean to snap. But he was annoyed with himself because he knew what Caleb said to be true. It had been a dangerous moment of weakness.

He rose, came to the table and slammed down his cup. Leaning on both hands, he lowered his head and groaned. "Your mother caught me unaware. She was such a tough old bird. I always thought she merely tolerated me." He glanced sideways. "You never knew how much I wanted her respect." He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"You had her respect," Caleb replied, "and much more." He moved to the fireplace and rested his elbow on the mantel. He stood rubbing his chin, eyeing Fletcher with open compassion. His eyes darted back and forth as if desperate for a plan to ease his friend's suffering.

"Why didn't you tell me about Kyndee last night?"

"Hmmm?" Caleb’s eyes focused on Fletcher. "Kyndee? Right. I thought you'd enough bad news for one evening." He drew a deep breath. "She's married. She's his now under the law."

"I know," Fletcher said with rising anger. "As is my home, my name, my life. The law...the law—" He slammed the table with his fist. "But the law won't protect that whoring bastard after I explain what he's done!"

Caleb stepped forward, gripped the opposite edge of the table with both hands and tilted across it. "I don't think you realize the risk to your life if you come forward. As a green colt Buck was able to lock you away in a dungeon. Although God only knows how he got his hands on his inheritance without anyone being the wiser—probably took his mother's jewels to a pop-shop. Don't you see? He's increased the holdings of Seabrook and now wields tremendous power. What I'm trying to tell you, my friend, is that in this town he is the law!"

Fletcher's head snapped up. "What? Jefferson? Wilton? Morgan? I've never known more honorable and honest men. Surely they couldn't have been taken in by those charlatans."

"They weren't. They were replaced by men hand picked by Buck. Jefferson died of a sudden unexplained illness. Wilton was called out of town to nurse a supposed sick relative. The only one left is Morgan. He keeps to himself and is rarely seen."

His hair fell into his eyes as Fletcher jerked his head and turned away. "Damn! I wanted to enlist their help." He paced the room with his coat drawn aside, his hands on his hips. He stopped by the window and rested one hand on the sill. The means of attack were being cut off one by one.

His head was starting to pound; the tightness in his chest caused him to take short shallow breaths. He felt as much a prisoner now as he had in his cell. Once again Buck held the key to his fate. His fists balled in silent frustrated hostility. "Even unknowingly, those usurpers thwart me at every turn."

"Do you see now why you have to keep your identity a secret? It would be easy for him to arrange a convenient accident—" Caleb stopped and furrowed his brow. "Usurpers? Buck had an accomplice?"

"From the memory of that day and the scars on my body, I expect he had several. But he still needed a key player, someone to pressure me into going with him that afternoon, someone persuasive, someone he knew I wouldn't refuse," Fletcher said with raw rancor.

"My God! You can't mean Kyndee?" Caleb asked, his eyes wide with clear disbelief. She was never particularly fond of Buck. Frankly, I was flabbergasted when she married the brute. I thought she merely fatigued of his pursuit. Surely you don't think she had a hand in it?"

A caustic mixture of hate and sorrow overcame him. He sucked in a deep breath and turned his face away to allow the pain to pass before answering. "I don't think, Caleb," he growled. "I know. I've heard Buck's words in my head everyday of the last six months, ever since I started remembering who I really was, ever since I pieced together what they'd done to me."

The hammer in his head was drowning him, threatening to take control. He pressed back against the wall, closed his eyes and shoved both hands through his hair, squeezing his head, trying to strangle the pain. The pressure from the outside seemed to relieve a portion of that within.

"I remember Buck standing over me; his voice was close. I was struggling to stay conscious, to know why he'd done it. He was chuckling! I was slashed and bleeding, and he was chuckling. My crushed ribs felt the impact of his boot as he said, 'Kyndee said you'd put up a good fight. Guess she was wrong, Brother!' Then something smashed into the side of my head. My memory fled, Zachary Brown was born, and Fletcher Stedman disappeared for over nine years."

Allowing his knees to buckle, he lowered himself to sit on the floor. He stayed that way, his elbows resting on his raised knees. He heard Caleb move about the room and approach him. His fingers were pried from his head, and a cup was placed in them.

"Drink this," said Caleb in a sympathetic tone. "It'll help."

"What is it?"

"Never mind; drink it," he commanded.

Fletcher tasted coffee but also a strong lacing of brandy. It spread a wonderful warmth on the way down. He held the cup to his forehead.

Caleb settled on the floor next to him. "Rasc, we've been close friends for a long time. You've told more tall tales than I care to remember, but I've never known you to lie when the stakes were high. Because of our friendship I know you won't take offense that I ask you this: before we embark on a course from which there may be no turning back, is there any chance you might've been wrong in what you heard? Any chance you might have been delirious and misunderstood?"

The brandy had done its job. It was dulling the pain—in his heart as well as in his head. As the throbbing receded, the high tide of hatred washed over the beaches of his mind.

"No, Caleb. I heard what he said very clearly."

Caleb slapped his knee. "So be it. The battle lines are drawn. I will do anything you ask to help regain what is rightfully yours. If necessary, everything I have is at your disposal."

Fletcher glanced sideways at his friend and couldn't prevent a wry chuckle as he saw the expression on his face. The soft brown eyes, so unlike the piercing ones of his dragon mother, expressed respect, compassion, friendship, loyalty and zeal. To his knowledge, he had not taken a pistol shot for Caleb nor rescued him from the dripping jaws of a grizzly, yet without being asked, Caleb was willing to stake his life, reputation and finances. In the quiescent moment, Fletcher wondered what worthy deed he had performed in his life that he was deserving of such a friend.

"You can start by helping this old rascal off the floor," he said, in a lighter mood, "and making me another of whatever was in that cup!"

Caleb sprang to his feet and appeared more than happy to oblige.

As he handed Fletcher the second cup, he asked, "What's your first move? I remember you having the same expression the first night you tricked me into going to Madam Louisa's."

A wide sly devilish grin spread across Fletcher's face. "That's exactly what we're going to do to Mr. Buck Bannistre Stedman."

"You're going to get him a whore?" asked his host with a confused smirk.

"No, Caleb, my friend. I'm going to be his whore! His mystery whore," replied Fletcher malevolently.

"Would you care to expound on that, my dear fellow?"

Fletcher guzzled down his brandy-laced coffee, feeling the rush meld with his growing intensity. He lounged against the wall and crossed his long legs at the ankles. "I'm intend to know the people he knows, do business with the people he does business with, go where he goes. I'm going to relax him, tease him, coax him until he plays into my hands. But at the precise moment of thrust, I'm going to geld the bastard."

Caleb snorted and broke into hoots of laughter. "Yes, well that explains it!" He snickered. "With one exception—the beard will most definitely have to go. I hear Buck enjoys his whores clean-shaven."

The two of them howled and refilled their cups, adding less coffee than the time before.

Fletcher could feel his strength returning with the formation of a plan. "I intend to know his likes, his dislikes, his habits, his fears—yes, especially his fears. I'm going to know him better than he knows himself. I will fight his power with my own. But he's never going to know it's me, never going to know where it's coming from. I will have my life back and place Buck in his rightful place in hell. We will see if his bride wishes to follow him there."

He strolled around the room, rolling the cup between his hands pensively. "If, as you say, Buck is the law here, then we must find a way to use his own law against him. We must 'do unto him'."

Caleb looked troubled. "There is one pawn in this game who you must consider before you announce 'checkmate'."

"Don't ask me to consider Kyndee. Not after her betrayal."

"I'm not speaking of Kyndee," Caleb said. "There is still one person at Seabrook who remembers you with love, who played no part in your pain except that she suffered it with you in her heart. She's with Buck even now at his whim and mercy—I'm speaking of your mother."

Fletcher whirled around. "Dear God, he wouldn't dare hurt her!"

"Who would have believed Buck capable of what he did to you? He has deceived everyone. He is master of Seabrook, upstanding leader in the town, supporter of worthy causes. Rasc, what you propose will not be easy. He most likely has informants everywhere. There are not many who feel as I do about him."

"Then we will have to find those he doesn't eat, sleep or drink with and inveigle them to our camp. If we're careful, my mother will be in no danger. But I want to see her first to be sure."

"I think it's too risky," Caleb warned. "What possible reason could there be for Zachary Brown, a complete stranger, to visit Adeline Stedman?"

Fletcher snorted in frustration. "I'll think of a reason."

"And you'll be announced and escorted to her by Mrs. Buck Stedman, in case you're fortunate enough to avoid the master himself. You truly believe Kyndee won't recognize you?"

"I had to do some rather fancy talking to prevent your calling the authorities when I appeared on your doorstep," Fletcher shot back.

"True," the younger man admitted, "but I wasn't in love with you years ago either!" As if he realized the cutting strength of his remark, he added, "Sorry; I just think you're taking an unnecessary risk."

"All right," Fletcher conceded. "But I want you to make inquiries to assure me of her present well-being."

"Agreed." Caleb's grim expression faded. "It'll require some fancy talking to be allowed to see her, but I learned the skill from a master."

"That you did! When can you arrange it?"

Caleb shook his head. "You have to have patience. You've been here less than twenty-four hours. Too much, too soon will cause questions."

Fletcher paced and gritted his teeth. "I've only known my identity several months—several months to relive a lifetime; they've had ten years! I have no patience!"

"Nevertheless, you'll see that your plan requires it. I doubt the well-spent time will diminish your desire for reprisal. There is an old saying, 'Vendetta di cent'anni ha ancor i lattaiuoli'—"

"Speak English!" Fletcher broke in, flashing his friend a warning stare. "My Italian is poor." The rasp scarcely colored the sardonic edge to his voice. "I somehow managed to sidestep Italy on my six year Grand Tour of the madhouses of western Virginia."

"It means, my impatient jolter head: 'Revenge of a hundred years has still its sucking teeth.’ Alacrity, in this case, may not be to your best advantage."

Stroking his beard, Fletcher asked, "And I suppose, in your subtle way, you're about to tell me what is?"

Caleb leaned his hands on the high back of the carved side chair in front of him. "No, Rasc, you're the brains here," he replied lightly. His boyish expression grew soberly adult, registering deep concern. "I'm simply informing you that I know this town, and you don't—not anymore. Your Mr. Buck travels in tight circles. To get close to him, to implement your plan, this town will have to know you. And that is what might take some time."

Slipping into a chair Fletcher rested one leather boot on his other knee, running his fingers along the smooth supple blackness. "I may have inadvertently caused that to happen already. During my little tête-à-tête with the Mathew twins, I told Miss Laura and Miss Flora that I was originally from Atlanta—"

"The Browns of Atlanta?" There was a wicked glimmer in his friend's eye. "Oh you did lay claim to rich blood! And telling those two pinguescent old quidnuncs was a fortuitous stroke of genius. The whole town will be buzzing."

Fletcher grimaced and shook his head. "Pinguescent quidnuncs? Caleb, if I weren't so damned fond of you, I'd think you were strutting around with your hands behind your back, spouting like some English barrister in order to drive me crazy. I've been there; it wasn't a pleasant trip. Humor this old rascal; what is a pinguescent quidnunc?"

Caleb wore a mischievous grin. "A rather plump gossip monger! And because the Mathew twins thrive on being more informative than the newspaper, my job of introducing you just became remarkably easier. Every mother with a daughter of marriageable age should be after you."

Clicking his tongue, Fletcher frowned. He shunned the idea and slapped the table with his hand. "I want my life, not a wife!"

Caleb slanted across the table. "I've no doubt the Fletcher I know will cause this venture to result in the best of both." He extended his hand, his brown eyes suddenly dark with emotion. "And it is to that end that I, for one, will go to great lengths to stand between you and anyone who attempts to keep that from happening."

Fletcher didn't trust himself to speak, only to grasp the proffered hand between both of his own. He had been away too long from those few left whom he loved and who loved him; the profound rush of sentiment weakened him. It also strengthened his resolve: with few exceptions, never would he allow someone close enough to hurt him again.