Merline Lovelace

by Untamed

  He drew in a breath and turned to Barbara with a rueful smile.

  “People think me ruthless for being so determined to enforce the provisions of the Indian Removal Act.”

  They thought him more than ruthless. In her short weeks in America, she’d heard him described as everything from a self-serving politician desiring only to appease his white voters to a cruel despot out to destroy the peoples his government had negotiated countless treaties with.

  “Moving the eastern tribes is the only way I can guarantee them freedom to live according to their customs,” he explained. “The state legislatures—Alabama, Georgia, South Carolina—are determined to exercise jurisdiction over their populations. Once they do, their indigenous tribes will lose all power and identity. Chief Justice Marshall, damn him, has buried his head too deep in the law books to recognize that bitter inevitability.”

  Others drifted over to join the conversation.

  “The Cherokee might have made the Supreme Court decision stick if gold hadn’t been discovered on their land in north Georgia,” a rotund general with bushy side-whiskers put in. “Now there are lynchings and burnings every night, and the governor refuses to use the militia to stop the mayhem.”

  “It’ll bode ill for the Union if we’re forced to send in federal troops,” another murmured. “We’ll find ourselves at war with the State of Georgia.”

  “With the rest of the southern states, as well,” Jackson predicted grimly. “They’re already threatening to secede if the abolitionists push legislation through Congress outlawing slavery.”

  Obviously burdened by the responsibilities of his office, the president thrust a hand into his thick white mane.

  “Damned if I’m not at point nonplus. To save this cobbled-together Union of ours, I must support slavery, which I abhor, and evict our native peoples from their homes and lands. If anyone knows a better path to tread, I wish they would tell me!”

  None of the powerful men present offered an alternative course, and Barbara sensed the destiny of the native peoples Jackson referred to had already been written in stone. Or blood.

  It would be left to men like Daniel and Zach Morgan to determine which. The president had indicated as much, and Zach used the moment to push a cause Barbara knew was dear to his heart.

  “Honoring the boundaries your commissioners negotiate is the only way to maintain peace in Indian Country, and we must use all means necessary to keep white settlers from encroaching on those boundaries. That will require more troops. Mounted troops.”

  “Yes, yes, you rangers have proved your worth out there on the prairies.”

  Jackson paused and hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat. Rocking back on his heels, he nodded to a bushy-bearded gentleman in a rusty black frock coat.

  “I’ve instructed the secretary of war here to prepare a request for establishment of a regiment of dragoons. We’ll submit the request to Congress when it reconvenes in January. That news should please you, Lieutenant Morgan.”

  Zach gave a whoop of joy. “It does indeed!”

  The president’s grim expression eased. Even the solemn secretary of war smiled.

  “Colonel Arbuckle recommends you be given a captaincy in the new regiment,” Jackson said. “I concur. I want you back from your leave of absence in time to help recruit and train these dragoons.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The confidence the president placed in Zach both amazed and delighted Barbara. She couldn’t imagine anyone better suited to the task they’d just given him. As Jackson had pointed out, Zach knew Indian Country. He also understood better than most the challenges the dragoons would face when they deployed to the frontier. More importantly, he brought intelligence and compassion to his duties.

  If she had to be pregnant, Barbara decided as her gaze slid over his tanned, handsome face and broad shoulders, she could have picked a worse father for her babe. Far worse.

  With the thought, some of her worry over the possibility she might be increasing disappeared. In its place came a different emotion, something perilously akin to hope. A babe might bridge the chasm when Zach finally learned the truth about her intentions.

  Assuming he believed the child his, that was.

  She couldn’t discount the distinct possibility he might not. After the stories he’d heard about her—and those disgusting innuendos about her relationship with Harry—how could he not think the worst? Barbara was swinging from hope to despair yet again when another cramp seized her.

  The pain sliced into her bowels like a saber. It was all she could do not to gasp or double over. Clenching her teeth, she stared blindly at the portrait hanging on the far wall until the agony lessened.

  “Lady Barbara?”

  She let out a shaky breath and blinked to clear her vision. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “I was inquiring whether I may escort you to the table. I believe the cooks are ready to serve.”

  Lord, yes! All she wanted now was to conclude this evening as swiftly as possible. Forcing a gracious nod, she allowed the president to seat her on his right.

  She soon saw Zach had characterized the general’s tastes accurately. Servants presented platters of rare sirloin, stewed potatoes and something they called fritters. She choked down two bites of the beef, but the fried corn stuck in her throat.

  When had it grown so uncomfortably warm? And why had the president chosen to seat her so close to flames dancing behind the richly embroidered fire screen? Discreetly, she daubed at the perspiration dewing her upper lip and tried to follow the quicksilver changes in conversation.

  She thought she’d succeeded in hiding her distress until she met Zach’s eyes. A small frown creased his forehead. When he cocked his head in silent inquiry, Barbara couldn’t disguise her discomfort any longer. She pressed her napkin to her lips again and sent him a pleading look. Instantly, he pushed back his chair and addressed President Jackson.

  “I know you’ll understand if I don’t stand on ceremony with you, sir. I fear Lady Barbara may still be feeling the after effects of our long journey and is gallantly trying to hide her distress. May I beg leave to take her back to the hotel?”

  “Of course, of course!”

  Jumping up, Jackson himself pulled Barbara’s chair back for her. She rose, took two steps, and clamped both arms around her waist.

  She couldn’t fight the wrenching pain this time. Caught in its vicious vise, she bent double. The painted canvas covering the floor blurred. She would have fallen flat on her face if not for Zach. His hands steadied her. His voice rumbled soothingly in her ear.

  “It’s all right, darling. Retch if you need to.”

  Perspiration stung her eyes. She was hot. So very hot.

  “I…I just need air.”

  Zach scooped her into his arms. She leaned into him, still in the grip of the awful agony. From a great distance she heard the president instruct Zach to carry her immediately to an upstairs bedchamber.

  “I’ll send for my personal physician. In the meantime, Mrs. Camden, the head housekeeper, can assist you.”

  By the time Zach laid her on a massive four-poster, the cramps were attacking Barbara with unrelenting brutality. His face was an indistinct blur. The canopy above him spun crazily. She wrapped her arms around her middle and kept trying to curl into a tight ball while he stripped off her outer garments and loosened her corset.

  Vaguely, she heard someone else bustle in. Heard, too, a swift, indrawn hiss.

  “That’s blood on her petticoats, sir.”

  “I see it.”

  At that point the anguish consumed Barbara. With an inarticulate sound, she gave herself up to it.

  17

  Barbara drifted in that half state between slumber and wakefulness. Her mind foggy, her body limp, she tried to pinpoint the faint clicking sound that penetrated her sleepy haze.

  It was sleet, she decided after a while. Hitting the windowpanes.

  For a moment or two she imagined herself a child ag
ain, tucked warm and snug in her bed, while rain danced against the leaded panes of Whitestone Manor.

  But Whitestone was gone. Sold to creditors after her father’s death on the dueling field. She had no home. Neither she nor Harry.

  Harry.

  Harry was in trouble. He needed her.

  And Zach. Where was Zach?

  Barbara tried to open her eyes. Her lids felt as though they were glued together. She forced them up with a small grunt.

  Something stirred at the sound. A pale blur drifted through the darkness and hovered at her side. She thought at first it was a ghost, some specter from the grave waiting to claim her. Dark eyes burned in a face shadowed in shades of gray. She cringed back against the pillows, but couldn’t escape.

  An arm slid under her neck, raised her up a few inches. Something cool touched her lips. She tried to turn her head, heard a deep voice command her to drink.

  The next time she woke, the shadows were gone. Thin slices of sunlight teased their way through drawn drapes and filled the room with weak, watery light.

  Barbara stared at the gold tassels decorating red velvet drapes for long moments before dragging her gaze to the portrait hanging on a wall covered in crimson silk. A bewigged gentleman dressed in the style of twenty years ago stared back at her somberly. She didn’t recognize him or the velvet drapes, but she was sure those silver-backed brushes on the dressing table were hers. As was the valise sitting on the floor beside the table. She fretted about both until a more pressing concern gradually took precedence.

  She tried to throw off her heavy covers, but they weighted her down. The best she could manage was a restless stir. The movement was enough to summon a round, red-faced woman to her bedside.

  “Well, then!” Her cheerful countenance matched her bracing tone. “You’re awake.”

  “Who…?” She swiped her tongue along lips as dry as parchment. “Who are you?”

  “Mrs. Camden. I’m head housekeeper here at the White House. I’ve been helping tend to you. You’ve been quite ill, m’dear. Quite ill indeed. Here, take a drink of this.”

  Propping Barbara up with a stout arm, the housekeeper held a glass filled with a milky liquid to her lips. The concoction tasted of cool, refreshing mint, but the mere act of swallowing it brought tears to her eyes.

  “I know, I know.” Clucking sympathetically, Mrs. Camden eased her patient back to the pillows. “Your throat aches something fierce. And no wonder. You retched for hours after Dr. Armbruster administered that purge to empty your stomach.”

  Bits of it came back to Barbara now. The swirl of unfamiliar faces. The horrid, endless vomiting. The pain. Dear God above, the pain! The mere memory of it popped beads of sweat out on her temples.

  “Shall I bathe your face?” her housekeeper asked. “You’ll feel more the thing, I promise you.”

  There was a more pressing concern that needed tending to first. “Chamber…pot,” Barbara croaked.

  “Yes, of course. Here, I’ll assist you.”

  Her movements were as shaky and awkward as a new foal’s. When she flopped back onto the pillows, the room spun. Gulping, Barbara closed her eyes and prayed the awful sickness wouldn’t attack once again.

  “You were fortunate Dr. Armbruster lives but two blocks away and arrived as quickly as he did.”

  Bustling about, the housekeeper dipped a cloth in a china washbasin and wrung it out.

  “You really should be more careful with cowbane, m’dear. A pinch or two to relieve cramps is fine when you have your monthlies, and you certainly wouldn’t be the first woman to use more to rid herself of an unwanted babe. But too much could kill you along with the babe.”

  Barbara heard only one word. Her babe. The child she’d only begun to suspect she might be carrying. In an instinctive gesture as old as time, she wrapped protective arms across her stomach.

  “It’s…gone?”

  “No, m’dear.” Gently, Mrs. Camden drew the cool cloth over her patient’s face and neck. “You bled some, but didn’t pass it.”

  Like a bird on the wing, Barbara soared from despair to blinding joy. She didn’t understand how the possibility she carried a child had come to consume her in such a short space of time. Or why she felt such relief that she hadn’t lost it. She’d sort through these whirlwind emotions later. For now, all that mattered was that the child had remained lodged in her womb.

  “It’s difficult, I know, you being unmarried and a lady at that,” the housekeeper said with another sympathetic cluck. “But such things happen. Take heart that waistlines are still high enough to hide a swollen belly for as long as you’ve a mind to.”

  She dipped the cloth in the china bowl and wrung it out again.

  “Not that you’d need to hide it. From the way Lieutenant Morgan insisted on helping tend to you, a blind man could see how the wind blows with him. He’ll do the right thing by you, m’dear. If that’s what you desire, of course.”

  At the moment, Barbara didn’t know what she desired, except perhaps another swallow of that cool, soothing drink.

  “Whatever you decide, though, don’t resort to cowbane again. It’s too dangerous.”

  She wanted to protest she’d put only a pinch in her tea. A mere dusting of the dried, grayish-green leaves. Her throat ached too much to form the words.

  “There.” The older woman surveyed her handiwork. “I’ll just brush your hair and help you into a clean nightdress, shall I, before Lieutenant Morgan returns. I insisted he go down and take some breakfast,” she added with a confiding smile. “Other than a quick trip to the hotel to fetch your things, he hasn’t left your side for more than a few minutes at a time.”

  When Zach rapped on the door to the bedchamber, Barbara had downed the rest of the mint-flavored liquid and could speak in something more than a croak. With Mrs. Camden’s assistance, she struggled to a sitting position in the wide four-poster. The housekeeper propped another pillow behind her before hurrying over to admit the lieutenant.

  Barbara’s first thought was that he looked as wretched as she felt. Red rimmed his eyes, and fatigue had carved deep furrows on either side of his mouth. He’d obviously shaved, but his uniform coat showed considerable wear and his stock was tied with something less than its usual precision.

  He crossed the room to where she lay and took her hand. The warmth of his palm was infinitely comforting. His shuttered expression somewhat less so.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Disgustingly weak.”

  “You’ll get your strength back fast enough,” Mrs. Camden predicted cheerfully. “I’ll go down to the kitchens, shall I, and have Cook prepare you a hearty stew.”

  She left Zach standing beside the bed. Barbara gripped his hand, as if to draw from his strength.

  “You gave us quite a scare,” he said slowly.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Thankfully, Dr. Armbruster guessed at once you’d eaten something that violently disagreed with you and purged your stomach.”

  His eyes were hooded as they searched her face.

  “We didn’t know what that something was until I went back to the hotel and Hattie showed me the cowbane she’d procured for you.”

  So that’s how Mrs. Camden knew of it. Barbara had wondered, but until this moment hadn’t put her thoughts together.

  “Hattie said she warned you to be careful with it.”

  “Yes, she did. It appears I sadly underestimated the herb’s effect. I’m…I’m mortified to have caused such a fuss.”

  He withdrew his hand from hers. She missed its warmth instantly.

  “Is that what bothers you, Barbara? You caused a fuss?”

  “That, of course, and…”

  She picked at the red coverlet, wondering how much he knew, how much he guessed. Mrs. Camden had assumed Barbara had taken the cowbane to abort an unwanted babe. Did Zach think the same? Agonizing over what to tell him, she let the moment for truth slide past.

  Her silence heaped coals o
n the anger burning in Zach’s gut. Didn’t the woman realize how close she’d come to death?

  He’d held her while she twisted and moaned, had forced her jaws open while Armbruster poured that vile purge down her throat. During the torturous hours that followed, she’d drenched him with her sweat and near covered him in vomit.

  Neither had bothered him. He was a soldier. A frontiersman. Dysentery and cholera and yellow fever regularly swept through the ranks. Zach had assisted the surgeons treating his troops in garrison and tended to their wounds himself on the march. More than once, he’d pushed protruding bones or spilled intestines back inside gaping wounds. He would have sworn nothing Barbara did could give him a disgust of her.

  Then a tearful Hattie had handed him a half-empty paper twist and a folded oilskin packet.

  That Barbara would risk her life to rid herself of his child he could understand, if not condone. That she could sit there, look him in the eye and allow more lies to pile up between them drove a sharpened stake right through his gut.

  “I brought your valise from the hotel.”

  Perplexed by his abrupt change of subject, she glanced at the tapestry-covered grip.

  “So I see.”

  “This was inside it.”

  Reaching into the breast pocket of his uniform coat, Zach withdrew the oilskin packet and dropped it on the coverlet. He refused to feel so much as a flicker of remorse when Barbara’s cheeks lost the little color that had returned to them. Like a rabbit confronted by a hissing rattlesnake, she stared at the small square in frozen horror.

  After several moments of stark silence, she lifted her gaze to his. “Did…? Did you read it?”

  She saw the answer in his face.

  “What a stupid question,” she said in a low, strangled voice. “Of course you did.”

  “How did you come by that document?”

  When she looked away, Zach’s fury slipped its tether. Curling his hand under her chin, he brought her face back to his.

  “No more lies, Barbara! I want the truth, if you have it in you.”