Hindrances

Chapter 21

Mr Lancaster always takes the offensive. Why did he suddenly switch sides?
It's true that the defensive side tends to win a few more battles, but not enough to make it worth it.
Pondering that (and just about everything else in my life- I had the time to, after all) took up most of the rest of the trip back to Mississippi. Naturally, I was able to sleep off and on, eat some, and relive myself when necessary. Mr Lancaster seemed to be okay with it (perhaps he realized that he is human too!), but I didn't want to take advantage of his "kindness."
"Mr Lancaster?"
"Hm?" he aimlessly. Mr Lancaster's forehead was pressed against the window. He never tore his gaze away from the scenery rolling past.
"What are we going to tell the Wynn's?"
"What do you mean by that?"
"We told them that we were going back to England to plan a wedding. What is our reason for coming back?"
"Have their guns started shipping?"
"Yes."
"Then we will tell Mr Wynn that we were only making sure he received it."
Our driver had promised us that we'd be in central Tennessee by dawn. He was pretty close, actually, only about four hours off. The trip back down South took less than a week (our driver was relentless). Mr Lancaster and I both paid him good coin.
I felt extreme relief and discomfort back in Mississippi. Relief because the trip was over, discomfort because the weather was terrible (hot and humid). Since the Wynn's weren't expecting us back so soon, Mr Lancaster and I just walked ourself up to the door and knocked.
And knocked.
And knocked again.
Mr Lancaster opened the door, finding it unlocked. The entire property was not deserted- the slaves were still in the fields and working around the house- but after asking some questions, no one really knew where Stephen and Bennett were. I even found and asked Jennifer, but she said that no one had seen them in a few days, and that at first they thought the Wynns were just in their room. That theory was ruled out after not being seen or heard from for almost a week.
"Have you checked the rooms?" I asked her.
"No, we are not allowed to enter the room unless Mr Wynn says otherwise."
"Even if they're not here?"
"Yes. They would have said something if we were supposed to clean in there. The doors are locked anyway."
Mr Lancaster and I went up the stairs to the main suite: Stephen Wynn's room. Mr Lancaster knocked a few times, pressed his ear against the door, and tried looking through any cracks, but he didn't see anything.
"Miss Hemmings, this will be loud."
His warning was followed by him kicking the door in. I still yelped in surprised when the door splintered and cracked, since it was noisier than I had originally expected.
Mr Lancaster, happy with his handiwork, strode calmly into his room.
But then he froze on the spot, staring. His jaw went slack, his eyes widened, and his eyebrows lifted.
Mr Lancaster never showed much emotion... Perhaps an occasional smirk or a little bit of anger, but his expression was a mix of surprise and horror.
"What the..." The whisper barely left his lips.
"Sir?" I took a few steps towards him, "what are you-"
"Do not come in any farther! Amelia Hemmings, you need to turn around and head back to the coach-" he lifted his hand, making a stop motion to me, but he never tore his eyes away from the scene before him.
I walked up next to Mr Lancaster in defiance. He hissed and quickly covered my eyes.
"I promise, you do not want to see this, Miss Hemmings."
I pulled his hands off of my face.
And Mr Lancaster was right.
I wish I didn't see it.
"The Blood Eagle. A generally rare Scandanavian torture method and sacrifice to the war god Odin. The dismemberment happens while the victim is still alive."
I nodded as Mr Lancaster explained.
Stephen Wynn was on his knees in his bed. There was an elaborate rope system in the room, which held his limp body (or what was left of it) up. His wrists were bound above his head in a Y shape (like Jesus on the cross), and his head hung forward, clearly indicating that he was dead.
The bigger indication that he was dead, however, was the fact that Stephen Wynn's chest was ripped open, ribs pryed apart and opened like a gate door, and his lungs were pulled out (but still attached) and hooked on to the ropes, making it look like he had wings.
"I have a feeling that Bennett isn't in much better shape," I managed to whisper.
"Miss Hemmings, I will not lie to you this time. What you see before your eyes is very real. This is not a dream, this is real life, and this is what happened when you get too close to my world."
"But Mr Lancaster, the Wynn's were a part of my business world, not your's."
Mr Lancaster turned away from the bed towards me. Taking deep breaths and closing his eyes, he firmly held my hands in his.
"You are in my world now, Miss Hemmings. You have been in my world since the moment Connor told you to get on the horse."
Mr Lancaster pulled me closer to him, pressing my hands against his face as he continued to take slow, deep breaths.
"What do we do now? Call the police? Bury the bodies? We should retrieve Bennett too, I suppose..."
Mr Lancaster's grip on my hands got tighter.
"Do you miss him?"
"Sir?"
"Do you miss Bennett Wynn?"
"Well, I think he met his end in a terrible way, and he is...was... still very young, but I haven't known him for more than a month."
"Collect some blankets, Miss Hemmings, we need to cover the bodies."
We didn't have blood to worry about. Whatever was inside of Stephen or Bennett has been spilled and dried. Other than the sight, the smell was the worst part, since the bodies shown early signs of rotting. I tried to not think about it, but as Mr Lancaster and I wrapped the bodies into blankets, the bodies felt unnaturally squishy. That made me feel queasy. I started to feel dizzy from the overpowering smell of rotting human flesh, and I started gagging. Mr Lancaster wasn't looking so great either.
We spent the rest of the day taking care of that... issue... We dug graves in the yard and buried them as properly as possible.
The slaves were freed, all having the ability to make their way up North or try to get lucky down here in the South. Their masters were dead anyway, they shouldn't have to stick around (not that they should have been there in the first place).
The coach ride back to New Orleans was a quiet one. The events of the day flashed through my head, haunting me. Sometimes I would sneak glances at Mr Lancaster. Though brief, I could tell he was disturbed as well.
We reached the docks. I didn't bother exploring or even leaving Mr Lancaster's side. I just wanted to go home and forget.
Reflecting back on everything, the trip was generally a success. I got what I wanted, I didn't need to compromise for any deals, and I saw the beautiful country scenery and the city scapes.
The bad part at this point should be obvious: yes, I saw the states in person. I also saw Stephen and Bennett Wynn's rotting corpses with most if their internal organs hanging out of their chests, on display for us. I shuddered at the thought as Mr Lancaster and I boarded our ship to head back.
We departed as soon as possible. I felt like all of America was haunted because of one British man. Since we left at sunset, I just went straight to the bedroom below the deck. I quickly stripped and pulled my nightie over my head before jumping into bed.
Mr Lancaster joined me soon after. He silently came into the room and took his clothes off as well. I heard the sound of his clothes hitting the floor. Like me, he didn't bother folding or putting his clothes away, and just left them wadded up on the floor.
I could tell that Mr Lancaster knew I was awake, but just chose to stay quiet. Wordlessly, he slipped into the bed next to me and pulled me into his arms. I didn't protest or even acknowledge the gesture, but my lack of resistance spoke for me. I needed to be held, and I needed the comfort of silence.
Mr Lancaster hugged me tightly against my chest, like he was afraid I would be murdered and dismembered as well. I found his hand and gave it a small squeeze. It was just enough to say "I'm here for you, I'm not going anywhere."
It was moments like this when I really felt for Mr Lancaster. Yes, he was an entitled, rude, arrogant, cold, conniving, deceiving, bastard, but at the same time, he was a human who just wanted to be held and comforted. Hell, that probably hasn't happened to him in at least 10 years. Mr Lancaster puts on a strong face, but I was able to see right through it.
Mr Lancaster squeezed me in his arms again, like he was making sure I was still there. Since I was still holding his hand, I interlaced my fingers with his, and brought his hand up to my mouth to kiss it. He sighed softly behind me. His breathing stirred my hair, making it tickle my face.
I heard a voice in the back of my head. It was quiet at first, but then it just got louder and louder the more I tried to suppress it.

Admit it, Amy.

Just say it!

Come on, damn it!

You love him.

Well, there it was. My conscious finally got tired of me ignoring my feelings.
I do love him.
I wasn't sure why. He is possibly one of the cruelest, most callous people I know.
But still...
Even with all of his bad traits, there are so many good ones that he only shows around me. Like right now: he's worried for me, so he's trying to hug the comfort right into me.
He taught me (and still is teaching me) everything I need to know about running a business, and I have the profits to prove that he's doing a fantastic job. Mr Lancaster doesn't have to help me out. In a sense, we are competitors. But still...
He has gotten me out of more than one bad situation. He came up with a clever way to expand my business while helping the North out as well.
Mr Lancaster buried his face into my hair. I knew how uncomfortable a face full of hair could be, but he still did it. Why? To comfort me? To be closer to me? Was it for himself or for me?
With his free hand, he brushed his thumb along my cheek.
Slowly.
Adoringly.
I tried to snuggle against him even more, even though we were already pressed together, his front to my back. I wanted every little bit of the comfort he was trying to give me. I wanted to be as close to him as possible, foolish as it seems.
There was no way he could love me back, and I was more than aware of it. I would still do anything for him though, without hope of getting anything back in return.
Love is foolish. What other reason would I want to be so selfless? That kind of devotion can kill you.
But I've never been more happy to be so foolish.
God damn it, I just made my life 20 times more difficult than it had to be.