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When Amanda had arrived at Magnolia Grove, Amos had fallen under her spell the first time he had received the full impact of her dimpled smile, and from that moment on had become her most devoted servant.
Amos paused in his stride when Amanda called his name, waiting with proper respect for her to reach him as she ran across the yard, holding her skirts off the ground, her tiny feet moving as though they had wings.
The friendliness Amos had shown Amanda since she had come to Magnolia Grove gave her confidence. ‘Amos, I know I can trust you and that you’ll do almost anything I ask you to.’
Amos looked at her with ardent curiosity and deep suspicion; despite his devotion, he was under no illusions about her. And when she looked at him as she did now—demure and sweet-talking, knowing such methods always worked with him when she was planning some new escapade—he found himself saying cautiously, ‘Yo’ can always depend’ pon my complete, unquestioning loyalty, yo’ sure know that, Miss Amanda.’
‘What I am about to ask of you I don’t want to go any further. You do understand that, don’t you, Amos?’
‘Very well, miss. Ah woan breathe a word,’ he said in hushed tones, entering into the conspiracy, unaware of where that conspiracy was to lead him.
Amanda paused to steal a furtive glance about the empty yard; then, moving closer, she looked at him and confided, ‘Amos, is it difficult obtaining admittance to the City Goal?’
Stepping back, he stared at her as though her senses had deserted her. There was a gleam of such intense excitement in the young miss’s eyes that it aroused sudden distrust in Amos. ‘The City Goal? But why’d yo’ want to go there? God fo’saken place—sho is, and no respectable young lady should be seen near it.’
‘Never mind that. Please, please say you’ll help me, Amos,’ she pleaded, determined to get her own way in this.
‘Not in a ’undred years, I woan,’ he stated adamantly, shaking his grizzled head, seeing the scowling expression on her face pass into a smile that would have charmed a fox out of its hole, a smile she knew was difficult for him to resist. ‘Ah ain’t never been in that place, an don’ think yo’ can get round me by lookin’ like that.’
‘Now, Amos, don’t be mean,’ she wheedled.
‘What fo’ you want to go there anyhow?’ He looked at her piercingly. ‘This don’ sound right to me—an’ are you not tellin’ Miss Charlotte?’
‘No. Charlotte mustn’t know—at least, not just yet. Please, Amos. There’s a man I want to see as soon as possible—tomorrow if it can be arranged. I’ve got to see him. I’ve simply got to, and I can’t do it by myself. If you won’t help me, then I will find some other way. It is extremely important to me. Please, please say you will,’ she entreated, feigning helplessness.
Amos shifted from one foot to the other like a restive horse. ‘What fo’ are yo’ fixin’ to see this man—a gentlemun, I hope?’
‘Of course he is, and what I want to see him about is my business,’ Amanda replied indignantly, growing impatient. ‘Well? Are you going to help me or not?’
‘Well … yes, miss—but I don’ approve. I want to know what you’re up to—so don’ you go askin’ no one else.’
His capitulation brought a sigh of relief from Amanda. ‘Thank goodness. I knew I could rely on you.’
‘Only if I go in wid you. Dat prison’s full o’ dangerous varmints an’ ’tis no place for yo’ to be alone. What would Miss Charlotte say if she finds out? Flay me alive she would.’
‘No, she won’t and you know it. You can drive me there but I must go in by myself. I will not have you glowering at me while I converse with the man I want to see. Are the prisoners allowed visitors?’
‘Most of ’em.’
‘If the person I want to speak to is not, can any of the gaolers be bribed?’
Amos’s black brow wrinkled in thoughtful lines. ‘One of the turnkeys is a man called Hennesey—though he’s a hard, mean character, he’s also greedy and gold sings right sweet in his ears. But it shouldn’t come to that.’
‘Good. That’s what I hoped you’d say.’ Amanda faced him squarely, the light of decision in her eyes. ‘The man I want to see is Mr Claybourne, the horse breaker found guilty of murdering Carmen Rider.’ Sensing fresh disapproval, she said quickly, ‘I am sure a resourceful man of your position could arrange it for me, Amos. Will you go and see Mr Hennesey and ask him if I can see Mr Claybourne alone? For such considerations he will be well rewarded for his trouble.’
In no way did Amos approve of what she was asking him to do, but he nodded nevertheless, knowing she was capable of going to the prison alone if she took it into her head. ‘Ah’ll do my best.’
‘Thank you. Oh, and, Amos, not a word to Mr Quinn or cousin Charlotte. Remember.’
And so it was arranged. Amos had a word with her before she went in to dinner, quietly informing her that Mr Hennesey would expect her at the City Gaol the following morning at ten o’clock.
The next day there was no sign that Amanda had spent a sleepless night pacing her room with single-mindedness of purpose. Her sights were centred on one goal, her mind bolstering the courage to carry out the wild plan she had conceived with Amos’s help. She had everything to gain and nothing to lose—and neither had Mr Claybourne. Her heart and jaw were set with determination, her mind made up. Thank God she wasn’t afraid.
However, certain practicalities had to be taken into consideration. She must wear something Mr Claybourne would be unable to ignore, and yet something that would not attract too much attention. Spending several minutes in a frenzy of worry and indecision, she finally decided on a rather modest saffron silk gown and matching bonnet with a veil that would conceal her features until she was in his presence. Hopefully she would succeed in entering and leaving the prison without anyone being any the wiser as to her identity.
Travelling into town, Amanda paid little attention to her surroundings. Her mind was focused one hundred percent on her meeting with Mr Claybourne.
Believing they were going on another shopping expedition, Nan was as absorbed as she always was by this fine city. Despite her aversion to the sultry, tropical heat, she found it a compelling place.
The houses with their shaded porches and galleries, shredding the sunlight through the delicate traceries of their iron balustrades, were tall and narrow and of multicoloured stucco, adorned with wooden shutters that would be opened when darkness came. The streets, ablaze with azalea and wisteria and shaded by tall trees dripping with wispy tendrils of Spanish moss, were a delight.
The old Charlestonians were a proud, close-knit community and strong in their determination to preserve the old way of life as they had known it before the war. Their traditions were a precious inheritance which no one could take from them. This inner circle was for Charlestonians only, and foreigners were kept out.
Nan was drawn out of her reverie when Amos suddenly stopped the carriage in Magazine Street, across from the City Gaol, and Amanda climbed out quickly. Four storeys high and topped with a two-storey octagonal tower, it was an ugly prison, as prisons always are. Casting Amos a meaningful, conspiratorial look before pulling her veil down over her face, she told Nan that she wouldn’t be long. Nan was reduced to a state of shock as she watched her mistress enter that frightful building. She was about to get up and follow her, to demand to know what she was playing at and return to the carriage at once, when Amos turned and halted her with a stern look.
‘Leave her be, Miss Nan.’
‘Leave her be? How can I leave her be? Can you not see where she’s going?’
‘Miss Amanda knows what she’s ‘bout and will be quite safe.’
‘Safe? In that place? She’s up to something. I can always tell. But, in God’s name, what is it this time?’
‘I’m sho she’ll tell yo’ all about it later, Miss Nan.’
With that Nan had to be content to wait—not that she wanted to enter that dreadful place anyway—but what wouldn’t she say to that wilful, disobedient girl when she returned.
With her heart beating fast, Amanda spoke to the desk sergeant and a moment later Mr Hennesey materialised out of the shadows. He was a distasteful individual, untidy and with sly eyes, which lit up with a greedy light at the sight of the leather purse.
‘This is for your silence, Mr Hennesey. No one must know of my visit. Do you understand?’
He nodded, taking the purse from her gruffly and telling her to follow him. The prisoner was expecting her. Under the bombardment of many curious glances and trying to close her ears to an assortment of crude noises made by the dangerous portion of humanity incarcerated within the walls of the City Gaol, she followed Mr Hennesey along corridors between iron-barred doors to the rear of the building.
The prisoner occupied an individual cell, so they could talk privately. It was quite small. Directly opposite the door, high in the wall, was a barred aperture that let in air and daylight. The stench was appalling and Amanda had to resist the temptation to take the scented handkerchief from her pocket and put it to her nose.
She glanced at the turnkey. ‘I wish to speak to Mr Claybourne alone.’
Hennesey shrugged. ‘Suit yerself. It’s not the usual practice, but you’ve paid for it. But I’ll be just outside and will hear if he gets up to any funny business.’ Before he went out he threw the prisoner a warning glance. ‘Treat the lady with respect now, you hear—or ’twill be the worse for you.’
A voice from the shadows gave a derisive laugh. ‘Your threats are useless, Hennesey. Do you forget that I have only one life to lose and that it’s already forfeit?’
With a grunt, Hennesey went out, closing the door with a bang. Amanda examined her surroundings and Christopher Claybourne. His feet were shackled together. He was exactly as she remembered him, except that he was fresh shaven and his dark eyes were alert, watching her. His clothes were ragged and soiled, his uncombed hair hanging loose about his face, but even in his wretched state his strength of character shone through.
Kit—the shortened version of Christopher, which was how he had been addressed all his life—had been told to expect a visitor and nothing more. Recognition widened his eyes when the woman lifted her veil back over her bonnet. Miss O’Connell’s appearance had taken him unawares—although what she was doing swanning it through this hell hole, like a lure to a pond full of piranhas, he could not conceive. He recalled seeing her the day before, recalled the way she had looked at him, had seen the interest kindle in her eyes, and he was bewildered as to why she had come to see him. He moved forward, watching her, speculative, admiring, alert. She looked magnificent—like a gilded statue.
The rich vibrancy of her hair was neatly coiffed beneath her bonnet, and as she stared up at him he felt himself momentarily fixed on her strong gaze. Her eyes were olive green, incisive and clear, and tilted slightly at the corners. She had a healthy and unblemished beauty that radiated a striking personal confidence. There was about her a kind of warm sensuality, something instantly suggestive to him of pleasurable fulfilment. It was something she could not help, something that was an inherent part of her, but of which she was acutely aware.
To Kit, starved of a woman’s beauty—of any kind of beauty—for so long to behold so much loveliness, to find himself alone with her, a woman forbidden, inaccessible to him, to be surrounded by the sweet scent of her, was torture indeed.
Alone with Mr Claybourne at last—alarmingly, nerve-rackingly alone. Amanda stood looking at him by the light slanting through the small window. With his wide shoulders and lean waist, there was no concealing that here was a man alive and virile in every fibre of his being. He had far and beyond the most handsome face she had seen in her life.
However, she felt a moment of unease. It might have been the way his eyes were looking at her, touching her everywhere, an inexplicable lazy smile sweeping over his lean face as he surveyed her from head to foot, that suddenly made her feel as if she had walked into a seduction scene, which momentarily threw her off balance.
She averted her gaze and casually widened the distance between them, stalling for time, steadying her confused senses, while he stood several feet away, towering over her. When she looked at him again his broad shoulders blocked out her view of anything but him. She tried to turn away, but his extraordinary eyes drew her back. She had never met anyone quite like him, and she felt conscious of nothing except the lingering riot in her own body and mind. Despite his deprivations, his manner bore an odd touch of threatening boldness, and she was beginning to regret insisting that she be left alone with him.
Forgetful for the moment of why she was there, with hard-won poise she coldly remarked, ‘Do you always look at a woman in that way, sir?’
His broad, impudent smile showed strong white teeth. ‘Forgive me, ma’am. I suppose I could find several things to occupy my attention, but nothing that’s nearly as enjoyable as looking at you. So much loveliness in my prison cell certainly is a wondrous sight for eyes deprived of feminine beauty for so long that it is not easily borne.’
His smiling eyes were studying her closely and Amanda was aware of the tension and nervousness in herself. There was a pink flush on her cheekbones, much to her increasing annoyance. His direct, masculine assurance disconcerted her. She was vividly conscious of his close proximity to her. She felt the crazy, unfamiliar rush of blood singing through her veins, which she had never experienced before. Instantly she felt resentful towards him. He had made too much of an impact on her.
‘You are conceited, sir. Despite your deprivations, you do not appear to have forgotten how to flatter a woman, and I don’t doubt you have used it on a good many.’
‘There have been some along the way, but I never lie, and you are unsurpassed. For what reason does a lady come visiting a condemned man in his cell—and looking as grand as a Southern belle going to a ball?’
Forcing herself to ignore the fluttering in her stomach on hearing the rich, deep timbre of his voice, Amanda raised her chin. ‘My name is Amanda O’Connell.’
‘And I am Christopher Benedict Henry Claybourne,’ he replied, bowing his head respectfully, yet without removing his gaze from her face.
‘My …’ she breathed, impressed ‘… such a grand array of names for a convict.’
He grinned. ‘My father always did have aspirations of grandeur. However, most people call me Kit. And what of you, Miss O’Connell? You are from England?’
‘Yes. I’ve been staying with my aunt, Mrs Lucy Cummings, at Magnolia Grove for the past twelve months.’
‘I have heard of Mrs Cummings.’ There were few who hadn’t, Kit thought. Her husband had been an important, influential man among Charleston’s elite, with some rather high connections in the county and beyond.
‘She died recently, and as a result I have to return to England.’
Folding his arms across his broad chest, Kit tilted his head on one side and looked at her quizzically. ‘Miss O’Connell, forgive me, but I am bewildered as to why you should seek me out. You seem to have gone to a great deal of trouble. I do not believe you would brave the City Gaol merely to pass the time of day.’
‘I have a proposition to put to you.’
‘Yes?’ Kit prompted.
Straightening her back and raising her head imperiously, she met his gaze direct. ‘I—I want you to marry me.’
Chapter Two
Kit uncrossed his arms. ‘Good Lord!’ The words were exhaled slowly, but otherwise he simply stared at her, his eyebrows raised in disbelief, wondering if he had heard correctly. ‘You don’t mince your words.’
‘Before you say anything, I should tell you that my father, Henry O’Connell, is extremely rich and I have a fortune at my disposal.’
He gave a derisive laugh, his easy manner of a moment before forgotten. The absolute arrogance of the woman! ‘You are charming, of course, Miss O’Connell, and as a man I cannot help but admire you—want you—but not as a wife. Your oh so delectable backside might be sitting on a gold mine, but what possible good can it be to me in this hell hole?’
Amanda flinched. He was laughing at her, looking her up and down with those casual, derisive eyes. Giving him a speculative look, she was deeply conscious that his easy, mocking exterior hid the inner man. There was a withheld power to command in him that was as impressive as it was irritating, and despite her reason for being there, she was determined he would not get the better of her.
‘How dare you mock me?’
‘Mock you? Good God, woman, have you taken leave of your senses?’
At any other time Amanda would have snubbed the man for his impertinence, but she remained cautiously alert. ‘I understand what you might think, but I am neither dim-witted nor crazy.’
‘You do overwhelm a man, Miss O’Connell. Am I supposed to take your proposal seriously?’
Once again his gaze fell on her and narrowed, half-shaded by his lids as he coolly stared at her. Amanda was immediately angry with him. She straightened her back, her chin thrust forward a notch in an effort to break the spell he wove about her with his eyes. ‘I assure you, Mr Claybourne, that I am very serious.’
‘Tell me your reason for wanting to marry me.’
‘That’s easy. I need a husband—a temporary husband.’
‘Just what, exactly, makes you so desperate for a husband that any man will do?’
‘Desperation makes a person do queer things.’
‘Why me? The City Gaol is full of rogues. Surely any one of them would suit your purpose.’
‘I want your name,’ she said quite simply. ‘Claybourne—a name that is the same as the aristocratic Claybournes in England—a name that is not uncommon and a coincidence, I am sure—a name that will satisfy my father. I want a rogue I can guarantee won’t bother me once the knot has been tied.’ Her lips quirked. ‘In a manner of speaking, of course.’
He cocked a brow and nodded slightly as he began to understand. ‘Guarantee! Now there’s a controversial word if ever there was.’
‘Not the way I see it.’ His eyes never left her, glimmering and changing with his thoughts. Amanda thought, here is a man who reveals nothing of himself, and he rules himself like steel. And yet, she must win him over, she must make him do what she wanted. She must force him to marry her and give her his name.
‘And do you mind telling me what’s in it for me?’
‘I could offer you ease and comfort for the time you have left. I will ensure that, before they hang you, you will want for nothing.’
‘Only my freedom—and my new wife.’ He raised one thick, well-defined eyebrow, watching her for every shade of thought and emotion in her. ‘Would you be prepared to spend a night with me in my prison cell, Miss O’Connell, and perform the duties of a wife?’
Startlingly aware of the wifely duties to which he referred, Amanda stared at him aghast, unable to stem her expression of repugnance as she cast a swift glance at her surroundings and then at the man himself. ‘Of course not. I couldn’t possibly.’
Kit’s face was inscrutable as he watched her pert nose wrinkle as her gaze swept over his shabby garb. Briefly anger flickered behind his eyes, but then it was gone. ‘Then, under the circumstances, I must respectfully decline your offer.’
‘You cannot possibly ask that of me. You are, after all, a common criminal and far below my own social level,’ Amanda burst out before she could stop herself. Shaken to the core by the bewildering array of sensations racing through her body that his question had aroused, she tried to fight the power of his charm. For a second the intensity of his dark eyes seemed to explode and an expression she could not comprehend flashed through them, then it was gone. His eyes met hers in fearless, half-challenging amusement, saying things she dared not think about.
Kit smiled sardonically. ‘We are not all as fortunate as you, Miss O’Connell. However, it is not for the want of trying on my part.’ His deep voice was thickly edged with irony. ‘How pathetic I must seem to you if you could believe I would agree to your outrageous request. Marriage is the last thing I need right now.’
Automatically Amanda took a step closer to him. ‘Please—I ask you to reconsider.’
‘Give me one good reason why I should sacrifice myself on the altar of matrimony for your sake—a woman unknown to me until now?’
‘Have you no dependants I could take care of—?’
Kit’s eyes turned positively glacial. ‘Now you really do insult me, Miss O’Connell,’ he retorted, his voice scoffingly incredulous. ‘What family members I have are not charity cases and are more than capable of taking care of themselves. As for myself, I have everything I need. Why should I want more? You could have saved yourself the embarrassment of this unnecessary visit—but, since you are here, perhaps you should tell me why you are so intent on marrying me, a murderer sentenced to hang any day.’
‘I came to America to find a husband, Mr Claybourne,’ she told him coolly, ‘a husband of my own choosing. My father gave me eighteen months to do so, informing me that if I didn’t find a man he would be proud to receive in the allotted time, a man worthy of his only child, he would find one for me. Since titles are paramount to my father, he will choose the man of the highest rank who offers for me—and he will have a choice to make,’ she said, unable to suppress the bitterness that crept into her voice, ‘since his bottomless income will be like a beacon to every impoverished aristocrat in England. Unfortunately, my aunt’s demise means that I have to return to England sooner than expected, and marry a man my father has chosen for me.’
‘And isn’t that how most marriages in upper-class families in England come about? Although I always did find it distasteful the way British aristocrats see marriage as a cold-blooded business arrangement.’
