IN SEARCH OF AMANDA

Marilyn Grall

ISBN 1-891020-32-3

Copyright 1998, Marilyn Grall

Cover Art by Eliza Black

New Concepts Publishing

4729 Humphreys Rd.

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

OTHER NCP TITLES BY MARILYN GRALL:

Taming the Lion

Conquest of the Heart

PROLOGUE

North American Black slavery was still thriving in Southern Louisiana in the Summer of 1830. The abolition movement was gaining strength in the Northern states, but almost all Southerners held to their right to own slaves with fierce tenacity. Part of their justification was, of course, economical, since slave labor kept the huge plantations profitable. But, human nature being what it is, part of the reason was a lust for power. Having absolute power over others' lives was a heavy inducement to many men to keep their slaves. The power to buy the slaves, to sell them, to use them in any way the master desired--including in the bedroom.

Labreaux Plantation was no better and no worse than any other huge plantation, but it was still the site of dawn-to-dusk, back-breaking labor by field slaves; men, women and children who had no choice but to tend the crops that would maintain their owners' wealth. House slaves had an easier life than field slaves--certainly better living conditions--but female house slaves often had a secondary duty to perform. And it was not only the master these women were expected to please, but often his friends, as well.

Beautiful, privileged Amanda Labreaux had been born into this slave-holding society. She'd never given much thought to the abolitionists' ideas, not when she had a plantation to run. How could she do that without slaves? But certain events in Amanda's young life soon changed her opinion of slavery...completely.

CHAPTER ONE

Labreaux Plantation, Louisiana, 1830

"She's a fetching little tart, isn't she?" Jason Harding said, sipping his wine.

Harold Labreaux nodded his agreement. He admired the voluptuous curves of the mulatto slave, Fancy, as she worked her way down the long mahogany table, refreshing his guests' after-dinner wine. Harold had sampled Fancy's feminine charms many times--as had Jason and most every other red-blooded male in the parish--but when she bent to pour rich burgundy into his own crystal glass, her maid's uniform gapped just enough to give him an enticing view of her full, round breasts. His loins tightened painfully, and he groaned. Grabbing the newly-poured wine, he gulped it down. Appeasement would have to wait until his guests were gone.

Jason, seated to Harold's right, laughed at his obvious discomfiture, then swallowed his laughter when Fancy bent even lower to refill his glass. Devouring the sight before him, he cleared his throat...then smiled. Leaning over, his voice low, he said, "I have a need for the wench, Harold. Do you mind?" His lascivious smile broadened. "What better dessert can you offer?"

Harold enjoyed power. He particularly enjoyed the power he held over his slaves. He might not be able to use the wench for a few more hours himself, but why shouldn't his friend indulge? With a negligent gesture to Fancy, he said, "Go with Master Jason, girl, and see to his needs."

Well used to such commands, Fancy set the wine carafe on a sideboard, then quietly left the room. She had no choice in the matter, of course, but she was happy to oblige. Pleasuring a man was far easier duty than waiting on fifteen dinner guests. She'd been a frequent choice for bed sport since her thirteenth year.

As Jason Harding rose to follow Fancy, Amanda Labreaux came into the dining room--just in time to hear Harold's command. Being Harold's younger half-sister, and knowing him all too well, she was not terribly surprised, but giving such an order during a dinner party was beyond unseemly. Worse of all, some of the other guests had heard the command--including Mrs. Leverton, an outspoken opponent of slavery.

Of all people to hear such a thing! Amanda blushed as she caught the stern expression on the older woman's face. She knew Mrs. Leverton would admonish her for Harold's words, and she hesitated to take her seat beside the lady. But Amanda was the hostess of this gathering. She must be polite to her guest.

"Amanda Labreaux, did you hear what your brother just told that slave to do?" Mrs. Leverton hissed angrily, as if on cue.

Amanda sighed heavily. "Yes, Mrs. Leverton," she replied, knowing she was about to be lectured--again--on the injustices of slavery.

"Well, what are you going to do about it, young lady?" Mrs. Leverton persisted.

"Nothing," Amanda admitted.

Mrs. Leverton's eyes darkened with anger. "You won't even countermand the order?"

"No, I will not," Amanda said. Fearing the lady was becoming apoplectic, she touched her arm and added, "Not when it would do absolutely no good, Mrs. Leverton. Don't you see? Harold would simply leave the room and give the order again."

Mrs. Leverton nodded, accepting that inevitable truth. Then she raised her chin, and her gaze narrowed. "Slavery should be abolished," she said with conviction. "A woman should never be ordered to...well, you know." Red splotches appeared on her wrinkled cheeks, but then she tilted her chin even more. Regaining control, she added, "I know you don't agree that slavery is wrong, Amanda, but it is true nonetheless."

Amanda sighed again. It was her duty to be polite to Mrs. Leverton, but the woman's outspoken opinions were rather ridiculous. Who could run a plantation without slaves? Abolishing slavery would mean financial disaster for Labreaux Plantation. Amanda could not allow that to happen. Labreaux Plantation was her home, her future. And besides that, Amanda prided herself on fairness. She was a good mistress. Why, she'd only taken a whip to one slave in her entire life--and that woman had been caught red-handed in thievery. There were far too many other things for Amanda to think about, since she owned half of this plantation and took an active part in running it, than whether or not the institution of slavery was right or wrong. It was just the way things were, and the way they probably always would be, despite the Northerners' political rhetoric. But Mrs. Leverton was still speaking, and Amanda forced her mind back to the conversation.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Leverton," she apologized. "What was that you just said?"

"I said, Amanda," Mrs. Leverton replied a little tersely, "that your opinion of slavery might very well change if you yourself were to experience the life of a slave."

Amanda was very tempted not to reply at all to that ludicrous statement. A free white woman could never experience the life of a slave. But good manners prevailed, and she said, "Yes, Mrs. Leverton, I suppose you could be right."

Harold saw Amanda just as Jason and Fancy were leaving. He watched her waltz into the dining room, her silk gown swaying gently over a multitude of rustling petticoats, and he frowned. She was innocent, lovely, an absolute beauty.

And he hated her.

Amanda was the product of his father's second marriage to a young Cajun beauty--who had died giving birth to the girl--and Amanda had inherited her mother's dark, lustrous hair and golden skin. In fact, the only thing Amanda seemed to have gotten from her father were her sapphire-blue eyes. Harold's skin was pasty-white, just as his father's had been, and his hair was blond. He felt far superior to his half-sister, however. Amanda's coloring was just a little too golden; in fact, not even a shade different from that of the mulatto slave, Fancy.

Of course, Fancy looked far more white than Negro, but she had been born a slave, and to Harold's way of thinking, Amanda--with her slightly dark skin--should be one, too.

As he watched Amanda take her seat beside one of their guests, Mrs. Leverton--a woman with the incredibly stupid opinion that slavery should be abolished--he overheard their conversation. Harold's mouth curled into a derisive smile as Mrs. Leverton stated her opinion that a slave should not be ordered to pleasure a man, though she was far too genteel to actually say those words. He knew Fancy had absolutely no objection to pleasuring men, but even if she did, it would make no difference. She would have no choice but to obey her master, and Harold liked it that way. He loved having absolute power over other people--though it was stretching a point to call slaves "people." Farm animals was more nearly correct. Harold smiled. And the female farm animals were his favorite kind.

Harold's eyes narrowed as something Mrs. Leverton said jolted his mind back to the conversation. She was suggesting that perhaps Amanda's opinion of slavery would change if she herself were forced to live the life of a slave.

And in that moment, a delicious thought entered Harold's mind.

Fancy and Amanda could be sisters. Almost twins, in fact. Only on close inspection was it apparent that Amanda was far more beautiful than the mulatto slave. Except for Fancy's deep brown eyes, their characteristics were really quite similar. Their hair was the exact same shade of rich mahogany and the same length, their figures nearly identical. Of course, Harold's oh-so-innocent sister would never even dream of spreading her thighs before marriage. But other than their vast differences in sexual experience--since sensuality fairly oozed from Fancy's pores, whereas Amanda was the epitome of feminine innocence--the two women could easily be mistaken for one another. If you didn't see their faces, that is, especially their eyes.

Was it possible? Could he sell his own half-sister into slavery using the mulatto slave's papers?

It certainly was, he decided.

Oh delicious, delicious thought. How wonderful it would be! He would be free of her! Free of the charming, popular half-sister that everyone loved--who also happened to be quite a good businesswoman. Amanda Labreaux could run a plantation as well as any man. That was the main reason Harold hated her so much.

A woman should be a pretty bauble, a useless ornament meant to serve a man, to please him in bed and to bear his sons--not a highly intelligent business partner.

Partner. Yes, damn her soul, Amanda was his partner. She owned half of Labreaux Plantation, despite the fact that she was a mere female. Even if married, she would retain her share. Their father had decreed that in his will. And with her keen intelligence, much as he hated to admit it, businessmen tended to value Amanda's opinion more than his own--which angered him even more.

Simmering now, Harold remembered how many times Amanda had tried to overrule his orders, especially orders having to do with punishing slaves. Harold truly enjoyed wielding a whip, but more often then not Amanda would try to talk him out of the whipping. She seldom succeeded, but remembering those times, Harold felt his plan growing stronger with each passing minute.

He'd need an accomplice. Jason would help--if he paid him enough. And Fancy would have to die. There was no way around that, though it was a shame to waste a good whore. He'd need to kill her in some way that would disfigure her face, especially those deep brown eyes...He'd have to be careful, of course, but the plan forming in his mind would work. Yes, indeed, the plan would most definitely work.

He would kill Fancy, claim that she was Amanda, then feign utter remorse that his dear half-sister was dead. How simple, and how delicious.

Amanda, of course, wouldn't really be dead. Harold's lips curved into an evil smile. Oh no, she wouldn't be dead, but she would be gone--sold as a slave. He would have to be careful about that, too. Amanda should be sold to an outbound slaver, not a New Orleans merchant. Perhaps she could be sold to a slaver headed for Jamaica, since they had such a thriving market there. Selling her anywhere in the South just might come back to haunt him. Yes, seeking out a slave ship headed for Jamaica would be the best bet. Jason could handle that.

And then the best part. After Amanda's "death," Harold would inherit the entire plantation, and he could run it any way he saw fit, without interference.

His smile widened as an image entered his mind, an image of his innocent little half-sister being sold on the slave block.

What a wonderful thought--that Amanda, a very proper, utterly polite Southern belle could very well become the unwilling whore of some Jamaican plantation owner. And he dearly hoped the man would be primitively savage and unspeakably cruel in his dealings with the slave.

How many years could Amanda survive such torment? Harold hoped she would survive it for a very, very long time. He smiled again, enjoying his hatred. He would be rid of her at last.

CHAPTER TWO

Amanda felt cold fingers of fear crawl up her spine as Jason Harding guided the carriage into the dense forest behind Labreaux Plantation. He had invited her out for a Sunday afternoon carriage ride, and--until now--she had believed he would behave as a gentleman.

The invitation had been extended in front of Harold the night before, just as the dinner party was ending. Amanda didn't really care for Jason, but Harold had insisted that she accept the invitation. And though Amanda knew what Jason had just done with the slave, Fancy, she had reluctantly agreed. Keeping peace between her half-brother and herself was more important then losing one afternoon to Jason's company. No matter what he did with female slaves, he was a Southern gentleman, after all. Surely, he would behave himself with a proper lady.

At least that's what Amanda had thought before he'd left the road and entered this dark forest, a place dripping with dense Spanish moss...and known to be inhabited by vicious, wild dogs.

"Why are we here, Jason?" she asked a little breathlessly. "Why have you brought me to this place?"

In response to her question, Jason merely laughed...and then Amanda heard the neighing of another horse, saw Harold driving a wagon toward them, and felt Jason's iron-hard grip come around her arms, imprisoning her against his side. It all happened so quickly, Amanda was rendered helpless before she could even scream.

"What are you doing?" she finally cried out, desperately struggling against Jason's brutish strength.

"Shut up, Amanda," Jason hissed, dropping his gentlemanly behavior altogether. "Shut up and quit fighting me."

Amanda continued struggling, despite Jason's demand, but to no avail against his far greater strength. But as Harold's wagon came to a stop beside them, Amanda finally did quit fighting Jason. Her eyes widened with shock.

The mulatto slave, Fancy, was in the back of the wagon...bound and gagged and obviously very, very frightened.

Amanda's fear soon matched Fancy's. Despite her renewed struggles, Amanda was stripped of her clothing--in front of her own half-brother!--then tied to a wheel of the carriage once she was completely nude. Then Harold and Jason turned to the helpless slave.

Amanda was hoarse from screaming for help by this time, but even she knew her cries were useless. Very few people ever ventured into this dark and dangerous forest.

And then the horrible, unbelievable nightmare became even worse as the men dragged Fancy from the wagon, untied her and then stripped her of her clothing, too. Binding Fancy's wrists behind her again, they threw her to the ground and raped her brutally while Amanda watched with ever increasing terror. Would she be next?

Jason was the first to finish with Fancy. As he rose to his feet, leering at Amanda, Harold stopped his own brutal thrusts into the helpless slave to remind Jason that Amanda was not to be touched.

"Why not?" Jason sneered, approaching Amanda with fingers splayed, clearly intent on fondling her breasts. "She'll be a whore soon enough. Why not let me be the first to take her?"

"Because," Harold hissed, resuming his thrusts, "I want to savor the thought of Amanda having to obey her master's command to spread her thighs for the first time."

Jason reluctantly turned away from Amanda, scowling in disappointment. "I suppose I can give you that one concession, Harold," he said, "since you're giving me the profit from selling Amanda, not to mention what you've already paid me."

Amanda's breath came in on a gasp. Selling me? Is that what this is all about?

Then even that incredible thought left her mind as Harold stiffened, grunted his pleasure, then clamped his hands over Fancy's nose and mouth, deliberately letting her strangle to death still joined to her helpless body.

Oh my God! Amanda cried silently, too shocked to say the words aloud, even if she could have forced them past her raw throat. She had just witnessed a hideous murder! Poor, poor Fancy--who'd never done anything to hurt a living soul. She'd never even had a chance. As her master, Harold was perfectly within his rights to kill her.

How unjust that was! The thought formed in Amanda's mind with crystal clarity, but she pushed it aside. The sheer horror of the slave's death was still paramount in her tormented thoughts, as well as terror for her own safety.

Sagging against the carriage wheel, Amanda watched in horrified silence as Jason handed Harold a jar filled with animal blood...and Amanda blanched as Harold smeared the blood on Fancy's face.

It didn't take any imagination to realize what would happen when the wild dogs found Fancy's body. Her face would be mutilated, probably stripped to the bone in a matter of minutes.

The thought was simply too much. Amanda fainted.

When Amanda regained consciousness, she found herself dressed in Fancy's simple cotton dress. Her own clothes were now on the slave's body...and Amanda was bound helplessly and lying on the ground beside her.

Taking stock of her own body, Amanda realized one comforting fact--she hadn't been raped while unconscious. Thank God for that, at least. The thought of Fancy's rape and murder struck her mind again. There was something terribly wrong with a system that allowed such things.

"Why, Harold?" Amanda managed to whisper through her raw throat. This was all so confusing. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Because I hate you, Amanda," Harold replied quite calmly. "I've always hated you, and now I will be rid of you. The fine, upstanding citizens of this parish will have no trouble believing that Fancy's body is really yours...what's left of her body, that is, after the dogs get through with it. And while you're enjoying your new life as a slave, I'll be inheriting your half of the plantation. It's a very good plan, don't you agree, little sister?"

"My God, Harold...please...don't do this," Amanda pleaded, tears filling her eyes as full realization of Harold's treachery sank in. "Please don't do this."

Harold reached into the nearby wagon, retrieving Fancy's ownership papers. "Why not, Amanda?" he asked. "Why shouldn't I sell you as a mulatto slave? You're skin's golden enough to be one. Why shouldn't I profit from it?"

"But I'm not a slave!" Amanda cried hoarsely, desperately trying to reason with Harold. "My skin is a little darker than yours because of my mother's coloring, but I'm--"

"As of this moment, Amanda, you are a slave named Fancy," Harold coldly injected, cutting off her words. He laid the papers against the wagon seat and signed his name across the bottom. "I have just signed you over to Jason, Fancy, although I've predated your sale by two years just for good measure."

Amanda searched Jason's face, hoping to find human charity, but finding none. "This is wrong, Jason. Terribly, terribly wrong," she whispered, her throat closing in fear. She knew he wouldn't listen to her.

"And terribly profitable," he replied, smiling cruelly. "You see, Fancy, I, in turn, will sell you to a slaver in town, preferably one heading for Jamaica, and I will pocket the money. You should bring quite a good price, my dear," he added, allowing his lecherous gaze to roam over her feminine curves. "A very good price, indeed."

"Enough of this," Harold said. "We need to leave before the dogs come. Where's the laudanum, Jason?"

"Right here," Jason replied, pulling a silver flask from his vest pocket. "There's enough to keep her drugged for several hours."

Amanda gasped again, then clamped her lips together, her only possible defense while bound and helpless. But just as before, her struggles were futile. Harold merely laughed as he forced her lips apart and poured the potent opium elixir down her throat.

And the last thing Amanda heard as she felt first incredible lethargy, then decided dizziness, and finally nothing at all was Harold's malevolent laughter.

"Pleasant dreams, little sister," Harold said softly as he watched Amanda's body go limp. "From now on your life will be a living nightmare, and mine will be pure pleasure. No one will even search for you, since they'll all believe you're dead. I've won, Amanda. I've won it all."

Smiling thinly, Harold watched as Jason loaded Amanda into the wagon, concealed her beneath a blanket and then slapped the reins and drove out of the forest.

He could hear distant howling, signaling the wild dogs had begun picking up the scent of blood. Looking once more at the body of the mulatto slave--who was now Amanda for all intents and purposes--he climbed into the carriage, then calmly headed back to the plantation.

His plan had worked perfectly so far, and Harold had no doubt that the rest of the plan would work just as well. People saw what they expected to see, and what they would see in another day or two was a grieving brother burying his dear little half-sister, having discovered her mutilated body in the forest and lamenting the fact that she'd always been too stubborn and independent for her own good. Only a woman who'd insisted on taking an active role in running a plantation would have been foolish enough to venture into such a dangerous forest alone.

No one except Jason would ever know that Amanda was not buried in the family plot, that she was instead on her way to a life in hell.

CHAPTER THREE

The New Orleans docks were hot, smelly and overflowing with the refuse of mankind. Beggars and drunks were plentiful, as were sweaty, heavily muscled workmen. And, of course, there were seamen by the dozen. The mighty Mississippi welcomed all kinds.

As Jason Harding drove the wagon onto one particular dock--that of a slave ship destined for Jamaica--he patted the ownership papers tucked in his vest pocket. He would earn a good deal of money by selling Amanda--correction; by selling Fancy--and then the men hounding him for gambling debts would be appeased, since he could finally pay them. He even anticipated having enough money left over to thoroughly enjoy himself in the infamous brothels of New Orleans.

The trip had been uneventful. Labreaux Plantation wasn't really that far from the New Orleans docks, less than two hours by wagon, and Fancy had slept the entire trip. In fact, she was still sleeping, even as Jason stopped the wagon and set the brake, which was just fine with him. He had no intention of allowing Amanda Labreaux to say anything at all in her own defense.

Captain John Davis swaggered down the gangplank as a wagon pulled to a stop beside his ship. The man driving the wagon was gesturing to him and alighting from the driver's seat, then walking around to the back and uncovering something...or someone.

John Davis had owned a slave ship for thirty years--just as his father had before him--but the business was getting harder all the time. The British Parliament had passed a law against slave trade in 1807, and the U.S. Congress had prohibited the importation of African slaves into the United States since 1808. It was still done, of course, but it wasn't technically legal. And despite the British law, there was still a thriving slave trade in Jamaica, which was his destination. The Brits still allowed slavery in their colonies.

Now, as he approached the wagon, Captain Davis truly hoped the stranger had something good to offer him. This voyage had been rather disappointing, and he still had quite a bit of room in the hold of his ship.

The man extended his hand. "Name's Jason Harding," he said, shaking Davis's hand, then gesturing toward the wagon. "Would you be interested in purchasing a fine little mulatto slave?"

Davis could see the man's confidence. His interest piqued. Looking into the wagon, he saw a young female of about twenty years--an excellent breeding bitch. She was very fair skinned, so fair, in fact, that she could be mistaken for a free white woman if not for the ownership papers Jason Harding was now thrusting at him. This one would bring a very good price on the block. To say the least, Davis was pleased.

He scanned the documents, then looked back at the girl and frowned, realizing she must have been drugged, but her breathing was even. She was simply in a deep sleep. "Why did you drug this...Fancy?" he asked, pausing to refer to the papers for her name.

"Because she's a habitual liar," Jason replied smoothly, "as well as a troublemaker. She can't seem to help herself. I've tried to be patient, but now I'm simply fed up. That's why I'm selling her. I didn't even want to hear her begging me not to; hence the drugged sleep."

The captain nodded. That made perfect sense. "What kind of problems has the wench been causing?" he asked, more from curiosity than anything else. He bent into the wagon, pried open the slave's mouth and examined her teeth, then ran his callused hands down her long bones, grunting his approval. The bitch was in prime condition.

"She's tried to escape more than once," Jason lied, "and she keeps telling this ridiculous story about being a free white woman to anyone who will listen to her...even me, though you can see by the papers that I've owned her for two years and that before then she was born and raised on Labreaux Plantation."

The captain nodded again, understanding perfectly. She certainly wasn't the first mulatto to try to lie her way to freedom. Lying slaves could be dealt with easily enough, though...and there was no escape from a slave ship. With little emotion, he pulled up her dress, baring her completely, then examined her firm young breasts, flat belly and smooth thighs. She truly was prime. He as tempted to use her himself, but...

"Has she been well used?" he asked bluntly.

"No sir," Jason replied, seemingly embarrassed. "She's still a virgin." He shuffled his feet and looked down at the dock, obviously hesitant to continue. "Her master at Labreaux had intended to use her for his own pleasure," he finally said, "but then he had an...accident...and, well, he couldn't..."

Captain Davis winced at the thought, then asked, "But what about you, Mr. Harding? Why haven't you made good use of her?"

Jason actually blushed. "My wife would never approve of...such a thing," he murmured.

"Ah, I see," Captain Davis replied, then shrugged his massive shoulders. It was no business of his why this man hadn't at least put this prime breeder under a strong buck, but he would profit handsomely from that oversight. "I'll just put her in the hold with the others, then," he added, his tone regretful. "A virgin brings a much better price than a well-used bitch, so I'll not be able to use her myself--unfortunately."

Jason murmured his agreement, consoling the captain for his loss, and Davis signaled for a sailor to come and lift the unconscious slave out of the back of the wagon, then paid Jason a fair price and bid him farewell.

Captain Davis smiled as he followed his man to the ship. Fortuitously meeting Mr. Harding had indeed changed a disappointing voyage into a satisfying one, since the profit from selling this one incredibly beautiful, virginal mulatto slave would improve his cash flow considerably.

The owner of the Jamaican slave auction where he traded had a particular talent for displaying such delectable merchandise, thereby ensuring the highest price possible, and Captain Davis could almost hear the groans of pleasure the bidders would utter when this particular bitch was put on the block. He could almost feel the cool, crisp bills being counted into his hand at the end of that sale, when some lucky man would have bought the privilege of taking the little slave's virginity.

Jason watched Captain Davis and the sailor carrying Amanda until they were out of sight, then smiled his success. It had been so incredibly easy to sell her--the captain had swallowed his lies without question--and her virginal state had brought him a good deal extra. Now he was glad he hadn't raped her. His troubles would soon be over. He sighed his relief. The men he owed had been threatening bodily harm, and Jason Harding had no desire for pain. Now he could spend some time in the brothels...and gamble again.

A throbbing headache and terribly dry mouth finally pulled Amanda from her drug-induced sleep. Slowly opening her eyes, she tried to understand where she was, but the place was dimly lit. A single, sputtering oil lantern hung on the far wall.

Then horrid scents assailed her nostrils--the smell of filthy bodies and human excrement--and Amanda abruptly realized where she was.

In the hold of a slave ship.

He did it! she thought, truly incredulous. Harold actually sold me into slavery!

As if needing further confirmation of that horrendous fact, Amanda tried to move. Her upper body was free, but her ankles were shackled, and as her eyes grew more accustomed to the dim light, Amanda realized she was lying between two other bodies, similarly restrained.

I need help! she thought, desperate now, sitting up very quickly. Someone's got to believe I don't belong here! I am not a slave!

A violent wave of nausea drove Amanda to her back again. She turned to her side as best she could and retched into the rotting hay. Dimly, she realized she was ill from the laudanum; then she lost consciousness again.

The illness persisted for three days. Amanda's consciousness waxed and waned...her memory coming and going with it. Except for that brief flash of clarity upon first awakening, for the first day of her illness, Amanda couldn't even remember her name. By the second day, she had a vague awareness of who she was, but she was so sick that where she was just didn't matter.

Sometime during those awful first three days of the sea voyage, through her haze of misery, Amanda became aware of being cared for by gentle hands, of being coaxed to drink tepid water from time to time, and of soothing words of comfort.

Finally, on the fourth day, her mental clarity returned...and with it came the despairing knowledge that she was aboard a ship that was far, far away from land. If not for her illness, she might have been able to convince someone of her true identity before they'd left New Orleans. Now her only hope for rescue would be the captain of this ship.

Intent on finding that help, Amanda slowly, carefully turned her head, testing her ability to move...and found herself looking into the smiling face of a middle-aged Negress with frizzy, graying hair and two missing teeth in the very front of her mouth.

"Are you coming back to us, child?" the woman asked.

Amanda immediately realized this was the woman who had been caring for her during the illness. She recognized her voice, and as the woman brushed hair away from Amanda's forehead, she recognized her gentle touch as well. "You've been taking care of me, haven't you?" Amanda said, answering the woman's question with one of her own.

"Yes, child," the woman replied. Shifting position, the shackles on her ankles rattled.

Amanda looked down at those restraints--and her own shackles--and the reality of the situation exploded in her mind again. Slavery! Dear God, she'd had no real idea how these people were forced to live...But she couldn't think about that now. Right now she needed help. Biting her lower lip, she willed herself not to cry. That wouldn't help anything.

"My name's Olivia," the woman added. She cocked her head to one side. "What do they call you?"

Suddenly determined, Amanda answered with all the strength she could muster. "My name's Amanda Labreaux," she declared. It was time for someone to hear the truth. Surely that would help. "And I am not a slave, Olivia," she continued, her determination growing. "I'm a free white woman, a victim of kidnapping."

Olivia clamped her hand over Amanda's mouth. "Don't lie that way, girl," she hissed "Do you want to be whipped?"

"It's not a lie," Amanda mumbled, then pulled Olivia's hand away. "My half-brother murdered a mulatto slave named Fancy. He sold me into slavery using her papers."

"Shush, Fancy," Olivia reaffirmed, her voice harsh. "You know what happens to troublemakers. You must not tell such tales, no matter how much you want to be free!"

Amanda sat up as quickly as she dared in her weakened condition. She simply must convince someone of the truth! "Don't you understand, Olivia?" she pleaded, grasping the woman's hand. "It is not a lie! I truly am Amanda Labreaux!"

Olivia sighed heavily, obviously doubtful. "I don't know if that's the truth or not, Fancy," she finally said--insistently using Amanda's slave name--"but all the owners care about is your papers, and those must say you're the property of Captain Davis."

Undaunted, Amanda leaned back on her elbows. Hadn't she already decided the captain was her only hope of rescue? "I want to speak to this Captain Davis," she said simply.

"No, you don't," Olivia said with finality. "The last person in the world a slave on a ship ever wants to see is the captain. It can only mean trouble."

Realizing Olivia could not, or would not, help her, Amanda decided to forge ahead on her own. Looking around, she picked up a tin cup, then banged it against the ship's wall again and again, at the same time demanding to see the captain in the loudest voice she could manage. She continued the disturbance relentlessly, valiantly ignoring her exhaustion, until a seaman finally came into the hold to investigate the trouble.

Seeing the sailor climbing down into the hold, Olivia turned away and rolled herself into a ball, making herself as small as possible. Clearly, she wanted no part of Amanda's disturbance.

Amanda gulped, new realization searing her soul. A slave's very life was dependent upon the master's good will. Olivia's obvious fear of reprisal was horrifying. How did these people survive such a life? But she already knew the answer. They survived because they had no other choice. All choice had been stripped from them--by the institution of slavery. She gulped again. Dear God!

"What's going on here?" The sailor's shouted words yanked Amanda from her painful reverie. He was standing before her, hands on hips, glaring sternly. "Why are you making such a ruckus, girl?"

"I need to see the captain--immediately," Amanda answered a little breathlessly. Her energy was flagging, not only from her determined noise making, but from a dawning burden of guilt she didn't yet understand.

"You'll see him when we dock in Jamaica," the sailor replied. Then he grinned lasciviously, his eyes devouring her body. "And we'll see more of you in Jamaica. Surely such a pretty wench will go to the special block."

Amanda had no idea what the man meant by "special block," but she felt her opportunity slipping away. Nearly desperate, she said, "You don't understand, sir. I must see the captain. A terrible injustice has been done, and he is the only one who can make it right."

The seaman shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. "I'll see what I can do," he muttered, then turned and left the hold without another word.

He had no intention of telling the captain the slave's demand. He'd only wanted to quiet her before she earned severe punishment. Captain Davis didn't like disturbances on his ship.

The thought of seeing that beautiful face or voluptuous body bruised or whipped was truly repugnant to the young man. The pretty wench would most definitely go to the special slave block--the block reserved for the very best merchandise. And if she was virgin...Oh, yes. That would be even better.

His groin tightened. Virginal merchandise had its own special block. Since there was only one reason for a man to want a beautiful virgin, the owner of the auction had decided long ago the best way to display the merchandise. Virgins were sold without a stitch of clothing on their lovely young bodies. The sailor groaned audibly, adjusting his tight breeches.

Finding a quiet corridor, he quickly eased his need, imagining all the while seeing Fancy nude on the block.

For the first few minutes after the sailor left, Amanda felt absolute relief. Surely the captain would come to see her immediately, or call her to his cabin, she thought. She had never been refused anything in her young life, and the notion that her demand might have been totally ignored never even entered her mind...until the minutes stretched into hours, and then, finally, into days.

Olivia would barely speak to her now, obviously so shocked by Amanda's outburst and demand that she wanted little, if anything, to do with her anymore. The only good thing about the next two days of interminable waiting was that Amanda's strength began returning. The food was truly awful, but at least it was edible, and by the end of the second day, Amanda felt very nearly as strong as she had before this nightmare began.

With her returning strength, however, came anger, not only anger from waiting, but another kind of anger she couldn't even name. In her heart or hearts, she knew it had to do with the squalor, the stink and filth of the ship's hold--and with the innocent victims of that prison. But her primary thoughts were still on salvation, on her own need to be free. Amanda Labreaux was not used to being ignored.

So she caused another disturbance, even more loudly than the first time...and this time she got results.

The grim-faced young sailor returned to the hold. He took a large iron key from his belt, bent down and opened the shackles around Amanda's ankles. When she was free of the chains, he roughly pulled her to her feet and said, "You wanted to see the captain, girl, and now you'll be getting your wish...though I doubt you'll thank me for it afterward. This time the captain himself heard your disturbance, and now he wants to see you, instead of the other way around."

Amanda was too busy concentrating on retaining her balance after being off her feet for so many days to understand what the sailor was implying. Since this was her only experience with a slave ship, she was blithely unaware that Olivia had been completely correct in her statement that the last person a slave wanted to see was the captain of the ship. Amanda, in fact, thanked the sailor for removing her chains, then started toward the steep stairs leading out of the hold, grateful for the seaman's firm grip on her arm, blissful in her ignorance.

The very moment she reached the deck of the ship, her mouth curved into a delighted smile. She blinked several times, helping her eyes adjust to the bright sunlight of mid-afternoon. The sea breeze was so fresh, the air so clean, and the blue sky with fluffy white clouds so pleasing to her senses, Amanda felt the first glimmer of happiness she'd had in all the days at sea, and she wasn't even sure how many days that was anymore.

She didn't realize she'd actually stopped walking, admiring the gently rolling blue ocean, until her arm was gripped more strongly than before and the sailor said tersely, "Get going, girl."

Amanda didn't care about the sailor's gruffness, not knowing, of course, that he was truly regretting what the captain was about to do. She was so glad to be out in the fresh air that by the time they reached the captain's cabin, her steps were light and her spirit was happy, thinking that surely now her nightmare would end. Surely the captain would understand the truth and apologize for the terrible ordeal, perhaps even give up his own cabin for her comfort for the duration of the voyage.

She might even sit down with him over a cup of tea and have a serious talk about the conditions on this ship. They were deplorable, the slaves treated far worse than she had ever imagined...

All such naive thoughts stopped abruptly the moment the sailor opened the cabin door, then shoved her into the room. She nearly lost her balance, caught it again, then watched the sailor close the door behind him and assume a wide-legged, arrogant stance in front of the door, massive arms crossed over his equally massive chest.

Amanda gulped, then slowly turned around. The man she found herself facing looked anything but understanding. He looked angry...dangerously angry, perhaps even furious. He was about sixty years old, with bushy gray eyebrows and very long side burns. Despite his age, his body was quite obviously well toned, undoubtedly from his arduous, seafaring life.

Her happy glow popped like a soap bubble...but her determination did not. "Captain Davis," she said, raising her chin, trying so very hard to sound confident and assured, "I must speak with you. I am not who you think I am. I am not--"

"Silence!" Captain Davis growled, fists clenched at his sides. "I did not have you brought her to hear your filthy lies, girl. Your former owner, Jason Harding, told me all about your ridiculous tale of being a free white woman. He also told me you were a troublemaker. That claim has certainly proved true."

Amanda gasped again, truly frightened by his tone of voice...and completely confused. "If you already know my story, and you don't believe it," she asked, frowning, "then why did you have me brought here, Captain?"

"I had you brought her to show you just exactly what happens to lying slaves who cause disturbances on my ship!" he bellowed in answer.

Then he did indeed show Amanda what happened to "lying slaves." He struck her with a savage, backhanded blow, followed by a second blow and then a third...finally shoving her so hard, she crashed into the wall of the cabin and slumped to the floor.

"On your feet, slave!" he thundered when she simply sat there, too dazed from the blows to even think straight much less move. "Get up, girl, or I'll use a whip on you instead of just the back of my hand."

That threat brought Amanda out of her momentary stupor. The thought of being whipped was alarming enough that she found the strength to crawl to her knees and then slowly pull herself up, using the captain's sea chest for support. But as soon as she regained her footing, he struck her again, sending her back to the floor.

Three more times, Amanda struggled to her feet at the captain's terse command, and three more times he struck her down. Finally, breathing heavily, Captain Davis turned to the sailor and said, "Return her to the hold. She is to receive no rations--not even water--for two days."

"Why, Captain?" Amanda gasped out through her pain and confusion. I only told the truth! her mind screamed in self defense. "Why did you beat me?" she continued, nearly too dizzy to stand. "And why must you starve me, for God's sake?"

"Troublemakers--or liars--are always dealt with through harsh punishment on my ship, Fancy," the captain informed her. "And by the time you've spent two days without rations, I'm quite sure you will have learned a very good lesson."

Amanda knew her face was already swelling and bruising from the beating, and tears threatened to fall. She blinked them back, fiercely determined. She would not cry!

And by the time the sailor had dragged her back to the hold, shackled her ankles again, then turned to leave her in her pain and misery, Amanda had indeed learned an important lesson.

She'd learned that telling the truth would get her nothing but punishment. And with that realization, the tears Amanda Labreaux had been holding back for days and days on end finally fell.

CHAPTER FOUR

The two days of starvation would have been far worse for Amanda if not for Olivia, who came to her aid again. The older woman snuck Amanda portions of her own meals--and of her own meager ration of water--even though such defiance could have resulted in severe punishment for Olivia, even death.

Amanda wanted to refuse Olivia's kind offer, but she'd never before had to go without food--save for the days when she was so violently ill, and at that point, she'd been too sick to care--and she simply did not have the moral fortitude to refuse the help.

Olivia explained that Amanda was really quite lucky to have received only a few backhanded blows and a two day starvation as punishment for her actions...and her "lies." The captain could very well have flayed her with a whip. In fact, that was what Olivia had expected him to do.

Upon hearing all this, Amanda became very quiet, extremely subdued. She touched her face, which was healing remarkably well and, according to Olivia, bore only faint bruises. She had indeed been lucky. In her naiveté, Amanda had truly believed the captain would help her. The fact that he could have whipped her--but hadn't--gave her a measure of comfort.

And a feeling of immense relief.

The worst punishment Amanda could even imagine would be a lashing with a whip...or a riding crop. That was the very instrument she herself had used on that one thieving slave at Labreaux Plantation, and the thought of being on the receiving end of such a brutal punishment brought bile to her throat. No matter what, Amanda knew in her heart of hearts that she could never, ever, wield a whip against a slave again.

Once the two days were over, Amanda's rations were returned. And as time passed--though she'd lost all track of time by now, suspecting, however, that they had already spent at least two weeks at sea--Amanda recovered completely from her beating. She had made a firm decision to keep her truth to herself. Trying to tell her story would only result in cruel punishment. She simply couldn't bear that again. There must be some other way to escape this nightmare.

It was just after rations had been served one morning that Amanda realized the ship had quit moving. She tilted her head to one side, and then she heard it...the faint sound of the ship bouncing against a dock.

"We're here, Olivia!" she cried out to the woman who had become her only friend in the entire world. "We've reached Jamaica! We're finally getting off this horrid ship!"

Olivia smiled endearingly, but then her smile abruptly faded. Amanda wondered why.

"Fancy," she said quietly, "have you ever been sold at auction before?"

Amanda's face lost all color. Now she understood why Olivia's expression had changed. She shuddered. "No."

How could she have ever been sold at auction when she was not a slave? Wisely, she kept that question to herself. Olivia had never accepted Amanda's truth. Amanda didn't blame her for that. The kindly older woman had been born and raised a slave. The idea of someone being kidnapped and sold by her own half-brother was simply too ludicrous for her to accept.

Olivia took a deep breath. Amanda knew she was going to prepare her for this next horrid step in her life...but then the door to the hold was suddenly thrown open, and several sailors quickly descended the steep stairs. Olivia quickly shook her head. No further conversation would be tolerated now.

It was time to leave the ship, undoubtedly to go to the slave auction. Now Amanda would have to find out for herself what would happen.

She saw Olivia's eyes fill with tears, and suddenly realized that she and Olivia would not be allowed to speak to each other again. Not even to say goodbye...or "thank you."

A terrible lump formed in Amanda's throat, and she wanted to shout, "No!" But the sailors were moving down the sides of the hold now, unlocking shackles and pulling slaves to their wobbly feet. There was no leniency in their actions, no mercy. Risking the wrath of the sailors, Amanda opened her arms. Words were not allowed, but she and Olivia shared one simple, desperate hug. Then Olivia eased away, and a serene, fatalistic expression crossed her face. She was about to be sold again, but she had accepted her fate.

Amanda knew then that she would never see Olivia again, and she wished with all her heart that she could somehow help her friend, that she could give Olivia the precious gift of freedom. She couldn't do that, of course. She couldn't even help herself. How could she ever hope to help someone else?

Even under such terrible circumstances, Amanda's first sight of Jamaica caused her breath to draw in on a gasp of sheer delight. She'd known their destination. Olivia had told her quite a lot about the island, having been sold here before, but Jamaica was far more beautiful than Amanda had ever imagined.

On one side of the gently rolling ship was the main harbor of Kingston, with the normal swell of people and bustling activity of any other harbor in the world. But on the other side of the ship was the glistening blue Caribbean Sea and around that--since Kingston sat at the top of a protected inlet--were verdant, rolling hills covered with thick foliage. The sky was crystal clear, so bright an azure blue that Amanda couldn't think of words to accurately describe the incredibly beautiful color. And everywhere she looked, even on the crowded docks, there were tropical plants bursting with thick blooms.

"You, you and you."

The captain's deep voice abruptly brought Amanda back to reality. He was walking down the deck--where the slaves had already been divided into male and female--and pointing a finger at certain female slaves, addressing them simply as "you" as he commanded them to move off to one side.

He reached Amanda and gave her the same command as the others, and she soon found herself standing with a group of young women ranging in age from about thirteen to nineteen. She herself seemed to be the oldest "choice," being twenty-one, but all of these female slaves had one thing in common. They were all extraordinarily beautiful--or at least they would be if they weren't covered with filth.

Looking down at her own tattered garment and smelling her own body odor, Amanda was momentarily distracted again. God, what she wouldn't give for a bath!

Amanda had no idea how truly beautiful she was--despite the rags she was wearing and the layers of dirt and grime covering her slender frame--but when she noticed Captain Davis's appreciative glance, she knew he saw her as a pretty, and therefore profitable, slave.

She bit back a groan of humiliation when she and the other young women were once again put in chains--this time wrist and ankle shackles with another length of chain joining them to each other. Tears sprang to her eyes as the caravan started down the gangplank, but she knew they were useless and blinked them away. At least for the moment, her personal choices were gone; the only thing left was her dignity. She would not cry!

When Amanda and the others reached the dock, an official-looking man in a stark white suit approached Captain Davis. "Are these the slaves for the special block, Captain?" the man asked.

"Yes," the captain replied, nodding. "I don't know the status of most of them"--he came to stand beside Amanda-- "but this one is virginal, or so I've been told."

Amanda blushed upon hearing the captain's blunt assessment of her sexual experience. Then her knees turned to jelly as she realized that that was an important factor in the selling of female slaves.

Harold had always seen to the buying and selling of slaves at Labreaux Plantation. Until this moment, Amanda truly hadn't known this simple fact of slave life. A virgin was a highly profitable commodity.

Captain Davis caught her arm in a brutal grip as Amanda's knees gave out. "On your feet, girl!" he growled, just as he had during her beating. Amanda responded with instant, reflex obedience, forcing feeling back into her limbs, fervently praying he wouldn't beat her again.

The man in the white suit slid his gaze over Amanda, and she shivered. She could almost feel him stripping her naked. Then he smiled and nodded. "She'll have to be examined, of course, but with those looks, if she truly is a virgin, she should be your most profitable sale today, Captain Davis."

"Yes, I think so," the captain calmly agreed, then moved on to the next slave, leaving Amanda in a state of shock.

She stumbled along as the caravan slowly began moving, led by several sailors, each armed with a whip. As the minutes passed, Amanda's numb shock receded, only to be replaced by a keen sense of humiliation. She was being shuffled through the streets of Kingston in wrist and ankle shackles, her destination a slave auction. Again, her soul was pierced to its very core. She had once thought there was nothing wrong with treating people this way, but never again...

But nothing, nothing, could have prepared Amanda for what she would soon be facing. In blessed ignorance, she reached the auction compound.

The slaves were led into a low, rough wood building. Their chains were removed, then the guards systematically stripped them. Their tattered clothing fell to the floor; no modesty of any kind was allowed. After that utter debasement, Amanda and the ten or twelve other young women were allowed to bathe communally in the largest wooden tub Amanda had ever seen.

The bath was wonderful--just what she'd been praying for such a short time ago. In the worst of situations, the smallest comfort becomes indescribably precious. Once the bath was over, a female servant spread perfumed oil on her naked body, making her skin smooth, glistening and satiny, polishing her as if she were a piece of furniture for display. Amanda shuddered. The analogy was all too true.

Then she was strapped to a table for examination.

There were four tables in the long room, each of them now holding a fully-exposed female slave. A woman came into the room; a midwife who would ascertain virginity--or lack thereof. With expert, emotionless probing, she quickly examined Amanda, declared her virginal, then moved on to the next table. The entire ordeal took less than five minutes. Amanda breathed a shaky sigh of relief, grateful for the small comfort that the examination had been brief.

She was given a simple cotton dress to wear, then found herself in a holding cell, along with the others who had proved virginal. The women with sexual experience were led to a different cell. Suddenly appalled, Amanda realized just how young her fellow "inmates" were. On the ship, it had been hard to tell anyone's age. But here, bathed, perfumed and wearing clean clothes, the youth of the girls was evident. Amanda was undoubtedly the oldest one in the group.

She shouldn't have been surprised. As a slave owner herself, she knew well enough that young girls were often forced to begin breeding soon after their first menses. In the past, the thought hadn't bothered her. Now she found another piece of her soul chipping away--or perhaps her soul was being reshaped, sculpted by a painful emotional knife. Stark emotions closed her throat, and she swallowed hard. Some of these girls were no more than twelve or thirteen years old.

Then the auction began. Amanda sucked in a ragged breath, wishing she could run, hide, flee! She could hear the sounds of the sale--the auctioneer's voice, the rattling of chains, the crack of a whip, a muffled groan from a slave--and the inevitable bids for human lives. She wanted to vomit. And she herself was to be sold...

A guard opened the cell door. With terse commands, she and the others were led to a separate area from the main auction. And, abruptly, Amanda understood what the sailor had meant by "special block."

In this more secluded area, beautiful females were being sold--strictly to men. No free women were in attendance at this sale. Amanda didn't have to be told why things were being done this way, but her jaw dropped open when she realized one other very important fact. The women who were not virginal were being sold with their clothes on. Virgins were being sold in the nude.

As Amanda watched in numb silence, each female slave who had shared her cell was stripped again and chained to a pole before the crowd of prospective buyers. One after another, the girls were "examined," tears streaming down their cheeks as the men pinched and prodded and fondled, often two or three men at a time. And one by one, the young girls were bid upon and sold. Bile rose in Amanda's throat. Dear God, most of them were barely women, still children! This was so very, very wrong!

And her turn was next.

Amanda bit her lip to keep from crying out the truth as she was stripped and chained to the pole. The truth would earn her nothing but punishment. Even as she had the thought, a whip cracked against a defenseless slave, who groaned in agony. Amanda kept her silence, but her lip swelled with the effort as she bit down hard.

Hot shame flooded her cheeks and the fierce Jamaican sun beat down on her naked body as the auctioneer listed her "attributes." How she was a fine age for breeding, with generous breasts for milk, an adequate pelvis, good teeth and solid bones. The rest of her stated attributes were considerably more crass. Amanda's face turned scarlet. She could feel the awful heat. Then her heritage was given--or Fancy's heritage--that of being a mulatto slave who was more white than Negro, which increased the opening bid demanded by the auctioneer considerably. White men preferred nearly-white slaves for their beds.

The fact that Amanda was not a mulatto slave named Fancy, that she was, in fact, a slave owner herself, had little to do with the brutal, inevitable reality of her life.

She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer for strength as the auctioneer invited the men to "inspect the merchandise" before the bidding began.

And in the deepest part of her soul, Amanda Labreaux--now known as Fancy--wanted to simply die before the first man actually touched her.

CHAPTER FIVE

Jackson Carlyle had a problem. His cook, Mammy, who had also been his nursemaid and who had practically raised him, was simply too old to work in the kitchen any longer--at least not without considerable help. She was also the most stubborn old woman he had ever known. She had simply refused his kind offer to retire her to a cabin--even with a little garden patch for her own pleasure and use--stating she had been useful thus far in her life, and she wanted to continue that way until the Good Lord called her home.

Mammy, being who she was, had no fear of telling Jackson just exactly what was on her mind. He grimaced at the thought. No other slave would get away with such audacity--they wouldn't dare even try--but Mammy was special. And so, here he was at the auction on a decidedly hot summer day, intending to purchase a helper for Mammy.

He could have simply assigned a female slave to that position, of course, but he was hoping a fresh young face would help Mammy accept help. Mammy was such a motherly sort. Surely she would take the new slave under her wing, and after that, Jackson hoped, she wouldn't mind the girl's help in her domain--the kitchen.

Stopping his carriage near the back of the auction compound, Jackson's intended destination was the main slave block--until a sight at the virgin's block caught his attention.

An incredibly beautiful young slave--a very light-skinned mulatto by the look of her--was just now being auctioned. Her hair was a lustrous, deep brown, her nude body so delectable he felt his throat go dry. Her breasts were full, upthrust and firm, her hips delightfully rounded. Her thighs were tapered, her waist so small he could span it with his own large hands. And the sight of those dark curls between her thighs--which were trembling with fear--caused hot blood to rush through his veins.

The auctioneer was listing her "attributes," and Jackson knew what would happen next: The free-for-all fondling session by prospective buyers.

That thought angered him; he didn't even stop to question why. The idea of that innocent, frightened young woman being molested by men--several men--brought a string of curses from Jackson's mouth. Before he could reconsider the action, he found himself walking toward the girl with determined strides, already pulling his wallet from his vest pocket.

Amanda heard vile curses, and she opened her eyes. She had not been touched yet, but she knew it would soon happen. Her prayers for strength had been useless. Her thighs were trembling so badly, if not for the chains holding her up, she would have sagged to the rough wooden planks of the slave block.

Blinking in the bright Jamaican sunlight, she saw a very tall man approaching the block with angry strides. He was starkly masculine--all strength and sinewy power--and he seemed determined to reach her before any other man could.

In one corner of her mind--the part that was purely feminine and did not feel the abject, mortal fear the rest of her did--Amanda realized he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. His hair was as black as a raven's, slightly wavy and a little too long to be fashionable. His eyes were dark brown, and flashing with anger. His mouth was set in a grim line of determination, his chin thrust forward...and he was drawing the auctioneer's attention.

The stranger shoved some money at the man, at the same time saying, "There's at least two thousand pounds there. That's twice what you'd probably get for this slave," he gestured toward Amanda, "but I'll pay it if I can buy her right now, before any man touches her."

She heard murmured protests from the other patrons, but the auctioneer ignored them and smiled at the stranger. "Of course, Mr. Carlyle," he said smoothly, "I'll gladly accept your generous offer." Clearly, he was pleased by this turn of events, no doubt by his own increased profit. Then the auctioneer's lascivious gaze roamed over Amanda's nude body, causing her scarlet flush to increase. Turning back to Mr. Carlyle, then winking, he added, "I hope she gives you a great deal of pleasure."

Mr. Carlyle had the good grace to flush a little himself at the man's pointed innuendo, but he nodded curtly then handed over the money. In return, the auctioneer handed him some papers--Fancy's ownership documents, Amanda realized.

Amanda was nearly faint with relief. This man--whom she now considered her knight in shining armor--had kept her from being molested by all those other men. She wanted to thank her benefactor, but the words wouldn't form, and before she could find her voice, she was being unchained from the pole, dressed again and handed over to the man--whom she realized with a sudden jolt of reality was now her master, not a knight in shining armor at all.

He scanned the slave papers, then looked up as the auctioneer's helper manacled her wrists again. She was too numb to even protest, but when the helper bent to apply shackles to her ankles, Mr. Carlyle said, "That won't be necessary." His voice was deep and quiet, but the authority was unmistakable. The helper merely shrugged and walked away, and Mr. Carlyle placed a hand under her elbow. Amanda gulped. His skin was hot, searing her skin, and his touch was commanding. She had no doubt he could easily hold her prisoner, shackles or not.

He didn't speak as he led her through the gawking crowd, not until they had reached his carriage. After settling her onto the seat and climbing in himself, he finally said, "My name's Jackson Carlyle, Fancy. Most of the slaves simply call me 'Master Jack.'"

"I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance," Amanda replied automatically. Obviously, he'd read Fancy's name on the papers. What was the use of correcting him?

He aimed a warm smile at her, and Amanda's heart pounded. By any definition, he would be considered handsome, but he was devastating when he smiled.

"You're very polite, Fancy," he said. "And your voice is quite cultured. Have you always been a house slave? Is that where your manners were refined?"

The question brought Amanda back to reality--again. How could she be have been affected by this man's smile when he believed her a slave? She nearly blurted the truth, despite her vow to never do that again. Would he be different than the others and actually believe her? He had, after all, saved her from being pawed by countless men. Perhaps he was truly interested in her welfare...

He bought you for his own use, her mind retorted, and Amanda blushed hotly, deciding the truth would be useless. He'd saved her for his own selfish purposes, not because he cared.

"Yes...Master Jack," she finally answered, swallowing her humiliation at using the term. "I have always lived in a plantation house." That, at least, was a truth she could tell without fear of retribution.

He nodded, tapped the reins against the sturdy gray gelding pulling the carriage, and then--to Amanda's great relief--they left the slave auction behind. Looking down at her shackled wrists, she couldn't help a little cry of dismay. Hearing this, Mr. Carlyle stopped the carriage again, turned to Amanda, studied her quietly for a time, then simply removed the manacles.

"Thank you," she murmured, rubbing her chafed wrists.

He smiled, and her traitorous heart pounded again. Slapping the reins against the gelding, he set the carriage in motion once more. "I trust that little bit of freedom won't temp you to do something foolish, Fancy," he said, raising one raven brow. The warning was given lightly, but the underlying iron was unmistakable.

"No," Amanda murmured, lowering her gaze to her raw wrists. What could I do anyway on an island hundreds of miles from home?

"You'll be working in the kitchen," he continued conversationally. "My cook, Mammy, needs help,"--he chuckled just the littlest bit--"though she won't admit it. I was hoping a fresh new face might encourage her to accept that help without argument."

"You allow slaves to argue?" Amanda said without thinking. She had never allowed such a thing.

"No...that is, not usually," he replied, slanting another devastating smile at Amanda, "but Mammy is special. She practically raised me, and I guess I'm a little softhearted where she's concerned."

The smile faded abruptly, and Amanda saw the true steel beneath his handsome facade. "But don't mistake me, Fancy," he added. "I expect absolute obedience from most slaves. And that is just exactly what I will expect from you."

Amanda nodded, blinking back tears. The warning was very, very clear. Absolute obedience. Dear God.

Unable to look at him anymore, she turned her head away, trying to concentrate on the bustling city they were passing through. She must familiarize herself with her surroundings, if she ever hoped to escape. But escape to where? That she didn't know.

Try as she might, however, Amanda couldn't concentrate for very long on the throngs of people in their lightweight, colorful cotton clothes. Not when her thoughts kept returning to what her future with this man--her owner!--would hold.

She'd directed kitchen slaves for years at Labreaux, so she knew what the work would be like. Back-breaking labor twelve to sixteen hours a day, six days a week, and half that much on Sundays. She chewed her lower lip, dismayed at the thought. Could she even survive that kind of life--the life of a slave? She wasn't sure that she could.

All her life, she'd been pampered and waited upon. All her life, she'd been the one giving the orders, never the one receiving them. And, quite naturally, all her life she had expected her slaves to toil endlessly to provide her with comfort.

And now she would be doing those very things for this man's comfort...and to help the woman named Mammy.

As the well-appointed carriage trundled along, approaching the outskirts of Kingston, Jackson Carlyle's mind was also filled with thoughts of the future. He had told Fancy of his plans to assign her to the kitchen, but he hadn't told her what else he fully intended doing, probably because he'd only realized it just now. There had to be a logical reason why he'd willingly paid a fortune for this particular female slave. He was a very healthy male--he'd been hard ever since seeing her lush body so provocatively displayed. Paying two thousand pounds for a lovely young bed slave was a lot easier to justify in his mind than paying that much for a mere kitchen wench. Surely that was why he'd paid so much for the girl--to put her in his bed.

Glancing at her now, he bit back a groan of pure pleasure, seeing her ripe young breasts moving gently with the sway of the carriage. He wanted to bare those breasts, to suckle her nipples, to pull her beneath him and thrust home in her satiny heat.

She was beautiful. There was no other word for it, and Jackson knew without a doubt he would make her his mistress. He groaned softly at the thought. Yes, his mistress. There to serve him whenever he wanted, perhaps every night...and every day. Most owners bedded their female slaves with great regularity. By and large, Jackson generally didn't, but for Fancy, he would make an exception. A very enjoyable exception.

The debutantes of Kingston, the women Jackson was used to bedding--when they were willing--quite literally paled in comparison to Fancy. Her skin was golden, just dark enough to announce her mulatto heritage, but on the other hand so light that she must have had a mulatto mother, too. Technically, she was probably a quadroon, but whatever she was, he wanted her.

She would have no choice about sharing his bed, of course. Jackson truly felt no guilt about that. It was just the way things were. Slavery was as old as the Bible. He hadn't invented it, but he'd always lived within the system. It was simply there. Why shouldn't he enjoy this delightful benefit of being Fancy's owner?

He couldn't fathom how such a beautiful girl had been allowed to retain her virginity for so long, since most female slaves were set to breeding by their fourteenth year, but the fact that she had always been a house slave might explain it. Her master must have been saving her for his own pleasure, and then lost interest somewhere along the way, unbelievable as that seemed. Fancy's papers indicated that she had been born and raised at a place called Labreaux Plantation until two years ago, and then she had been sold to a man named Jason Harding. Those men must have been either blind or feeble to have left her a virgin, but Jackson Carlyle had no intention of making the same mistake. He groaned softly again. He would make her his tonight.

As they left Kingston, Amanda's thoughts finally did settle on her surroundings. It was impossible not to appreciate the breathtaking beauty of the island, and she found herself admiring the countryside--the flowering plants, tall, tall palm trees, everything. All the verdant vegetation of this steamy tropical paradise.

Ahead and to the right, off in the distance, she could see the peaks of mountains piercing the crystal clear blue sky, and she remembered Olivia telling her of the Blue Mountains. They were indeed blue, nearly purple, in fact, and Amanda smiled. At least the name fits, she mused wryly.

At the thought of names, however, her smile died. He had called her "Fancy." And no matter what the truth really was, for all practical purposes, that was her name now, and Jackson Carlyle was her owner. In fact, he'd paid a good deal of money for the privilege--nearly a fortune. Would she truly be simply Mammy's helper...or did he have other "duties" in mind?

A hot blush tinged her cheeks. Surely not, she rationalized. He probably had a pretty wife and several children. Surely he had no need of a slave in his bed.

An hour later, the carriage turned into a drive. A sign on the wrought iron gates said "Carlyle Plantation." And Amanda got a whole new perspective on Jackson Carlyle.

The plantation was obviously well managed, clearly quite profitable. They passed sugarcane fields, citrus, mango and banana groves and countless coconut-bearing palm trees, all of which were well tended and ripe with the promise of bountiful harvests. The familiar sight of Negro field hands tending crops was a potent reminder to Amanda of her own slaves back home, and that searing emotional knife chipped away at her soul again--but she couldn't think about that now. The farm implements in use on the plantation represented the very latest innovations in modern farming equipment, and Amanda found herself smiling wryly again. She could probably learn a thing or two about plantation management from Jackson Carlyle. On the other hand, she might be able to offer him a point or two of advice...not that he'd be interested in the opinions of a mere slave.

Then the carriage rounded a curve in the drive, and the mansion came into sight--and Amanda's heart thudded in her chest. Starkly white, with graceful Grecian-style columns all across the front, the house stood three stories tall, with a wide veranda along the front and both sides. It was so typically Southern, Amanda could have been in Louisiana instead of Jamaica, except for the riotously colorful tropical plants and the palm trees, some of which stood even taller than the house. Worse of all, the mansion could have been a replica of her own home. Amanda gasped softly in dismay. Would she ever see her home again?

The carriage stopped, and Mr. Carlyle alighted, relinquishing the reins to a young boy. The child happily accepted his duty, holding the horse steady while Mr. Carlyle lifted her down, his hands possessively on her waist. Amanda shuddered, seeing the intense look on his face, fearing she understood that look only too well. Another shudder rippled down her spine, and she turned to watch the young boy leading the horse to the whitewashed stables, anything to divert her unsettling thoughts.

Upon entering the stately mansion, the first thing Amanda noticed was the magnificent foyer, with its two crystal chandeliers, veined marble floor and winding staircase at the far end of the entryway. But Amanda, her elbow held in her master's firm grip, was not led to the lavishly appointed drawing room off to the left side. Nor was she invited to share afternoon tea in the sumptuous dining room they soon passed through. Amanda was not offered any of the amenities she was so accustomed to enjoying...instead being led directly to the kitchen.

Mr. Carlyle pushed open the swinging kitchen door. "Mammy," he called. Almost immediately, an elderly Negress appeared, wearing a broad smile on her wrinkled face.

The very first moment Amanda saw the cheerful old woman, she felt an undeniable sense of comfort. Mammy fairly exuded warmth and hospitality. Amanda breathed a sigh of relief. If this was who she was to help, the dark cloud hanging over her life might be lifting. She had no idea how to escape her slavery, but perhaps she could at least find some small measure of happiness in this ample woman's kitchen.

"This is your new helper, Mammy," Jackson Carlyle said with quiet authority, "and you will accept her help."

Amanda realized then that he was not going to allow the old Negress to argue with him--no matter that he'd admitted to often allowing this one slave that unusual luxury. She bit her lower lip, wondering what would happen if the woman did try to argue the point.

But Mammy didn't argue at all. Instead, her frizzy gray head nodded enthusiastically. Ebony eyes bright with keen intelligence taking Amanda's measure, she summarized her acceptance with a single word. "Yes."

Mr. Carlyle threw back his head and laughed. "That was easy," he finally said. "And here I thought I'd have to push you into accepting the girl, Mammy."

"No, Master Jack," Mammy replied, her eyes still on Amanda, "this child will suit me just fine."

He nodded, obviously happy, and Amanda could see how much he cared for the old woman. She couldn't help smiling a little herself.

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Mammy," she said, meaning it.

"And I'm pleased to meet you..." Mammy hesitated, and Amanda realized she needed a name.

She gulped. No, no! She couldn't say it! But did she have any choice? "My name is..." Her voice cracked. This was incredibly hard--almost tacit acceptance of this horrid reality. Amanda took a deep breath and tried again. For the moment, at least, there really wasn't any choice. "My name is...Fancy."

"Fancy," Mammy repeated. "What a lovely name. Perfect for such a pretty girl." She turned to Mr. Carlyle. "Isn't she lovely, Master Jack?"

"Beautiful," he murmured. His dark gaze roamed Amanda's face, finally settling on her mouth. Slowly, lazily, his gaze dropped to her breasts. "Simply beautiful."

Amanda had the most intense feeling of being caressed without even being touched. Shudders ran all the way to her toes. In sudden, instinctive self-defense, she crossed both arms over her bosom. His mouth crooked up on one side, and he smiled. Amanda shuddered again.

The air crackled with unspoken tension. Quite clearly, Mammy felt it, too. "My, my," she murmured. "I think Master Jack's taken a shining to you, girl."

Amanda wanted to fall through the floor--or simply die of acute embarrassment. Her cheeks flooded with scarlet heat again, just as they had on the slave block. It was becoming quite obvious that she would not simply be helping Mammy. Jackson Carlyle wanted a bed slave, too.

Suddenly desperate, Amanda tried to flee. She must get away! With easy strength, he merely grasped her elbow again. "I'll show you to your room now, Fancy," he said, calm steel lacing his voice. "You can learn your kitchen duties...later."

Amanda blanched, then shook her head. She knew very well why he wanted to get her alone. His intent was unmistakable. Her knees felt like jelly, but if he noticed her trepidation he simply ignored it, relentlessly leading her to a small, sparsely furnished bedroom behind the kitchen.

Once they were in the room, he closed the door, still holding Amanda in a firm, uncompromising grip. She tried to back away, but he wouldn't allow it. Instead he pulled her into his arms, lifted her chin and covered her mouth with his own.

Amanda had never been kissed before. At the first touch of those firm, sensual lips to her soft mouth, she felt sudden unbidden sensations she had never felt before. His tongue insistently parted her lips, and she sighed, almost unwillingly, but opening her mouth to his erotic invasion. As he explored her velvety recess with darting, thrusting strokes of his tongue, his hands came up to gently cup her breasts, and Amanda gasped, instinctively arching her back.

Something was happening to her--something she felt totally powerless to control. Warm tingles ran up and down her spine, and her nipples puckered tightly. The sensation was nearly painful and yet oh so very delicious at the same time. He was possessing her, claiming her, dominating her mouth with his hot, sultry kisses, drawing the rest of her body toward mindless passion with his fondling hands. Her knees felt like jelly again, but she didn't care. She was becoming lost...she was becoming his.

He unbuttoned her dress, baring her breasts, and Amanda found no strength to deny him, not even when he captured a taut nipple, sucking gently. But perversely, the wholly erotic sensation of his lips tugging on her nipple abruptly brought Amanda back to reality. No gentleman would ever treat a lady like this.

With a gasp of utter dismay, she backed away from him, pulling the edges of her simple cotton dress together, vigorously shaking her head and saying, "No...no," repeatedly, almost as a litany or a fervent prayer. She was a lady, not a slave!

"Don't fight me, Fancy," he murmured, his voice husky, ragged with lust. Crossing to where she stood, he drew her into his arms again, ignoring her resistance. "I know you're a virgin, and I promise to be gentle. But I will have you, Fancy. In fact, I will have you tonight."

"No," Amanda repeated, struggling against his embrace. "Please...no."

He speared his fingers through her hair, then closed his fists to hold her captive. Tilting her head back, his lips hovering a breath from her lips, he said, "I don't know where you ever learned that saying 'no' to your master was acceptable behavior, Fancy. But whenever you say 'no' to me, I will find a better use for your sweet mouth then insolence."

And he claimed her again, plundering her mouth with a fiercely possessive, nearly punishing kiss.

Desperate, fearing ravishment, Amanda redoubled her efforts, pushing against his broad, muscled chest with all her strength. She managed to break contact with his mouth, and then she screamed--loudly and shrilly--in primal reaction to her burgeoning fear.

Mammy came running immediately, evidently on instinct, having heard Amanda's scream. Then she took in the sight of Amanda's unbuttoned dress, disheveled hair and swollen lips, and she nearly left the room again, clearly embarrassed for having interrupted her master's amorous pursuit.

Tears of anger, fear, frustration--even unbidden desire--filled Amanda's eyes. She tried to blink them away, but Mammy saw them, and her motherly instincts evidently took over. Instead of leaving the room, she pulled Amanda into her arms, cradling her head against her shoulder--and Jackson sighed.

Quite naturally, he assumed Fancy was responding to maidenly fear. Female slaves grew up knowing they might well become the master's bed mate. Fancy almost acted as though she hadn't been trained to accept that possibility, but that made no sense. No, her reluctance to obey must be simple fear of the physical act. He could understand that, but he'd promised to be gentle, and forcing her to face her fear was the best way to defeat it. Besides that, he had no intention of waiting to bed her. She would get over her maidenly fear soon enough.

Assuming his most authoritative stance, Jackson raised one raven brow and glowered at his old cook. "Have her in my room at nine o'clock, Mammy," he said quite firmly.

Fancy raised her head. "No," she said, just as firmly.

Angered by her continued belligerence, holding her gaze, but addressing the cook, he added, "Find her something truly sinful to wear, Mammy. I believe there's a delightful French confection in the wardrobe."

She actually raised her chin, then said, "Won't your wife object to my wearing her gown, master?" She'd fairly spat the title, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Even though he recognized her sarcasm as a defense against fear, Jackson was so astounded by her audacity, his jaw literally dropped open. Regaining control, his gaze turned glacial. "No, Fancy," he coolly replied. "I have no wife. The gown was left by my last bed partner...and tonight you will take her place."

Then he turned on his heel and left the room, hearing Fancy's gasp of dismay but ignoring it completely--or at least trying to. By God, if she insisted on being insolent, he would have to punish her. It was as simple as that. A master must maintain absolute control over his slaves.

In her first few minutes in his home, Fancy had proven extraordinarily willful, actually saying "no," not once, but many times. No slave had ever done that before in Jackson's experience. As he left the mansion by the kitchen door, his thoughts already on tasks still left to do this day, he couldn't help wondering just what kind of masters Fancy had had in the past. Surely they hadn't encouraged such disrespectful behavior.

He had no way of knowing, of course, that Amanda Labreaux had never, ever had a master in her young life...until now.

CHAPTER SIX

Mammy led Amanda to the small bed, gently pushed her down, then sat beside her. "What is it, child?" she asked kindly. "Why are you so afraid?"

Amanda sniffled, then wiped her hand under her nose. She knew she must look a sight, crying like she was, but Mammy's kindness had broken through her defenses, causing the flood of tears. "I'm a virgin, Mammy," she finally replied. "And I don't want to sleep with...your master."

Mammy placed an arm around Amanda's shoulders, hugging her affectionately. "So that's all it is," she said, sighing in obvious relief. "You're just experiencing natural fear, child, and that fear will pass with your first mating. Don't you know it's a privilege to be asked to share the master's bed?"

"He didn't ask me to share his bed, Mammy," Amanda retorted, unable to stop herself. "He told me."

Mammy shrugged, and Amanda knew the older woman couldn't possibly understand her feelings. "Of course he told you to come to him, Fancy," she said. "What else would you expect? That he would ask permission to bed his own slave?"

Amanda bowed her head, her humiliation so acute upon hearing that simple question--and knowing the answer as well as Mammy did--that she could no longer meet the cook's gaze.

Looking down, she realized her dress was still unbuttoned, causing another rush of shame. She tried to button it again, but her fingers were shaking too badly to accomplish the task. With a whimper of defeat, she gave up--her thoughts already moving on to a more important issue than her state of undress.

Mammy evidently believed her master was in the right, but Amanda knew he was not. Should she tell Mammy the truth? At least she wouldn't be beaten for telling her story to the kindly woman. It might not help, but what could it hurt?

Suddenly needing very, very much to get someone to believe her, Amanda raised her eyes again and said, "My name is not really Fancy, Mammy...it's Amanda. And I'm a free white woman, not a slave." She paused for a moment, then added, "I'm a victim of kidnapping."

Mammy bristled and sat up very straight. "Are you accusing Master Jack of kidnapping, girl?" Her voice was rigid with indignation, and anger.

"No, no," Amanda said quickly, holding up both hands to emphasize her denial. "Your master didn't kidnap me, Mammy. My half-brother, Harold, did, along with his accomplice, Jason Harding. They drugged me, then Jason evidently sold me into slavery using the real Fancy's papers...after they both raped Fancy and Harold murdered her." She took a deep breath. Please, God, let someone believe me!

But Mammy rose to her feet as fast as her massive bulk would allow. She walked straight to the door, pushed it shut, turned back to Amanda and said, "Have you any idea how much trouble you can cause yourself by lying that way, Fancy?"

Amanda buried her face in her hands. Mammy's words were almost identical to Olivia's. She didn't believe her, either. "I'm not lying," she mumbled against her hands.

Mammy was silent, and Amanda could almost hear her thinking. "It's because you're so light skinned, isn't it?" Mammy finally asked. "That's why you've made up this fantasy about being a free white woman. You're hoping to lie your way to freedom."

"No," Amanda replied wearily, lifting her face from her hands. "That is, yes, I do want my freedom back, Mammy. But no, my coloring is not light. It's actually a little dark...for a white woman. It's from my Cajun mother. But I'm telling you the truth."

"Does Master Jack have your ownership papers?" Mammy asked shrewdly.

"Of course he does," Amanda answered on a heavy sigh. "That's just the problem, Mammy. He does own a mulatto slave named Fancy, or he would if she were still alive." She raised her chin determinedly. "But his ownership of me is morally and legally wrong, since I'm not Fancy at all. I'm a kidnap victim named Amanda Labreaux."

Mammy's expression closed as soon as Amanda said those words. "Master Jack is not a criminal," she said flatly. "He may be sinful--as all men are--in his desire to bed you, but he is not a thief, and he would never condone kidnapping. If you were telling the truth--which you're not--and he knew it, he would return you to your rightful home immediately."

She staggered a little, causing Amanda to frown in concern, then continued in a quieter but still determined voice. "Stealing is against the Good Book, Fancy, and that's what it would be if you really were a free white woman. Master Jack would be stealing your freedom, and that is something he simply would not do."

She paused again, drawing in a rasping breath, and Amanda rushed to her feet. Mammy's breathing was erratic now, her old face bathed in sweat. She was seriously ill!

But she was also fiercely determined to defend her master. Evidently her loyalty to Jackson Carlyle was absolute. Despite her harsh breathing and obvious weakness, she finally rasped out, "In most ways Master Jack is a good, God-fearing man. I should know, Fancy. I raised him."

"I didn't mean to upset you, Mammy," Amanda said, approaching her quickly, truly alarmed by her condition. "I just wanted someone to believe me and--"

Mammy held up a hand to stop her words, shaking her gray head. "I don't want to hear any more lies, girl," she rasped hoarsely. "I have work to do, and you're supposed to be my helper. Come along, Fancy, and I'll show you what to do."

Mammy reached for the doorknob, but her hand was trembling so badly, she couldn't grasp the knob. Afraid she might collapse and fall to the floor, Amanda went swiftly to her side, then grasped both her arms, hoping to steady her. "Are you all right?"

"I will be," Mammy gasped out. "In just a minute." She took another harsh breath, then continued. "These spells come on whenever I get agitated. It'll pass real soon. Don't worry about it, child."

"Does Master Jack know about these spells, Mammy?" Amanda questioned, resolutely leading Mammy to the narrow bed and easing her down to the straw-filled mattress, then coaxing her into a lying position and raising her feet.

"No, he doesn't," Mammy answered, reluctantly accepting Amanda's help. "And no one's going to tell him about them, either," she added, her breathing returning to normal as she relaxed against the thin mattress. "He'd put me in a cabin for the rest of my days, and idleness would kill me far more quickly than these spells will."

"Kill you?" Amanda whispered, falling to her knees beside the woman, shocked by that admission. "You already know these spells are killing you?"

"We all die eventually, child," Mammy replied, patting Amanda's hand. "I know the spells are killing me because they get a little worse each time I have one. But I'm not ready to go to my reward just yet, so stop looking so worried. I'll rest for a few minutes, but then we need to get to work."

"You're not going to work any more today, Mammy," Amanda said firmly, using the tone of voice she'd always used when dealing with her own slaves. "I will do your work today. Just tell me what to do."

Mammy looked at her quizzically. "I'd almost swear you were telling the truth when you talk like that, Fancy," she said, frowning. "You sound just like a slave owner, instead of a slave."

"Yes...well, we'll talk about that later, Mammy," Amanda temporized. If her "lies" were going to upset Mammy, she just wouldn't mention them again. Not when they could hurry the poor old woman to her grave. Mammy was the only bright spot so far in this nightmare, and Amanda needed her. In fact, they needed each other. Amanda felt a surge of emotion. Yes, they needed each other.

Mammy's eyelids were getting heavy; she was falling asleep. "Just a few minutes of rest, Fancy," she mumbled. Then, with forced determination, she added, "Don't tell him, Fancy. Don't tell Master Jack I'm sick."

"I won't," Amanda promised, pulling a sheet up to Mammy's chin. "I won't tell him a thing."

"Thank you, child," she murmured. Seconds later, she was snoring peacefully.

Amanda watched her for a few minutes, making sure her breathing was normal, then rose to her feet and went out to the kitchen. She'd directed kitchen slaves in her life at Labreaux, of course, but she'd never actually worked in a kitchen before. Mammy hadn't told her what needed to be done before falling asleep, but Amanda had two eyes and two fully capable hands. She was determined to figure out what Mammy would do...then do it for her.

With one hand on each hip, she looked around the large, airy room. The action of putting her arms akimbo caused her dress to gap, since it was still unbuttoned, and Amanda felt a telltale blush rise in her cheeks again. Jackson Carlyle had opened her dress, and--for a few moments at least--she had responded to his passion.

And tonight he would take her virginity.

Feelings of shame, humiliation--even desire, remembering his kisses--rushed through Amanda's mind, but she pushed the thoughts aside. It would do absolutely no good to think about that situation right now, and there was work to be done. Buttoning her dress, Amanda set herself to the task of dealing with Mammy's kitchen.

Looking at the clock on the fireplace mantel, she realized supper should be served in less than two hours. How many people did Mammy usually feed? She'd only seen this one room, except for passing through the others, so Amanda could only guess how many household slaves were fed from this kitchen.

Judging by her own experience at Labreaux Plantation, she decided to prepare a meal that would easily feed twelve to fifteen people, but could stretch to feed twenty if need be.

At Labreaux, there were two chambermaids for each story of the house, equaling six; two kitchen helpers and a cook; a butler and an assistant butler. Not to mention the stable hands and the gardeners. All those people were served their meals in the slaves' dining room at Labreaux. Did this house have a similar place for feeding slaves?

Intending to find out, Amanda walked to the back of the kitchen, opened the first door she came to, and found herself looking down a flight of stairs, apparently leading to the lowest level of the house. Thinking that level would be a likely place for housing slaves, Amanda descended the stairs. She entered a large room, dimly lit by small windows high on the wall, finding a scarred oak dining table with benches, as well as two dormitory-style bedrooms beyond the eating area. She'd found the house slaves' quarters.

Satisfied with her discovery, Amanda returned to the kitchen, quite certain her estimated number of mouths to feed had been correct. Then she went to the back yard, in search of a chicken coop.

Finding the coop easily enough, Amanda picked out several likely "victims," then simply wrung their necks--feeling quite proud of herself for not retching while doing the hideous task. Heading back toward the kitchen again, she was determined to pluck the birds, clean them and gut them, then prepare her own cook's specialty--fried chicken.

Jackson came out of the stables just as Fancy was wringing the necks of several chickens. He ducked behind the stable door, wanting to watch her without being seen. He stifled a laugh at the expression on her lovely face while she killed the chickens, then saw her give a nod of approval--as if of herself--before returning, dead chickens in hand, to the kitchen.

Coming out from his hiding place, Jackson frowned as a thought occurred to him. Fancy had looked for all the world like she'd never wrung a chicken's neck before. Then he shrugged and headed for the house. He had a great deal of paperwork to do, and wondering about the little mulatto's kitchen experience wouldn't get it done.

Neither would thinking about tonight, but he seriously doubted he could push those thoughts from his mind. At least Fancy seemed to have gotten over her fear. Mammy'd probably had a motherly talk with her.

Jackson smiled at the thought. He'd wanted Mammy to accept help--and she had--but she might have just repaid the favor by helping him in return. If she'd been able to ease Fancy's virginal fears, tonight's coupling would be far more enjoyable--for master and slave alike.

Jackson knew the sensual benefits of giving as well as receiving, and he fully intended giving Fancy incredible pleasure. Once the deflowering was accomplished, he had no doubt the pretty little slave would become a warm and willing mistress, happily accepting the nights spent in his bed.

Anticipation tightened his loins, and Jackson smiled. It had been a long time since he'd looked forward to a bedding this much. Keeping his mind on paperwork would be difficult, indeed.

He gave no further thought to Fancy's obvious but incongruous lack of experience at wringing a chicken's neck.

Amanda made it...just in time. As the clock on the mantel chimed the dinner hour, she was just taking hot, fluffy biscuits from the wood stove's oven. The lard-fried chicken was ready, the carrots she'd picked from the kitchen garden steamed to perfection. Amanda hadn't realized how much she'd actually learned about cooking while directing others. She'd done a creditable job of preparing a meal, and she felt enormous pride in the accomplishment.

Hearing a sound behind her, she turned and saw Mammy coming into the room. She looked well rested and refreshed, and Amanda smiled. "Feeling better?"

Mammy nodded, her eyes widening with surprise at the fully-prepared meal laid out on the work table. "You did all this by yourself?"

"Yes," Amanda replied, suddenly self-conscious. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, child," Mammy quickly assured her. "You did fine, just fine."

Amanda murmured her thanks, more pleased than she thought she'd ever be to receive a compliment from a slave. My God, how arrogant can I be? she admonished herself.

Then, quite suddenly, a huge piece of Amanda's soul chipped free and fell away. She was being reshaped, sculpted. For the first time in her life, Amanda Labreaux asked herself painful questions--questions about her life-long belief in the institution of slavery.

Was it right for one race to enslave another?

Was is right to feel superior to an entire civilization?

It had been that way for hundreds of years, and yet...

"We'd best get this food down to the dining hall," Mammy said, interrupting Amanda's thoughts. She lifted a heavy platter and walked toward the stairs.

"Wait, Mammy!" Amanda declared, seeing what she was doing. "I don't think you should be climbing stairs after your spell this afternoon."

Mammy gave her a baleful gaze. "Don't start coddling me, girl. I'm not doddering yet...at least not all the time."

Amanda nodded, hearing the fierce pride in the old woman's voice. "Very well," she acquiesced, "but I will carry the heavy platters. Agreed?"

Mammy nodded, too...reluctantly. "Agreed," she said.

Before very long, sharing the work, Mammy and Amanda had every household slave fed and happy...or perhaps satisfied would be a better term, since Amanda was beginning to wonder how anyone could be truly happy while enslaved. She'd never wondered about a slave's happiness before this nightmare began, but as she helped Mammy serve that meal--as she met fifteen people who had absolutely no choice about being where they were--Amanda's thoughts kept returning to her soul-searching questions.

Was the very institution of slavery wrong? Were the beliefs she'd held all her life completely in error?

Amanda had no answers to those questions--at least not yet--but she knew one thing very, very well. She had changed during these past weeks, weeks where she had seen the squalor of a slave ship and known Olivia, and she'd most especially changed during these last few hours, helping Mammy.

Amanda's entire belief system was shifting. And she knew she'd be doing a great deal more soul searching while living this new reality--her own enslavement.

She had a feeling she'd be searching for herself.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The clock on the mantel chimed eight times just as Amanda sank down wearily into a kitchen chair. Her arms were sore from lifting and carrying, her back ached, and her knees felt jittery from climbing stairs. But she was happy, she realized. Exhausted, but happy.

How can that be? she asked herself. How can I be happy when I'm a slave? Wasn't I just realizing that no one could be truly happy while enslaved?

And then she knew the answer to at least that question, if not the others. She was happy because she'd helped Mammy. She'd helped another human being in the way she'd needed it most. It didn't matter that Mammy was a slave--her supposed inferior. She was a human being in need of assistance, and Amanda had come to her aid.

She smiled, placing both hands at the small of her back, slowly easing cramped muscles. It felt good, really good, to have helped so much. She'd never even considered doing such a thing for a slave before, but--

"You'll be needing a bath before nine o'clock, Fancy."

Amanda heard Mammy's words, spoken from behind her, and all her happy thoughts abruptly vanished. She'd forgotten about nine o'clock--and what the hour would bring.

Slowly turning around to face Mammy, she felt an all-too-familiar blush of shame. Apparently Mammy had been to her master's wardrobe, because she was holding a nightgown, if one could call it that. More like a diaphanous, lace-trimmed piece of nothing, really.

"Master Jack left orders, Fancy," Mammy persisted quietly. "The bath is ready for you now."

Amanda slowly rose to her feet and nodded, feeling the sudden calmness of inevitability. What was the use of arguing? She took the nightgown from Mammy's hand, then left the kitchen without a word, too lost in her own thoughts to realize that bathing in the master's tub was considered just as much a privilege as sharing his bed.

The bathing room was luxurious. Amanda was sorely tempted to lie there in the perfumed water for hours on end...far longer than nine o'clock.

Then, abruptly realizing that Jackson Carlyle probably wanted a bath, too, Amanda sat up arrow straight, sloshing water onto the floor. He could come into this very room at any moment. Quickly leaving the huge tub, she dried herself on a soft towel, then slipped the truly sinful nightgown over her head.

The house slave who'd directed Amanda to this bathing room had also shown her which room belonged to the master. Amanda literally ran across the hall to that door, hoping against hope that no one--absolutely no one!--would see her near nakedness.

Upon entering the room, she gratefully closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, catching her breath. Thankful to find herself alone, she ventured a look around Jackson Carlyle's sumptuous bedroom. It was a purely masculine domain, with massive mahogany furniture, including an incredibly large four-poster bed, heavy velvet drapes of deep burgundy and--Amanda's eyes widened in surprise--sheets so smooth and glossy, they must be made of silk.

She'd never seen such a thing before, and curiosity overcame her fear. Crossing to the turned-down bed, she sat down on the edge and brushed her hand over the satiny, soothing material. It felt heavenly. With a soft sigh of pure delight, Amanda lay down upon the bed full length, just to feel more of that wonderful material against her nearly naked body. The nightgown was so thin, she might as well not be wearing anything at all, so the sensation of silkiness easily filtered through to her tender skin.

How wonderful it would be to sleep on sheets like these every night! And how different they felt from the rough cotton sheets on her own bed in the small room behind the kitchen. The thought of having to spend the rest of her nights sleeping in that tiny room brought Amanda's happy reverie to a screeching halt.

She stood up from the sumptuous bed as if it were on fire, not realizing how long she had been lying there until she heard a clock chime nine times.

Nine o'clock. Oh my God. My time is up.

Those disturbing thoughts ran through Amanda's feverish brain just as she heard the door latch click open. There was no where to run, nothing she could do, and Amanda found herself standing stock still in the middle of the room--her master's bedroom--wearing nothing but a sinfully low cut, tantalizingly sheer nightgown.

And in another moment, she would no longer be alone.

In another moment, Jackson Carlyle would open the door and enter his room--fully intending to enter her body, as well.

Amanda stood there, frozen to the spot, as the door slowly opened and he did indeed come into the room. Apparently fresh from his own bath, he was wearing a midnight blue dressing gown, loosely belted at his lean waist, and Amanda shuddered. Between the robe's edges, she could see his strong chest. He was naked beneath the dressing gown.

He didn't see her at first. He was walking blindly, arms raised, vigorously drying his hair on a towel. Then he lowered the towel, saw her, and stopped dead in his tracks. His chest expanded on a slowly indrawn breath, his dark eyes becoming intent, completely focused on her. Amanda swallowed hard.

His gaze devoured her from head to toe, taking in the lacy French nightgown, which barely covered her breasts, then moving slowly down to the visible dark hair at the juncture of her thighs. Reacting instinctively to such bold masculine perusal, her nipples peaked, and he smiled. Amanda shuddered again.

"Turn around, Fancy," he demanded huskily. "Slowly."

Amanda blushed crimson. She could feel it. The moment of truth had arrived--or more correctly the moment of no one believing her truth. With his demand, she felt like she was on the slave block again.

Slowly, reluctantly, she obeyed the command, turning and displaying herself for her owner. Dear God, how she hated that thought! And yet, save escaping, there was nothing she could do about it. Absolutely nothing. For all intents and purposes, she was the mulatto slave, Fancy.

Turned away from him now, she felt his hands on her buttocks through the gauzy, sheer material. The heat in her face doubled. Then he lifted the nightgown and caressed her bare bottom, and her breath came in on a gasp of dismay.

If he heard her distress, he ignored it, lifting the gown higher, clearly wanting to remove it altogether.

"Raise your arms, Fancy," he said.

Amanda complied. What else could she do? The beating by Captain Davis had taught her what happened to troublemakers, and fighting wouldn't change a thing. In a matter of moments, she was completely nude.

She heard a rustle of material, and closed her eyes tightly. He was removing his robe. She felt something hard and warm, throbbing with urgent life, pressed against her bare buttocks, and her throat went dry. His hands came around to cup her breasts, his fingers and thumbs toying with her nipples, and Amanda bit her lower lip, trying not to cry out, trying not to beg him to stop.

This is what female slaves suffer at Labreaux, she lamented, biting her lip even harder at the thought. I've been a slave owner all my life, but until these past weeks I never understood the horror, the absolute helplessness of being one.

The words of her dinner guest suddenly came back to haunt her. The day before this nightmare began, Mrs. Leverton had said that Amanda's opinion about slavery might change if she herself ever experienced it, and now Amanda knew Mrs. Leverton was right.

Absolutely, irrevocably right.

That's what had caused her to change during these past weeks, and especially today, Amanda realized. She was no longer the privileged slave owner; now she was the slave. And in that moment, her soul's reshaping became complete. The institution of slavery was hideously, grievously wrong, for master and slave alike.

"Turn around again, Fancy," her own master said then. "I want to see all of you."

Amanda obeyed, her thoughts so troubled, the action was automatic. But as she turned and saw the passion blazing in his dark eyes, her feeling of shame returned, and she lowered her gaze. That was a mistake. His fully aroused manhood was directly in her line of vision, deeply veined, pulsing...threatening. My God, she thought, he'll tear me apart!

"Get in the bed, Fancy," he quietly commanded, raising her chin and kissing her gently. "I want to make love to you now."

Amanda shook her head--her first small act of defiance. The sight of his naked arousal had truly frightened her, and she could not, simply could not, obey his command.

"Get in the bed, Fancy," he quietly repeated. "Now."

Amanda heard the authority underlying his softly-spoken words, but her feet felt glued to the floor. And her throat was far too dry to speak. She shook her head again.

He stood there for a moment, studying her, then muttered a quiet oath and simply scooped her up in his muscled arms, carried her to the four poster, then laid her down again.

Amanda scooted to the far side of the bed, her eyes widened with fear. I can't do this. I just can't!

He couldn't hear her fearful thoughts, but he followed her, easily pinning her to the bed with his large frame.

"Quit fighting me, Fancy," he said.

His voice was soft, but utterly commanding, and Amanda nodded, still too frightened to speak, but knowing from experience that a slave must obey. She'd expected no less from her slaves, why should Jackson Carlyle be any different?

"That's better," he said. "Much better." His powerful chest pressed against her naked breasts, and Amanda felt his manhood lengthen even more. She wriggled helplessly, and he groaned, then bent to kiss her. But at the last moment, he pulled back and simply gazed into her eyes, a slight frown of puzzlement puckering his brow.

"Your eyes are so blue," he said, "almost sapphire. I've never seen a mulatto with blue eyes before, Fancy. You are a unique treasure."

Before Amanda could even think of answering, he slanted his mouth over hers, kissing her deeply. His tongue forced her soft lips apart, then explored her velvety depths with expert thoroughness. He cupped her breasts, tugging at her nipples, groaning with obvious pleasure when the small pink buds tightened under his touch.

Just as she had been earlier, Amanda was lost to the sensual power of his fiercely demanding kiss, and she gasped in helpless pleasure as he fondled her breasts. Then his hand moved down her body, and he touched her in the most intimate place. Amanda clamped her thighs together as a pure reaction to fear.

"Spread your thighs, Fancy."

Amanda shook her head once more, and she heard him sigh. "I'm trying to be patient with you, Fancy," he said. "But I cannot tolerate disobedience in a slave. Open your thighs."

That stark reminder of the very things Amanda had been thinking about shocked her into compliance. She'd never tolerated disobedience in a slave; why should he? No owner tolerated disobedience. Slaves were merely property, possessions, lowly chattel who must above all obey every command given them. And that was the worst thing about slavery--forcing fellow human beings into utter subjugation.

Slowly, knowing she had no choice, Amanda parted her thighs. She felt him touch her again, then shut her eyes, awaiting the inevitable painful thrust.

But there was no pain, at least not yet. His fingers began stroking her intimately, exploring her femininity with a gentle, knowing touch--and Amanda responded instinctively, moaning softly and arching her hips against his hand. She didn't want to respond to his seduction, but her body had a mind of it's own now. Soon her fear was completely gone, replaced by a deep yearning she did not fully understand.

Then his rigid sex pressed against her moist entrance, and her fear came back in a rush. He's too big! She wanted to shout the words, but her throat constricted--and then there was no time. He thrust into her, breaching her maidenhead with a mercifully quick, powerful stroke.

The pain was instantaneous.

My God, he is tearing me apart! she thought on a desperate gasp. But he had prepared her quite thoroughly, and her body soon accepted his length. The pain was still there, but it was bearable, and her breathing evened out. His strokes were deep and rhythmic for a time, his murmured words of reassurance strangely soothing. Then he muttered something dark and unintelligible, stiffened and groaned with pleasure. Amanda felt jetting, pulsing wetness all the way to her womb...and she cried.

She had become his whore.

"I'm sorry, Fancy," he said then, withdrawing and rolling to the side. "I know I hurt you. I didn't mean to, but you're very small. It will be better the next time, I promise."

That was the last thing Amanda needed to hear. Curling into a ball, she turned her face to the pillow and cried tears of bitter remorse.

He was very quiet for a few minutes. She finally heard him leave the bed. Soon returning, he said, "Turn over, Fancy. Let me help your pain."

Amanda obeyed, too lost in misery to care what he might do to her now. But when she felt him part her thighs again, then felt a cool, moist cloth pressed to her womanhood, her breath came in on a gasp. "Please don't," she whispered.

He ignored her, continuing his gentle ministrations. "I'm sorry I hurt you," he repeated. Finishing the task, he lay down beside her again, pulling her into a gentle but firm embrace. "It won't be like that the next time, Fancy," he reminded her. "Virginal pain is a one-time ordeal. The next time it won't hurt. I really do promise you that."

Amanda burst into tears.

"Is that why you're crying?" he asked, and she heard the surprise in his voice. "Because I'm going to make love to you again?"

Amanda nodded against his chest. Obviously, no other slave had ever objected to his lovemaking. Leaning back, she looked directly into his eyes. "I don't want to be your whore."

He brushed her tears away with the pad of his thumb, then bent to kiss her. "You're my mistress, Fancy, not a whore. There's a difference."

"Is there?" Amanda returned. "Is there really, Jackson?"

He stiffened at her use of his given name, then said, "When we're in this room, Fancy, I will allow you to be informal. But in front of others, you must address me with proper respect. Do you understand?"

"You mean I must call you master," Amanda murmured. Of course he does, her mind affirmed. Didn't my slaves always address me as mistress?

"At the very least, 'sir,'" Jackson answered.

Amanda nodded. That, at least, she could do without feeling such awful humiliation. She'd addressed men as sir all her life, through simple politeness. But he had not answered her question yet. "What is the difference between a whore and a mistress, Jackson?" she asked again.

"A whore serves the pleasure of many men; a mistress serves only one man."

Amanda bristled and tried to pull free of his embrace. "And should I be grateful for that distinction, master?" she asked sarcastically. What difference did it make now how many men she served? Her virginity was gone. She was irreparably ruined.

Jackson propped himself up on one elbow and simply looked at her for a time. "Your former masters must have been very lenient with you, Fancy," he finally said. "You speak your mind like a free woman, instead of a slave."

Amanda lay back on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. Should she tell him the truth? She'd tried to tell Mammy--which had brought on that awful spell--but Mammy had no power to hurt her. Would Jackson believe her, or would he beat her, like Captain Davis had? Maybe it was worth the risk. Mammy had said Jackson Carlyle would never condone kidnapping...

"I speak that way because I'm not a slave," she finally answered, turning to face him again. "At least I wasn't until a few weeks ago."

Jackson sat up, pulling her with him. Grasping her shoulders, he said, "What nonsense is this? I have your papers, woman. You've been a slave all your life. A man named Jason Harding was your last owner. Why are you lying to me?"

"I'm not lying," Amanda gasped out, wincing from the strength of his grip. "Jason Harding is my half-brother's friend. They killed the real Fancy and sold me into slavery using her identity."

"I cannot abide lies," he thundered, raising his hand, clearly intent on striking her.

Amanda shut her eyes, awaiting the blow. It was worth the risk, she told herself. He might have believed her...

Two crystal tears slid down her cheeks.

But the blow never fell, and Amanda finally opened her eyes again. He had the strangest look on his face, and he was lowering his hand, slowly, almost as if he didn't understand his own actions. Then, taking a deep, obviously calming breath, he said, "Tell me the whole story, Fancy...from the beginning."

Amanda felt a new glimmer of hope. Pulling the sheet up to cover her nakedness, she told Jackson Carlyle the entire story.

But when she was done, he merely shook his head. "Fancy," he said quietly, "your story is implausible. For one thing," he touched his index finger, "your so-called half-brother would have to be insane to commit such a crime. For another," he touched a second finger, "this Jason Harding would be just as guilty, and no man is that greedy. And for a third," he counted yet again, "surely no one would believe that a dead slave with a mutilated face was really this Amanda Labreaux you claim to be." He patted her hand. "I'm sorry, Fancy. I can understand a slave's wish for freedom, but no one would believe that story. I certainly don't."

Amanda's shoulders slumped in defeat. "It was worth a try," she whispered, her heart breaking. He didn't believe her, either.

But Jackson wasn't quite finished yet. "Now that we've cleared up this nonsense, I don't want to hear about it again," he said quite firmly. "No more lies, Fancy. If you tell another lie, you will be punished. Do you understand?"

Drowning in a sea of hopelessness, Amanda said, "Yes, master." Her voice was flat, lifeless. "I understand."

"Good," Jackson replied. He reached out and eased the satiny sheet down to Amanda's waist. "Are you less sore now?"

Shocked out of her listlessness, Amanda gasped. He was cupping her bared breasts now, his thumbs stroking her nipples. "You mean you want to...again...now?"

"Of course, my little mistress," he murmured, lowering her to the bed. His mouth closed on her nipple, sucking strongly, and Amanda arched her back, moaning, her traitorous body responding to the wholly erotic sensation. "My appetites are quite healthy, Fancy," he continued as her mind whirled. "I'll need your sweet body more than once each time I call you to my bed." His fingers trailed down her soft belly, then moved into her tangled pubic curls, and Amanda moaned again, already moistening, becoming receptive. "Open for me," he demanded, his voice a husky whisper. "Open your thighs, little mistress. This time you'll feel only pleasure...no pain."

Physically, he was probably right. But even as Amanda obeyed his demand, even as she accepted his ardent caresses, felt him drawing unwilling responses from her trembling, quivering body and then felt him enter her with no discomfort--just as he'd promised--she felt a different kind of pain.

The pain of regret...remorse. Not so much because she was a slave now, but because she had owned so many slaves herself in the past.

And as Jackson used her body a second time, Amanda Labreaux made a vow. She had come to an important crossroads in her life--and she had made a decision.

I will escape, she vowed silently. Tomorrow, somehow, I'll find a way back to Kingston. I'll stow away on a ship, and I will go home.

And when I get there, I will defeat Harold. Surely, after what my half-brother has done, he will be forced to relinquish his share of our inheritance. And then I'll do two more things. Two very important things.

I will free all the slaves at Labreaux, then sell the plantation.

If I've learned anything--anything at all--from this nightmare, it's that slavery is an abominable institution. Just like the Northerners say. Just like Mrs. Leverton said.

My body is no longer my own; it belongs to Jackson now. But my mind is still my own. And with my mind, I can escape. With my mind, I will succeed.

Fiercely determined now, Amanda didn't protest--didn't even say a word--when Jackson rolled to her side again, turned down the bedside lamp, then pulled her up against him with one arm possessively draped over her body, caressing her bare breast even as he fell asleep.

Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow I will be free again.

CHAPTER EIGHT

In what seemed like the middle of the night, Amanda heard a soft knock on Jackson's bedroom door, followed by Mammy's muffled voice. "Fancy? It's time to get up, child."

Amanda groaned almost silently, not wanting to awaken Jackson, but knowing she had no choice but to arise at this ungodly hour, even though she'd had precious little sleep during the night. Jackson still had his arm draped possessively around her body, and Amanda eased out of his embrace as carefully as possible, then left the bed and padded across the thick carpet in her bare feet.

By the time she got to the door, she'd remembered a very important fact. She was still completely nude--and she had left her one simple dress beside the tub.

Opening the door just a crack, she whispered, "Mammy, can you get my dress? I left it in the bathing room."

Mammy's dark eyes held a definite question, and Amanda suspected what it was. The concerned older woman wanted to know if Amanda was over her fear, now that she'd been deflowered, but Amanda had no desire to say anything about last night's ordeal, not even to Mammy.

The second mating--and the third--had been completely free of pain; she'd even felt something indescribable, seemingly unattainable, low in her belly. But no amount of tenderness or seduction could change her sense of humiliation. No, she didn't want to talk about it.

Tomorrow I will be free again.

Those words of the night before replayed themselves in Amanda's mind, and she steeled her determination as she waited for Mammy. The quicker she got on with her day, the quicker she could devise an escape plan...and carry it out.

Mammy returned shortly, handing Amanda the only article of clothing she had to her name--save for the leather slippers she'd been wearing that fateful day of her kidnapping. Dressing quickly and slipping on her shoes, Amanda thankfully left Jackson's bedroom, hoping she would never have to return there again.

It wasn't really the middle of the night, Amanda soon discovered. The mantel clock in the kitchen read five a.m. Close enough to the middle of the night, though, since Amanda had very seldom left her bed at Labreaux before eight or nine o'clock.

But that very fact helped her determination grow. It was one thing for farmers to rise with the roosters, since farming was their chosen life. But forcing people to arise at such a hideous hour just to see to their master's comfort was a truly repugnant practice to Amanda now.

Preparation for the morning meal was simple enough, consisting of thick oatmeal and leftover biscuits for the house slaves, and then--hours later, of course--fresh eggs, newly-baked biscuits, coffee, squeezed orange juice and breakfast steaks for Jackson.

Mammy was a little winded by the time the breakfast work was done, so Amanda was the one to serve Jackson his sumptuous meal. Delectable aromas wafting up from the tray set Amanda's stomach to growling as she pushed open the swinging dining room door. Like Mammy, she'd only partaken of the normal slave's fare, and that had been hours earlier. Amanda didn't want to see Jackson this morning, or any other time for that matter, but just as she'd had no choice about sharing his bed, she had no choice about serving him.

Jackson looked up from his newspaper as Fancy walked into the dining room, carrying a heavy tray laden down with food. He felt an incredible urge to get up and help her with the burden, but quickly pushed the thought aside. If he treated Fancy differently than the other slaves--except when they were in bed together--it would only cause friction in the household. And that would be no better for Fancy than it would be for him.

She'd tied back her dark hair with a scarf, and her face was flushed from the hot kitchen, but to Jackson, Fancy was still utterly alluring this morning, so completely feminine he felt another kind of urge as she lowered the impossibly heavy tray to the dining table.

He'd had her three times last night, and yet he would gladly take her again right now--if his day wasn't already fully planned, with no room for amorous diversions. He would be spending the entire day with Bull Smith, his overseer, checking the condition of various crops. He wouldn't be back before dark.

But tonight...ah, tonight. Tonight he would see her luscious curves again--devoid of that simple beige dress. Tonight he would kiss her generous, sweet lips and suckle her firm young breasts. And, most importantly, tonight he would experience again the sheer erotic joy of thrusting into her silky, moist femininity, driving into her until he exploded with sexual bliss.

And there was one more thing Jackson wanted to do tonight. He wanted to give Fancy ecstasy, too. Last night had been painful for her the first time, which he truly regretted, but then apparently far less than satisfying the second time, and even the third. Tonight he was going to use every sexual skill he possessed, relentlessly if necessary, until she, too, experienced ultimate bliss.

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth with those thoughts, and he said, "Good morning, Fancy," as she poured his coffee, hoping she would return his smile.

"Good morning, sir," she dutifully replied, then looked quickly away.

Jackson's smile faded as he realized she had no intention of returning his smile, but he still wanted to draw her out, to see her blue eyes sparkle before he had to go about his own work. "Did you sleep well, Fancy?" he asked pleasantly, never suspecting that that was the last thing he should have asked her.

Amanda stiffened. Was he making fun of her now? she wondered. How could she have slept well? He himself had awakened her from a deep, dreamless sleep that third time, and she'd never achieved blissful oblivion again.

Then she realized something which tempered her burgeoning anger. Jackson had fallen asleep again within minutes of satisfying his lust, so he truly wasn't aware that she'd simply lain there in his arms as quietly as possible for the rest of the night. His words were not meant as intentional ridicule.

And she realized something else. No matter how much she wanted to deny it, Jackson Carlyle was an exceedingly handsome man. He was dressed in riding attire this morning. A soft cotton shirt strained across his broad shoulders, and tight breeches hugged his long, muscular legs. His riding boots were knee high, made of leather so supple she wondered how they stayed upright on his legs, and the collar of his shirt was open, framing a small tuft of his dark, curling chest hair. Amanda felt her face heat, remembering that hair brushing against her taut nipples last night.

No! she screamed silently, desperately wanting to stop that thought. She had not enjoyed his lovemaking. Not at all. It had been painful, humiliating, devastating. She'd hated every moment of it...hadn't she? Her blush deepened. Of course she had.

In any case, it didn't matter because she was leaving today--somehow. She would never have to feel his weight pressing against hers again, would never have to submit to his erotic kisses, would never have to--

"Fancy, aren't you going to answer my question?" Jackson persisted.

"Yes, of course," Amanda murmured quickly, grateful for the interruption to her painfully confusing thoughts. She took a deep breath. "I slept as well as could be expected, sir."

Jackson frowned. "Are you terribly sore this morning?"

"No," Amanda admitted, touched by his obvious concern. "I just couldn't get back to sleep after..." She bowed her head, embarrassed.

"Ah, I see," she heard him say. Then, "Would you like some coffee?"

Amanda very nearly did smile with that offer. How she did love coffee! But the thought of having one precious cup of her master's coffee--when she'd enjoyed a custom blend each and every morning at Labreaux Plantation-quickly quelled any possibility of smiling. "No thank you, sir," she finally replied, then bent to pick up the serving tray.

"Sit down, Fancy," he said with firm authority. "Have a cup of coffee with me."

Her pride pricked, she said sarcastically, "Is that a command, master?"

"Yes."

Amanda plopped down in a dining chair and glowered at Jackson, not caring if he would consider her behavior "insolent." She might have to obey him, but, by God, she didn't have to like it!

Jackson watched her, hiding a smile. He was breaking his own rule, he realized, by asking her to have coffee with him--treating her differently than the other slaves--but he didn't care. There was such fire in her, such spirit! He wanted to see her smile--really smile--in genuine happiness. Ignoring her glowering expression, he said, "Would you like me to pour?"

"Yes, please," Amanda replied politely, and Jackson reached for an extra cup from the cabinet behind him, then poured two cups of the rich, aromatic brew. He added two teaspoons of sugar to each, and handed one to Fancy.

"To your health," he said, lifting his cup.

Amanda took the first sip of coffee she'd had in weeks, and sighed in contentment. She took another sip. This was dangerous, she realized, watching Jackson across the table. He was being so damned pleasant, it was becoming hard to maintain her emotional distance. And she needed that distance. It was her best defense against his undeniable sensuality.

But she still didn't smile, not knowing, of course, how disappointed Jackson was by that fact. Finally, setting down her cup, she said, "I have finished the coffee. May I be excused now, sir?"

He sighed heavily, a reaction she didn't understand.

"Yes, Fancy, you may go," he said.

Amanda hesitated, wondering at his sudden dejection, but then she shrugged and rose from the table. "Thank you, sir," she said, picking up the breakfast tray.

He nodded, his face somber, and Amanda felt the strangest urge to tell him goodbye. Mammy had told her he would be out on the plantation for the rest of the day, which was perfect for Amanda. With any luck, by the time he returned, she would be long gone. For a fleeting moment, she thought she might miss him, then she shook the thought aside. How could she miss the man who had so cruelly taken her virginity?

But he hadn't really been cruel, just...determined.

Leaving the dining room, she shook her head again. It didn't matter. She must escape. She must be free.

Over the next several hours, Amanda learned a great deal more about the life of a slave. She scrubbed pots until her fingers were raw, scoured the kitchen floor on hands and knees, cleaned out the wood stove and refilled it, then weeded the vegetable garden until she was quite certain her fingernails would be permanently imbedded with dirt--all of which was accomplished just in time to begin preparing the noon meal.

And when she realized that all these chores would have to be done again tomorrow, she very nearly cried--which gave her added motivation to escape.

The only consolation of the back-breaking work was being so helpful to Mammy, and that was also Amanda's single regret. Mammy was such a wonderful, kind soul. Amanda knew she would sorely miss the old cook. If only there were some way to free her, too!

After the noontime meal, once the clean up work had been done, the customary two-hour rest period began, for every slave on the plantation. This was a practical consideration more than anything else. Working in the mid-day tropical sun could cause more harm than good--slaves dead from heat prostration were useless.

But on that particular day, rest was the farthest thing from Amanda's mind. She had devised a plan.

First, she would need a horse.

With the entire plantation resting, going to the stables proved no problem at all. She found ample fine horseflesh, as well as suitable equipment, and she tried very hard not to think of the punishment for horse theft. In Louisiana--and probably in Jamaica, as well--a slave caught stealing a horse would be hung. Amanda's throat went dry. She must not be caught!

Of course, a runaway slave, horse thief or not, faced the same sentence...if the owner decided to carry it out. Publicly hanging an incorrigible slave could bring the rest of the poor chattel to heel. Amanda had seen it done in Louisiana more than once. Her throat constricted a little more.

Even knowing all that, Amanda felt she had no choice. Hands trembling, she picked out a gentle, middle-aged gelding--one she hoped would not be missed--then bridled and saddled him, soon leading him to a thick stand of trees well behind the mansion. No one stopped her. Even the stable boys were in their quarters, resting. She had no idea what she would do if the horse was discovered, but she needed to leave him in those trees until very nearly dusk.

Sneaking back into the house, Amanda checked on Mammy. She was sleeping soundly in her own room--and Amanda breathed a sigh of relief. Now she could think about the second part of her plan...stowing away on a merchant ship, hopefully one destined for New Orleans, or anywhere else in the United States.

Most ships set sail with the morning tide, but some set out at night. She was hoping against hope that she could find one of those--that way she might be safely at sea long before Jackson discovered her missing. And she truly hoped the stolen horse wouldn't be missed until she was long gone.

Once safely away from Jamaica, Amanda intended to come out of hiding, then make arrangements to pay for her passage at the end of the trip. She did have a considerable bank account in New Orleans, after all. She could offer double--even triple--the going rate to a cooperative captain.

Memories of Captain Davis suddenly intruded, and Amanda felt fear clutching her heart again. Was he still in Kingston? Other than Jackson, he was about the only man in Jamaica who would recognize her as Fancy...but she certainly wouldn't stow away on a slave ship. Surely she had nothing to fear from him.

Tropical sunsets are incredibly beautiful but amazingly fast. Amanda was trying to say goodbye to Mammy--without telling the woman anything of her plans--and by the time she'd thanked her for being so kind and hugged her affectionately, it was very nearly dark. Jackson could return at any moment. Amanda hurriedly finished her goodbyes, tucked Mammy into bed for an early night's sleep, then snuck out the kitchen door.

Heart pounding, she made her way to the trees, a rising tropical moon lighting the way. Her only hope of success was that she didn't look like a runaway slave. If she passed anyone on her way to Kingston, they should have no reason to stop her.

The placid gelding was still there--thank God! Amanda mounted without hesitation, then stayed close to the tree line for as long as possible, finally taking off at a full gallop when she reached the main road, not slowing until she was well away from Carlyle Plantation.

The trip into Kingston was so uneventful, Amanda felt her confidence soar. She passed a few people, but they merely smiled and nodded, and Amanda returned the gesture. Luckily, soft cotton clothing was not unusual wearing apparel in Jamaica. By the time she reached the bustling town, her heartbeat had returned to normal. No one had followed her. She was free!

Her plan was working perfectly. As she made her way to the harbor, she decided to leave the gelding somewhere it would be easily found, and returned to Jackson. She had no intention of truly being a horse thief; she had simply borrowed the animal out of necessity. Now all she need do was find sanctuary on a merchant vessel.

Unfortunately, finding a ship proved to be much harder than Amanda had thought.

She snuck aboard three different vessels...and three times she was found and immediately put ashore. Amanda's simple clothing didn't bother the captains, but her lack of ready funds certainly did. Money was the deciding factor every time. Although she told all three men who she was and that she would gladly pay her passage after the voyage, none were terribly impressed with her claim.

Discouraged, Amanda retrieved the placid gelding and began walking down a thoroughfare about a block from the harbor. She was seriously considering riding back to Carlyle Plantation until she could think of a better plan. This one obviously wasn't working. She only hoped she could sneak back on the plantation as easily as she had snuck off it. With all her heart, she didn't want to go back there, but with no money, what else could she do? There really wasn't any choice--

Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a meaty fist grabbed hold of Amanda's shoulder from behind. She gasped with pain from the brutal grip. Then she was spun around...to face Captain Davis.

"What are you doing here, girl?" he growled.

"I...I'm...on an errand for my...m-master," Amanda stammered, desperately groping for a plausible excuse. Dear God, it was just as she'd feared earlier! Captain Davis had caught her!

His hold on her arm tightened. "Sure you are, Fancy," he sneered. "Jackson Carlyle always sends pretty little slaves out in the middle of the night...on horseback."

Amanda paled. The horse really was damning evidence. And he knew Jackson! He even knew she'd been sold to him...

Deciding her only hope was to convince the captain of her true identity, she said, "I know you didn't believe my story on the ship, Captain, but I was telling the truth! I am not the mulatto slave called Fancy. That women is dead, and Jason Harding witnessed her murder. Jason's the one who was lying to you, Captain, not me!"

His grip became so cruel, she whimpered with pain. "Lies!" he bellowed, "Filthy lies!"

"No...no!" Amanda gasped. "They're not lies. Please, believe me!"

"Useless wench!" He grabbed the gelding's reins from Amanda's hand, then began dragging her along beside him.

"What are you doing?" Amanda cried. "Where are you taking me?"

His reply was curt. "I'm returning you to Jackson Carlyle."

Desperate, knowing what could happen to a runaway slave, Amanda pulled back so hard, she forced Captain Davis to stop. "Let me go, Captain...please!" she begged, looking down at his strong, immovable arm.

His face implacable, he shook his head.

Amanda sucked in a ragged breath, trying to calm herself. "Please, Captain, listen to me," she said shakily. "Just let me go and pretend you never saw me. I was going back anyway...I promise to go back. You're right, I was trying to escape, but my plan failed. Please...just let me go back on my own!"

He laughed mirthlessly. "I wasn't born yesterday, wench. Once a runaway, always a runaway." He shook her roughly. "I'm taking you back, Fancy. That's what the law requires, and you might even be worth a reward. Whatever punishment you're given, it's no more than you deserve." He began pulling her toward the harbor again.

Numb, nearly in shock, Amanda followed docilely. Within a short time they reached the captain's ship. He bellowed for a seamen to bring a set of chains, and despite Amanda's whimpered pleas, she soon found herself shackled hand and foot, lying in the back of a wagon.

And as they left the Kingston docks, the gentle gelding trailing behind the wagon, Amanda wondered what would become of her now. By rights, Jackson Carlyle could take her life. Would he do that? Would that be the ultimate end of this nightmare?

She shivered, icy fear clutching her heart. Dear God, I'm not ready to die!

CHAPTER NINE

By the time Captain Davis turned into Carlyle Plantation, Jackson had already started a search for his missing slave. One of his horses was missing too--which made the crime even worse--so when he saw a vehicle trundling into the stable yard, the gentle gelding trailing behind, Jackson knew exactly what he would find in the back of that wagon. His anger knew no bounds.

Reaching the stables just as a familiar sea captain was lifting Fancy to the ground and removing her chains, Jackson called over two nearby field hands.

"Take her to my room," he ordered, glaring directly at Fancy, "then stay there with her."

The field hands immediately grasped her by both arms.

Jackson could see the fear in her sapphire eyes--so much fear she could barely catch a breath--and it suddenly occurred to him that she was afraid for her life. He nearly shook his head, nearly reassured her, then decided against it. Death would not be her punishment, but a healthy dose of fear would do no harm.

He turned to the seaman as soon as Fancy was led away. "Captain Davis, isn't it?" The man nodded. "Thank you for returning her, sir. I appreciate the effort you went to on my behalf." He reached into his wallet and pulled out a generous reward.

"Just doing my civic duty, Mr. Carlyle," Captain Davis replied, smiling, glad to accept the money. "We can't have the little wench running free and telling lies now, can we?"

Jackson was putting his wallet away, but his head snapped up upon hearing that comment. "What did she tell you?" he ground out. Had she lied again, even after being warned?

"Just the same story she told me on the ship, or rather, I should say tried to tell me before I gave her the good beating she deserved. She tells that lie to everyone she meets, according to the man who sold her to me."

Jackson's lurid curse colored the tropical night. Quickly bidding the captain farewell, he picked up a riding crop and headed straight for his room.

His anger had lessened by the time he reached the bedroom, but his determination had grown. He opened the door, then closed it behind him again. He'd warned Fancy not to lie anymore, but she had, and she'd become a runaway slave--as well as a horse thief. Now he would have to punish her. He regretted that, but actions demanded consequences. As a master, he had no choice.

The two field hands still held her in a tight grip.

"Strip her," he said with quiet authority. "Strip her and lay her face down on the bed."

Amanda felt all color drain from her face. She'd seen the riding crop in Jackson's hand. That was the very instrument of punishment she feared the most; the same weapon she herself had once used on a slave. Numb with fear--would she be beaten, then hung?--she didn't even fight the two men as they pulled off her dress and then pushed her down on the bed, holding her securely by the arms and legs.

"When you've been here for a while, Fancy," she heard Jackson say, "you will learn that I very seldom resort to whipping slaves." He paused, and Amanda's heart pounded. "However," he finally continued, "you were warned not to lie again, but you did, telling Captain Davis your ludicrous story. Even worse, you stole a horse and ran away. Do you know what I could do as a result of those crimes?"

Amanda said nothing. She couldn't; her heart was in her throat.

"Answer me, woman," he demanded. "What is a common punishment for horse thieves or runaway slaves?"

"Death," she finally whispered.

"Yes," he replied, then paused again. "I truly regret what I must do now, Fancy...but you will have to agree that being whipped is far better than dying."

Amanda choked back a sob and nodded. She did agree. At least her life had been spared.

If only her escape had been successful! If only she'd been able to stow away on a ship, like she'd intended...she might even now be sailing away from this damnable island. She might be on her way home--

An ear-shattering scream rent the air. Vaguely, Amanda realized it had been wrenched from her own throat, as the riding crop came in contact with her bare buttocks.

The pain was bone deep and as hot as fire.

My God! she thought, when she could think at all, is this what that one slave felt when I used a crop? This horrid, burning, searing pain? How could I have been so cruel? Maybe this beating is God's punishment for my own past! Lost in guilt, she didn't even realize the beating had already ended.

But Jackson had heard that piercing scream, and his hand had stopped in mid-air, before the second blow could land. He'd intended applying three strokes as just punishment, but Fancy's fierce cry had stayed his hand.

It was as if she'd never been punished before, as if she'd never in her life been whipped.

That was ridiculous, of course...but he couldn't strike her again. Her anguished scream had felt like a mule kick to his gut. He threw down the riding crop, cursing his own weakness.

"Leave us," he told the field hands curtly. They immediately obeyed.

Perhaps he couldn't punish her physically...but emotional punishment was often just as effective. Thumbing open the buttons on his pants, he said, "Turn over, Fancy."

She raised her head and looked at him over her shoulder. When she saw what he was doing, her eyes widened. "You wouldn't," she said, incredulous. "Not after...not after what you just--",

"You are a slave, Fancy, a runaway slave, nothing more than a wench to be used for my pleasure." He opened his fly completely, freeing himself. Her eyes widened even more, and her lower lip trembled. Jackson felt a second mule kick to his gut, and he hesitated. Then, firming his resolve, he said, "Turn over, woman. I'm going to use you right now."

Still on her belly, she simply stared at him, as if she couldn't believe he was actually serious.

Jackson bent and picked up the riding crop. "Do I have to repeat myself, Fancy?"

"No," she whispered, her eyes on the whip. "I will obey you." She rolled to her back, wincing. Jackson swallowed hard.

He dropped the crop again, then joined her on the bed. Hooking his elbows under her knees, he pushed her thighs apart until she was completely open to him, entirely vulnerable. Intending to show her just whose property she was, he guided himself to her entrance...but then he cursed.

He couldn't do it.

Her femininity was fever dry, probably from fear, without a hint of preparatory moisture. If he took her this way, the act would be devastatingly brutal. He simply could not intentionally cause her that kind of pain.

Rising from the bed with jerky motions, he readjusted his clothes, then pushed a hand through his hair. Had he become an utter weakling? Perhaps, but he could do no more. The punishment was over.

Cursing softly, he crossed to the dresser, then rummaged through the top drawer. Going back to the bed, he said, "Turn over again, Fancy."

"Why?" she asked, obviously confused by his behavior. Then a shudder ran through her entire body. "Are you going to whip me again?"

A jaw muscle twitched in Jackson's cheek. "No," he said gruffly. "The punishment is finished. I simply want to treat your welt." He held up a glass jar, filled with salve.

Shocked, Amanda complied, again reminded of her own past. She certainly hadn't offered salve to the woman she'd whipped that one time. She'd never even thought of such a thing.

The punishment is finished, Jackson had said. It had been a far more lenient punishment than Amanda had expected. He'd even backed down from his threatened rape.

Amanda felt humbled. And ashamed. Jackson had shown her far more mercy--and for a far worse crime--than she had shown her own house slave.

Then, as he applied the soothing balm to her single welt, Amanda's determination began growing again.

There was only one way to make up for her own past mistakes--she must, simply must, free Labreaux's slaves.

Her first escape attempt had failed, but her second would not. She'd at least learned that it could be done--with proper preparation. She would bide her time and devise a better plan, watching for opportunities.

And then, eventually, she would indeed escape--not only for her own sake, but for the sake of others.

Amanda smiled to herself as Jackson completed his ministrations. Many things were beyond her control at the moment, but she had one thing no one could take from her: A purpose.

And that gave her hope.

The next morning, Amanda arose from her bed at five a.m. again, just as Mammy had done for most of her life, and she helped her with all the kitchen chores, just as she had for the past two days. The work was exhausting, of course, but the company was congenial. Amanda soon learned everything there was to know about Mammy, since the old woman simply loved to talk, and she also soon learned more than she really wanted to know about Jackson Carlyle.

He was thirty-two years old, and he'd been running this plantation since his father passed away ten years ago. Since his mother had died when he was only five, Mammy had quite literally raised him. She'd been his nursemaid from the day he was born, because her own seventh baby had died at birth and there was no use wasting good breast milk. Then, after the young Mrs. Carlyle's passing, Mammy had happily assumed the maternal role. At this point in the story she took a deep breath, and Amanda smiled.

Mammy loved Jackson a great deal. That was very apparent, and Amanda knew she could never tell the old cook about her escape plans. No matter how much she liked Amanda, Mammy would undoubtedly report those plans to Jackson. Her loyalty to him was absolute.

The one redeeming factor to Amanda's continuing slavery was that she could still help her friend. Mammy had an extremely sharp mind, but it was all too apparent to Amanda that the old woman was indeed dying. Mammy couldn't do chores without stopping in between to rest, and her breathing was often erratic. Hard physical labor was simply out of the question. Amanda wondered how Jackson could have missed all these obvious signs of imminent bodily failure, but she had promised Mammy not to tell him about her condition. She would keep her word.

Despite her desire to help Mammy, by the time the mid-day meal was ready to serve, Amanda was looking forward to the afternoon rest period with weary gratitude. The house slaves would eat a simple, nutritious meal consisting of cornbread and chicken stew, while Jackson would feast on thick, juicy steaks, garden vegetables and crusty, oven-fresh bread smothered in butter, all of which would be topped off with hearty red wine...oh, and several slices of pound cake for dessert. His appetite for food was nearly as healthy as his appetite for sex, Amanda thought wryly, looking down at the laden tray. But at least he'd left her alone last night. She had spent the night in her own little bed. She had no desire to serve him another meal, but knowing she had no choice, she simply lifted the tray, firmed her chin and pushed open the dining room door.

She carried out the task with as much dignity as possible, flatly refusing his offer of coffee and silently daring him to force the issue--which he did not--then, once the kitchen was spotless again, she sighed with relief, collapsing on her bed. Her tired body needed this two-hour rest period, and Amanda intended taking full advantage of the time.

She was just drifting off to sleep when the door to her room opened...and Jackson came in, closing the door behind him.

Amanda bristled at the utter lack of privacy--he hadn't even knocked!--but then she shrugged resignedly. Until she escaped, there was nothing she could do about these deplorable conditions, and she was simply too tired to fight. "What is it, Jackson?" she asked wearily. "I really would like to rest for a while."

Jackson raised a single brow at her insolent tone, but then he frowned. She looked utterly fatigued.

Why? he wondered. She had admitted to being a house slave, and yet the work seemed too hard for her. The Jamaican climate wasn't really that different from Louisiana's, so it couldn't be just the heat that had sapped her strength--and she certainly hadn't been a master's spoiled, pampered lover, since Jackson himself had taken her virginity. So why wasn't Fancy used to hard work?

Determined to solve the mystery, he sat down on the bed. Reaching out, he pushed dark tendrils of hair off her flushed cheeks, then bent to kiss her very gently. "Tell me about your life with Jason Harding, Fancy," he said, sitting up again. "What did you do in his home?"

She looked surprised, even shocked by his question, and she didn't answer at first. Was this really such a difficult issue? He couldn't know, of course, that she'd never done anything in Jason Harding's home; she'd never even been there.

"Answer me, Fancy," he persisted, with just a touch of impatience. "When I you ask a question, I expect an immediate answer."

"Jason Harding was not a very kind...master," she finally said. "Could I tell you about Labreaux Plantation instead? I was much happier there."

"Very well," Jackson conceded. "Tell me about the place where you were raised."

She did. Over the next half hour, Jackson heard everything he could possibly want to know about Labreaux Plantation. And by the end of the conversation, he was more confused than ever.

For a house slave, Fancy had an amazingly good grasp of plantation management. Some of the things she'd described could only be learned by actually running a large farming estate. That, of course, was ridiculous. Not only was Fancy a slave, but she was a woman. And women, in Jackson's experience, knew next to nothing about business. The flirtatious debutantes of his social set were far more interested in other things--like catching a husband.

She was exceedingly clever, he finally decided. In her work, she must have overheard the conversations of many planters, and she'd obviously absorbed some knowledge. He was actually quite pleased with the discovery, since he admired quick intelligence. Nodding, that rationalization easing his mind, he patted her hip. "Turn over, Fancy," he said.

She actually smiled. "You say that so often, Jackson. Is it your favorite phrase?"

Jackson smiled with her. She seemed much more relaxed right now, having talked about her childhood home. And he'd finally gotten her to smile--purely by accident. Her smile was delightful; generous pink lips curved upward, sapphire eyes sparkling with merriment. He wanted to kiss her again, wanted to do far more than that, in fact. But he'd come to this room for a purpose, and that should be taken care of first.

Reaching into his coat pocket, he produced the same jar of salve he'd used the night before. "I don't know if that's my favorite phrase, Fancy," he said, "but having you turn over is why I came into this room. I want to treat your welt again."

"You really don't have to do that," she said, blushing. "It's much better now--nearly healed, in fact."

"I'll be the judge of that."

Heaving a sigh of resignation, she rolled over and then shifted positions until she was bending over the bed. "Will this suffice, master?" she asked, and Jackson knew her sarcasm was a defense against embarrassment. He decided to ignore that small defiance.

"Very nicely," he said.

She was blushing all the way to her rounded, bare bottom by the time he lifted her simple cotton dress, exposing the welt--and Jackson felt his heart pound.

He swallowed hard and very deliberately opened the jar, scooped out some salve, then smoothed it over the thin red stripe, which did indeed look much better today.

But even while he continued his gentle ministrations, he wondered why he was doing this...again. Out of guilt?

No, not guilt. He'd been perfectly right to punish Fancy after what she'd done. Was it affection, then? That was certainly a possibility. A man should feel affection for his mistress...even if she wasn't very happy about being his mistress. Yet.

Then Fancy shifted her knees, unconsciously spreading her thighs, and Jackson's thoughts abruptly changed from affection to something far more primitive and elemental. She stretched just a little--as if to ease her lower back--and her soft, round bottom arched enticingly.

Jackson's throat went dry. He set the jar of salve on the floor, then caressed the shadowy cleft between her buttocks...once, twice, his fingers moving ever closer to her dewy pink core.

She stiffened, immediately trying to rise from the ignoble but provocative position. Jackson placed a large hand against her back and held her down.

"Lie still," he demanded huskily, knowing just exactly what he was finally going to do as he kneed her thighs farther apart. "You have yet to experience a woman's full pleasure, Fancy...and I'm going to give you that pleasure right now."

"No," she whispered. "Please...no." But Jackson was already doing it, already exploring her softness, bringing fresh dew to the dusky pink petals. "Please...stop." He heard her repeated plea. Clearly, she did not want to respond to this seduction...but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Not now.

"Hush, little mistress," he said instead. "Relax and enjoy it."

Then her breath broke on a groan of raw pleasure, and Jackson smiled. This was what he'd wanted her to feel. He slipped a finger into her softly quivering sheath, and she arched against his hand, moaning. Breathlessly, almost against her will, she said, "Yes, Jackson...oh, yes!"

He slipped a second finger into her moistening depths, gently moving in and out, his fingers becoming slick and wet. Fancy moaned again.

She was nearly there, Jackson knew, and his fingers moved a little faster, a little deeper. Her satiny sheath tightened perceptibly with the soft tremors of impending climax. Then he touched her tiny, swollen nubbin...and she convulsed fiercely with ecstasy, crying out with sexual joy.

"Now, Jackson...now," she gasped, panting. She was defenseless, he realized, riding the crest of unbearable pleasure. As he watched, she arched more deeply and spread her thighs wide...instinctively, primitively...needing him. "Come into me now, Jackson...please," she rasped.

He ripped two buttons loose in his haste. Finally freeing himself, he entered her quickly, deeply, burying himself in the continuing convulsions of her fierce release.

"Yesss..." he hissed as she clamped around him so tightly he nearly spilled his seed. "Oh, yes."

But he was determined to take her there a second time. Forcing restraint, he took her with slow, deep thrusts, pulling out nearly all the way, then driving back in to the hilt. He placed one hand on each of her buttocks, then watched his slick manhood sliding into her again...and again. The sight was purely erotic, and he bit back a groan, knowing she was nearing that wondrous pinnacle again. He wouldn't take his release until she'd achieved hers, he vowed. This was what he'd wanted to give her...incredible ecstasy.

And then she came, violently, literally screaming with pleasure.

Jackson roared, too, his own culmination pulsing out, filling her...and in that instant Amanda heard the door fly open as Mammy rushed into the room, responding instinctively to her scream, just as she had once before.

Horrid, vivid reality came crashing back in on Amanda.

She knew the picture she presented--a helpless slave, bent over a bed, impaled by her master--and hot shame flooded her cheeks, bitter tears blurring her vision. Mammy very quietly closed the door again, too discreet to say even one word, but Amanda thought she might die of humiliation. She almost wanted to die. Oh God!

She felt Jackson quickly withdraw from her body, then pull her dress back down. He seemed embarrassed himself, but nothing mattered to Amanda. Nothing would help.

For several moments there were no sounds in the small room, save their shared harsh breathing. "I'm sorry, Fancy," he finally said. "I didn't know she would--"

Amanda sobbed brokenly. "Just leave, Jackson," she whispered, cutting off his apology. "Please...just leave."

He hesitated, then patted her back rather awkwardly and quietly left the room.

Amanda stayed just as he'd left her--on her knees--for the longest time. It could have been hours...it could have been days. She didn't know and she didn't care.

She felt embarrassed, mortified, humiliated...but she felt something even worse. She felt completely fulfilled, utterly satiated. No matter how often she told herself she hated what Jackson had just done, she knew she was lying.

And that was the most humiliating thing of all.

She had loved what he'd done, had loved being used by her master...by the man who already owned her body and perhaps was now moving in on owning her soul. That's what it had been, after all. Soul-deep pleasure. Wanton pleasure. Surely the kind of pleasure only a whore would enjoy. But Amanda Labreaux wasn't a whore...was she?

She just didn't know anymore.

CHAPTER TEN

Amanda didn't see Jackson even once for the next several days, but she knew he was somewhere on the plantation because he was still taking his meals in the dining room. Mammy was serving those meals now, and Amanda didn't know if that was Mammy's decision or Jackson's, but she was glad she didn't have to face him--not after what had happened in her room.

The very next day after that embarrassing, troubling experience, Mammy'd handed Amanda a package, saying it was from Master Jack. Upon opening the brown paper parcel, Amanda couldn't help smiling. He had bought her three more simple beige cotton dresses, identical to the one she already owned, but he had bought something else, too. There were also three pairs of serviceable cotton pantalets in the parcel, and Amanda realized then that he was trying to lift her spirits, to ease her feelings of humiliation. Apparently, he'd realized how embarrassed she'd been by her lack of underwear.

All of which made her like him a little for showing such consideration...and since she didn't want to like him at all, that only made her more determined than ever to escape.

Her days were busy, full of work that should have allowed her to fall into exhausted sleep, but Amanda's nights had been fitful. Each time she fell asleep, she would dream of the erotic pleasure Jackson had given her, and she would awaken suddenly, nipples erect, womanhood swollen, aching and empty--silently wishing him in hell at least three times a night.

A proper lady never would have enjoyed what he'd done, and Amanda Labreaux had been a proper, gently-bred Southern lady...until she'd met him. Now she was nothing but her master's wanton whore.

With that thought, Amanda uttered a small whimper of dismay, and Mammy immediately noticed the sound. "What's troubling you, child?" she asked kindly, leaning over to pat Amanda's hand.

They were in the kitchen--of course--peeling an incredibly large pile of potatoes for the evening meal. Amanda set down her paring knife and placed her hand over Mammy's. "It's nothing," she lied, not wanting to burden her friend. "I'm just a little tired today."

Nodding, Mammy resumed her peeling chores. "Being tired, that I can understand," she said.

"Are you tired today, too?" Amanda asked, frowning. Mammy did look more fatigued than usual.

The older woman shrugged. "A little," she admitted, then added, "I worry about you a lot, Fancy. It makes it hard to sleep."

Amanda was surprised. "You worry about me, Mammy? Why?"

Looking up from her work, Mammy searched Amanda's face for a time, then finally said, "I worry that you'll try to run away again."

Amanda chewed her lower lip, knowing she would have to lie. "I'll never do that again, Mammy," she said, hoping she sounded sincere. "I was just...upset...about that first night, and I behaved very foolishly."

Mammy held Amanda's gaze unwaveringly, shrewdness crystal clear in those ebony eyes, and then she sighed. "I'm not sure I believe you, Fancy, but I can only hope you learned your lesson. Considering what you did, Master Jack was very lenient."

Amanda could only agree with that. A runaway slave at Labreaux Plantation would be lucky to have an ounce of skin left on his back after Harold got through with him, if he even survived the punishment. But that very thought reaffirmed Amanda's determination to defeat her half-brother, and she could only do that by escaping.

Deciding she'd better change the subject, feeling very uncomfortable lying to this woman who was her only friend, Amanda said, "What are your plans for this mountain of potatoes, Mammy?"

"Soup," Mammy replied, smiling. "Potato soup is one of my favorite meals, and the others like it--"

Mammy's words abruptly halted as she suddenly went rigid and began gasping for air. She tried to talk, but couldn't, and stark terror filled her eyes. Her dark lips turned pale, then blue, and before Amanda could do anything at all, Mammy slumped over in her chair, then fell heavily to the floor.

"Oh my God!" Amanda cried, immediately falling to her knees beside the stricken woman. "Mammy, what's wrong?" There was no answer; she was as still as death.

"I've got to find Jackson!" Amanda cried out again, desperate, surging back to her feet...but before she could reach the dining room door, she heard Mammy whisper "no."

Amanda spun around, quickly returning to the old cook's side. She knelt again, confused, but realizing the spell must already be passing. Determination fueling her words, she said, "Mammy, I must tell him about these spells. You lost consciousness this time, for God's sake! You need a doctor."

"No," Mammy repeated, a little stronger this time. "Just help me get into bed." She took a harsh breath. "I'll rest for a while, and then I'll be as good as new."

Amanda felt torn between her friend's wishes and what she knew was right. She decided on compromise. "I'll help you get into bed, Mammy, but if you're not fully recovered by morning, I'm going to tell Jackson about these spells."

"Don't be so disrespectful, child," Mammy admonished as Amanda helped her to a sitting position.

"I'll tell Master Jack about these spells, then," Amanda corrected, frustrated that Mammy should care about his damned name at a time like this.

"That's better," Mammy said, rising to her knees. "Just help me get to my feet, Fancy. I think I can walk on my own."

She couldn't, though. She was far too weak, and Amanda helped her all the way to her room behind the kitchen, and into bed. After settling her comfortably and watching her ease into sleep, Amanda returned to the kitchen.

Arms akimbo, looking at the huge pile of potatoes on the work table, she muttered, "I only hope I can figure out how to make potato soup."

The Jamaican sun beating down on her blond head, Elizabeth Carrington slapped the reins against the horse's back again, hoping to get the dull-witted animal to pull the carriage a little faster. The damn heat was wilting her stylish hairstyle, and she would simply die of embarrassment if she should actually perspire before reaching Carlyle Plantation.

She knew it had been foolhardy to decide on impulse to pay Jackson a visit, but he had been ignoring her for days and days, and Elizabeth wasn't used to being treated that way. Especially not by her latest lover.

Patting her blond curls and licking her dry lips, she hoped she would still look sensually pleasing to Jackson when she finally got to his home. They'd been having a delightfully torrid affair for weeks...until he simply quit coming to call several days ago.

Needless to say, Elizabeth was just a little miffed.

"Finally," she breathed, fanning herself, as she pulled the carriage to a halt in front of Jackson's house. "Now I might find out why that man has had the audacity to ignore me."

A young groom came from the stables upon seeing Elizabeth's carriage, and before very long she was being greeted at the front door by the intimidating bulk of Jackson's butler, Toby.

"I've come to see Mr. Carlyle," Elizabeth said haughtily. "Find him for me immediately, boy."

"Yes ma'am," Toby replied, pulling the door wide and gesturing Elizabeth inside. "If you'll just wait in the drawing room, I'll fetch Master Jack."

Elizabeth settled herself on a delicate settee, tugging down the bodice of her watered silk gown, revealing more bosom. Jackson was especially fond of her generous breasts. Her nipples hardened, and she squirmed deliciously. What she really needed was a good dose of cock. Hopefully, Jackson would be in the mood for some hot afternoon bed play...but she must remember to play the innocent with him. The poor fool believed he'd been her first, and only, lover.

Ha! That was about as far from the truth as a lie could get, but Elizabeth chose her lovers very, very carefully--only sleeping with men known for absolute discretion, like Jackson Carlyle. When she eventually tired of him and went on to another man, her virginal reputation would still be intact. She smiled. Men were so easily fooled.

"Elizabeth, how nice to see you again," Jackson said politely, coming into the drawing room.

Elizabeth rose to her feet, then sauntered toward him, hips intentionally swaying. "Yes, it is nice to see me again, isn't it, Jackson?" she cooed.

He seemed untouched, and she frowned. "What brings you out in the heat of the day?" he asked, but his words were merely polite, even though he lifted her hand and kissed it.

Elizabeth pouted, not liking how this was going at all. "I came because I've missed you," she said, her voice sulky. "Why have you been ignoring me, love?"

Jackson wondered the same thing. Why had he been ignoring her? Then the obvious answer occurred to him.

Fancy. He'd completely forgotten Elizabeth because of the sweet mulatto slave. Fancy had been so upset by their last encounter that he'd purposely stayed away from her for several days now, but even with that forced celibacy he hadn't given a single thought to Elizabeth Carrington.

"I've just been busy, Elizabeth," he finally answered, kissing her cheek. "Please accept my apology."

She stiffened, obviously not satisfied with that explanation. "Are you sure you've just been busy, Jackson?" she asked, her tone decidedly catty, "or did you find another innocent girl to seduce?"

Yes, I did, he almost said, since that was exactly the truth--except that Elizabeth was anything but innocent, as he well knew--but undoubtedly that explanation would suit her no better, so he said instead, "Of course not, my dear. Would you care for some refreshments?"

"Coffee would be nice," Elizabeth replied. "And perhaps some supper later and then a little...dessert?"

Jackson caught her innuendo. But--amazingly-he felt absolutely no desire to bed the woman again. Elizabeth's feigned act of virginity the first time he'd taken her had been so patently false, he'd nearly laughed. But, following society's ridiculous gentlemen's creed, he'd held his tongue and allowed her falsehood to stand.

An image of Fancy came into his mind--a true innocent, a sweet virgin with no knowledge of men before him; so unlike the lying tart standing before him now. Suddenly wanting to rid himself of Elizabeth as quickly as possible, Jackson walked to the bell pull and summoned Toby.

Surely Fancy had gotten over her embarrassment by now. He needed her back in his bed.

Exceedingly tall and dressed in severe black, the butler came into the room. "We'll be needing some coffee, Toby," Jackson told him, "and a few of Mammy's delicious tea cakes."

"Yes sir, Master Jack." Toby headed for the kitchen.

Amanda stirred the contents of the large pot, nodding her approval. It certainly looked like potato soup, and it tasted like it, too. She had indeed figured out the recipe. Now all she lacked was baking the cornbread and boiling some green beans, and this meal would be perfection itself--

"Except that I forgot all about Jackson's supper!" she said aloud, snapping her fingers, but then she shrugged. "I guess the master will just have to be satisfied with a slave's meal...at least for one night."

"Are you talkin' to yourself, Fancy?"

Amanda heard that booming voice, turned and smiled broadly at the tall, tall man. She truly liked Jackson's butler. Huge, hulking and incredibly strong, Toby was nevertheless a very likable fellow.

"I guess I was talking to myself," she admitted, laughing. "Can I help you with something, Toby?"

"Yes'm" Toby replied. "Master Jack wants coffee for two in the drawing room. And some of Mammy's tea cakes."

Amanda chewed her lower lip. Mammy was still sleeping, which meant she couldn't possibly serve refreshments to Jackson and his guest. Amanda would have to do it herself. How she hated that idea! She didn't want to see him...

"Are you all right, Fancy?" Toby asked, and Amanda realized she was frowning.

"Yes, yes, just fine, Toby," she answered, forcing a smile, but her thoughts were already moving on to making coffee and setting out tea cakes. If she must do this task, she wanted it over with as quickly as possible. "I'll see to the refreshments," she assured him. "Will you tell Master Jack they'll be ready in just a few minutes?"

"Sure, Fancy," Toby agreed. Then, almost hesitantly, he added, "He's entertainin' Miss Elizabeth." He ducked his head, and Amanda thought he actually blushed. "Chances are, she'll be staying the night," he continued, talking to the floor. "So I guess she'll be needin' supper. I sure hope you can stretch Master Jack's supper to feed two."

And with that message delivered, Toby left the kitchen.

Amanda watched the dining room door swing shut behind him, and she nibbled her lip again.

"How do I stretch nothing?" she muttered. "I can't very well serve a slave's meal to Jackson's guest. What would Mammy do?" She gave the soup two or three more stirs, then shrugged her slender shoulders again. "I guess I'll just have to kill more chickens," she said.

Then, with a sudden realization, she smiled. If Jackson's guest was staying the night, then he already had a mistress for his bed--and Amanda would be free of his attentions for at least another day.

Free of his attentions, and free of her traitorous body's reaction to him.

A short time later, arms aching, Amanda made her way to the drawing room, carrying a heavily-laden tray. Toby opened the doors, and she took a deep breath, then walked into the room where the last person she wanted to see on this earth was waiting for her to serve him.

Seated together on the rose brocade settee, Jackson and his guest both turned as Amanda came into the room. Amanda tried not to look at Jackson, but she couldn't resist...and she caught the look of pure, raw hunger on his handsome face. Apparently, his blond lady friend saw it too. Her eyes narrowed in anger.

Amanda's arms were literally trembling by the time she reached the mahogany serving table. Gratefully, she set down the heavy tray. She didn't dare look at Jackson again, but his masculinity was nearly tangible--his undeniable virility, and the scents of leather, musk and man.

Her senses traitorous, her hands still shaking, Amanda poured two cups of steaming coffee from the silver urn, added sugar, and then finally turned to look at him. "Will that be all, sir?" she asked politely, hoping against hope that he and Miss Elizabeth wouldn't need anything else.

Jackson didn't answer at first. He had been watching the sweet slave as she crossed the room, watching the graceful sway of her delightful, round bottom--remembering the feel of her buttocks in his hands as his manhood slid in and out of her slick, satiny heat--watching the gentle bounce of her breasts beneath her dress. And he'd watched her soft lips form the question she'd just asked--but for the life of him, he couldn't remember what it was. God, she was beautiful. And he wanted her now.

She was just standing there, awaiting his answer, looking pale and fragile and like she'd rather be anywhere else but here. But there was a smoldering sensuality beneath that fragile, innocent surface, and Jackson knew it. Like an animal sensing its mate, he could even smell it.

Yes, her feminine scent...clean, fresh, womanly. Wonderful. And then he saw it--the moment her body betrayed her, the moment she began responding to his heated gaze. Her nipples peaked, her cheeks flooded with color, and her hips undulated just the littlest bit. Even her scent changed. Ah yes, her scent was seeking now...seeking him, needing satisfaction. He wanted to ravish her on the spot, to devour her whole, and she knew it. Her lips trembled, parted...and she moaned. It was an utterly helpless sound.

"Is this why you've been ignoring me, Jackson?" The screeching, jarring voice of Elizabeth Carrington abruptly broke the spell, as she jumped up from the settee in a swirl of silk and petticoats. "Have you been bedding this little slut instead of seeing me?"

Jackson tore his gaze from Fancy and turned a cool stare on his former lover. "What did you just say, Elizabeth?" he asked quietly. "What did you call her?"

Jackson saw her realize her mistake. Obviously wanting to make up for it, she sauntered to him and placed a small, well manicured hand on each lapel of his frock coat, then toyed with his silk cravat. "I was just commenting on this slave's obvious sexual experience," she said, her voice placating. "I know men have certain...needs...and that they often use female slaves to see to those...needs." She produced a well-practiced blush before continuing. "But, Jackson, ever since you took my innocence, I naturally assumed that you would be faithful to me. That's all I meant by what I said."

Suddenly very tired of the strumpet's lies, Jackson said, "Your innocence, Elizabeth?" He raised a single brow. "What innocence?"

She looked shocked at the question, but continued her act anyway. "Why, Jackson, you should know," she murmured, lowering her eyes as if embarrassed. "You were the one who...took it."

He'd had enough. Sighing, he said, "My dear Elizabeth, have you any idea how easy it is for a man to know if a woman is virginal...or not?"

She stiffened and raised her chin. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you're a liar, Elizabeth," he answered quite calmly. "I seriously doubt you've had an intact maidenhead since you reached puberty."

Caught, Elizabeth dropped the act. "At least I'm not a sluttish little slave who spreads her thighs to gain favors from the master," she hissed venomously. "How do you pay your whore, Jackson? Do you give her extra food or maybe let her sleep at the foot of your nice, soft bed like a favored pet?"

He slapped her then. Good and hard. "There is only one slut in this room, Elizabeth," he growled. "And she is leaving right now." He didn't even bother with the bell pull, simply bellowed for Toby.

"Yes sir, Master Jack?" Toby calmly responded, immediately coming into the room.

"See Miss Elizabeth to the door," Jackson said tersely, his eyes still on the harlot. "And see that she never comes into my home again."

Elizabeth put a hand up to her stinging cheek. She looked at Fancy, obvious hate in her eyes, then looked back at Jackson. "You'll regret this someday," she promised, her voice shaking with anger. "You may be satisfied with your whore right now, but someday you will regret not having me in your bed."

"The only thing I regret, Elizabeth," Jackson replied, quite calmly, "is ever having met you."

And with that, Jackson signaled Toby, who gently but firmly took hold of Elizabeth's arm, then led her away.

Fancy hadn't moved an inch during the entire episode, Jackson realized, and she certainly hadn't defended herself, but he could see the pain in her sapphire eyes. She'd told him that first night that she didn't want to be his "whore," and she'd apparently taken Elizabeth's cruel words to heart. He swallowed hard. Even he had said she was merely a wench for his pleasure while punishing her. Now he regretted those words.

Wanting to comfort her--needing to comfort her--he opened his arms. But instead of running into his embrace, she backed away.

He held firm. "Come here, Fancy," he said. "Come here to me now."

She capitulated on a little sob, and he knew he'd been right. She did think of herself as a whore, which was the farthest possible thing from the truth. Closing his arms, he held her tightly.

"I'm sorry you had to hear all that, Fancy," he murmured, stroking her back, determined to ignore the soft, sweet breasts pressed against his chest. "Don't let her words hurt you. None of them were true."

She raised her head to look into his eyes. "But she was right, Jackson," she said so softly he could barely hear. "I am a whore."

Jackson felt emotions he didn't dare define. "Little mistress," he answered, purposely using the gentler title, "you were an innocent until the moment I first touched you. And you could never, ever be a whore."

No longer able to resist, he kissed her then. Slowly, searchingly, languorously, gently urging her lips to part for his tongue. She shuddered and obeyed, and he penetrated deeply, taking her mouth with the fierce, vibrant passion he could no longer deny. "Little mistress," he said against her parted lips. "My mistress...mine."

Amanda's resistance shattered. "Damn you, Jackson," she murmured as he trailed hot, sultry kisses down her throat. She was becoming lost again, utterly lost to delirious sensation. "Damn you for making me want you."

"Such insolence," he said softly, smiling, moving back up to her lips, his nimble fingers unbuttoning her simple cotton dress. "Do you remember what I promised to do if your sweet mouth was insolent again?"

"Yes," Amanda whispered, knowing he would kiss her again, feeling her buttons opening but simply not caring anymore, not with the maelstrom of erotic sensations coursing hotly through her veins.

The second kiss was even more devastating than the first. Jackson's mouth was fiercely demanding, intensely sensual, utterly dominating. Amanda wasn't even aware that all her buttons had been undone until she felt his hands cup her bare breasts--and then she trembled from head to toe, moaning softly against his lips.

She felt the dress leave her shoulders, felt it slip to the floor, then found herself standing before him wearing nothing but her cotton pantalets.

The kiss ended, the sensual spell nearly ending with it, but then Jackson crossed to the drawing room doors--and locked them--and Amanda's femininity quivered, becoming moist with need. She knew why he wanted privacy.

"No one will disturb us this time," he promised, quickly removing his own clothes.

Amanda nodded, still trembling softly, simply standing there--waiting. She didn't even try to dissuade him from his obvious goal. What was the use? She had no power to stop him in any case, but even if she had, Amanda knew in the very depths of her being that she wouldn't have refused him now.

"Did you like my small gift?" he asked then, untying the drawstring at her waist, his own body completely naked now.

She nodded again, blushing, suddenly embarrassed at being so totally exposed. He didn't seem to notice as he eased the pantalets over her hips, then let them drop to the floor. Within moments, she found herself scooped up in his muscled arms, then seated on the mahogany serving table, facing him, the tray holding now-cold coffee set out of the way.

He spread her thighs wide...and the heat in her cheeks doubled. His gaze was fastened on her most intimate place. "Lean back on your elbows, Fancy," he said.

She complied, having no idea why he wanted her positioned that way but too embarrassed, too mesmerized to attempt arguing. But then he knelt between her legs, his thumbs gently parted her feminine folds...and she thought she understood what he intended to do.

"No, Jackson...please!" she gasped, shocked. "You can't kiss me there--"

"I need to taste you, Fancy," he replied, his voice thick with passion, his face moving inexorably closer to her feminine core.

"No...I can't...please don't," Amanda persisted, but he held her thighs wide in a gentle but uncompromising grip, his mouth descending completely to her womanhood.

His hot tongue touched her then, began exploring, delving into the soft folds, flicking over the tiny button that seemed to be the center of all her erotic sensations. Amanda whimpered, melting, surrendering. Then his tongue penetrated the very core of her desire, thrusting, withdrawing, penetrating again--and Amanda gasped with raw ecstacy, climaxing against his mouth in convulsive waves of utter rapturous bliss. Her head fell back, her throat worked, and a million rainbow colors danced behind her closed eyes. She had never felt such joy. "Oh my God, Jackson," she gasped, breathless. "Oh...my...God!"

He stood, and before Amanda could take another shaky breath, he entered her deeply, fully, impaling her to the hilt on his rigid, pulsing sex. She could feel his heartbeat in the very core of her womanhood, and she whimpered again.

Opening her eyes, she watched him as he took his pleasure--and gave her such undeniable pleasure in return. The rippling muscles of his abdomen shifted with each thrust of his powerful hips, the muscles in his upper arms bulging as he gripped her buttocks. Then his features distorted with stark, raw passion as his thick manhood convulsed in orgasm, and the pure, unadulterated joy on his face sent Amanda over the edge again. She couldn't name the feeling blossoming in her heart, but seeing the utter bliss in his expression doubled her own joy. They had shared a wonderful moment together. That she simply could not deny.

Still in the soft afterglow of lovemaking, she felt him gather her in his arms. Her thoughts were fast coming back to reality, and she didn't want that. She didn't want to wake up from this delicious feeling of peace and fulfillment, didn't want to remember that this man had absolute control over her life...

But as he lowered her to the thick Turkish carpet, then lay down beside her, the languorous spell finally ended. Amanda stiffened in his arms, trying to pull free.

"Don't, Fancy," he murmured, pulling her close again and draping one long, muscular leg over her body. "Don't pull away from me. We aren't finished yet." Lifting her chin, he kissed her--and Amanda gasped.

"You can't mean it!" she exclaimed, struggling against his strength. "You've just now...you cannot possibly want me again so soon!"

"Ummm, yes I can," he assured her, nuzzling her throat, subduing her struggles with devastating ease. "It's been several days since I've had your sweet body, little mistress. I can take you again right now, and I will."

Amanda felt the burgeoning, lengthening evidence of his renewed passion against her thigh, and a low sound escaped her throat. Was the sound pleasure, or dismay? Even she didn't know...but he was kissing her again.

Caressing her.

Stroking her intimately.

Driving her to incredible heights of mindless erotic need. And Amanda heard herself saying, "Yes, Jackson...yes. Take me again...please."

"Touch me first," he murmured, placing her hand on his rigid arousal, curling her fingers around his massive length. "Move your hand up and down along the shaft."

Amanda was beyond arguing. She obeyed, stroking him as instructed, gasping with awed delight as he hardened and thickened even more in her hand.

"Straddle my thighs," he demanded, his voice rough, husky. He lay back on the carpet, his manhood standing at attention, awaiting her compliance.

And she did comply. Seeing that jutting hardness, knowing she'd help create it with her own hand, Amanda obeyed again--immediately--moaning with pure erotic joy when he grasped her hips and impaled her with a single, powerful thrust.

He watched her. Pumping into her sweetness, Jackson loved seeing Fancy like this; nude, undulating, serving him so well. She was a perfect, innocent nymph, matching his rhythm instinctively, grinding against him, and he groaned, finally capturing her pretty breasts, rolling her little pink nipples between his fingers and thumbs. She moaned again, arching, her nipples becoming harder, even more erect, and he smiled. He did so love giving her pleasure.

Somewhere in the midst of this erotic indulgence, one small thought crept into Jackson's mind, gradually forcing its way to the front of his brain...He'd never before seen a mulatto with pink nipples. If he hadn't been so nearly to the peak of sexual bliss, Jackson might have realized that this fact--along with Fancy's sapphire-blue eyes--gave great credence to her story, to what he thought of as her lie.

But just as his mind began grasping that fact, Fancy bent over, offering her breasts to his mouth. With a deep groan, he answered her silent plea, swirling his tongue around those taut, pink buds, sucking, then licking again, no longer thinking about her dissimilarities to other mulatto slaves.

Amanda was lost to the sexual joy of the moment, too. No longer worrying about sin or shame, she was reveling in the feel of Jackson's mouth on her aching nipples, glorying in the deep thrusts of his powerful sex. Hips moving, breathing in the musky scent of their lovemaking, she was searching for that explosion of ecstasy just beyond her reach. And then she found it, touched it, reached that ultimate state of bliss, enthralled by the knowledge that Jackson had joined her there again.

Too sated to even move, she collapsed atop his chest, feeling him run his hands up and down along her back in a gentle, surprisingly tender caress. If only she could just stay here like this, the rest of it wouldn't matter...

Slowly, inevitably, reality crept back in, and along with it came self-loathing. Amanda didn't blame Jackson for his lust. He was a man, after all, and men really did have certain "needs," just like Elizabeth had said.

But Amanda was a lady--or at least she used to be--and a lady wasn't supposed to revel in erotic bliss, especially not with a man who would never be her husband. Then another thought occurred, and Amanda sat up abruptly, smiling wryly despite her troubled soul.

Raising one brow, smiling himself, Jackson said, "Why are you grinning like an imp, woman?"

Still joined with him, now straddling his hips, Amanda didn't answer immediately...but her smile widened.

She'd just spent the better part of an hour making glorious, passionate love with her master, and as a direct result of that, he would most definitely have to eat the simple food usually served to his slaves. It was nearly supper time, Mammy might well sleep until morning, and Amanda would be far too busy with the very chores Jackson had assigned her to make him any kind of special meal--even fried chicken.

He frowned, obviously not pleased that she hadn't answered his question immediately--but Amanda didn't care.

Feeling like she'd somehow won a small victory, she said, "I hope you like potato soup, Jackson."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was a music room--a music room! She'd never noticed it before, but oh, how Amanda did love music! It was at the end of a long hallway, and until today she'd never even known it existed. The room was smallish, as if it weren't very important to the designers of the mansion, but to Amanda, music was very, very important. It was food for the soul.

She'd come this way in search of Mammy, since she hadn't seen her for a couple of hours and she was becoming increasingly worried about the old woman's health. Then she'd seen Mammy at the other end of the hall, apparently just fine, and at the same moment she'd caught sight of a pianoforte--finding the music room.

As she entered the room slowly, almost reverently, Amanda became engulfed in memories of her life at Labreaux Plantation. How many times had she enjoyed a quiet evening with friends, listening to the wonderful sounds of a pianoforte, a harp or a violin? More times than she could count, Amanda realized, because her father had truly appreciated music, and he'd taught Amanda to appreciate it, too.

And those evenings had been more than just occasions to listen to music. Amanda had also entertained their friends, being proficient herself on the pianoforte and having a rather pleasing singing voice, or so she'd been told many times.

Suddenly, Amanda's thoughts strayed to her half-brother, Harold, and how often he had sneered at her enjoyment of music. Harold had no time or patience for gentle, soul-nurturing pleasures, instead preferring much more bawdy pursuits, especially gambling and wenching...and another memory surfaced with that thought.

A terrible, painful memory of watching Harold rape and murder the real Fancy.

Feeling her knees go weak, Amanda sank down in an upholstered chair. For a moment she felt such utter despair, she couldn't even breathe. Harold had murdered Fancy, and then--with Jason Harding's help--he'd sold Amanda into slavery. If not for the two of them, Amanda would still be enjoying those wonderful evenings filled with music and friends. And Fancy would still be alive.

Needing to comfort herself, needing to block all thoughts of Harold and what he had done from her mind, Amanda impulsively crossed to the pianoforte and sat down on the bench. She caressed the deep grain of the wood, running her fingers over the satiny mahogany, and then finally touched a single ivory key. The rich, clear, bell-like tone of middle "C" rang out from the keyboard, and for the first time since the flood of memories began, Amanda smiled.

Then she placed both hands upon the keys, closed her eyes...and played.

Jackson's head snapped up when he heard the unmistakable sound of a pianoforte. He'd been immersed in paperwork for hours on end, sitting at the desk in his study, just down the hall from the music room.

His father had always loved music, but Jackson had been told that his mother had loved it even more. He had vague memories of his mother's playing and much clearer memories of his father's fumbling attempts on the instrument after her death. Playing it had seemed to ease his grief.

But no one--no one at all--had played that pianoforte since his father's death nearly ten years ago.

Jackson had kept the instrument tuned, in memory of his parents, but the music room had been silent for all those years...until now.

He didn't believe in ghosts. Driven by a need to discover who was playing the thing--and playing it very well--Jackson rose from his desk and left the study.

Amanda was lost in wonderful memories now--no longer thinking about Harold--and tears of joy were streaming down her cheeks. She could almost feel her father standing behind her, looking over her shoulder and watching her hands gracefully flitting across the ivory keys, just as they were doing right now. She was playing a Strauss waltz, and the music brought a lump of emotion to her throat. This particular composition had been her father's favorite.

Suddenly, Amanda's tears changed in character dramatically, becoming maudlin instead of joyful. She would never see her father again, of course, since he had been dead for several years, and now--because of what Harold had done--there was a good possibility she would never see her home again, either.

No matter how much she wanted to escape and return to her former life--no matter how much she wanted to carry out her goal of freeing the slaves at Labreaux--Amanda hadn't come up with a single workable plan. And she had no idea when, or even if, an infallible plan would occur to her.

Despondent now, but still unwilling to stop playing the wonderful instrument, Amanda closed her eyes again, let the tears fall...and began singing a ballad, hoping the moving words and haunting melody would somehow soothe her soul.

Jackson was awestruck. He simply stood there in the doorway of the music room, listening to the most beautiful soprano voice he'd ever heard. The emotion the singer was putting into her words and into accompanying herself on the pianoforte were so deep, so palpable, he felt them all the way to his own soul.

And that singer, that pianoforte player was Fancy.

Fancy? How could that be? A house slave who knew how to play the pianoforte, and who had the singing voice of an angel? How in the world had Fancy managed to learn these things?

A thought struck his mind--the thought that Fancy's ludicrous lie could actually be true--but Jackson dismissed it, out of an instinctual need for self-preservation more than anything else. His honor was at stake, after all.

If Fancy were truly a woman named Amanda Labreaux, then he himself would be guilty of a crime nearly as heinous as the one her so-called half-brother had committed.

He would be guilty of rape--and there was no gentler term to describe it--if the women he had forced to become his mistress was indeed a free white woman and not a mulatto slave.

That thought was too painful to even contemplate. Jackson had never forced himself on a free woman, had, in fact, never had to do anything more than make a subtle suggestion to the few female slaves he had bedded in the past, and they would willingly, happily come to him.

Until Fancy, that is.

The first moment he'd seen her, he'd known she was different, special. And he'd soon realized that he must, simply must, make her his own in the most primitive way--whether she agreed to his possession or not.

And so he'd taken her that first night--against her will--but he'd taken her nonetheless, ending her innocence with one painful thrust. And he'd continued slaking his lust on her from that day forward...right up until what they'd shared in the drawing room yesterday afternoon. That would add up to six or seven assaults by now, if he were indeed guilty of rape.

Jackson's mind slammed shut with that thought, closed down tight against that unthinkable, unbearable possibility. Fancy was not a free white woman named Amanda Labreaux, and therefore he had not raped her. No, he had merely used a female slave in a way that was completely within his rights as her master. He had not done anything wrong!

Nearly convinced that his honor was still intact, Jackson moved on to the solution of this very perplexing problem. How had Fancy learned to play so well? The singing could be explained easily enough. Many a night he'd heard soulful hymns drifting on the evening breeze from the slave cabins. But until now, he'd never known even one slave who could play the pianoforte--and play it exceedingly well.

Knowing there was only one way to gain the answer to that question, Jackson finally said, "I didn't know you could play, Fancy. How is it that a slave came by such knowledge?"

Amanda's heart jumped into her throat when she heard that deep voice from behind her. She twisted around to face Jackson, moving so quickly there was no time to cover her tears or to mask her expression of utter despair. She had hoped the ballad would soothe her soul, but the effort had been futile. And now she was facing her master, and he had just asked her a question she couldn't possibly answer...at least not without telling the truth, which was something he wouldn't listen to, wouldn't tolerate, and would undoubtedly punish her for saying.

"I asked you a question, Fancy," he persisted, his voice firm, authoritative. "And you know how I feel about your not answering my questions immediately."

"I..." Amanda began, then faltered. What could she say? "I learned how to...play...at...Labreaux Plantation," she finally managed, hating herself for fearing Jackson but fearing him just the same. "My master loved music," she continued, feeling a little more confident with that admission, since a father was a master of sorts, "and he gave me lessons so that I could entertain him."

Jackson nodded--and sighed with immense relief, since that made perfect sense. He smiled then, so grateful he'd been right to dismiss Fancy's story as a lie, he could barely contain his happiness. His honor was indeed still intact.

But Fancy wasn't happy. The expression on her lovely face was so sad, so utterly despondent that Jackson's smile abruptly faded. He'd been so intent on getting an answer to his damn, troubling question that he'd failed to notice her look of abject misery until now.

"Why are you crying, Fancy?" he asked quietly, coming to sit beside her on the piano bench. "Is something wrong?"

She swallowed convulsively, which he didn't understand, then said, "Nothing is wrong, Jackson; really. I was just...responding to the music."

The statement was so patently false, he very nearly accused her of lying again, but something in her sapphire eyes stopped the admonition. Whatever was bothering her, it had caused a pain that was soul deep, searing, a pain so terrible it was nearly suffocating in its intensity.

His own breath caught in his throat. Knowing he shouldn't, but knowing he must, he drew her into a gentle, tender embrace. "If you need to cry, Fancy, go ahead and do it," he said softly, kissing her temple. "I've been told I have very broad shoulders. I seriously doubt having a woman cry on them would cause me any permanent damage."

Amanda realized what he was doing. He was being affectionate, of all things, even trying to lighten her mood through humor, just as if he truly cared.

And with that realization, she fell apart at the seams. This man had saved her from being molested at the auction, then bought her for his own pleasure, forcing her submission and ending her innocence. Even worse, since that fateful night, she had learned to crave the sinful, wanton pleasure he was so capable of giving her.

And worst of all, now he was being kind...incredibly kind. It was simply too much! Succumbing, Amanda leaned against Jackson's shoulder and sobbed her heart out; crying for the life she might never know again, crying for the bone-deep shame of having become his whore--his willing whore, now--and crying for Jackson himself, because he would never understand that what he had done to her was utterly, totally, morally wrong. Even if she'd been a true slave, his possession would have been wrong. Amanda knew that now, but Jackson didn't--and wouldn't. He was a slave owner to his very bones. And she could never be a slave owner again.

Jackson heard her sobs, felt her shudders...and then, quite suddenly, his heart melted. Every event of the last few days replayed itself in his mind as Fancy flooded his coat with salty tears. Jackson examined it all, examined every moment he'd spent with this sweet mulatto slave.

When he'd first seen her at the auction, chained to that pole and utterly helpless, he'd felt a surge of raw anger that she was about to be publicly fondled and then sold--perhaps even to a brothel. Most likely to a brothel as a matter of fact, considering the presence of one particular lecher in that crowd of appreciative men. Hamilton Brown was the owner of the most notorious brothel in Kingston, and a man with a good deal of money to spend. Brown could have easily outbid any other man at the auction that day--except Jackson Carlyle.

Until this moment, Jackson hadn't realized that was just exactly why he'd stopped the sale. By buying Fancy himself, for nearly double the normal price, he'd most likely saved her from a life of whoredom to countless men.

The big question was, Why? True, he'd soon decided he wanted her in his own bed, but why had he felt such a fierce need to protect her on the slave block?

Because you already loved her, his heart answered quite simply. You fell in love with her on first sight.

He stiffened. No!

To Jackson--or any other man in his society--the idea of loving a slave was intolerable. Such things simply did not happen; they weren't allowed to happen. Masters could use female slaves for pleasure, but they could never, ever fall in love with them.

Then why did you stop the whipping after she ran away? his heart quietly persisted. Why did you find it simply impossible to continue her punishment?

Certainly not because I love her...

And then you treated her welt with salve--not once, but twice, his heart continued relentlessly. Were those the actions of a man with no deep feelings for his slave?

Jackson sighed, then shook his head to clear it. Now he was talking to himself. And all because of the little slave who was still drenching his shoulder with tears. Almost absently, he patted her back.

Of course he had treated her welt! That was merely a reasonable thing to do. He'd simply wanted to make sure her sweet bottom would bear no scar. His motives were purely selfish...nothing more.

Liar, his heart insisted, but Jackson ignored it. Only a fool would fall in love with a slave. Society would rebuke such a man, banish him from their vaunted midst. Jackson had known no other life. He couldn't tolerate the thought of social ostracism.

And what would happen to Fancy if he loved her? A mulatto could never be accepted by his friends; would never, ever be considered an equal, even if he freed her. So, if he loved her, wouldn't she suffer for it, even as he would?

She stirred in his arms then, interrupting his thoughts, and he realized she'd finally stopped crying.

"Thank you, Jackson," she murmured, sniffling. "I'm sorry I've been such a bother, but you've been very kind to help me this way."

Without thought, automatically, he pulled out a handkerchief. "Blow," he said.

She did, daintily, then looked up at him with those tear-misted blue eyes.

And in that moment his heart melted all over again...which made him angry because he'd just spent ten minutes talking to himself, convincing himself that he was not in love with the little slave. She was merely his possession, his plaything, wasn't she?

Feeling fear he wouldn't acknowledge, needing to reestablish his rightful mastery, Jackson very deliberately cupped her breast, thumbing the nipple. "No thanks are necessary, wench," he said with intentional coolness. "I simply wanted it out of your system. I'm in need of a willing, writhing bed slave, not one who will flood my room with tears. Go upstairs right now, and strip."

She bristled and tried to push his hand away, but Jackson merely grasped her wrist, then fondled her again. "You have no choice but to obey, Fancy." His voice was as cold as ice. "This body belongs to me--you are my slave."

Shocked by his sudden change in attitude, Amanda gritted out, "I know that only too well, master."

Had she actually thought he was being kind to her...caring?

"Why bother going all the way to your bed, master?" she continued with bitter sarcasm. She couldn't believe how easily he'd fooled her! "Wouldn't it be more convenient to use me right here on the floor, or perhaps atop the pianoforte? Or maybe I should just kneel and bend over! Make your choice, master. Your little whore is only too willing to oblige. Maybe, if you're lucky, someone will even walk in on us again."

Jackson's eyes narrowed. "Insolence is very unbecoming in a slave, Fancy," he warned.

Amanda threw both hands up to her cheeks. "Oh dear, don't tell me the master is going to kiss his insolent slave into submission again!" Her sarcasm was thicker than sugarcane syrup.

"Not this time, Fancy," he said flatly. "This time your insolence will be punished in a far less pleasant way."

Amanda blanched. Dear God, she'd pushed him too far...

"W-what do you mean by that?"

In answer, he said simply, "Remove your clothes."

Frightened, she didn't argue. In mere moments, she was naked.

"Now play something for me," he said, calmly settling into an armchair, nonchalantly crossing one leg over the other, his fingers steepled. "Since you were trained on the pianoforte to please your master at Labreaux, you may use that training to please your new master as well."

A blush of shame spread over Amanda's entire body. He was forcing her to play for him in the nude! Could anything be more humiliating? Probably not, which was exactly why he was doing it. The punishment was perfect...diabolically perfect, especially for a gently-bred Southern belle.

Without a word, she complied, determined to survive the ordeal with dignity--and Jackson tried, truly tried, to maintain his anger while she played. He couldn't do it.

She was obeying him, of course, playing beautifully, with her spine so straight, her chin held high, so very determined to hold onto her pride...and yet she was crying again, very, very softly. And those tears were ripping a huge hole in what would have been his heart, if he had one. Which he must not, if he could be so callous and cruel to this woman when he admittedly felt something for her beyond mere lust. Not love. Never that. But surely affection; yes, affection at the very least.

"Fancy," he said, coming up behind her and holding out her clothes. "I'm sorry. This was rather cruel. Please accept my apology."

She sighed and stopped playing, but she wouldn't look at him. Then, for the second time in several days, she said, "Just leave, Jackson. Please...just leave."

He did, denying what his heart persisted in telling him. He was not in love with a slave!

CHAPTER TWELVE

"Fire! Fire in the fields!"

It was a little past midnight, and at first Amanda thought she was dreaming. Then she heard the shouted words again, and she jerked upright with a start.

Fire. One of the worst possible words for a plantation owner to hear. Not only could valuable crops be lost to a fire, but also animals, slaves' quarters, even slaves themselves while fighting the blaze.

Amanda pushed back the satiny coverlet, jumped from Jackson's bed and rushed toward the window, heedless of her nudity. The window was open, and she peered into the darkness.

Far beyond the well-manicured lawn and beautiful gardens of the mansion, she could see the ghastly orange glow which reaffirmed that terrible word: Fire.

Still thinking automatically, not even remembering yet where she was, or who she was for that matter, Amanda turned away from the window, intending to pull on her clothes and start directing the efforts to save her crops.

Only then, when she saw Jackson leaving the bed, his magnificent body as naked as hers, did Amanda's reality return with a brutal jolt.

She was not at Labreaux Plantation. She was not a plantation owner who had fought more than one fire in her lifetime. She was a mulatto slave named Fancy, and she was this man's property--as he had proven very well just hours ago.

For two days after that humiliating punishment in the music room, he had left her alone. Apparently he did have a conscience of some sort, for he seemed truly sorry for what he had done.

Then, last night, he calmly demanded her presence in his bed again, and Amanda simply obeyed. What else could she do?

So here she was now, watching Jackson cross the room toward her, watching his lean, well-muscled body move with the grace of a jungle cat...and remembering the potent, erotic power of his lovemaking just hours earlier, though she truly wished she wasn't.

"Was I dreaming, Fancy?" he said, reaching her side. "I could have sworn I heard someone yell 'fire.'"

Before Amanda could reply, a heavy pounding on the bedroom door and Toby's booming voice shouting, "Master Jack, come quickly! One of the cane fields is burnin'!" answered Jackson's question for him.

He immediately grabbed his clothes, quickly pulling them on. As he sat to pull on boots, he looked up at Amanda. She was dressing as quickly as he was. "What do you think you're doing?" he said.

"I'm going to help fight the fire," Amanda calmly replied, buttoning her dress.

"No, you are not," Jackson informed her, pulling on his second boot and then standing up to his full, intimidating height. "House slaves do not fight fires, Fancy. Field hands do that."

Amanda rolled her eyes heavenward in exasperation. "I know field hands fight fires, Jackson, but someone has to direct them, and you simply cannot be in more than one place at a time. I'm going to help."

The imminent danger to crops, animals and lives fueled Amanda's determination. No matter whose plantation this was, pitching in to save it was simply the right thing to do.

Jackson frowned. "What do mean by that, Fancy?" he asked. "Are you saying you've directed slaves fighting a fire?"

Still thinking of the danger--especially to lives--Amanda sat on the bed and slipped her feet into well-worn shoes. "Of course I have," she answered automatically.

He descended upon her like a darkly avenging angel, grasping her arms and pulling her to her feet. "Are you lying again?"

Amanda winced from the strength of his grip, abruptly reminded of reality again. Jackson wouldn't accept her truth, and she'd forgotten to choose her words carefully. "N-no," she finally stammered, searching her mind for something he would believe. "It's just that my master trained me to--"

"He trained you to fight fires, just like he trained you to play the pianoforte?" Jackson thundered, cutting off her words. "Do you honestly expect me to believe that, Fancy?"

"Not fight fires," Amanda gasped out, "just direct others to fight them. It was his system, you see," she continued, licking her suddenly dry lips. "He trained house slaves to direct field hands just in case of such an emergency. That way there would be no confusion in a time of need."

None of that was true, of course. Amanda had fought fires because she insisted upon doing so, despite Harold's vociferous objections...but Jackson loosened his hold and nodded, and Amanda breathed a sigh of relief. There were much more important things to do than argue with him about her lies.

"All right, Fancy," he said, "I accept your explanation. I can use all the help I can get."

Amanda sighed again, following him out the door. Nothing was important right now except saving lives and crops--all the other difficulties in her life would simply have to wait.

They left the mansion by the kitchen door, walking straight to the stables, finding anxious hands and field slaves awaiting instructions.

While Jackson dealt with organizing the men, Amanda took control of the fire wagons. In her most authoritative voice, which was--amazingly--immediately obeyed despite her slave status, she ordered horses brought to the tank wagons stored beside the stable. She'd noticed the wagons her first day at Carlyle. Their tanks always full of water, and operated by hand pumps, these fire wagons were an important weapon for saving crops. Wet sacks and backfires would add to the defense. Within a few minutes the wagons were hitched to harnessed horses, ready to go.

Once everything was done, Amanda couldn't hide her wry smile as she realized which horse had been saddled for her. It was the same gentle gelding she'd stolen during her ill-fated escape attempt.

Noticing that smile, Jackson nodded as he mounted his own piebald gelding. His thoughts were troubled--not only from the fire, but from what Fancy had just done. Her organizational skills were impeccable, superb. She had directed the slaves preparing the water wagons with expert proficiency. Her former master had trained her very, very well...almost too well to be believed...but Jackson couldn't think about that now. Fancy was a slave. His slave. And nothing more.

His choice of the horse she was riding was completely intentional. A stern warning of what would happen if she tried running away during this chaotic night might be the best way to assure her continued presence come morning.

"Why this horse, Jackson?" she asked.

"Because, Fancy," he calmly replied, "I want you to understand that if this particular horse should leave the plantation tonight, the one having stolen him will not have an inch of flesh left on her back once she is found."

She blanched, and Jackson felt that mule kick to his gut again.

"I won't run away...tonight," she said, her voice shaky. "You have my word on that, Jackson."

Uncomfortable with her reaction to his threat--and his own reaction to her obvious fear--Jackson bristled at her public use of his given name. "We are not in my bedroom now, woman. Address me properly."

"Yes, master," she corrected, and he could see a sudden flash of anger in her sapphire eyes. He nodded, much happier to see that than fear. The warning had been necessary, but he couldn't tolerate causing her any further pain.

Grimacing, realizing the unlikelihood of ever laying a whip to her back, no matter what she did--and no matter what he'd just threatened--Jackson signaled the wagon drivers and the rest of the men. Kneeing his piebald, he headed for the burning sugarcane field, Fancy following close behind.

The next several hours were a blur of heat, exhausting work and unending orders. Jackson and Amanda functioned as a team; Jackson going to one side of the blazing field, Amanda to the other. The overseer rode in between, whip cracking, keeping the slaves moving and working.

At about three o'clock in the morning, Jackson very nearly lost his life.

He'd been riding his prancing, snorting piebald up and down along the edge of the field, directing the men operating the pumps on the fire wagons, when a burning ember suddenly blew into the gelding's face. Responding to pain and the smell of his own seared flesh, the maddened horse took off at a gallop. Blindly, mistakenly, he ran toward the inferno instead of away from it!

Amanda saw it happen. Her side of the fire had been extinguished, and she'd been riding toward Jackson to tell him so when the gelding began his frantic run. Despite Jackson's strength, it was apparent he could not stop the horse's race toward certain death. And Jackson would die, too, if the horse wasn't diverted from the fire.

Amanda felt a calm sense of purpose settle into her mind. She knew exactly what must be done. Urging her own gelding into a gallop, she chased Jackson's horse.

Catching up to the piebald scant moments before he would reach the roaring flames, she cut in front of him, literally risking her own life, forcing the maddened creature to turn. The maneuver worked, slowing his frantic pace just enough for Jackson to regain control.

Breathing heavily, seeing Jackson was no longer in danger, Amanda simply turned her own mount and rode back to safety. There was still work to be done, and she didn't want to think about anything else--certainly not why she had saved the life of the man who called her slave.

As Jackson brought the piebald to a stop, safely away from the fire, he realized that fact, too. Fancy had saved him. Without thought to her own safety, she had ridden into the face of danger and saved her master from a fiery death.

And for that act of heroism, he should free her.

That mule kick he'd felt so often before hit him so hard, he nearly lost his seat. And he knew in that moment he could never free Fancy, no matter how brave she'd been--not when she would be out of his life in a heartbeat if she were no longer a slave. He had no illusions about that. Fancy had already run away once. She would never stay at Carlyle Plantation if she were free to leave.

And in that moment he also quit deluding himself. He loved her. Simply put, he couldn't allow her to leave because his life would be empty without her.

The thought of that love didn't bring joy or happiness, however. Instead, it brought problems. Jackson was now in the untenable position he'd been trying to avoid--or at least deny. He was in love with a slave, but he could never tell anyone, could never publicly admit his love. He wouldn't even admit it to Fancy herself, in fact. Surely she knew how impossible this kind of love was, too.

But there was one thing he could do for both of them.

He could make her his pampered lover instead of his kitchen slave--free her from drudgery and give her a life of ease. A man keeping a slave mistress was not frowned on in the least, as long as he kept her far away from polite society.

Jackson smiled, pleased with his decision. He could give her so much! Dresses, petticoats, silky pantalets--all the feminine luxuries she'd surely never had. She would be happy, he vowed, happy as his pampered mistress, his cherished "mate."

The piebald was calmer now, and Jackson rode toward Fancy. The fire was nearly out--it had been caused by flash lightning without a hint of rain--but Fancy was still busily directing field hands, who were smothering the final embers with dampened sacks. He wanted to tell her his decision right now...

No, wait. There was a better way.

In the morning, he would go to Kingston, buy Fancy all the pretty fripperies he wanted her to have, then surprise her with a mountain of presents.

He couldn't wait to see her eyes sparkling with delight, truly believing she would be happy with his gifts--and his decision about her life.

Well before noon, Jackson carried out his plan. He went to the finest woman's clothier in Kingston, emerging several hours later, arms laden with boxes.

Next he visited the shoemaker and the hat maker, and upon exiting the milliner's shop, he passed a jewelry store. On impulse, he entered that shrine to expensive luxury and purchased several exquisite necklaces for Fancy, happily anticipating how the jewels would look draped around her slender throat. He wondered how she'd look wearing the sapphire necklace he'd bought--just the color of her eyes--and nothing else...

Satisfied with his purchases--and his plans--Jackson returned to Carlyle Plantation near sundown.

Amanda was helping Mammy shell peas, but the old woman looked very tired this evening, and her breathing was shallow. Like everyone else's, her sleep last night had been interrupted. "Why don't you go on to bed now, Mammy?" Amanda suggested. "I can finish this work."

"I'll be all right, child," Mammy insisted, picking up another pea pod and shelling it expertly. "Don't start worrying about me." She fixed her ebony gaze on Amanda. "And don't you dare tell Master Jack about my illness, neither."

Amanda sighed. "I promised you I wouldn't do that, Mammy--and I won't. But I really do think you should get in bed. Most of the chores are done, and I can handle the rest."

Nodding, Mammy finally acquiesced, then pushed herself to her feet. Amanda shook her head sadly, watching Mammy slowly walk to her room. She seemed a little weaker each day, and there was probably nothing anyone could do about it. Mammy was dying. It was only a matter of time.

Chewing her lip, Amanda turned as the dining room door swung open, revealing Toby. Noticeably uncomfortable, he said, "Master Jack wants you in his bedroom, Fancy."

Heat flooded her cheeks. She was well aware that everyone in the household knew of her status as Jackson's bed slave, but it was still humiliating to receive his command.

Then she frowned, remembering what had happened early this morning.

After she'd saved his life, Jackson had allowed her to bathe in his own porcelain-clad tub. That in itself was unusual, since Amanda normally bathed in the simple metal tub used by the house slaves. After that reward, he'd naturally demanded her presence in his bed--which hadn't surprised her in the least--but what followed that demand did. Tremendously. As dawn crept into the room, he'd made love to her with exquisite tenderness--such tenderness that even now, more than twelve hours later, she was still confused by the encounter.

He'd treated her more like his true love than his convenient mistress, but of course, that wasn't true. She was merely his bed slave, not his cherished lover.

And worst of all, she had responded to his tenderness wholeheartedly. Wantonly. Just like a good little whore.

Blinking back tears of shame, knowing she'd become just as sinful as her master, Amanda slowly made her way to his room.

Jackson was pacing the floor, so anxious to tell Fancy about his decision, he couldn't stand still. He'd only opened one box, wanting to give her the purely feminine pleasure of opening the rest. But the silk gown draped across a wing-backed chair was the prettiest of the lot. He wanted to give her that one himself.

He heard the latch release and turned, smiling. Fancy was standing in the doorway.

She looked so sweetly innocent in her simple cotton dress--a dress that, after tonight, she would no longer be wearing--and the customary scarf she wore to hold back her glorious dark hair was a little off kilter, adding an element of slight dishevelment to her alluring femininity.

And he loved her. He couldn't deny it any longer, though he had no intention of voicing his feelings. Openly confessing such a scandalous love was something he simply could not do. Not even to the object of that love, Fancy herself.

"Did you wish to see me, Jackson?" she said, seemingly without noticing the profusion of boxes on his massive bed.

"Yes, Fancy," Jackson replied, still smiling. "I did indeed wish to see you. Come in...please...and have a seat."

She seemed startled, and he knew why. Please was not a common term when dealing with slaves. With her pretty brow puckered in confusion, she crossed to the second wing-backed chair in the room and sat down near the edge, looking prim and proper--and like she wanted to leave.

But Jackson's enthusiasm could not be dampened. He was totally convinced he was doing the right thing. He'd even thought of the perfect way to tell her his decision without confessing feelings he simply couldn't share: Fancy had saved his life during the fire. What better reward could there be than allowing her a life of luxury?

"Fancy," he said, "you were very brave last night. I want to reward you."

Reward? Amanda's heart skipped a beat. Could he be meaning to set her free? Such a thing was not unheard of for extreme heroism. And she had risked her life...

"What kind of reward, Jackson?" she asked breathlessly.

He turned to the chair behind him and lifted a pale yellow gown. "First," he said, holding out the dress, "I want you to have this."

Disappointment knifed through Amanda's heart. He was giving her a dress for saving his life? That's all? And what possible use could she have for such a thing in her present circumstances? But he'd said he wanted her to have this "first." Maybe her disappointment was premature.

"Thank you," she said, accepting the silk gown. She laid it across her lap, running her work-roughened fingers over the rich fabric...but then her face crumbled. The gown only served to remind her of all the beautiful things she had once owned--and still did own--in another life.

"There's more, Fancy," Jackson said then, pulling her attention back to him. "Much, much more."

Her heart skittered again. Would he say it now? Would he say those simple, wonderful words, I'm setting you free?

"What you did was so heroic," he continued, "that I have decided your entire life should change as a reward for risking your life to save mine."

Her heart stopped. The entire world seemed to stop. "How will my life be changing?"

His smile was sensual, full of erotic promise. That in itself should have warned Amanda of what was coming, but it didn't. Nothing could have prepared her for his next words.

"I have decided to allow you a life of luxury, Fancy," he answered. "You will be my 'mate,' no longer doing back-breaking chores or wearing slave clothing, instead dressing in beautiful gowns, soft, silky underthings...and these."

He held up several expensive necklaces, and Amanda knew what he was thinking. He was expecting her to fling herself into his arms, thanking him endlessly for his wondrous generosity.

But she sat where she was, stiffly, her tender heart breaking again--just as it had that first night, when he'd failed to believe her truth. She had to know, however. She simply must hear the words.

"Then you're not setting me free, Jackson?" She nearly bit her lower lip in two, awaiting his answer.

He frowned, then shook his head. "No, Fancy. I am not," he said.

She turned away, too hurt to even meet his gaze, finally noticing the array of boxes on the bed. Woodenly, she crossed the room, then opened one box after another, going through the motions like a marionette on strings. The boxes were filled with luxurious wearing apparel, the kind she'd been accustomed to all her life...

There were petticoats by the dozen, silk stockings by the score, and so many exquisitely crafted gowns, it would take her weeks to wear them all. The hats were just as expensive as the rest of the attire, with plumed feathers, silk ribbons and net veils, fashioned from every imaginable material, including lightweight straw. There were enough shoes to last a lifetime, and the corsets--the one thing she hadn't missed during this nearly unendurable nightmare--were trimmed with lace, the pantalets sewn from luxurious silk, instead of simple white cotton.

Amanda's hands were trembling by the time the last box was open. And when Jackson approached the bed, then bent to fasten a sapphire necklace around her throat, she burst into tears.

He sat down beside her. "Why are you crying, Fancy?" he asked, sounding bewildered.

Amanda couldn't tell him she was crying for her lost life--he wouldn't listen to that--she couldn't tell him she was crying because wearing expensive jewels with a slave's dress was so incongruous it only made her pain worse...but she could tell him the third reason for her tears.

"I'm crying because you won't free me, Jackson," she admitted truthfully. "You want a pampered whore now, instead of a working slave, and I'm supposed to be glad, but I'm not. I'm not glad, Jackson. I want to be free."

Unbidden anger surged through Jackson's veins. How ungrateful could she be? He'd spent a fortune on her, nearly driving the Kingston merchants mad coming up with so much finery in a single day. And now Fancy was crying because he wanted to give her a life of luxury? As his "pampered whore," as she'd called it?

That was not his intention--at least not entirely. Of course he still wanted her in his bed, but he'd wanted so much more than that...quiet evenings in the music room...romantic walks on private beaches. He'd even planned on taking her to a wonderful, secluded mountain waterfall, cascading for hundreds of feet to the river below.

He had wanted to show her his Jamaica, had wanted to show her all its wondrous tropical beauty, and share with her his appreciation for those natural wonders.

He might not be able to present Fancy to Kingston society, but he could show her the splendor of his island home...and give her luxuries any other slave would be grateful for. But not Fancy. No, she didn't care what he was offering. She wanted freedom instead--the one thing he would never give her.

Amanda felt his anger, saw it, and her own anger suddenly exploded. With jerky motions, she opened the clasp of the necklace...then threw it at him.

"I will not be your paid whore, Jackson," she seethed as he caught it, "and that's just exactly what I would be if I accepted even one lavish gift from you."

She paced the room, folding her arms across her bosom, her anger building with each step. "How dare you, Jackson Carlyle?" she finally continued. "How dare you decide that I am to be your--what was the word you used? Oh yes, your 'mate.' How dare you do that Jackson?"

He merely sat there, saying nothing, clearly too surprised for words.

"I will not be your pampered whore, Jackson," Amanda reiterated. "If I am your slave, then that is the life I shall live. I will remain in the kitchen, helping Mammy, fulfilling the purpose you bought me for. I will sleep in my own little room, in my own little bed." She paused for emphasis. "And I will not come willingly to your bed ever again, Jackson Carlyle. If you want to rape me, that is your privilege as a master, I suppose. But I will never--I repeat, never--serve your lust again without being physically forced to submit."

And with that said, she stomped to the door, opened it and then slammed it behind her...leaving Jackson in a state of abject shock.

How could he have been so wrong? He'd honestly thought she would be happy, had honestly wanted to make her happy...

Jackson stayed in his room, staring at the useless gifts he'd bought. Fancy wanted freedom. Selfishly, he couldn't give her that; he needed her too much to let her go. But he also couldn't go after her and force her compliance because he loved her too much to do that, either.

So he made a decision.

He would wait for her, give her all the time she needed. He wouldn't force her submission, wouldn't even chastise her for that insolent speech. Instead, he would practice patience--something he'd never had to do before now--and wait for Fancy to accept his offer on her own.

He only hoped she wouldn't take very long.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It took Amanda exactly three days to realize she had made a terrible mistake.

By turning down Jackson's offer, she had quite effectively killed her most likely means of escape. He was offering her jewels for God's sake!

And jewels could be sold for passage home.

The captains who had thrown her off their ships during her first escape attempt would not have done so if she were a paying passenger.

All Amanda would have to do to plan a successful escape was accept Jackson's offer, accept his jewels and fine clothes, and then get him to trust her--trust her enough that he would allow her to go to Kingston completely on her own.

That was the hardest part of the thing, of course. Unless Jackson trusted her completely, he would never allow her that kind of liberty--especially since he knew how very much she wanted to be free. Entirely free. Free of him.

Amanda firmed her resolve as she helped Mammy prepare the evening meal on that third day. Mammy was moving a little slower each day, and Amanda suspected her time left on earth might be limited to months, or perhaps even weeks.

But Mammy was exceedingly clever about her illness. Whenever Jackson came into the kitchen--which wasn't very often but did happen on occasion--she put on a picture of perfect health, completely fooling him about her true condition.

And Amanda's hands were tied on that issue, since she had given her word not to tell Jackson about Mammy's failing health.

The one thing that truly amazed Amanda during the days it took to reverse her decision was that Jackson hadn't forced her compliance. In truth, he hadn't forced her to do anything--most especially anything in his bed.

For three days, he'd left her alone again, had not even punished her for speaking her mind, which Amanda had fully expected him to do. Why was he behaving so differently than he had during her first days at Carlyle? He never would have tolerated such insolence a week ago--even if her punishment was nothing more than a ravaging kiss, meant to prove his dominance.

But then she shrugged. Why he had changed wasn't nearly as important as that he had changed.

And tonight she was going to accept his offer.

Tonight she would offer him her body, tell him she would gladly become his pampered whore--though not in those words, of course--and then set about trapping him into trusting her.

So that, in the final outcome, she could betray him.

But she would not be betraying herself, Amanda reasoned when she felt a twinge of guilt. She would be upholding her belief that slavery was wrong--her new belief, to be more correct--and she would be moving ever closer to her goal of freeing the slaves at Labreaux.

When the evening meal had been served, and the attendant chores finished, Amanda bid Mammy good night and went down to the mansion's lowest level to await her turn in the slaves' bathtub. The wait would be a long one, since cleanliness was important to Jackson and he required his servants to bathe frequently. Amanda grew impatient as the minutes stretched into an hour.

Then a delightful thought occurred to her, and she ran back up the stairs, found Toby and told him what she wanted to do.

He gave her no argument, and before another hour had passed, Amanda found herself in Jackson's bathtub, covered by rich, jasmine-scented bubbles. The bath Toby had drawn for her was perfect--warm but not too hot for the sultry Jamaican climate--but Amanda hoped to cause a different kind of heat.

She should have been embarrassed by that--by what else she had asked Toby to do--but she was not. Not when seducing Jackson was her plan. She wanted him to find her in the bath.

I truly am a whore, she lamented suddenly. I'm using my body to convince Jackson that I want to be his "mate." If that's not what a whore would do, than what is it?

It's what a woman desperate to regain her freedom--and her dignity--would do, that's what it is, her mind affirmed.

Pushing the moral quandary to the back of her mind, knowing all her thoughts needed to be centered on her plan, Amanda sank down lower in the tub...and waited for Jackson.

Jackson approached the bathing room with a spring in his step. It had only been three days, but Fancy apparently wanted to come back to his bed. Why else would she have sent Toby to find him and tell him she was waiting in the bathing room?

He stopped in his own room long enough to change into a dressing gown, then crossed the hall to the bathing room, opened the door and walked in.

The sight that met him caused an immediate, very physical, reaction.

She was covered in bubbles, her lustrous dark hair pinned up on her head, save for two damp curls caressing her throat. He could see the upper swells of her generous, full breasts; her knees were just barely visible above the seductively-scented water. Jasmine. He recognized the perfumed oil left by a long-forgotten lover.

"Hello, Jackson," she purred. "Would you like to join me?"

He nodded, his throat going dry. She'd sat up while asking the question, allowing soap bubbles to slide down her breasts, baring them to his hungry gaze.

He groaned audibly when she arched her back, offering her wet, ripe nipples for his pleasure, and he tore off his dressing gown and quickly crossed to the tub, never suspecting that she was playing an intentionally deceitful game. He lifted one leg over the edge and then the other, finally sinking down into the warm water, grateful that the tub was oversized in deference to his long frame.

And then he reached for her, cupping those delectable breasts and groaning again as her nipples peaked. Smiling, he bent and took a responsive nubbin in his mouth, sucking greedily.

Amanda was panting, spearing her fingers through Jackson's dark, wavy hair. If she must become a pampered whore to effect her escape, then so be it. She might as well enjoy the experience, she'd finally decided, with the first touch of his tongue to the aching tip of her breast. She had no choice in the matter, after all--not really. Jackson might have been patient for three days, but, knowing him as she thought she did, Amanda had no doubt he would have forced her submission soon enough, anyway.

And besides that, her plan had only just begun. She wanted to seduce him so thoroughly, he would begin trusting her this very night.

With that goal in mind, she grasped his hand and eased it down between her thighs. "Touch me, Jackson," she pleaded. "I've missed your touch so very much these past three days."

"Fancy..." he murmured thickly, immediately fulfilling her request, parting her soft folds and exploring her intimately, thoroughly. Her hips undulated, the tension built; then her vision blurred, her lips forming a perfect "O" of shattering ecstacy, as he brought her to climax with his knowing, masterful touch--a touch she was helpless to resist, had in truth been helpless to resist ever since he'd first introduced her to wanton pleasure. She gasped softly in completion, yet still quivering with need. This was only the beginning, and she knew it.

"Touch me now, little mistress," he demanded, rising to his knees to give her easier access to his throbbing erection. "Stroke me with your sweet little hands."

Determined to continue, Amanda immediately obeyed, circling his iron tumescence with trembling hands. She stroked him boldly, caressing the huge shaft, then gently cupped the tight sacs below it--and Jackson growled low in his throat, flexing his hips, his manhood bucking with pleasure, almost with a life of its own.

In this kneeling position, his engorged maleness was on an even level with Amanda's mouth...almost touching her lips...and a purely sinful, terribly wanton thought occurred to her. Jackson wanted a whore. Wouldn't a good whore do what she was thinking? Yes.

Without any forewarning, without even asking permission to perform the intimate act, Amanda leaned forward and flicked her tongue across the plum-red head of his arousal.

"Oh God, yes, Fancy," he growled, and she tasted a salty drop of seed. Encouraged by his reaction, she took him fully into her mouth.

Jackson braced himself against the sides of the tub as Fancy gave him the most incredible pleasure he'd ever felt in his life. Her sweet little mouth was sucking strongly now, drawing him between her parted lips as eagerly as he had just suckled her nipples. How she had learned of this ultimate pleasure for a man, Jackson didn't know and he didn't care. She'd had no knowledge of men before him; he knew that. She was just incredibly clever...and more erotically pleasing than he had ever imagined. The perfect mistress. His.

There was only one thing even more pleasurable than this. An act so intensely intimate, surely no woman would do it for a man unless she was completely committed to him.

And yet, in the next moments, Fancy did just that.

She continued her erotic suckling, despite his warning that she should stop, increasing the pleasure relentlessly, purposefully--until he finally exploded with sexual bliss, releasing his seed in a pulsating torrent of satisfaction.

Amanda heard Jackson's deep groan as she very deliberately completed her task. Somehow she knew, just knew, that this level of intimacy would convince him of her sincerity, of her total commitment to pleasing him...for the rest of his life, if he so desired.

Of course, in reality, she wasn't sincere at all, had no intention of staying with him any longer than necessary. But if he believed she would stay willingly, then he would trust her, and that was her ultimate goal. She swallowed his essence, pushing aside another twinge of guilt. She must be free!

Nearly beside himself with joy now, having fallen for her ploy completely, Jackson sank down in the water and gently caressed her cheek. "Fancy," he said, "does this mean what I think it means? Are you willing to accept my offer now?"

"Yes, Jackson," she replied without hesitation. "I want to be your...mate."

Then she chewed her lower lip and blushed. Jackson thought that was charming, having no way of knowing how much she hated the blatant lie.

He caressed her cheek again, smiling, feeling a distinct lump in his throat. "You've made me so very happy..."

His words trailed off as he realized he was saying too much. She was his slave mistress, not his fiancée. He must remember the limitations of this kind of love.

"I'll be happy to have you back in my bed," he amended, then leaned forward to ravage her mouth, tasting his own seed as he claimed her, needing to prove to her that lust had spurred his words of happiness...not the love he would never admit.

Still taking her mouth, he scooped her into his arms, then quickly carried her across the hall, not caring if anyone saw their nakedness. She had just proven her willingness in the most elemental way. Heart thudding, he wondered if this meant she no longer craved freedom. Could he trust her now, trust that she wouldn't run away?

Her soft little bottom brushed against his manhood as he carried her, and he groaned, his erection full again, throbbing with urgent need. He wanted to make love to her again and again...today, tomorrow, forever...hoping he truly could trust her now that she had agreed to become his mate.

He'd hidden the intensity of his happiness from her, but he was happy, deeply happy, that she had accepted his offer. He loved her. He couldn't offer marriage, but he certainly could give her a life of luxury. The kind of life he truly believed she had never experienced. It was the only way he could express his love, the only solution to an impossible situation.

All the finery he had bought was still strewn about the bedroom, but Jackson paid no attention to that. Later, he could watch Fancy try on all those delightful things, watch her sapphire eyes light up with pleasure. Right now he needed to claim her again, to spill his seed in her womanhood, marking her as his life-mate. Lowering her to the silky sheets, he simply looked at her for a moment, drinking in the sight of her glorious nudity, taking pleasure in her light golden skin still glistening with beads of water from the tub.

Amanda saw Jackson's gaze settle first on her lips, then her bare breasts, finally centering on the damp curls between her thighs--and she resisted the urge to cover herself. That would not be the action of a willing whore. Instead, she fastened her own gaze on his magnificent arousal, smiled as if in anticipation, then slowly spread her thighs. She would play this role convincingly, she vowed. Her freedom depended on it.

He took the invitation immediately, lowering himself full length over her body, then kissing her so thoroughly the game became all too real. Beneath his searching lips, Amanda gave in to temptation, moaning softly and trembling with ecstasy in his powerful arms.

"I'll make you happy, Fancy," he murmured between deep, ravishing kisses. "I promise you that."

Through the haze of passion, a question formed in her mind. "Does this mean I no longer have to call you master?"

"Never again," he answered. "From now on you may call me anything you want...and you can do anything you want, for that matter."

"Anything but leave," Amanda couldn't help saying, then bit her lip, fearing his reaction to her words, no matter how tender he seemed right now.

Surprisingly, he only stiffened a little. "Yes, Fancy, anything but that," he quietly confirmed, seeming somehow disappointed that she still wished to be free. "But you will no longer be a kitchen slave," he added, as if in appeasement. "In fact, you will have a slave of your own from now on--a lady's maid."

Now Amanda stiffened. She wanted no more slaves in her life, wanted nothing but to free those she already owned in Louisiana! "That won't be necessary, Jackson," she said rather testily. "I can take care of myself."

He chuckled, then bent to kiss her forehead. "I know you're not used to luxury, Fancy," he said, "but are you telling me you can tighten a corset all by yourself? Or that you could fasten at least a hundred pearl buttons on the back of your own gown?"

She could have tried convincing him that she was indeed used to luxury...but she didn't...and he was right, of course. A personal maid was pretty much a necessity for a lady. Conceding the point, she said, "Very well. But I will only accept a girl who wants the job, not someone you command to serve me."

"Agreed," Jackson said, wanting to kiss her again, but not on the forehead this time. And he did, plundering her mouth, still tasting his own salty release. A rumbled groan of pleasure escaped his throat at the memory of what she had done, and his lust redoubled, hardening his shaft to granite. His need too urgent to wait any longer, he pulled her thighs wider apart, quickly positioned himself to mount her, then heard a soft gasp as his rampant arousal touched her moist entrance.

"Is this what you want now, little mistress?" he asked, smiling with decided wickedness, pushing into her wetness just the littlest bit.

She was lost again, Amanda realized...so very, very lost. Her gasp became a low groan as she felt his rigid sex, teasing, relentless. He had entered her just enough to heighten her undeniable need, yet not enough to fulfill it. "Yes," she whispered.

"Say it, Fancy," Jackson demanded huskily. "Tell me what you want me to do."

"I want you to come into me, Jackson," she answered, breathless, too lost in her frenzy of need to care about wantonness anymore, finally surrendering unconditionally to her own sensuality. "I want you to take me, to satisfy this aching emptiness and drive me to maddened ecstasy."

"That, my sweet," he replied, thrusting to the hilt, "is a request I will be more than happy to fulfill."

Amanda reveled in Jackson's deep, thorough loving, writhing beneath him on the sumptuous bed. But somewhere in the back of her mind, even as she soared to the heights of orgasmic bliss and felt Jackson reach his own summit of pleasure, she caught the real meaning behind his words.

Jackson would gladly fulfill her request for sexual pleasure. He would give her fine clothes and a luxurious lifestyle. Undoubtedly, he would even move her into this room with him, giving her the added luxury of satin sheets against her tender skin every night. But he would not ever fulfill her request to be free.

That was a request she would have to fulfill herself.

After that day, everything in Amanda's life changed for the better...everything, that is, except her slave status. She was still very much Jackson's property--maybe more so now than ever before.

She did indeed move into his room, she was now covered from head to toe in silk and petticoats, and her simple cotton dresses and well-worn shoes had been tucked into the back of the wardrobe. Her own small room behind the kitchen was soon given to another young female, one whose help Mammy reluctantly accepted, but Amanda still checked on the old cook several times every day.

Amanda was determined to comply with Jackson's wishes completely, so she hadn't argued with his decision that she would no longer work in the kitchen, especially not when being free of those arduous tasks was a definite, undeniable relief in her life. But she was far too worried about Mammy's health to stay away from the kitchen for very long at a time.

Mammy's new kitchen helper was happy enough with the assignment, since it allowed her the luxury of a private room, but she didn't seem concerned about the elderly Negress's increasingly frail constitution. In a way, that was a blessing to Mammy, Amanda realized. This new girl would not tell Jackson about Mammy's failing health. Not because she had promised to keep the secret, but because she simply didn't care.

And so Amanda settled into her new life with little, if any, problems. The house slaves seemed to accept her new status with grudging admiration, some with ill-concealed envy, but none of them would dare say anything derisive to Amanda. Not when the master had made it perfectly clear that she was to be obeyed and respected.

Toby was delighted with her new status, and Mammy was well pleased...except that she admittedly missed working side-by-side with her former assistant. Neither of them felt even a spark of jealousy for Amanda's good fortune, her easy life or luxurious clothes, and Amanda swallowed back stark emotions many times a day. These were her true friends.

Jackson himself was so wonderful to her that Amanda's opinion of him slowly began changing. He was a formidable master who expected absolute obedience from his slaves, and he was a fiercely demanding lover, but he could also be incredibly tender and almost kindhearted to a fault, where Amanda was concerned.

It was that very kindheartedness that helped her achieve her first goal.

After two weeks in her new existence, she finally mustered enough nerve to ask him if she might go into Kingston by herself. Not surprisingly, he stiffened, glowered and flatly refused her request.

So she backed off for another week, during which she showered him with "loving" attention, fulfilling any and all of his wants or needs, including playing the pianoforte and singing whenever he wished. Then she asked again, shrewdly hinting that she might want to buy him a little gift...

He began to soften, but he still said no.

Determined to achieve her goal, Amanda redoubled her efforts. She massaged his neck and shoulders whenever he seemed fatigued, dropping tender, affectionate kisses onto his dark head while ministering to his aching muscles. She removed his boots each night, replacing them with soft slippers to add to his comfort, and she insisted upon being the one to draw his bath, then gave him very, very personal attention in that oversized tub.

She knew her plan was working when Jackson finally invited her to explore the island with him, something he had been hinting he might do for weeks, and Amanda was very well aware that he had been testing her loyalty during that time. She readily agreed to his invitation, of course, not only because she wanted him to believe that he could trust her away from the plantation, but also because Jamaica was so incredibly beautiful, the idea of seeing more of it was very appealing.

On that first outing, he took her to a mountain waterfall so breathtakingly beautiful, Amanda fell in love at first sight. He impulsively stripped off his clothes--assuring her the place was completely private--and Amanda stripped, too. They cavorted in the water for hours, making love on the warm, slippery rocks beside the immense cascade and then again on the grassy river bank. And by the time they returned to Carlyle Plantation, thoroughly sated and thoroughly tired, Amanda knew she had come much closer to her goal of winning his trust.

Anytime during that day, she could have tried to sneak away and escape--especially when he fell asleep after their second lovemaking session--but she had not and, most importantly, Jackson realized that fact as well as she did.

On the second outing, he took her to a very secluded, very private beach. The crystal clear Caribbean was even more beautiful than the mountain waterfall; the warm, nearly white sand a perfect counterpoint to the turquoise sea. They stayed until sunset, strolling along the water's edge hand-in-hand, watching the glorious descent of the huge, orange tropical sun, and they made love, of course, right there on the beach. Through Jackson's words, his actions, the tenderness of his lovemaking, Amanda knew he was on the very brink of trusting her and granting her wish.

Finally today, well into the fourth week of her somewhat strange status in the household, Amanda asked Jackson yet again if she could go into Kingston by herself. His birthday was fast approaching, and this time she openly admitted her desire to buy him a gift.

He hesitated and wouldn't give her an answer right away, but Amanda could tell he was nearly to the point of agreeing, so she snuck an onion from the kitchen, using it to make some very effective tears. Then she slipped into the music room and began playing soulfully, knowing Jackson would hear the sad ballad in his study down the hall.

He came to her side almost immediately, just as Amanda knew he would, and as soon as he saw her tears, his new-found kindheartedness came to the fore. He kissed her eyelids, gently brushed away her tears, then suggested that the trip she'd wanted to make might improve her spirits.

Knowing she had won, but hiding her elation, Amanda quietly agreed, then reminded him that buying a birthday gift for him was the reason she'd wanted to go in the first place.

Naturally, he told her that wasn't necessary, but within an hour the carriage was ready and waiting for her. She pushed guilt caused by her wholly deceptive behavior to the back of her mind, accepted Jackson's gentle kiss as he settled her onto the carriage seat, then slapped the reins. She forcefully reminded herself not to hurry as she trundled down the driveway of Carlyle Plantation, seemingly doing nothing more than going on an outing to buy her lover a gift.

But she felt such a surge of triumph when she finally drove away from the plantation, she could barely contain it. The drive to Kingston took a little over an hour, and once she arrived there, Amanda went straight to the harbor. She had been making this plan for weeks, and now, finally, it was becoming reality.

Approaching the harbor master's office, Amanda--who was now dressed as well as any young debutante in Kingston--simply asked a clerk when the next ship was leaving for New Orleans. She bit back the need to say "or anywhere else in North America," since such a question might raise suspicion, and that was the last thing she wanted.

No one in Kingston knew of her true status at Carlyle Plantation, since even Amanda understood that a mistress--especially a slave mistress--was never talked about in polite society. But even so, it would seem rather unusual for a woman to be willing to sail to any port in America, with no particular destination stated, despite the fact that she no longer looked anything like a slave.

Jackson had given her a few pounds to spend, and Amanda understood his motives for the small amount only too well. He might have come to trust her, but he was no fool. Giving her a good deal of money would only tempt her to run away.

Amanda was sorely disappointed to learn from the harbor clerk that the next ship embarking for New Orleans was not scheduled to leave for a month, but she swallowed her disappointment at the delay. She knew she would have to "steal" her own jewels to pay the price of passage, and the intervening time could only help her build Jackson's trust. Build it to such a point that he would never suspect her of planning to betray him by gaining her freedom through the very gifts he had given her. Only through that trust would she be able to return to Kingston to purchase the ticket, and then, on the day of departure, she would simply disappear from Jackson Carlyle's life. Forever.

After leaving the harbor office, she found a tobacconist's shop. Jackson enjoyed a good pipe at the end of the day, and she had decided to buy him a new one for that promised birthday gift, as well as some rich, specially blended tobacco.

As she carried out that task, counting out the money for Jackson's gift, she felt a twinge of guilt at what she was doing, and at what she had done earlier to sway his decision in her favor. Jackson would believe this gift was a token of her affection, but in reality it was merely a means to prove that she had indeed gone to Kingston with the single purpose of buying something for him.

It would build his trust in her even more, just so she could betray him.

Troubled by the immorality of her deed after Jackson had been so very good to her these past weeks, even though her reasons were understandable, Amanda left the tobacco shop with her small package and slowly walked back to the carriage.

She didn't notice a blond-headed woman across the street, and so had no idea that in that moment Elizabeth Carrington had come to understand just exactly what Amanda's status was in Jackson's home.

Elizabeth Carrington narrowed her eyes on the slave called Fancy, watching as the girl walked toward Jackson's well-appointed vehicle. Fancy was wearing a very fashionable French gown and a pretty straw hat with bright blue ribbons--definitely not the clothing of a slave.

Elizabeth saw red. Her jealous fury knew no bounds. Quite obviously, the oh-so-light-skinned mulatto had become Jackson's spoiled lover, while Elizabeth had been thrown out of his home on her plump derriere.

Revenge. The word seared her brain. She wanted it, wanted revenge against Fancy...and she wanted Jackson in her bed again. Then, as she caught sight of the olive-skinned owner of a notorious brothel, a wonderfully diabolical plan occurred to her.

If Jackson's little whore was out of the way, perhaps Elizabeth could regain her position as his mistress. And what better place for a whore than in a whorehouse?

Boldly approaching the brothel owner, despite the fact that a lady should never talk to such a man, Elizabeth invited him to join her for tea.

Once they were comfortably ensconced in a private booth at a nearby inn, Elizabeth broached the subject uppermost on her mind. "I have a proposition for you, Mr. Brown."

"My dear Miss Carrington," Hamilton Brown replied silkily, "what could you possibly have to offer me?"

Purposely drawing out the moment to pique his interest, Elizabeth said, "Oh, you might be very surprised what I have, Mr. Brown."

He leaned forward, placing both arms on the table. "Go on," he said.

Elizabeth smiled. She knew she had him now; the rest should be easy. "I know where you can find the sweetest little mulatto slave you've probably ever seen."

Hamilton sat up very straight. The prettiest mulatto in the area was the one Jackson Carlyle had bought a few weeks back--the one Hamilton himself had wanted to buy for the brothel. Could Elizabeth be referring to the same girl?

"Is this slave for sale?" he asked, hedging his bets, suspecting that Elizabeth was suggesting something illegal, which was just fine, but not wanting to tip his hand if she were not.

"No, she's not for sale," Elizabeth drawled, "but she's such a little thing..." She paused, batting her eyelashes. "Why, a man of your strength could overpower her with no trouble at all, Mr. Brown."

Hamilton ignored the false compliment, but he was becoming more interested by the moment. "Are you saying this slave is here in Kingston, right now, without her master?"

"Yes," Elizabeth confirmed. "She's Jackson Carlyle's whore, and he obviously trusts her enough to let her come to town on her own."

That statement confirmed what Hamilton suspected. This girl was the little mulatto he'd so admired at the slave auction. Even remembering her trembling, nude body on the virgin's block brought a hot rush of blood to his groin. How he would enjoy thoroughly using the little slave--and how very profitable her ripe young body would be for the Golden Slipper.

"Are you interested, Mr. Brown?"

"Most definitely, Miss Carrington. Where is the wench now?"

"Her name is Fancy, and she was just down the street a few minutes ago, probably getting ready to return to her lover." She fairly spat the word.

Hamilton drummed his long, slender fingers on the table, suddenly realizing how much he did not want to make an enemy of Jackson Carlyle. "I don't know..." he temporized.

"I'll pay you one thousand pounds for kidnapping the girl, Mr. Brown," Elizabeth said in rush. "I can draw it from the bank right now."

He sat up very straight again, studied the beautiful woman for a time, then finally nodded. "You have a deal, Miss Carrington," he said, rising. "Shall we go?"

As Hamilton followed Elizabeth out the door of the inn, his thoughts were already on Fancy...and how to use her to best advantage, without getting caught.

He would have to keep her well hidden, of course, but that very mystery would intrigue the wealthy gentleman who frequented his establishment. Fortunately, Jackson Carlyle was not a patron. With any luck, he would never learn what had happened to his slave. He would probably believe Fancy had simply run away, but would have no reason to suspect Hamilton's involvement in her disappearance. There were risks, but the potential rewards were great--a ripe young wench for use and profit, and a thousand pounds for his trouble. Not a bad day's business, all in all.

The banking took very little time, and just as Hamilton was folding the bills into his vest pocket, Elizabeth noticed Fancy driving past the bank in Jackson's carriage.

"You'll have to hurry if you want to catch her," she hissed, pulling him toward the door. "And if I learn you didn't succeed in kidnapping her, I'll want my money back."

"Don't worry, Miss Carrington," he said, patting her arm. "I want the wench in my brothel just as much as you evidently do. She'll be there in less than an hour. I promise you that."

Elizabeth nodded, accepting his reassurance, then watched him walk to his own carriage, climb into the driver's seat...and follow Fancy.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Amanda grimaced as she guided the horse and carriage through what was probably the worst section of Kingston. Her surroundings fairly screamed "Danger!" but she was on a road too narrow to allow turning the carriage around.

There were a few ordinary shops along this road; a bakery and a butcher's shop, even a boot maker, but most of the businesses--alehouses and brothels--catered to the baser needs of men.

If only she hadn't made that wrong turn! But a carriage had come out of nowhere, nearly colliding with her own, and the effect was that she had had to make the turn to avoid an accident.

Of course, as soon as she did, the olive-skinned fellow driving the other carriage had simply driven on, trundling along the road she needed to be on. And so here she was, going in the wrong direction, with little choice but to watch for a cross street.

Worst of all, she had the uncanny feeling that she was being watched.

Suddenly, the same carriage that had forced her onto this road loomed up before her again, blocking her path--driven by the same olive-skinned man. The carriage had come out of an alley a few yards ahead of her, and two more men were now advancing toward her carriage on foot.

One of those two grabbed the reins from Amanda before she could even think to react, and the second hauled her from the seat, easily subduing her struggles. Their actions hadn't taken more than a minute. Amanda had a terrible sense of déjà vu. She was being kidnapped again...

Hamilton Brown watched calmly from his carriage as the men he had just hired subdued the girl. Then one of the men climbed into Jackson Carlyle's carriage and simply drove away, turning down the alley Hamilton had just left. The second man, Luther, brought Fancy to Hamilton's carriage. Smiling and calm, Hamilton drew a pistol.

"I'll tell you this once and only once, Fancy," he said quietly. "You will get in this carriage and ride away with me, seemingly of your own free will, or I will shoot and kill you. Is that clear?"

Obviously too frightened to respond with words, she nodded mutely, her fearful eyes never leaving the pistol in his hand.

Hamilton knew exactly what he was doing. The Golden Slipper was in a better part of town than this unsavory neighborhood, and he had no intention of riding through Kingston with a writhing, struggling captive in tow. That would be counterproductive to his plan--he couldn't be caught stealing Jackson Carlyle's property. The threat of being shot, however, had very effectively frightened the wench into cooperating. She climbed up onto the seat, the man called Luther getting in beside her.

With the pistol concealed under his coat, but still pointing at the girl, Hamilton slapped the reins and set the carriage in motion.

Toby shook his massive head as he exited the butcher's shop. Master Jack had sent him to this seedy part of Kingston with the specific task of purchasing some savory German sausage, a spiced delicacy this butcher was famous for. But Hans Krueger had just sold out of the popular food, and he wouldn't be making more for several days. Now Toby would have to return to Carlyle and report his failure. He hated disappointing Master Jack, and he knew how much Fancy enjoyed the sausage, too.

When Fancy first came to Carlyle Plantation, Toby wondered if she would ever be happy there--especially after she tried to run away. He knew she was embarrassed by what had happened that first night, which was why she'd tried to leave, Toby supposed. He couldn't really blame her for feeling that way. The situation embarrassed him a little bit, too, but Master Jack was well within his rights to take a slave to his bed.

Then a few weeks ago, the situation changed. Fancy became the lady of the house, for all intents and purposes, and she seemed much happier now. That made Toby happy, too, because he liked to see her smile. And Toby suspected Master Jack loved the girl--truly loved her--though he hadn't admitted it, maybe not even to himself. But as his valet and butler, Toby felt he knew his master well. The man was in love with Fancy.

Toby wasn't particularly superstitious--not like Mammy was sometimes, especially when she had one of her dreams--but almost as if thinking about the girl had conjured her up, he saw Fancy passing the butcher shop. She was riding in a carriage, sitting between two strangers, as pretty as you please.

Confused at first, Toby felt a spark of anger when he recognized one of the men. Everyone in Kingston new of Hamilton Brown--owner of the Golden Slipper brothel.

Toby's anger mounted as he decided what he must be seeing. Fancy was betraying Master Jack. She had wanted freedom badly enough to try and run away once before. Maybe she thought she could hide in a whorehouse and work on her back to earn that freedom through Mr. Brown.

The scenario made perfect sense to Toby, whose loyalty to his master was absolute. Jackson Carlyle had saved Toby's life, buying him from a man who was trying to whip him to death just for the sport of it. Even after seven years, Toby could still feel that lash against his scarred and mutilated back. He'd been treated fairly every day since. Master Jack had earned his loyalty.

Toby didn't know if Fancy would be punished for this new foolishness, but as he mounted Master Jack's own piebald and galloped toward Carlyle Plantation, he knew one thing very well--she would not be working in a brothel. Jackson Carlyle would see to that.

Jackson was beyond angry when he heard Toby's story. As he mounted a fresh horse, since the piebald was too lathered to use again, his anger became raw fury.

For weeks now, he'd been learning to trust Fancy a little more each day. Her acceptance of his offer had seemed so very sincere, and their relationship had been growing, become more loving with each passing day. At least on Jackson's part. Apparently, Fancy was simply playing a conniving, deceitful game.

Oh, she'd been very compliant with his wishes, genuinely affectionate. She'd even said the only reason she wanted to go to Kingston was to buy a birthday gift for him. But all her "loving" behavior these past weeks--all those wonderful wifely things she had done for him--all that had been nothing but a ruse, prompting him to finally allow her to go...after she had cried so very sincerely in the music room.

He'd even allowed her to take his horse and carriage. He wondered where they were now. Sold to Hamilton Brown, perhaps?

At the thought of the brothel owner, Jackson urged his horse to an even faster pace. He had spent two thousand pounds protecting Fancy from that very man--and now she'd gone to him willingly. Maybe he should have let Hamilton Brown buy her in the first place!

The rest of the ride into Kingston passed in a haze of red-hot fury for Jackson. He'd given Fancy everything she could possibly want--except her freedom--and yet she had betrayed him in the worst possible way. By becoming a whore...the very thing she'd said he had forced her to become.

Toby had suggested that her motive for becoming a whore might be to earn her freedom by working for Hamilton Brown. Jackson could well believe that. Money was the one thing that could get anyone off this island--even a deceitful little mulatto slave who had no legal right to leave. Thinking of Fancy spreading her thighs for one man after another to earn that money only increased Jackson's rage.

And his pain.

Yes, even now, with his anger boiling, Jackson felt a good deal of pain at her betrayal.

Their life together had been so satisfying these past weeks. He'd taken her to his favorite places, and they'd made love at each and every one of them. More than once. She'd entertained him on the pianoforte, massaged his tired muscles after a hard day's work in the fields, catered to his every comfort; she'd even taken an extremely personal interest in his bathing regimen. And she'd done all those things because she'd wanted to do them, not because he'd given her an order. Not even one.

Their loving had been exquisite, their days peaceful and happy. Why had she betrayed him this way?

Reaching Kingston, Jackson took a short cut through the seedier part of town, since that was the fastest route to the Golden Slipper. His thoughts were in such turmoil, he nearly missed seeing his own vehicle, would have missed it, in fact, except that the horses recognized each other. Their whickers and whinnies drew his attention, and there it was--his own carriage tied up in an alley.

Drawing rein sharply, Jackson dismounted. The carriage seemed in perfect condition, nothing indicated foul play, and yet something was tugging at his consciousness, telling him something simply wasn't right with this picture.

And then he saw it. A small, paper-wrapped parcel on the carriage seat. Already knowing in his heart what he would find, Jackson unwrapped the package. It was a pipe, and a pouch of his favorite tobacco. His birthday gift. The gift Fancy had promised to buy for him--the very reason she had gone to Kingston in the first place, just as she had said.

She had not betrayed him--she had been stolen instead.

Those two distinct and very important facts raced through Jackson's mind as he remounted his horse. Even now, Hamilton Brown could be raping her...

Galloping through the streets of Kingston, Jackson vowed he would have vengeance against the man who had stolen his property...his Fancy...his love.

Hamilton Brown propelled his newest acquisition through the Golden Slipper's back door, then down a flight of stairs and into a small cell. Fancy wasn't the first wench he'd ever kidnapped. Like the others, she would become a willing whore soon enough. Opium addiction would see to that. Hamilton smiled. It was all very simple, really.

And he knew what he wanted to do right now. Once Luther had followed them into the small chamber holding only a narrow brass bed and rickety night stand, Hamilton closed the cell door, locking them all inside. Turning to Fancy, he said, "Take off your clothes, wench, and get in the bed."

She shook her head vigorously. "No...no," she rasped, backing away.

Hamilton grabbed her arm and touched his pistol to her forehead. "Obey me, woman, or I'll kill you right now."

Amanda trembled. She couldn't believe this was happening--but, dear God, she didn't want to die! Feeling pale and fragile, she slowly removed her pretty straw hat with its bright blue ribbons and laid it on the bed.

Then she unfastened her gown, her hands shaking, wondering with growing horror if both men would rape her. Her throat went dry. The thought of being touched by any man but Jackson made her skin crawl.

Jackson. Dear God, would she ever see him again? Would he think she'd run away? Of course, she was planning to do just that, but right now Amanda would gladly trade this situation for her life at Carlyle, no matter her status as Jackson's slave.

She was down to her lace-trimmed underthings now, and she knew there was no way she could remove the corset by herself. Almost hysterically, she realized how right Jackson had been--a lady's maid was a necessity for a pampered woman. She tugged on the corset ties to no avail, then looked up rather helplessly, biting her lower lip.

Seeing her dilemma, Hamilton sneered, "Just get in the bed, whore." He gestured with the pistol. "What I want is between your thighs, and the slit in your pantalets will get me there just fine."

Amanda blanched, then turned crimson...but she obeyed his command. The brandished pistol was too much a threat to allow her any other choice. Crying softly, she lay down on the bed. Then, for the second time in her life, she closed her eyes and waited for the inevitable painful thrust.

She could hear him unfastening his breeches, then heard a metallic sound. Realizing he'd set down the pistol, Amanda felt a surge of hope. She might have a chance to escape! As he lowered his body over hers, she fought him with all her strength--kicking, scratching, biting--anything to try to save herself.

Struggling to subdue her flailing arms and legs, Hamilton shouted, "Get over here, Luther, and help me." He drew in a harsh breath. "You secure her legs, and I'll take care of her arms."

Amanda didn't know what he was talking about until she felt cold metal close around her left wrist. Shocked at the thought of being restrained again, her struggles became jerky, erratic...and entirely useless. Within mere moments, she was chained to the bed.

Now that his victim was completely helpless, Hamilton Brown decided he wanted to see the rest of her ripe little body. Pulling a small knife from his coat pocket, he cut away her corset and silky pantalets, leaving only her gartered stockings. Licking his lips, he said, "She's a beauty, isn't she, Luther?"

"Yeah," the paid henchman replied, "but if you don't get on with it, I'll never get my turn at her."

Hamilton smiled. "True," he said, lowering himself to the bed, taking his aroused member in hand, anticipating that first thrust into her helpless body.

But it never happened. He was nearly successful--so nearly there that he literally groaned--when one of his employees suddenly rushed down the stairs, coming straight to the cell.

"What is it, Edgar?" he growled, getting up from the bed again, thoroughly irritated by the interruption. The man wouldn't have come down here if it wasn't important.

"There's a fight in the gaming room, Mr. Brown," Edgar quickly replied. "We're gonna need help unless you want the whole place smashed up."

Hamilton cursed fluently. "Go on back up there, Edgar, and do what you can. I'll be along in a minute."

Edgar nodded, took just a moment to admire the golden-skinned wench in the cell, then turned and headed for the stairs.

"Need some help?" Luther asked.

"Probably," Hamilton admitted, stuffing his arousal back in his breeches, then pulling the cell key from his vest pocket.

"What about the girl?"

Hamilton looked at Fancy, watched the tremors coursing through her slender, nude body, thoroughly enjoying the sight of her obvious fear. "She's not going anywhere," he finally grunted. "Let's go and stop that fight."

Edgar was finally "escorting" the last drunk out the Golden Slipper's front door when a very tall, very angry-looking man dismounted, then came toward the door with determined strides. Reaching Edgar, the man grasped his shirt with both fists. "Where's Hamilton Brown?"

"He's inside," Edgar gasped out, wincing.

"Does he have a woman with him?"

"Of course he has a woman with him," Edgar retorted with false bravado. "This is a whorehouse, what else would you expect?"

The stranger shook him then, good and hard. "I mean one particular woman, fool," he growled. "A very light-skinned, very beautiful mulatto, who just happens to belong to me!"

Images of the girl in the basement cell flashed across Edgar's mind, and at the same time he saw two constables crossing the street, coming to investigate the disturbance.

The last thing Edgar needed was trouble with the law, so he finally answered, "Yes. He has a woman here who very well could be the one you described."

"What's the problem, Mr. Carlyle?" the first constable asked.

Jackson glanced at the constable, recognized him as a man named John Tooley, then turned his attention back to Hamilton Brown's employee. "This man's boss stole one of my slaves," he ground out, never loosening his hold on the bouncer's shirt. "I think she's being held in there." He gestured toward the Golden Slipper.

"Is that true, Edgar?" John Tooley asked.

"I don't know if it's true, Constable Tooley," Edgar replied, "But Mr. Brown does have a mulatto girl...inside."

Jackson caught the hesitation in the man's voice. And he didn't like what it implied. Despite the presence of the two constables, he hauled Edgar up to his toes, then said, "Tell me just exactly where my slave is being held, or I'll beat it out of you."

"Mr. Carlyle," John Tooley injected, sounding slightly exasperated. "You really should let the law handle this if your property has indeed been stolen."

"Shut up, Tooley," Jackson growled, never taking his eyes off Edgar. "I don't have time for civilized behavior. I intend getting my slave back right now...one way or the other."

A sheen of perspiration formed on Edgar's brow. "I'll take you to her, Mr. Carlyle!" he exclaimed, and Jackson nodded, glad the man had believed his threat.

Releasing Edgar's shirt, he followed him into the Golden Slipper, the two constables following close behind.

Hamilton Brown brushed a drop of blood off his mouth as he approached Fancy's cell. The skirmish was over. Luther, his newest bouncer, was still busy upstairs, but blood lust had spurred Hamilton's need for the girl. There was nothing better after a good brawl than a good fuck--especially if the wench was unwilling.

Blue eyes flying open as he entered the cell, she struggled futilely against her chains. "No...please...no," she whispered. Hamilton's erection throbbed. He loved her helplessness. He didn't even bother closing the cell door.

"Go ahead, Fancy," he sneered, unbuttoning his pants. "Squirm and beg all you like. That only makes me want you more."

She stiffened instantly, becoming utterly still...and silent.

Hamilton laughed at her response, then bent toward her, fingers splayed. A little breast punishment was in order, he decided. As her eyes pleaded for mercy, he grasped a nipple in each hand, pinched them cruelly, then gave a savage twist. Her face drained of color, and he smiled.

But then she screamed--long and shrill and loud.

Jackson pushed Edgar out of the way when he heard that terrible sound. He knew what it was--Fancy. There was a heavy oak door at the end of the hallway. Jackson tore it open, then raced down a flight of stairs. Before he even reached the bottom, he was faced with an unbelievable sight.

In the space of one heartbeat--the length of time it took for Hamilton Brown to react--Jackson saw it all. Fancy was literally in a cage, nude and chained to a bed. And Hamilton Brown had been leaning over her, deliberately hurting her breasts.

The man was on his feet now, and Jackson's fist caught him square on the jaw. The impact sent Brown reeling, but he regained his balance just in time to grab a pistol off the table.

"Watch out!" he heard Fancy cry. "He has a gun!"

Hearing her warning, and seeing the pistol at the same time, Jackson lunged at the man, grabbing his wrist and forcing the gun up into the air.

Hamilton Brown fought with the desperation of a man who knew he'd been caught. Pulling down with all his strength, he lowered the gun to Jackson's chest, obviously intent on killing him. But in that moment, the two constables rushed into the cell, distracting Brown, and Jackson turned the gun away from himself...and toward his enemy. He had no intention of killing the man, but in the twisting motion, Hamilton's finger closed on the trigger...and then the explosive, irrevocable sound of a gun discharging ended the fight.

Hamilton looked down at the blood on the front of his shirt, and then at the blood on his hand. His eyes glazing over, he knew he had just killed himself. Jackson watched him sink to the floor.

Crouching beside him, thinking him already dead, Jackson searched his vest for the key to Fancy's chains...but then Hamilton spoke.

"This wasn't all my own doing, Carlyle," he rasped. "Elizabeth...Carrington paid me a thousand pounds to kidnap...your slave." Then his eyes became unfocused, staring, in death.

Jackson sat back on his heels, shocked by the man's final words. Elizabeth's jealousy had caused all this.

The constables took over then, murmuring about self defense and arresting Elizabeth, but Jackson's thoughts had already moved on. He looked to the bed, where a constable had pulled a sheet over Fancy's nakedness. He was grateful for that kindness. More than anyone else, he knew how easily Fancy could feel shame. Keys in hand, he approached the bed, quickly freed her, then pulled her into his arms.

Amanda was crying by the time Jackson's powerful arms closed around her--tears of relief and gratitude that he hadn't died in the shooting. Her heart had nearly stopped when that pistol went off. For the moment, she didn't care that she was a slave, that he was her master. All she cared about was that he was alive, and strong, and that she was being held in his wonderful arms...where she felt safe. And all she wanted was to go back to Carlyle.

"Take me home, Jackson...please," she murmured.

He began fulfilling her request, quickly helping her dress, leaving the legal details to the constables--one of whom arranged to have his carriage brought to the brothel's front door.

And as Jackson helped her into the carriage, Amanda's mind was in a quandary. He had saved her--again. And she had asked him to take her home...

Did she really consider Carlyle Plantation nothing more than a prison? Did she truly want freedom from slavery to this man?

For the very first time, she had no answer. She just wasn't sure anymore.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The magnificent tropical sun was just beginning to set as Jackson pulled the carriage off the road. Placing his arm around Amanda's shoulders, he said, "We may as well enjoy the sunset." He pulled her close. "That way, your memories of this day won't all be bad."

"Ummm," Amanda murmured on a soft sigh, snuggling closer into his embrace, watching the bright orange ball begin its descent. She felt completely at peace in Jackson's arms, smelling the heady perfume of tropical blooms, hearing birds as they took one last joyous flight before settling down to rest. She felt happy, content and totally protected...until Jackson kissed her with ardent passion.

"No...please...don't," she gasped, backing away, suddenly horribly frightened of being touched by a man.

"Hush, Fancy," he said, pulling her close again. "There's nothing to be afraid of now."

"Yes there is!" she insisted, shuddering, still fighting his embrace. "I can't bear the thought of being touched after--"

"Quit struggling, Fancy!"

His stern order stopped her words. He hadn't used that tone of voice for so long, she'd almost forgotten he still held ultimate power over her life. Again, she was brought back to reality with a brutal jolt.

He studied her quietly for a time, loosening his hold, then said, "Was I too late?"

She knew what he was asking. Swallowing hard, she shook her head. "No, Jackson," she said. "I wasn't raped."

He nodded, letting out a harsh breath, then pulled her close again and kissed her temple. "Fancy," he said quietly, "I understand your fear--it's an aftermath to the ordeal you suffered--but the best way to overcome that fear is to face it head-on."

Amanda stiffened. "What are you saying, Jackson?"

"I'm saying I'm going to make love to you just as soon as we get home," he answered, confirming Amanda's suspicion. "That's the best way to put this experience behind you, the best way to show you that intimacy is nothing to be afraid of...at least not with me."

The very thought had her gasping. "Please don't ask that of me," she implored. "I can't do it...I can't!"

He calmly picked up the reins and set the carriage in motion again. Looking at her, he said simply, "Yes, you can, Fancy. And you will."

As the carriage started down the road, Amanda chewed her lower lip. He could force her submission if he wanted to--she knew that--and she couldn't help believing he'd simply decided to prove his mastery again, no matter what he'd said about facing her fear "head on." It was his right to bed her whenever he wished, but she had thought he would never force her again, had even for one lovely moment wondered if she really wanted to be free of him.

Now she knew that she did.

Reaffirming her resolve to escape, Amanda watched in numb silence as each passing mile brought her closer to Carlyle Plantation--which was not her home--and to Jackson's bed...which was quite obviously her "place."

The very moment they entered the mansion, Jackson bellowed for Toby, then led Fancy into the drawing room.

To his frustration, not only did Toby come immediately to the room, but also Mammy, several other worried-looking servants, and the young girl who'd become Fancy's personal maid.

"Now that we're all gathered together," he said a little wryly, "I want to clear up a misunderstanding."

Toby and Mammy exchanged glances, then the old woman nodded as if saying "I told you so."

Jackson didn't miss the gesture and couldn't help smiling. Mammy was a shrewd old bird. She had obviously never believed in Fancy's guilt.

Toby ducked his head, looking embarrassed, and Jackson decided to end this situation as quickly as possible. Clearing his throat, he said, "Miss Fancy was kidnapped today...by Hamilton Brown."

"Did he hurt you, child?" Mammy blurted upon hearing that, rushing to Fancy. "If he did, I sweat to God, I'll kill him!"

Fancy merely shook her head, her thoughts all too apparently still on Jackson's words in the carriage. He regretted that...but he felt he was doing the right thing.

"It won't be necessary for you to kill Mr. Brown, Mammy," Jackson said then, knowing in his heart that Mammy truly would have found a way to kill the scoundrel if necessary. "The man's already dead."

Mammy turned sharply. "You killed him?"

"Actually, he shot himself while trying to shoot me," Jackson answered, which brought a groan of distress from Toby.

"Oh God," the big man lamented. "You might've been killed 'cause of what I told you, Master Jack!" Then he looked toward Fancy. "And how can I ever apologize for the terrible things I said about you?"

Fancy looked confused, and Jackson quickly explained Toby's error in judgement--an error which had ultimately saved her from rape.

"There's no need to apologize, Toby," she said when the explanation was finished. "You simply made a mistake. No harm was done."

"And you did tell me where I could find her," Jackson added. "If you hadn't seen her in Brown's carriage, she might still be with him right now."

Toby nodded solemnly, slightly mollified by that thought. "I still feel awful bad about not trustin' Miss Fancy, but I'm sure glad I was able to help you get her back."

"You did indeed help me, Toby," Jackson reiterated. "And now I think we can let this matter drop altogether."

His gaze scanned the small assembly as he added, "That's all I'll be needing this evening. You may all retire for the night...except you, Janiah."

Janiah, the thirteen-year-old girl who was now Fancy's maid curtsied politely. "Sir?"

"Help Miss Fancy prepare for bed," he quietly commanded. "She'll be wearing that lovely new nightdress I gave her last week."

"Yessir," Janiah replied, smiling toothily. "That's the prettiest nightgown I've ever seen."

He saw Fancy bristle. "That won't be necessary, Janiah," she said. "I can see to my own needs tonight."

"Just do as you're told, Janiah," Jackson countered. "And Miss Fancy will do as she's told, too," he added.

Clearly determined to maintain her dignity, Fancy raised her chin, then left the room in a swirl of petticoats and silk, her unconfined breasts bouncing gently against the bodice of her gown.

The very sight of her breasts, free of constraint since Hamilton Brown had cut her corset to shreds, reaffirmed Jackson's determination. Fancy had very nearly been brutally raped, and she'd been driven to incredible heights of fear. If he didn't help her work through that fear right now, it would fester and grow instead of diminishing.

He was certain of that.

In Amanda's mind, she may as well have been facing the slave block again. She had been ordered to present herself to her master...on his terms, and in the clothing he had decided she was to wear. The bath water was warm and perfumed--just as the water had been at the slave auction--and afterward Janiah massaged her nude body with scented oil. All that was missing was the damned pole and chain.

When Janiah helped her into the diaphanous, lace-trimmed confection that had been Jackson's latest gift, Amanda very nearly cried. Now she was remembering their first night together. He had insisted on taking her virginity then--against her will--and though she was far from virginal anymore, Amanda felt the same horrid, shameful emotions she'd felt that night so many weeks ago.

Janiah was bubbling over with good cheer as she brushed Amanda's hair until it was as silky as her perfumed skin. "You're beautiful tonight, Miss Fancy," she said, looking at Amanda's reflection in the dressing table mirror, not knowing, of course, that who she was seeing was not a mulatto slave who should feel extremely privileged to be sharing the master's bed. "You'll make Master Jack real happy."

"I'm sure I will," Amanda muttered, then added silently whether I want to or not. "Leave me now, Janiah, please," she added. "I need a little time to myself."

Janiah nodded, fluffed Amanda's hair once more, then quietly left the room.

Jackson opened his bedroom door, having come straight from the bathing room and wearing his customary silk dressing gown. Even he realized how similar this night was to the night he had first taken Fancy to his bed. But the similarities could not be helped. There was something that needed to be done, and he was going to do it...or at least he was going to try. He couldn't force her, not really, but he could touch her intimately, hoping to show her there was nothing to fear.

Just as on that first night, she was simply standing there in his room. But this time she was facing the open window, rich brown hair cascading all the way to her waist, the delightfully sheer nightgown fluttering in the gentle, scented breeze.

"Turn around, Fancy," he said quietly. "Turn around and come to me."

"No," she said, shaking her head, grasping the window ledge with both hands.

Jackson sighed. He didn't really want to assert his authority, but he would if he must. "Obey me, woman," he said, firmly this time. "Turn around and come to me now."

"Are we back to that again, master?" she gritted out, spinning around to face him. "Am I simply your slave again, instead of your pampered whore?"

Jackson reached her in four long strides, grasped her shoulders and very deliberately pushed the nightdress down her arms, baring her breasts. He had felt a surge of anger when she'd called herself "whore," but on seeing the bruises around her nipples--inflicted by Hamilton Brown--his anger melted instantly. "Do the bruises hurt, Fancy?" he said.

Amanda looked down. "Only a little," she admitted. "The worst pain is in my mind...not my body," she added, chewing her lower lip, determined not to cry. He was being so tender now--not forceful. She didn't know what to think.

He knelt down in front of her. Grasping her waist in his strong hands, he leaned forward and ever so gently kissed each bruised nipple--and Amanda uttered a low moan of distress.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked, looking up, deep concern etched into his forehead.

"No...at least not physically," Amanda replied, on the brink of tears again, reaching out to smooth away his frown.

Then he eased the silky nightgown over her hips, bent, and gently kissed the dark curls of her womanhood. "Am I hurting you now, Fancy?" he murmured.

"No," Amanda whispered, this time adding nothing at all to the simple statement as she felt the undeniable stirring of desire.

He delved between her thighs, barely touching her moist femininity. "What about now?"

Amanda gasped softly, spreading her legs. "No," she whispered again.

His masterful seduction was fast overcoming her fear, Amanda realized...then he slipped one finger inside. As he gently moved within her, he bent to kiss her feminine curls again, then delved deeper, touching his tongue to her most intimate place. And Amanda said, "Yes...ah, yes."

Upon hearing her softly-sighed words, he urged her thighs farther apart, then used his tongue to bring her to quick, shuddering ecstacy, still standing before him.

Amanda trembled with her culmination, felt her legs turning to jelly and sank down to her knees, leaning into his strength. Her breaths were coming in soft pants, her mind hazy with passion, but she realized one thing very clearly. He was right. She was no longer fearful of intimacy, in fact she wanted to return it, wanted to give him the same pleasure he had just given her.

Feeling lighthearted, so very grateful that he had freed her of that burden of fear, Amanda looked into his eyes, at the same time parting his silk robe and grasping his aroused maleness. Feeling mischievous, she said, "I'm on my knees before you, master. Shouldn't you command me to do something while I'm in this humble position?"

Jackson felt her delicate hands stroking his manhood, saw the teasing light in her sapphire eyes, and he smiled. Clearly, his rather forceful seduction had had the desired effect--she was no longer afraid. He knew exactly what she wanted him to say now, too. His manhood bucking with excitement, he murmured thickly, "Use your sweet mouth to please me, little slave."

She lowered her eyes demurely, continuing the game. "Yes, master," she said with false meekness, then bent and took him between her moist, parted lips.

Jackson uttered a moan of raw pleasure, placing his hands on top of her head. Caressing her soft hair, he hissed with ecstasy, his member rock-hard, nearly bursting with need in the warm, wet depths of her mouth. Looking down, he watched her performing the wholly erotic act, then felt such unbridled lust at the sight, he cried, "Enough!" wanting to spill his seed deep inside her womanhood, needing her beneath him now.

She raised her head the instant his fierce command was issued, obviously realizing this was no longer a game. Jackson placed one large hand on either side of her face, then plundered her mouth with nearly savage intensity. "Lie down," he growled.

Her need nearly as urgent as Jackson's now, Amanda obeyed, not caring that he was going to take her right there on the floor. This wouldn't be the first time they hadn't made it to the bed, but his fierce passion never failed to spur her own. "Come into me now, my master...my lover," she said, spreading her thighs, no longer playing a sexual game, truly not caring for the moment that those very words freely acknowledged her status as his slave. "Come into me, and fill me with your power and strength."

"Ah Fancy, my Fancy, my own sweet mistress," he groaned in reply, then fulfilled her request, loving her deeply, fully, powerfully. Then he carried her to the bed and did it all over again...and again.

Later, reasonably at peace with her world once more, Amanda curled up against him, running her fingers through his dark chest hair. "Thank you, Jackson," she murmured softly, yawning.

"For what?" he asked, kissing her forehead.

"For being right," she replied, yawning again. "Fear is such a terrible thing. I'm glad you helped me through it."

Amanda didn't see Jackson's tender smile as she fell asleep, but she did wonder, for the second time that day, if she really, truly wanted to leave this man.

Elizabeth Carrington went to prison--for about one week. Then her father, and the governor himself, intervened on her behalf. Elizabeth's father was well-placed and extremely wealthy, and before his errant daughter could utter a word of objection, he married her off to an old, brutish English lord who was sailing back to England within a fortnight.

Mr. Carrington would be well rid of his willful, wanton daughter, and the old English lord--who was as demanding as any slave master--would soon have her brought to heel. Mr. Carrington decided that was just punishment for his daughter's crime...and Jackson agreed with him completely.

Sitting in his gentleman's club sipping whiskey, Jackson had just learned all this from Mr. Carrington himself. He smiled as he watched the older man leave the table. Mr. Carrington had decided that the harsh treatment Elizabeth would receive at her new lord's hands was just exactly what she deserved for masterminding the kidnapping of Jackson's slave.

Jackson agreed with that, too, because he knew the English lord's reputation very well. Elizabeth would not only be brought to heel, she would be under her lord and master's heel by the time that strict disciplinarian was through with her. His smile widened. Fancy had indeed been well avenged.

Fancy. In the three weeks since her nearly disastrous kidnapping, Jackson had come to love her more and more with each passing day. She was responding to him so fully now, so completely, that he suspected she might harbor deep feelings for him, as well. Of course, she would never admit those feelings, any more than he would--not when sharing words of love would change nothing in their lives, would, if anything, reinforce the fact that they could never, ever be anything more than they were right now...a master and his slave mistress.

Jackson's smile became wry upon thinking about that term. Fancy was indeed his "slave mistress"--and now everyone in Kingston seemed to know it, though very few of those people had ever seen her.

Elizabeth Carrington had given an interview to a newspaper, apparently as a final act of vengeance against Jackson. She had blatantly called Fancy just that--Jackson Carlyle's slave mistress--and the newspaper, quite naturally, had printed the story, knowing their sales would increase with that juicy tidbit of gossip.

Hamilton Brown's death got an even longer article in the local paper. Edgar, the bouncer at the Golden Slipper, was only too willing to fill in the details. He also pointed out that Fancy must be very important to her master, since he had come immediately to her rescue, not even waiting for the constables to do their lawful duty.

As a result of all this, whenever Jackson visited his club, he was met by sidelong glances at each table he passed. Some of those glances were frankly envious, others blatantly judgmental. But no one in so-called polite society would say even one word to Jackson about his lover. That just simply was not done.

No one would mention his affair with a slave, that is, except the paunchy, heavily-jowled man who was just now settling into the chair across from Jackson.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Carlyle," the man said. "May I have a word with you?"

"Of course, Mr. Montcrief," Jackson replied politely, sipping his Kentucky bourbon and hoping the overbearing manager of this club wouldn't stay for very long.

Mr. Montcrief cleared his throat. "Do you realize what is happening to your reputation, sir?" he asked bluntly.

Jackson bristled, understanding quite clearly what this conversation was about, but then he sighed. He knew someone would have the audacity to bring this up eventually. And since Montcrief was not actually a member of Kingston society, it didn't really surprise Jackson that he would be the one to do it. "Why don't you tell me, Mr. Montcrief," he finally answered, downing his whiskey in a single gulp.

"To be frank," the manager said, "your reputation with the gents of Kingston has actually climbed a notch or two--mostly from envy--but your reputation with the marriageable young ladies of this town is plummeting fast."

Jackson had to smile at that, as he signaled for a refill of his smooth Kentucky whiskey. He had no intention of ever marrying...not when Fancy fulfilled the role of wife quite nicely. But he wondered just where Mr. Montcrief was going with this. "What is you point, Mr. Montcrief?"

The man flushed a little, then cleared his throat again. "I'm simply saying that if you continue this liaison with the mulatto slave, your chances of making a fine marriage might well become nil." He signaled for his own refill, accepted it and downed it quickly before continuing. "But I might have a solution to your problem."

"My problem?" Jackson asked with studied calmness. He was beginning to seethe inside. He knew what was coming.

"Yes, Mr. Carlyle, your problem," Montcrief affirmed. He leaned forward. "You see, Jackson," he continued in a conspiratorial voice, "I think the only reason you're so enthralled with the wench is because she's so easily available. I can understand that, since I just happened to be passing the slave auction the day she was so nicely displayed."

Jackson sat up very straight. The thought of this odious man seeing Fancy on that damned virgin's block was deplorable. Wanting to end the conversation, he said, "I really must be going, Mr. Montcrief. If you'll excuse me..."

Before Jackson could rise to his feet, the manager blurted, "But you haven't heard my solution to your problem, Jackson!"

"I don't need to hear it, Mr. Montcrief," Jackson replied, standing up to his full, formidable height. "I'm quite certain your solution to my 'problem,' as you call it, is to offer to buy my slave. Isn't that so, Mr. Montcrief?"

"Quite right," Montcrief agreed, standing himself. "And I could offer you twenty-five hundred pounds for the wench, giving you a five hundred pound profit on her sale."

Jackson very calmly flicked a piece of lint from the lapel of the manager's frock coat. His anger was boiling now--he wanted to send the man flying across the room--but politeness required a little more delicacy in matters such as this. "Your offer, Mr. Montcrief," he said, casually grasping the man's lapel, running his fingers up and down the fine fabric, "is a little insulting, since you know as well as anyone that I very seldom sell my slaves...and certainly not as a panderer." He tightened his grip. Montcrief's lust for Fancy had been all too apparent. "The lady in question is quite simply not...for...sale."

The last words were gritted between clenched teeth, and Jackson knew Montcrief got the message, loud and clear. Foolishly, the man decided to be a poor loser.

"The wench is anything but a lady, Mr. Carlyle," Montcrief sneered, "as everyone in polite society knows. She's simply a little tart who willingly spreads her thighs for the master to achieve a better lifestyle than most slaves enjoy...and which none of the lowly creatures deserve. Her kind should be passed around freely, for all men to enjoy."

That did it. Jackson landed a blow to Montcrief's fleshy face that did indeed send him flying across the room, only to land against the far wall and slump to the floor in a state of abject shock. So much for polite behavior, Jackson mused. The ass had deserved it.

Rising clumsily to his feet, the manager looked around the quiet, luxurious room, and he noticed smiles and nods--the same nods Jackson was seeing himself. To his vast amazement, Jackson realized his peers had approved of that single, unruly punch. Montcrief simply limped from the room, mumbling and shaking his head.

The oldest, most distinguished gentleman in the entire club slowly stood up, using a cane for support. He tottered over to Jackson--who was more than a little embarrassed now that his anger was spent--and upon reaching Jackson, the elder patted his shoulder and said, "Well done, young man. Extremely well done, in fact."

Amazed that even this staunch old fellow had approved of his actions, Jackson said, "Thank you, Mr. Larson."

The man smiled knowingly, lifting his snow-white, handlebar mustache, then patted Jackson's shoulder again.

"Would have done the same when I was younger." He leaned in closer to whisper, "I've had a 'lady friend' myself for many, many years."

Suddenly Jackson understood. He and Mr. Larson shared an experience--they were both in love with a slave. Seeing that truth in the old man's eyes, Jackson nodded, then said, "I love her, Mr. Larson. No matter society's rules, I will never give her up."

"Of course you won't give her up," the old man replied. "Nor should you. Discretion is the key, son, as I'm sure you're well aware. My Eliza is getting on in years now, but we've had a long and happy life together. She's given me three fine children, and I love each and every one of them as if they weren't really slaves at all."

That thought had never occurred to Jackson. The thought of Fancy bearing him children...and they would be slaves, just like her. He winced, somehow knowing how she would feel about that. But he couldn't change the situation--not unless he was willing to free any children of this union but keep their mother as slave. He grimaced again. No, Fancy definitely wouldn't like that. And yet he still couldn't free her.

No matter that he felt she might actually care for him now, Jackson still had no illusions about his beautiful mistress. If she were free to leave Carlyle, she would.

Even so--even with those inherent problems of Fancy becoming pregnant--the thought of watching her sweet young body ripen with his child brought a definite smile to Jackson's face. Of course he wanted children from Fancy--and he would treat them all very fairly, just as he would treat her the same way. He loved her, and he would love their children, as well.

Thanking Mr. Larson for his words of encouragement, Jackson bid the old man farewell, then left the club. His steps were light as he made his way to his carriage. Yes, he thought, smiling broadly now, the idea of Fancy bearing him strong sons and beautiful daughters was very pleasant. Very pleasant indeed.

And there was only one way to get them. Slapping the reins, he urged the horse to greater speed as he drove toward Carlyle, wanting to get home as quickly as possible. Fancy might object to his demand that they retire to his bedroom in the middle of the day...but not very much. Even if she did object, it wouldn't really matter. She still had no choice about such things, and Jackson still felt no guilt about that simple fact of life for a slave owner--even one who dearly loved his little mistress.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Amanda was confused. Ever since the terrible ordeal in the Golden Slipper, her feelings toward Jackson had been growing stronger with each passing day.

He was overbearing at times; dominant, arrogant, commanding--but he could also be the kindest and most generous of men. Amanda's heart lurched every time he gave her a bouquet of tropical blooms or a lavishly expensive gift.

He was a paradox, seemingly two different men at the same time--a demanding lover, wanting his pleasure whenever and wherever he desired it, but also the consummate "husband," for lack of a better word. He had given Amanda all the things any husband would give to his wife...to the woman he loved.

And yet Amanda knew that Jackson didn't love her. Surely, if he loved her, he would set her free. Wasn't that the essence of love? Caring about the other person's happiness even more than you cared about your own? No, he didn't love her; she was simply a convenience in his bed.

But Jackson's paradoxical personality wasn't the only thing confusing Amanda. The other part of her confusion was far worse than that.

Slowly but surely, she was falling in love with him.

And yet how could that be? How could she love the man who had forced her to become his bed mate, his kitchen slave and finally--and this was the most confusing part of all--his pampered lover?

Why had he taken her out of the kitchen and given her a life of luxury? He had said it was a reward for saving his life, but as the weeks passed Amanda began to doubt that.

Yet the only other plausible explanation was that he did indeed love her, just as she was beginning to love him. Not that she wanted to love Jackson Carlyle. No, not in the least, she told herself. Not at all.

Nothing made sense anymore. Amanda's goal to free the slaves at Labreaux had been receding into the background with each tender gesture, each kindness that Jackson bestowed upon her. And yet she was still fiercely determined to achieve that goal.

And she couldn't do it without escaping from Carlyle Plantation...and betraying Jackson.

Each time he asked her to wear some particular piece of jewelry, Amanda felt guilty. He had bought her so many beautiful pieces, and any one of them would pay her passage home. Home. Yes, she still wanted to go home, and in a little more than a week she would be doing just that.

Or would she?

That was the final, most painful part of Amanda's confusion. She didn't really know if she still considered Labreaux home, even though she intended to sell it, or if Carlyle Plantation had taken its place in her heart. She could deny it all she wanted, could mentally continue her escape plans and even look forward to defeating Harold and freeing her slaves. But she wasn't sure she could bear leaving Jackson. Not when she was coming to love him, no matter how much she didn't want to love the man who quite apparently would never set her free.

Sighing heavily, not finding answers to her dilemma any more on this day than she had on all the others, Amanda leaned back in the fan-shaped wicker chair on the back veranda and sipped her lemonade. Nothing would come of going over and over the dilemma anyway--except more confusion--and she still had more than a week to make her final decision. Eight more days before the ship destined for New Orleans was scheduled to leave.

A commotion near the stables caught Amanda's attention, breaking into her thoughts...then color drained from her face as she realized what she was seeing.

Bull Smith, Jackson's brutish overseer, was dragging a young male toward what Amanda knew was a whipping post, though she'd never seen it used.

The crystal glass in Amanda's hand slipped free and shattered into a hundred pieces. She could not allow that child to be lashed! Soft leather slippers barely making a sound, multitudinous petticoats nearly tripping her, Amanda rushed down the veranda steps. Intent on her purpose, she reached the whipping post just as Bull was pulling back his arm.

The boy had been tied to the iron ring on the post, his shirt torn in two down the back. Bull had accomplished all this--and unrolled a cruel horsewhip--in the time it took Amanda to reach them.

But she wasn't too late to save the trembling, sweating, horribly frightened youth from this brutal punishment. No, she was just in time...and she literally grabbed the whip from Bull's massive fist, using more strength than she'd known she possessed.

Bull looked at his empty hand first and then at Amanda. "Give it back, wench," he growled, glaring at her and holding out his hand. "It's no business of one slave how another is punished!"

"No," Amanda refused, backing away from the huge man. "What you're doing is wrong, and I cannot allow it!"

"You can't allow it?" Bull roared, clearly incredulous. "I think being Mr. Carlyle's slut has made you forget your place, girl."

He grabbed the whip, wrenching it from Amanda's grasp. Then he pulled back his arm again, preparing to use the whip on her.

Amanda covered her face, crouching instinctively, horrid fear rushing through her veins.

"Hold it right there, Bull!" a deep voice thundered--and Amanda nearly sobbed, recognizing Jackson's voice.

She lowered her hands and stood up straight as Bull turned to face his boss, who was just now pulling into the yard. Amanda watched Jackson alight from the carriage, more grateful to see him than she could express with words. He'd saved her from harm again.

He approached the small group with angry, determined strides. With feigned politeness, Bull said, "This girl was interfering with a just punishment, sir. I thought a taste of the lash would send her scurrying back to the house, where she belongs."

"You are not authorized to punish her, Bull," Jackson said, his voice flat. "I think you know that very well."

"Yes, sir," Bull admitted, nodding his head, "but she said she could not allow me to whip this lazy, good for nothing slave."

Jackson turned to Amanda then, and she felt the coldness in his stare all the way to her soul.

"Is that true, Fancy?" he asked very quietly. "Did you tell Bull you would not allow him to whip this slave?"

"It's wrong, Jackson," Amanda murmured. "It's so very wrong for one human being to whip another."

"Human being?" Bull grunted derisively. "Since when are slaves human?"

"Answer me, Fancy," Jackson persisted, ignoring Bull completely. "Did you or did you not tell Bull you would not allow him to whip a slave?"

"I said that, yes," Amanda admitted. "But my reason was valid. It is wrong, Jackson, just as slavery itself is wrong."

Jackson felt a mighty urge to teach Fancy an important lesson, here and now. She should not have interfered. It wasn't a woman's place to do so--slave or not. Grasping the whip from Bull's hand, he readied his stance behind the helplessly-tied youth.

He didn't know what the boy had done, but with proper technique, a single lash could be applied that wouldn't even raise a welt. The abbreviated punishment would prove Jackson's point to Fancy--and after one lash, Jackson could declare the punishment over, thereby saving the child from the admittedly brutal punishment Bull would mete out if left to do it himself.

Raising his arm high, preparing to arc the whip for that single lash, Jackson heard his mistress suddenly cry, "Stop, Harold! Don't whip him...please, don't whip that child!"

Reality and memory swirled together through Amanda's mind. She had seen Jackson raise the whip, and she couldn't believe the man she was beginning to love--or perhaps had been beginning to love--would actually raise his arm against a helpless youth, especially when he didn't even know what the child had done.

That was something her half-brother, Harold, would do any day of the week, but Amanda hadn't thought Jackson Carlyle would ever do such a thing.

That's when the two men had somehow blended into one. She'd cried out for Harold to stop, because in that moment, Jackson was Harold...and now he was lowering the whip again and turning back to her, something akin to raw fury darkening his gaze.

"What did you say, Fancy?" he asked in a low growl. The horsewhip twitched in his hand. "What did you call me?"

"I...I," Amanda stammered, her own gaze fastened on that whip. "I didn't mean anything by it, Jackson, I just..."

"You just called me Harold!" he thundered. "You just called me the name of your so-called half-brother, the man from your ludicrous lie!"

Something snapped in Amanda's far-too-troubled mind. Had she honestly thought she could love this man? This brute who would never believe her story, who wouldn't even allow her to voice the words?

She'd had just about enough of that, she decided, and consequences be damned. Anger giving her courage, no longer fearful of the whip in his hand, she said, "It is not a lie, Jackson Carlyle. I am Amanda Labreaux, but you're too damned pigheaded to recognize the truth when you hear it!"

Jackson seethed, gritting his teeth. Red-hot fury boiled in his veins. Fancy was lying again. In unthinking reaction, he raised the hand not holding the whip and slapped her. Hard.

"That oughta teach the little whore her place," Bull grunted, "just like I wanted to teach this lazy nigger here"--he gestured to the boy at the post--"what happens when he falls asleep in the field."

Jackson swallowed hard, seeing the red mark on Fancy's cheek, but he'd heard Bull's words. Turning to the man, he said, "The boy fell asleep in the field?" He was already approaching the slave.

Then Jackson realized why the youth hadn't said anything during this entire ordeal. The dark skin on his face was bathed in sweat, his ebony eyes were glazed, and trembles coursed through his strong young body from head to toe.

Recognizing the shudders of illness, Jackson muttered a low curse, then placed the back of his hand against the youth's forehead, proving what he had begun to suspect. The boy was burning with fever.

"It's just like I said, Mr. Carlyle," Bull reiterated. "This lazy nigger just laid down and took a nap, when he should've been working."

Jackson heard Fancy snort. Undaunted, still defiant, she was rubbing her cheek. "He more likely collapsed than fell asleep, Bull," she dared to say, "but you're too stupid to realize that the child was sick!"

Astounded by her behavior, Jackson said, "Go to our room, Fancy, and wait for me there." He was already untying the youth, gently lowering him to the ground. "I'll deal with your insolence when I'm finished seeing to this boy's care."

"No," she said flatly. "I want to care for the child myself. I tended more than my share of sick slaves at Labreaux, since Harold couldn't be bothered with such a mundane chore, and I know how to treat his fever."

That was the last thing Jackson needed to hear. She had tended slaves at Labreaux? She was a slave at Labreaux! Standing tall, shoulders squared, he said, "I gave you an order, woman. Obey me now, or I'll punish you right here in front of everyone."

She nodded curtly, clearly determined to retain her dignity. Then she turned on her slippered heel, muslin skirts swishing, and obeyed his command.

An hour later, the youth's care given over to capable hands, Jackson strode toward his own room. He had decided how to deal with his defiant little mistress.

He couldn't strike her again--he truly regretted that single slap given in anger--but she had lied, and that he would not tolerate. Opening his door, finding her waiting for him, he said, "You lied again, Fancy. For that you must be punished."

She simply stared at him, arms crossed over her bosom. "Don't you think slapping me was punishment enough, master?"

Jackson ignored her sarcasm. Crossing to the wardrobe, he retrieved a simple cotton dress. "For one week, Fancy," he said, holding out the garment, "you will return to your kitchen duties. Perhaps by the end of that time, you will have learned not to lie."

Amanda blanched, but then anger flared again. "You really are a pigheaded, stupid fool," she seethed, grabbing the dress. "You think humiliation will change my truth...or at least stop me from claiming that truth." She ripped the sprigged muslin gown she was wearing in her haste to remove it. "I'll work in your damned kitchen again, Jackson," she continued, petticoats falling to the floor now in frothy disarray. "I'll do whatever it takes to get away from you. God knows you don't stoop to visiting the kitchen very often, so this punishment should accomplish that goal!"

Flushed with anger, her motions jerky, Amanda pulled at her corset bindings, futilely trying to remove it by herself. Soon giving up on the task, she stripped off her stockings, then finally gritted out, "I'll need help with this damned corset."

His anger obviously matching her own, Jackson removed the garment in a matter of moments, including the camisole beneath it, then said, "You won't be needing your pantalets, either, Fancy. I think I want you wearing just what you did at the slave auction--a dress with nothing underneath."

Amanda stripped off the silky pantalets. "Are you satisfied?" she retorted sarcastically, raising her arms and turning in a circle, displaying her nudity. "Now I'm wearing just exactly what I was at the auction that day--at least when chained to the damned pole. Nothing."

His eyes roamed over her body. "I'm satisfied," he said. "But if you don't quickly put on that dress, I'll find a deeper satisfaction in your sweet slave body."

Gulping, wanting to avoid that at all costs, Amanda pulled on the humble garment, blushing at the thought of wearing no undergarments again. Her scarf was still in the pocket of the dress. With deliberate motions, she tied it around her hair. Finally, she crossed to the wardrobe herself and reached for her well-worn leather slippers, quickly putting them on.

"Am I dressed appropriately now, master?" she asked, her voice dripping with bitter sarcasm.

"Yes," he answered simply, approaching her and grasping her elbow. "I'll see you to the kitchen."

Amanda shook off his grasp. "Before we go," she said, "there's just one more thing I want to tell you." The sarcasm was gone. Now her voice was laced with fierce determination.

"And what is that?" he asked quietly.

"I want you to know that slavery is wrong, Jackson. Totally, utterly, morally wrong," Amanda answered, strong in her new-found belief. "I want you to know that buying and selling human beings is an abomination against God."

"I think that's quite enough." His voice was stern, and he reached for her.

Amanda pushed him away again. "I'm not quite finished," she said fiercely. "Since you're already punishing me for what you insist upon calling my lies, then I may as well make my true story perfectly clear one more time before going back to the kitchen."

"Fancy..." he growled warningly.

"Just listen to me, Jackson," Amanda retorted. "For once in your damn life, just listen to me." Not waiting for an answer, she quickly continued.

"I am Amanda Labreaux. My half-brother, Harold, killed the real Fancy and sold me into slavery using her papers. I know how to direct fire fighters because we had two rather devastating lightning strikes at Labreaux two years in a row. I play the pianoforte because my father--not my master but my father--hired a teacher for me when I was four years old, and I took lessons for more than ten years. And finally, Jackson, I had no problem settling into luxury because I enjoyed twenty-one years of privileged affluence before Harold very effectively destroyed my life. Shall I quote Keats for you, Shakespeare, Lord Byron? No, I don't suppose I should, since slaves aren't ever taught to read!"

Jackson opened his mouth.

"Don't bother," Amanda seethed. "I know you'll just find excuses for that achievement, too."

Then, just as she had once before, Amanda simply left the room, leaving Jackson to ponder why a slave who had just received a harsh punishment for lying would persist with that lie, expound on it, and even make him wonder--if for only a moment--if she weren't actually telling the truth, after all.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Amanda's first day back in the kitchen was as hard emotionally as it was physically. Not only because of the work--which Amanda found harder than ever after living a life of ease--but also because of Mammy's failing health.

Amanda had kept a close eye on the elderly Negress, but, even so, Mammy had successfully hidden her increasingly severe symptoms. Now that they were working together again those symptoms were all too apparent.

The irresponsible, uncaring young girl who had been assigned to the kitchen in Amanda's stead was to continue doing her job during the week-long punishment, Jackson had said. Amanda didn't know if that was for added assistance in the kitchen or because it would force her to sleep with him at night, since the small room behind the kitchen now housed the girl, but she was nonetheless glad for the help since Mammy--no matter how hard she tried to deny it--was nearly incapable of work.

For the hundredth time, Amanda asked Mammy to tell Jackson about her condition, and for the hundredth time, Mammy refused to even consider it.

At the end of that first difficult day, Amanda climbed the stairs to Jackson's room with a heavy heart. Watching Mammy fail was awful.

Jackson was already asleep. Amanda was grateful for that, since she'd not yet forgiven him for the kitchen punishment, no matter how right he thought he was. Carefully pulling a comforter off the foot of the bed, she curled up in a wing-backed chair and quickly fell asleep. She'd have to deal with his ire in the morning when he discovered she was not in his bed, but tonight she had no desire to lie beside him.

That particular confrontation never occurred, however, for when Amanda opened her eyes with the first rays of dawn, Jackson was still sleeping soundly. Easing out of the chair, she went to the wardrobe and got out a clean cotton dress, knowing it would be a useless waste of energy to fight Jackson about the punishment.

Slipping the dress over her head, Amanda decided on just a little defiance. She crossed to the dresser, pulled out delicate, silky pantalets and quickly put them on. Smiling at that small victory, knowing she would feel the silky material all day long and remember she had purposely disobeyed at least one of her damnable master's commands, Amanda was just about to quietly leave the room...when her stomach heaved violently.

She barely made it to the open window before retching over the sill, then she simply sank down to the floor in a state of abject shock.

"I'm pregnant," she whispered, well aware of womanly symptoms, and looking to the bed where Jackson was still snoring softly. "You did it, you damned arrogant bastard, you've gotten me with child!"

Wishing with all her heart that it wasn't true, Amanda mentally counted back to when she'd had her last monthly flow. Suddenly realizing she hadn't had her menses even once while at Carlyle Plantation--a fact she'd easily missed considering everything else going on in her life--Amanda simply sat on the floor and stared at Jackson's bed.

He'd probably gotten her pregnant that very first night, the rutting beast! she silently fumed. She was two months pregnant! Then another thought struck Amanda with violent force.

This child would be born in slavery.

"Oh...my...God, no!" she whispered fiercely. "My child will be a slave, just as I am!"

With that thought, Amanda struggled to her feet. She had to get out of here before Jackson awakened! Needed to plan her escape now that there was absolutely no choice in the matter.

She might have eventually forgiven Jackson for sending her back to the kitchen, since he truly believed she'd been lying again, but no amount of affection, or love, or whatever else she might have been feeling could make Amanda willing to stay--not when by escaping, she would ensure her unborn child's freedom.

She knew what she must do. Without stopping to think, not daring to hesitate for fear she might lose her nerve, Amanda crossed to her dresser again...and this time she pulled her jewel case from the top drawer.

Looking over her shoulder and feeling very much like a thief, Amanda opened the lid, chose a long strand of perfectly matched pearls, then stuffed the necklace into the pocket of her dress.

After replacing the jewel case in the dresser, she very quietly left Jackson's room.

The second part of Amanda's newly-formed plan would be much harder to carry out. She would have to steal a horse again, sell the necklace in Kingston, purchase her ticket and get back to Carlyle before anyone--most especially Jackson--found out that she was gone. And those tasks would be even harder because it had just started to rain.

Pushing all thoughts of failure aside, Amanda entered the kitchen, helped Mammy and her assistant prepare the breakfast meal and then declared that she wanted to check on the boy who had taken ill yesterday. Mammy accepted this without question, and the other girl was by that time serving Jackson his breakfast, so Amanda took full advantage and left the kitchen by the back door.

She had no intention of visiting the youth, of course, although that would certainly be a worthwhile thing to do. She intended going straight to the stable, mounting a horse and then setting out for Kingston--despite the drenching rain.

Luckily, none of the grooms had heard about Amanda's punishment, and, being boys, they didn't seem to notice she was dressed differently than usual. Two of them even helped her equip the same gentle palfrey she usually rode, since Jackson had allowed her freedom of the plantation for the past three weeks.

When one of the grooms asked her why she wanted to go riding in the rain, Amanda merely smiled and told him she thoroughly enjoyed tropical storms. Fortunately, the young boy accepted that explanation with nothing more than a shrug.

And before ten minutes had passed, Amanda was riding across Carlyle Plantation, having learned a considerable shortcut from taking the winding drive to the edge of the property, and before less than an hour had passed, she was arriving in Kingston, soaked to the skin but full of hope.

Thanks to the rain, Amanda's simple cotton dress didn't raise even one eyebrow as she entered a jewelry store, since the few woman who were out and about in this wet weather looked just as bedraggled as she did. The jeweler gave her a fair price for the pearl necklace--more than enough to pay for her passage--and Amanda hastened on to the harbor master's office.

The same clerk who had spoken to her weeks earlier gladly took Amanda's money, and she booked passage on the Sea Gull, a merchant vessel with limited cabins for passengers. Tucking the precious ticket into the pocket of her wet cotton dress, Amanda headed back to Carlyle.

The plan had worked very well...so far. Arriving back at the plantation, then approaching the stable from the far side, Amanda realized everything was quiet. Apparently, she had not been missed. She said a silent prayer of thanks for that, relinquishing her tired horse to a groom.

Then, just to make sure her original ploy would have at least some truth to it, she did indeed visit the sick young slave who had very nearly been whipped the day before. He was doing much better today, his mother told Amanda, and Amanda stayed for a few minutes, making sure of that for herself.

Finally, she simply walked back to the mansion, so sure of success that nothing could dampen her spirits...until she reached the veranda and saw Jackson striding out the kitchen door, headed straight for her.

"What were you doing out in the rain, Fancy?" he asked, frowning as Amanda shivered involuntarily--both from her rain-soaked clothes and sudden nervousness.

"Didn't Mammy tell you?" she answered, her teeth chattering. "I went to check on that sick boy from yesterday." She only hoped the groom wouldn't mention the horse ride and that the sick boy's mother wouldn't be questioned...

He nodded, and Amanda breathed a sigh of relief. "Mammy did say something about that," he admitted, "but it was a couple of hours ago." He frowned again. "I told you to stay in the kitchen, Fancy. Must you persist in disobeying me? Even while you're being punished?"

"I'm sorry, Jackson," Amanda quickly replied, her heart pounding. "I was just so worried about that boy--" Chilled to the bone from fear and rain, her teeth chattered madly, effectively cutting off her words.

His frown deepened; then he cursed softly and pulled off his coat. "Put this on," he said, "and come with me."

Amanda slipped her arms into the coat that still held Jackson's singularly masculine scent. The garment was far too large, the sleeves hanging over her hands, but she appreciated its warmth. Pulling it closed, she asked warily, "Why do you want me to come with you, Jackson?"

"Just do as you're told, Fancy," he answered almost absently. Placing a hand under her elbow, he led her across the veranda, toward the kitchen door.

Amanda chewed her lower lip. The ticket in her dress pocket felt like it was burning a hole through the fabric. If Jackson ever found that ticket...No, she wouldn't think about that.

Jackson led her straight to his bedroom, stopping only long enough to order Toby to draw her a bath. Once they reached his room, he said simply, "Take off your wet clothes, Fancy, before you become ill."

Amanda didn't know what to think about Jackson's behavior--ordering her a bath and seemingly so concerned about her health--but she felt quite certain that if he found the ticket in her pocket his kind concern would vanish.

"Could you get me a towel, Jackson?" she asked, hoping he would leave the room. She'd only need a minute or two. "I don't know where Janiah is, and my hair--"

"I have assigned Janiah other duties for the week, Fancy," he answered, "since you won't be needing her." He paused, then added, "But I'll be glad to get you a towel."

Amanda sighed her relief again as he left the bedroom. Moving quickly, she tucked the ticket in the bottom of her jewel case, under the velvet lining, then obeyed his order, pulling off her wet clothes. She was down to silky pantalets, wet and plastered to her skin, when Jackson came back into the room, carrying a fluffy drying towel. She saw him frown at her underwear--the garment he'd ordered her not to wear--and she blanched. Why had she insisted on that small act of defiance?

"You're incorrigible, Fancy," he said very quietly. "Lying, disobeying every chance you get..." Amanda swallowed the huge lump of fear in her throat, and she suddenly saw his face soften. "Come here, Fancy," he said then, holding out his arms in a totally non-threatening gesture. "Come here to me now."

His expression had changed so completely--from barely controlled anger to absolute tenderness. Amanda felt her heart melt. They had only a few days left together, though Jackson didn't know it. Did she really want to spend those days in anger? No, she decided. She didn't want that at all. Sighing softly, she accepted his embrace.

Looking up into his dark eyes, she said, "Make love to me, Jackson...please."

Jackson wasted no time scooping her up into his arms and carrying her to the massive bed. Seeing her shivering with cold had nearly scared him to death. What if she'd become ill? What if she'd...died? He couldn't contemplate the thought. God, how he loved her, even if he selfishly could never let her go.

Pulling off his own clothes, he joined her on the bed and slowly, very slowly, removed her wet pantalets, gradually revealing first her navel, then her hips and finally the dark, damp curls at the juncture of her thighs.

When she was wholly revealed to him, glorious in her nudity, he murmured thickly, "Open for me, Fancy," and she did.

Lying between her legs, he pushed her knees up and wide apart. Caressing her inner, upper thighs, devouring the sight of her moist, succulent petals, he said, "Beautiful, just like a bright pink tropical flower...and so very sweet to taste."

She drew in a ragged breath as his mouth descended. He explored her thoroughly, slowly, then heard her gasp his name as he gently, so very gently, closed his teeth around her throbbing bud of joy. She made a helpless, strangled sound deep in her throat...and then she exploded with ecstasy against his mouth, convulsing with such intensity, her bottom lifted off the bed.

Jackson smiled...but he wasn't finished yet. Despite her huskily murmured protest that she was too sensitive to take any more, he stayed just where he was, doing just what he'd been doing, until finally, inexorably, he brought her to climax again--this one so powerful, she literally sobbed with joy.

"Once more, Fancy," he promised, finally impaling her sweetness. "I'm going to take you there a third time."

"No..." she cried softly, her nipples wholly erect, her breathing reduced to pants. "I couldn't possibly...no."

"I'll make a bargain with you," he said, bending to suckle a breast.

"What...kind of...bargain?" she gasped as he gently bit her nipple, then laved away the tiny, stinging pain.

"If I can't pleasure you for a third time, your kitchen punishment will be over right now." He paused to circle the nipple with his tongue, then bit it again, smiling when he heard her soft little moan. "But if I can," he continued, raising his head from the wet, pink crown, "you'll finish the week without a word of complaint...and with no more defiance." He raised one brow. "No pantalets beneath your dress."

He saw her blush at being caught in her disobedience, but then she nodded. Clearly, the possible release from punishment was an irresistible temptation.

He adjusted his position, and she gasped in surprise. Holding her bottom and moving his hips just so, he could feel the tension building in her again...even against her will. Her face was flushed, her lips parted, her sapphire eyes wide, luminous, as she neared the brink of incredible rapture. Then he impaled her deeply one last time, and she shattered, clamping around his manhood with convulsive joy, with spasms so strong they forced his own pulsing orgasm, draining him dry.

"Unfair," she whispered eons later. "So unfair."

His breathing finally returning to normal, Jackson merely chuckled, then rolled to the side and pulled her into his arms. "I think you can serve all my meals, too, little mistress," he said.

"Unfair..." she reiterated, mumbling against his chest, but then she sighed softly, nuzzled closer and quickly fell asleep.

Jackson held her as she slept, wondering how on earth he was ever going to teach her to stop lying when he couldn't even carry out a just punishment. He hadn't been serious about that "bargain." It was just a delightful sexual game, but he knew in his heart that he couldn't send her back to the kitchen again.

Then he shrugged, causing Fancy to murmur softly in her sleep and snuggle even closer to his side. Perhaps she'd gotten the lies out of her system with that insolent tirade yesterday, he reasoned, and with that comforting thought, he slept.

A sudden pounding on the door awakened them both. "Master Jack, come quickly!" Toby shouted through the door, his voice desperate. "It's Mammy! She's sick!"

Amanda sat up so quickly, she felt a momentary wave of nausea from her pregnancy. Features contorted with emotional pain and regret, she turned to Jackson and said, "I should have told you weeks ago...Mammy's not well. She's terribly ill."

Not waiting for his response, she leapt from the bed, crossed swiftly to the wardrobe and pulled out another simple cotton dress.

Pulling on his own clothes, Jackson said, "Fancy, about that bargain..."

"For God's sake, not now!" Amanda retorted, incensed at his obvious selfishness. "I know you won...but Mammy needs our help!"

He strode to her, wearing only his breeches, then grasped her shoulders. "You don't understand."

"I do understand!" she gritted out, struggling to pull away. "You'll have your damn kitchen slave!"

His hold on her shoulders tightened. "Fancy, hear me out," he said gruffly. "I wasn't serious about that bargain...it was only a game." His hold loosened, and he rubbed her upper arms. "If you'll promise not to lie anymore, your punishment can still be over right now."

Amanda nodded. Getting to Mammy was the most important thing. "I promise not to lie again, Jackson," she said.

She knew she could keep that promise--despite the fact that she'd never actually lied at all. In seven more days, she would be gone, out of Jackson Carlyle's life forever. She could keep her silence until then.

Toby had moved Mammy to her bed by the time Jackson and Amanda reached the kitchen. The big man turned as they came into the room. "I found her lyin' on the kitchen floor," he said, his voice breaking, unashamed tears streaming down his dark face. "At first, I thought she was dead, but then I saw her chest rise just a little...so I rushed to find you, Master Jack."

"You did the right thing, Toby," Jackson said quietly, coming to kneel down beside the bed, reaching for the pulse in Mammy's neck. It was faint, but still there, and he sighed his relief. Toby was right; Mammy wasn't dead.

He watched Fancy kneel on the other side of the bed and take Mammy's wrinkled old hand into both of her own. Tears were streaming down her face, too, and Jackson swallowed hard. Then Fancy said, "Where's Mammy's helper, Toby? Why wasn't she here when this happened?"

"I don't know for sure where the girl is," Toby answered, ducking his head. "But I s'pect she might be...ah...occupied in the stable."

Jackson caught the innuendo, and his head snapped up. "Are you telling me she deserted her duties--and Mammy--for a tumble in the hay?"

"Yes sir," Toby admitted. "I think so."

Anger soared through Jackson's veins, but now was not the time to deal with the irresponsible chit. Only Mammy was important. He looked back down at the woman who had been so much a mother to him. Nothing mattered but trying to save her. "Take the piebald and ride into Kingston, Toby," he said quietly. "Fetch Dr. Withers."

"Yes sir," Toby acknowledged, then headed for the door.

A choked sob drew Jackson's attention back to Fancy. "I should have told you about Mammy's illness," she said again, "but she made me promise not to, saying you would put her in a cabin if you knew she was ill and that idleness would kill her more quickly than sickness."

Jackson smiled sadly, a single tear coursing down his own cheek. Mammy could be so incredibly stubborn! And yet he loved the old woman. He couldn't deny it, even though society dictated that he should. He wasn't supposed to love Mammy any more than he was supposed to love Fancy. They were both simply chattel, property...slaves.

And then, quite suddenly, Jackson knew that Fancy was right. Slavery was an abomination against God. Even the British government was considering abolishing the institution in its colonies. Until now, Jackson hadn't really thought much about the issue--except as a financial consideration--but now, now he knew the abolitionists were right.

In turmoil, awash in thoughts he'd never before considered, he looked at Fancy. Looked at her, saw her beauty, her tear-misted sapphire eyes...remembered the feel of her supple body in his arms...and his mind closed against freedom for slaves.

If Fancy were free, she would leave him. It was as simple as that. For only a moment insanity reigned, and Jackson knew he would keep her captive even if the government freed every slave on the island.

Then he shook his head, clearing it. Of course he wouldn't do that. Mating with a woman under such conditions would be outright rape.

You're already guilty of rape, a small part of his mind insisted--the part that was still wondering about Fancy's impassioned speech the day before--but Jackson forced the thought aside.

There were too many changes coming all at once. Mammy was dying--he knew that--and slavery was wrong. He knew that, too, at least he did now. But Fancy was not a free white woman, not a victim of kidnapping. He couldn't tolerate that thought. If that were true, then he would be guilty of heinous crimes.

No, no, no! His mind slammed shut. Fancy was not Amanda Labreaux!

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Dr. Withers came out of Mammy's room, shaking his head. "She's conscious," he said, "but she's very weak." He took a deep breath. "I'd be very surprised if she lived for more than a day or two."

His old, weathered eyes looked concerned but regretful, and Amanda covered her face with her hands and wept. She felt Jackson pull her into his arms, surrounding her with his strength. "Hush, Fancy," he said softly. "Mammy wouldn't want you to cry."

"You can see her now," Dr. Withers continued, "but don't tire her needlessly with a long conversation. She shouldn't leave that bed again, and she'll need constant care until the...end."

"I'll take care of her," Amanda whispered.

Dr. Withers nodded his approval, then set his black bag on the kitchen work table and retrieved a small vial. "This will help keep her comfortable," he said. "It's laudanum, so only give her a teaspoonful if she becomes agitated or seems in pain. Any more than that would probably kill her."

Amanda bit her lower lip, helpless to stop the flood of memories rushing to the surface. Harold had used laudanum to drug her after the kidnapping. If not for that potent drug, she might not be a slave right now.

But this was not the time to think about her own situation. Now was the time to help Mammy. Tears welled in Amanda's eyes again. She would help Mammy ease from this life with as little pain as possible.

For the next three days, Amanda kept a constant vigil at Mammy's bedside. She had Toby bring a cot into Mammy's room so that she wouldn't have to leave, even to sleep. Amanda was wearing silk and petticoats again, but she no longer cared that Jackson had rescinded her punishment. All she cared about during those three days was keeping Mammy comfortable, peaceful and happy.

On the third day Mammy awoke abruptly, her eyes bright and lucid, filled with something that might have been fear, or perhaps wonder. "Dear Lord," she said quite clearly, then turned to Amanda. "Fetch Master Jack, child, please. Fetch him right now."

Worriedly, Amanda reached for the laudanum vial and a spoon, but Mammy shook her head and repeated more firmly, "Fetch Master Jack, Fancy. Now."

Sensing the old woman's urgency, Amanda nodded. "He's in his study, Mammy. I'll get him for you."

Jackson looked up from his paperwork as Amanda entered his study. He smiled a little as she approached, despite the sad pall hanging over the entire household, and Amanda knew that was because she was wearing his favorite gown today; a pale pink, watered silk creation. Then he glanced at her bare neckline and frowned. "Where are your pearls, Fancy?" he said.

The question stopped Amanda dead in her tracks.

For only a moment, she completely forgot Mammy's request. For a split second, she thought Jackson knew her secret. Had he discovered her betrayal? A betrayal that she was still planning to carry out--must carry out for the sake of her unborn child--though over the past three days she'd found herself becoming increasingly melancholy at the thought.

Jackson had been wonderful during those three days. He'd spent as much time as possible in the sickroom, holding Mammy's hand and talking quietly with her whenever she was conscious. Of course, he had tasks he must perform, so he wasn't there all the time, but Amanda could see his deep devotion to Mammy in every gesture and smile. He loved the old woman, and Amanda knew it.

And he had treated Amanda herself with gentle tenderness and kind concern. They hadn't made love during those three days, of course, because Amanda refused to leave Mammy's side, and Jackson accepted that without argument. But he had been so wonderful, so generous, so very much like a husband instead of a master, that Amanda had begun to truly, deeply regret her impending departure.

Now, with his question, her mind abruptly returned to reality. No matter how kind and generous he'd been, Jackson was still the master and she was still his slave. If he discovered her betrayal, he'd be well within his rights to punish her severely...even kill her...for stealing and planning to run away.

"Where are your pearls, Fancy?" He repeated suspiciously, rising from his chair and towering over her. "What have you done with them?"

She'd made a terrible mistake by wearing this particular gown, Amanda realized, since she always wore the pearls with it--by his decree--but that simply hadn't occurred to her while dressing this morning. Not with her thoughts solely on Mammy. Now she searched her mind, desperate for a plausible explanation.

Then the perfect answer occurred, and she sighed her relief. "The clasp broke, Jackson," she said. "I gave the necklace to Toby, asking him to have it repaired the next time he went to town."

He hesitated for a moment, but then he nodded. Amanda swallowed hard. He had believed her lie! Hopefully, he wouldn't ask Toby about the pearls...at least not until it was too late. In four more days, Amanda would be sailing with the morning tide, and after that, when Jackson finally learned the truth, there would be nothing he could do about it. He'd never believed her story, so he would have no reason to suspect she was returning to New Orleans. What runaway slave would go anywhere near her former master?

No, Amanda felt quite certain once Jackson realized she was gone, he would assume she had booked passage on a ship, but on one headed anywhere but New Orleans. And there were three more ships scheduled to embark that day for various ports around the world. He would have no way of knowing which ship she had taken, and so Amanda would be safely on her way to New Orleans, leaving Jackson to wonder just where she had gone.

"Fancy," she heard him say, "I'm sorry if I sounded distrustful. It's just that--"

"There's no need to apologize," Amanda interrupted, feeling a flush of guilt for her lie. Then she remembered Mammy's request, and she rushed on, saying, "Mammy's been calling for you. Will you come see here now?"

He nodded. "Of course," he said, holding out his hand. "Let's go see her together."

Placing her small hand in Jackson's much larger one, hoping he wouldn't notice its clamminess--a sure indication of lying--Amanda took a deep breath, pushing aside her feelings of guilt. She had no choice about what she must do!

Jackson noticed Mammy's alertness the moment he entered the room. "I must speak with you," she said, her voice surprisingly strong, "alone." She smiled gently at Fancy. "It's a personal matter, child."

The moment Fancy left the room, Jackson said, "What is it, Mammy?" He sat down in the chair beside her bed, gently grasping her work-worn hand.

Mammy looked directly into his eyes. "I had a dream, Master Jack," she said. "One I think you should hear about."

Jackson sighed, settling more comfortably into the chair. He would humor Mammy, of course, but he didn't really believe in her dreams. Mammy wasn't a native of Jamaica, but she still put a great deal of stock in the superstitious beliefs prevalent on the island. Supposedly, from time to time, she had dreams capable of telling the future--or interpreting the past.

"There were two angels," Mammy began, holding his gaze with her clear ebony eyes. "One of them was pure white; the other was totally black--"

"What do you think the dream meant"? Jackson asked quietly, wanting to get to the heart of the matter before she tired herself needlessly.

"I'm getting to that," she said with a touch of her old feistiness, "if you'll let me get on with the telling."

"Very well," Jackson capitulated, crossing one leg over the other. "I'm listening, Mammy. Go on."

"The white angel represented innocence, purity and truth," Mammy continued, her eyes taking on a kind of inner sheen. "The black angel represented evil...and death."

Jackson uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in the chair. He didn't want to feel it, but a tingle raced up his spine. Mammy sounded so very serious, and she looked almost...unworldly. Could this dream really mean something?

"The white angel was pointing to a clearing in a dense, moss-covered forest," Mammy pressed on, as if seeing it all again. "There was a young white woman in that clearing, tied to a carriage wheel and wearing no clothes." She stopped to draw in a harsh, rasping breath. "And beyond the carriage, lying on the ground naked, bound and helpless, there was another woman--a young mulatto slave."

Jackson sat up very straight. Had Fancy told Mammy her ludicrous lie?

Mammy continued. "There were two men in the dream," she said. "The black angel was pointing to them, enjoying the sight as they both raped the young mulatto girl, then one of the men...strangled her to death." She took in a choking, sobbing breath, as if she could feel the girl's pain. "The murder seemed to please the black angel immensely." The last words were barely whispered.

Jackson had heard quite enough. "Mammy, if Fancy has been telling you her lies, trying to convince you of her ridiculous story, I'll--"

"No!" Mammy said, her voice suddenly firm again. "Fancy only told me her story once...the first day she was here. What I've told you was a dream, but I know it's true!" She paused then, coughing violently, frothy blood dribbling down the side of her mouth. Regretting his momentary anger, Jackson gently wiped the blood away, and Mammy spoke again, her voice a raspy croak. "Fancy never lied to you, Jackson Carlyle," she said. He raised a brow, knowing how very serious she was by her use of his name. "She never lied to anyone." The light was fading from her eyes, but she held his gaze with fierce determination. "The woman you call 'Fancy' is a free white woman, not a mulatto slave!"

Jackson saw Mammy's sudden pallor. Her breathing became coarse, wet...rattly...and somehow he knew her time had come. "Fancy!" he bellowed, lurching to his feet. "Fancy, get in here now!"

She rushed back into the room, her sapphire eyes wide with shock. Then she saw Mammy and said, "Oh my God," dropping to her knees beside the bed, grasping the woman's limp hand. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes, child," Mammy whispered. Eyes shining, she looked at each of them and smiled. "I love you both," she said softly. "Take care of each other."

And with those last words, Mammy closed her eyes, sighed once, and died.

Jackson felt a tear roll down his cheek. She was gone...his mother, for all intents and purposes. God, how he would miss her!

Two saddened people stood beside the small bed. Jackson, who couldn't allow himself to believe Mammy's dream--not when it would prove his own guilt--and Amanda, who wept unashamedly, knowing Mammy was finally free.

Early the next morning, as Mammy was laid to rest on a gentle hill behind the mansion, each and every slave on Carlyle Plantation was in attendance.

Once the preacher had said his words, Amanda's breath caught in her throat as the rich, clear voices of a hundred men, women and children rang out, singing a familiar old hymn, filling the sultry, tropical air with words of praise.

The hymn thanked God for taking His child home, and the words had a very clear meaning to Amanda. These people realized as well as she did that Mammy was finally free, and they also realized that the only way they would ever share that freedom was through their own deaths.

A soft gasp of dismay escaped Amanda's throat, and Jackson apparently heard it. He pulled her to his side. He obviously knew she was hurting, but he couldn't possibly know why. It wasn't only her own lost freedom causing Amanda's heartache, but also the knowledge that she would regain that freedom in three short days. In many ways, she wasn't sure she wanted to leave Carlyle Plantation at all.

"Fancy," Jackson said then, turning her to face him when the singers were done. "You look exhausted, probably from caring for Mammy all those days."

Amanda merely nodded. She truly was tired, in body and soul.

"What you need is diversion," he continued, gently stroking her arms. "I'm going to take you away from here for a few hours--away from all this sadness."

"Where will we go?" Amanda asked.

"We'll go to the waterfall," he answered. "The one you liked so well."

A tiny smile curved Amanda's lips. The hundred foot waterfall. Ah, yes, she did indeed like that place. And memories of what she and Jackson had shared there caused a tingling sensation low in her belly. They hadn't made love in several days...their time together was very nearly over...and Jackson was right. More than anything else, right now she needed diversion.

"I'd like that," she admitted, "very much."

The funeral was over, the slaves slowing walking down the hill to return to their various duties. Amanda caught sight of Toby. She nodded to him, and he nodded back, tears in his dark eyes. Then she saw Mammy's kitchen helper, and she couldn't help wondering what would become of Mammy's efficiently-run domain. Jackson had admonished the girl for having been out of the kitchen the day Mammy collapsed, but Amanda seriously doubted the young servant would change her ways.

And then Amanda realized just exactly what Jackson would do, and the small smile she'd achieved faded away. He'd simply go back to the auction, listen to the "attributes" of the slaves being offered for sale, then choose the one with the most cooking experience to take Mammy's place. Buying a human being as easily as he would an animal.

It was a cold, hard thought to Amanda, but Jackson had a plantation to run; practicality would be uppermost in his mind. Then Amanda realized that in the past she would have done the same thing in the same situation--sending Harold to purchase a new cook without a second thought about the immorality of treating men, women and children as mere chattel. Conveniences for rich plantation owners.

Now, as always, Amanda's thoughts returned to the new goals in her life. In three days, she would escape, and then--somehow--she would free the slaves at Labreaux.

There really wasn't any choice in the matter. There never had been, not since this nightmare began.

Amanda could hear the waterfall long before they reached it. Jackson stopped the carriage at the side of the road and helped her down. They'd have to walk from here, she remembered.

It was such a peaceful, beautiful place, she thought, as they made their way through lush vegetation, guided by the sound of rushing water. She screeched in fear when a large bird suddenly swooped down from a tree, and Jackson immediately folded her into a protective embrace.

Tears misted her eyes. He could be so wonderful at times!

And then it occurred to her that this entire situation might change if she admitted to Jackson that she was carrying his child. Would he free her if he knew that? Of course, he could never marry a woman he believed was mulatto--and she wouldn't expect him to--but would he free her if she promised to raise their child in Jamaica? She could even promise to remain his mistress for as long as he wished...

What about freeing your slaves, Amanda Labreaux? her mind countered. Aren't you forgetting that goal? Would you rather stay here, a free woman raising her lover's bastard, than return to Louisiana?

I don't know! I just don't know! she silently lamented, confusing thoughts whirling through her mind. What if she couldn't defeat Harold? What if she left the man now holding her so tightly, so comfortingly, and

then found that nothing could be changed at Labreaux? If Harold's plan had worked, everyone Amanda had ever known believed her long dead, after all. What would she do if she couldn't prove her own identity?

But I must prove it! she told herself, backing away from Jackson's soothing embrace. Harold stole the most important thing a person has--He stole my freedom!

"What is it, little mistress?" she heard Jackson murmur. "Are you still feeling sad, even here? I know you miss Mammy."

Amanda sighed deeply. "I'll always miss her," she admitted, pushing aside her confusing thoughts. Surely, it was better to simply go ahead with her plans...

Jackson tugged on her hand and drew her closer to the water's edge. He eased her down to the cool grass, kissed her, then began leisurely unlacing her gown. Amanda sighed again, feeling sweet moisture between her thighs...God, how she would miss his lovemaking! He nibbled her earlobe, murmuring wicked, erotic suggestions, then kissed her throat, her partially-bared breasts. Amanda was responding, as always...and yet her earlier question kept intruding, despite his masterful seduction. Would he free her if he knew of the child?

Suddenly, she had to know.

It was the only thing that could possibly change her decision about returning to Labreaux Plantation.

"Jackson?" she said.

"Hmm?" he answered, loosening her corset.

Amanda scooted away, needing to dissuade him. "I really need to ask you something."

His smile was wicked. "Of course," he said, but he pulled her to his side again, quickly freeing her breasts. "Ask me anything you like, sweet pet."

Amanda jerked her dress back up, determined to have her say. "What would you do if I became pregnant, Jackson?" she said in a rush, then held her breath.

"More like when you become pregnant than if, Fancy," he murmured, reaching for her dress again, a small frown wrinkling his brow. She knew he expected complete compliance in bed, even if that "bed" was the grass beside a rushing waterfall.

But, again, Amanda pushed him away. "Is it a foregone conclusion, then?" she asked, bristling. "Something you've been planning all along?"

He chuckled, still intent on his goal. "Of course you'll become pregnant," he murmured, catching both her wrists in one hand, then determinedly lowering the gown again. "What else could happen when we spend so much time making love?"

Amanda became very still--now bared to the waist for his pleasure. Is that all my pregnancy would be to him if he knew? she seethed. A simple, almost unimportant, fact of life?

She needed to hear the words. "Then you won't free me if I become pregnant?" she asked. "My child-our child-would be born a slave?"

He'd been leaning over to suckle her nipples, but he stiffened and sat up straight upon hearing those words. "No, Fancy," he said succinctly. "I will not free you."

Amanda sat there in abject shock. She'd known the truth in her heart, of course, but the reality was so awful. No matter what, he would not free her. He'd rather keep his own child as chattel than free his slave mistress.

And suddenly everything became very, very clear. As Jackson finished undressing her, undressed himself and then thrust into the body he thought he owned, Amanda no longer had any doubts.

In three days' time, on Sunday morning, she would sail out of Jackson Carlyle's life forever.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Saturday came...inexorably, relentlessly, Saturday came. And with it came the knowledge that this was the last day Amanda would ever spend with Jackson Carlyle.

Over the past three days, she had made her final plans. Amanda knew just exactly how she would complete her betrayal now...and just exactly how to keep Jackson from finding out until it was too late.

She was going to drug him with laudanum, just as Harold had drugged her.

The idea had come to her as she was packing up Mammy's few belongings, insisting on doing the task herself. The vial of laudanum was still on the small night table, and Amanda knew then just how to effect her escape.

Throughout the remaining days, her mind felt numb. Her plans were made, and there was nothing more to do now but wait for the darkest hour of the night, as Saturday became Sunday, and then carry them out.

Perversely, Jackson was so wonderful and kind during those days that Amanda found herself near tears a good deal of the time. He invited her on a long, leisurely ride across his land, stopping along the way to pick her a bouquet of wildflowers. Upon returning to the mansion, he ordered a bath, then shared it with her, and they made slow, sweet love right there in the tub.

The next day, he asked if she wouldn't mind playing the pianoforte for him. And Amanda agreed, playing her heart out, knowing it would be the last time. She played waltzes and sonatas, hymns and folk songs, singing along with most of them, with Jackson beside her on the bench, his arm draped around her waist in a gentle, tender embrace.

And now it was Saturday--Saturday night--and Amanda's time with Jackson was nearly over. She chewed her lower lip, determined not to feel any regrets.

It time to implement her plan.

With a purposely sultry smile and in a purposely husky purr, she invited Jackson to join her in their room in a few minutes. He agreed, of course, and Amanda held back the need to chew her lip again. She was planning to seduce and drug her master. It was a heinous crime.

Jackson entered his room with a keen sense of déjà vu. For the third time in his life, he'd walked in to find Fancy simply standing there in the middle of the room. In fact, she was wearing that same delightful nightdress he'd forced her to wear their very first night together--the night he'd taken her virginity. But that night, her sapphire eyes had been fearful, whereas tonight they looked so utterly sad, Jackson didn't know what to think.

And she was holding two crystal glasses filled with deep red wine. Since she very seldom drank spirits of any kind, that fact added to Jackson's sense of confusion...and to a growing sense of unease he couldn't identify, or deny. Then she sauntered to him, sweet hips swaying gently, pink nipples erect beneath the flimsy gown, and his uneasiness evaporated, lost to urgent desire. He was as hard as iron. Above all else, he needed to be inside her. Now.

"I thought we could enjoy some wine together, Jackson," she said, holding out a glass. For a moment, he heard something strange in her voice...regret?...but then he dismissed it, taking the wine and lifting it in a salute.

"To you, little mistress," he said, clinking his cup against hers, "and to what we have."

Amanda murmured a return salutation, then added silently, To what we had, Jackson, watching him drain the entire glass in one long swallow.

And now it's done, she realized, for one sickening moment feeling a rope tighten around her neck. Slaves who harmed their masters were summarily hung.

Shuddering involuntarily at that thought, even though she knew the laudanum wouldn't kill a man of his strength and size, she backed away, desperate to continue before her nerve failed.

Needing to keep him distracted, she very deliberately and provocatively stripped, slowly removing the silky-sheer nightdress, then touching her own nipples, her own pubic hair. Walking to the bed, she lay down, parted her thighs and said, "I need you now, my master...please."

He joined her in mere seconds, thrusting to the hilt, but he didn't see Amanda's tears as he drove them both toward ecstasy. She knew this loving would be their very last, and even at that, it was done on her part as a betrayal tactic, not as an expression of affection. She felt incredible guilt.

But as Jackson continued his deeply satisfying penetrations, Amanda's passion crested despite her awful feelings. She bit back a sob as her body convulsed in orgasm, knowing this would be her final moment of rapture. She couldn't imagine ever sleeping with another man after Jackson Carlyle.

To Jackson's vast amazement, just as he spilled himself in powerful bursts, his body collapsed atop Fancy. He was too weak to move. He felt her roll him onto his back, felt her draw sheets up to his chin, then felt her brush a light kiss across his lips. But he couldn't respond. He was sinking into a quagmire of muscular lassitude, his eyelids becoming heavy, his mouth going dry.

He heard her whisper, "Goodbye, Jackson," and he knew then--with his last conscious thought--that she had drugged him...and that she was leaving.

Dawn at Kingston Harbor was a breathtaking sight. The clouds over the crystal-blue Caribbean changed from lavender to pink to gold, then the bright yellow sun crept over the horizon. At the very first hint of daylight, Amanda left the harbor master's office and made her way to the Sea Gull, ticket in hand.

The placid mare she had saddled and ridden to Kingston hours earlier was now liveried nearby. Amanda was quite sure the palfrey would eventually be returned to Jackson. She was glad of that, having no wish to add horse stealing to her long list of crimes...no matter that she was fully justified in her actions.

No one had seen her approach the stables, mount up and ride away--which was just exactly why she had made her escape in the darkest, most quiet hour of the night. The ride to Kingston had been totally uneventful. After taking care of the mare, Amanda simply went to the harbor office to await the time for boarding the ship that would take her to freedom. The clerk on duty had been exceedingly polite, offering her coffee, and not once questioning her motives. Now, as she handed her ticket to a seaman and climbed the gangplank of the Sea Gull, Amanda could almost taste her victory.

The only possible glitch was the ever-increasing wind that had begun yesterday and had grown stronger with each passing hour. Amanda knew from having lived in Southern Louisiana all her life that wind like this could be the harbinger of a hurricane. She only hoped the captain wouldn't cancel his departure, fearing such an event.

Amanda stowed her single valise in the small cabin that would be her home for the next two weeks, and then climbed back up to the deck, anxious to find out if the ship would indeed be sailing. Upon talking to several sailors, she was reassured that the ship would embark as planned. The captain had a tight schedule to keep, one sailor told her, and he fully intended to set sail. It might not be a hurricane at all, merely a tropical storm, but the captain greatly preferred his odds at sea to those of staying in port. At sea, he might well outrun the storm. In port, his ship could be battered to smithereens. Satisfied with the man's reassurance, Amanda thanked him, then watched all the preparations for departure, valiantly trying to keep her mind on its goal--instead of on what she had left behind.

But try as she might, as the gangplank was drawn in, the sails unfurled and the anchor weighed, Amanda couldn't stop thinking about Jackson. The ship was moving now, slowing inching its way out of the harbor under the controlled power of just the right amount of sail. The winds were still growing, so it was rather difficult to maintain her footing, but Amanda was determined to stay on deck until the ship reached open sea. Only then would she feel completely free.

And that's what she wanted. Wasn't it?

Of course it was, she answered herself, placing a hand over her still-flat belly. She had a tiny life to protect, after all. And Jackson would forget about her soon enough--once he got over his anger at her successful escape.

An hour later a soft sob slipped through Amanda's lips. She was standing at the stern of the ship, holding the rail to keep her balance in the wind, looking at the now receding island of Jamaica in all its tropical glory.

She was far from Kingston Harbor now, too far at sea for Jackson to stop her from leaving.

And with that thought, with her heart shattering into a thousand pieces instead of merely breaking as it had so many times these past months, Amanda realized that she loved Jackson Carlyle. Loved him completely, totally, irrevocably. Perhaps she shouldn't after all he'd done...and yet she did.

And now she would never see him again.

Jackson awoke with the worst headache he'd ever had in his life, and his mouth felt like it was stuffed full of cotton. Groaning with the motion, he turned to look at the clock on the bedside table and realized, to his horror, that he'd slept until noon!

Sitting up quickly, he grabbed his head and groaned again. He was by nature an early riser. Why had he slept so late? And what in hell had caused this fierce, pounding headache?

Something caught his attention, something that wasn't quite right in the room. Looking around slowly, trying to discern what had caught his eye, his gaze came to rest on the dresser where Fancy kept her underthings...and her jewelry.

The top drawer was open just the tiniest bit. That in itself should not be suspicious, but vague memories were starting to form in the back of Jackson's muddled mind, and he rose slowly, carefully, from the bed.

Even before reaching the dresser, his mind began clearing. When he pulled the drawer fully open and saw that the jewel case was gone, his memory abruptly returned.

Fancy had drugged him last night!

Already knowing what he would find, he crossed to the wardrobe, then threw open the doors. Several gowns were missing...simply-cut dresses, excellent traveling clothes.

Feeling very much like a wounded animal, Jackson threw back his head and roared.

She'd done it! Fancy had run away again!

Anger was a poor word for what he felt in that moment. Rage was more accurate, but even that wasn't a strong enough term. Not only had she left, but she'd drugged him to accomplish the deed. When he found her this time, Jackson wasn't quite certain what he would do.

Maybe he should sell the ungrateful little chit, just like Montcrief had suggested! And maybe he would, or at least he would sell what was left after flaying her raw...

The thought chilled his soul. No, he could never harm Fancy that way. And he could never sell her. But by God, he could get her back!

Hastily pulling on his clothes, Jackson stomped from the room. His first stop would be the stables.

Straight winds so strong they nearly pushed him off balance impeded Jackson's course, but on reaching his destination, he discovered just what he'd thought he would. The mare he'd been allowing Fancy to ride was gone.

One of the grooms looked up from his chore, a confused expression on his thin young face. "Master Jack? Do you know where Miss Fancy is?" the boy asked. "Her horse has been gone since I started pitchin' this hay, and that was before dawn. Do you think she's been out riding all this time?"

"Yes, Lucius," Jackson replied, his voice flat. "I most definitely think she's been out riding--probably since the middle of the night."

Lucius nodded, leaning against his pitchfork, his brow furrowed in concentration. "It's kinda like that other time. She took off riding by herself a few days ago, in the middle of a rain storm!"

Jackson's eyes narrowed; his anger was palpable. "What ride in what rain storm?" he asked quietly.

"I-it was the same d-day Mammy took sick, Master Jack," the boy stammered. "Miss Fancy, she come out here just after breakfast and took off on her mare, and she didn't come back for 'bout two hours." He gulped. "Was I wrong to help her that day? You'd been letting her ride whenever she wanted, and I--"

"No, no, Lucius," Jackson said, realizing he'd inadvertently frightened the boy. He patted his thin shoulder. "Helping Miss Fancy wasn't wrong. I have been allowing her to ride whenever she wanted, but that particular day I had told her to stay in the house. You couldn't know that, so you did nothing wrong."

"Will you be wanting your horse saddled, sir?" the youth asked then, smiling toothily, clearly glad he wasn't in trouble.

"Yes, right away," Jackson replied, already turning to go. "And saddle a horse for Toby, too."

Jackson worked his way back to the house. The wind seemed to be growing stronger by the minute. He'd experienced this kind of weather before. The winds could very well signal an imminent hurricane, or at least a severe tropical storm. But his overseer could--and would--see to the necessary preparations. Jackson's mind was on finding Fancy. His intention now was to collect Toby and then head to Kingston--Fancy's obvious destination.

Where else would she go with the missing jewels? Most likely, she was planning on selling them and living off the proceeds, after leaving Jamaica by ship. She'd finally gotten what she wanted...freedom. But not for long, he vowed!

Finding Toby, the first thing Jackson asked was whether or not Fancy had given him her pearl necklace for repair.

"No, sir, Master Jack," the big man answered, frowning. "She's never given me anything needin' repair."

Jackson nodded, not surprised in the least. Obviously, she'd sold the necklace for passage on a ship that day she'd ridden out in the rain. Hopefully, with these heavy winds, any ships scheduled to leave today would still be in the harbor. He'd find her, by God! He'd find her and bring her home.

"Master Jack, what's happened?" Toby asked then, setting down the silverware he'd been polishing, his deep voice laced with concern. "Does this have something to do with Fancy?"

"She's gone, Toby," Jackson answered. "She's run away again."

Toby's jaw dropped open. "Surely not, Master Jack," he said. "Maybe she's just out somewhere, ridin'..." His words fell off as Jackson shook his head.

"She drugged me last night, Toby. Clothes and jewelry are missing, too."

"Dear Lord," Toby whispered. Jackson saw him blanch. The punishment for such crimes was generally death. "What are you going to do, Master Jack?"

"I'm going to find her and bring her back," Jackson said simply. "I want you to come with me. We're leaving for Kingston right now."

Toby removed his work apron. "I can't believe she ran away," he said, pulling on his coat. "She seemed happy these last few weeks."

"Obviously not happy enough," Jackson murmured, then led the way to the stables.

The ride into Kingston was slow, the horses skittish in the fierce wind. Even as Jackson kept careful control over the piebald, troubled thoughts pricked his conscience--thoughts about Fancy.

Toby had said she seemed happy. That was true enough. Most of the time Fancy was happy, or at least reasonably so. The only time they had any serious problem was when she insisted on telling her lies...

Her lies. Were they lies? The question persisted no matter how hard Jackson tried to push it aside. What if she'd been telling the truth all along, just as she'd claimed? Even when he'd punished her, she'd claimed that truth adamantly.

The rationalizations he'd used in the past started falling apart as Jackson fought the wind, his horse...and his own conscience.

Truths began tumbling through his mind. Undeniable truths.

Fancy had been a virgin at twenty-one years of age. That alone was enough to prove her story. Slaves were commodities, and a slave owner would be a fool not to set his females to breeding as soon as they were old enough to bear young. Why would Fancy's owners have allowed her to retain her virginity for so long?

A second fact hammered at Jackson's conscience--Fancy's heart-wrenching cry when he'd applied that single stroke of the riding crop after she'd run away. He knew every inch of her supple young body. She bore absolutely no scars from previous lashings. She had never, ever been punished as a slave...not until he himself introduced her to the brutal experience.

And then another inconsistency worked its way to the surface: Fancy's ability to direct men fighting a fire. Now that was something no other slave knew how to do in Jackson's experience, especially not a woman, of all people. Slaves were taught from the minute they were born to obey orders, not how to give them. And a female slave normally wouldn't even be involved in fighting a fire, for the simple reason that it took more female slaves than male ones to keep up reproduction. Risking their lives on a task more suited to the strength of a male would be a financially foolish decision.

The only kind of woman likely to have learned those fire-fighting skills was the stubborn, willful daughter of a plantation owner, one who had insisted on learning a man's job...Or perhaps a woman whose father had died and left her half ownership of a plantation. Someone too stubborn to let her half-brother run the place by himself.

Incongruously, the howling wind brought Jackson to the next step of what was fast becoming a search of his own soul. The wind was certainly a sound, and Fancy had produced such wonderful sounds on the pianoforte.

That first day when he'd found her in the music room, singing and playing her little heart out, she'd been so very sad that he'd felt compelled to comfort her. And while doing that he'd come to realize that he loved her, though he'd tried so hard to deny it that his anger and frustration had spurred Fancy's own, resulting in that incredibly humiliating punishment of forcing her to play for him while completely nude. The groan that escaped Jackson's throat with that memory nearly matched the tone of the howling wind. How could he have done that to the woman he loved?

Remembering that punishment--remembering Fancy's nudity--brought Jackson to the next inescapable realization. Fancy's coloring was wrong for a true mulatto. He'd noticed that the first night he'd taken her to his bed. Even as he'd held her down, forcing her submission, he'd seen her sapphire-blue eyes, and he'd known even then that he'd never seen a mulatto with eyes like that. And that day in the drawing room...her pink nipples had set alarm bells off in his head, though he'd successfully pushed them aside. A mulatto woman's nipples were generally brown.

And then finally, relentlessly, the last two pieces of the puzzle fell into place in Jackson's mind. The day he'd sent her back to the kitchen for lying, Fancy had reiterated her story, expounded upon it and even made him believe it--for about two seconds--before he'd pushed the truth aside yet again. She'd even said she could quote Keats, Byron and Shakespeare! It wasn't even legal to teach slaves to read. How could Fancy have that skill...unless she wasn't a slave.

Mammy's dream was the final clincher, though, perhaps because Mammy had been so much a mother to him. Remembering the old cook's belief in her dream--and the way he himself had felt as she'd told it--Jackson could no longer deny what he'd probably known all along. Mammy's dream had portrayed the absolute truth.

Then, as he had so many times before, Jackson felt an incredible mule kick to his gut--a kick he deserved. He deserved far worse than that.

Fancy had not lied.

In fact, the girl he had known and loved was not Fancy at all...She was a free white woman of Cajun descent named Amanda Labreaux, half owner of Labreaux Plantation and half-sister of an evil, twisted man named Harold.

And Jackson had raped her. That was very clear now.

He and Toby had finally reached the outskirts of Kingston, and Jackson drew rein at the first hitching post he could find. Nearly numb with shock--hating himself more with each passing moment--he murmured that he had to stop and then did just that, pulling up to a post, sliding off his horse and then sinking down to the boardwalk.

He knew he was pale, and his stomach was roiling. Then Toby sat down beside him and said, "Are you sick, Master Jack?"

Jackson shook his head, then nodded, since he was sick, but not from some bodily ailment. "I'm sick at heart, Toby," he finally admitted. "I'm sick with disgust for what I have done."

"Because Fancy's gone?" Toby asked, sounding confused.

"I raped her," Jackson groaned, finally saying the damning words. "I raped Amanda Labreaux."

"Who?" Toby asked, his brow furrowed. "Are you sure you're not sick, Master Jack?" He placed a large palm to Jackson's forehead. "Do you want me to fetch Doc Withers?"

Jackson ignored him. "And you know what's even worse, Toby?" he continued, looking up at the tall black man. "Even if Fancy hadn't really been Amanda, the way I forced her into my bed was a hideous crime. An abomination against God, as Fancy--Amanda--herself would have said."

Toby thought about that for a while. "I'm sorry, Master Jack," he finally said. "I don't understand. You're talkin' about raping Fancy? There's no such thing as rape when the woman's your legal property, your slave..."

Jackson shook his head again. "But I don't own her, Toby, don't you see? No one owns her. She's a free white woman--not a mulatto slave. A free white woman named Amanda Labreaux, a victim of kidnapping!" He sighed deeply, gazing toward the horizon. "She's been trying to tell us that all along, Toby, and no one believed her...except Mammy, near the end."

Toby frowned. "So what do we do now?" he asked.

The question stirred Jackson from his lethargy. Pulling himself to his feet, he said, "We find her, Toby. That's what we do. I need to find her more than ever now."

As they approached the harbor, all Jackson wanted was to find Amanda before she could leave. He desperately needed to talk to her; to beg her forgiveness...to ask her to stay. He didn't hold out much hope that she'd ever forgive him, but he had to at least try.

Dismounting at the harbor office, Jackson realized by the number of seamen milling about that the impending storm had indeed kept several ships from embarking. Pushing open the door to the clerk's stuffy, overheated office, Jackson intended to ask what ship was scheduled to leave for New Orleans today. That would, of course, be her destination. Amanda Labreaux was going home.

Moments later, Jackson left the office again, but his heart was thudding painfully in his chest. The harbor clerk remembered the beautiful young woman very well. She'd boarded the Sea Gull at dawn...and the ship had sailed soon after that. It was the last ship allowed to leave port before the harbor master cancelled any further departures until after the storm. The Sea Gull had been at sea for nearly eight hours now.

Jackson had become accustomed to mule kicks to his gut, but now his heart was shattering. He'd lost the only woman he would ever love...and he couldn't even follow her. The pain was incredible. But out of pain, comes determination.

Jackson raised his head, squared his shoulders, then marched back into the harbor office.

And when he came back out, he was smiling, if only a little. He'd asked to be informed of the very first ship leaving for New Orleans. And whether it took a day, a week or even a month to board that ship, Jackson Carlyle would do just that.

He would board that ship because he was going to New Orleans--in search of Amanda Labreaux.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The hurricane struck at midnight. Jackson had been trying to sleep, despite the incessant wind and pounding rain. Even before the rain began, he'd found sleep elusive. Amanda had been gone for two days. Sleeping without her warm little body beside him was a nearly impossible task.

A horrid wrenching sound pulled Jackson from his fitful slumber. Fully awake now, he realized the sound was ripping, fracturing wood. It seemed to come from every part of the house. In the next moment, the windows in his bedroom shattered, allowing in a fierce torrent of rain.

Jackson was out of his bed in a heartbeat, pulling on his breeches and boots. If the sounds he had heard were any indication, his entire house was collapsing!

He bolted from the room, then took the stairs three at a time. The sight that met him in the foyer brought a groan from his throat.

The two crystal chandeliers had crashed to the floor, the massive double front doors were completely gone, there wasn't a single windowpane left in the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the room was ankle-deep in water.

Fearing what he would find, but knowing he had to see for himself, Jackson sloshed his way to the drawing room and threw open the doors. His eyes widened with shock. The room simply wasn't there anymore. All that remained was a pile of wet rubble, open to the sky, torrential rains beating down on the debris.

And he realized quite abruptly that within minutes the entire mansion would fall in on itself--possibly trapping everyone inside.

Dear Lord, he couldn't allow that to happen! The lowest level of the mansion housed his slaves. Built into the descending hill behind the mansion, the room was accessible through only one door off the kitchen and a steep staircase. The windows were high on the walls. Fifteen people could perish in that cellar-like room! Fifteen people who had absolutely no choice about being where they were. Jackson swallowed hard. At the very least, he owed his slaves a safe existence!

As he made his way through incredible debris, heading for the slaves' quarters, Jackson realized once again that Amanda was right. Slavery was an abomination against God.

He'd admonished Amanda for saying that very thing when he'd thought she was a slave herself, but now, finally, he understood her reasoning. She'd been born into a slave-holding society, and then circumstances had caused her own enslavement. How horrid that must have been for a well-bred young lady! And yet, clearly, that very experience had formed her opinion that slavery was wrong.

And Jackson agreed with her now.

As he reached the kitchen, a horrid feeling crawled up Jackson's spine. Something was terribly wrong. The kitchen door was hanging by a single hinge, and Jackson shoved it open. Then he realized that the two bedrooms behind the kitchen had been completely destroyed. Was the young girl who had been Mammy's helper still alive?

A groan of despair wrenched free of his throat as Jackson clawed his way through bricks, boards and remnants of furniture to reach what had been the girl's room. Surely no one could survive such devastation!

He saw a small, dark arm, and his motions became frenzied...but on moving the last board, he stopped abruptly, his throat working to swallow bile. The girl was dead, a large glass shard impaling her right eye. Her left eye was open and staring...accusing Jackson of not keeping her safe. He swallowed hard again, then a sound grabbed his attention--Toby banging on the slave quarters' door and shouting for help. Then there were more voices, and Jackson felt a glimmer of hope. The others were not dead!

The door to the quarters was blocked by a partially collapsed wall. Using every ounce of strength he possessed, Jackson shoved the boards aside...and opened the door.

Toby was the first one to step into the demolished kitchen.

"Thank you," the big man said through a harsh breath of relief, already turning to help others up the stairs. One after another, Jackson and Toby guided the frightened but otherwise unharmed people out of the ruined mansion.

Finally, Jackson sank down beneath a mango tree, resting his arms against upraised knees. The house slaves were all safe, except for the one girl he hadn't been able to help. He regretted that horribly, but no one could control the whims of Fate. Anyone could have died during that storm; he was only grateful so many had survived.

Toby collapsed beside him. Soon they were surrounded by others seeking shelter from the still-heavy rain, but the worst of the hurricane was over now. Jackson wondered how Kingston had fared.

In the darkness and rain, Jackson couldn't see the slave cabins, but the slaves themselves were straggling toward the mango grove, carrying wailing infants and whimpering children, helping older people who seemed numb with shock. Each of them was seeking succor from their master, the man who controlled their very lives. Jackson swallowed hard again. Somehow, despite the destruction, he must keep them all safe, warm and fed.

A hulking form loomed out of the darkness. It was Bull, riding a horse and soaked to the skin. "I don't think any of the niggers have run off in the storm, Mr. Carlyle," he said, futilely wiping rain off his face. "The cabins are a total loss, but I don't think you'll lose too much money on dead slaves."

Jackson looked up, suddenly hating his overseer. "Bull?" he said quite calmly.

"Yes, Mr. Carlyle."

"You're fired."

"B-but, why would you do that, Mr. Carlyle?" Bull blustered. "There's gonna be a mighty big mess to clean up here tomorrow, and someone's gotta get these lazy niggers to do the work."

Jackson stood up to his full, formidable height. Even shirtless, wearing only breeches and boots, his stance commanded authority. He looked around at the mass of humanity now huddled beneath the mango trees, watched them trying to comfort each other and the small children who had no understanding of what had just happened but who felt the fear of the event right down to their pure little souls. Mothers rocking children looked to Jackson, holding his gaze with apprehension in their dark eyes, wondering what their futures held now. And the strong young men were doing all they could for the women and children, courageously throwing aside their own fears for the future to help comfort these people who were quite obviously their families--no matter that marriage was not allowed for slaves.

Jackson knew what the future held for these dark-skinned people who had no rights on this earth, not even the right to choose their own life mates. Their future would be just as their past had been...unless he himself changed it. And then he smiled, suddenly knowing just exactly what he was going to do.

Looking at his former overseer, he said, "You're fired, Bull, for two simple reasons." He raised a forefinger. "One, because you're a sorry excuse for a human being, and I never should have hired you in the first place." He counted a second finger. "And, two, because I no longer need an overseer in any case, since I have just decided to free these slaves and turn Carlyle Plantation into a cooperative venture, in their names. You see, Bull, I have no use for a plantation any longer. I'm sailing on the next available ship for New Orleans."

For the first time since Jackson had known him, Bull Smith was momentarily speechless. He simply sat there staring, then finally spoke. "Are you telling me you're gonna give this land to your niggers, Mr. Carlyle? Is that what I'm hearing?"

"That's what you're hearing, Bull," Jackson confirmed, suddenly feeling better about himself than he had in a long, long time. He was freeing his slaves and assuring them a life of dignity. It felt wonderful!

Toby came up beside him. "Master Jack-"

"Call me Jackson from now on, Toby," Jackson interjected, all at once revolted by the arrogant title. "I don't want to hear the word 'master' ever again."

"Yes, well...ah...Jackson," Toby said haltingly, "if you're goin' to New Orleans to find Miss Amanda, could I go with you?"

"Yes, absolutely," Jackson affirmed, smiling and slapping Toby on the back. "I don't know how I'll pay you if the bank's been destroyed--or even how I'll pay for our passage--but I'll find a way somehow, and I'll certainly appreciate your company on the trip."

"Pay me, sir...ah, Jackson?" Toby asked.

"Of course I'll pay you. That's what all free men get for their labors, Toby--wages."

"You're freeing me right now?"

"I'm freeing all of you right now," Jackson confirmed, turning to address the entire group of shocked, bedraggled people. "And just as soon as it can be arranged," he continued, "I'll do exactly what I said. This plantation will become a cooperative farm, with each of you owning a share."

"You're crazy, Carlyle," Bull said from atop his horse. "You should be locked away in an asylum."

"Quite possibly," Jackson agreed, but he didn't care about the bitter man's opinion. These loyal people were now free landowners. He felt good about himself.

"These nigger slaves won't do anything but laze around without the threat of a whip," Bull persisted. "This land'll be weed-choked and worthless within a year."

"Get off this property, Bull," Jackson said quietly. "Get off it right now. The storm's about over, and I don't want to see you ever again."

"You're making a mistake," Bull retorted, already turning his horse around. "A big mistake, Carlyle. Worthless niggers ain't never gonna work hard."

Jackson watched Bull leave, knowing he hadn't make a mistake at all. Confident in his decision, he turned to the gathered people again. "I don't think any of us are going to get any sleep tonight," he said, hearing murmurs of agreement, seeing one smile after another as the impact of his words began sinking in, "but we can at least try to rest. Makes yourselves as comfortable as possible. We'll ride out what's left of this storm together."

And with those words, Jackson settled his large frame against the trunk of a mango tree, took a small, crying child onto his lap and then closed his eyes. He might not be able to sleep, but he could spend the hours left before dawn looking forward to finding Amanda in New Orleans.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Finally! was Amanda's first thought as the New Orleans harbor came into view.

The voyage had been difficult because of her pregnancy. Barely outrunning a tropical storm, followed by two weeks at sea, were far less than enjoyable activities for a woman whose stomach kept insisting on rolling more than the ship.

But now she was here. Amanda wasn't going straight to Labreaux, however. She was going to a lawyer instead. And even before doing that, she'd have to sell the rest of her jewelry for living expenses until she could prove her identity. She'd stolen all the jewelry Jackson had given her to wear.

Jackson. For the millionth time in the last two weeks, thinking of him brought tears to Amanda's eyes.

He must hate her by now. What else would he feel toward a runaway slave who had stolen from him, drugged him and betrayed his trust?

She couldn't blame him for not believing her truth. Why should he? He'd bought her legally, and in his mind slavery was an acceptable way of life. He may have been morally wrong in owning her--or any slave--but he would never admit that. She wouldn't have admitted owning slaves was wrong herself a few months ago.

But Jackson had treated her well. Amanda had to admit that. Even after that first escape attempt, he'd punished her far more leniently than most masters would a runaway slave.

And after she'd saved his life, he'd given her a life of absolute ease. Sometime during the voyage, Amanda had come to understand that Jackson truly thought he was offering her happiness.

A soft sound of distress escaped her throat. She couldn't deny it anymore. She had come to love Jackson Carlyle with all her heart and soul.

And yet, she had still betrayed him.

The grating sound of the ship coming in contact with the dock brought Amanda out of her reverie. There was nothing she could do about her love for Jackson. She would never see him again, could never tell him of her love...or beg his forgiveness for what she had done. She would bear his child and raise it alone. It was time to get on with her life, and she knew just where to start.

She would be hiring a lawyer, but not just any lawyer. Amanda was going to hire her father's own attorney, Thomas Larkin. Harold had insisted on switching to another attorney after their father's death, but Mr. Larkin was still a trusted family friend. He had known Amanda since the day she was born--surely he would recognize that she truly was who she claimed to be. Surely Mr. Larkin would help her.

The gangplank lowered, and Amanda gathered her valise--with its small fortune in jewels--in her hand, took a deep breath and walked toward her future. She would defeat Harold! she vowed. And she would free the slaves at Labreaux.

Wiry, bespectacled Thomas Larkin was a man with a very calm demeanor. He was very seldom ruffled by anything...at least not until a dead woman walked into his office. Then he stood up abruptly, his jaw sagged, and he uttered a sound that was somewhere between a howl of fear and a shriek of surprise.

Amanda waited calmly for Mr. Larkin to regain his composure. This was the first test. Would he recognize her true identity?

"Amanda Labreaux?" he finally croaked out. "Aren't you dead?"

Amanda smiled. "Obviously not, Mr. Larkin," she said.

"But how...that is, I was at the funeral..." Thomas stammered. His brow furrowed in confusion. "If you're alive, then who's buried at Labreaux?"

"That woman is a mulatto slave named Fancy, Mr. Larkin," Amanda explained. "Harold murdered her, pretending she was me, so he could gain full control of the plantation."

Thomas sat down heavily. "Harold said Fancy had run off," he murmured, then shook his head. "None of us suspected a thing." He looked up. "But where have you been all this time, Amanda? It's been months since Harold reported you dead."

"It's a very long story, Mr. Larkin," Amanda replied, sighing and settling into a chair. "Let me start at the beginning."

Over the next half hour, Amanda told Thomas Larkin the entire story, and by the end of the tale Thomas understood exactly what had happened. Amanda was too much a lady to give intimate details, but she had quite obviously been Jackson Carlyle's bed slave. Thomas felt his throat go dry. What an appalling, humiliating experience for a gently-bred Southern belle!

And yet when Amanda spoke of the man who had used her, a far-away look crossed her face, and her lovely blue eyes misted with tears. Did she love this Jackson Carlyle, then? Was that even possible, considering what he had done?

Thomas shook his head. The answer didn't really matter, since Amanda would never see the man again. What did matter was that Harold Labreaux was guilty of kidnapping, selling his own half-sister into slavery and profiting illegally from an inheritance.

Thomas felt very sorry for Amanda. Once the story of her enslavement got out, her reputation would be ruined, of course. The finer families of Southern Louisiana would spurn her completely. He and his wife, Effie, would welcome her into their home, but very few other invitations would be forthcoming.

He pushed his spectacles up on his nose, sighing. He couldn't change that--couldn't change the fact that Amanda might well be in love with the man who had kept her as a whore--but he could very definitely help her defeat Harold.

He would enjoy that immensely. The cur must pay for his crimes.

The legal formalities took less time than Amanda had thought they would. Mr. Larkin immediately sent for the sheriff, and once Amanda recounted her tale for the balding, mustachioed official, the matter was taken out of her hands. The sheriff was incensed that such a thing could happen in his own parish.

Now, two days later, after Jason Harding had been found and arrested, Amanda was sitting beside Mr. Larkin in his carriage, finally on her way to Labreaux Plantation.

Mr. Larkin's carriage was being followed by another vehicle, this one a barred wagon for transporting prisoners. And there were six deputies in the caravan, along with the sheriff himself, who had insisted that this was a serious enough crime that he should be the one to arrest Harold Labreaux--personally.

As they rounded the last curve in the road leading to the wrought iron gates of Labreaux, Amanda's heartbeat increased. Would the plantation look the same as it had months earlier? Or had it already begun falling to ruin under Harold's dubious leadership?

Then the house itself came into view, and Amanda's heart nearly stopped. Her own childhood home was so similar in style to Jackson Carlyle's mansion, Amanda could barely see through the sudden tears misting her eyes.

It was as if she were riding up to Carlyle Plantation instead of Labreaux, as if at any moment she would see Jackson striding out of the house in his tight breeches and impeccable frock coat, approaching her and fully intending to take her into his arms--and into his bed--whether or not she wanted to be there.

But she did want to be there, Amanda realized with a soft sigh of despair. She wanted to be in Jackson's powerful arms again more than anything else. That was impossible, of course. She would never share his demanding passion again. She would never even see him again. With that stark reminder of reality, Amanda brushed angrily at her tears. It was no use thinking about Jackson Carlyle, not when her thoughts should be centered on Harold Labreaux.

Thomas, misinterpreting the reason for Amanda's tears, patted her arm gently and said, "You have no reason to be afraid, my dear. Harold cannot hurt you anymore."

"I'm not afraid," Amanda replied, sitting up very straight and squaring her shoulders, determined to regain her composure. "I just felt a little...overwhelmed by seeing the mansion again."

"Of course," Thomas said soothingly. "After what you've been through, it's understandable that you would be a little overwrought right now."

"Yes," Amanda quietly agreed, knowing Mr. Larkin could never understand her feelings for Jackson and knowing, too, that she didn't fully understand them herself. She loved Jackson, and yet in one way she was glad to be free of him, since her love never could have resulted in marriage, could only have continued as a sinful relationship with a resultant bastard child--or children as the years passed. Jackson would have kept her as his pampered "mate," perhaps forever, but he never would have married her. And if he'd eventually gotten bored with her, he could have sent her back to the kitchen...or even sold her to someone else.

Shuddering at that thought, suddenly very grateful that despite her love she was free of Jackson at last, Amanda turned away from all thoughts of him and concentrated on the problem at hand.

The carriage was pulling to a stop, and a young groom immediately came to take charge of it. The moment the boy realized just who was being helped from the carriage, he dropped the reins and ran away as fast as he could, looking over his shoulder several times to make sure the "ghost" wasn't following him.

Amanda sighed and shook her head. Clearly, there would be a great deal of explaining to do.

Forewarned now of the reaction she would receive from the people of Labreaux, Amanda lifted her chin and walked straight into her own home...followed by eight very determined men.

Harold Labreaux was in his study, but he wasn't busy with paperwork. His face was flushed, his mouth drawn back in a grimace of erotic pleasure at what the slave kneeling between his legs was doing with her obedient little mouth.

This wasn't the first time he'd forced this particular slave to please him. She was becoming more skilled every time he called her into the room.

He was almost there; he could feel the pressure building. His pleasure would be complete in a matter of moments...and then the door opened and Amanda very calmly walked into the room.

She blushed hotly upon seeing what was happening behind the massive mahogany desk. In his half-dazed state, Harold knew Amanda could see the top of the young girl's dark head between his legs. It wouldn't take much imagination to figure out just what he was forcing the girl to do.

But it was too late for him to stop. Even as several men followed Amanda into the room--even with his abject shock that Amanda was here--Harold's orgasm exploded into the slave's mouth, accompanied by his guttural cry of release.

He saw two of the men exchange embarrassed glances, and Harold knew who they were. Thomas Larkin...and the sheriff. Were the rest of these men deputies? Harold gulped. The girl between his legs suddenly realized they weren't alone in the room anymore. Looking over her slender shoulder and seeing Amanda, the girl's eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped to the floor in a dead faint.

His mind still dazed from sexual release, Harold blurted out, "How can you be here, Amanda? You're supposed to be in Jamaica..." His words trailed off, and he gulped again. He was admitting too much. He shouldn't know where she'd been.

But his clever half-sister caught that slip of the tongue. "Yes, Harold," she quietly affirmed. "I certainly was in Jamaica...just as you intended when you murdered Fancy and had Jason Harding sell me into slavery."

"T-that's preposterous!" Harold stammered, his eyes shifting from Thomas Larkin to the sheriff and his deputies. "You're lying, bitch," he yelled desperately, sweat breaking out on his forehead. "Who would believe a woman over a man?"

She approached the desk, still quite calm and in complete control. Harold loosened his cravat. "No, Harold, it is not preposterous," she said, placing both hands on his mahogany desk, "and I can prove it very easily by having Fancy's body exhumed. No one will have to take the word of a mere woman." She smiled triumphantly.

Harold blanched. "Everyone t-thought that girl was you, Amanda," he stammered again. "H-how could I have known any different?"

Amanda leaned forward. "It's no good, Harold," she said, her voice little more than a hiss. "Jason Harding has already confessed...to everything."

"He did it all by himself!" Harold exclaimed then, drowning in his own sweat. "Jason was the one who sold you to that slave ship owner, not me!"

Amanda smiled serenely. "Precisely," she said, leaning forward a little more. "And since you know about the sale, Harold, that quite effectively proves your guilt."

Harold swallowed the bile rising in his throat. The bitch had outwitted him! Seeing the expressions on the men in the room, he could feel the prison door slamming shut. No! He couldn't survive in prison...he couldn't! Anything but that...

His next motions were so quick, no one had time to stop him or even time to understand his intentions. He reached into the top drawer of his desk, retrieved a loaded pistol, put the muzzle in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Amanda's scream of horror blended with the thundering report of the weapon, and she sank to her knees in front of the desk as Harold slumped forward, the back of his head completely blown away.

Dear God, she hadn't expected this! Harold had just killed himself!

Three days later, Amanda sat down with Thomas Larkin in her father's study. All evidence of Harold's suicide had been cleaned away. Her half-brother had been buried yesterday morning. It was time to get on with her plans.

"Now, Amanda," Thomas Larkin said in a placating voice after hearing her out, "you cannot possibly be serious about freeing your slaves."

"I am quite serious, Mr. Larkin," Amanda replied.

"Such a decision could be financially disastrous for a plantation," the lawyer persisted. "Why don't you just let me hire a manager for you, and then you can get on with the life a lady should lead."

Amanda heard the censure in his words. She also knew he had to realize she was far from being a "lady" anymore, not after living with a man without the benefit of marriage for more than two months and certainly not since she was carrying that man's child--though she had no intention of telling Mr. Larkin about the pregnancy. "Mr. Larkin," she began quietly. "I don't need mollycoddling. You know as well as I do that polite society will no longer accept me, once the gossips start talking about what Harold did. If you won't help me, I'll simply find someone who will."

The lawyer heaved a sigh of resignation and nodded.

"Very well, Amanda," he finally said. "Tell me the rest of your plan."

"My plan, Mr. Larkin is to free all my slaves and then sell the plantation altogether." He opened his mouth to argue again, and Amanda held up a hand. "Let me continue, sir...please," she said. "I would like you to find a buyer as quickly as possible, but whoever buys Labreaux must agree to keep the freed slaves as hired hands with fair wages, unless any of them want to leave, of course. Furthermore, Mr. Larkin," she continued, "I am planning to leave the South forever, having no wish to live in a slave-holding society anymore. I want to move as far away from here as possible, in fact, though I haven't yet decided where I will go."

Mr. Larkin simply sat there for a time, studying her through his spectacles. Finally, he seemed to make a decision. "If your mind is made up, I may already have the perfect solution."

Amanda sat up very straight. "Go on," she said.

"There is a man in town who has hired me to find him a suitable plantation. He has been a rancher in California for several years, having bought a substantial tract of land from the Mexican government, but his wife recently died, and he came back here because the rest of his family lives close by." Mr. Larkin leaned forward. "This man, a Mr. Emory Hilliard, also pointed out the fact that he does not believe in slavery. He intends to use hired help or sharecroppers to run the plantation I find for him."

"You're right, Mr. Larkin," Amanda agreed, smiling. "That just might be the perfect solution."

"I also think this man might be amenable to a simple trade of properties, Amanda," the lawyer continued, "since the value of his California rancho is very similar to the value of Labreaux."

"Yes," Amanda breathed, liking that idea very much. "Will you meet with this man as soon as possible and then let me know his decision?"

"Aren't you even interested in hearing about Mr. Hilliard's property, Amanda?"

"Yes, of course," Amanda replied. "Tell me all about it, Mr. Larkin."

"According to Mr. Hilliard, he has several thousand acres of prime pasture land, fully stocked with beef, in a gentle valley only five miles inland from the California coast. Of course, since he has no children, the house he shared with his wife is rather small, but I'm sure it would be more than ample for your needs."

"I would enjoy still being near the ocean," Amanda murmured, more to herself than to Mr. Larkin, as memories of a private beach in Jamaica flashed through her mind.

"Well then," Thomas Larkin said, rising from his chair, "I'll leave you now and head back to the office. I think I can probably have your answer tomorrow, although Mr. Hilliard will naturally want to inspect Labreaux before making a final decision."

"Thank you for all your help, Mr. Larkin," Amanda said, extending a hand. "You played a very important role in defeating Jason and Harold, and I will forever be in your debt."

Instead of shaking her hand, he kissed it, then said, "I hope you find what you're looking for in California, my dear. I would like very much to believe that you will be happy there." He kissed her hand a second time, then quickly took his leave.

Would Amanda be happy in California? Probably not, she realized. Not without Jackson. But perhaps she would at least be content. In California, she could raise her child in a slave-free society. That was the most important thing. And surely her memories of Jackson Carlyle would fade over time.

A small sob escaped her throat. She knew she was lying to herself. How could she ever forget Jackson when she would be looking at his child every day of her life?

Dusk settled over Labreaux Plantation as Amanda sat at her father's desk, thinking.

She had no doubt Mr. Hilliard would agree to the trade. He would be getting what he wanted, after all, as would she. But what Amanda really wanted, in the deepest part of her heart, was to return to Jamaica...and to Jackson.

That, of course, was something she could never do, no matter how much she wanted to. Not when, in Jackson's mind, she was still a mulatto slave named Fancy--and her child would be born a slave, too.

No, she would go to California. And she would try to forget.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Jackson Carlyle literally collapsed on his cot in the simple cabin he and Toby had built. He was beyond exhausted, but very pleased with the accomplishments of the past month.

The hurricane had wreaked havoc on Kingston, causing considerable damage at the harbor. But tomorrow, finally, a merchant vessel was departing for New Orleans.

Chaos was the best word to describe what Jackson had found in Kingston the day following the hurricane. Businesses had been destroyed, houses lay in ruins, but, remarkably, the Royal Kingston Bank was still standing.

Jackson's funds were still available, and for that he was grateful, but then he'd realized how useless money would be on an island with virtually nothing to buy. Until supply ships on their normal routes began arriving, Jamaica would be on her own.

He'd returned to Carlyle still a wealthy man, but a man who was now without a home. Daylight had shown the extent of the hurricane's damage. The mansion was ruined.

But there were still more than one hundred people to feed on Carlyle Plantation, and so Jackson, Toby and his now-freed slaves had set about salvaging anything they could to ensure their own survival.

The sugarcane crop had been utterly destroyed, but there were enough fallen bananas, coconuts and other fruit to provide food for the first few days. After that they slaughtered farm animals, cooking goat meat and chicken over open campfires. By the end of a week, all the livestock had been eaten--save for one rather scrawny milk cow for the children--and all the fruit had been consumed. Jackson returned to Kingston, desperate to buy supplies, but he found precious few.

Mammy's pantry was the real hero that day. Toby, Jackson and a few volunteers ventured into the demolished kitchen, shoring up debris as if the former mansion were a mine shaft. The sound of creaking, splintering wood was an eerie reminder of the danger, but the men gathered canned goods from Mammy's remarkably intact larder--dozens of hand-packed, sealed jars containing meat and fruit--food which literally saved the people of Carlyle from starvation.

The next problem was clearing away uprooted crops, then preparing the fields for replanting. Every man, woman and child gladly helped with those arduous tasks, since the land now belonged to them in the cooperative agreement Jackson had promised. And Jackson shared every back-breaking hour of labor with them.

Now, a month after the devastating hurricane, Jackson's first goals had been accomplished. His slaves were free, the land was in their names, food was in ready supply again, and the newly-constructed communal kitchen was stocked with enough provisions to see the people through to their first crop--and their first profit. He had hired a first-rate lawyer to make sure his freed slaves were not cheated, and since that man was a staunch abolitionist, Jackson had no doubt that the small fortune he'd paid the lawyer had been well spent. Now Jackson could leave Jamaica with a clean conscience and get on with the most important goal in his life--finding Amanda.

He knew where to find her. She'd told him of her plantation more than once. Jackson only hoped that when he arrived at Labreaux, Amanda wouldn't drive him off with a shotgun. She certainly had a perfect right to do that, he admitted, but he was determined to win her love--somehow.

Toby came into the rickety shelter just then, ducking his massive frame under the low threshold. "Everything's set for mornin', Jackson," he said. "The carriage is loaded with all your belongings, and if we set out about three a.m., we should have no trouble makin' the departure time despite the condition of the road."

Jackson had to smile at that. His "belongings" consisted of three work shirts borrowed from a former slave, two pairs of pants that were far too short and the breeches and boots he'd had on the night of the hurricane. Everything else was completely inaccessible, since the second and third stories of the mansion had fallen in on the first within hours of the storm. His wardrobe was buried somewhere in a huge pile of rubble. It was a pure miracle that they'd been able to reach the kitchen pantry in that single foraging trip. Jackson wasn't about to risk his life--or the lives of others--to find a few clothes.

The other thing making Jackson smile was Toby's new attitude. Ever since being freed, and since Jackson had asked him to drop the word "master" from his vocabulary, Toby's self-esteem had been growing by leaps and bounds.

He was no longer a subservient, meekly obedient slave. No, now Toby was a strong, self-assured man. A man's man, as the saying went. Over the past month Toby had become Jackson's best--in fact, only--friend.

Jackson's so-called peers in Kingston society, though some of their homes and plantations had been just as devastated as Jackson's, had turned their backs on him the moment they'd learned he had freed his slaves.

Not that any of that mattered to Jackson. He'd come to the conclusion that the term polite society was a misnomer. If not for the strictures of that incredibly biased, really rather rude society, Jackson would have been able to openly express his love for Amanda--even when he still thought her a mulatto slave--and then she might not have left him at all.

He realized that thought was a little conceited. Amanda had never expressed any love for him, had wanted nothing more than her freedom. But if he'd been able to offer her marriage, instead of merely keeping her as his "pampered whore," as she'd called it, perhaps she would have come to love him and agreed to become his wife.

"Thank you, Toby," Jackson finally answered, pulling up his single blanket and turning onto his side. "You'd better get some rest now, too. Three a.m. comes mighty early."

Toby chuckled at that, settled his own massive frame onto the other cot in the cabin and very soon gave himself over to sleep, content with his new life, despite the hardships of the past month, and very glad to be accompanying Jackson Carlyle to New Orleans.

Amanda breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was done, all her goals had been met, and now, finally, it was time to leave for California.

She couldn't believe it had taken two full weeks to settle her affairs at Labreaux, but Mr. Larkin had been quite insistent upon doing everything "by the book."

Mr. Hilliard had loved the plantation on first sight, and Amanda was well pleased with his description of the California rancho. Mr. Larkin drew up the documents for the property trade, and by the end of the first week, Amanda was the new owner of the Lazy H.

During the second week, Amanda made her travel arrangements. She would be taking a ship all the way around Cape Horn in South America, then northward to California. The trip would take more than two months. The thought of all that sea travel made her stomach lurch.

Mr. Larkin had hired a bodyguard for her, overcoming Amanda's objections by simply reminding her that she had been abducted once before and she certainly could be again without adequate protection. With that, Amanda had readily agreed to the man's hiring. The last thing she needed now was to find herself in another nightmare. And her pregnancy would make it harder than ever to protect herself. By the time she reached San Miguel, the nearest port town to the Lazy H, she would be nearly five months along--definitely not in any condition to ward off foes.

And now she was boarding a ship again, her burly, stony-faced bodyguard in close attendance. Amanda had made her farewells to the freed slaves at Labreaux, who had easily understood her "return from the dead" once Harold's treachery had been revealed, and Mr. Hilliard had taken over the plantation, wishing her well on her journey only a few hours ago.

The gangplank was drawn in, the sails unfurled, and the anchor raised. Those actions were so reminiscent of the ones Amanda had witnessed in Jamaica--except for today's moderate winds--that she couldn't help remembering just what it had felt like to leave that island...and Jackson.

Mr. Jones, her nearly silent bodyguard, looked at Amanda askance when tears began streaming down her cheeks. But Amanda didn't care what Mr. Jones thought about her feminine weakness. She'd cried so much in the last month, ever since winning her freedom but losing the man she loved, that she was no longer embarrassed by the sudden bursts of emotion memories of Jackson always evoked.

The first few days of the voyage were a little difficult for Amanda, as she'd known they would be, but within a week she became fully acclimated to the constant rolling of the ship. Thankfully, her stomach was much more cooperative this time around, and she began spending a good deal of time on deck, simply enjoying the fresh sea air--and trying to avoid painful memories.

She knew from the captain that on this day, their seventh at sea, the sleek schooner was sailing between the western tip of the island of Cuba and the most eastern projection of Mexico. Far off on the horizon, Amanda could see another ship, and she wondered briefly if there were people aboard that vessel who had also left one life to embark upon another, perhaps leaving loved ones behind, just as she had left Jackson.

Amanda had no way of knowing that the very ship she was wondering about was carrying Jackson Carlyle, who was sailing north to New Orleans, in search of her.

Reaching New Orleans was a relief for Jackson. Not only because he didn't particularly like sea voyages, but also because at least here he could purchase some decent clothes. Most of the Kingston shops had been heavily damaged in the hurricane, and besides that, buying clothing was not uppermost on Jackson's mind during that month of back-breaking though very satisfying labor to restore some semblance of order to Carlyle Plantation.

But he had no intention of showing up on Amanda's doorstep looking like a ragamuffin. He was carrying a letter of credit from the Royal Kingston Bank, so his first stop would have to be at a New Orleans bank to secure American dollars. And then Jackson intended to outfit himself, as well as Toby, in durable clothes that actually fit.

His lifestyle had changed so dramatically in the last six weeks that Jackson found he was no longer interested in purchasing the top hats, frock coats and silk shirts he'd been accustomed to wearing all his adult life. Instead, he would buy simple trousers and cotton work shirts, having found those far more comfortable than formal attire, even if the pants had been too short and the shirts more than a little tight on his large frame.

For Amanda's sake, however, since she truly was a gently-bred Southern belle, Jackson would purchase one or two of the stuffy, highly overrated outfits that were more in keeping with a gentleman's attire.

Jackson had no idea what he was going to do with his life now, other than convincing Amanda that he loved her, but he had amassed a fortune during his years as a plantation owner, so his opportunities were nearly unlimited.

There was only one thing that greatly bothered Jackson as he and Toby disembarked in New Orleans. He was sure Amanda had gone home, to Labreaux Plantation. And that was the very place where her evil half-brother lived.

Would she have been foolish enough to attempt confronting him all by herself? Jackson dearly hoped not. A man who was capable of the crimes Harold Labreaux had already committed would certainly have no qualms about killing Amanda--for real, this time--to keep her quiet.

That thought worried Jackson enough that he decided to postpone buying comfortable clothes, instead going straight to the first large bank he could find, securing enough funds to finance his next intention, then hiring a carriage to take him to Labreaux Plantation immediately. Luckily, that particular plantation was large enough that the carriage driver not only knew of it, but also how to get there.

"Jackson?" Toby said as the carriage trundled along the River Road toward Labreaux. "Just what are you goin' to say to Miss Amanda when we get to her home?"

"I have no idea, Toby," Jackson admitted. "All I know is that I have to say the right things, the things that will make Amanda understand how sorry I am for not believing her...and for all the things I did." He swallowed hard. Crow was not a palatable dish, but he would eat his share--and gladly--if he could win her love, and forgiveness.

Toby shook his dark head. He knew Jackson felt bad about the way he had treated Miss Amanda, and yet, having been a slave himself, he couldn't fault the man. Jackson had treated her much like a piece of property, but then, at the time, that's just exactly what she had been. Now, of course, everything had changed. Jackson Carlyle no longer called any human being slave.

Jackson had spoken of little else but Miss Amanda during the sea voyage. Toby knew his former master loved the lady to the very depths of his soul. And he had a strong suspicion that the lady in question felt the same way.

Which made Toby wonder--not for the first time--why Miss Amanda had run away. She was special; a strong, resilient young woman. Otherwise, she never could have survived the crimes committed against her. Toby didn't think she would have left Jackson just to escape her rather embarrassing status in the household. So why did she leave?

Something terribly important must have driven her from the arms of the man she loved. Women had very strong protective instincts. There was only one thing Toby could think of that would have led to her decision...

No, surely not, he thought, refuting his own logic. Surely Miss Amanda wasn't pregnant when she left. And yet, that would certainly be a reason to go to any lengths to gain her freedom--even drugging her master. To a free white woman, the thought of raising a child in slavery would have been devastating.

Finally, Toby said, "Jackson, do you think Miss Amanda could have been pregnant when she left? That might explain why she ran away."

Jackson blanched, feeling very much like someone had just taken hold of his heart and squeezed. Hard. Of course Amanda was pregnant when she left! The timing of her escape made perfect sense now. She'd left just days after he'd told her quite callously that he would never free her...not even if she were carrying his child.

That whole conversation at the waterfall replayed itself in Jackson's mind. And of all the words they'd spoken that day, one simple question said it all:

"Then you won't free me if I become pregnant?" she'd asked. "My child-our child--would be born a slave?"

His answer had been succinct. "No, Fancy," he'd said. "I will not free you."

Toby broke into Jackson's thoughts. "She is pregnant, isn't she?" he said, his deep voice subdued.

"Yes," Jackson said simply, then turned to look out the carriage window. But he wasn't seeing the verdant greenery beyond the window, wasn't noticing the magnolia trees or Spanish moss-covered oaks, wasn't even smelling the fragrant wildflowers growing in profuse disarray along the roadside.

What Jackson was seeing was a delicate, beautiful woman named Amanda Labreaux going through the rigors of childbirth without a husband. Unless, of course, she'd already found a husband in the six weeks since he'd last seen her. But Jackson doubted that. Not knowing Amanda as well as he did...or at least as well as he'd come to know her since she'd left.

All his thoughts about her during these past weeks--and there were too many millions of thoughts to count--had convinced Jackson that Amanda was the strongest, most determined woman he had ever known, and a strong woman wouldn't seek a loveless marriage just to give her bastard child a name. She had survived the experiences of being kidnapped, sold into slavery and then being forced to become Jackson's mistress because she was so strong. Any other woman Jackson had ever known probably would have died on the slave ship, much less survived the utter humiliation of the slave auction and then perhaps the even worse humiliation of becoming her master's whore.

And that's just exactly what Amanda had been in her mind--Jackson's whore. And now she was carrying his child, which she would undoubtedly bear alone and raise alone, if Jackson himself didn't do something to change it.

So he would simply have to convince her to marry him, he vowed--no matter that she might hate him, and with good reason. It was for the good of the child, after all, and for her own good, as well. Bearing and raising a bastard in any society except slavery was tantamount to absolute ruin for a lady. And Jackson could not allow that to happen to his Amanda.

"Labreaux Plantation just ahead," the carriage driver shouted, forcing Jackson back to the present problem.

What would he find at Labreaux? Could Harold have killed her? And if not, would Amanda even listen to Jackson before filling his gut with buckshot?

"Do you want me to go in with you, Jackson?" Toby asked.

Jackson smiled grimly. "We may not get as far as the front door, Toby, much less being invited in for tea. But, yes, I could use the support of a friend." Then he thought about Harold again and added, "If Amanda's half-brother has done something to her, I'm going to kill him, Toby. I may as well tell you that right now."

"If you don't, I will," Toby promised in all seriousness, and then both men became silent as the carriage rolled up the driveway of Labreaux Plantation, finally stopping before a mansion quite similar to the one Jackson used to own in Jamaica.

"I am not Harold Labreaux!" the startled man cried out. "My name's Emory Hilliard, and I haven't done anything with anyone!"

Toby immediately loosened his grip and looked at Jackson. They were standing in the front doorway of the Labreaux mansion, and the man Toby had just assaulted had answered the door himself, studying them both quietly but not answering when Jackson asked for Amanda Labreaux.

With his nerves already frayed, Jackson had quite naturally assumed the man's reticence boded ill for Amanda's welfare, to say the least...and Toby had clamped a massive hand to the man's shoulder, accusing him of being Harold Labreaux and demanding what he had done with Miss Amanda.

The man was shaking, but obviously trying to regain his composure. "I think there's been a misunderstanding," he finally said, then pushed a hand through his thinning hair. He gestured toward the foyer. "If you gentlemen will come in, please, I think we can clear this up."

Jackson raised a brow in surprise. By Hilliard's inclusion of Toby in the title "gentlemen," it was clear the man felt no superiority over the former slave. Following Hilliard into a well-appointed study, Jackson began suspecting the situation at Labreaux Plantation was not at all what he'd thought it would be.

"Have a seat, gentlemen," Hilliard said politely.

As Jackson and Toby settled into chairs, Hilliard took the seat behind a massive mahogany desk. "May I ask who you are?" he said.

"I'm Jackson Carlyle, and this is my friend, Toby," Jackson answered. "We've come to see Amanda. Is she here?"

Hilliard's face hardened upon hearing Jackson's name. He'd obviously heard of Amanda's ordeal, Jackson surmised, then cursed under his breath. The whole area must be ripe with rumors. No wonder Hilliard looked angry--the man who had held a lady as slave, thereby ruining her reputation, had had the audacity to come looking for her.

"She's gone, Mr. Carlyle," Hilliard finally said tersely, rising to his feet. "And that is all I have to say to you, sir. You may see yourself out."

"Now wait just a minute," Toby injected, surging to his own feet. "You can't talk like that to Mr. Carlyle."

"It's all right, Toby," Jackson quietly countered. "I think I understand very well how Mr. Hilliard feels." He turned his attention back to Hilliard. "I must assume that you've heard about Amanda's...experiences...in Jamaica, since you quite obviously want nothing to do with me." His voice lowered to a clearly menacing level. "Be that as it may, I will not leave this house until you tell me where I can find Amanda. Is that crystal clear, sir?"

Hilliard nodded and sat back down, and Jackson smiled grimly. He'd purposely intimidated the slightly-built man, but he felt no guilt for using the tactic. He'd do whatever was needed to achieve his goal.

Hilliard's throat worked, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. Then, surprising Jackson, he raised his chin and bravely declared, "If you've come here hoping to force the lady to return to Jamaica, I think you'll find that your so-called ownership papers are worthless, Mr. Carlyle. The body of the real mulatto slave named Fancy was exhumed several weeks ago as final, irrefutable proof of Amanda Labreaux's claims against her half-brother, and a man named Jason Harding."

"No, I have not come here to force her to do anything," Jackson said, outwardly calm, though his gut was tied in knots. Hilliard's words had proven all the things he'd finally come to realize were true. But hearing the proof spoken aloud was a stark reminder to Jackson of how very wrong he'd been to accuse Amanda of lying and to punish her for trying to speak her truth.

Emory Hilliard saw the look on Jackson's face, and his brows drew together in confusion. Could this man truly care for the lady, then? As more than a mere possession?

Then Emory remembered something his attorney had said, and things became much more clear. Mr. Larkin had said he suspected Amanda Labreaux loved the man who had enslaved her, though he couldn't fathom why. He'd said whenever the lady spoke of Jackson Carlyle, her eyes misted with tears and her mood became sad...just like a woman grieving the loss of a loved one.

If all that was true, Emory wondered, should he tell this man where the lady had gone? Did he have a right to interfere in the lives of two people no one really knew anything about? He had not been in Jamaica to see the events for himself, after all. And neither had anyone else who was spreading rumors about the "terrible" things the lady had suffered at Jackson Carlyle's hands.

"I'm not going to force her to do anything, Mr. Hilliard," Jackson quietly repeated, sensing a change in the man's attitude. "But I must insist that you tell me where she is."

Emory stood again, and began pacing the floor. "I'm just not sure of the right thing to do," he admitted. "If you do not wish to force her into anything, Mr. Carlyle, then why are you so intent on finding her?"

"Because I love her," Jackson said simply, "and because I believe she is carrying my child. I want to marry her, Mr. Hilliard. I want to live with her for the rest of my life and help her raise our child."

Hilliard thought that over for a time, then finally nodded. Retrieving a scrolled map from a bookshelf, he spread it out on his desk. "Very well, Mr. Carlyle," he said. "I'll show you where you can find her."

Jackson approached the desk. Leaning over and reading the map's legend, he said, "California? That's were she is?"

"That's where she will be," Emory corrected. "She set sail two weeks ago." He looked up at Jackson. "We traded properties, you see."

Jackson didn't see; he didn't understand anything yet, but Hilliard continued. "The lady was determined to free her slaves--which she did--and I was determined to buy a plantation without slaves. So, we were perfect for one another. I now own Labreaux Plantation, and she is the new owner of the Lazy H. ranch."

Jackson and Toby exchanged glances. Without a word, they both understood exactly why Amanda had freed her slaves and left the South. She had told Jackson how wrong slavery was, and, true to her nature, she had kept to her beliefs and freed her own slaves.

The fact that Jackson had just done the same thing wasn't missed by Toby or Jackson during that silent communication, either. Jackson and Amanda had more in common than the child she was probably carrying. They had the new belief that slavery was an abomination against God. And since marriages had been built on far less than that, Jackson felt a surge of hope.

There was one last piece of the puzzle that had to be put in place, however, and Jackson said, "What happened to Harold Labreaux and Jason Harding, Mr. Hilliard? Are they in prison?"

"Jason Harding is, yes, Mr. Carlyle, but Harold killed himself just as soon as Amanda confronted him with a lawyer, six deputies and the sheriff himself."

Jackson smiled then. He just couldn't help it. He should have known the feisty little woman who'd had the audacity to drug her master, steal jewelry and then run away in the middle of the night--successfully--would have had no problem at all dealing with Harold Labreaux.

Over the next little while Emory Hilliard showed Jackson just where the rancho was located, also showing him the nearest port town, San Miguel.

"Where to now, sir?" the carriage driver asked as Jackson and Toby said their farewells to Hilliard, then climbed back into the hired coach.

"To California!" Jackson replied without hesitation, which answer the driver didn't understand at all, but Toby and Jackson did.

The search was on again, and this time Jackson had no doubt that he would find Amanda Labreaux.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"Land, Mr. Jones," Amanda breathed gratefully, "Sweet, solid ground." Then she knelt and literally kissed the warm California earth.

"You shouldn't be doing that, ma'am," Mr. Jones replied, helping Amanda to her feet again. "Not in your condition."

"Don't be ridiculous," she retorted lightly. "I feel better than I have in weeks, now that we've finally left the ship, and I'm as healthy as a horse, anyway."

"Just the same, Miss Amanda," he persisted, "I was hired to protect you, and I must insist that you be careful, for your own sake," his gaze fell to the gentle swell of Amanda's belly, "as well as the child's safety."

"Thank you for your concern," Amanda said quietly, sincerely, realizing not for the first time how lucky she'd been to have this man at her side during the long journey.

The trip had been peaceful, uneventful...boring. So boring that Amanda could not keep her mind off Jackson and what she had sacrificed for the sake of her unborn child. Needing to divert those thoughts, she had finally drawn the quiet, grim-faced Mr. Jones out of his stony shell.

He was an incredibly ugly man--there was simply no other word for it--but he had turned out to have a rather likable personality beneath his gruff exterior. Throughout the journey, as Amanda's pregnancy became a little more obvious with each passing week, Mr. Jones had taken on a protective attitude far surpassing that of a mere bodyguard.

He never passed judgement, never even asked about the child's father--though Amanda suspected Mr. Larkin had told him of her experiences in Jamaica--but he became sort of a mother figure in Amanda's life, making sure she rested adequately, ate properly and stayed out of harm's way. He'd kept her safe, and she was grateful.

He'd asked to stay on at the ranch, knowing she would be without a man or family and wanting to continue his protective role. Amanda readily agreed. She was glad he wouldn't be returning to New Orleans.

"There's no carriage for hire, Miss Amanda," Mr. Jones said, coming back to her side after making inquiries, "but I was able to rent a buckboard."

"Thank you, Mr. Jones," Amanda repeated as he offered her his arm, then led the way to the wagon. "I'm very glad you'll be staying on at the Lazy H. Your help-and your company--these past two months have been invaluable to me."

He actually flushed. Embarrassed, ducking his head, he said, "Just doing my job, ma'am. Just doing my job."

Amanda knew better. He had become a fiercely loyal, completely devoted friend. Amanda felt quite certain that anyone wishing her harm in her new life would find a formidable foe in the burly, rough-hewn Zachariah Jones.

The ranch house was small but tidy, far too small to justify the services of a maid. Which suited Amanda just fine. The ranch itself had been run with such efficiency by Mr. Hilliard's foreman that during her extensive tour of the Lazy H, Amanda had come to realize she'd probably have little to do with the actual running of the vast domain. Since that would leave far too much idle time on her hands, she fully intended using the household skills she'd been forced to learn in Jamaica to keep her hands--and her mind--occupied.

Mr. Jones settled in with the thirty or so ranch hands, so Amanda didn't see all that much of him anymore, though as the quiet, lonely days began passing she was always aware of his presence somewhere nearby. He'd spoken to the foreman on that first day and explained his role in her life, and consequently, the foreman had assigned Mr. Jones chores that would always keep him close to Amanda's small house.

By the end of her first two weeks on the ranch, Amanda had memorized every nook and cranny of her new home. She'd also counted every picket in the fence surrounding the clapboard structure and knew every chicken that provided her eggs on a first-name basis.

Keeping her mind occupied was increasingly difficult, but her choices for diversion were limited. She had decided not to venture out on the thousands of acres she now owned--at least not after the tour that first day--because of her pregnancy. She hadn't betrayed Jackson's trust and escaped his tender captivity just to suffer a miscarriage by riding a horse.

She'd done it again, Amanda realized with a gasp of dismay. She'd thought about Jackson and, as always, as soon as she did that her seemingly unending supply of tears threatened to begin for the millionth time. Sinking down in a rocking chair, Amanda looked around the room she had just cleaned unnecessarily for the third time that day and willed herself not to cry. She had a feather duster in one hand; with the other, she pushed a stray tendril back into the scarf tied around her head. The very presence of that scarf reminded her of Mammy's kitchen--and Jackson's bedroom--no matter how much she wanted to forget Jamaica. She never would.

Even her clothes were reminiscent of a slave's attire, she knew, looking down at her simple gingham dress. But it didn't seem very practical to wear silks, satins and velvets when all she was planning to do with the rest of her life was to keep house...and raise Jackson's child. She might eventually learn how to run the ranch, after her child was born, but even that endeavor would not call for fine clothes.

In fact, the only finery Amanda still insisted on wearing were the silky pantalets she'd brought with her the night she'd left Carlyle Plantation. The corsets and multitude of underskirts were long gone, having been replaced by a single cotton petticoat and chemise and no corset at all, which was just as Amanda wanted it to be since she'd always hated the constricting garment anyway.

Not that she could even wear a corset right now, with the five-month pregnancy rounding her belly--not very much yet, but just enough to announce that she was indeed with child.

With a resigned sigh, knowing the only way to banish thoughts of Jackson again was to keep herself busy with chores, Amanda left the comfortable rocker and began dusting furniture that didn't really need it but would get it anyway just to give her something to do. Something besides remembering the demanding passion and fiercely possessive kisses of the man she would never see again.

I will not cry! she vowed as she began moving the feather duster over the varnished oak dining table in desultory, halfhearted motions.

Liar, her heart retorted.

Her heart was right, of course, and Amanda soon found herself brushing away tears of regret...of loss...of what might have been if Jackson had believed her truth. Tears of regret for the happiness she would never have.

Zachariah Jones looked up from the horse he was shoeing when two strangers rode into the yard and dismounted. One was a huge Negro man, the other a tall, muscular white man...and both of them wore looks of absolute determination.

Protective alarm bells clanged in Zachariah's head. What did these men want? Did they pose a threat to Miss Amanda?

Knowing he would never allow anyone to harm her, Zachariah stood up to his full, menacing height. "State your business, stranger," he growled to the tall white man.

"We've come to see Amanda Labreaux," the man replied, not intimidated in the least. His voice deep and authoritative, he continued. "I know she owns this ranch, and I've come a very long way to see her." His chin jutted forward. "No one-absolutely no one--will stop me from seeing her now."

"We'll see about that," Zachariah promised, reaching for his shotgun. But before he could grasp the weapon, he found his wrist cinched so hard, the bones felt crushed. The huge Negro had moved with incredible swiftness.

"I'll take care of this, Jackson," the dark man said then, twisting Zachariah's arm behind his back. "You go on to the house and find Miss Amanda. You haven't come this far to let a hired hand stand in the way."

Jackson looked around the ranch yard. No other men were about, apparently all being out on the range. He didn't like the idea of overpowering this obviously loyal hand, but, as he'd said, nothing would stop him from seeing Amanda now. He began walking toward the small house.

Toby nodded as Jackson walked away, then said, "Now, mister, where can we get comfortable? I have no intention of interruptin' my friend. We might be in for a long wait."

"Does he mean her any harm?" the ranch hand asked, sincere concern in his voice, and Toby loosened his grip a little. The man obviously cared for Miss Amanda a great deal.

"No," Toby quietly answered. "He means her no harm. Just the opposite. He loves Miss Amanda. He wants to marry her."

The man thought that over for a while, then finally nodded, and Toby released him entirely. Offering a hand, he said, "My name's Toby."

The man hesitated for a moment, then shook heartily. "Zachariah Jones," he said, smiling, and a friendship that would last a lifetime was born.

The door was open. And she was standing there, in the middle of the room, just as she'd done so many times at Carlyle Plantation. Her back was turned--she didn't see him--but her clothing was so reminiscent of what he'd once forced her to wear that Jackson was immediately lost in potent memories. How many times had he stripped a simple dress from those slender shoulders, then ravished her, willing or not? And how many times had she yielded, surrendered to his lovemaking, body and soul? How many times had he surrendered his soul to her? His throat constricted, and tears burned his eyes. Beyond rational thought, with past and present blending together, Jackson said, "Turn around, Fancy."

Amanda heard the deep voice coming from behind her. For just as instant, she thought she was dreaming, but in the next instant she simply obeyed, just as she had so many times in the past.

And then she saw him. He was standing in the doorway, dressed in dark trousers and a cotton shirt, his incredibly broad shoulders nearly filling the doorway, his height reaching the top of the frame. He was not an apparition, he was not a dream. He was right here in her parlor. "Jackson?" she whispered, shocked. Amazed.

He nodded, his throat constricting even more at the sight of her slightly-rounded belly. Nothing was more important than winning the love--and forgiveness--of this woman, the mother of his child. Holding out his arms, he said, "Come to me, Amanda...please come to me."

A soft sob escaped her throat as she heard him use her real name, and she ran across the room, into the familiar strength of his powerful arms. "You believe me now, don't you?" she finally said, tears of joy streaming down her cheeks. "You know that I was telling the truth--that I really am Amanda Labreaux."

"Yes, Amanda...my Amanda," he said, running his hands up and down her slender back, groaning at the touch of her soft, sweet breasts. He wanted to tell her a thousand different things, wanted to fall down on his knees and beg her forgiveness, but all that would have to wait. Right now he needed to kiss her, needed it as much as he needed air to breathe. "May I kiss you?" he asked hesitantly, sounding even to himself like an untried youth instead of the fully-grown man she had served as slave.

But she felt her heart lurch on hearing that hesitant question. Jackson Carlyle had never asked permission to kiss her, not even permission to bed her...simply demanding or taking whatever he wished. The very fact that he was asking instead of demanding proved so much. He wanted her back in his life--not as a mere possession, but as a cherished lover. "Yes," she finally answered, standing on tiptoe. "Please kiss me, Jackson...kiss me right now."

And he did. He pulled off the scarf binding her hair, speared his hands through the dark tresses, then slowly lowered his mouth to her lips, hovering there for a painfully sweet moment before kissing first one corner of her mouth and then the other, finally slanting his mouth over hers and kissing her thoroughly, deeply...passionately. And she responded with all the pent-up emotions of the past months.

Oh, how she had missed this! His tongue was claiming her now, deeply, and her hands were twined in his hair as she moaned, accepting everything he wanted to give. He smelled of horses and leather and outdoors--and something else. The undeniable, primitive scent of arousal.

Dear God, she needed him now!

He was opening the gingham dress. Thank God, thank God! she thought, groaning again when her breasts were finally freed. They were still standing in the doorway, and she heard him kick the door shut. Then he was lowering her to the floor--so very carefully--but obviously as desperate, as needy, as she was herself.

She heard his low groan as he touched her silky pantalets, then stroked the moist cleft between her legs. She heard his belt opening, buttons popping, then felt his engorged manhood at the slit in her pantalets. But just at the moment of entry, he paused, looking down into her eyes, a frown puckering his brow.

"Are you sure you want this, little mistress?" he asked, knowing it was no longer his right--had never been his right to take her in the first place. "If you say no, I'll stop right now."

Amanda would have died if he had. She knew that. "I want you," she moaned, lifting her hips, capturing the tip of his shaft. "Please, Jackson...make love to me now."

He thrust to the hilt, and Amanda nearly fainted with pleasure. He was supporting all his weight on his arms, protecting her rounded belly, and she realized then that he'd noticed the pregnancy. She couldn't think about that now, couldn't think about the future. She needed completion...needed him to be complete, too.

Their climax was shattering, wholly fulfilling, but as soon as the burst of passion was spent, Jackson frowned again, then kissed her damp forehead. There were things that must be said. He couldn't delay them any longer.

"I'm so very sorry, Amanda," he began. "Sorry that I didn't believe you...sorry for everything I did to you."

Her sapphire eyes misted with tears. "I'm sorry, too, Jackson," she said simply. "I'm sorry for drugging you, for stealing the jewelry...and most especially for betraying your trust."

"Betraying me?" he groaned, helping her to her feet, smoothing and buttoning her gingham dress with trembling hands. "I betrayed everything that's honorable by what I did. You have nothing to apologize for. I'm the only one needing forgiveness."

Gently, he led her to a horsehair sofa, then sat and pulled her onto his lap. Splaying his hands over the gentle swell of her belly, he said, "You had the best reason in the world to leave me, Amanda...you wanted to protect your child from a life of slavery."

"Yes," she admitted, looking down at the large hand covering her womb. She looked back up, then brushed an errant lock of hair out of his eyes. Her smile fragile, she said, "I didn't want to leave you, Jackson, but after you said you'd never free me--not even if I became pregnant--I knew I had absolutely no choice. That day at the waterfall, I already knew I was carrying your child."

"My God," he whispered. "I'm so sorry for being so callous, so cruel. Can you ever forgive me?"

Amanda answered him simply. "I love you, Jackson," she said, so grateful to finally admit it. "I forgive you...completely."

"Dear, sweet God, I don't deserve this," he said, covering her face in soft kisses. "I've never done anything in my life to earn this...but I love you, too, Amanda, with all my heart." He paused, taking a deep breath. "I want to marry you, my love," he finally said. "Will you do that? Will you become my wife?"

She hesitated, then shook her head sadly. Tears filling her eyes again, she said, "No, Jackson. I cannot marry you."

He nodded, having expected as much. He would try to change her mind, of course, but why should she want to marry the man who had stolen her honor? The man who had forced her into his bed and taken her sweet innocence. "It's because of everything that happened between us, isn't it?" he asked, needing to hear the words. "That's why you don't want to marry me...because I forced you to be my mistress."

"No," she quickly answered, sitting up straight. "That's not the reason at all. I have no regrets about being your mistress." She chewed her lower lip, blushing. It was a scandalous admission. Looking down at her clasped hands, she sighed deeply. "It's just that I cannot bear the thought of living on a slave plantation again, Jackson," she finally admitted, "not even with you."

His hope took flight. "If that's your only reason for refusing, we can be married today, Amanda," he said, laughing and hugging her tight. "I no longer own a slave plantation. Carlyle is now a cooperative farm--owned by my former slaves."

Her mouth fell open, and he explained everything. The hurricane, his own soul-deep awakening, his freeing of Toby and the other slaves...even his firing of Bull Smith.

Finally, when the tale was told, she said quietly, "I did the same thing...well, nearly the same. I freed Labreaux's slaves. They're now working for wages, in the employ of Labreaux's new owner, a man named Emory Hilliard."

Jackson caressed her cheek. "I know, love," he said simply. "I met Mr. Hilliard when I was searching for you. How else did you think I knew to come here?"

Amanda smiled brightly. "I should have known a determined master would find his...slave."

"Never again, little mistress," Jackson murmured, unbuttoning her dress again, then suckling a ripe nipple. "You will always be my little mistress, but you will never again be my slave."

The large brass bed was covered by a colorful quilt. They'd already shared sweet ecstasy two more times, but as Jackson caressed Amanda's rounded belly, he felt himself growing hard again. He simply couldn't get enough. Leaning over, he kissed her nipples, then licked them, and she moaned. "In a few months, I'll be tasting the sweet warm milk that will nourish my son," he said, then kissed each taut pink nipple again.

"Your son?" she questioned breathlessly. "What if I give you a daughter instead?"

He nibbled her earlobe. "Then I'll taste the warm sweet milk that will nourish my daughter," he said, now kissing her throat. "It doesn't matter to me."

Lifting her hips, he impaled her fully, smiling at her trembling gasp. "But you will have to marry me, sweet mistress," he added, thrusting deeply and well. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist upon that...for the sake of the child."

"And for your sake?" she asked, smiling. His strokes were gentle now, smooth, slowly building her pleasure.

"And for my sake," he admitted, then stopped moving. Looking deeply into her sapphire eyes, he said, "I searched too long to ever let you go, Amanda. I love you. You're mine."

"Yes," Amanda agreed, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I will marry you, Jackson Carlyle. I love you with all my heart." She touched his cheek. "It was because of you that I found myself."

EPILOGUE

Jackson and Amanda Carlyle never returned to the South or to Jamaica. Combining their fortunes, they doubled the size of the Lazy H ranch, soon learning how to run their huge domain and eventually producing the most sought after beef in the young, new state of California. Amanda insisted upon being a full partner in this venture--not just a figurehead, but an actual working partner--and the idea of a woman being so involved in business was more than a little hard for Jackson to accept, but he did...eventually.

And as the children came along, beginning with a fine, healthy son and followed in later years by two more sons and two daughters, they also learned everything there was to know about ranching--even the girls.

By 1838, the British Parliament had freed all Jamaican slaves, so Jackson's decision was only a few years ahead of its time. And, of course, less than thirty years later all American slaves were freed, too, finally ending that dark page in American history. Jackson and Amanda's sons fought bravely for the Union, marking their own place in the annals of legend.

Gold fever struck California, but Jackson was always glad none of the stuff was found on his land. He had what he'd always wanted, but hadn't known it...a wife, a family and good friends. A man just couldn't ask for anything better than that, as he was glad to tell anyone who asked for the next sixty years.

THE END