Changing Tides Read online

“I saw your expression when I told you who I was, where you were… who my uncle was.” Brett’s gaze turned to the window, appearing faintly guilty. “When… when you were senseless, you spoke. You were delirious. You recalled the death of your father, ranted against my uncle….” Brett turned back to Devon, smile turning wry. “I know who you are. Lord knows, I have seen enough of your wanted posters in the house to recognize you with my eyes closed.”

  Devon swallowed thickly around the lump in his throat. He didn’t want to be captured, but he was still too weak to fight. He also found himself reluctant to see Brett as an enemy. Brett had been nothing but kind and warm since the beginning.

  “What happens now?” Devon asked.

  “Nothing,” Brett said with a shrug. “Or rather, you heal. I meant what I said, Mr. Hall. You are safe here. The servants are forbidden from entering this room, and most of the slaves are not allowed in the main house. That will limit the amount of people who might find out who you are and tell my uncle. Even if you’re seen, I believe you will be taken for one of my uncle’s guests. To be safe, I will keep tending to you myself.”

  “Call me Devon, please. Brett, why take the risk? If your uncle finds out, I don’t think he would be too pleased with you. I don’t understand.”

  “Pleased?” Brett said with a snort. “He would be furious. Devon, he may be my uncle, but that does not mean I agree with his laws or the way he rules over this exquisite island. I know what he did to your father, what he did to countless others. I wish I had the strength to go against him, but I am too set in my cowardly ways.” He smiled, self-derogatory. “Maybe this is my chance for atonement.”

  “I do not believe you’re a coward, Brett. Sometimes it is difficult to break free from what holds us captive. Harboring a wanted man under your roof, on your uncle’s plantation, seems incredibly brave to me.”

  Brett laughed. “Or foolish. May I ask, how did you come to be known as the Phantom? That is a somewhat odd alias.”

  “It was given to me by Captain Eames after I joined his crew aboard the Flying Horse. He took me in at a time when I was close to losing my reason. All I could think about was avenging my father, and I was getting nowhere.”

  Brett winced. “I recall hearing about your attempts to kill my uncle. He would arrive at the plantation in a rage, destroying everything in his path. So, you joined Captain Eames and you set out to destroy Uncle Rupert.”

  “Yes. I realized I was a good strategist, became known for plotting surprise attacks on your uncle’s fleet, and escaping unscathed.”

  “And thus the legend of the Phantom was born,” Brett said. “I was sorry to hear Captain Eames died. I actually met him once, before my uncle repossessed his plantation. He seemed like a good man.”

  “He was,” Devon said, heart suddenly heavy.

  Two years earlier Eames had been struck by a bullet while in battle, and it still hurt to think about it. The man had given Devon a sense of purpose, hope. Devon would never be able to repay that debt, but he hoped his friendship, his unwavering support, had helped Eames. That they had also shared a bed on those long, cold nights, when the ocean touched the sky until there was nothing surrounding them but the solitude of darkness, was a secret Devon planned to take to his grave.

  “You have a foreign accent,” Devon found himself saying abruptly, wanting to change the subject to a less painful topic.

  “I have been most fortunate. I have spent most of my youth traveling throughout Europe,” Brett said, a sadness invading his eyes before it was quickly replaced by a carefully neutral expression.

  “Why do you live with your uncle if you don’t agree with him?”

  “It’s a long story. One best left alone,” Brett said grimly, making to rise.

  Devon reached for him and closed a hand firmly but gently on his wrist. “Please?”

  Brett shook his head. “Later, Devon, I promise. I must see to the plantation. I will return for lunch.”

  Giving Devon a parting smile, Brett walked out quietly, leaving Devon to wonder about his host and his mysterious predicament. There was an aura of pain and sadness around Brett that Devon wished to see gone.

  It still seemed beyond the realms of reason for Devon to be recovering from his injury in the house of his greatest enemy, especially without his nemesis’s awareness of the fact. Even more amazing was that Devon might just have found an ally in his war against the governor—an ally inside his enemy’s own home.

  THE NEXT morning, Devon woke up with a touch of fever, his mind once again feeling somewhat sluggish and his body weary.

  He waited patiently while Brett examined his wound before asking, “Well, how does it look?”

  “It seems to be healing well, does not look infected,” Brett said as he finished bandaging the wound. “Perhaps I should let Elijah take a look at it again.”

  “Elijah?” Devon asked, the name sounding familiar.

  “He’s one of my uncle’s slaves. He helped me treat your wound when I first brought you here. He’s completely trustworthy, but just to be sure, I never told him who you are.” Brett looked contemplative. “Perhaps we can make you a little more comfortable.” He glanced at the basin standing by the bedside table. “It might be time for a wash as well. You, sir, have definitely smelled better,” he finished with a teasing grin.

  “I would feel offended,” Devon said, sniffing at his armpit, “if you were not absolutely correct.”

  “Can you move forward just a little bit so I can take off your shirt?”

  “I will try.”

  Devon let Brett pull him forward carefully and work his arms out of the shirt before discarding it to the side. Brett then helped him lie back on the bedding. “All right, just relax and try to breathe easy.”

  Devon couldn’t hold back a low moan as Brett bathed his face and chest with careful measured strokes of his hand. Devon took a number of slow, deep breaths, enjoying the way the cloth moved down his throat, over the curve of one shoulder, then the other, brushing softly over his chest and nipples until they were hard.

  “Feel better?” Brett asked, chuckling as his only answer was a low, throaty grunt. “Good.”

  Devon kept still as Brett moved the cloth over Devon’s chest and abdomen, fighting to keep his body from reacting. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him in such a way, with care and gentleness, and it was difficult not to want more.

  When Brett finally finished, Devon realized he was clutching the sheets and forced himself to relax. He took a deep breath when he saw Brett’s cheeks were flushed and he was avoiding Devon’s gaze. It seemed Devon wasn’t the only one affected by the impromptu bathing.

  TWO DAYS later, Devon found he was strong enough to at least get up from bed. He was tired of spending so much time lying down and locked inside the same four walls. For someone used to the immensity of the ocean, it was an unbearable feeling.

  He donned the clothes Brett left for him and exited the room. He soon realized the rest of the house resembled his bedroom—wide, spacious, richly decorated with all sorts of fancy paintings and china, expensive furniture, and golden touches everywhere. He went to the window that looked out onto the immense garden.

  There, sitting in the shade of a palm tree, was Brett. He was alone, deep in thought, a book resting on his knees. Devon remained motionless, eyes fixed on him, holding his breath as if afraid of bothering him.

  He felt close to Brett, which was surprising considering the little time he had actually known him. Devon had thought it to be gratitude at first. After all, Brett had cared for him through his recovery and had spent nearly every waking hour by his side. Devon would probably be dead if not for him.

  But deep down, he knew it was not so. The more time they spent talking, getting to know each other, the closer Devon felt to Brett. In Brett, he saw someone who hid a gentle heart behind a bland mask, who hid his true nature in order to survive a harsh world.

  Finally coming out of his daze, Devon walked
out the front door, taking slow, careful steps until he was standing behind Brett.

  As if realizing he was no longer alone, Brett looked back and grinned when he saw him. “Well, it seems you are feeling better, Devon,” he said, rising from the ground.

  “I needed to get some fresh air.”

  “I can understand that. Maybe a guided tour of the plantation would help?” Brett suggested with a smile.

  “Considering I’m still feeling as weak as a newborn, maybe a tour of the garden will have to do. But who is going to be my guide?” Devon asked with a grin.

  Brett chuckled. “Since we have no other guides available at the moment, I’m afraid you are stuck with me.”

  “In that case, let’s go.”

  They took their time walking through the main garden, and when Devon began to tire, they sat on a wooden bench.

  Brett exhaled softly, eyes lost up on the blue skies. “You once asked me why I lived here, with my uncle. This plantation originally belonged to my father. I don’t remember much of my younger years or my father, only his foul temper and the beatings should I happen to cross him. When I was six, mother and I escaped his tyranny and traveled to Europe.”

  “Why did you return?” Devon asked curiously.

  “Last year we received word my father had died in a riding accident. Mother decided we should return so I could claim the inheritance, but when we arrived, Uncle Rupert was here and had taken over. He threatened to kill us both if I did not sign the plantation over to him.” He sighed unhappily. “I did, obviously. He is a powerful man, as you know. There was nothing we could do. He did let us remain here, which to answer your question, is the reason I live with him. I have no money of my own, no place to go. I must stay. Besides, should something befall Uncle Rupert, I will be the sole heir.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She left a few months back. I assume to return to Europe. I have not heard from her since then. I thought of joining her, but I was weary of her ways. She also does not have any money of her own, and her way of getting around that problem is to swindle innocent souls of their hard-earned valuables. That was how we survived the first time. I had no wish to do it anew.”

  “Thank you for telling me,” Devon said, touched by Brett’s story.

  Brett nodded. “May I ask… you have spoken of your father often since we met, but what about your mother?”

  Devon shrugged. “She died of consumption when I was two. I don’t really remember her.”

  “I’m sorry,” Brett said. He exhaled softly as he looked around the plantation. “I have thought about leaving before, you know? Sometimes I think anywhere would be better than here, but other times… I actually love this land. How could I leave it all behind?”

  The look in Brett’s eyes was so anguished that Devon reached out and squeezed his arm. “It will be all right, Brett. I promise.”

  As they sat side by side on the bench, Devon wondered if his words would ever come true. They were both stuck in an endless moment. Devon locked in an unfair war with a much stronger opponent and no end in sight. Brett caught in his love for his family’s land and his hate for a man who cared for nothing more than his power.

  THE DAYS flew by quickly, and by the afternoon of the tenth day, they were watching the slaves working when suddenly the sound of a whip hitting flesh and a small cry caught their attention.

  “What the—” Brett said, running toward the scene unfolding before them. On the ground was a small black child, curled up into a ball, while a huge white man whipped him fiercely. “Thompson! Damnation, man! What are you doing?”

  “He disobeyed my orders, Mr. Campbell,” Thompson said, hand pushing his hat back from his eyes, locks of black, greasy hair falling onto his forehead. “I told him no water until lunch break.”

  “And for that you saw fit to whip him, Mr. Thompson? May I remind you, you are but the foreman here, not the master? You can’t make such decisions.”

  “The master is not here,” Thompson said, beady eyes narrowing in clear challenge.

  “But I am. Now get back to work.”

  “I—”

  “Get. Back. To. Work,” Brett gritted out angrily. Once the man walked away, Brett knelt beside the little boy. “What is your name, child?” he asked softly.

  “Timothy, young master.” The child sniffed, uncurling slowly, his small face a mask of pain.

  “Well, Timothy, let’s take you to the healer.” Brett gently picked him up.

  “Healer?” Devon said, following Brett to the slave quarters behind the main house.

  “Elijah Jackson. I told you about him before. My uncle bought him six months ago. Elijah makes the most obnoxious concoctions you can imagine, but I trust him with my life. He knows more than any of those quacks calling themselves doctors these days.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, but I am surprised at your reaction to what happened,” Devon said honestly. “Most plantation owners don’t care what happens to their slaves, just as long as they keep working.”

  Brett sighed sadly, looking from the child in his arms to Devon. “I was not always like this. I grew up believing slaves were nothing more than farm animals, with not a thought among them. And as advanced as Europe is, I saw nothing there to make me believe otherwise.”

  “But?” Devon prompted.

  “But living here has been an eye-opener. My uncle is a ruthless master. He mistreats the slaves, enjoys torturing them. He advocates regular beatings and administers most of them himself. When you see their suffering, their will to survive….” They reached the slave quarters and walked inside. “Elijah, where are you?”

  “In the back room,” a man replied, and they walked over to the back of the building.

  They entered a small room, and Devon watched Brett set the child on a small table. “Elijah, Timothy here needs your care.”

  “What happened?” Elijah asked, nodding to Devon as a way of greeting.

  Elijah was tall and strong, probably in his thirties, and by the way he was examining the little boy, Devon realized he had a gentle manner and knew what he was doing.

  “Thompson again. That man truly loves his profession.”

  “And you stopped him from whipping Timmy? I’m surprised he let you.”

  “Well, I’m sure he will complain to my uncle as soon as he returns,” Brett said with a sheepish smile. “I will be lectured again on the ways a master should handle his slaves.”

  “Just be careful, Brett. Your uncle is a dangerous man, and he does not take kindly to being defied.”

  Brett nodded, grimly. “I know. I’ll be careful, I promise. Take care of the little one for me?”

  “I will. It is not too bad, a couple of deep lashes only. Could have been a lot worse. Now, you better go. It’s not proper for the young master to be seen in the slave quarters.”

  Devon followed Brett out of the building, and they proceeded on their walk in comfortable silence. “You are an enigma, Brett Campbell,” he finally said.

  Brett laughed. “I hope you mean that in a good way, sir.”

  “Oh, I do. I do,” Devon said softly, feeling his heart swell as he watched Brett’s beautiful smile.

  Devon’s journey to dry land had certainly earned him more than just a bullet. Each passing day, he felt more drawn to Brett. The man was fascinating, and Devon had never been able to resist mysteries. He was already dreading the day he would have to leave.

  THEY WERE having lunch in the dining room when they heard someone crying out, “Young master, young master! Come quickly!” Both men rushed to the yard and saw little Timothy trying to prevent Thompson from chaining Elijah to the post.

  “Mr. Thompson, what is the meaning of this?” Brett snapped angrily.

  “This slave nearly killed one of my men,” Thompson said, hand brushing the coiled whip he held. “He must be made an example of. He must pay for what he did.”

  “And what did your man do to cause such a reaction? Well?” Brett challenged when the f
oreman hesitated.

  “My man went to fetch Timothy back to work. He was needed in the kitchen.”

  Devon saw Brett’s eyes darken with rage. “I took Timothy to Elijah to be treated for the lashes you inflicted on him. He was not supposed to work again today.”

  “That still does not give the slave the right to turn on my man,” Thompson said, looking spitting mad. “He must be whipped. The punishment in these cases is fifty lashes.”

  “Very well,” Brett said suddenly, much to Devon’s surprise. “Chain him to the post.”

  They watched Thompson raise Elijah’s arms over his head and lock the shackles in place around the healer’s wrists. However, when the foreman reached for the whip, Brett stopped him.

  “That is enough. No one but the master can see to his punishment. Since my uncle is not here, it is my responsibility. For the next ten days, this man shall only receive a cup of water and some food every twelve hours.”

  “What?” Thompson shouted. “That’s not punishment! I will—”

  “You will do nothing, Mr. Thompson. You work for my uncle, thus you work for me. Are we clear? You either obey me, or you will be fired,” Brett said, although Devon guessed he was bluffing. “Now, get out of here.”

  Once Thompson was out of hearing range, Brett looked down at Timothy. “Thank you for calling me, little one. I will need your help for the next few days. Can I count on you?”

  “Yes, young master.”

  Brett ruffled the child’s hair. “Good boy. I want you to pay close attention to the foreman’s whereabouts. Especially near meal times. Understand?” When the boy nodded, Brett said, “Good. Now, when you know for sure he is away, I want you to bring Elijah some food and water. If by any chance someone tries to stop you, I want you to shout out as loud as you can and I will come running. Agreed?” he asked, holding out his hand for the child, who shook it with a grin.

  “Agreed, young master. I’ll make you proud, you will see.”

  “I already am,” Brett whispered, watching the boy run back to the slave quarters. He turned his attention to the chained man. “Elijah.”