Velvet Chains (Historical Romance) (40 page)

Season had given her all to Lucas this time, holding nothing back. Lucas had never felt more alive. He was excited, thinking that every time he took his wife in his arms she would give him the same deep pleasure.

"We are good together, Season," he said, pulling her to him so that her head rested against his shoulder.

She threw back her head and looked into his golden eyes, seeing a softness in their amber depths that she had never seen before. "I think I am beginning to love you, Lucas," she whispered into his ear.

She watched as his throat worked convulsively. "Are you sure?" The soft-spoken question revealed that he was almost afraid to hear her answer.

"Yes. I believe my love for you has always existed, but I haven't wanted to admit it."

His hand trembled as he softly touched her face. "You have no notion how long I have waited and hoped you would come to love me. I can assure you my heart has been yours since the night you walked into that ballroom and my eyes collided with the beautiful green eyes of a goddess."

"I thought you didn't like me very well that night, Lucas. You seemed so cold and distant."

"I can assure you the opposite was true. Into my life had just walked the woman I had waited for, but she had come to marry good old Edmund. How do you think I was feeling that night?"

Season traced the outline of his mouth with a delicate finger. "I told you before, as I walked toward you that night I hoped you would be the one I had come to marry. I wanted you to be Edmund."

"You were taken with me, were you?" he teased.

"I was devastated by your golden eyes."

"Season, we need to talk about him," Lucas said, watching her eyes closely.

"You mean about Edmund?" she asked, choosing to misunderstand him.

"No, I wasn't speaking of Edmund. You know very well of whom I was speaking."

"Oh," she said, wishing he hadn't brought up the subject of The Raven. She hoped that now she could put her feelings for the captain of the
Andromeda
aside once and for all. She only wanted to love her husband.

"Tell me, what are your feelings for him, Season," Lucas said, watching her eyes closely.

"No, I don't want to talk about The Raven. Let us not spoil what we have together, Lucas—it is still too young and fragile."

"What I feel for you is more like a devastating earthquake, rather than something fragile," he said, smiling. "Answer but one question for me, Season, and I will allow the matter to drop."

"You want to know if I still love him?" she said, turning her head to stare at the ceiling.

"Yes."

"I don't know what to say to you, Lucas. I want to be perfectly honest with you, but at the same time—"

"You don't want to hurt me?"

"Yes, something like that."

"Don't bother answering, Season, because you already have. It would seem I still have a rival for your affections."

Season saw the pain in Lucas' eyes, and she placed her hand in his and laced her fingers through his. "Lucas, I can promise you one thing—I have said this before, but I want you to believe me—I will never break my marriage vows to you."

"What you are saying is that you may love The Raven, but you won't allow him to bed you."

"Lucas, please don't torture me like this," she pleaded. "I cannot help how I feel."

"If The Raven were to come to you tomorrow, you wouldn't allow him to touch you?" he insisted.

"You have my word that I would not allow him to touch me, ever."

Lucas rested his cheek against Season's. "But you still love him, Season. That is what tears me apart inside. How can you love two different men? My heart is so full of loving you I have no room for anyone else."

"Please, let us not talk of it any longer. You said you would only ask me one question. Tell me what you were doing in New York?"

"I was mainly running errands for General Cornwallis. You would be bored with the details," he replied, wishing he could block The Raven from her mind. He didn't want to share his wife with anyone, especially not The Raven.

"I have heard my father speak of Lord Cornwallis. I wonder if it can be the same man?" Season asked, glad to change the subject.

"I doubt that there are two men running around with the same title, but there is something 1 have been wondering about ever since I got home. Tell me, Season, whose idea was it to divert the river by digging trenches?"

"Mine. It seemed the sensible thing to do."

He laughed and pulled her tightly against him. "I am married to a genius. It's so simple I wonder no one has thought about it before now."

Basking in Lucas' praise, Season yawned and snuggled closer to him, as he stroked her hair. She was so tired…Her eyes drifted shut.

Lucas looked down at his sleeping wife, and smiled, thinking there was no one to equal her. He kissed her cheek softly.

"Sleep, my dearest love…you earned it."

29

As August gave way to September the cotton was ready for picking. To Lucas' relief the rains had stopped and the white fluffy cotton balls were heavy on the stalks.

At Season's urging, Lucas had placed Winston over the other field hands and had been rewarded by a more productive working arrangement. The picking was going so smoothly that Lucas wondered why he hadn't thought of putting a slave in charge of the cotton fields long before now.

Several of the neighbors had dropped by to pay their respects. They had heard that Season had kept the river from flooding, and they openly offered her their friendship. Lucas was glad that they were showing their appreciation to his wife. He realized that they were more inclined to offer their hands in friendship to Season than they were to him, for many of them still resented him for his support of the English.

For weeks now Season and Lucas had walked hand in hand, at peace with life. For the time they had both forgotten this was a war-torn land.

"Where do you ship the cotton after it's picked, Lucas?" Season inquired one day.

"Like everyone else in Virginia, Rosemont cotton will be stored. For the last five years we have kept the cotton in the building in back of the slave quarters. I had almost decided not to plant cotton this year, knowing there was no market for it. But like my father before me, I am a planter, and I like to see things growing. No matter how long this war lasts, I suppose Rosemont will continue to grow her crops."

"Lucas, surely our cotton mills have not shut down just because there's a war. America needs her industries, now more than ever."

Lucas smiled at his wife, because she had said our cotton mills. "For your information, Miss Questionall, we have no cotton mills."

Season looked at Lucas, aghast. "Surely you jest? Why is that possible when we have the land and the resources to maintain a cotton mill? Where do you send the cotton to be processed, Lucas?"

"To England, my dear. Because the cotton manufacturers in England have kept the machinery out of America. They want us to sell them our raw cotton and then buy back the finished product."

"That is shameful. I am appalled by the unfairness of it. Surely someone has the ingenuity to build a mill. Perhaps we could do that, Lucas."

He laughed and pulled her to him. "I have very little doubt that, given time, you would do just that, Mrs. Carrington. I think there is nothing you cannot do, if you put your bright little mind to it."

"I'm serious, Lucas. Why do we in Virginia stand for such treatment?"

"In case you haven't noticed, Season, there is at this moment, a war going on for just that reason . . . and for several other reasons."

"Yes, and you are on the side of the ones who wish to capitalize on your own industry. I cannot understand why you can allow this to happen without raising your voice. Don't you see what's going on here? Open your eyes and look at what they are doing to us, Lucas."

"Season, until a few short months ago you, yourself, were them, and not us."

"Yes, but it took me very little time to see the truth. You have lived here all your life, and still you are blind to what is happening."

His golden eyes lost their humor and glinted dangerously. "I will not discuss this with you, Season. My family has been living on this land for three generations, and we don't need someone from England telling us how to run—"

She turned on him. "You dare say this to me when you allow England to dictate to you on everything else. Open your eyes arid wake up, Lucas!"

Lucas looked as if he might say something, but instead he clamped his lips together and walked away. Season stared after him, realizing that they had just had another quarrel.

That night over dinner, Lucas was silent and brooding, and Season was hurt and disappointed because he had treated her like an outsider. Just when she thought they were beginning to get to know one another, Lucas had to shut her out again. She decided to apologize to him after dinner. After all, he knew more about the situation than she did. Perhaps she had expressed her views too freely.

When dinner was over Season followed Lucas out to the veranda. He seemed miles away from her as he stared up at the darkened sky, hardly aware that she stood beside him.

"Lucas, can I speak to you about something?" she said, moving closer to him.

"I believe we voiced all that needed to be said this afternoon, Season," he stated dryly, without looking at her. "I have no wish to quarrel with you again."

"I just wanted to apologize to you for what I said this afternoon. You were perfectly right, Lucas. What you do is none of my concern. It's just that I have come to love this land. One day our children will grow up here, and I want them to know a life of freedom."

He was silent as he turned to stare at her. "No, Season. It is I who should apologize to you. I was very harsh with you today, but you must try to understand that if your views were to reach my friends in New York, there could be some very grave consequences."

"Are you more concerned with what your friends in New York think of you, Lucas, than what your friends here in Virginia think? Good Lord, I don't understand you in the least. This is your home. The people here are your friends and neighbors."

He gripped the porch railing tightly. "You came here to beg my pardon, and still you remind me of my shortcomings. How can you profess to love me, Season, when you not only don't trust me, but you have so little faith in me? Sometimes I think you cannot see past your nose."

"I do believe in you, Lucas. 1 just think you have been influenced by the wrong people. I may not be able to judge the situation or the war fairly, but I do know right from wrong. England is wrong, Lucas. America has the right to self-rule. There is no freedom in this country."

He sighed heavily. "Lord, will this never end. I grow weary with this war."

"You cannot be near as weary of this war as those who have lost fathers, husbands, and sons." Season's accusation hung in the air and she covered her mouth, realizing what she had just said.

"So you think me a coward? This isn't the first time you have implied that."

"Lucas, please, I didn't mean to say that—it just slipped out."

"You think I am a coward or you would never have voiced such a thought. My life has been one upheaval after another since you came into it. Had 1 been wise, I would have run for my life the first time I ever set eyes on you."

Season felt the prickle of impending tears. "Perhaps you should have run that night, Lucas. You would have been doing us both a favor. We are worlds apart in our thinking, and I wonder if we will ever be able to bridge the gap that separates us?"

Lucas looked up at the sky again. "Season, Season, why do we tear each other apart? I was wondering how I could tell you I have to go away again. Perhaps you will now be glad to be rid of me."

Season turned and walked away. She paused at the door and glanced back to Lucas. "Don't bother writing me this time either, Lucas. If you do so, your letters will go unread and unanswered."

Lucas wanted to call her back, but he knew nothing he could say would lessen her hurt. He realized how he must look in her eyes, and in some ways, he was the coward she accused him of being. He was too much a coward to reach out for the happiness he knew he and Season could find together. Something always seemed to tear them apart. He wondered if it would always be this way for the two of them.

That night Lucas rode away from Rosemont and Season cried herself to sleep.

By the end of September the cotton crop had been picked and stored in the storage barn with the previous years yield. The dried sticks had all been plowed under, and the fields lay dormant.

The war was raging in Virginia, and the opposing armies drew nearer to Rosemont Plantation. Season could often hear the distant gunfire, and she was torn between her two loyalties. She prayed for the day when the war would come to an end. Perhaps when the hostilities stopped, she and Lucas could end their differences.

Season spent Christmas with Robert and Rebecca, otherwise she would have spent another solitary holiday. As it was, she felt alone and deserted again. This time she didn't blame herself for driving her husband away. Lucas was wrong in what he believed. She would never be able to understand how he could desert his home and side with the opposing army.

Season didn't receive a letter from Lucas but several packages arrived. He sent her some new dresses and a diamond necklace and earrings. Uninterested, she put these items away. It seemed that Lucas thought he could make up for his absence with expensive gifts, just as her father had.

January was bitter cold, and Season rarely went outside. She had contracted a heavy chest cold which she couldn't seem to shake.

Molly, in her usual blunt manner, swore that the main thing wrong with her mistress was that she had been deserted by her husband.

On one cold bleak January afternoon, Season sat before a roaring fire trying to keep warm. She had taken several doses of honey and brandy, but still she couldn't seem to shake her cough. She heard several riders coming down the drive, and soon Molly came bustling into the sitting room, her face flushed with excitement.

"You'll never guess, my lady. There is a whole troop of our soldiers out front! Lordy, it's going to be good to see English faces again."

"How many are there?" Season wanted to know.

"I can't tell for sure, but there must be near fifty."

Just then there was a loud pounding on the door, and Molly hastened to answer. In the sitting room, Season could hear the exchange that followed.

"I am aide to Brigadier General Benedict Arnold, ma'am. Is the man of the house home?"

"No, the mister is out, but Mrs. Carrington is home."

There was a long silence and then she heard the sound of boots in the entryway. Molly opened the sitting-room door and was about to announce the intruder when he brushed past her. Season rose just as a tall man swaggered into the room.

"I am Brigadier General Benedict Arnold, ma'am. I am told your husband isn't at home." He waited for the beautiful woman to speak, thinking she would be impressed by his title.

"I have heard of you, General Arnold. What I heard was that you sold out your countrymen."

Arnold's face grew red. "You would do well to keep a civil tongue in your head, madam. I have it within my power to lay your house to ashes."

She laughed insultingly. "I do not doubt it, Mr. Arnold, but I do not think you will."

"Don't test me, madam, for I am of half a mind to set a torch to your house this very day. Where is your husband? I suppose he is off fighting with the American rabble."

"My husband is in New York with General Clinton. You may have heard of him; his name is Lucas Carrington." Suddenly, Season was seized by a fit of coughing and had to sit down to catch her breath.

Arnold's eyebrows shot up. "I have heard of your husband, madam. It is said he dallies with one side while his countrymen fight his battles for him. It is said he will not lose no matter who wins the war."

"State your business, sir. The hour grows late and I do not wish to stay here long conversing with a poltroon. You are not welcome in this house." Season knew Lucas would be angry with her for being rude to Benedict Arnold, but she couldn't abide the man.

Arnold laughed. "Your information is a bit mixed up, Mrs. Carrington, I believe your husband will come nearer to being a traitor than I."

Season's eyes flashed. "What do you want? State your business and leave."

"I have come to ask permission to headquarter in your house and to put my troops in your barns. After speaking with you, I will not ask your permission. You will have your bedrooms made ready for me and my officers."

"You are badly mistaken, sir, if you think you will sleep one night beneath my roof. I cannot prevent you and your men from sleeping in our barns, but I will not permit you to sleep in my home."

"No, it is you that is mistaken, madam." Arnold crossed the room and threw the door open, calling for his aide.

"Just a moment, General," Season's voice rang out. "I think you do not know whom you are addressing. Have you ever heard of the Duke of Chatsworth?"

He turned to her and sneered. "Of course, and I have also heard of King George. What has that to do with anything? I hope you aren't going to try to convince me that you know either one of them."

"You would do well to listen to me, General. I am in fact the Duke of Chatsworth's daughter. I don't think either my father or the king would take kindly to your visit to my home today."

She saw doubt in Arnold's eyes. "I don't believe you, madam. What would the daughter of Lord Chats worth be doing in the middle of Virginia?"

"Shall I tell my father that you called me a liar, sir? I wonder what that would do to your new career?"

"I believe we will just settle this right now. Where is the English maid who answered the door?"

Molly must have been listening at the door because she immediately came into the room looking as if she were ready to do battle. Season knew her maid was mortified by General Arnold's treatment of her.