Captive

by Heather Graham

  “And when your father does come out of the interior, he’ll do something horrible to you.”

  “I can’t go—yet. Please, don’t you be against me, too.”

  “No one is against you. I just think that maybe, for both you and James, it would be best if you did go home soon.”

  Teela felt something bubbling in her stomach. She leapt up, biting her lower lip.

  “What—?” Tara said with alarm.

  “The chamber pot!” Teela said. Tara found it in the nick of time. Spasms seized Teela until she was weak. She soaked her face and hands in the fresh water Tara brought her.

  “Are you all right now?”

  “The food was delicious, too good. I don’t think I could handle so much so soon. I shouldn’t have wolfed it down like that.”

  Tara looked at her strangely.

  “You should try to get some sleep. We’ll talk again in the morning.”

  Tara left her. Teela had never felt more drained or exhausted. She curled up on the soft four-poster bed in the room with its clean white sheets. She slept.

  Tara came downstairs and went into the library of their rented home. It was quite a wonderful place, built in the mid-1600s by a wealthy don for his beloved bride. There was a beautiful mantel hewn from the same coquina shell they had used to build the fort. It was still owned by one of the don’s descendents, a charming man with a Spanish name and an English accent, since his family had retained ownership through the years when the territory had passed from the Spaniards to the English, back to the Spaniards, and on to the Americans. He’d been happy to offer the home to a family, just as Tara had been happy to come to the Atlantic side of the territory. She found St. Augustine to be charming, a mixture of the cultures that had passed its way. There were well-stocked general stores, and there was the military base at the ancient fortress, rising on the horizon with a tremendous magnificence. It hadn’t actually ever withstood any attacks. Perhaps it was too foreboding to attack.

  The city was long established, filled with many languages, the social elite of different cultures, military, slaves, free blacks, even Indians—remnants of decimated tribes and those who had simply embraced white ways.

  Jarrett had suggested that they come for a change of scenery and a bit of a social scene throughout the fall and winter. Tara knew, of course, that he didn’t give a damn about scenery or society. He had come because he feared for his brother, and seemed to think that he could be of greater help here.

  As she walked across the tiled floor of the library, he looked up from the ledger he had before him on the heavy old Spanish desk. “Is she settled?”

  Tara nodded. “Sleeping by now, I think. She was very tired.”

  “There are a number of ships stopping in Charleston that leave here soon.”

  “There will always be ships leaving St. Augustine,” she murmured, perching on a corner of his desk. “She’s going to speak with a reporter.”

  Jarrett folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair, watching his wife. “Two men escaped that slaughter. Both of them told reporters that James McKenzie was not the leader of the band that attacked them. Warren’s story was surely a better one.”

  “But not the truth.”

  “Lies often catch the public imagination.”

  “But Teela will be able to make a better story of it, I’m quite certain.”

  “But should she?” Jarrett murmured, looking out the window. They could see the water from the house, a very blue inlet of the Atlantic.

  “My God, of course—”

  “Then Warren will tear her to ribbons.”

  “Jarrett, he won’t dare. It will be done before anyone sees him again. And then she can be gone.”

  “She doesn’t want to go.”

  “Well, she may not have a choice!”

  “Are you ready to drag her, kicking and screaming, onto a ship?” she asked him. Then she smiled slightly. “Never mind, what a question! There’s very little I put past you, my love, in the pursuit of right as you see it. But I’m warning you, she won’t go otherwise.”

  Jarrett sighed with exasperation. “Then what? Shall I send for Harrington? Should we insist she marry the poor fellow if she’s so determined to remain? Harrington would probably become a groom with the greatest pleasure, but would it be fair?”

  Tara looked down at the desk. “No, I don’t think that sending for Harrington would be a good idea at this point. Jarrett, she’s sick.”

  “With what? Should we quarantine her? Get her away from the children as quickly as possible?”

  “No, no. She hasn’t a fever or the like. She’s—sick. To her stomach.”

  Jarrett tapped a finger upon his desk thoughtfully. “Oh, dear. I think she was ill along the way as well. She refused, of course, to let me see that she felt poorly in the least. She’s determined that she will forge through the territory without a complaint, come what may.”

  “You don’t understand,” Tara murmured.

  “My love, I understand this situation far more than I wish! Tara wants to stay near my brother no matter what, and though he covets her pathetically, he wants her gone! Perhaps she really should marry John, then—”

  “Jarrett, trust me, you don’t understand!” Tara repeated. She leapt off the desk and came around, kneeling beside him and taking his hands in hers. She had that strange half smile on her face that meant that men didn’t really ever understand anything.

  He smiled in return, a brow arched. “What is it, Tara?”

  “She can’t marry Harrington.”

  “Tara, Warren remains her guardian—”

  “Jarrett, she’s expecting.”

  “Expecting what?”

  “Oh, my God. A baby!”

  He felt like an idiot. He simply hadn’t been prepared for a bomb to be thrown in what was already a dangerous battleground.

  “Oh, good God!” he groaned. He clutched his wife’s hands more tightly. “How can you possibly tell? I mean, you can’t possibly know this for fact. He didn’t rescue her from that slaughter in the woods that long ago—”

  “It must have happened back in June. When he slipped back to our house after the massive escape of the Indians from near Fort Brooke. Remember the day of the skirmish down the river, when Teela met Harrington and Brandeis and James came back that night?”

  “Yes, I remember the night. It was the last time I had seen him until today. But just because she’s been sick—”

  “Jarrett, I was just in the room with her. While she was bathing.”

  “Yes?” He arched a brow suspiciously.

  “She’s changed.”

  “You were looking at another woman that closely?”

  She made a list of her hand and slammed it on his knee. “Jarrett! I didn’t need to stare!”

  “Oh, God!” he repeated. He stared at his wife. “James doesn’t know.”

  “I don’t think Teela even knows.”

  An ink dark brow rose on his forehead once again. This time, he realized, he was probably giving her the male look that indicated women were far less than sane and never rational in the least.

  “I didn’t know for the longest time about Ian,” she reminded him. “You get caught up in him, in the worries from day to day—and she has certainly had enough going on around her! Time goes by—and she’s been living under such strange circumstances.”

  Jarrett reached into the bottom desk drawer for a brandy bottle and glasses.

  “She doesn’t know, but you’re certain.”

  “I’ve had a baby. I know the signs.” She counted on her fingers for a moment, showing him. “Middle of June, end of September. Mark my words. It will be evident to all of us very soon.”

  Jarrett was about to pour the liquid into a glass, then brought the bottle to his mouth instead. Tara took it from him. “You might share!” she admonished.

  He took the bottle from her, poured an equal amount into both glasses. “Sorry, my love,” he said, and
raised his snifter to her.

  Tara picked up her glass. “Thank you, McKenzie.”

  “Well, congratulations, we are about to become an aunt and uncle once again.”

  Tara clinked her glass to his, but didn’t sip from it. “Indeed, my love, congratulations. Oh, dear Lord! We will need no longer worry about Major Warren. He will die of rage and apoplexy upon receipt of the news.”

  “We can only hope. But now, Tara McKenzie, since you are so certain about this impending event, when do you think we should share the information with the happy mother-to-be upstairs? And then, for the love of God, where do we go from there?

  “I’m not sure,” Tara murmured. She glanced up at him, setting her snifter down on the desk and pushing it from her.

  “What now? You did just insist I share.”

  “Yes, but actually, it doesn’t go down well at all. I haven’t been feeling quite as robust myself the last several weeks.”

  “Tara,” he began frowning, “are you trying to tell me—”

  “Yes, I am,” she said. She looked up at him, smiling ruefully. “If nothing else, these cousins will be very close in age.”

  Jarrett scooped up his wife, set her upon his lap, and held her very tenderly. “I am delighted, of course,” he said huskily. “Ian is still so young—”

  “He, too, will be close with his new brother or sister.”

  Jarrett smiled, breathing in the scent of her, cherishing the moment they shared. “Have I told you recently that I love you more than anything in the world?”

  “Actually, you are quite wonderful, and say such things at least once a month, and not always in the absolute heat of passion,” she teased him.

  “Alas, you remain a vixen!” he sighed with mock despair. “Hmm. Now our lives are made easier. We need only hide Teela until March. We can say that we have become the proud parents of twins, the war can go, and those nearest and dearest to us can continue running around the bush.”

  “We’ve one little difficulty with that scenario,” Tara said, contentedly leaning against him. “What’s that?” “Your brother can be amazingly like you. He has your father’s eyes. But no one will mistake his child for ours, because the baby will have Indian blood.”

  “Well,” Jarrett mused, “maybe it will not be such a bad thing if Warren dies of apoplexy after all.”

  She smiled again, closing her eyes, glad to be with him. “God forgive me for saying this, but it’s quite a pity that he will surely not do something so convenient for us all any time soon!”

  “So what do we do?” Jarrett asked softly, his whisper against the golden softness of her hair.

  “Pray.”

  “For Warren’s death? Does God answer such prayers?”

  “If he knows Warren, perhaps!”

  Chapter 22

  Osceola had a look of the spirit about him when he met James. He was seated on one of his war ponies, and he was dressed in full, splendid array with a plumed turban, red leggings, colorful shirt, and fringed jacket. Coa Hadjo, a subchief and wise man for Osceola’s band, was close at his side while a half-dozen near-naked warriors surrounded him

  “Thank you for coming when I have called you.”

  “I’m anxious to hear what news you have, what parley you wish to make.”

  “We will talk at our council,” Osceola told him, leading the way along the trail. They moved swiftly across high ground, then plowed more slowly through the marsh, disappearing through the dense brush that flanked the swamps until they reached a pine barren. There the warriors were greeted quietly by the women and some of the boys not quite ready for warfare. Their horses were taken, food was brought, and they sat cross-legged before an open fire built in a clearing.

  “You know what has happened?” Osceola asked him.

  James nodded. “All of King Philip’s people have been taken. A Yuchi village was invaded right after, and Blue Snake and Yuchi Billy were seized along with others. Wildcat has gone in to the whites as his father sent for him, and is now a prisoner as well.”

  “Word has been sent to General Jesup that we will parley again,” Coa Hadjo told James.

  “I am very tired, but also wary,” Osceola said. “Coa Hadjo will speak for me when we go for our talks with the whites. But you must be another set of eyes and ears for me. You must help me understand the white men’s words, see what really lies beneath them.”

  “I will be happy to be with you, Osceola. What do you seek to gain from your council with the military?”

  Osceola lifted his hands. “I have not wished to rob the whites. I have never sought to massacre their women and children, though I do not deny that they have died. I have always sought true boundaries. I want to draw lines again. I want to let the whites live in peace, and I want my people to be left to live in peace.”

  “There is speculation among the whites that you wish to see their strength and learn what you can about how and where they are keeping Wildcat, Philip, Blue Snake, and the others prisoner.”

  Coa Hadjo and Osceola exchanged glances. Coa Hadjo shrugged. “Men always talk to gain new information.”

  James grinned. “That is true.”

  “I seek no battle, Running Bear. That I swear to you by the Great Spirit.”

  “I have never doubted Osceola’s word.”

  Osceola stood. He seemed to tremble as he did so, and his color was ashen. James and the others stood quickly as well. “Thank you for being among us,” Osceola told him briefly.

  “I am glad to be with a friend,” James replied, but as he watched the war chief, he was worried. Osceola had looked well during the day; he looked as if he was ill again by night.

  He left them, and the others moved away, except for Coa Hadjo, a power in his own right, who watched James.

  “In truth, what do you think of these new talks, Running Bear?” Coa Hadjo demanded.

  James sighed. “I think that men have talked and talked. And that most of the talk has been lies. From both sides,” he added sadly.

  “What truth is there except that which each man sees in his own heart?” Coa Hadjo asked him.

  “Osceola is gravely ill,” James said flatly.

  “And very, very tired,” Coa Hadjo added.

  “And what does that mean?” James asked him.

  “It means he tires of war,” Coa Hadjo said. “Good night, Running Bear. I have never feared for my own safety. I am glad to speak for myself, and for Osceola. But I am glad that you will be with us as well.”

  James nodded in acknowledgment. Coa Hadjo went his own way. James stared at the fire, then went to find the shelter he had been provided there in the barrens. It was a simple platform raised above the ground a few feet, covered with cabbage palm. The air was cool circulating in and around it. Being elevated, it protected the inhabitants from the creatures that preyed upon the ground at night.

  He lay down, weary. He closed his eyes. And all that he could think was that she was gone. He had slept so well beside her. He had felt her warmth, her fire, her heat. Now there was cold and loneliness. He wanted to cry out in the night. He wanted to close his eyes, sleep and dream.

  And in his dream there would be no war, nothing savage, and nothing civilized, and nothing red or white. The sky would be alight with a brilliant red dawn, and she would be laughing, running to him, and when he captured her, and spun her beneath the sun, he would never need to let her go again….

  He tossed, cold, stiff, uncomfortable.

  It was a dream.

  Just a dream. And in this wretched world it could never come true.

  There was no way to hide the fact that Teela Warren was with the McKenzies, in their home. Teela was very anxious to set the papers straight about her capture and so-called kidnapping. At Jarrett’s suggestion, certain of the reporters from Florida and the nation who had swept down upon St. Augustine to cover the Indian wars were invited to the house. Both Tara and Jarrett were with her when the five invited interviewed her.

  She w
as amazingly composed and relaxed, relating her story from the moment she had left Fort Deliverance to the time of her capture.

  “That anyone has accused James McKenzie of any evil or treachery in this entire affair is pathetic and laughable,” she informed them. “He saved my life.”

  Thomason, of a Washington paper, demanded, “But what of your captivity, Miss Warren? You were seized by a savage and held against your will—”

  “My brother-in-law is not a savage!” Tara interrupted, as fierce as a terrier.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. McKenzie,” Thomason said hastily, stroking his white-bearded chin. “What I meant is, there was a certain time in which you were kept in the bush. Was no danger, no offense forced upon you? What will your fiance’ think and feel? Have you spoken with Lieutenant Harrison since your ordeal?”

  “John Harrison and James McKenzie are the best of friends. I know that John will be grateful, as will anyone who is pleased to see me still alive, that James came to my rescue. Sir, I cannot even condemn Otter, the chief who so craved my death, because his own family was cruelly murdered in this war.”

  “Preposterous!” the heavily jowled fellow from St. Augustine muttered.

  Teela rose. “Sir, if you find the truth preposterous, there is nothing else I have to say. Now, if you will all forgive me …”

  She didn’t care if they did or didn’t. She was suddenly exhausted. She turned and headed for the stairs. She was incredibly grateful for Jarrett McKenzie’s stern admonition that the men were now to leave his residence.

  In her room, she stretched out on the bed. She could hear the reporters talking among themselves outside the house, nearly below her window.

  “It’s disgusting! A decent woman would be horrified by all that has occurred—” one man began. Evans, from an Atlanta paper.

  “Ah, but through history they tend to fall under the influence of their captors,” another man asserted.

  “Gentlemen!” It was Thomason speaking. “You’re forgetting that the man involved is a McKenzie, half white, brother to one of the most influential man in the state. Both have been highly respected for years; they have both acted as negotiators often enough in this sad fracas.”