Captive

by Heather Graham

  “Well, then, it must be good and French, eh?”

  “Get on with enjoying the night, sir,” Jeeves said, chin a bit indignantly high as he moved away.

  James moved on into the parlor, where the guests were swirling about the room to the cheerful tune of a fiddle.

  He wasn’t looking for her, but he found her right away. John Harrington, straight and handsome and just a bit stiff in his regulation uniform, was whirling at a dizzying pace with the Warren girl. His eyes were rapt upon her. She seemed not to notice. She was talking, speaking with the man all the while.

  The music stopped. They were far across the room, but James watched as John politely spoke to her, then walked away from her, certainly on his way to fetch punch or champagne.

  She stood alone on the dance floor. The music began again, a much slower ballad, the strains slow and heart-wrenching.

  James strode across the room before he knew quite what he was doing. He had her in his arms, and swept her across the floor without giving her the first chance to acquiesce or protest.

  But she didn’t attempt to object. She arched a brow high, staring straight into his eyes as he guided them through the dancers in the parlor, those in the broad hallway, and out onto the porch, beneath the moon. There were no other dancers out there, but they could still hear the music plainly and continued to dance.

  “So you’ve come to Cimarron, and met your fiance, all in one day, Miss Warren.”

  She shook her head, frowning slightly. “What do you mean?”

  “My good friend Major Harrington.”

  “But Major Harrington is not …” Her voice trailed away.

  “He’s one of the finest white men I’ve ever met,” James told her. After a moment he added, “One of the finest men.”

  “He is charming. But he is not my fiance.”

  “He is. It seems Colonel Warren has been remiss.”

  “Colonel Warren does not dictate my life.”

  “He is your guardian. He gives orders.”

  “I am not in his army. And I do not take orders.”

  “No?”

  “From any man,” she informed him coolly.

  “Perhaps you’ll be in for a bit of surprise in our wilderness, Miss Warren. Sometimes it’s best to take orders. Sometimes it is safest. I assure you of this—it would be far better among the rivers and hammocks and swamps if you were known as Harrington’s wife rather than Warren’s daughter.”

  “I shall try to keep that in mind, Mr. McKenzie. But I am curious. What has my stepfather done to you?”

  “Directly?”

  “Indeed, directly! Has he injured you, hunted you, insulted you?”

  The hair at his nape seemed to rise, and his hand tightened upon her so that he actually saw her wince. “No, Miss Warren, bad Indian that I am. He has never touched me—were he to do so, I promise you, he would be a dead man. But he has offended me as few other men have ever managed to do. He has offended me with his brutality—”

  “Brutality has been used against whites, too.”

  “Not by me, Miss Warren. Not by me.”

  “You are hurting me,” she told him levelly. “You are holding me too tightly.”

  “Then you should not be held at all.”

  “You came to me; I did not ask you to dance.”

  “Indeed.” He stopped short. So quickly that she collided with him, slamming hard against his chest. She was so startled that she did not move away.

  And he did not release her. He felt the thunder of his heart mingling with hers. Breathed in the sweet feminine scent of her. Felt those eyes of hers, emerald as they burned into his.

  “There you are! The two of you!” they heard someone call.

  James knew John Harrington’s voice. He stepped back, releasing Teela Warren.

  “Champagne!” John said cheerfully. “Teela, James … ?”

  “Thank you, I’ve had quite enough,” James said, then bowed to Miss Warren. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  He turned, leaving them. He slipped through the crowd in the hallway, greeting old friends, being waylaid by a few. It was painful; it grew more painful as the war went on. The whites were afraid. They grew more hostile with their fear. They didn’t understand that the Indians were also afraid. That the war was a bitter burden on them as well. Their young men died. Their villages and homes were decimated. Their children starved.

  He tried to say reassuring things. He tried to defend his people. How could any man defend war?

  He escaped up the stairs at last. He looked in on his brother’s infant son, assuring himself that the boy slept peacefully in his cradle by his mother’s bed. He walked on down the hallway and peeked into his daughter’s room, assuring himself that Jennifer slept comfortably as well. She did. She even slept with a smile, her dark hair tumbling around her angelic little face.

  She was a beautiful child. Her white blood was evident, but she looked like her mother. Her eyes were so amber, her hair so black with such a wonderful, rich, cascading, telltale wave. James kissed her forehead, and felt his heart twist once again for the wife and child he had lost.

  In his own room, the guest room kept waiting for him always, he stripped off his dress frock coat and frilled shirt. Once again he was drawn to the night. In his breeches and boots he pressed open the doors that led to the balcony which overlooked the lawn and the rear of the house, back to the end of Jarrett’s property where the wilderness began, cypress forests, exotic hammocks, dense acres of colorful foliage, ancient trees, winding rivers. There was fertile land to the east, but land that was now being charred and decimated as the Indians were raided, battled, and attacked—forced ever farther south.

  He heard a noise suddenly and glanced down the balcony.

  She had come out to stand beneath the moon as well. She hadn’t seen him as yet. She had tentatively opened her bedroom doors and slipped outside. She walked to the rail, held it. Looked up at the moon and the sky, and shivered deliciously at the feel of the night breeze.

  Her hair was free, newly brushed. The moon touched the radiant streaks of red that flowed down her back. Her nightdress was simple white cotton, all but entirely sheer in the moonlight. Her breasts were high and full, her waist tapering and tiny, her hips round and enticing.

  Her effect on him was entirely maddening. There was nothing subtle or slow about it. His damned breeches barely contained the swift, violent rise of his sex.

  “Damn her!”

  He muttered the words out loud.

  She spun around, startled, frightened.

  He was in shadow, against the wall. He stepped forward and she nearly screamed, catching the sound with a hand quickly brought up to cover her mouth.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, frowning.

  He stepped forward, pointed at his room, then folded his arms across his chest and strode closer to her. He leaned against the balcony rail at her side.

  “I have a room here. It is my brother’s house.”

  He thought that she would move away from him. She did not. She looked him up and down, studying him in the moonlight. “You claim your brother frequently enough when it is convenient to do so.”

  “I always claim my brother.”

  “But it is all right to be rude to his guests.”

  “I am not frequently so.”

  “How comforting to realize that I am special.”

  “Miss Warren, quite frankly, you should be glad that the first Indian you’ve encountered was rude to you and no more.”

  “If that’s your room, perhaps you’ll return to it.”

  “Ah, but I was here first. You’ve disturbed my evening.”

  She didn’t reply. She had turned slightly and looked straight at him. The breeze picked up her hair, lifted it to waft and dance beneath the soft glow of the night. Her eyes were so steady, so deep, so lustrous in their color. Her flesh again appeared as perfect as marble. Her nightdress was so thin, the rise and fall of her breasts so evid
ent …

  He touched her, goaded by sheer temptation and desire, by the heat that had been simmering inside him from the first moment he saw her. His knuckles rose to her cheek, brushed it. His hand fell to her shoulder. He drew her against him and lowered his head, driven by the desire to taste the fullness of her lips.

  Her mouth was sweet, tasting of mint. Warm, evocative. His lips molded on hers, his tongue pressed them open. The rise of his manhood that seemed to all but cripple him stirred again. His fingers wound into the wealth of hair at her nape as his tongue plunged deeper. Not enough. He held her with his left hand, brought up his right. Caressed her breast, palm lifting the fullness of it, rubbing over the nipple.

  She tensed. Palms fell against his shoulders. A strangled sound seemed to catch within the kiss.

  He shuddered with a sudden rise of desire so violent that it convulsed the length of his body.

  What in God’s name was he doing? He went rigid from head to toe, heedless of the anguish within him. He could not do this. Could not, would not.

  He set her firmly from him. She was trembling, shaking furiously in the wind, as she stared at him, stunned. Because he had touched her? Because he had let her go?

  “Get back to your room!” he told her angrily.

  She spun, heading toward her door as if to obey him. But she stopped dead and spun around again. Her eyes were a green blaze as she strode determinedly back to him. “You, sir, white or red or spotted with purple, have an incredible chip upon your shoulder, the manners of a monkey, and the crude audacity of a boar!” She lifted a hand and slapped him as hard as she could.

  He should have seen it coming. He didn’t. He retaliated instinctively, catching her wrist, slamming her hard against him. He stared down into her eyes, wild eyes that still offered no apology or even fear.

  His grip around her wrist must have hurt; she didn’t wince, nor did she fight his hold. She stared at him furiously, and she waited for him to release her.

  “This once,” he warned her, “you’ll get away with that. But remember, we’re at war. Strike a red man, he strikes back.”

  She didn’t reply. She continued to wait, seething, staring at him.

  “Go back to your room!” he snapped at her, releasing his hold on her.

  She rubbed her wrist, still staring at him. Then she spun around, heading toward her open doors.

  But she paused there, head high, looking back. “This once I’ll do as you so courteously request. But we are at war. And this part of the balcony leads from my room, and it’s damned free territory, neutral ground. While I’m in residence, it is my place, and you’ll not order me away from it, sir.”

  She finished the last with a passionate hiss, then spun around again and disappeared into her room, closing the doors sharply behind her.

  He went into his own.

  And to a long, fitful night that seemed to plague him with all the tortures of hell.

  Chapter 5

  The dream began sweetly.

  They were deep in the lands that had been good. The old Indians, native to the area, had all but died out when the Creek had first seen the vacant lands and come south to claim them. Land rich and abundant with deer and otter, wild fowl and fish. The soil was rich—corn and numerous other crops could be easily cultivated. There were acres to hunt, to run, to play … to fall in love.

  They’d been from different clans, of course, for a man was expected to marry outside his own. But he had known her for many years, loved her since they were both children. He had come of age, educated by his father’s family and taught the way of the world by his mother’s brothers and kin. He had taken the black drink and shed his boy’s name for his man’s name. At the Green Corn Dance he would officially make her his wife. While adultery might be sternly punished—ears and noses were sometimes clipped for the crime—sex before marriage was not considered evil, and the time had simply come for them to be together. They were both in love.

  The sun dappled through the trees. The day was hot beneath the sun but cooled by the shade. They had ridden into the forest, dismounted, sipped cool water from the stream, collected berries to eat. He had all but dozed beneath the tree when he heard her laughter, and caught her eyes upon him. She laughed again and ran toward the river when he threatened to make her pay for her laughter.

  She was fleet; he was faster. He caught her mid-river, but even in his dream he could remember the moment just before he did. She turned back to him, laughing. Her hair, darker than ink, falling thick and rich and arrow straight to her thighs, spun like a black shawl around her as she turned. She laughed still, breathlessly. She’d never had a chance and she knew it. She did not want to escape him.

  He touched her and they fell together into the cool waters. White-tipped, it rushed on by them. He rose then, and she came to her knees, looking up at him. He reached down for her, and she came into his arms. She wore white that day, a bleached-white doeskin dress with leggings to match. He could still remember pulling the dress over her shoulders, dropping it into the river.

  They made love there, in the water, the sun casting shadow and light upon them. They lay again beneath the low branches of a pine, and they spun their dreams just as any other young couple in love might do, with the whole of their lives before them.

  They’d laughed again when they had to travel far down stream to find her embroidered white doeskin dress.

  He tossed in his sleep. She was running again in his dream. He was trying to catch her. He couldn’t keep up. When she looked back, she wasn’t laughing….

  She was gone. He stood in blackness. He saw the back of a man. A white man, kneeling down, his shoulders shaking with his tears.

  James saw his brother’s face. Took his wife from his brother’s arms.

  She lay in her coffin. Jarrett and he had built it from the thick trunk of a cypress, just as they had built a much smaller one for Sara. So small. A child’s coffin.

  He had dressed Naomi in the embroidered white doeskin. She had kept it since the day they became man and wife. She was beautiful in it, beautiful even in death. No ravages of the fever remained. The dress was so white, her flesh smooth and copper. Her hair ebony against it.

  Suddenly, he seemed to be standing in darkness. The coffin was so far away. He had left it in a burial cove, above the ground, shadowed by trees, her belongings with her, her pots and pans, her clothing, her beads and necklaces. He could see the cove, but something was wrong. He tried to see into the coffin …

  Naomi wasn’t within it. She lay within it instead. He could see the blazing red cascade of her hair spilling over the cypress. She was dressed in white, an embroidered gown in cotton and lace. Her face was so pale; her hands were folded before her.

  Her eyes opened, met his. And she was suddenly screaming, aware that she was in a coffin. It was filling with blood. She was reaching out, calling his name …

  James woke with a start, bathed in sweat.

  He sat up, exhaling and gritting his teeth to ease himself from the tension of the dream. He stared outside. Darkness was just being lifted by the first pale streaks of dawn.

  He groaned aloud and lay back down. Oddly enough, after his wretched dream James at long last fell into a deep and restful sleep. He thought that he was dreaming again when he first heard the tapping on the door. “Mastuh James, Mastuh James, coffee, sir!”

  It had to be Dolly, a plump free woman of Bahamian and Indian descent who served in the kitchen. “Bring it in, then!” he called back, rolling over, his back toward the door. It had been one hell of an awful night. But now he was awake, and he wouldn’t sleep again. His brother’s house could make him too soft if he wasn’t careful.

  Still, he closed his eyes anyway.

  “Black, or cream, Mastuh James?” he heard. Right at his back. The damned woman just wasn’t leaving him in peace.

  “I’ll take care of it myself, thank you,” he all but growled.

  “On your head or in your face?” the voice inqui
red sweetly.

  He swung around, shooting to a sitting position. Miss Teela Warren, fresh as a spring flower, dressed in a yellow muslin that somehow seemed to emphasize the rise of her breasts, stood by his side, coffee cup in hand. He had the unnerving feeling that he was about the wear coffee somewhere uncomfortably low on his body.

  “If you’re considering dropping that cup, may I suggest that you don’t?” he inquired.

  “Why, Mr. McKenzie, since I am living in your brother’s house, I am trying to come up with some kind of peace terms for the duration.”

  “Mmm,” he muttered doubtfully, pulling the white bed-sheet up against him. He was completely naked beneath it. Surely, she must know it. But she didn’t seem discomfited; she waited politely, coolly, for an answer on the coffee.

  “Black!” he snapped, taking the coffee from her before she could do any damage with it.

  A small smile played on her lips. “I intended no harm.”

  “But you might have had an accident.”

  “I’m quite careful.”

  “You’re quite the southern belle. I’m sure all your accidents are well planned … Are you accustomed to bringing men coffee in their beds?”

  She considered that and shrugged. “Actually, no. I’ve not had the opportunity before.”

  “And I doubt that it could be considered proper behavior for a young woman of your breeding.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Alas, Miss Warren, it seems you will rot in hell.”

  “Well, my sins are many, so perhaps I will. Though not, I think, for bringing you coffee.”

  He sipped the coffee, staring at her. She had remained by his bedside. She had left her long hair free once again, and it was brushed to an extraordinary shine. It curled and waved and cascaded over her shoulders. Her dress was a perfectly decent day dress, he realized. It was just that the woman within it was exceptionally lush.

  Damn it. Things were rising again. He drew up his knees to create a concealing tent of the bedding.

  She sat down at the foot of his bed.