Devlin looked from Adare to Hughes as the two men locked gazes. He was aware of sweat gathering between his shoulder blades and trickling down his back. For one moment, the fort was so quiet that had a leaf rustled, it would have been heard.
And finally, Hughes spoke. “Stand aside,” he barked. “Let them go.”
And the line of soldiers parted.
Adare raised his hand, spurring his horse into a canter, leading his men through the British troops and out of the fort.
Devlin held on to the soldier he was riding behind. But he looked back.
Right into the captain’s pale blue eyes.
And the burning began.
It began somewhere deep inside his soul, emanating in huge, hard, dark waves, creeping into his very blood, until it consumed him, bitterly acrid, red hot.
One day he would have his revenge. One day, when the time was right. Captain Harold Hughes would be made to pay the price of Gerald O’Neill’s murder.
Part One
The Captive
CHAPTER ONE
April 5, 1812
Richmond, Virginia
“SHE DOESN’T EVEN KNOWhow to dance,” one of the young ladies snickered.
Her cheeks burning, Virginia Hughes was acutely aware of the dozen young women standing queued behind her in the ballroom. She had been singled out by the dance master and was now being given a lecture on thesissonne ballotté,one of the steps used in the quadrille. Not only did she not comprehend the step, she didn’t care. She had no interest in dancing, none whatsoever—she only wished to go home to Sweet Briar.
“But you must never cease with polite conversation, Miss Hughes, even in the execution of a step. Otherwise you will be severely misconstrued,” the dark, slim master was admonishing.
Virginia really didn’t hear him. She closed her eyes and it was as if she had been swept away to another time and place, one far better than the formidable walls of the Marmott School for Genteel Young Ladies.
Virginia breathed deeply and was consumed with the heady scent of honeysuckle; it was followed by the far stronger and more potent scent of the black Virginia earth, turned up now for the spring burning. She could picture the dark fields, stretching away as far as her eye dared see, parallel lines of slaves made white by their clothes as they spread the coals, and closer, the sweeping lawns, rose gardens and ancient oaks and elms surrounding the handsome brick house that her father had built. “She could have been built in England,” he’d said proudly, many times, “a hundred years ago. No one can take a look at her and know any differently.”
Virginia missed Sweet Briar, but not half as much as she missed her parents. A wave of grief crashed over her, so much so her eyes flew open and she found herself standing back in the damnable ballroom of the school she had been sent to, the dance master looking extremely put out, his hands on his slim hips, a grim expression on his dark Italian face.
“What’s she doing with her eyes screwed up like that?” someone whispered.
“She’s crying, that’s what she’s doing,” came a haughty reply.
Virginia knew it was the blond beauty, Sarah Lewis—who was, according to Sarah, the most coveted debutante in Richmond. Or would be, when she came out at the end of the year. Virginia turned, fury overcoming her, and strode toward Sarah. Virginia was very petite and far too thin, with a small triangular face that held sharp cheekbones and brilliant violet eyes; her dark hair, waist long, was forced painfully up, as she refused to cut it, and appeared in danger of crushing her with its massive weight. Sarah was a good three inches taller than Virginia, not to mention a stone heavier. Virginia didn’t care.
She’d been in her first fight when she was six, a fisticuffs, and when her father had broken up the match, she’d learned she was fighting like a girl. Instruction in how to throw a solid punch—like a boy—had followed, much to her mother’s dismay. Virginia could not only throw a solid punch, she could shoot the top off a bottle at fifty feet with a hunting rifle. She didn’t stop until she was nose to nose with Sarah—which required standing on her tiptoes.
“Dancing is for fools like you,” she cried, “and your name should be Dancing Fool Sarah.”
Sarah gasped, stepping back, her eyes wide—and then the anger came. “Signor Rossini! Did you hear what thecountry bumpkinsaid to me?”
Virginia held her head impossibly higher. “This country bumpkin owns an entire plantation—all five thousand acres of it. And if I know my math—which I do—then that makes me one hell of a lot richer than you, Miss DancingFool.”
“You’re jealous,”’ Sarah hissed, “because you’re skinny and ugly and no one wants you…which is why you are here!”
Virginia landed hard on her heels. Something cracked open inside of her, and it was painful and sharp. Because Sarah had spoken the truth. No one wanted her, she was alone, and dear God, how awfully it hurt.
Sarah saw that her barb had hit home. She smiled. “Everyone knows. Everyone knows you’ve been sent here until your majority! That’s three years, Miss Hughes. You will be old and wrinkled before you ever go home to yourfarm!”
