Having no idea what he was talking about, she didn’t make a comment but pushed her hair out of her eyes and pulled a tulip petal from where it was stuck to her cheek. “Why wouldn’t you spend the night on a ship with me?” she asked idly, sitting up, feeling dazed and drained—but happy.
“It’s not a ship,” he answered, “but a tiny little boat, and we’d probably sink it with your acrobatics.”
“My—?” she began, trying to look haughty, but sitting naked in the midst of the large pile of crushed flowers, her cheeks pink, her eyes liquid and lazy, she couldn’t look like more than a tempting little wood-sprite.
Travis, his cheeks covered with shaving soap, looked at her in the mirror, and his glance made her smile and start to lean back on the bed. “Oh, no you don’t,” he cautioned, immediately changing his look to a threatening one. “If you don’t get out of that bed this minute, I’ll see that we have separate bedrooms at my house.”
That absurd threat made her laugh, but just the same she got up and began to wash. She felt so good that she couldn’t seem to do anything in a hurry, yet Travis wouldn’t help her get dressed but stood to one side impatiently waiting for her.
When at last she was ready to leave, he half-pushed her down the stairs and to a chair where an enormous American meal awaited her. Travis set to the food like a starving man, grumbling that he never got regular meals anymore and that she was wearing him out in the prime of life, but his eyes danced with merriment.
In very short order their trunks were stowed on the little boat, they were heading up the James River toward Travis’s home, and Regan began bombarding him with questions. Before, she had fought so hard against going to America that she hadn’t thought much about where Travis lived.
“Is your farm very large? Do you plow the fields yourself, or do you have employees? Is your house as nice as where the Judge and Martha live?”
Looking at her in bewilderment for a moment, Travis began to smile. “My…ah…farm is a good size, and I do have a few employees, but I sometimes plow my own fields. And I believe my house is rather nice, but then maybe that’s because it’s mine.”
“And you built it with your own hands,” she said dreamily, trailing her hand in the water. Perhaps in a simple country like this, her lack of experience in household management wouldn’t be so devastating. Farrell had said he knew she couldn’t manage his estate, and she was sure he was right. But with a little place like Travis’s, maybe a one-or two-room house, she could manage.
The increasing warmth of the sun and the pleasant thoughts soon made her drop off to sleep.
Quite a while later, she woke with a start as a shot rang out over her head. Practically falling into the water, she jumped and saw Travis holding a smoking pistol pointed toward the sky.
“Did I wake you?” he asked.
From the excitement on his face, she knew something was about to happen and didn’t answer his silly question. Stretching her cramped body, she looked around as Travis reloaded the pistol, but all she saw was the river and the lush greenery on each side.
“We’re near Clay’s place,” he said as he fired into the air again.
After a glance at the dense trees around them, she wondered how anyone could build a house there, but even as she thought it she saw the trees abruptly stop just ahead on the left.
Protruding into the water was a large wooden wharf with two boats, both bigger than the one they rode in, and as they sailed closer many buildings came into view. There were large and small houses, gardens, fields neatly plowed, workers everywhere, horses, wagons, and in general a great deal of activity.
“Is your house in this town also?” she asked as Travis maneuvered them toward the wharf.
A low chuckle she didn’t understand came from Travis. “This isn’t a town. It’s Clay’s plantation.”
To her knowledge, she’d never heard the word before. As she opened her mouth to start asking questions, she was interrupted as a squeal of children’s laughter took Travis’s attention. Quickly, he leaped from the boat and hauled Regan onto the wharf after him, just in time to catch two of the prettiest children she’d ever seen.
“Uncle Travis!” they laughed as he twirled them about. “Did you bring us anything? Uncle Clay was getting worried about you. What’s England like? Mama had two babies instead of one, and we have a new litter of puppies.”
“Mama, is it?” Travis laughed.
The boy gave his sister a disdainful look. “She means Nicole. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that she’s not our mother.”
Close behind the children came a man, tall and slim, with dark hair and eyes, sharp cheekbones, a look of great happiness on his face. “Where the hell have you been?” the man demanded, holding out his hand to Travis and then hugging him exuberantly.
“I’m weeks early, and you damn well know it!” Travis answered. “No one was there to meet me, and I had to store my goods and borrow this sorry excuse for a boat.”
Gesturing offhandedly toward the boat, Travis caused Clay to notice Regan, who was standing quietly on the edge of the wharf. But before the man could ask any questions, Travis gave a long sigh.
“Here’s who I wanted to see.” Hurrying forward, he caught a deliciously pretty young woman in his arms, kissing her heartily on the mouth. Instantly, the other man’s attention left Regan and went to the two of them. He seemed to be working at controlling some inner emotion.
Within moments Travis was leading the woman toward the wharf. “I have someone I want you to meet,” he was saying.
At close range the woman was even prettier than from a distance, with a heart-shaped face, big brown eyes, and a sensual mouth. After a quick assessment, Regan saw she was wearing a dress of deep purple muslin, with tiny green ribbons under the high waist. So much for wanting to show the Americans the new fashions! This woman’s gown could be worn at court.
“This is my wife Regan,” Travis said gently, looking at Regan with pride. “And this is Clayton Armstrong and his wife Nicole. And these scamps,” he grinned, “are Clay’s niece and nephew, Alex and Mandy.”