The odds suddenly shifting, Fargo leaped to his feet and ran for his horse. He never looked back to see if Peter was dead or alive.
Brushing himself off, Jason rose to his feet. Fargo was already gone. There was no sense in giving chase. Jason knew what the two men had been after. Krystyna. Stunned, he looked in her direction. His brush with death had made all his senses acute.
She stood before him, the musket still in hand, temporarily useless. This woman he had rescued was becoming an endless source of amazement to him.
"My God, what else can you do?"
She didn't seem to hear his question. Fear had seized her when she'd seen Peter raise the knife. She'd been certain that in another instant, Jason would be killed. Instinct had taken over, and she hardly remembered raising the musket to her shoulder.
Krystyna came to his side. There was concern on her face as she looked him over. "Did they hurt you?"
He shook his head, still amazed. "No. Fortunately for me you got off that lucky shot."
He would think that, she thought, annoyance taking the place of concern. "The only part that was lucky was your leaving the weapon within my reach —and that it was loaded." She stood over the dead man. A look of satisfaction came over her face as she looked down at the still form. In death, the man looked like the devil himself. "My father is partially avenged."
Jason came up behind her. What manner of woman was she? "Partially?"
She turned slightly to face him. "Someone had my father killed. He will not be avenged completely until that man is made to pay."
She sounds more like a warrior than a woman, he thought. What sort of country breeds women like this? He looked at her closely. "Krys, just who are you, and why would someone want to have your father killed?"
She raised her chin. She could not deny that something within her wanted to trust him, to share her burden and seek strength from somewhere other than inside herself. But she couldn't risk it. She was alone, and she would have to make the best of it.
"That I cannot tell you." With the dignity bred to her, Krystyna walked away from the dead man.
"All right," Jason conceded as he followed her to the blanket. "Then tell me where you learned to shoot a gun like that."
Her smile was sad as she fondly remembered the lessons. "My father had no sons. He wanted them desperately, and I desperately wanted to please my father. That is why I learned to ride a horse and shoot a musket, so I could go with him when he went hunting. I wanted him to be proud of me. He was," she added softly, saying the words to herself. There was no comfort to be found there. Only dreadful loneliness.
Abruptly, she stopped and looked at Jason. "We are even now," she told him solemnly.
He wondered if saving his life had only meant the repayment of a debt to her and nothing more. The thought made him angry, though he didn't know exactly why. "Listen, Princess, about what happened before . . ."
Krystyna's face hardened. All traces of the radiant smile disappeared. "Can we go now, please?" She didn't want to hear any apologies, and she didn't want to remember what his arms had felt like around her. This was not a time for such thoughts. She had to think of surviving, of what she was to do next. Passions stirred on a star-filled night had no place in her plans. Now or, it seemed, ever.
"Sure." Annoyed, Jason yanked the blanket from the ground. He didn't bother trying to roll it up. Instead, he stuffed it into a huge wad. "Let's go."
As he went to get his horse, Jason thought that there was nothing about the person walking next to him to suggest the passionate woman he had held in his arms a short while ago.
Chapter Seven
Jason and Krystyna didn't reach Smoke Tree until dusk of the following day. Given all that she had seen, the tavern, the people, the way they dressed, Krystyna had expected nothing more than she had already experienced. The thought of anything elegant existing in this rough-hewed land had not even entered her head. She was unprepared for the sight of the huge, three-story, white frame building with its opulent doric columns and sprawling three-sided veranda.
Awkwardly, she turned in the saddle, looking at Jason, a question in her eyes. "This is yours?" Despite the fact that she was weary, her eyes were wide with wonder.
"In part, yes."
Her inquiry brought a smile to his lips. It was the first full sentence she had uttered since they had left Peter's uncovered body behind them early that morning. They had shared food, water, and the journey, but all in relative silence. He had heard nothing from her beyond, "Thank you."
"It is my father's," he told her, sliding off his horse. "But someday," he firmly grasped her waist, enjoying the stoic look that came into her eyes, "it will belong to me. And to the others," he added as he gently lowered her to the ground.
There was no getting around it. He liked the feel of his hands on her. He liked her tiny waist, her stately mien that seemed to mix independence and arrogance with a tempting innocence. If he were superstitious and believed in witches, those he envisioned would have hair as black as the night and eyes as green as the sea at first light.
Krystyna's emotions were running rampant, scrambling through her like tiny field mice scurrying away from the sweep of Maruska's broom. With effort, she locked her reactions away and stepped back, still looking at the house. The grandness of the structure suddenly made her conscious of the way she was dressed. She whirled around to look at Jason.
He saw concern in her expression. "What's the matter?"
"I cannot meet your people looking like this." She spread her hands wide, and the jacket threatened to fall open again. Muttering an oath in Polish, she grabbed for the material.
Jason prudently hid the smile that struggled to come to his lips. Because he was young and the world had not yet tainted his optimism, he couldn't help wondering if she wanted to make a good impression on the others because they were his family. Or was it just her vanity that demanded it? In either case, he saw no point in prolonging her anxiety.
Taking her elbow, he guided her toward the front of the house. "Lucinda will have something for you to wear, I'm sure."
"Lucinda?" she echoed, surprised.
Was that his wife? Why did the thought that he was married bring with it a sudden overwhelming stab of pain? She should have suspected that of him. Kissing women when he was married. He had the mark of a debaucher about him.
The sadness inside her would not go away.
He saw fire in her eyes. Could it be jealousy? Was he imagining something he wanted to be true? He upbraided himself for behaving like a young fool. "My sister-in-law."
Her mood lightened. What was the matter with her? All she had been able to think about on the journey here was what had happened between them —and what might have happened had she not stopped it. These were not proper thoughts for a countess, even under these horrid conditions. What would her father have thought if he knew?
If he were alive.
She sighed, wishing herself somewhere else. Wishing herself home.
The front door opened and a regal, towering black man walked out. Though he said nothing, he looked at Krystyna questioningly.
Jeremiah had come out to greet his master and take Jason's horse. The fact that Master Jase had brought home one of his "ladies" surprised him, but he masked his reaction well. Keeping his thoughts hidden had been the first lesson he had learned in life. It was tantamount to survival, and though his present master, the one he had known for twenty Christmases, was a fair man, the lessons of Jeremiah's youth did not fade.
Krystyna had been taught that it was a sign of ignorance and poor breeding to show surprise or act startled when faced with something unknown, but it was difficult to suppress a reaction. Quickly, her eyes swept over the black man, taking in his wide, flat features, his somber deportment, his thin hands and face. The whites of his eyes stood out against dark brown skin and held her attention as the two silently regarded one another.
She turned toward Jason and whispered, "He is black." Th
e words were filled with wonder. Krystyna had heard that men of dusky skin existed in America, but she had never seen a black man before. She felt as if she were looking at someone out of a storybook.
The first face Jason could remember looking down at him in his crib had been black. Marwilda, Jeremiah's wife. Jason viewed Krystyna's reaction with amusement. "You've never seen a black man before?"
He spoke as she had, his voice hushed and low. Krystyna didn't know if he was making fun of her, but she shook her head in response.
He thought back to Jan's reaction on his first encounter with the plantation slaves. He, too, had been filled with awe. "No, I guess you wouldn't have, considering where you come from."
His words had her looking sharply at him. "I did not tell you where I came from."
"No, you didn't," Jason answered with a sigh. He wondered what it would take to make her drop her guard a little and trust him. His eyes held hers for a moment. It was hard to miss the wariness there. "But if Jan was your uncle, then obviously you came from the same place. A place that doesn't have slaves."
"Then Americans do own people." She challenged him to deny it.
He was in no mood to get into a discussion with her. "They're considered property here."
Krystyna looked at Jeremiah. His expression was solemn, and there was a great deal to be seen and understood in his eyes. She recognized pride. It mirrored what she felt inside. She decided that she was not afraid of this strange, dark man.
"He looks like a man to me," she told Jason. She didn't see the small fleeting smile that crossed Jeremiah's face, but she did see the broad one on Jason's.
"I've never thought of him as anything else."
Was he laughing at her? She didn't know, and that annoyed her. She turned away. In the background, on the far side of the house, Krystyna could see groups of brown-skinned people returning to whitewashed houses arranged in two neat rows. It was dinnertime, and the light in the fields had grown too sparse to work by.
"You have a lot of these people," Krystyna observed.
He couldn't tell by her tone whether she approved or not. His own feeling was that everyone should be free, but he kept his thoughts to himself. What he believed or didn't believe made no difference at Smoke Tree. Not yet, at any rate. Only someday . . . But someday was not now.
"My father does, yes." Jason turned to the black man, who stood only slightly shorter than he. "Jeremiah, is he home yet?"
"No, Mast'r Jase, he ain't." Jeremiah's voice was as deep and as powerful as the man himself. "Been delayed gettin' back, I suspect. But he be here soon."
That gives me some time to get cleaned up before I have to make my reports, Jason thought. His attention shifted back to the woman at his side. She was silently watching the slaves shed the burdens of the day and became people once more. What is she thinking? he wondered.
He suddenly remembered that she had been concerned about her clothes. "Where's Miss Lu?"
"In her room, sir." Jeremiah fingered the horse's reins. "But I dunno if I'd go in there, iffin I was you, Mast'r Jase."
Krystyna was surprised to detect the affection she heard in Jeremiah's voice. Could one feel affection for someone who owned them? Strange people, these Americans. She looked at Jason to see his reaction to the oddly familiar tone the dark man used. She saw that he took no offense. It pleased her, though she didn't quite know why.
"Why, what's the matter?" Had something happened while he had been gone, Jason wondered, looking toward the house.
Jeremiah's expression told him nothing. "Leola said she heard arguin' and then the sound of cryin'."
Jason nodded. Undoubtedly Jeremiah's daughter had merely overheard another argument between Lucinda and his brother. "Nothing unusual there." He looked at Krystyna. "I'm afraid I'll have to intrude for your sake," he told her. "So you don't freeze in that, or stir up my father's blood when he gets here. He's a lively one, he is. You'd never know he's almost sixty."
Krystyna turned crimson, then her eyes turned to small blue flames. Why did he insist on mocking her all the time?
Jason laughed and, taking her elbow, quickly ushered her toward the kitchen in back of the house.
Krystyna barely had time to assimilate her surroundings. However, from the little she could take in as Jason hustled her along, the McKinleys lived richly and well.
It made her homesick.
They walked into the midst of a scene of organized chaos. The evening meal was being prepared on the spit on the hearth. A flurry of voices, both high and low, seemed to envelop her. Krystyna's eyes grew wide at the number of dark faces she saw peeking out from beneath white caps. The house slaves were all wearing pale, long-sleeved gray and white dresses. The women, numbering seven if she had not miscounted, all lowered their eyes. None would look her in the face, but they all greeted Jason. She could detect no fear in their voices, no anger or resentment. She wondered if they had actually docilely accepted their positions.
One girl, Krystyna judged her to be about fourteen, stopped what she was doing and blatantly stared at Krystyna. The next moment, she yelped in pain and grabbed her hand. Her eyes darted, full of guilt, to the wooden spoon that Jeremiah held in his hand.
"Get back to your work, girl," he ordered. "Miz Savannah don't like to wait on dinner."
Another name. Krystyna stopped marveling at the quickness with which Jeremiah had appeared in the kitchen after being left with Jason's horse to tend, and she turned toward Jason. "Your wife?"
"Savannah?" He threw back his head and roared at the idea. It was the finest joke he had heard in a long time, however unintentional. "Hardly. If I were married to Savannah, I'd probably have no doubts in my mind as to whether or not I should be part of this rebellion. Anything to get away from her."
Krystyna understood none of what he said to her, and her confusion was evident on her face.
"Savannah's my sister." He saw that the confusion didn't leave. "What's the matter?"
Krystyna was vaguely aware of veiled glances following them as they approached the back stairs. “What rebellion?" she wanted to know.
Now it was his turn to be puzzled. Why would she want to know about that? "Nothing a lady would be interested in." As far as he was concerned, the topic was dismissed. War talk only bored Charity and Savannah. And though Lucinda was a sympathetic listener, she understood almost nothing he tried to explain to her. He didn't feel like explaining the issues that cluttered and bedeviled his own mind to another vacuous female.
As for Krystyna, she would never become accustomed to this horrid, patronizing male attitude. "If I did not want to know," Krystyna said impatiently, stopping on the landing, "I would not have asked."
She was a mystery, all right. For a moment, Jason regarded her in silence, trying to fathom why she would want to learn of such things. No answers came and she didn't enlighten him any further.
"All right, Princess." He was amused by the frown that came to her lips at the title. "This is it in a nutshell. There are people in this country who feel that we should have the right to govern ourselves, that the King is imposing his will on us and taxing us to death, stifling our God-given right to freedom, if you will. Others want to keep with the status quo."
This was far too much information to fit into the shell of any nut she knew of, but another, far more important, question rose in her mind. "And you?"
Is she actually interested in politics? he wondered. He had never known any other woman to be. What sort of creature was she? And why, he wondered, feeling something tighten within him as he stood so close to her, am I so very drawn to her?
"I don't know." It was the same answer he had given his father when confronted with the question.
Disbelief rose into her eyes, and Jason found himself growing defensive in response to it. "You have no sense of patriotism?"
"Patriotism?" It was no more than permission to kill, wrapped in lofty words, as far as he was concerned. "Patriotism is an idea. Ideas are very poor things to
shield you from flying bullets. I want no part of this fight. If I am to die, I want it to be for something I believe in, something I really feel strongly about."
She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Was he a coward? But he had faced down two men to save her honor, to perhaps save her life. Cowards didn't do that. She didn't understand him, or why her anger was so great at his words. "And you do not feel strongly about this?" How very different he was from her. How she had wished she were a man when her father had told her of the outbreak of trouble at home. She would have ridden with those who had gone off to fight. She would have fought to her last breath for freedom and for her country. How could he not feel the same?
"No," Jason answered. His tone was firm and there was no arguing with it. She could see that and felt all the more frustrated. She didn't want him to be like this. "Not yet. Right now, all that concerns me is my life here. When that's threatened, then I'll reevaluate the situation."
She knew the way of kings. "By then, it might be too late."
This was the most incredible conversation he had ever had with a woman. But then, he had come to believe that Krystyna whatever-her-last-name-was, was an incredible woman.
The door at the end of the dimly lit hallway opened, cutting through any further discussion. A woman emerged, her tall frame outlined in the flickering light from the candles the house slaves had lit only half an hour ago.
Lucinda McKinley looked from her brother-in-law to the bedraggled young woman who stood at his side. Despite her disheveled clothing, the stranger held herself with a confidence that Lucinda had never known.
Hesitantly, Lucinda took a step forward. "Jason?" Though she said his name, it was clearly Krystyna she was looking at.
Jason turned and his smile grew warmer. There was genuine affection in his gaze. "Ah, Lucinda, just the lady I was looking for." He took hold of Krystyna's arm. "Let's go, Princess." Without waiting for an invitation, Jason ushered her into Lucinda's room as the other woman mutely watched.
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