Angus glowered at him. “Does she know?”
He froze, breathing hard.
“Do I know what, Mr. Heath?” The woman’s voice drifted over his shoulder—
And stabbed him in the heart.
A shrewd leer twitched McDivitt’s beard, and he kicked his horse, trotting away.
“Mr. Heath?” the woman repeated. “Is there something I should know?”
He turned, then hesitated, taken aback for a moment. Grace curled one chubby arm around the woman’s neck, and with the other, ran her thumb over her cheek. Nothing astonishing, really, for his daughter was ever the most accepting of souls. The woman’s response, however, stymied him. Why would a prim-and-proper Englishwoman allow such an intimate touch from a child she barely knew? Nay, not merely allow, but lean into it? It looked as if they belonged to one another—and for some odd reason, that rankled him.
“We’ve a ride ahead of us.” His voice came out gruffer than he intended, and he worked to soften the rest. “Time we be going.”
He pulled Grace from the woman’s arms and trotted down the few steps, waiting for her at the front of the wagon. He offered his free hand to aid her up to the seat, and when she took it, she paused halfway up, staring hard at his exposed wrist and failing at stifling a gasp.
Thunder and earth! Had the woman never seen scars before? He shook his head. He had so many marks on his body, he’d lost count. If a little disfigurement gave her such pause, how would she react when she caught full sight of his face?
Depositing Grace in her open arms, he tugged his hat lower and rounded the front of the wagon. The big horse stamped his hoof at the movement. “Peace, Wohali,” Samuel breathed out, speaking as much to himself as to the horse.
Swinging up to the seat, he grabbed the reins and snapped the leather. Wohali whinnied a complaint at the added weight but turned onto the road. Samuel made straight for the creek, and as the horse descended the small embankment, the wagon bumped and jostled to one side, tipping the seat at an angle. Grace laughed, but the woman grabbed his arm and didn’t let go, even as the wheels splashed through the water.
Samuel hid a smile. Was the proper Englishwoman too dainty for a spray of creek water?
She yanked back her hand and glanced over her shoulder as Wohali led them up onto even ground. “Where are we going?”
He stood, scanning for the two tracks of grass flattened by his earlier ride, and guided Wohali toward them before he sat again. “Home.”
“But … the road, the town … they are behind us.”
Transferring the reins to one hand, he scratched the stubble on his chin. “Whatever gave you the impression I live in Newcastle?”
A martin’s song kept time with the roll of the wheels. Grace babbled nonsense mixed with Cherokee and a few English words thrown in until finally, after a big yawn, she settled on the woman’s lap and closed her eyes. The woman said nothing. For miles. Not even when the thick of forest ate them alive.
Reaching into a pouch at his side, he pulled out a piece of jerky, took a bite, then handed the rest to her.
Her eyes went wide, and for the briefest of moments, the freckles on her nose darkened, but then she set the jerky to her mouth and nibbled.
At last, she spoke. “Mr. Heath, may I ask how much farther it is to your home?”
“Woman, you can ask anything you like. You’re not in England anymore. And you can drop the mister. Call me Heath, or Samuel, if you prefer. Mister’s for a gentleman, which I’m not.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “To answer your question, though, we ought to make it by sundown.”
Grace shifted on her lap, the smell of jerky pulling her from her dreams. The woman looked to him with a question in her eyes, but none on her lips.
“She can have some,” he answered. He studied her face, what he could see of it from such an angle, anyway. The sun burnt her cheeks to a rosy red and washed out some of the color from the wisps of hair escaping her straw hat. She chewed quietly, while Grace smacked her lips.
“You know, most women would’ve jawed my ear off by now.”
She quirked a brow. “Sorry … jawed?”
“Talked. Spoken. Gawonisgv.” Her face twisted as the Cherokee slipped from his tongue, clearly confusing her. “Look, if you’ve a mind to say something, then say it. I don’t hold with pretense.”
“Very well.” She shifted herself and Grace so that she faced him. “Am I correct in thinking you would like me to teach your daughter proper English?”
He nodded. “You are.”
“Then I suggest you start by speaking it yourself, sir.”
Somewhere deep, in a long-forgotten storeroom in his chest, laughter rose and rumbled out. He threw back his head and howled until moisture dampened the skin beneath his eyes. He’d opened some kind of floodgate, but what? And where?
In her … or in him?
Chapter 8
Eleanor’s head bobbed as she fought the urge to give in to fatigue. A wicked temptation to lean sideways, rest her head against the arm of the wild man beside her, and pass out almost nudged her that direction—until the next hard bump lifted her off the seat and crashed her backside against the unforgiving wood. She grimaced. Surely that part of her would be nothing but purple on the morrow.
At first the big horse pulling the wagon frightened her for it seemed as wild as its owner, but now, as they ascended yet another steep stretch of road, she was glad for the powerful muscles that strained against the harness. She gripped the seat’s edge as they wound through more trees. She’d seen better goat trails on the Devonshire moors.
They lurched over one more rise, the ground evened, and Mr. Heath called out, “Whoa.” His thick arm flexed, pulling the horse to a stop in a small clearing.
To one side, down an embankment, a small creek cut into the earth like a vein. La, what a thought! Clearly the shadowy forest colored her attitude to a gloomy hue. She cast her gaze to the other side. Here, a few outbuildings huddled near one another for safety, the towering pine behind hemming in the area. A tremor shivered across her shoulders. This foreboding place looked like a wicked wood from a Gaelic faerie tale.
Mr. Heath set the brake and hopped down.
Grace bounced in her lap, reaching her arms out for her father.
Eleanor bit her lip. They’d already eaten. No foliage blocked them from continuing. So why did he swing Grace around and set her on the ground? Was this some kind of traveler’s shelter to duck in for an evening?
She laid her hand atop his, using his strength to ease her rattled bones to the earth. “Why are we stopping here?”
He cut her a glance, half his face hidden in the growing dusk. “This is home.”
Peering one way, then another, she looked for the house. Was it beyond, in a trail through the woods? Impossible to say, for greens and blacks choked out the view. The only buildings she saw were the two in front of her. One was larger, but not by much. Both were made of crude logs, stacked atop each other. Pine needles and moss littered the roofs. On one, stairs led to a porch—maybe—so much stacked wood made it hard to tell. The other was clearly a byre, straw and hay strewn on the ground in front of a shut door, a pen of rough-hewn timbers circling behind. Surely Mr. Heath would lead her and little Grace beyond these coarse structures to his home.
But his long legs loped up the stairs and disappeared between the stacks of wood. Grace pulled herself up behind him, one chubby leg at a time.
Eleanor stood, gaping. Alone. In the middle of a wilderness. The last of day’s light fled, and darkness crept toward her on silent feet. She wrapped her arms around herself, squeezing, trying desperately to remember that God was in control, that this was His creation every bit as much as an English dell or holly hedgerow.
A growl rumbled out from somewhere in the maze of tree trunks. Low. Throaty. She clutched her skirts and scampered up the stairs, suddenly preferring the wild man with the tomahawk at his side and the knife that peeked out his boot top.
She stopped just inside the threshold. Throbbing started at her temple, spreading outward, and she pressed her fingers against it. The hold of the Charming Lucy had been bigger than this room. Her gaze darted from a primitive hearth, to piles of pelts stacked against a wall, skipped over a chair and a crib, and finally landed on the bedstead—the only bed in the room. Her heart quit beating as she stared, horrified.
“You’ll never aspire to anything higher than a trollop, girl.”
Oh, she was married all right, but did the words “I do” make her any less a trollop than what her father had prophesied? She licked her lips, refusing to look at Mr. Heath.
He lit a grease lamp, and as the flame grew in strength, light spread from corner to corner. Truly, there wasn’t much more to see other than a few pots in a heap and some crates on end.
“I’ll see to the horse and freight.”
She jumped at the man’s voice and stepped aside, giving him a wide berth as he passed. The door clattered shut, and then patting footsteps flew across the room. Arms wrapped around her legs and squeezed. She could hardly see Grace’s little face through a blur of tears as she swung her up. A yawn stretched the girl’s mouth, and she popped a thumb into her mouth.
Eleanor yawned as well. “Tired little one? So am I.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Weary of this day, this wretched land … my life.”
She set Grace down in the crib, then rummaged through one of the crates, pulling out a tiny nightdress for the girl. By the time she crossed back to the little one’s side, Grace curled into a ball, eyes shut.
She couldn’t help but smile. “I do not blame you.”
The jingle of harness from outside stole the smile from her face. Mr. Heath would be back soon. In here. With her.
Turning in a circle, she surveyed the room once again, looking for … what? A secret passage leading to a chamber fit for a princess? Bitterness pinched her throat tight. Yes, that’s exactly what she wished for.
With a sigh, she plopped down into the chair, avoiding the bed altogether. What was the point? There was no possible way she could undo her stays by herself—nor would she lie with her husband.
Hopefully, Mr. Heath would remember what he’d agreed to.
Samuel shoved the stable door shut, putting an end to a very long day. Halfway to the house, he stopped, letting the night air soak into his skin, damp and cool. Closing his eyes, he filled his lungs with the tanginess of pine. Here, in the midst of shushing breeze and cricket song, he knew God lived.
And grace upon grace, God knew him right back.
“Lord, have mercy,” he prayed as he stalked to the house. How did one suddenly live with a woman again?
Using the same footing as if hunting a panther, he stepped over the threshold quietly, not willing to wake Grace or startle the woman. The grease lamp burned as bright as he’d left it. The bed lay untouched. And there, reclining on the chair, head turned aside and eyes closed, the woman breathed evenly. He pressed the door shut behind him with a silent hand. She must’ve been so tired that she collapsed without thought.
He removed his tomahawk, then loosened his belt and slipped that off as well. The woman shifted at his movement, but did not waken. At that angle, all bent and draped on the hickory chair, she’d surely be stiff come morning. Ought he lift her as he would Grace and carry her to bed? He raked a hand through his hair. No, that would surely scare the breath from her and stir up Grace in the process. He crossed over to her and halted—then frowned. If she opened her eyes now, with him towering like a bear on hind legs, the result would be no better. So he squatted, arms resting on his thighs.
For the first time, he studied her unguarded. Fair skin, roughened in patches by wind and reddened by the sun, curved over high cheekbones that were quite fine, almost sparrow-like in delicacy. Without the harshness of daylight, her hair took on a burnished sheen, like the ridgeline of an autumn sky, when reds and oranges flared as the sun set. Her lips, somewhat chapped, were surprisingly full, almost overlarge compared to the oval of her face—but not alarmingly so. No, he rocked forward, leaning for a closer look. On the contrary, the only thing alarming about the woman was the way she kept herself all buttoned up tight, as if she’d never known the freedom of laughter in a meadow or running her toes along the soft silt of a creek bed. What kind of life had she known, living among his enemies?
Repentance never came easy, but he’d learned that when it did come calling, to open the door wide with a hearty welcome. He never should have treated this woman so harshly in town this morning. The rude awakening. The heartless marriage vows. His silence on the drive home. All because he was too consumed with ignoring his own pain to be mindful of her feelings. He hung his head. Oh God, forgive me. Again.
Weary to the bone, he lifted his face and nudged her leg with the backs of his fingers. “Woman, go to bed.”
White knuckles gripped the chair arms, and she shot forward—which only widened her eyes farther when she nearly touched him, nose for nose.
He stifled a laugh as she shrank back, one hand flattened against her chest, the other choking life from the chair’s arm.
“It’s been a fair long day for you.” He kept his voice even, using the same low tone as when he tamed a horse or stopped Grace’s tears. “This is your home now. You needn’t sleep in a chair.”
Her blue eyes took on a grey color, like the first billows of a spring storm, then she turned her head aside. “Clearly I am able to.”
“You’re able to what?”
“Sleep in a chair.”
“It won’t do for you to walk with a hobble come morning. Grace is … well, she can be a handful, sweet as she is.” He rose and swept out a hand toward the bedstead. “Go ahead and stretch yourself out. Get some rest.”
She snapped her face back to his, her cheeks flushing as if he’d bruised her. “Thank you.” She snipped out the words. “But I prefer to remain as I am.”
Interesting. Something he’d said or done had perturbed her, but what? He rubbed his jaw, going over the past few minutes, and came up empty-handed. “Listen, woman—”
She shot to her feet. “I have a name, sir!”
“So do I, and it’s not sir.”
Her eyes glittered with unspoken terror. This was about more than a name. He stepped toward her, and she retreated, bumping against the chair.
“Mr. Heath, I believe I made it plain that I will not …” She pinched her lips and looked at the bed.
Ahh … of course. He should’ve thought. Her conditions for marriage, the way she recoiled whenever he drew too near, the measuring and weighing of every glance all made sense. She’d never been with a man, and he chided himself for not thinking of it sooner.
“Tatsu’hwa.” The name rolled off his tongue, clear and true, feeling as fitting as if she’d been called so from her first breath—and far less dangerous than calling her wife.
She whirled, the hem of her skirt swishing in a whirl above her feet. “Pardon me?”
“You’re stubborn as a mule, determined as an oxen, but anxious as a wild bird.” With each word, he took a step closer, until he reached out and snagged the loose piece of hair off her shoulder and held it up for her to see. “A red bird. And so I’ll call you Tatsu’hwa.”
“Tot-soo-wah?” She jerked away, brows weighted with a fierce glower. “I do not understand you. If you so disdain the English language, then why take on an English wife?”
The question cut, and the answer drew blood. None of the other women in town would have a murderer.
Shoving down a growl, he stalked over to the pile of pelts and worked one loose. The accusation fit him like a well-worn moccasin. He clutched a fur and strode to the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
The question followed him outside, unanswered. The day had been hard enough as is, but his gut told him the night would surely prove to be a devil.
Chapter 9
Eleanor woke with a start. She shot up fr
om the chair, then grabbed the side of her neck where a wicked muscle stabbed pain clear into her shoulder. The sting was nothing, though, compared to the torment of her dreams….
A beast of a bear had been chasing her, pawing the hem of her skirt until she fell face-first into the dirt. Even now she could feel the grit in her teeth, the scrape of her chin against gravel, so real had it been. When the bear roared, she’d turned, only to stare into the dark depths of a worse nightmare—the all-consuming gaze of her new husband. He pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her, but she could only see half his face—the half she’d yet to see.
Claw marks ran the length of it, leaving trails of pooling blood….
She shivered and rubbed her hands along her arms. When she worked up enough courage, she dared a glance at the bed. No bear. No man. The tightness in her shoulders loosened. Would that the unmerciful squeeze of her stays might slacken as well. She tugged at the boning. She’d have to figure out some way to remove the stays laced at her back—and soon.
But for now, Grace peered at her with big brown eyes, gnawing the edge of her crib with tiny, white teeth.
“Poor thing!” She rushed over and scooped up the child. “You must be hungry. Shall we see about some porridge then, hmm?”
Grace giggled and tugged at Eleanor’s hair, pulling loose the few strands yet moored by pins. Eleanor frowned. She’d have to figure something out about that unruly mess, too.
The girl fidgeted, and she set her down. Grace took off like a musket ball, and Eleanor watched, wondering at the child’s speed. The girl raced over to a pot in the corner and hiked her little shift.
Eleanor turned with a smile as liquid tinkled against earthenware. Managing Mr. Heath might be bothersome, but Grace was a continual delight.
After a thorough search of the cabin, which uncovered more jerky, dried corn, a jar of mashed berries, and a mixture of who-knew-what, she abandoned any hope of finding a sack of oats for porridge. Maybe he’d purchased some yesterday?
The Captive Heart Page 6