Soul of the Fire

Fitch hadn't known Master Drummond's eyes could go so wide. Sweat beaded all over his forehead. He swallowed before he spoke.

"Yes sir, absolutely clear. It will be as you say. You have my word."

Dalton Campbell seemed to shrink back to his normal size, which was not small to begin with. The pleasant expression returned to his face, including the polite smile.

"Thank you, Drummond. Carry on."

Not once during the exchange had Dalton Campbell looked at Fitch, nor did he as he turned and strode out of the kitchen. Along with Master Drummond and half the people in the kitchen, Fitch let out his breath.

When he thought again about what had just happened, and he realized, for the first time, really, that Master Drummond would no longer be calling him "Fetch," he was overcome with weak-kneed astonishment. He suddenly thought very highly of Dalton Campbell.

Pulling his white towel from behind his belt and blotting his forehead, Master Drummond noticed people watching. "Back to work, all of you." He replaced the towel. "Fitch," he called in a normal voice, just like when he called the other people in his kitchen.

Fitch took two quick steps forward. "Yes, sir?"

He gestured. "We need some more oak. Not as much as the last time. About half that much. Be quick about it, now."

"Yes, sir."

Fitch ran for the door, eager to get the wood, not even caring about the splinters he might get.

He would never again have to be humiliated by that hated name. People would not laugh at him over it. All because of Dalton Campbell.

At that moment, Fitch would have carried hot coals in his bare hands if Dalton Campbell asked it, and smiled all the way.

CHAPTER 17

Unbuttoning the top button of his doublet, Dalton Campbell, with his other hand, nudged the tall mahogany door to their quarters until he felt the latch click home. At once, the balm of quiet began to soothe him. It had been a long day, and it was far from over; there was still the feast to attend.

"Teresa," he called across the sitting room back toward the bedroom, "it's me."

He wished they could stay in. Stay in and make love. His nerves needed the diversion. Later, perhaps. If business didn't interfere.

He unfastened another button and tugged open the collar as he yawned. The fragrance of lilacs filled his lungs. Heavy blue moire drapes at the far windows were drawn against the darkening sky, leaving the room to perfumed mellow lamplight, scented candles, and the flickering glow of a low fire in the hearth, burning for the cheer it brought, rather than the need of heat.

He noted the dark violet carpet and its wheat-colored fringe looked freshly brushed. The gilded chairs were angled to show off the tawny leather seats and backs as they posed beside elegant tables set with lush sprays of fresh flowers. The plush throws and pillows on the couches were set just so, the deliberate precision meant to convey a casual intimacy with luxury.

Dalton expected his wife to oversee the staff and insure that the quarters were kept presentable for business as well as entertaining, which were, although approached differently, one and the same. Teresa would know that with a feast that night, it was even more likely he would ask someone back to their apartments-someone important. That could be anyone from a dignitary to an inconspicuous pair of eyes and ears".

They were all important, in their own way, all meshing into the cobweb he worked, listening, watching, for any tiny little tug. Crowded feasts were concentrated confusion, alive with drinking, conversation, commotion, and emotion. They often provided opportunities to forge alliances, reinforce loyalties, or enforce fealties-to tend his cobweb.

Teresa stuck her head past the doorframe, grinning her joy upon seeing him. "There's my sweetheart."

Despite the weary mood enveloping him as he had closed the door behind, shutting out the day's troubles if only for the moment, he smiled helplessly at her dark, sparkling eyes. "Tess, my darling. Your hair looks grand." A gold comb decorated the front lift of the full top. The wealth of dangling dark tresses were tied with an abundance of sequined gold ribbons that added to her hair's length, almost forming a collar. Parting as she leaned forward, the sparkling strips teasingly revealed her graceful neck.

In her mid-twenties, she was younger than he by nearly ten years. Dalton thought her a ravishing creature beyond compare-a bonus to her allure of trenchant commitment to objectives. He could scarcely believe that a short six months ago she had finally and at long last become his wife. Others had been in contention, some of greater standing, but none with more ambition.

Dalton Campbell was not a man to be denied. Anyone who took him lightly came to a day of reckoning, when they learned better than to underestimate him, or came to regret the mistake.