“I am not!” Eleanor’s rebuttal shot out with Molly’s, both as jarring as the sudden tattoo of a drum, rat-a-tat-tatting on the night air.
Biz laughed. “You can say otherwise, Elle Bell, but look at yer cheeks. They’re a-flamin’ like a gypsy’s torch. Oh, you got it bad, luv. Din’t think to see that happen, you all bookish and mannerly and whatnot—and him no better than a cock fighter back at Old Nichol.”
“Do not be ridiculous. We have an understanding, Mr. Heath and I, and I assure you it is all very proper.” She tugged Grace sideways, bypassing Biz and snatching a cup of cider from the table.
Biz elbowed her as she passed. “I think yer a-wishin’ that would change though, aye?”
Snubbing Biz’s rudeness—and the traitorous agreement fluttering in her own belly—Eleanor bent and handed the cup to Grace.
“Stop it, Biz,” Molly scolded. “Don’t drive Eleanor away when we have such precious little time with her as is. Besides, I haven’t told either of you yet about the new arrival. She’s quite scandalous, really.”
Eleanor straightened, glad for the change of subject.
“Oh?” Biz jutted her chin. “Bit of competition for me, eh?”
Molly shrugged. “I shouldn’t think so. The woman is a missionary.”
A curse spewed out of Biz. She slapped her hand over her mouth and slipped a wild glance around. Apparently living with a pastor was affecting her in some small way. “What’s so scandalous about that?”
Molly leaned toward them both. “She rode into town alone.”
Grace banged the cup against Eleanor’s leg, and she took it from the child, setting it back on the board. All the while, she mulled over Molly’s information. Women simply did not ride alone in the wild, especially not an upstanding one. She faced Molly. “A lone woman traveling this backcountry … is that not a bit odd?”
Molly nodded. “To be fair, she does have a Negro manservant with her, and her situation could not be helped. The poor thing lost her uncle, you see—the reverend she’d traveled with from Charles Towne. He suffered some kind of fit a few days back, never to recover. They had to bury him. Oh, Miss Browndell is so brave! She reminds me of you, Eleanor. She pressed on and made it to Newcastle on her own. Can you imagine?” The whites of Molly’s eyes glowed in the torchlight. “I’d be so frightened.”
“Yes, very brave,” Eleanor murmured as she thought back on the past three months, faced with bears and Indians and all manner of harshness. A frown pulled at her lips. If it weren’t for Samuel, she’d not have known how to deal with any of it. And if it weren’t for herself, he’d not have risked his life so many times. Her heart squeezed.
“Eleanor?”
She jerked out of her morbid thoughts and offered a half smile to Molly. “Indeed. Miss Browndell must be very intelligent to have survived in the wilderness after the loss of her uncle.”
“She is!” Molly clasped her hands in front of her, almost a stance of worship. “Not that I’ve had the chance for much conversation with her, mind you, but listening to her discussions with Mrs. Greeley is quite exciting.” “Pish!” Biz’s face screwed into a disagreeable mask. “Can’t imagine she’d have anything to say I’d want to hear. I get an earful enough at home with ‘scripture says this’ and ‘scripture says that.’”
Eleanor quirked a brow. Clearly the woman had not heard enough to mend her ungodly ways.
Molly stepped closer. “But here’s the most interesting thing. The woman, Miss Browndell,” she indicated with a nod of her head toward a petite lady not far from them, talking with the plump Mrs. Greeley, “says she plans to continue on with her uncle’s mission—clear into Cherokee lands, with naught but her manservant to accompany her. Why, ’tis positively outrageous!”
Biz narrowed her eyes. “Either this fine miss is askin’ for a scalpin’ … or there’s more to her story than preachin’ to some heathens.”
Grace yanked on Eleanor’s hand, and she swung the girl up into her arms. For once, Eleanor realized, she agreed with Biz.
“Come on, girls.” Biz charged forward, glancing over her shoulder. “God fearin’ or not, I’d like to meet this scandalous woman.”
Molly bit her lip. “I don’t know, Biz. Mrs. Greeley might not like us barging in.”
Biz turned around, walking backward, a wicked wiggle to her eyebrows. “Don’t worry. Elle Bell there will use her pretty manners to make it all right.”
Molly shot her a pleading look as Biz scooted over to where Mrs. Greeley and Miss Browndell stood at the far end of the refreshment table.
Eleanor held Grace all the tighter. As excited as she had been to reunite with her friends, she suddenly wished for the seclusion of Samuel’s log cabin. A single rogue bear was less dangerous than a curious Biz—or a newcomer with mixed morals.
Samuel stalked past the outer ring of torches and stepped over the body of a longhunter who’d already hit the dirt from too much rattle-skull. Three steps later, he turned back. That passed-out sot could’ve been him—no—that was him, in years past. Stooping, he grabbed the man beneath the armpits and hauled him off to the side, dropping him next to the canvas of someone’s tent. At least there the fellow wouldn’t get a boot to the ribs or kick in the head and could sleep off his stupor in peace.
He wheeled about and shouldered past two traders leaning against each other for ballast. Time he found McDivitt, asked about the man seeking a guide, then got Red Bird and Grace out of here.
“Heath!”
The silhouette of a broad-shouldered man loomed black in front of a torch, five paces off. Sutton. After a rank-smelling trapper stumbled past, Samuel veered toward him, following where Sutton had disappeared behind the tent line. He caught up with him where he crouched in the grass, away from the festivities.
Samuel squatted as well. “What have you got?”
Even at this distance, the line of torches lit the whites of Sutton’s eyes in the darkness. “Newcomer rode in today, asking for a guide to the Lower Town.”
He chewed the inside of his cheek. Sutton’s words added credence to what he’d already learned from McDivitt … but Sutton wouldn’t have pulled him aside if there weren’t more to it. “You think it’s the negotiator?”
Sutton shrugged. “I can hardly square it. It’s for you to determine. All I can do is supply you with information.”
“Such as?”
“It’s a woman and her manservant what’s seeking passage. A Negro.”
Samuel rubbed the back of his neck, thinking hard. McDivitt hadn’t said anything about if it was a man or a woman.
“There’s more.” Sutton’s low voice cut into his thoughts. “She’s trying real hard to cover a Yorkshire accent, and doing a fair job of it, mind you. But now and then she slips, ever so slightly, and I can tell, my mam being from that part of the country.”
Samuel shook his head, a vain attempt to line up the strange nuggets of intelligence. “Why would a woman, an English one no less, want passage to Keowee?”
“Says she’s carrying out her uncle’s dying wishes.”
Woman. Unchaperoned, save for a servant. English. Bent on a promise to a dead man. How was he to track that trail? Which way did it lead? He blew out a long breath. “Either this woman is a naive fool, or she’s got grit. Unless it’s the manservant who’s using her for cover. Suppose I need to figure out which.”
The twitch at the corner of Sutton’s lips confirmed he’d already come to the same conclusion.
Samuel stood. “All right. Time I met this woman. Where is she?”
Sutton rose, staying him with a hand to the shoulder. “One more thing you should know, unrelated.”
Samuel shot him a sideways glance. “I’m listening.”
A fierce scowl carved into Sutton’s face, flickering torchlight intensifying his rage. “McDivitt. Watch your back.”
Samuel frowned. “That’s nothing new. He’s always had it in for me.” He cocked his head, searching Sutton’s eyes for an under
lying message. “But you know that.”
“It’s different this time.” Sparks flamed in Sutton’s brown gaze—and not from the torches. “It’s not just you anymore. The man is unhinged. Even grabbed Greeley by the collar the other day, claiming he’d been shortchanged. He threatened Greeley with a strip-down beating right there on the loading dock if he didn’t get his money back. Didn’t care that God and half the town was watchin’.”
Samuel scrubbed his jaw. This was new. “What did Greeley do?”
“Said he’d bring in the law from Charles Towne and see McDivitt’s reign of terror over Newcastle was done.”
He snorted, wishing he’d been there to see Angus’s face. “That didn’t set well, I imagine.”
“Aye. McDivitt told him where to go, and it wasn’t to Charles Towne.” Half a smile lifted his mouth, then faded, a grim set to his jaw replacing any humor. “Something bad’s going to happen; I feel it in my gut. Greed’s eating the man alive. There’s no telling what McDivitt will do.”
“There never is.” The memory of McDivitt’s hands on Red Bird shook through him from head to toe. He stalked toward the tent line.
Sutton trailed him, his words a tomahawk between the shoulders. “If I were you, Heath, I wouldn’t just watch my own back. I’d keep an eye on my wife.”
He searched past the heads of men, drawn to a flash of red hair peeking out beneath a straw hat across the way. His wife huddled with her two friends near the drink table—friends every bit as dangerous as McDivitt.
He glanced back at Sutton. “Mind your own back as well, my friend.”
Weaving through those still standing, he set off to collect Red Bird—then find this lone woman with the gall of a man.
Chapter 27
Eleanor and Molly tried to trail Biz, but the woman dashed off with the skill of a pickpocket bent on a mark. Perhaps she truly had been the finest cutpurse in the Old Nichol rookery. To be fair, though, a toddler didn’t cling to her neck, slowing her steps. Eleanor shifted Grace on her hip and quickened her pace, Molly at her side.
They’d nearly joined the small group of women when Biz stepped up to Mrs. Greeley and Miss Browndell, her words as brash as her volume.
“Evening, Mrs. Greeley. Don’t think I’ve met yer new friend here yet. Seems I ought let the reverend know when there’s a new sheep to be fleeced, I mean, a sheep in his flock, or something like that. I’m Biz. Biz Hunter. And you are?” Biz grabbed Miss Browndell’s hand, pumping so that the smaller woman’s entire arm jerked with the movement. She paused for a moment and lifted the woman’s fingers eye-level, letting out a low whistle at a gleaming, silver ring. “Say, that’s a real beauty. Must have set you back a few coins, eh?”
“Really!” Mrs. Greeley’s face pinched to an unbecoming shade of red. Her head swiveled toward Molly, a spasm cinching one eye nearly closed. “Molly! Bid your friend goodnight.”
Before Molly could form any words—or even open her mouth—Mrs. Greeley turned to her guest. “My apologies, Miss Browndell. You’ll find that manners are scarce in this part of the country. It’s been a great trial for me, but I suppose one cannot expect a pig to behave as a butterfly.”
She skewered Biz with a steely gaze.
Judging by the cocky set of Biz’s jaw, she was about to unleash a few words that would burn a sailor’s ears. Molly shot Eleanor a pleading look.
Oh, la! Samuel’s cabin in the woods sounded better with each passing moment. Eleanor unwrapped Grace and set her down, tethering her with a firm grip on her hand, then faced Mrs. Greeley. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Greeley, but I have been admiring your fichu all evening. Is that Hampton lace, the finest from Nantatter’s of London? My former employer, Duchess Brougham, simply adored their work. I can see your taste runs rather aristocratic.”
Mrs. Greeley’s fingers fluttered up to her bodice. Her lips opened and closed like a landed codfish. “Why … er … thank you, Mrs. Heath.”
“Heath?” Miss Browndell aimed a perfectly arched brow at Eleanor. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a knot, set beneath a snappy riding cap of green felt. She smiled with lips the color of warmed sherry, the rest of her skin surprisingly white in spite of her long trek from Charles Towne. The woman was a faerie. Ethereal. Artists would drop to their knees, begging to paint her portrait. Her tiny frame would make any man feel virile and protective of such a beautiful, porcelain treasure.
Towering a full handspan above the woman, Eleanor felt like an ogre.
“Oh, yes. Forgive me.” Mrs. Greeley’s head bobbed, the single feather atop her cap scolding her own slip in manners. “Miss Browndell, this is Mrs. Heath. Her husband is the fellow I was telling you about.”
Why was she surprised when Miss Browndell’s lips parted, revealing pearly teeth all lined up in a row? Of course she’d have a pure smile. Everything about this woman, from her beauty to her holy quest to spread God’s Word, was flawless.
Eleanor’s fingers itched to reach out and yank a curl out of place from her impeccably coiffed head. She gripped Grace’s hand tighter and masked a grimace. She wasn’t just an ogre, she was a wicked one at that.
“So pleased to meet you.” Miss Browndell’s voice was the resonant tone of angel song. “And I hope soon to meet your renowned husband.”
Little hairs stood at attention on the nape of Eleanor’s neck. An irrational urge rose to find Samuel, grab him, and run far and fast. She shifted her feet yet returned the woman’s smile, forcing a light tone to her voice. “Oh?”
“Miss Browndell is in need of a guide to the Cherokee Lower Town. Naturally, I thought of your husband as he is”—Mrs. Greeley sniffed as if she’d stepped in a pile of horse droppings—“very familiar with such a route.”
Grace tugged at her skirt, and she patted the girl’s head, hopefully pacifying her for a few moments more. The woman in front of her simply must have a defect—and she determined, here and now, to find out what that might be.
“If I may be so bold, Miss Browndell,” she lowered her voice, mixing just the right amount of curiosity and revere to her tone, “why would you risk travel to such a remote place?”
“I own it is a perilous mission, but you see, I owe it to my uncle’s honor.” A little sigh escaped her—much too fleeting to be serious grief. Either the woman belonged on a Drury Lane stage, or the impact of losing a loved one hadn’t quite hit home.
A tiny quiver rippled across Miss Browndell’s lower lip. “You see, it was my uncle’s dying wish to bring the Word of God to the heathens.”
“What makes you think they don’t already have it?”
Samuel’s deep voice wrapped around her from behind, the heat of his body warming her back as he stepped close. If she retreated, just an inch or so, would his strength calm her whirlwind thoughts—or ignite them into the wildfire she’d experienced in his arms?
Reverend Parker drew up behind Biz as well, a good-natured twinkle in his eyes. “Surely that’s a moot point, Mr. Heath. Can one ever have enough of the Word of God?”
“Well said!” Though Miss Browndell spoke to the reverend, her brown eyes gazed past Eleanor—and devoured Samuel. “So happy to finally meet you, Mr. Heath. I hear you are the best guide in the area.”
“That so?” Samuel’s breath warmed her ear as he spoke.
“I’m told there’s none better.” The woman beamed up at him with a flutter to her eyelashes. “I’d like to hire your services, sir.” She leaned forward with a little bounce to her toes, clapping her hands together as if the world were a party and she the guest of honor. “And I should like to set out come morning. Do say you’ll take me?”
“Oh!” Mrs. Greeley’s exclamation piggybacked on a screechy note from the fiddle. “Miss Browndell, I object. It wouldn’t be seemly for a single young woman like yourself to travel unaccompanied with a man, even a married one. And most especially out in the wild.”
“Ahh, but you forget, Mrs. Greeley. My manservant, Mingo, attends me.” With a flicker of her fingers, sh
e indicated a large black man standing with folded arms, ten paces off.
Eleanor bit her lip. Oh, how she wanted to spin about, study Samuel’s face, and see if he seriously entertained the notion of guiding this woman and her servant to Keowee by himself. But she settled for listening with all her might, picking apart the inflection, volume, and timbre of his voice.
“It’s a hard trail.” His tone was flat. Emotionless. As matter-of-fact as if he merely instructed how to load a flintlock. “Nothing like the road you just traveled from Charles Towne.”
“I assure you, Mr. Heath, I have excellent horsemanship—among other talents.” Her smile changed, almost unnoticeable, but Eleanor didn’t miss the predatory slant to her lips. “If you’re half the guide I’ve heard about, then I trust you’ll let no harm come my way.”
Eleanor stiffened. This was no missionary, not the way her brown gaze fixed on Samuel. Too bold. Too daring. Why did no one else notice the woman was a fake? Didn’t Samuel see through her facade?
Or had Miss Browndell’s flattery entrapped him every bit as much as his former wife’s?
In front of him, the fabric of Red Bird’s dress stretched taut across her shoulders. Samuel stifled a smile. He couldn’t see her face, but he imagined a tight pull to her brow and a frowning dimple deep-set on one cheek. The more Miss Browndell praised him, the more his wife stilled. He’d never seen her react so strongly to another woman. And—God’s truth—he hadn’t been this amused since the time Inoli slipped on a moss-covered rock and landed face-first in the creek. What sport it would be to fan that tiny ember of Red Bird’s jealousy—if it was such—and see what kind of flame would erupt.
But playing with fire was dangerous, and this was no trifling situation, not if the woman asking him for passage to Keowee was the negotiator. He ground his teeth. Blast the British beasts! A good cover, but sending a woman out on such a dangerous mission? Had they no souls?
Grace let go of Red Bird’s hand and grabbed on to his fingers instead. Miss Browndell’s gaze flicked down to the child, hardened ever so slightly, then softened as she lifted her face back to his.
The Captive Heart Page 22