Penance

Q ueenie's question shocked Thorne, but he had to be careful not to reveal too much to this woman he didn't know. "I do not approve of treating them like animals," he said.

"And yet, you work for a man who is himself an animal," she retorted.

"How do you know I work for Marchant?" he asked, realizing immediately he had fallen into her clever trap.

"I was born on Barbados," she replied. "But the white plantation owners will always consider me an outsider. I know them well, these privileged few who think they are above the law. Mr. Marchant is a man I go to great pains to avoid."

"Wish I could," he lamented, having no difficulty believing that Marchant preyed on vulnerable women like Queenie. Enslaved females would have no protection against him.

"If you are to survive on Barbados, you must keep your wits about you. For example, do you realize that from the moment they are captured, Africans set out to resist their servitude?"

He shook his head. "Most of the slaves at Marchants have had resistance beaten out of them and don't seem likely to rebel."

"And yet, many speak their native languages in private."

"That's forbidden," he replied.

She nodded. "All make a show of accepting Christianity, but secretly practice their own religion. They perform African rituals, like drumming. It drives the whites mad when they can't track down the source of the sound."

"I understand some of the slaves work far from the cane fields and the mills."

"They tend cattle and pigs, mend fences, plant and harvest food crops."

"Farmers, in other words."

"Yes, except they have their own white masters out there."

Thorne realized he could learn a great deal from Queenie. "So, how do you manage here on the island? Do you have a protector?"

"Goliath is my protector," she replied with a smile.

"I'm serious," he said.

"Goliath is my uncle. He's the head of the family now my parents are gone."

A desire to protect this woman from all the unseen dangers that lurked on the island surged in Thorne's heart, but he recognized sadly she was probably better equipped to protect him.

"There is going to be a rebellion," she said suddenly. "Soon."

Even in the half light of dusk, she looked pale and afraid. He didn't hesitate to put his arm around her shoulders. "How do you know this?" he asked, pleased when she nestled into him.

" Roma travel all over the island. They hear things. The slaves think freedom is at hand thanks to the British parliament having abolished the slave trade and recent talk of a registry of Caribbean slaves, but the owners will never allow that to happen."

Thorne was a veteran of Waterloo, but a war between slave and master, between black and white loomed like an even bloodier conflict. His thoughts went to Bussa, the gentle giant, and he knew with dire certainty the proud ranger would be at the forefront of any revolt.

"The Roma will help the slaves however we can," she told him as she freed herself from his arm. "You must decide which side you are on."

Queenie had allowed the gorgio to touch her—something she never did. A Romani prized her chastity above all else, yet she felt strange stirrings of desire in Thorne's very masculine presence.

She sensed he was drawn to her. Unlike other men who lusted for gypsy women, this man's touches were noble, prompted by kindness and consideration .

"I don't rightly know how to answer your question," he replied. "I abhor the cruel treatment meted out to the slaves but I'm a newcomer here and I'm white."

"But you are not like the other whites. Certainly not like Marchant. You are a true gentleman."

"Probably something to do with my upbringing," he replied with a shrug.

His frown betrayed his regret that he'd mentioned his family. She'd wager therein lay his torment.

She took hold of his warm hand. "Tell me about the people you left behind in England."

"I cannot," he rasped.

"You miss them."

"More than I can say," he confessed.

"So, why do you not return to your country?"

He struggled with his demons for long, silent minutes, then said, "Remaining here is my penance."

Thorne didn't understand why he had revealed such a thing to a perfect stranger. However, it felt good to at last unburden himself to somebody and, strangely, he trusted this woman he'd just met.

"You were sent here as a punishment?" she asked.

"I'm punishing myself," he replied, realizing he was too deep into his confession to back off. Queenie would badger him until he told the whole story.

The story of Waterloo poured out. All of it, including Niven's kidnapping, the horrific battle, Rowan's injury, Ash's debauchery, his own paralyzing fear and ineptitude. "I never wanted to be a soldier," he lamented, sounding pathetic to his own ears.

"Then why join the army?" she asked without a trace of reproach in her voice.

"Rowan was the soldier. Ash and I just fell in line."

"Sounds like your older brother was something of a bully."

Thorne chuckled. "You've sized him up in a nutshell."

"You were all officers. It follows then that you're of noble birth."

"Yes," he admitted reluctantly, wary of divulging his father's title.

"You believe you caused the injury that befell your older brother at Waterloo and, because of it, he lost his leg," she said.

"Well, I didn't exactly cause it," he replied.

"Who did?"

Thorne had to think. "The French gunners who fired the cannon that shattered his knee, I suppose."

"And why did Rowan put himself in the line of fire?"

Thorne swallowed hard. "To save me from a beheading by a French cuirassier when I fell off my horse."

"Do you wish he had not saved you?"

Thorne closed his eyes. "No. I'm grateful," he sighed.

"Have you told him this?"

He opened his eyes. Queenie had hit right to the heart of the matter. She knew him better than he knew himself. "No. I was too much of a coward to visit him in the field hospital, and I haven't been home since leaving my regiment in Paris."

"He must wonder if you're still alive and if his sacrifice was worth it. Don't you think you will both feel better if you thank him personally?"

With one simple question, a woman he didn't know lifted a weight from his shoulders. It was high time he went home.

"And if you intend to leave Barbados, there's nothing to be lost in choosing sides in the coming conflict."

Thorne could not deny where his sympathies lay. Bussa and his fellow slaves had the right to be free. "Tell me how to help."