Love Held Captive

by Shelley Shepard Gray

Pure shame engulfed him. He had lost control. Struggling with how to accept that, Ethan held out a hand. “You know what, Thomas? I’ll take that water after all.”

  When Thomas turned to retrieve the canteen, Ethan shook his head and tried to get his bearings. Then did what he always did after he dreamed about that house—prayed that woman was okay.

  That he hadn’t done any lasting harm.

  But, of course, he knew he was only fooling himself. He had hurt her. Of course he had. He knew he was going to cause her pain and heartache the moment they stopped in front of her house.

  She’d had so little, and he’d ordered his men to take what they could anyway. It hardly mattered that other men had done far worse. Pain was pain. It all hurt.

  1

  The Menger Hotel

  San Antonio, Texas

  Thursday, October 31, 1867

  She never should have had her back to the door.

  When it shut behind her with a sharp crack, Lizbeth Barclay knew she was in trouble. But though everything inside her was screaming to run, she froze while pulling on the heavy brocade bedspread in the hotel’s guestroom.

  And just like that, she was transported back in time. Back to another place where she should have felt safe but had been her most vulnerable.

  As she heard the faint brush of clothing, a muted jangle of change in a pocket, the rustle of leather behind her back, her hands held the spread in a death grip. Frustration filled her. She so wanted to be braver. Tougher. Better.

  But she wasn’t. Not yet.

  “You ever going to turn around?” the intruder drawled.

  Her breath hitched. It made no sense, but she could have sworn she recognized the voice. It was unmistakably deep and thick and sounded much like the voice from her nightmares after that day back in Castroville. Back in the middle of the war, when she was alone in her house. Alone and scared and completely sure there was no one in the vicinity to come to her aid if she screamed.

  She’d been right, of course. No one had come before.

  A thick bolt of dread coursed through her as she forced herself to turn. Pretending she wasn’t as scarred and scared as she felt, she raised her chin and turned.

  And stared directly into a pair of familiar dark-brown eyes. Confusion warred with dismay as she realized she hadn’t been mistaken. She did know this man.

  Intimately.

  He haunted her dreams. Starred in her nightmares. She’d thought he was merely a memory. She was wrong.

  “You,” she whispered.

  This time he wasn’t wearing a uniform. He was dressed in a finely constructed black suit and highly polished black boots. But his hard jaw, the steady gaze, the way his arms hung loosely at his side … She would recognize him anywhere. Even now, as he stood with his back against the door. Barring it with his body.

  He frowned before his expression cleared. Then, as she watched him, he turned his attention to her body. As if he had all the time in the world, his gaze slid over her. It paused on her face, lingered on her curves, then settled on her hips, covered by a neatly starched white apron.

  The whole perusal made her feel dirty. Maybe he’d intended it to.

  Or maybe she’d felt that way for so long she didn’t remember how to ever feel clean again. By the time the war ended, Lizbeth had come to realize one never felt completely clean when one’s soul—one’s very being—was bruised and tarnished by pain.

  Out of habit, she shrank into herself, gripping the voluminous fabric of her gray uniform. His eyes tracked her hands, following the movement of her fingertips with the interest of a predator. Perspiration dampened the fabric on her back. It fastened onto her skin, confining her movements even further.

  It was becoming difficult to breathe.

  “Do I know you?” he asked, his voice haughty yet curious.

  Taking care to avoid his gaze, Lizbeth focused instead on his tailored suit. His cream-colored shirt. The silver pin puncturing the silk cravat at his neck. When she dared to meet his eyes again, she realized his showed no recognition.

  He didn’t remember her.

  Realizing her cap was covering the worst of her scar, relief flowed through her. “Of course not, sir,” she replied around a rush of air. “I’m just a maid here. I’m sorry I was still in the room when you arrived. I’ll leave now.”

  “No need to do that, miss …” He grinned, encouraging small lines to form around his eyes. “What is your name?”

  She didn’t want to tell him.

  “I’m going to leave now.” Though she was barely able to move her limbs, she looked around for her feather duster and the little wooden crate that held her rags, the beeswax, the vinegar, and newsprint. She needed to escape.

  She picked up the crate, ready to go. But still he blocked the door. Those highly polished black boots shining against the door’s dark stain.

  He wasn’t a handsome man. Most likely he never had been, though it was hard to tell. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin was sallow. Much of the flesh on his cheeks was scarred from the pox. Everything about him screamed of dissolute behavior. But even in the midst of such disrepair, an intensity emanated from him.

  He knew she was uncomfortable, and that pleased him.

  It took everything she had to move forward. “Please step aside.”

  “I’d rather not. I’d be a fool to let an opportunity like this pass me by.” His lips curved into a smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “Why don’t you stay awhile longer? The afternoon is still young. We can get to know each other.”

  She had to get out. On the other side of the door lay freedom. Relief. Air.

  She had to do it. She had to find a way to get him to move aside, to allow her to turn that knob.

  It was time to run. Fast.

  She fought to keep her voice light and detached. “I have other rooms to clean. I need to go.”

  At last he moved away from the door. Clicking his tongue softly, he approached. “My bed isn’t made. You haven’t finished your job, have you?”

  Her tongue felt thick. “I … I will come back. We’re not supposed to bother the guests.”

  “Stay. You can work around me.”

  “I cannot, sir.”

  Just as she folded her palm around the door’s knob, he reached for her forearm. “Reconsider.”

  His voice was hard. Demanding. It hurt almost as much as the memories. Images of all she’d tried so hard to forget flashed forward, making her feel weak and dizzy. She needed to get away before she passed out and made things worse.

  Her lungs felt so tight, she had trouble catching her breath. She was beginning to pant. To hyperventilate. Hoping to regain her bearings, she grasped the crate’s handle with one hand and pressed a palm to her face.

  “There’s no need to hide yourself from me. If you think I’m bothered by your looks, I’m not,” he said with an almost-tender smile. “Don’t be shy. Why, we’re all marked from the war in one way or another. You’d probably be shocked to discover some of the things I’ve done.” His tone had turned almost nostalgic, just as his gaze sharpened on her forehead.

  Feeling sick, Lizbeth realized what he was seeing. She must have inadvertently slid her cap back when she’d pressed her palm to her face.

  Memories threatened to overpower her. Teasing her with snippets of scattered, split images she worked so very hard to ignore during the day. But just like the four-inch scar that ran along her brow and hairline, the memories would never completely fade.

  Bile rose in the back of her throat, making her gag. Her stomach churned, her vision turning spotty. If she didn’t escape soon, chances were very good she was going to vomit. Right there in the hotel room.

  She needed air. She needed freedom and comfort and relief. Without daring to glance his way again, she threw open the heavy door and tore out of the room.

  If he complained about his service, she’d be in trouble. Though her second cousin and her husband managed this hotel, Aileen and Dallas weren’t unders
tanding. And she would never tell them who the man was.

  Lizbeth looked both ways down the narrow hallway. She needed a moment to get her wits together before coming up with a decent excuse to explain herself. Quickly choosing to go left, because that end was far less occupied by guests, Lizbeth turned and hurried as fast as she could.

  When she came to another junction, she glanced right and left again. Seeing both sides of that hall empty, she breathed a sigh of relief. So far, so good. If Aileen or one of her favorites caught her running like she was, they’d want to know what had happened. And they’d make her return to that room no matter what.

  Lizbeth suspected Aileen would never believe what happened to her during the war. As with everyone else, she’d let her cousin believe her scar was the result of an accident. Or maybe she would believe the truth, but not care.

  Aileen’s parents were living in Galveston now, but she had been with them right up until she married Dallas Howard. Lizbeth’s parents hadn’t been the most giving or kind people. They’d thought of Aileen’s branch of the family as far beneath their merit and had done little to help Aileen when she made her debut. While Lizbeth had been dressed in silks and had worn skirts filled with so many petticoats and hoops she could hardly fit through doorways, Aileen had been standing to the side. Largely forgotten.

  Lizbeth had been embarrassed by that, and even offered to share her gowns. But her mother refused to let her. Aileen was just pretty enough to be competition. It was far better for their daughter to be the only one to shine brightly. Social status had counted for everything to them.

  Right up until they died of an illness that had somehow spared her life.

  No, she wouldn’t tell Aileen this was the man who had ruined her.

  She thought she heard heavy boots on the carpeting behind her, coming closer. Lizbeth’s heart started beating even faster. Why had she stopped?

  Desperate, she started scanning room numbers. She needed an empty room to dart into, and she needed it fast.

  Just as she was about to scurry down the stairs, she realized suite 28 was just ahead. Only Major Ethan Kelly ever stayed there, and everyone at the Menger knew he wasn’t currently in residence.

  His suite would be perfect. It had its own bathing and sitting rooms. She could lock herself inside, splash some water on her face, and regain her bearings. Then, after a bit, she could go back to her duties. With luck, no one would be the wiser.

  Rushing ahead, she set her crate of cleaning supplies against the wall and started sorting through her keys, their jingling echoing down the hallway. Hands shaking, she located the right key after two attempts and inserted it into the lock. Finally, the knob turned.

  She swung open the door in relief. Feeling triumphant, Lizbeth went inside and slammed it shut behind her with more force than was necessary. Turning to face it, she laid her hands on the smooth, cool wood. She was safe.

  2

  After she caught her breath and turned around, the first thing Lizbeth noticed was that the major was in residence again. He must have come in late the night before. Clothes were strewn across the bed. Polished boots were lined up against the wall. Papers littered the desk, and personal belongings lay on top of the dresser.

  Lizbeth was still rattled, but she found herself smiling. Major Kelly was such a mess!

  Walking across the room to his bed, she ran a finger along his navy silk vest. Stopped to carefully fold his handkerchief back into a perfect square. She’d done such things more than once during the last couple of months. Unlike some other former soldiers, the major didn’t seem to have retained any sense of order from his military life. Or maybe he’d had people to pick up after him during the war.

  Whatever the reason, he always left his belongings scattered around. Some maids—Callie in particular—dreaded being assigned to clean his suite. It always took double the time to put it to rights. Lizbeth had never minded, though. It rather amused her to think the major, who looked every inch the dandy when he was out in public, was something of a mess in private.

  Unable to help herself, she moved to the dresser. In the center was a beautiful gold pocket watch. Lying next to it was a pair of gold cufflinks. They were substantial and showy. She knew the major only by sight and reputation, but even she knew he wore them constantly.

  Picking up one, she turned it this way and that. It was a carved gold knot. Beautiful, really. And far heavier than she would have imagined. For all her tidying, she couldn’t remember him ever leaving the cufflinks out in the open. Picking up the other, she held them both in the palm of her right hand.

  She really should put them in a safe place. Though she hoped none of the other maids would be tempted to steal them, she didn’t want to test their honesty. Perhaps she should set them in a drawer. She could write him a note. Yes! That would be the best thing—

  “May I help you?”

  She jumped at the sound of the voice.

  With a feeling of dread, she slowly turned around. And felt as though her heart had just dropped to her feet.

  Major Ethan Kelly was standing in front of her. At first staring at her face, and then eyeing his cufflinks in her hand. All while standing in a pair of trousers.

  In only a pair of trousers.

  Though she shouldn’t, Lizbeth let her gaze drift. Like a miserly banker, she catalogued each one of his scars and battle wounds. Allowed herself to notice the way his muscles flexed when he moved his arm. The way his olive skin was smooth except for a faint line of dark hair that ran down the center of his abdomen. She noticed the line of muscles across his chest. Along his arms, his shoulders.

  Last, she raised her chin and met his stare. Felt her skin flush, knew he’d just watched her look him over like a trollop in a back alley. So very like the way that other man had looked at her.

  She realized now that he’d been in his bathing room. His clothes weren’t on the bed because he’d changed in a hurry but because he was about to get dressed.

  “It looks like you’ve found something you like,” he finally drawled.

  With a start, she realized he thought she was stealing his cufflinks. Stealing from him! Her hands went limp, and the cufflinks fell to the floor.

  Clattering against the floorboards like tiny symbols of her foolishness. Or maybe just symbols of how mixed-up and confusing her life had become. Despite her best intentions, everything she did only served to make her situation worse.

  After the space of three beats—or maybe after she’d finally controlled her breathing and was able to concentrate again—Major Kelly raised his eyebrows.

  Lizbeth scrambled to the floor, picked up the cufflinks, and set them back on the dresser’s surface. As she stepped aside, she tried to decide how to explain herself.

  She was stuck. Trapped between two men—this man, too filled with charm, and the other, the reason she had never become the person she’d always hoped she’d be. It was almost too much to take in.

  She watched as his brown eyes drifted over her. Then did it again, pausing for the briefest second on her scar. To her surprise, he didn’t look angry. He seemed to be assessing her, like an officer examining one of his men. Compassion might have entered his eyes. Or it might not have. She couldn’t tell.

  Still he said nothing. Still she waited.

  When he raised one arm to absently scratch his other, he seemed to realize he was mostly unclothed. Without a word, he strode to the dresser, opened a drawer, pulled out a folded white shirt, and slipped it on. Then he proceeded to neatly button the shirt, as if what was happening wasn’t completely irregular.

  She needed to get out of there. She needed to simply turn and leave. Maybe, with God’s help, they could eventually both pretend this moment had never happened. But just as she shifted, preparing to explain why she’d been holding his cufflinks, he spoke.

  “I’ve seen you in the halls. What is your name?” He sounded bored as he continued to carefully slip each well-crafted button through its appropriate hole.
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  “I’m Lizbeth, sir. I mean, well, my full name is Elizabeth Barclay.” Not that he cared. And, oh, did her voice just … squeak? This was only getting worse.

  As he turned his attention to fastening his cuffs with the gold links, he murmured, “Would you, if you please, explain why you are in my room?”

  “It wasn’t to take your cufflinks, sir.”

  “No?”

  She trembled.

  Suddenly realizing he was still staring at her intently, awaiting a response, she walked toward the door. “I’m so sorry, sir. I thought this room was unoccupied. Then, when I saw your cufflinks, I thought I should put them away. For safekeeping.”

  “And your palm seemed like the best place?”

  “Oh, no. I was going to put them in the top drawer and then write you a note,” she murmured as she continued to edge to the door. “I didn’t want anyone to steal them.” Hearing her words, she felt even more foolish. Surely no other explanation could sound more unbelievable.

  “So you came in here to do … what? A good deed?”

  Glad that she could finally form a coherent thought, she grasped the ornate, heavily faceted knob behind her. The glass handle was cool underneath her touch and its chill soothed her. “I’m so sorry about this. If you could forget that I ever came inside, I would be so grateful.” She turned the knob a quarter of an inch. “And, um … I’ll just leave you in peace.”

  “Stay.”

  She dropped her hand. “I beg your pardon?”

  He fastened a starched collar around his neck. “I said stay. Your face is flushed. Were you running? And if so, what were you running from?” His eyes narrowed. “And don’t you start telling me some nonsense. I heard you darting in here like the devil himself was on your heels.”

  Funny, she’d felt as if that had indeed been the case. But what could she say?

  “Well then?”

  His voice was commanding. Authoritative. She didn’t know how to not answer. “I had a small issue, but I’m sure it is better by now.”

  He’d tucked his shirt in his trousers and was now fastening the navy silk vest. His fingers stilled. “An issue. And what kind would that be? And please, do start talking.”