Runaway

by Heather Graham

  She smiled. “Where do you get all this history?”

  “Books,” he told her, his expression almost grave. “I love books. History books, playbooks—”

  “Really?”

  He folded his hands over his heart. “I’ve every last word ever penned by Mr. William Shakespeare. You’ll have to come see me sometime. I can’t promise eternal life, but I can be a fountain of knowledge.”

  “Thank you. For everything.”

  Robert leapt off the desk. “I have to go now. The captain has a bellow about him when he’s in a mood.” He winked. “See you later. I will be back, I promise.”

  He strode across the cabin and quickly left her, and she idly twirled a strand of hair with her fingers. He was wonderful. So quick to smile, so very quick to make her feel welcome. He could make her laugh while informing her about awful things.

  She felt a strange heat fill her again. Still, he couldn’t cause her to tremble the way Jarrett McKenzie did with a simple word, a light touch. By a brush of his ebony-dark eyes.

  She clutched her hands together. What had she done? What if McKenzie ever learned the truth?

  The truth … as Clive Carter had cunningly planned for the world to see it.

  Jarrett held his course steady for some time, then Robert returned with a bowl of Nathan’s crawfish stew, and he ate it hungrily while Robert kept them steady on their way, commenting on the dark clouds that had risen on the horizon. They agreed they were in for rough weather.

  They had scarcely spoken the words aloud before the wind picked up in earnest. All hands were summoned on deck to trim the sails as the wind continued to rise, rain lashing down upon them. Again Jarrett took the wheel himself, bracing against the force of the storm. He was standing at the helm, blinking against the drive of the rain when he suddenly felt a presence behind him and turned to discover Tara there, feet planted firmly upon the deck.

  “Get below!” he roared to her.

  “But I can help—” she began.

  “Go below!”

  “I’m a good sailor and I do not like being confined—”

  “Damn!” He swore, absolutely furious with her. With all his strength he could but hold the wheel.

  “Well, do you like being washed overboard?” he demanded angrily.

  “I told you, I’m a good sailor.”

  “Leo! The helm!” he roared above the wind and waves to his first mate, and the second he was relieved, he turned to Tara, sweeping her up, staggering against the wind to return her to his cabin.

  Someone had been busy. The bath was gone, the bunk was made. Last night’s dinners were gone, and someone had brought Tara some crawfish stew. Hers had been served on a silver tray with a white linen napkin and a glass of wine.

  The tray now slid back and forth on his desk. But he did not stare at the tray long.

  There was also a trunk within the room. A familiar one. He forgot the weather, the future—even the woman for a moment—as he stared at the trunk. His new wife. The trunk had belonged to his past wife.…

  He stared from it to Tara. She seemed to move away from him. Almost as if she was afraid of him. He grated down on his jaw, annoyed.

  “Robert brought it,” she said swiftly. “I—I have nothing, you realize. He said that I should use these things.”

  She was dressed as she had been when he had met her. “You haven’t used them,” he said curtly.

  “I—I didn’t know who they belonged to. I didn’t want to use them without asking the woman who owns them.”

  He didn’t quite understand the rush of emotion that swept through him then. The ship was wildly tossing. Tara seemed to weather it well, keeping her balance as she stared at him. Still perfection. And for a moment he hated her. Hated the fact that he had wanted her so desperately from the moment he had seen her. Hated her perfection, her absolute beauty. The very gold of her hair, the softness of her voice.

  Hated the fact that she could make him forget the face of a woman he had loved for more than a decade.…

  “She’s dead,” he grated out. “And you—you must make use of whatever is here. And don’t leave the damned cabin again in this storm, do you understand?”

  “I know something about sailing.”

  “I wish to hell you knew something about obedience!” he snapped. “Don’t come out again!”

  He left her, slamming the cabin door behind him. Or perhaps the wind took it. He exhaled on a long breath, then remembered that they were in danger of being rent asunder, and hurried back to take the wheel while his men finished struggling with the sails.

  It was a fierce storm, made more so by the fact that they were at sea. A Florida storm, he thought, perhaps made wild by that very fact. Warm air and waters met the colder ones coming down from the north. The gales that ensued seemed to rip the very sky. Tonight, as so often in the Tampa area and the center of the territory, lightning slashed across the sky in an almost continual flash of light. Bare seconds passed and thunder rolled, then the sky lit up again. It was beautiful, deadly. The sea churned up beneath it all, and Jarrett clung to the wheel to keep the vessel as steady as possible under the circumstances. His fingers grew numb around the wood but he held on.

  Close to midnight the last streak of lightning flared across the sky. The thunder rumbled and went still. The rain slowed to a drizzle. The sea, which had been a tempest, suddenly became almost dead calm.

  Nathan made coffee, which they spiced heavily with whiskey. Jarrett decided that he would keep the wheel through the night with Leo to spell him, and Robert could take the helm at daybreak. The sky was just becoming pink when he went to his cabin, peeled off his damp clothing, and stared at his wife again.

  Two days. He had been married nearly two days.

  And she had taken her clothing from the trunk. She was not clad in the gown the ship’s crew had bought for their wedding night. She had found the longest, thickest white flannel gown imaginable within the trunk. Jarrett couldn’t remember ever having seen it on Lisa, and decided that Lisa had never worn it.

  Lace from the high neckline rode all the way up her throat. She slept. Demurely.

  But she had to be a fool to think that any amount of encompassing cotton could make her less desirable. Naked, he toweled himself briskly, then whipped up the covers to climb in bed beside her. The mere act made him feel incredibly awake and alive. He deftly slipped a hand down to the hem of the gown, dragging it upward as his fingers stroked her bare flesh. He somehow found a bare breadth of skin at her nape and kissed it. His fingers moved lightly up and down her spine, and she slowly awoke.

  He was weary and in no mood for the fight he had begun that day. His hands slipped firmly around her hips, positioning her. His fingers slid over her buttocks, caught her thighs. With a swift fluid thrust he entered her, and her soft gasp assured him that she had come fully awake. But no protest rose to her lips, and when his climax seemed to skyrocket from him, he felt her body shudder and then ease, even as the afterwaves of his own fierce passions slowly ebbed and the sweet night air cooled his flesh. She didn’t speak, and he felt torn, aware that he should offer some apology for his earlier temper. But the cabin remained dark and shadowed, and his great exhaustion was wearing down on him. He found his eyes closing and sleep claiming him before he could manage to get out his apology.

  Again, he slept very late. When he awoke, it was to the sound of her laughter. Puzzled for a while, he lay there listening. The laughter died away. He drifted off to sleep again, then awoke in something of confused panic. He bolted up, pulled on his breeches only, and came hurrying up on deck. The anchor had been cast. Ted and Nathan were fishing, their lines cast over the starboard side. Staring at the two, Jarrett frowned. He heard a splash from the portside and swiftly spun on his heels to reach the bow.

  Robert stood on deck, staring down into the water. He seemed to be startled when Jarrett called to him.

  “What—”

  “Tara is—”

  “Overboa
rd?” Jarrett demanded in alarm, rushing to the edge of the ship, ready to plummet over himself. His mind did not really register the sight of the hemp ladder thrown over the hull, as if awaiting a visitor from the sea.

  “Swimming!” Robert said quickly. “She said that the water was beautiful and she decided to dive in.”

  “And you just let her?”

  “I didn’t quite know how to stop her!” Robert admitted with both humor and exasperation.

  Jarrett stared out across the water. They were hugging the western coastline of Florida and were not very far off land. The water here in the Gulf of Mexico was exceptionally beautiful, as if the storm had cleansed even it. The sky was powder-blue without a cloud in sight. The sea was azure, the sun golden, and the colors seemed to stretch out for an eternity.

  And there, within the beauty of those fabulous colors, was his wife. He saw only her head for a moment, her hair still golden, even when wet.

  He wondered with a renewed surge of temper just what she was wearing for her dive, but when she twisted as easily in the water as a sea nymph and began to swim with luxuriously slow movements on her back, he saw that she was clad in a narrow pair of breeches Lisa had once made for their treks into the interior and one of his shirts, so oversized on her, it seemed incredible that she could move so fluidly within it.

  Robert, at his side, shrugged. “She told me that it was a beautiful day and that she loved to swim and had seldom seen such inviting water. Before I quite knew what she was up to, she was diving in like a native spear fisherman. She does seem to be quite at home in the water.”

  Jarrett grunted at Robert and dived into the water at last.

  The whole of his body shuddered fiercely at the contact.

  In fact, it seemed that the whole of his body shriveled into nothing!

  Granted, winter was warm here, warm and beautiful. Winter was often the best season, with the dead heat that could come in the summer months tempered and the vicious cold of the north never touching down upon them.

  Still, it was winter. And the water was chilly, with a true bite to it.

  His errant bride did not seem to mind. Indeed, as he surfaced, gasping, still shivering, she was unaware that she had even been followed into the water. Jarrett determined that he would not feel the cold—or that at least he wouldn’t let her know that he was freezing from head to toe. With strong strokes he approached her quickly. She floated serenely on her back.

  He was glad when she floundered for a moment, jerking with surprise at his touch and swallowing a good mouthful of seawater. She gasped and sputtered, then dived to smooth her hair back and met his eyes across the water again, hers taking on its color.

  “You scared the life out of me. I thought you might have been a fish,” she said.

  “What the hell do you think you did to me? And you should be scared. What do you know about these waters? I might have been a big fish. A shark. And just what the hell did you think you were doing, diving in to begin with?”

  He wondered why he couldn’t control his temper with her. He—and his men—dived into these waters constantly, even if it was usually in warmer weather.

  The glittering sunlight reflected on the water and caught within her eyes. He couldn’t read the emotion within them, but she replied evenly enough.

  “I told you before that I could swim.”

  “Ah, yes! Forgive me. That was when I prevented you from pitching into the mud of the Mississippi!”

  She inhaled as she treaded the water, taking her time. “I could see no harm in swimming. I am adept in the water.”

  It was an understatement. Why was he so furious? Because his heart had seemed to catch in his throat when he had heard the splash of water?

  “You frightened me and the whole damned crew. Dear Lord, woman, you just don’t do such things without asking!”

  “But there is only your crew aboard, and you were still sleeping.”

  “You should have waited until I awoke.”

  Somehow she managed to move a subtle distance farther from him in the water. Her eyes were narrowed, brilliant with the sun’s reflections.

  “I didn’t realize that I needed your permission for every move I make.”

  “When it comes to such things, perhaps you should realize it.”

  “And perhaps you should be aware, McKenzie, that you do not own me.”

  “I married you.”

  “It isn’t the same.”

  “You may see it however you wish. I’ll tell you how I view the situation. I found you running, and you promised just about anything in the world to get away. I don’t wish to wake up with fear ripping out my chest because I believe you may be drowning.”

  “But I told you—”

  “Damn it, you could have asked, you could have waited.”

  “Fine!” she snapped after a moment’s charged silence. She swirled cleanly within the water, knifing down hard into the depths, her kick catching him squarely in the jaw. For a moment his head rang.

  She was fast. Almost like lightning. He lost his view of her in the depths. When she surfaced she was nearly at the ship.

  His initial irritation seemed to tear at his insides. She had probably been having a decent morning, and maybe they might have had a chance at civil conversation, if nothing more. But he didn’t seem able to control the demon eating at his insides, and he was determined to prove to her that she could get in trouble, that her behavior could put her into danger. Cold no longer, he followed her across the water, swimming hard. She was still ahead of him, cutting cleanly through the surf, nearly to the hemp ladder when he caught up at last. From beneath her he grabbed an ankle, dragging her down, releasing her quickly so that they came to the surface together once again. This time she faced him with her own anger naked in her eyes.

  “What?” she demanded. “You ordered me not to swim! I am trying to oblige your command!”

  “Don’t do that to me, my love,” he warned her softly. “I’ve warned you not to strike.”

  “I don’t know what you mean!” she protested tensely, but the very slight hesitancy in her words assured him that she knew exactly what she had done, and that she had done it on purpose.

  “I warn you again, lady. Take care with me.” He swam closer to her. She turned, groping for the ladder. Even as she clutched it, his arms came around her.

  His heart started beating like thunder. She paused, biting her lip, furious, he knew. Raw emotions flamed within him again. The cotton shirt stuck to her like a second skin, revealing every nuance of her shape. Every man aboard the Magda would know every tempting curve on her.

  “May I?” she asked tartly, trying to climb the ladder despite the arms that braced her.

  “You’d best,” he said as pleasantly as he could manage.

  She started moving swiftly up the ladder. To Jarrett’s relief Robert was awaiting her there with a blanket and was quick to wrap it around her.

  By the time Jarrett had crawled aboard ship, she had already disappeared. Run back to the cabin, he imagined.

  He didn’t follow her. He dripped upon the deck, shivering in the breeze-cooled air.

  “Want a blanket too?” Robert asked politely.

  “Coffee, scalding!” Jarrett said, and turned to head for the helm, where Nathan was at the wheel. He stared out at the shoreline, at the dense green brush, at the white sands that jutted out here and there.

  Leo brought coffee. Jarrett drank it quickly, hot though it was. The chill he had been feeling ebbed away as he drank, his flesh drying in the warm sun, his breeches remaining damp.

  “I’ll take the helm,” he told Nathan. It would be a good place to dry, he thought.

  Cool his temper, heat his flesh.

  There was little he loved more than sailing, especially with the crew that had been with him for years now. They were fiercely loyal, totally competent, and like a group of chameleons, ready to don whatever colors were needed for the current job. They all made the New Orleans tr
ip about three times a year, and they all also traveled on the annual London trip, for Jarrett’s holdings were extensive, and he was managing to grow cotton very well now along with the sugarcane staple. He owned large grazing lands too, with plenty of cattle. There were chickens on the property as well, hogs for pork and bacon, and he had a stable filled with beautiful horses. Upon occasion they raced, and he had become interested in the breeding of the beautiful creatures, and discovered that there was a great deal of money to be made in their sale. To the north and just abutting the land where he had built his house, he owned salt marshes, and they were contributing heavily to the fortune he had been steadily accruing over the years.

  Sometimes it seemed strange indeed that he was doing so well. His father had been a man of means who had chosen to lead a life in the wilderness. Like him Jarrett had set out not so much to make a fortune as to wrest a place for himself, and Lisa, from the wilderness. The adventure had beckoned to him, the rawness, the newness. The quality of Eden. Still, there had been some hard times at first, days when they had slept in the woods while building the house, days when they had wondered if they could make a go of the crops. Now those days were long past. But Lisa, who had believed in his dreams even when the heat had sweated them out of him, was gone as well. Without her the land was all that was left, the dream of Florida. One day, he was certain, it would become a state. An important part of America. He wanted to see that day. But he wanted to see the territory at peace as well. He wanted the whites to learn to live with the Seminoles, he wanted the military to learn to live with the civilian population. It was going to be a long haul. His part of it all began at his home.

  When he and his men were not at sea, they all had their functions on Jarrett’s various land holdings. In their absence the household was run by Jeeves, a tall man of African and Indian ancestry, black as ebony, strong as an ox, a man who had acquired a cultured Brahman accent while working for a senator in Boston. Jeeves was a free man, paid highly for his services, and yet he had been with Jarrett so long that he seemed like a member of the family.

  Jeeves himself seemed to be color blind. He directed the household and plantation servants—Indian, African, American, Irish, English, Spanish, Haitian, and Creole—with dignity and authority. Jarrett had a natural curiosity about people, and in his traveling, when he had come across the right person for a certain position at Cimarron, he had hired that man or woman on. He also had a tendency to collect lost souls. Two of his upstairs maids were Irish lasses who had lost their parents to the sea on their journey to the States and wound up orphaned and penniless on the streets of Charleston. Many half-breed Indians, some lost in both worlds, had come to him for work. Sometimes, especially for those men working for him in the fields, the pay was small. But in compensation they all had their little bits of land to till, and they had freedom. Jarrett didn’t judge for other men, but in his own mind slavery was wrong. He had learned at an early age that a man couldn’t be judged by his color, and he had been privileged to see that men of the greatest integrity might be either full-blooded American Indians or Africans of the deepest ebony hue. The one thing that should never be stripped from any man was his dignity, and no matter how good a master might be, owning a man, taking away his free right to live and breathe and pursue his own dream, surely stripped away his dignity. Cimarron had proven to him that he could survive without slaves, and he meant to do so until his dying day.