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They’d both been raised around black men, and Becks had never heard her sister talk about any of them with the derision this stranger had just received. It was… shocking. So she hesitated, and then ventured a cautious, “Pearl…?” She meant Pearl, why are you so angry at him? but couldn’t ask.
    Luckily, she didn’t need to. Sisters understood each other. Pearl sighed. “Becks, he’s… he’s not for me. No one’s for me.”
    And Becks understood. Her sister was gorgeous. And graceful, and witty, and well-read. She’d be the belle of Charleston… except that she’d been born a slave. Eugenia had freed her at birth so that the two sisters could be raised together, and Becks would be forever grateful to her mother for that opportunity. But being a half-negro woman raised in white society had given Pearl all sorts of complexes. She knew that she was desirable, more beautiful than even her own sister… and she knew that she’d never be allowed to amount to anything. She desperately wanted a place in a society that didn’t find her bloodline worthy but would willingly exploit her beauty, and that wanting tore her up inside. Becks thought that yearning was stupid, and knew that deep down Pearl agreed with her, but that didn’t stop the beautiful woman from aching for acceptance.
    Apparently, admitting that she found Robert handsome would weaken that chance for acceptance, and Pearl was nothing if not stubborn. So Becks sighed, abandoning her teasing. She knew how badly her sister wanted to find her place.
    As a peace offering, Becks changed the subject. “Did you see Mac’s arm?”
    “The tattoos?”
    “That’s what those were?”
    “Good Lord, Becks, you have got to read more.”
    “I know what tattoos are.” Becks put the dish back and bit her bottom lip. “I’ve just never seen them… so large.” She meant so compelling and so touchable but figured Pearl didn’t need to know that. “Moses’ are much smaller.”
    “Moses’ are brands, not tattoos.” The former slave’s marks were covered by his shirt most of the time, as well.
    “I know.” At Pearl’s penetrating look, she reiterated, “No, really. I do. I’m just…”
    Her sister seemed to understand. Perhaps she did. Pearl waited a long moment, and then smiled slightly. “Your Mac was certainly interesting, wasn’t he?”
    “He’s not mine.”
    “You wouldn’t mind if he was, though, would you?”
    Becks sighed yet again. “It’s that obvious?”
    “Oh, honey.” Pearl started laughing. “It’s obvious.”
    Later, after Pearl had retired to her own room, Becks lay in bed and thought about her sister’s words. You wouldn’t mind if he was yours . Lord, no. She sighed, and tried to get comfortable under the thin quilt. There was a slight breeze coming in through the mosquito netting on the open window, but she still felt stifled and warm in her cotton gown. In frustration, she kicked off the quilt, and reveled in the freedom of being able to splay her legs in abandon.
    Hers . What if he were hers? He’d been the most interesting, most desirable man she’d ever met, even if—as Pearl said—she hadn’t met many. His dark hair was thick and wavy and too long to be fashionable… between that and his bare feet, he looked like a sailor from a bygone era.
    And his tattoos! She wanted to lift his forearm, to touch them, to run her fingers over his skin and feel if they were as smooth as they looked. She wanted to trace them with her finger, to see if she could make out the design that just looked black in the twilight. She wanted to touch him.
    Oh God, did she want to touch him. She remembered the feel of that forearm across her back when he pulled her close to him for that kiss. The kiss might have only been for Creel’s benefit—she wasn’t naïve enough to believe that she could inspire passion in a man she only just met—but he’d put some effort into it. It wasn’t technically her first kiss; she’d practiced