The Color of Ivy

by Peggy Ann Craig

  Sam spoke for the first time since they headed out. “We’ll make camp here.”

  “There’s no shelter.”

  He ignored her, instead concentrated on gathering wood. Ivy slumped down on the ground, careless of where she landed. She was far too tired to care. What she needed was to get off her feet and fast. She would have given anything to reach down and rub her bad ankle. If she survived this ordeal, she knew somehow her leg would never be the same again.

  “I’m going to go look for kindling wood,” he said, then bore his steely gaze into her face. “Don’t move. I won’t be so accommodating in assisting you off any ravine ledges this time.”

  “Why didn’t ye just leave me be?”

  His eyes darkened, but only repeated, “Don’t move.”

  He was gone before she could reply. Not that she would have. The only thing she wanted at that moment was to lie down. Even on a hard filthy ground as the one she placed her head upon.

  The forest was quiet. Almost tranquil like. The stillness had a comforting effect on Ivy. She fought it, but she felt her lids slide shut. It was so welcoming, she couldn’t resist any longer if she tried. How long she lay like that, she was not certain. But when she heard a twig snap at Sam’s return, she opened her eyes and sat up.

  To her surprise, it was complete darkness. She must have dozed off after all, without even realizing it. Turning her head, she looked into the shadows for Sam, wondering if he was having a difficult time finding his way back in the dark. It crossed her mind temporarily to remain silent. Let him get lost in the blackened woods. But conscience won out and she opened her mouth to call out to him when she heard something that silenced her swiftly.

  An animal snarled, not more than ten yards away. Alarm soared in her brain, sending all kinds of signals throughout her body. Not the least of all, the one heading straight to her stomach. Sucking in a swift gasp, she tried to remain calm, still, but she was to discover a far worse fear. Somewhere to her left, she heard a second snarl.

  Wolves.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God!

  Ivy scrambled backwards in the dark on her behind, trying desperately to put some distance between her and the savage creatures. Fear sealed her throat closed, preventing her from screaming out to Sam. Then a third snarl came from somewhere directly behind her.

  This time Ivy did scream. Spinning around, she faced the blackness unable to see her attackers. “Go away!”

  “Ivy?” She heard Sam running in the woods toward her, obviously alerted by her scream.

  She could have cried. Never had she been so happy to hear Sam’s voice.

  “Wolves!”

  The moment the word wrenched from her throat, the snarls turned to vicious growls. Then the sound of underbrush being trampled as several animals made their way through it. Toward Sam. Ivy screamed again.

  A shot rang out in the night. Then another.

  The sound of a wolf’s deep guttural snarl filled the forest. An image of Sam being mauled by the animal filled her mind.

  “Sam!”

  There was a horrible, deathlike sound of an animal lunging into the night and killing its prey. Tears welled in Ivy’s eyes.

  “Sam!” she shouted again. Why wouldn’t he answer?

  A third shot lit up the forest and for the briefest moment Ivy saw him. His tall frame silhouetted in the darkness. Huge and powerful.

  Scrambling to her feet, she ran in his direction. Crying hard now, she stumbled over uprooted trees and called out his name again.

  “Over here.”

  Arms reached out and grabbed her just as she would have fallen yet again. With a cry, she collapsed against his chest. “I thought they killed ye.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation before his arms came tentatively around her. They felt like bliss. Never before had she ever felt so safe in a man’s arms. It only made the tears fall harder.

  “Hey,” he said awkwardly, giving her shoulders a pat. “It’s all right. They’re dead.”

  “I thought it was ye.” She pulled herself away from his body, trying unsuccessfully to stop the flow of tears. “If ye hadn’t come—“

  ”Oh Jeez,” he muttered noticing her tears, then without warning, reached for her and pulled her back into his arms. “Stop crying, Ivy. Please. Just stop crying.”

  “I-I’m sorry.” She choked back a sob, fighting to stem the flow. Automatically, she reached up to rub away the tears. In her terror, she had completely forgotten the ropes secured around her upper body. But as her arms came up, she inadvertently pulled on the noose around her neck. The rope fastened around her throat in a matter of seconds. She was stunned at how fast it worked.

  The air in her lungs rushed out of her throat, sounding like a low train whistle in the distance, as it passed by her constricted throat. Ivy gasped hard, trying to suck in air. It was useless. Fear soared to life.

  With her wrists still bound together, she was unable to reach her throat and loosen the noose. Terrified and gasping for breath, she thrashed violently about trying to free herself. And only resulted in tightening the noose.

  “Hold still!” Sam barked as he tried to hold her flailing body.

  But Ivy only lurched against him wildly, trying to escape the choking grip on her throat, her breath wheezing sickly past her lips.

  “Dammit, hold still!”

  The next thing she knew, she was trapped within an iron-like embrace. Something cold and sharp pressed against her throat, then the next moment the noose around her throat was gone. Ivy tried to suck in a huge gulp of air, but her throat still refused to open.

  “Christ.” She heard Sam mutter somewhere next to her. “Are you all right? Can you breathe?”

  At last, her throat opened and Ivy sucked in a long, raspy breath.

  “Ivy?”

  She felt his hands on her and thought she detected a trace of fear in his voice. Perhaps a bit of concern.

  “Speak to me, Ivy.”

  “I-I’m f-fine.” Tears stung the back of her eyes as she tried to control the sudden wave of trembles over her body. Then she was back in his arms. He pressed her so hard against him, she could literally hear his heart rate beneath her ear. It startled her to realize just how fast it was beating.

  At last he pushed her away and propelled her back to the fire. “Sit down, Ivy. I’ll get a fire started and get you warmed up.”

  She would have rather he held her a bit longer. But since that was so uncharacteristic of her, she forced the thought aside and concentrated instead on calming her frenzied nerves. She was trembling so terrible, no matter how hard she tried; she was unable to control the shakes. Sam moved quickly near her, putting a fire together. When the first flick of his match lit up the dark night, Ivy felt the first inkling of comfort. The black forest felt like a fortress closing in around her.

  Pulling her knees close, she automatically reached down and rubbed her ankle. With the fire now lit, Sam came close and kneeled in front of her.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded vaguely, hating the sudden urge to cry. He stared at her for a long time, but, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice. Pushing himself up into a standing position, he turned to leave. “I’ve got to get rid of the wolves or we’ll attract other scavengers tonight.”

  Ivy watched him disappear behind the thick underbrush. She shivered and drew her cloak closer. The only lighting in the dark night was the tiny glow of the fire. Though she couldn’t see him, she could hear Sam dragging the animals through the bush, the sound becoming distant until it faded altogether. Once again, Ivy was all alone.

  Her eyes peered into the black forest, fearful of other creatures waiting just beyond the camp perimeter, watching her with their beady eyes. Hunger gnawing their empty stomachs. A wave of fear slithered up her spine, growing with every minute Sam was away from camp. When she heard the first rustle of bush her heart nearly stopped beating altogether until he emerged from the darkness.

  A rush of relief flooded her body
in the form of one huge tremble. She closed her eyes, trying to still the emotion.

  “Ivy?”

  He knelt down in front of her again, his eyes looking at her with such concern. For some reason, it caused her chest to hurt.

  “Lift your chin.” In the palm of his hand, he held his hat upside down. Inside was some type of poultice.

  Ivy complied. “What’s that?”

  He placed the mixture against her neck where the rope had left a nasty burn. She couldn’t see it, but she could definitely feel it. She flinched, though truthfully, more from the touch of his hands against her skin than from the poultice against her open wound. His eyes drifted to her face. Shadows of the night danced across his features and cast his eyes into darkness. For some reason, Ivy wanted very much to see those hazel eyes.

  “It’ll help the wound,” he told her. “Hold out your wrists.”

  Again she did as he asked. He ministered to the rope burns on her wrists as well and Ivy felt tears sting the back of her eyes. Not from the healing bite of the medicine, but from the soft and tenderness of his touch, so unlike any man’s she had ever felt before.

  “How’s your ankle?”

  Startled, she shook her head before she had a chance to stop herself.

  He didn’t say anything immediately, instead concentrated on applying the herbal concoction to her open cuts. Then he asked in a low voice, “How did it happen?”

  She knew his question referred to the origin of her ankle’s injury rather than the evening’s events. He had asked once before and she had ignored him. For so long she had hidden the injury she had endured as a child, ashamed by those memories. Yet, sitting there with him as he mended her injuries, she heard the words pass her lips, “I fell down a flight of stairs.”

  He looked up, a frown noticeable even in the darkness. “Didn’t you have it set?”

  Ivy paused, weighing her next words. Not sure how much she wanted to tell. “No.”

  His hands paused. “Why not?”

  She studied his neckline, the fire cast dancing shadows across his unshaved jaw. “It wasn’t an accident.”

  The silence that followed lasted far longer than she preferred. She inwardly sighed with relief when he returned to his task and believed the topic dropped. But then, “You were pushed.”

  Since it wasn’t a question, she didn’t bother responding. Which she was glad. She hated thinking about the past, let alone talking about it. More silence fell between them.

  Then he asked, “How did you get those scars on your back?”

  Ivy felt her cheeks burn with humiliation. Not only because of the fact he was the only person who had ever seen those scars, but also from the matter in which he had seen them. Thoughts of her lying naked in his arms, left her feeling very uncomfortable. She shifted away from him.

  He dropped his hands, but did not otherwise move. “Prison?”

  “No!” she blurted out before she could bite her tongue. Then sighed and automatically rubbed her raw wrists. “I’ve never been to prison.”

  She was uncertain how this bit of information was received since he remained still in the darkness. When at last he spoke, his voice was flat. “I find that hard to believe. The way you were able to free yourself from those handcuffs as well as my restraints, and those scars on your back say otherwise.”

  Ivy stared into the flames as they burned hotter. Unwillingly, images from the past flooded back to mind. “There are other kinds of prisons, Mr. Michalski.”

  Again he fell silent. Ivy could not bear to look him in the face. Her past was by far too humiliating. If anyone ever suspected what she and Moira had endured, she would rather bury herself alive than face their disgust.

  Then out of the silence, he asked unexpectedly, “Why did you do it, Ivy? Why did you kill that man?”

  Chapter 8

  Sam studied her expression, waiting for revealing signs. He was not disappointed. Her chin shot up, a frown etched across her innocent face. How he hated the act. Almost resented it. He knew her next words would be of denial. Not that he would have believed them. Long before her, he had become immune to such pleas. Particularly from a female.

  “Don’t bother denying it. There’s an eyewitness to the murder.”

  He wished the lighting was better so he could read her eyes. But as it was, she dropped her chin again and cast her eyes into darkness. He supposed it was smart of her to remain silent. Anything she said, she knew could be held against her in court.

  But Sam needed to know.

  “Did he put those scars on your back?”

  For several minutes he didn’t think she was going to answer. Then at last she offered one single word. “No.”

  He waited for her to continue, hoping for her to continue. But she remained silent. Simply sat shivering and staring into the fire. So small and frail. Not the image one associated with a heartless criminal.

  He knew he was treading on dangerous ground. Knew he was falling for her innocent act. Perhaps that was why he needed to understand her reasons for ruthlessly killing a man in cold blood. He was growing soft.

  With a thrust, he pushed himself away from her and moved to the other side of the fire. He knew better than to let a woman get to him. What he should have done was remain distant as he planned from the beginning. But that was before he held her soft body in his arms, saw the ugly evidence of abuse on her back. He cursed silently at the fierce shock of rage he felt for that man, any man, laying his hands on her.

  If her act of murder was triggered by the abuse at the hands of her victim, he would have almost have applauded her crime. But she had denied it. And he believed her. It would be too easy for her to agree killing the man was based on self-defense. It might be difficult to prove in a court of law seeing that her victim was the son of an influential and respected gentleman, but the evidence on her back would have been enough to provide reasonable doubt.

  But, oddly and more importantly, Sam needed this, wanted it. Otherwise, he was left with no other conclusion. Ivy McGregor was a cold-blooded killer.

  * * *

  Ivy gave her neck a tentative touch. She could feel the raw skin where the rope burned into her flesh. A chilly foreshadow to the fate awaiting her in Chicago.

  “Is it still sore?”

  She glanced up, her hand stilling automatically, before she dropped it in her lap. “Fine.”

  “The poultice should start healing it soon,” he told her as he poked the fire with a long thin stick. “The pain should eventually ease.”

  She was already beginning to feel their effects. “How did ye know about the plants?”

  “I’ve done a lot of tracking. Getting familiar with the outdoors was mandatory if I wanted to survive.”

  “Have ye always done this? I mean, have ye—have ye always—ye know—“

  One brow arched as he offered, “Been a bounty hunter?”

  She nodded and drew her cloak closer. “Aye.”

  “Not always. I had my share of worthless jobs. Not as profitable or satisfying.”

  A chill rippled across Ivy’s body at his cold choice of words. It bothered her to realize that Sam would find satisfaction in watching her hang. She watched as he used a knife from his boot to slice open the dead carcass he had killed for their meal. He did it without pause. “How many men have ye killed?”

  He glanced her way momentarily. “More than I should have.”

  Ivy frowned and shivered some more. As she watched him slice open the animal and peel back its skin, she quietly asked, “And women?”

  This made him pause. “Less than I should have.”

  Was she the one meant to rectify that ratio? “Why is that?”

  She didn’t think he was going to answer. He cut up the carcass and impaled individual pieces of raw meat onto some twigs he had gathered before laying them over the fire. Then he turned and sat opposite her on the other side of the fire pit.

  “I made the mistake of believing a woman’s lies. It cost the life
of an innocent man. And his family.” The last part he added quietly, but more savagely. “I’m not about to make the same mistake again.”

  His eyes bore across at Ivy and she knew he was speaking directly of her. For some reason, she hated the fact he compared her to this other woman. “I haven’t lied to ye, Mr. Michalski.”

  “No?” He sat back against a tree bark. “How many men have you killed, Ms. McGregor?”

  She thought about his question. An image from her past came to mind. The faces of the Earl of Wittfield and his despicable son haunted her thoughts. And always would. Vile filled her gut.

  Glancing over at Sam, she offered back his own choice of words. “Less than I should’ve.”

  He actually smirked, though his voice sounded far from humorous. “Was it jealousy then?”

  “What?”

  “The reason why you beat Philip Hendrickson to the point his face had literally collapsed? Were you jealous? That’s the motive the prosecutors are using to pin you with his murder. According to them, you allegedly discovered Mr. Hendrickson had taken a new lover and lashed out in a fit of jealousy.”

  Ivy flinched at Sam’s vulgar description of Phillip Hendrickson’s death. Staring at him, she weighed her next words before finally saying. “Jealousy is a poisonous emotion, Mr. Michalski.”

  “With deadly consequences?”

  Ivy met his fixed stare across the flames. His eyes held such a coldness to them. A heaviness passed over Ivy’s heart. Dropping her gaze, she muttered, “I suppose.”

  His jaw tightened and the vein in his temple flexed as he clenched his jaw before asking, “Were you his lover?”

  Was she imagining the sharpness to his voice? Ivy frowned and thought of Philip Hendrickson. As always, disgust filled her stomach. Not even his death could lessen her revulsion.

  Ivy shook her head. “No.”

  Knowing she was the recipient of so much hatred from the man across the fire, she could not bring herself to meet his gaze again. Instead, she focused on her hands and the marks on her wrists from the rope.

  “So, if you did not kill him out of jealousy and you did not kill him out of self-defense,” Sam asked, his voice sounding as if he were controlling some kind of emotion. “Why did you kill him?”