“I shall be ready within ten minutes, Mr. Heath.” It was a lie, of course. She’d never be ready to leave with this wild man. It took all the effort she owned to force out the rest, her voice nothing more than a peeping sparrow. “Please wait for me downstairs.”
Mr. Heath stiffened. A muscle stood out on his neck as he slid his gaze to the reverend. “She’s English.”
The words were an indictment, one in which she was found guilty as charged—and left to swing from a rope.
“What did you expect, Mr. Heath? It was the best Mr. Beebright could manage.”
Something guttural rumbled in the big man’s throat. He pulled out a pocket watch and flipped it open, then looked at her. “I’ll give you five minutes, no more.”
He turned and stalked out, the little fair-haired head bobbing behind him.
Eleanor blinked at the incongruous sight, frozen in place.
The Reverend Parker sighed with a shake of his head. “I am so sorry, Miss Morgan. Had I known he’d stomp up here, I’d never have let him in the house.”
“I am sure you could not have known, could you?”
The reverend shrugged and headed toward the door. “He is a troubled man, much acquainted with grief. There’s a good heart somewhere in there, beneath the anger.” He paused on the threshold with a nod toward her. “It’s up to you and God to find it.”
When the door shut, Biz let out a long, low whistle. “Looks like yer gettin’ the worst of it, Elle Bell.”
“Do not address me so!” Eleanor launched from bed, cross at herself for snapping at Biz. Cross that she was to live with a barbarian for the next seven years. Cross that it appeared her father’s prediction would come true. She sniffled, and though she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, tears escaped anyway.
“No. No weeping. Don’t ever let a man make you cry. They ain’t worth it.” Biz came up behind her, turning her with a gentle touch on her shoulders. “Come on, Ellie. You like that better? Splash yer face with some water, and I’ll help you into yer stays and gown. Better you should make a grand entrance than have that Heath fellow tromping back up here and dragging you down the stairs like the brute he is.”
She drew in a shaky breath. Of course Biz was right, but for a moment, moving was out of the question. Fear weighed her down as if she were a paralytic. How could she force herself to leave this place of safety?
Biz did the moving for her, cinching her into her stays, helping her on with her gown. No time remained to style her hair, so Biz simply wound it up and stuck in the last of her pins.
“Off you go. Give him what for. I surely would.” Biz winked.
Suddenly emotional, Eleanor wrapped the bony woman in an embrace. “You are a good friend.”
Biz shoved her away with a curse. “Get on with ye.” She dove back beneath the covers, leaving Eleanor to face her fate alone.
A fate that rapped on the door. “Miss Morgan?” The reverend’s voice leached through the wood. “Mr. Heath and I are waiting for the ceremony to begin in the big room.”
The reverend’s summons made as much sense as Biz’s mumbled gripes. She opened the door, wondering at the strange colonial customs. Had Molly endured such a ritual yesterday? Was there to be shouting involved here as well? No doubt, if Mr. Heath were involved.
“What ceremony, sir?” she asked, feeling foolish for her ignorance.
“Er … did you not know, Miss Morgan?” His gaze darted everywhere except to her.
She tensed at the familiar tactic. She’d seen it hundreds of times from charges who’d stolen sweets from cook or short-sheeted her bed. Something was up. She’d wager on it, were she a rascal like Biz.
“Know what?”
The reverend gazed at her like a beggarly tot to be pitied. “You are to be wed.”
Wed? The word buzzed in her ears. Somewhere behind her eyes, white rage exploded, blinding and hot. She gaped, sucking in a sharp breath. The agreement she’d signed aboard ship had said nothing of vows or marriage. She’d read it. Carefully. If Mr. Heath thought to bully an illiterate woman who didn’t know any better into lifelong drudgery—no, slavery—then she’d teach him a thing or two about intimidation right now. Convention be hanged. She brushed past the reverend.
“Miss Morgan, are you all right?”
The man’s question nipped at her back like a horsefly biting off bits of flesh. No. She was most certainly not.
Samuel gripped the mantle, facing a large, rough-hewn cross hung above the hearth. One of Grace’s shoes kicked against his back. He’d gladly take spikes through his hands and feet rather than bind himself to an Englishwoman.
English! He stifled a roar. Couldn’t Beebright tell the difference between an Irish, a Scot, or a murdering, thieving gilisi?
“Why God? Why?” He kept his voice low, but it shook. He yanked off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. Too many memories, too much tragedy, flashed through his mind. Redcoats and blood. His mother’s last breaths. His father’s shouts.
The reason he’d left his wife and child alone.
Closing his eyes, he bowed his head. “I can’t do this. I can’t. Give me one reason why.”
“Mr. Heath! Marriage is for the purpose of relationship and sanctification, a living picture of God’s union to the church, not a convenient way to meet your needs of housekeeper, nursemaid, and who knows what else.”
His head jerked up, and he wheeled about. A whirlwind in a dark grey skirt blew through the door.
Miss Morgan halted in front of him, hands fisted on her hips, blue fire in her eyes. “The contract I signed is a legal attachment, yes, but for seven years. Not life. I will not marry you, sir.”
Grace pulled a hank of his hair, as stinging as the sudden insight that this feisty woman felt as trapped as he did. Two foxes in a snare, both willing to chew off their foot to escape. But reality tugged his hair harder, then buried a soft face against his neck, giggling. For Grace’s sake, he was the one who would have to give.
This time, anyway.
“Miss Morgan.” He lowered his tone, keeping an even tempo, a negotiation trait that’d saved his life many times. “I allow that nothing in the document stated anything about marriage. I thought Grace needed a nursemaid, but I’ve since revised that opinion. She needs a mother.”
Her pert chin lifted. “And if I refuse?”
She had pluck, he’d give her that—and up the ante himself. “Then return the redemption fee I paid for you and walk out that door a free woman.”
He nodded past her, to where Parker strode through the opening.
“I … I cannot.” The woman deflated, studying the tips of her shoes, head bowed as if in prayer.
Parker stepped beside her, and she turned to him. “What happens if I do not reimburse what is owed to Mr. Heath?”
A fearsome scowl raged on the reverend’s face. “Mr. Heath can press charges, Miss Morgan. Gaol time, most likely, until the full amount is reimbursed.”
“Gaol or marriage?” She choked on a bitter laugh. “Sounds the same to me.”
Samuel snorted. “Aye, that it does.”
Her gaze shot to his. A spray of freckles darkened across the bridge of her nose. She said nothing as she stared, and he got the distinct impression that she might as well be gawking at a wagon wreck, so distastefully did her lips pinch.
Finally, she spoke. “I counter your proposal, sir.”
“Do you, now?” He grunted. This one could go nose to nose with Running Doe—and possibly come out the victor. “I would hear it.”
She stepped up to him, offering her hand. “I agree to marry you and care for little Grace on one condition.”
His gaze slid to her fingers. Except for a slight tremor, she held it true.
“Name it,” he said.
“We are husband and wife in title only, and that is as far as it goes. My body remains my own, as does yours.” The burst of flame on her cheeks rivaled the red streaks in her hair.
A bold move.
One he might make. And definitely one he could live with.
“Agreed.” He took the woman’s small hand in his own and faced the reverend.
Parker shook his head. “I do not think this is a good idea.”
Heaven and earth! Neither did he—nor did the woman, judging by the clamminess of her grasp.
He set his jaw. “Even so, Parker, marry us, before the eyes of God and man.”
Next to him the woman stiffened. Grace squirmed, trying to climb over his shoulder. Steeling his spine, he reached behind and loosened the sling ties. He would enter this union for the sake of his child’s future, nothing more. Did God understand how much He was asking him to sacrifice by sending him an Englishwoman? With a swoop belying the heaviness of his heart, he pulled Grace around and cradled her in one arm.
He reached for the woman’s hand once more, catching a glimpse of the cross above the mantle. Sacrifice indeed.
God help him. God help them all.
Chapter 7
Married! And only an hour ago?”
Molly’s exclamation made Eleanor flinch, along with attracting the eyes of two other women who lingered over bolts of fabric. After a glance to see that Grace yet played with a ball of string on the floor where she’d left her, Eleanor pulled on Molly’s sleeve, leading her closer to the front door of the mercantile. From this angle, she could keep an eye on Grace, see Mr. Heath and Mr. Sutton loading supplies into the wagon outside, and hopefully keep from serving fodder to the town’s gossips.
“I can hardly believe it myself.” Her hands shook, and she smoothed them along her skirt, trying to brush away the feel of the man’s rough callouses imprinted into her palms. He’d gripped her fingers until the reverend pronounced them man and wife, then he’d splayed his own and stalked off. Not that she was a romantic, but at the very least, an encouraging half-smile from him would’ve done much to calm her heart—a heart that even now rampaged against her ribs like a frenzied stallion.
A sob welled in her throat. “I had no choice, Molly. It was either that or gaol.”
Molly’s grey eyes peered into her own, then turned and looked out the glass. “He’s a fearsome sight, that one. Bigger than a dockhand a-heftin’ crates off a merchantman. Hair wild as a gypsy’s. And those eyes, piercing enough to see what’s in a body’s soul and beyond. Why, I’d shake beneath my skirts if I had to face him alone. I think I’d rather be a prisoner.”
Molly whirled, slapping a hand against her chest. “Sorry. I had no right—”
“No, you are right. For that is truly what I am, a hostage to this land, and now to that man.” The words coated her tongue with despair, and she swallowed them down, where they lodged like bricks in the pit of her stomach. She wrapped her arms around herself, squeezing.
“What have I done?” she whispered.
“Poor thing. And here I thought I had it bad with Mrs. Greeley.” Molly lifted her hands and held them out. “But I suppose this is naught compared to what you’ll suffer.”
Eleanor snatched the girl’s hands into her own and studied the red welts atop the backs. “What is this?”
“When I make a mistake, Mrs. Greeley whacks me with a switch, miss.”
She frowned. “I am not a miss anymore, and please, call me Eleanor.” For she couldn’t bear to be called by her married name. Not yet—and maybe not ever.
Releasing Molly’s fingers, she checked on Grace one more time. The little girl—mayhap a year and a half or nearly two—alternately dropped the yarn ball then scooped it up again, laughing. How could the little one be so happy with a savage for a father?
Not willing to ponder that question too deeply, she turned back to Molly. “What kind of mistakes could you possibly be making? You have hardly been here a day.”
“Oh, everything. Anything, really.” A weak smile played on her lips. “What do I know of laying out garments or dressing hair or beauty treatments and such? I’m a tavern wench. What Mrs. Greeley wants is a proper lady’s maid. Can you imagine? Out here? The airs that woman puts on would make the king feel a pauper.”
“I might be able to help you, at least a little.” She cut a glance to where the other ladies stood, their gazes still pinned to them like falcons to a scampering rodent. At least Mrs. Greeley hadn’t swept in from the back rooms—a small mercy, that.
Eleanor lowered her voice. “I have lived in grand houses and know some tricks. Serve the lady her breakfast in bed. Not a large meal, mind you, maybe some toast and tea … or whatever it is they drink around here. Keep her gowns hung and brushed out, not folded in a trunk or left on a peg. And before bed each night, offer to comb the tangles from her hair, then braid it. She will sleep the better for it, and you will have a much easier task come morning.”
Molly beamed. “Thank you, miss—er … Eleanor.”
“Oh, and one more thing, ask her—no—require that she change into her best gown for dinner, put on earbobs, and a necklace. Above all, use confidence in your tone, and for heaven’s sake, keep your hands out of reach of her switch. You might even find a new storage place for it, hmm?”
Molly pulled her into a hug. This close to the window, the movement caught the eye of Mr. Heath, who angled his head at her. Between his untamed swath of hair and the way his hat rode so low, half his face hid in shadow, but his meaning was unmistakable.
“I must be off.” She broke free, missing the woman’s camaraderie before her fingertips left her sleeves.
She scooped up Grace, and the little girl wrapped her arms around her neck with a babbling sing-song.
Molly bent, retrieving the yarn ball. “At least you’ve got the wee one to console you.”
“True. She is the best part of this situation.” She nuzzled her chin against the top of the child’s head, amazed once again at the tot’s peaceful spirit.
She walked the few steps to the door, then turned back to Molly. “I’ll stop in for a visit as soon as I may.”
“God bless you … Eleanor.”
She grinned. “You as well.”
With a deep breath for courage, she crossed the threshold, wishing someone could give her advice for how to deal with the glowering brute outside.
Samuel swiped the sweat from his brow, then pulled his hat down low. Not yet noon and already the sun beat down with a heavy hand. But the longer he stood, staring across the road at the ruined corpse of a burnt house, the slicker his skin grew. Ahh, but what a liar he was. The sun had nothing to do with the perspiration coating him.
It was shame.
He flexed his fingers, trying to let go. Sure, he was a different man now. Fire had a way of forging one’s spirit, purifying, cleansing, making way for new growth.
But it also killed.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he breathed out for the hundredth time, “Forgive me, Mariah.”
Just like always, no answer came from her lips—and never would.
He turned his back on the charred patch of earth and stamped across the loading dock to where Ben Sutton hefted another crate to his shoulder. The sooner he left behind this heat, this town, the wicked ugly memories, the better.
Squatting, he heaved upward, lifting the box of long-overdue supplies. With a new wife, he’d likely have to make this trip more often.
Wife. He clenched his jaw so hard it crackled. The word stuck in his craw like a hunk of unchewed meat. Yet it was done now. No going back.
He pivoted and hauled the crate to the back of the wagon, setting it next to the one Sutton set down.
Ben rubbed his hands together. “That ought to do it.”
Coppery-red flashed at the corner of his sight, and he turned. Inside the storefront window, the woman—what would he call her?—looked out at him with pale blue eyes. He gave a sharp nod for her to finish up and come out.
“Whoa.” A man’s voice called from behind—so high-pitched, it sounded as if he’d taken a good kick to the groin.
Unbidden, the sinful thought crossed Samuel’s mind that he’d like
to be the one to give that kick. Ahh, Lord, forgive me, he prayed silently as he turned. Ignoring Angus McDivitt was an option, but it was always better to face an enemy head-on than take a stab in the back.
“Hallo, Heath.” McDivitt touched his forefinger to the brim of his hat in a half-hearted greeting. “Heard you married again.”
Samuel rolled his shoulders, working out the stiffness. This—this—was exactly what he hated about town. Everyone knowing everyone else’s business, or leastwise thinking they did. He skewered Angus with a scowl. “You heard right.”
Yellowed teeth peeked out from the man’s beard. “Hope this one knows how to tend a fire.”
Next to him, Sutton drew in a sharp breath.
Samuel clamped down on every muscle to keep from launching off the dock and pummeling the smirk from the man’s face.
Angus turned his head to the scorched plot across the road. A stream of tobacco juice shot out of his mouth, desecrating the ground, before he slipped his hooded eyes back to Samuel. “Oh, that’s right. Wasn’t her fault, was it?”
Samuel’s hands curled into fists, clenching so tight his knuckles might pop through the skin.
“He’s baitin’ ye, Heath,” Sutton said low and slow. “Leave it be.”
Samuel cocked his head at the young man. Sutton backed away, hands up. Smart fellow.
He swiveled that same killing stare to Angus. “You might fancy yourself a gentleman, McDivitt, but that beard, your manners, and the stench I’m catching downwind of you say otherwise. If you got words for me, then out with it. Otherwise, I’ll thank you to be on your way.”
Footsteps tapped across wood, lightly, accompanied by the swish of thin wool and linen. He didn’t have to turn around to see the woman draw near—he watched her approach by the widening of Angus’s eyes and the lust that grew in them with each of her steps.
Samuel may hardly know the woman, but she was his wife now. He sidestepped, blocking Angus’s view.
The Captive Heart Page 5