The maid pressed herself to the nursery wall, frightened by the strange tone of her mistress's voice. "Yes, ma'am."
"Let's go." Keely turned, brushing past Micah.
He closed the door to the nursery. "There's just one more thing, Keely, before we go."
"What's that?"
"A note." He went to Brock's writing desk. "Sit down here and tell Brock that you've left him for me."
Horrified, she took a step back. "No, Micah." Suddenly everything was slipping. How would Brock know to come rescue her? He would think she'd truly betrayed him! "I couldn't!" she choked.
"You must. I know the man; if he loses fairly, he'll accept his lot in life. He won't come looking for you."
She shook her head. "I couldn't possibly," she cried desperately. "You do it, if you must."
"Oh, no. It must be in your own handwriting. It's the only way he'll believe it."
"Please. Don't make me do it, Micah . . ."
He took her arm. "It's the only way. If you don't do it, the deal is off and Captain Bartholomew dies. Now sit. We have to hurry. Cain's waiting with the carriage." He pushed her roughly into the chair and retrieved the lamp, setting it on the edge of the desk. "Pick up the quill and write exactly what I tell you," he instructed.
Numb, Keely did as she was told. Just as she was signing her name at the bottom of the letter, Lucy came bursting into the bedchamber.
"God sakes! Miss Keely, have you lost your head? What are you and Mr. Micah doin' in your chamber in the middle of the night?" The maid was dressed in nothing but a thin shift, her long blond hair falling unplaited down her back.
"Lucy. Go back to bed, this is none of your concern," Micah told her, helping Keely up from the chair.
Keely moved in a dazed state. She couldn't believe what she had just written. In releasing Brock from his death sentence, she had signed her own. Now he would never come looking for her. He would never attempt to rescue her from this twisted fate. He would think she had betrayed their love. She was doomed. If she couldn't escape from Micah on her own, she would never see Laura again. She would never get a chance to explain to Brock what had happened.
"Oh, shut your mouth, Mr. Micah, I was talkin' to Miss Keely!" Lucy spat angrily.
Micah struck out with his hand, catching Lucy sharply on the cheek. The maidservant gasped, her hand flying to her face.
Micah picked up the leather bag that held Keely's possessions and started out of the bedchamber. "Come on, Keely."
Keely fell in behind, too ashamed even to speak to Lucy. Her hand went to her neckline as she struggled to breathe and then she stopped in mid-step. Shoving her hand below the neckline of her gown, she pulled out the amulet her father had given her so many years ago and yanked the copper tuppence from the chain.
"Keely," Micah insisted from the hallway. "Come along, dear."
With one swift motion Keely tossed the amulet to a surprised Lucy and then hurried out of the room.
Chapter Twenty-six
Just after dawn the following morning Keely dressed at Micah's insistence and prepared to leave Fortune's Find. She had slept soundly through the night, a dreamless sleep of hopelessness. When Micah had come to her bedchamber to wake her, he'd brought tea and muffins. She sent him away with the meal, telling him she would be down in a few minutes. Without thought, she packed her small bag and met him in the front hallway.
"I'm sorry you didn't get much sleep, love." Micah kissed her cheek affectionately. "But once we're a safe distance from here, we'll take the time to rest and enjoy ourselves." He turned to a maid scurrying down the hall. "Connie, have the bags been loaded into the carriage?"
"Aye, sir." The dark-haired girl dropped her head in submission. "Mr. Cain is waitin' out front for you and the missus."
"Perfect." Micah dropped his hand on Keely's shoulder. "If you're ready, sweet, we can go. I've taken care of everything here. The staff will stay on to care for the house until Mother and Father return."
"They don't know you're leaving?" Keely asked.
"They'll find out soon enough. I was the one that encouraged them to go to Europe in the first place. Things were just getting too hot here."
"They never knew who you were, what you did?"
He applied even pressure to her shoulder, propelling her forward. "Shall we go, darling?"
Clutching the cotton wrap that hung on her shoulders, Keely went out the front door and down the steps to the waiting carriage. The sound of pounding hooves caught her attention as Micah offered his hand to help her in.
Down the long lane that led to the plantation house came a lone rider on a dark steed. The horse moved at breakneck speed headed directly for them.
"Who in the blast is that?" Micah demanded.
"Don't know, sir." Cain leaped down from the driver's seat of the coach, a French rifle cradled in his arm.
"Keely, get into the carriage at once; Cain will take care of it," Micah insisted sharply.
She balked, squinting to see who the rider was. She recognized the horse, and her heart skipped a beat. It had come from her husband's stables.
Tearing her arm from Micah's grasp, Keely dashed around the side of the coach.
"Miss Keely!" the rider called frantically.
"Keely, come back here, damn you," Micah shouted.
"Mort!" Lifting her skirts, she ran toward him, her heart pumping wildly.
"Cain, you shoot her and I'll have you castrated," Micah shouted. He yanked the rifle from his henchman's hand.
A single shot sounded and Keely screamed, covering her ears as the rider's hat flew off and he was unseated. Mort fell beneath his horse, his blond hair turning crimson. Keely sank to her knees in utter revulsion as the man who had tried to save her was crushed beneath the hooves of the frantic animal.
Keely lay there in the damp grass sobbing until Micah tugged gently on her arm. "Come," he insisted. "We have to go."
"What about Mort?" she demanded angrily. "He was my friend."
"Cain will take care of the body and then catch up." He shifted the rifle to the opposite hand and pulled her to her feet. "Now come along. We have to hurry, dear."
Dazed, Keely followed him. A minute later, the carriage pulled out of the drive of Fortune's Find, bound for Detroit.
Keely winced, rubbing the small of her back as she eased the strained muscles of her buttocks. Three days ago she and Micah had left the carriage behind and begun to move northwest on horseback. They traveled from sunup to sundown, stopping only for water and to eat a quick meal. Micah was nervous, frequently sending men back to be certain no one was following them. Tonight it had been well after dark before Micah finally declared it time to put up camp for the night.
Continuing to massage her sore limbs, Keely peered out of her tent. Twenty feet away was a campfire, and over it was a spit holding three plump rabbits. The smell tantalized Keely's nose and made her stomach growl in protest. She had refused the noonday meal Micah offered her and now she was nearly faint with hunger.
Shifting her weight, Keely slipped off her boot and studied her blistered heel. She knew Micah carried medicinal salves on one of the pack horses, but she couldn't bring herself to ask him for anything. Instead, she washed her feet with cool water she'd brought from a nearby stream and then replaced her cotton stockings.
Keely swatted at a mosquito and watched one of Cain's ruffians cut off a piece of roasting rabbit and pop it into his mouth. She licked her lips, sorely tempted to abandon her pride and venture out to share in the meal.
She put her hand on the tent flap and froze when she spotted Micah deep in conversation with Cain just beyond the light of the fire. Micah's shadow, distorted by the crackling flames, seemed the outline of some grotesque demon.
Keely shivered despite the hot summer night's breeze. She was more frightened of Micah now than when they had left Dover a week ago. There was no pattern to his bizarre behavior. One minute Micah would be coddling her, speaking gently, laughing, being his old char
ming self and then the next minute he became irrational. Without reason he would strike out at the servants or beat his horse mercilessly. Once he had threatened to strike her. Over and over again Micah swore that he loved her, yet Keely could see a sadistic violence bubbling beneath the surface of his conscious mind.
The thought of escape taunted her day and night. All she wanted was Brock and her baby, yet if she did manage to escape and make it back across the wilderness, how could she explain to Brock what had happened? The letter left behind had been in her own handwriting. Brock would never believe she had been taken by force. Micah was an important man in the community, a patriot hero . . . a man Brock had been jealous of from the beginning. Brock would see only betrayal in her disappearance.
Sensing that Micah was watching her, Keely lifted her gaze to meet his. He puffed on a small cigar, rolling it between his fingers, studying her, a silly smile on his face.
Keely's hand fell from the tent flap and she drew a ragged breath. Tonight? she wondered. Will you come to my tent tonight? The thought of Micah's hands on her made her flesh crawl. I'd sooner die than let you touch me. After Brock, she could belong to no other man, not ever. Keely lifted her chin in defiance. "You'll have to kill me first," she whispered beneath her breath.
Fueled by that thought, Keely crawled out of the tent. Ignoring Micah's stares, she took a plate one of the men offered and accepted a thick slice of roasted rabbit.
"I'm so glad you've found your appetite, love," Micah said, moving closer.
Keely went to the edge of the firelight and sat on a fallen log.
"You have to keep up your strength." He followed her. "I know the trip is difficult on you, but once we're safe within a fort, there'll be time to rest."
Keely ignored him, sampling the succulent dark meat.
He knelt in front of her. "Keely?" He caught her chin with his hand and forced her to look at him. "Are you all right? Are you ill?"
"I'm fine," she answered without emotion. Their eyes locked and he dropped his hand.
"God's teeth, woman, then what ails you?" he asked irritably. He crushed out his cigar in the dirt at her feet. "You've been sulking since we left Dover."
She continued to chew at the rabbit. "You killed Mort."
He laughed harshly. "Is that all it is?"
"Mort was good to me."
Micah toyed with the hem of Keely's blue dress." . . . Not the only friend of yours I've killed."
She choked on the meat. "What did you say?"
He smiled. "I just said he's not the first." He chuckled.
She didn't want to ask, yet she couldn't help herself. "Who . . . who else?"
An unholy light flickered in Micah's bright blue eyes. "The woman. She had to go. I was the logical choice." He shrugged. "She knew it was me. Couldn't have her telling tales, could we?"
"What woman?" Keely demanded.
"Jenna, of course. You didn't know?" His mouth twitched into a smile. "I guess I thought you were brighter than you are."
"You son of a bitch," she murmured.
Without warning, Micah struck her sharply on the cheek and her plate fell from her lap.
Keely's mouth trembled, but she refused to look away. Her face stung from his blow, but she didn't lift her hand to ease the pain.
Micah stood up. "I don't like that. No lady speaks to her husband in that manner."
"You're not my husband," she managed through tight lips. Oh God, not Jenna, she thought. It can't be true. But in her heart she knew he told the truth. Was there no end to this nightmare?
Micah smoothed the front of his sleeveless leather waistcoat. "I am if I say I am!" he shouted.
She swatted at a mosquito buzzing around her head. If she thought about Jenna now, if she thought about any of it, she'd surely go mad. "I think I'll go to sleep."
Micah grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet. "You said you'd come with me." His tone softened. "I kept my part of the bargain, you have to keep yours." He tried to smooth the long red tresses that tumbled from her chignon, but she pulled back.
"I came with you, didn't I?"
"You said you could love me." He spoke faster. "We're going to have a good life together. I'm going to make you happier than that red bastard could have made you."
She knew there was no arguing with him. Crossing him would only make him more agitated. "Micah, I'm tired." She stared at him, her face without emotion. So much had happened that she was almost devoid of any feeling. "I want to go to sleep now."
He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing it gently. "Sleep well, my love. Another week and we should reach the first fort. We'll stay there until you're rested. I promise."
She pulled her hand from his grasp and went to her tent, dropping the flap behind her.
The last mile seemed longer to Brock than it had ever been. Everything looked the same, the brick-houses, the giant oak trees, the fields of corn and rye that spread in every direction, yet it all somehow seemed different. Urging his horse faster, Brock turned the corner past the Golden Fleece tavern. There hadn't been time to send Keely a note after he'd been released. He'd found a smuggling vessel headed south only hours after he'd been let off the Jersey and the trip had been brief. With the wind and tides in their favor, it had taken only three days to make the port at Dover.
Brock took a deep breath, inhaling the soft breeze of late summer. It had been only a year since Keely had come into his life, and now it seemed as if she had always been his. Thoughts of her, of her long, thick auburn hair, her laughing mouth, her stormy hazel eyes, made his chest tighten and his heart beat more rapidly. All he wanted was to hold her again. She would take away the pain; she would chase away the fears. In her arms lay salvation.
Sitting there beneath the decks of that blasted prison ship, Brock had come to realize that although the fight for independence was important, it was not as vital to his life as Keely was. Priorities, that was what Lloyd had said was necessary. He had said that Brock had to know the importance of each thing in his life and then he must live accordingly. The war was of great consequence. but without Keely, nothing mattered.
Dismounting at the front stoop of the house, Brock ran up the front steps and flung open the door. He tossed his battered cocked hat on the side table, running a hand through his dark hair. "Keely! Keely," he shouted. "Keely, where are you?"
"Masta Brock?" came Ruth's voice from the kitchen. "God's sake, man, is that you?" She came running from the back of the house.
"I think so, Ruthie." He laughed. "Where's Keely? Where's Laura?"
The old servant threw her arms around Brock's middle. "Never thought I'd be so happy to see any man, Masta Brock!"
Brock laughed, hugging the old woman.
"Loose me, Masta Brock, 'fore you squeeze the life right out of me!" The cook took a step back, wiping the corners of her eyes with her floured apron.
"Master Brock!" Lucy shouted, coming down the grand staircase. "You a ghost?" Laura rode contentedly on the maid's hip.
Brock patted his chest. "I don't think so, Lucy. Give me that sweetheart." He held out his hands, taking his daughter from her.
Little Laura cooed and chewed at the strings of her bonnet.
"I can't believe how much you've grown," he marveled. "Aren't you beautiful?" He tugged off the infant's white cap to kiss her head of tight red curls. "Where's your mama," he crooned, looking into her dark eyes. "Where's your mama, princess?"
Lucy scuffed at the floor with her bare foot, and Ruth turned away to straighten a portrait hanging on the wall.
Brock's face fell. "What? What is it?" His palms grew damp as he looked from Lucy's face to Ruth's. "Tell me . . ."
Ruth reached to take Laura gently from his arms. "Take Masta Brock upstairs and show 'im the note, Lucy."
Lucy turned and went up the front staircase, the bounce gone from her walk. "It just don't make any sense, Master Brock, after all she went through."
"Lucy, what are you talking about? Where's my wife?"
/>
"Gone."
"Gone? Gone where?" he demanded.
"Don't know. She didn't say." Lucy pushed open the bedchamber door and went to open the heavy drapes to let in the sunlight. "The note she left is there on the desk, sir. We didn't touch it. We didn't touch anythin'."
Confused, Brock picked up the note, recognizing Keely's handwriting. "How long's she been gone?" he asked quietly.
"A good fortnight, sir." Lucy tucked her hands behind her, at a loss as to what to do.
"You can go now, Lucy."
"Aren't you gonna read the letter?"
Brock sat down on a chair, suddenly weary. "Go on, Lucy."
She bobbed a curtsy. "Yes, sir. If . . . if there's anything you want . . ."
"I'll call you, Lucy."
Lucy studied her master's striking face for a moment, feeling the pain that seeped through him, and then she left, closing the door quietly behind her.
Brock took a deep breath, rising to go to the window. He stared down at the garden below, taking notice of the bright wildflowers that bloomed in every nook and cranny of the small boxwood garden. Wearily, he lifted the sheet of paper and read it.
Brock,
By the time you receive this letter, I will be gone. Please don't try to follow me; I've made my choice. I tried to live with you and be a good wife, but my love for Micah was too great. Please forgive me for the pain I've caused you, but believe me when I tell you this is better for all concerned.
Keely
Brock crushed the delicate paper in his hand, the tears welling in his dark eyes. "No, Keely, please, no." For a moment the pain was so great that Brock thought he would die of it. Then it eased, slowly replacing itself with a red-hot anger, an anger more intense than any he'd ever felt before.
"God damn you, Keely!" he shouted. He threw the paper to the floor, crushing it with the heel of his boot. Without thinking, he lifted a French vase from a table and sent it spiraling across the room. It shattered over the bed, splinters of bone china falling onto the pillows.
"God damn you! How could you?" he shouted. He kicked over a small teak table and his chess set fell to the floor, pieces rolling in every direction. "For him . . . how could you?"
The Ruffian and the Rose Page 29