Aftermath

D elivered from an unpleasant death, Queenie saw no reason to go on hiding her feelings for the white man. A Romani wasn't supposed to fall in love with a gorgio , but she had and that's all there was to it.

Despite the wind and the rain, her body soaked up Thorne's heat as he lay atop her. Then, suddenly, he was gone, pulled away by her uncle. "You shame my niece," Goliath shouted, fist drawn to pummel Thorne.

She struggled to her feet, too late to stop the blow to the chin. Thorne staggered backwards, but stayed upright. "I have no intention of shaming her," he yelled, fists raised to defend himself. "I love her."

"But you are gorgio ," Goliath retorted.

Queenie grasped her uncle's arm. "Stop. I love him."

Thankfully, Bussa stepped in between the two men. "This is not the time or place to resolve the issue."

Goliath glowered at Thorne.

Shivering and suddenly feeling weak in the knees as the danger she'd been in hit her full force, Queenie swayed.

Thorne rushed to scoop her up before she fell.

The fight seemed to go out of Goliath. "I'll stay with the wagon," he said as he untied the rope.

"We'll come back to help you after the storm," Bussa replied.

Thorne lifted Queenie onto the horse's back and the slave led the trio back to the plantation. She gripped the harness, terrified of falling or being blown off. Thorne helped keep her upright and never left her side.

Thorne pulled Queenie from the horse when they reached the mill, and carried her inside. The rollers were spinning wildly, driven by the wind. However, cane wasn't being loaded into the rollers and there wasn't a slave in sight. Rain poured in where several sheets of metal had been torn off the roof. Preoccupied with taking care of Queenie, Thorne didn't notice Marchant until the planter rushed across the flooded floor to accost him. "What's going on here, Halstead?"

"We went to help a family stranded by the hurricane, Master," Bussa explained before Thorne had a chance to speak. "They were in danger of drowning."

Marchant glared at Queenie, still in Thorne's arms. "You left my mill to save a gypsy?"

"There is no cane to process because of the storm," Thorne said. "So I assume the slaves have gone home to make sure their families are safe. "

"Let me understand," Marchant hissed, inches from Bussa's nose. "You left your duties without permission. Now, look at the damage."

"I gave permission," Thorne interjected, beginning to feel irritated at the way the conversation was headed. Compared to Queenie and Goliath's loss, the damage to the mill was minimal.

"You had no right," Marchant retorted. "It's a flogging for this slave and a day's pay docked for you."

"Now, look here," Thorne protested in his best aristocrat voice. "This woman nearly drowned, and…"

"What do I care if a tinker drowns?" Marchant shouted. "You and Bussa left your posts. He gets ten lashes."

"Take me away from here," Queenie whispered, clinging more tightly to Thorne's neck.

Thorne wished he could comply, but where could he take her? Her wagon had been destroyed and he lived with the Marchants.

"Come to my house," Bussa said.

"If you take her to one of my properties, it's ten more lashes."

Bussa shrugged, turned his back on Marchant and led the way out of the open door.

Bussa's home was little more than a one room shack which the hurricane might carry off at any moment, but it was clean and tidy. Queenie was grateful for the respite from wind and rain and for the meager blanket the slave offered.

She huddled into it and turned her back when the men started stripping off their sodden clothing.

"You can turn round now, Miss Gordon," Bussa said respectfully after a few minutes. "It's dangerous to stay in wet clothes."

Typically, the gentle giant hadn't directly suggested she remove her garments, but he was right. About to tell them she agreed, she turned, her shivers forgotten at the sight of Thorne clad only in a blanket slung around his narrow hips. If he let go of the edges gripped in his hand, she'd see…

" Oh, dordi ," she exclaimed under her breath. "This man does strange things to my insides."

Water dripping from his brown hair, he smiled as if he knew his chiseled chest and broad shoulders affected her. Little did he know that what lay beneath the blanket intrigued her more. Or perhaps he did!

Her hopes were thwarted when Bussa handed him a pair of drawers that looked too big. He turned away from her so all she saw as he donned the undergarment was a glimpse of his endearingly white bottom. It was enough to flood her body with heat and make her heart race.

"I'll hold the blanket like a screen while you disrobe," Thorne said as he turned back to her.

The suggestion was offered in a gentlemanly manner, but the glint in his eyes spoke of his desire for her.

"I won't peek," he promised, to her great disappointment .

She passed her blanket to him. He held it up high. She quickly peeled off the soaking wet garments, shivering uncontrollably when she was naked. As if he sensed her need, Thorne enfolded her in the blanket and wrapped his arms around her. "I will keep you warm," he whispered close to her ear. "Always."

The circumstances were dire. Queenie had lost her home. Her uncle was clearly upset by Thorne's advances. Marchant had shown his true cruel colors and Bussa would suffer for helping rescue Queenie. The storm still raged and they were nigh on naked in a hovel that might not withstand the hurricane's wrath.

Yet, Thorne felt at peace for the first time in a long time. He was exactly where he should be, with the first woman he'd ever loved. He was resolved to return to England and face Rowan. The difficulty lay in persuading Queenie to marry him and leave the island.

Swathed in blankets, the three huddled around an ancient wood-burning stove. There was no hearth. Thorne assumed hearty fires weren't often needed in Barbados. He wondered if Bussa had a wife. There was no evidence that anyone else lived in the shack. "Do you have family?" he asked the slave.

"I had a wife, in Africa," Bussa replied after long minutes of silence. "She tried to stop them taking me, so they killed her. I have no wife here. I do not wish to bring children into a life of slavery."

"I want you to know I abhor the very idea of slavery," Thorne told him. "My father owns ships and will not allow them to transport slaves."

"There are many like you in the world," the black man replied. "One day, we will be free."

"I'm sorry you're to be punished for helping rescue me," Queenie said.

Bussa shrugged. "I knew before we set off he would whip me for going. It won't be the first time he's flogged me, but it will be the last."

Thorne itched to press him to explain, but a wary glance from Queenie persuaded him to hold his tongue.