The Winds of Fate by Elizabeth St. Michel Page B

physician then waited in stoic silence.
    Claire stifled a giggle when she saw the doctor sizing up her cousin in the same manner as Lily measured him−an eye for an eye.
    “Our physician has made some medicines, and Cookie is on the mend,” declared Claire.
    Lily shouldered past Claire, her stout heels clacking on the wood floor until she stood in front of the physician. “Good news indeed. I thank you. We were at an impasse−” Lily grew reflective. “But now that problem has been resolved. I have need of an answer from you on a different issue. I expect you will provide me an honest answer.”
    The physician folded his arms. “With a certainty,” he said, and Claire could see that he stood amused with her cousin’s prim superiority.
    “I wish to inquire of your friend’s well-being.”
    When he looked confused, Claire answered for her. “The blond-haired rebel beside you on the dock the day you entered Port Royale.”
    He held Lily’s gaze, but displayed none of the hostility or sarcasm, he saved for Claire. “My friend is doing fair despite his circumstances,” he said darkly.
    “I don’t countenance slavery,” Lily said.
    “Neither do I,” said the doctor unfolding his arms. “It’s good to see that part of the world has a civilized opinion on the fate of humanity. Most are more provocative to point out our special status.” He glanced knowingly to Claire. “And I’ll be sure to mention your good opinion to my friend, Robert Ames. He’ll be glad to know that a beauty like you with a compassionate heart has a care for his well-being.”
    Good heavens. Did she see Lily blush?
    Lily patted her hair then turned to Claire. “Have you offered our guest any sustenance? A meal is the least we can do for him.”
    “Dear no.” Mortified Claire looked to him. “Please forgive me.” She grabbed his hand.
    Devon felt her−he felt her heat. Impulsively, she had grabbed his hand. He allowed her to pull him forward. The touch startled him. And her, judging by the way she paused and stared at him. He smiled and curled his hand around hers. “Lead on.”
    He had touched many women’s hands, but never this way. He struggled to remember when he last joined hands with a woman like this, in an innocent, childlike manner. And then he remembered the way her hands entwined in his in the gaol.
    When they entered the kitchen she released him, but he held fast, and raised her hand to his lips for a kiss. Her eyes grew wide, and then he let her go.
    The truce she had called for settled between them in an unspoken, tacit agreement.
    His first instinct was to tell her to go to hell. He was foolhardy and selfish, impulsive at times. He reined in that impulse. Logic reminded him that some sort of civilized relationship with her was what he’d desired. But that devil of recklessness dominated him, and it became impossible to force down his restless energy when a challenge was born. And she was an exciting challenge.
    She served smoked ham, roasted turkey, potatoes, buttered bread and sweet desserts. Devon grabbed the plate, and to her dismay, commenced stuffing the food into his mouth.
    “Excuse me,” he said between mouthfuls, then remembering his manners,” I’ve not had decent food in a long time. The gruel I’m served barely keeps a man alive. Would you care for a drumstick?” He dangled it from his fingers.
    “No thank you.” She put up her hand, and laughed when he grinned at her. “You have the charm of a goat.” She pointed out to him. “What do you think of my cousin?”
    “I feel Miss Lily could walk through a riot or revolution and restore order with a series of sharp raps of her unrolled parasol.”
    When she laughed it was as glorious as a rainbow’s birth.
    “I like her,” he added. “Prudent, smart, and someone’s respect I’d like to have.” He drew upon some ale then studied Claire over the brim of his tankard. She was not typical of ladies her age, but artless, learned, and fiercely