Runaway

by Heather Graham

  “Thank you, Jeeves,” Tara told him.

  “She’d like a hot bath,” Jarrett said, shrugging with a smile to his main servant.

  “Well, sir, I did imagine that she might, and since you had sent word when you’d be coming, I did take the liberty of arranging the tub. It rests in your room, sir, half filled with steaming water, while more hot water awaits in the kettles above the hearth.”

  “Thank you, Jeeves,” Tara said, surprising him with a hug as she walked by him. Was such a thing done here? She didn’t really care. “Thank you.” She left them all behind, running up the back porch steps, bursting into the house.

  She paused for a moment, swirling around the elegant breezeway, glad to have reached it again.

  Home.

  She took the steps two at a time, marveling at how the world had changed since she had been here last. Upstairs she burst into Jarrett’s room—their room—and found that the tub was indeed waiting, that extra water was simmering above the fire.

  Yet, for a moment, she paused. She trembled, thinking that she was suddenly absurdly happy to be here. Perhaps Jarrett didn’t really love her, but perhaps, as Naomi said, he was pleased enough with her. Cimarron was beautiful. This room, even with its masculine feel, was warm and inviting. She had been so comfortable on the bed.

  She had lain awake so many nights in it, thinking about him. Tormenting herself.

  Perhaps in time …

  Yet she clenched her hands into fists at her sides, wishing suddenly that there were no more secrets in her own life. If only the truth were out.

  But had the truth been told, she might never have come here. And no matter how it burned within her heart, she still couldn’t chance any confessions to Jarrett.

  She closed her eyes tightly for a moment. She had to pray that she could eventually find out about William. And she had to believe that he was safe, much safer with her far, far away!

  Her bath waited, a cloud of steam rising above it.

  She stripped quickly, poured in the rest of the water, and sank into the tub. It had been scented with roses. A sweet-smelling soap awaited her and a lush fluffy towel lay across the rocker that sat by the tub. She swept up her hair and plunged in. Pure bliss. She sat there, feeling the delicious heat sink into her body. She laid her head back on the rim of the tub and closed her eyes. She had to forget her own past, put it behind her.

  Far behind her.

  She opened her eyes, frowning slightly. Then she saw that Jarrett had entered the room with his silent tread and now sat in the rocker by the tub, hands folded idly before him, watching her. A swift shaft of trembling danced its way through her spine. She knew that brooding, curious look in his eyes. Knew the tension in his bronzed, handsome features. Knew the sun-darkened hands and fingers that folded and unfolded now as he watched. Knew so much of him so well.

  Loved so very much about him.

  And now she also knew how he had learned to move so silently!

  “You might have knocked,” she remonstrated softly.

  He lifted his hands. “But I live here. It’s my room. And you’re my wife.”

  It was quite an opening for an argument, but she wasn’t ready to give him one. She smiled slightly, her lashes falling over her eyes. “I didn’t really expect you to knock,” she admitted. “I know you too well.”

  Too well, and too little still!

  Yet it didn’t surprise her when he knelt by the side of the tub, leaning his arms upon it as his fingers played in her water. “You know all my deep, dark secrets now,” he said, his tone casual.

  “All of them?” she murmured.

  “All of them. So I thought, perhaps, you might want to share a few of yours.”

  The water seemed to cool. She felt as if clouds were falling over her eyes.

  “I—I can’t!” she whispered.

  “Tara …”

  “Jarrett, I swear to you—”

  “Why do you dream about William?”

  “He is safe!” she murmured.

  “Where?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “He is safe while I’m far away.”

  “Tara …”

  “Please, I have sworn to you that I am innocent!”

  “But of what?” he demanded, frustrated. “I still know nothing about you. In hours you can stitch together amazing creations; you tell me that you’ve had blisters before. I found you in a tavern that was all but a whorehouse, and yet you were as innocent as a newborn. Your manners are impeccable, and your speech is perfect. No one seems to be able to glean the slightest accent from it. I don’t know if you were born the greatest lady or a street urchin.”

  “You said that it didn’t matter!” she whispered fervently.

  “It doesn’t,” he said passionately. “We can’t forget that this is a new world, that we’ve fought a revolution to be free, and in that new world this is surely one of the wildest of wildernesses. What counts here is not birth, but spirit and courage, and those virtues are yours in abundance. But, Tara—”

  She felt her lip trembling, felt herself grow colder and colder. “Jarrett, you have promised me that you would ask no more questions!”

  His eyes were ebony, yet tonight she could read the emotion in them, the fire. Once again he wanted answers.

  “Tara, I need the damned truth!”

  “You have promised!”

  He locked his teeth together, sighing. In this it seemed that he must admit defeat—he could not deny his promise.

  “Jarrett, please …”

  “Yes, yes! I have made idiotic promises! Never mind!” he said, a finger beneath her chin as he lifted it so that she met his eyes again. “Never mind! I hate to see you tremble so, hate that look in your eyes. I’ll not plague you with questions. Not now.”

  “Thank you!” she said softly.

  “But I do ask something of you.”

  “What?”

  “That we try.”

  “We try?”

  He nodded gravely. “I want—my wife.”

  She shook her head, not understanding exactly what he meant. “I don’t know what—–”

  “I want a promise from you. That you’ll never try to run again.”

  “I wasn’t trying to run. I told you that.”

  “Ah, yes! You were only trying to reach Robert!”

  “For answers!”

  “Oh,” he murmured, his forefinger stroking her chin. “I want—my wife,” he repeated.

  She felt the start of a very different trembling, deep inside her. Warm. Molten. “But,” she breathed, “you have … everything that you want.”

  “Indeed, I have what I can take. I want what you are willing to give.”

  Her brow knit in perplexity. “But … I have given you everything that I know to give!”

  “That could be argued,” he said with a half smile.

  “Jarrett …”

  “In some ways you have given me everything. I simply hope that nothing of it was … begrudged, or in payment?”

  She felt a flush cover her cheeks. “There’s nothing I have begrudged you!” she assured him. “I am glad to be here.”

  “Here? In this wild territory? With the alligators and snakes—and savages?”

  She smiled and nodded. “In this savage wilderness. With the alligators and snakes. And all the savages. Including you.”

  He was silent and a moment’s panic seized her. Had she given too much, too quickly? She mustn’t forget that he still loved Lisa in his heart, that she …

  She filled a void. Perhaps she even filled it well.

  “Jarrett …”

  But he was off his knees. And she suddenly found herself lifted, sweet-scented water sluicing down her breasts, between her thighs. She was swept up, brought to the bed.

  His kiss never touched her lips. Never set down upon any spot of her body than that which was most achingly intimate. He laved her mercilessly. Seduced and aroused her until she was all but frantic, crying out. Crying h
is name. Gasping, pleading …

  He didn’t take time to disrobe. Still clad except for the most essential area, he was suddenly within her. She soared and shrieked into a wild, convulsive climax, then lay shivering and benumbed by the force of it. Moments later she was most tenderly held in his arms.

  “Your bath has probably grown cold,” he told her. “And it was what you wanted most.”

  “It’s—all right.”

  “We’ll heat more water.”

  She curled against him, her face rubbing the cotton fabric of his shirt.

  “We will manage this!” he said suddenly, intensely. She didn’t know quite what it was that they were going to manage, be it the tempestuous state of their lives in this wilderness, or that of their marriage.

  She didn’t want to know, not at that moment. She lay curled at his side, just glad to feel his warmth and strength.

  And his tenderness.

  Yet suddenly, even as she lay there, longing for nothing more than that tenderness to continue, she found herself whispering a soft question.

  “Jarrett?”

  “Umm?”

  “What was she like?”

  She felt him stiffen. “Who?”

  “Lisa.”

  “For God’s sake, Tara …”

  “Please, Jarrett, I’d just like to know something about her.”

  He was silent so long, she was afraid he wasn’t going to reply. And she bit her lower lip, wishing she had never asked the question.

  “Confident,” he said after a moment. “I met her when I was very young, and she was even younger. She was born in St. Augustine. Her father had grown very wealthy in the fur trade with the Indians and she had traveled with him frequently through the peninsula. She was adventurous, soft spoken, very sweet. She loved Florida, she was an avid historian about the territory, just like Robert. She envisioned the future, certain that Florida would become a state. She always had faith that the Indian problems could be solved.” He hesitated a moment. “She could also be very stubborn,” he said softly. “We had waited forever for children, and we both wanted the baby very badly. She should never have risked the ride to my brother’s home.”

  He fell silent and remained silent. She’d had something of him, something from him—an intimacy, Tara thought, something that she could almost really hold close and cherish—she had it for a few moments. But she’d lost it. Because she couldn’t keep silent. She couldn’t let poor Lisa stay buried.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly after a moment.

  He rose suddenly and she was afraid that she had lost him more thoroughly than she had realized. She closed her eyes, once again wishing she had kept silent.

  She was startled when he suddenly lay down beside her again, his clothing now shed. He pulled her closely against him, his hold intimate and secure. “It’s late,” he said. And that was all.

  But it didn’t really matter. His touch was tender. A sense of peace seemed to settle over her. She was content because he was beside her again. Holding her through the darkness of the night.

  It was a good start on the future.

  PART THREE

  Destiny

  So It Comes Full Circle

  Chapter 17

  In later days Tara would think of the time when they first came back to Cimarron as pure magic. The nights they dined together, and the days she rode with him, learning more about the plantation.

  She had taken to bringing flowers down to the graveyard, and though Jarrett was aware of her activity, he said nothing about it.

  Sometimes she caught him watching her, and she knew that he was brooding about the questions that remained unanswered between them. Yet she also thought that he was biding his time, and that when he thought the right moment had come, he would demand answers. She was certain that he hoped she would volunteer to tell him the truth.

  The whole truth.

  The longer they were together, the more she did want to talk to him. But equally strong was her desire not to let anything touch this sweet time of peace between them, and she remained afraid to speak.

  He was pleased with her, pleased with their marriage. He was quick to say that he wanted her, quick to be passionate, even quick to be tender. But he had never whispered a word of love, and so she held to her own reserve as well.

  Yet the days maintained their elusive magic.

  One day she learned how to take the trail to Robert’s house. Jarrett mentioned that he had business with Robert and asked her if she wanted to come with him for the ride.

  Wild Oak, as Robert called his home, was smaller than Cimarron. It had no front porch, but a sweeping wide verandah in back, fewer columns, but lots of handsome red brick decoration. Like Cimarron the house had been planned around a central hall or breezeway. The kitchen was attached to the house by a covered walk as well, and the downstairs of the house had four main rooms, a solar, as Robert called it, with large windows that opened to the east and caught the rising sun, the dining room, a drawing room, and last, in Robert’s tour of the downstairs, a room that took Tara’s breath away as he threw open the door for her. It was one of the largest libraries she had ever seen.

  “Oh!” she cried with delight, leaving Jarrett and Robert behind to walk into the center of the room and just spin slowly around, looking at the three walls, with their floor-to-ceiling shelves of books. Robert had everything. French plays, Italian works. Operas. Defoe, Bacon, Shakespeare, Molière. He had a section of political works by American authors, Jefferson, Adams, Madison, Franklin. He had a section on New England, with volumes on the unhappy persecution of the so-called witches at Salem, works on the subject by current scholars, by Cotton Mather and Increase Mather. He had shelves of fiction, and shelves of nonfiction and all sizes and shapes and manner of pamphlets and documents.

  She turned to the doorway where Robert and Jarrett waited. Jarrett watched her with an arched brow; Robert smiled broadly, as if he had anticipated her appreciation and was glad of it.

  “You’ve nearly everything,” she marveled to Robert.

  He followed her into the room, pointing to the rows of fiction. “There are some wonderful books in there, stories of adventure and romance. Pirates’ glory and days of yore!” he told her. He turned back to Jarrett. “I think we can leave her here happily exploring while we talk about produce, orders, and shipment schedules.”

  But Jarrett walked on into the room, approaching one of the shelves and drawing out a log bound in leather. He brought it to a large oak desk in the center of the room, beckoning to Tara as he opened it. On one side of the first sheet was a beautiful watercolor, a river scene, with moss-draped oaks falling over the water. She could see just such a picture almost daily by looking out to the river from the house. On the reverse side, fastidiously handprinted, was an enumeration of the landscape features in the picture.

  Tara looked at Jarrett, and he turned to another page. This one was a watercolor of scrub country.

  “These are beautiful,” she murmured.

  “Tell her about them, Robert,” Jarrett said.

  “I’m sure she’d like to browse the shelves,” Robert told him.

  Tara stared at him. “Did you do these?” she asked him.

  He shrugged and came forward, pointing to the painting she had in front of her. “They show the countryside,” he told her. “Our countryside. This is scrub and high pine country, we’ve much of it around us. There are high pine trees, sand pines, evergreen oaks, or Florida rosemary. The soil is fairly poor for growing, but even in our wilds some of the flora and fauna are very rare. There’s plenty of wildlife, the gopher tortoise, raccoon, spotted skunk, gray fox, white-tailed deer, Florida black bear, bobwhite quail, red-cockaded woodpecker, and more.” He turned a page. Another beautiful painting appeared, as clearly and neatly documented. “Swampland again, there is plenty near us. Cypress often dominates the swampland, with a multitude of fish, birds, small mammals. And the gator, of course.” He turned another page. “This shows
the marshland, and this”—another page—“the flatwoods and dry prairies.” He became enthusiastic as he spoke. “Freshwater springs and some of the rockland down in the tip of the peninsula.”

  “These are beautiful, fascinating,” Tara murmured. She began turning pages herself, and now came upon sketches, pen-and-ink drawings, and more paintings of birds and animals in their habitats. She looked at Robert.

  “I did some traveling with Jarrett and Mr. Audubon when he was here, and I learned a great deal from him.”

  “These must be published.”

  “Oh, yes, I imagine. One day.”

  She turned a page again. There was a picture of one of the old Spanish missions, and the text beside it described the Spanish efforts to Christianize the Indians in the early days after their initial discovery of Florida.

  “Things were difficult even then,” Robert murmured. “The Spanish soldiers never did really well with the natives, as you might recall from our discussion about Juan Ortiz.” He smiled at her. “The first missionary to come to Florida was Cancer de Barbastro, and he brought others with him. The king of Spain was glad, for he said that the early explorers had been four tyrants, they had done mischief, and now it was time to send priests! Cancer sent some men in and they were captured by the Indians. He raised a cross above his head and tried to go in himself.”

  “And?” Tara inquired.

  Robert shrugged. “The Indians struck him down as well.”

  “Robert, you are being extremely helpful in convincing Tara that this is a beautiful paradise, a wonderful place in which to live,” Jarrett commented dryly.

  Robert shrugged to Tara. “Well, they were different Indians, you know. Only the remnants of the old tribes remain. The Spaniards kept sending their missionaries.”

  “Yes,” Jarrett agreed dryly. “The priests in Havana learned Indian languages from captives taken in Florida. A priest named Father Corpa taught at a mission in northern Florida and one day made the mistake of scolding a son of the local chief. While at prayer poor Father Corpa was slain, and the chiefs son and his friends then went from mission to mission, killing the priests.”