Drew looked from Brent to Laurel, but said nothing. He doesn’t know, Byrony thought. She wondered if Brent would ever tell him. She’d hated the trek across Panama, the heat, the butchering insects. She wished at this moment that she and Brent were back there again, this time headed west.
TWENTY-FIVE
“Where the hell have you been?”
Byrony paused a moment, her hand tightening on her riding crop at the cold anger in Brent’s voice. “I’ve been riding, with Drew,” she said. “Why?”
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“You could have asked Laurel. She knew.”
“Laurel’s taking a bath. It wouldn’t be precisely appropriate for me to join her, now, would it? Where is Drew?”
“He’s still at the stable. His horse lost a shoe. One of the sla—servants is helping him.”
Brent, whose arms were folded across his chest, his legs spread, studied his wife, his eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to go riding?”
Byrony flicked the riding crop against her leg. Why was he acting the outraged husband? “I didn’t know where you were,” she said. “You didn’t come to bed last night, nor were you anywhere to be found this morning.”
It seemed to Brent that she was a bit furious herself. Jealousy? It pleased him. Perversely, he said in a deep drawl, “No, I wasn’t, was I?”
With a measuring look, she said, “Then why are you so concerned where I was? When we were sailing on the Connecticut you had no choice but to stay near me.” She gave him a marvelously indifferent shrug. “On dry land, you seem to want to rove again. So why shouldn’t I do just as I please?”
“Because you are my wife, and you—” He broke off, seeing her insolent expression. “Enough. You will always tell me if you wish to do anything, and you won’t go off with other men.”
Byrony held her temper. She wanted to thrash him; she wanted to make him howl with pain, the kind of pain she’d felt through the night. Instead she said abruptly, “The slaves’ compound I saw is in terrible shape. And I met your overseer, Mr. Paxton. He was very pleasant—to me.”
“You’ve been here scarcely twenty-four hours and you’re already finding fault,” Brent said as he strode down the veranda steps.
“What I saw was deplorable,” Byrony said in a steady voice. “And this was the compound for the house slaves. I understand from Drew that the field slaves live like animals.”
“I want you to change into something more presentable,” he said, ignoring her words. “We’re going into Natchez to have dinner with the Forresters.”
Only he had the ability to provoke her so thoroughly. She raised her chin and demanded, “Where were you last night, Brent?”
“That, my dear, is none of your business. Just as Celeste was none of your business, or, may I add, this plantation. Go change your clothes. Mammy Bath has assigned Lizzie to you. And, Byrony, watch what you do with that riding crop.”
She said nothing, merely raised her chin higher and walked into the house. Brent stood quietly watching her. How dare she leave with Drew? Of course he’d seen Laurel, but she hadn’t said a word, merely observed that Drew seemed much taken with Byrony. And why, you fool, didn’t you simply tell her that you spent most of the night talking with Josh, a childhood friend whom you came back specifically to free? Brent shook his head at himself. He’d learned more from Josh about the condition of Wakehurst during the course of one night than he would have from Frank Paxton, a vicious man, according to Josh. But, in reality, no worse than any other overseer. Shit, what was he going to do?
About what, you fool? Byrony or Wakehurst? Brent sighed, running his long fingers through his hair. At least he’d done one good thing. Josh had told him that Frank Paxton was sniffing around Lizzie, and Brent had assigned her to Byrony. She would be safe with Byrony in the big house.
He saw Frank Paxton, dressed in severe black, walking up the drive toward him. He’d been at Wakehurst for nearly twelve years, and had been trusted completely by Brent’s father. At least he had been before Brent had left nine years before. Brent remembered Josh telling him that Paxton had bought slaves from Brent’s father during his illness, and sold them at a huge profit in New Orleans. A natty dresser was Frank Paxton, Brent thought, watching the overseer wave to him.
“Well, my boy, welcome home. It’s been quite a long time.”
Brent shook the man’s outstretched hand. “Hello, Frank.”
I’ve grown or he’s shrunk, Brent thought as he stared down at the overseer.
Tough-looking bastard, Frank Paxton thought, his smile of welcome never wavering. “I’ve got all the records ready for you, Brent, when you’ve got the time. I met your little wife this morning. Charming lady, charming. She doesn’t understand the way we do things here in Mississippi, but—” His voice trailed off a bit, because he knew the terms of Avery Hammond’s will. What was Brent Hammond going to do about Wakehurst?
“We’re leaving shortly for Natchez,” Brent said. “I’d forgotten that in the South socializing always comes before work.”
“True enough,” Frank said.
“Tomorrow morning, Frank, if that’s convenient for you.”
“Certainly, my boy. Oh, incidentally, I’m looking for a little black gal—Lizzie’s her name. There are things I want her to do.”