He chewed, and chewed—then chewed some more. His jaw worked overtime, the muscles on the side of his neck standing out against his long sweep of hair. His throat bobbed, and she averted her eyes, not wishing to watch the big lump travel the length of his throat.
He snatched the mug off the table, guzzled a big drink, then spewed liquid all over the floor. “What is this?”
She frowned up at him, then took a sip of the tea she’d brewed nearly as long as she’d cooked the rabbit. A sour taste lodged at the back of her throat. No, not sour. The liquid tasted like death. Maybe those hadn’t been tea leaves in the pouch she’d found. She coughed her mouthful back into her cup, mortified, then seized the scrap of cloth she’d fashioned into a napkin and wiped her lips, tempted to dry off her tongue, too.
His eyes widened. “And what on God’s green earth is that?”
An angry whimper from Grace’s crib chided his volume.
“A napkin.” She forced her voice to remain calm, hoping the effect would bring peace.
He stood so quickly, the barrel wobbled. “Woman, didn’t I tell you you’re not in England anymore?”
She shot upward as well, anger shaking the fabric of her skirt. The nerve of the man! Everything about this severe and rugged place screamed at her, accusing her of her foreign status, reminding her she didn’t fit in—would never fit in. Nor did she want to, despite her pathetic attempts otherwise.
The crib rattled side to side as Grace rolled fitfully.
Eleanor tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear, unsure how to navigate the waters of roiling emotions churning in her empty belly. She frowned at her husband—then scowled inwardly at herself for thinking of him as such. “Manners are not bound by geographical locations, sir. If you want Grace to have a proper upbringing, then you will use a napkin when you dine.”
“I’m not hungry anymore.” He strode to the door.
“Wait!”
He wheeled about, a question written in the curve of his shoulders.
A sigh drained the rest of her anger, and she tugged at the stays digging into her ribs. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Indeed, nothing about this encounter was going as expected. He should’ve been pleased with her cleaning efforts, sated and relaxed after eating his fill of dinner, or supper, or whatever he wanted to call it, so much that he’d grant her request of going in to town on the morrow.
But the tainted taste of meat in her mouth and unused napkin staring up at her from the table trapped the appeal in her throat. She couldn’t ask him now, not when he bristled like a cornered porcupine.
Defeated, she simply nodded toward the pallet of pelts she’d made for him in the corner farthest from the bed. “You do not have to sleep in the stable.”
His head reared back, and he looked at her down his nose. “What are you saying, woman?”
Her mouth dried to ashes, and she licked her lips. Surely he didn’t think she’d just invited him into her bed? “I made up a pallet for you. This is your home, after all.”
For a moment, something flashed deep in his brown eyes, then disappeared as fast as it came. “No, it’s our home. And I thank you.”
He strode to the pallet and sank, pulling off one boot and then the other, though she wondered if they could be called such. Tall as Hessians, crafted of soft leather, sporting fringes at top and laces up front, these were nothing like she’d ever seen—and neither was the man. Oh, she’d spied many a brawny redcoat back in London, but Mr. Heath was more than height and muscle. Something about him filled the entire space of a room when he entered. Why? Was it the determined tilt of his jaw? The air of mystery he hid behind that swath of dark hair? Or maybe….
His gaze flicked up to hers, catching her in the act of studying him. She blustered into action, scraping the dinner remains back into the iron pot and covering all her humiliation with a lid. He chuckled.
She ignored him. Removing the glass chimney from the lamp, she blew out the flame. Darkness settled over the room, as even as Grace’s breathing. Eleanor padded to the bed and lay down on top of it, unwilling to commit to slipping beneath the blanket. Had she done the right thing by allowing him to remain in the same room all night? She turned to her side, slipping her hand beneath the pillow, and rested her fingers atop the cold metal of the knife she’d hidden.
“I’m facing the wall, Tatsu’hwa.” The man’s voice blended with the shadows, wending its way across the room. “I will not turn around. Be at peace and do what you need to ready yourself for bed.”
“I am in bed.” The words came out before she thought. Heat blazed from head to toe for saying such a thing to a man, even if the man was her husband.
His sigh rose, drifting somewhere up near the rafters. “You can’t sleep in your gown forever, woman. It will rot right off your bones. I give you my word I will not look.”
Her throat closed. If only it were that easy.
“Have I given you cause not to trust me?” His question came out low, husky, almost as if it might never have come out at all if he’d not forced it.
She shifted her head, sifting through the layers of what he asked, sensing her answer held some kind of strange power. The man knew tragedy—deeply, bitterly—as evidenced by the lack of a mother for Grace. Had his first wife not trusted him? What had happened to her? Was that the root of his brusque ways?
“No,” she said at last. “It is not that.”
“Then what is it?”
She bit the inside of her cheek so hard, a metallic taste spread on her tongue. How to answer? Invent a story? Concoct a logical answer that might satisfy? Embellish or outright lie?
She smoothed a hand along her tummy, and her stays took a bite. If she didn’t answer honestly, she might be buried in this bodice—soon. “It is my stays.”
The noise started low, kind of a rumble, really. She lifted her head, listening hard, and a great belly laugh slapped her in the face.
She rose to her elbows. “I find no humor in the situation, Mr. Heath!”
The laughter faded, and as soon as it disappeared, she missed the happy sound, for what came next chilled her to the marrow.
Rustling sounded on the pelts. Feet hit the floor.
“Get up,” he said.
She froze. “Pardon?” The black silhouette of the man stood at the foot of her bed. What little light crawled in through the cracks of burlap hung on the windows brushed moonfire along his profile, tracing half his face, the cut of his cheekbones, the square angles of his jaw, and the lines of his full mouth.
“I said get up, Tatsu’hwa.”
There was no disobeying that voice. She’d heard it before in the summons of a duke or instructions from a countess.
Rolling over, she slid the knife beneath her sleeve, concealing the weapon should she need it, then rose on legs as shaky as a newborn foal. What did he intend?
But he did not advance. He merely folded his arms. “Take the gown off.”
“Mr. Heath!” She backed up until the log wall slammed into her back.
He widened his stance, broad as a mountain and every bit as unmovable. “Take the gown off, and I’ll get you out of your stays.”
“And how do you propose to do that? For I shall not allow you to touch me.” She sucked in air, mind whirring. Instinct told her that simple scratches on this man’s face would not deter him as it had the duke. The knife pressed against her skin, cold and hard inside her sleeve. Would she be forced to use it against him?
Could she?
“No touching involved.” Moonlight slid along the sharp edge of his own raised blade, hers nothing but a child’s toy in comparison.
“No!” Her eyes widened. “Absolutely not. Come no closer.”
“How long have you been in that gown?”
Her cheeks scorched. This was worse than mortifying. This type of discussion would never happen in England.
Slowly, her head sank. As he had so aptly reminded her, England was far, far away. “Two days,” she whispere
d.
“Well, then I figure it’s like this.” He stepped toward her, stopping an arm’s length away. “There’s not another woman around for miles to assist you. Either you let me help, or you’ll develop such a rash as to take the hide off your bones. I suspect even now your ribs are bruised and you’re chafing something fierce.”
She jerked up her face, scowling. How would he know?
“So, Red Bird,” his voice softened. “Shall I cut the blessed thing off or unlace it?”
Her gaze shot from his face to his knife, then back again. Searching inwardly, desperately, she mustered every scrap of courage she could find to say what she must to this stranger. “Unlace it, please. But turn around, first.”
Staring at her like a great black panther, he tucked the blade into the waistband of his breeches—thank the Lord he’d taken to his pallet without removing them—and turned his broad shoulders to her.
She slid out the knife from her sleeve and returned it to her hiding spot beneath the pillow. Her fingers trembled as she unpinned her bodice. As she peeled off her gown and slipped out of her petticoats, lying all on the bed, she shivered. In naught but her stays and shift, she felt as stripped bare and vulnerable as the many times her father thrashed her with a switch.
No. She would not think of him. Not now. Stiffening, she turned, so that they stood back to back. “All right. I am ready.”
He moved without sound, but move he did, for she could feel the burn of his gaze against her skin. She clenched every muscle, her fingernails digging crescent-moons into the palms of her hands.
His fingers skimmed over the fabric, warm as an August breeze tasting every leaf, then worked the knot set between her shoulder blades. Had Biz purposely tied such a tangle?
The dark world turned watery. This was silly. Hadn’t Biz said never to cry because of a man? Even so, this was not the way she’d envisioned marriage, the way of a husband with a wife. Unbidden, a single tear slipped quietly down her cheek, landing on her lip.
His breath moistened the nape of her neck. The heat of his fingers traveled down to the small of her back as he loosened the binding. The warmth of his body reached across the thin space between them and rippled across her shoulders, along her arms, and settled in her fingers, all shaky and moist. He smelled of earth and pine, like a beast of the forest in human form, all salty and woodsy.
A summer sun couldn’t have scorched her more thoroughly. She crossed her arms over her chest, a vain attempt to still the pounding against her ribs.
“I can almost hear your heartbeat, Tatsu’hwa,” he whispered, bending close, his words caressing the naked curve of her ear lobe. “Be at peace. I am not your enemy.”
She froze, standing there long after he retreated to his pallet across the room, concentrating on nothing but breathing for the longest time. If she let her thoughts roam free, she knew exactly from what cliff they’d plummet.
Allowing the man to remove her stays in the dark of night was one thing—but how would she get the wretched garment back on in the light of morning?
Samuel rolled off the pallet before daylight even thought of rising from its bed. Across the room, the woman breathed easy, as did Grace from the crib. Innocents always slept. He’d tried, well into the witching hours, but who could sleep when memories taunted without mercy? His body remembered all too well what it was like to touch a woman. His mind was assaulted by the civilizing ways of Red Bird, striking too close to the habits of his first wife, all fine porcelain and linens. And his heart? Well, other than God Almighty, who could plumb the depths of that capricious organ? He shoved his feet into his moccasins. Not a man such as himself.
He grabbed his coat, rifle, and hat on his way out the door. Pre-dawn air stung his face, and he sucked in a big draught, letting it go deep. He should’ve thought to ask the woman if she’d needed anything before leaving Newcastle the other day. Now there was no choice but to go back.
Wohali snorted a greeting as he flung open the stable door. After rummaging through a stack of his finest pelts, he pulled out and lashed together enough to purchase a firearm for Red Bird and anything else she’d need. Half a smile tugged his mouth as he readied his mount for the journey. Women’s garments and a firearm—both deadly.
By the time he rode off, grey light slivered across the horizon. And by the time he reined in Wohali at Greeley’s Mercantile, the sun beat hot against his shoulders. He tied his mount, keeping his back toward the charred lot across the road. Hard to tell which of the two—sun or nightmare—trickled sweat between his shoulder blades. He’d have to do something with that piece of dirt and blood.
But not yet.
He took the stairs in two strides and blew through the door like a summer storm.
Jonathan Greeley looked up from behind the counter. Though Samuel stood at least ten paces away, he smelled the man’s hair powder, something akin to toadstools after a fresh rain, though if asked, Greeley would swear it was the latest fragrance sent from France. The shopkeeper’s face was clean-shaven, and trim nails prettied his hands. Not a stain or wrinkle marred his work apron or suit beneath. He was a dandy, all right. A strutting peacock of a fellow. Or maybe he was just afraid of his wife’s wrath should he present himself any less formal.
“Morning, Heath.” Greeley shut his ledger and set down his pen. “Didn’t expect to see you twice in one week.”
Samuel tipped his hat brim forward a notch in greeting. “I need a few things.”
“Such as?”
He scanned the shop, wall to wall, pausing at the corner near the window. A fabric table was heaped with bolts of cloth, most sturdy but a few too flimsy to be of any use on the frontier. Shelves of ribbons and all manner of sewing things lined the wall behind it. Everything a woman might want—but no women in sight. Good.
He swung back to Greeley. “Ladies’ things.”
Greeley rolled to his toes, leaning forward. “Such as?”
He gritted his teeth. It’d been bad enough removing the woman’s stays last night under cover of darkness. Now he must speak aloud of the lacy bits of nothing? No. He stepped up to the counter and planted his feet. “Whatever it is that a backcountry woman might require.”
Greeley’s lips twitched. Clearly the man enjoyed this conversation far too much. “Such as?” he repeated.
“Blast it, man!” He threw his arms wide. “My wife needs clothes.”
A slow smile stretched across the shopkeeper’s mouth.
Reaching across the counter, he grasped Greeley’s collar and pulled him forward. “So help me, Greeley, if you say ‘such as’ one more time, I’ll march right out to that warehouse and upend every box and crate until I find what my wife might need.”
He splayed his fingers.
Greeley stumbled against the counter, coughing. “Really, Mr. Heath!” He tugged at his collar. “You are in town, sir, where such rough-and-tumble ways are frowned upon.”
He snorted. “A scuffle does a man good now and then.”
Greeley ignored the challenge, smoothing back his hair instead—though it only served to knock the greased strands more askew. Why he and his wife had set up shop in Newcastle, the dividing line between Cherokee country and civilization, had always been a wonder. They belonged in a city.
“Come back in a few hours.” Greeley sniffed. “I’ll have my wife’s new maid put something together for her. Being she’s from England as well, she might have a better idea than I what provisions your wife may need.”
“Good. Oh, and Greeley?”
“Yes?”
“You might want to …” Ought he tell the man a hank of his hair had broken free in the tussle and now stood at attention, like an Indian feather straight and tall on top of his head? Samuel ran a hand across his chin, debating.
“Go look in a mirror, man,” he called over his shoulder on his way out.
Wohali nuzzled him as he loosed the reins from the post. He walked the mount down the road, shying to the edge of the rutted dirt. A few
horses clomped past, but he didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. The sneers were always the same. Not that they bothered him in the least. It was the occasional drawn lines of pity weighting a person’s brow that he couldn’t abide.
He crossed over to the trading post and hitched up Wohali, then unleashed and hefted the pack of pelts onto his shoulder. He mounted the few stairs and strode through the open door into dim light and an odor so powerful it could knock a grown man flat. Greeley might smell of hair powder and grease, but he’d take that any day over Renner—a man who’d not seen a comb, a bar of soap, or any sort of cleanliness in over a decade.
“Heath.” Renner’s words were as sparse as his teeth.
“Renner.” Samuel thwunked the pile of pelts to the floorboards, then stepped back.
Renner shot out from behind the counter. He crouched in front of the furs, running his fingers along the softness, then whipped out a knife and cut the binding. He sorted one after the other, rubbing them against his filthy cheek. When each fur had been measured and examined, he rocked back on his heels, then pushed up and resumed his perch on a barrel behind the counter. “What you trading for?”
Samuel sidestepped the pile of fur. “I need a firearm.”
Renner craned his neck, eyeballs hunting for the weapon strapped on Samuel’s back. “What’s wrong with yours?”
“Nothing.”
“What you looking for?”
“Something small. It’s for my wife.”
The man hopped off his barrel, then flipped it on its side. Beneath sat a pistol, a little rusty on the barrel, but a firearm nonetheless. He stood, holding it out on an open palm.
Samuel hefted the pistol in his own palm, weighing merit against detriment. The eight-inch barrel might need to be traded out, but would hold for now. He ran a finger along the lockplate, breech, and trigger. Solid. He squinted. No hairline fractures. Cocking the trigger, he listened hard. The flintlock mechanism clicked with ease. The bottom of the handle was broken off, though he could fashion a new one, or at the very least, mend it. Old scrollwork faded into nothing toward the edge of the muzzle, but cosmetics be hanged. The size and lightness of the weapon were perfect for Red Bird.
The Captive Heart Page 8