by Shirl Henke
Samuel’s expression hardened. “This smells like some sort of trap.”
“That’s what I fear, too. It has to be Wescott, but .how did he get her to come to him?” she asked, as much of herself as of him.
“I don’t know but I’m sure as hell going to find out,” he said, strapping on his sidearm and then reaching for the Bartlett rifle hanging on the wall above his desk. He turned at the door and added, “Stay here, Liza—just in case she turns up. I’ll be back as soon as I learn anything.”
She nodded. “I’ll send Justus back to tell the children’s nurse where I am.”
* * * *
Dawn came quickly, gray and sullen, as if forecasting bad news. Elise had a pot of coffee bubbling on the hearth when the sound of hoofbeats broke the early morning stillness. Rushing to the front door, she was disappointed to find that it was not Samuel or Olivia but rather a young boy, fourteen or fifteen, thin with stringy tan hair and freckles. He carried a sealed envelope.
“I’m looking for a Colonel Shelby,” he said in a soft drawl.
“I am his sister, Madame Elise Quinn. You may leave it with me,” she said, turning to open her reticule and pull out a piece of silver. The youth looked dubious, but when she handed him the silver coin, he smiled. “Who gave you this letter to deliver?” She held another coin in her open palm.
“A lady like yoreself, m’am. Real pretty she was.”
“What did she look like?”
“Like I said, pretty, finely dressed. Oh, she had red hair. Real red hair.”
“Where did she find you?”
“At the Owl and Bear late last night. She said I was to get it to the colonel this morning.”
“Was anyone with her?”
He nodded. “There was a fellow—an older gent with her. But it was the lady what give me my orders.”
“This older gentleman, describe him.”
By this time the boy was growing restive under her terse inquisition. He eyed the coin with longing but started to back off the porch, as if afraid he had blundered into something in which he did not want to be involved. ‘‘He...he was kinda big, stocky with thick gray hair. Dressed real good just like the lady. I thought he was her father.”
Elise nodded and tossed him the coin. He caught it deftly and leaped from the porch and onto his horse’s back, kicking the spavined old beast into a brisk getaway.
Elise stood studying the letter as dread squeezed her heart. It had been Olivia and Wescott, no doubt of it. But why? She itched to break the seal. What if there was some news that should be acted upon at once? Perhaps they could prevent Olivia from being forced to go with Wescott, for she was certain that Olivia would never willingly have accompanied him.
She was just about to tear into it when Samuel rode up, exhausted, with dark, circles beneath his eyes and a day’s growth of black whiskers making his face look both piratical and haggard. “This just came from Olivia. I questioned the messenger—she was with Wescott. He’s forcing her to do something terrible, Samuel, I know it!”
She thrust the letter at him and he took it woodenly, making no attempt to open it. “She embarked with him...on a keelboat. They left when the moon was full up,” he said in a hollow voice. “I talked to the man who made the arrangements yesterday for Wescott. He assured me the lady went of her own free will,” he added bitterly.
Elise looked at him with a mixture of pain and impatience on her face. He had so few reasons to trust, so many not to that it broke her heart. She knew how much he loved Olivia St. Etienne. That hurt worst of all as she watched the last tenuous threads of open emotion being severed. Samuel retreated behind the hardened shell he had donned over the years. She was all too familiar with that skill for she, too, had worn it once and cut herself off from all tender feelings.
Placing her hand on his arm, she squeezed it. “This isn’t as it seems, Samuel. I know Olivia loves you and would not do this willingly. Let us read what she wrote—or was forced to write, then decide what to do.”
As he tore open the wax seal, she ushered him inside. “I’ve coffee on. Come, you look as if you could use some.”
He sat down wearily at the table and read the letter, then tossed it aside and cradled his head in his hands.
Elise picked it up and read:
My Dearest Samuel,
When you read this, I will be on my way to New Orleans. My uncle Charles has asked me to come live with him. Under the present circumstances, I think this is the best solution to our untenable situation. Uncle Emory has been so kind as to make arrangements to escort me there. If you can end your marriage to Tish, I shall hope to see you one day.
Until then, lovingly,
Olivia
“He made several mistakes,” she said.
Samuel looked up, distractedly. “It’s Livy’s handwriting, Liza.”
“Perhaps, but she calls him Uncle Emory. I overheard her parting argument with him, Samuel. She despises him and specifically told him she would never again consider him her ‘uncle.’ Also she signed it Olivia, not Livy. Would I sign a letter to you ‘Elise’?” By this time she had his attention.
“No, Liza, you wouldn’t. What else?” he asked, tensing up, ready to spring into action.
“Charles Durand, this uncle...if she is his only heir and he is older or in poor health...”
“Wescott could eliminate him and even Livy once he was certain the estate would come into his hands.”
“Yes, I suspect so,” she said worriedly.
“See that these reports get to the president, Liza. You know as much about the situation as I do. You can complete them. I have a boat being outfitted right now. It should be ready to shove off within the hour,” he said, standing up, then heading toward his bedroom to pack a few things for the long trip.
She smiled at him as the tightness around her heart eased a bit. “So, you were going after her anyway.”
His expression was haunted with fear and uncertainty, but also with love. “How could I not? I do love her, Liza.”
Chapter Twenty Two
As Elise departed to see to her children, Samuel threw a few changes of clothing into a pack, then gathered his weapons, two .65 caliber Martial Pistols and the Bartlett flintlock. After checking to be certain they were loaded and ready to fire, he collected sufficient powder and shot for what might turn into a serious fight. Just as he was preparing to leave, footsteps sounded on the front porch. By this time the street was busy with early morning traffic so he had not noticed the carriage pulling up in front of the house.
The brougham was a gaudy expensive model, befitting a senator’s daughter. As a servant opened the door for her, Tish swept in as if she owned the place. Two burly black men were busy unloading trunks and boxes from inside the large conveyance.
Thrusting the pistols into his sash, he put the rifle down, on the table and stared impatiently at her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here, Tish?”
She stiffened at the insulting tone of voice. “Please, Samuel, must you swear in front of a lady.”
“When I see one, I’ll amend my manners,” he replied curtly, once more gathering up his gear.
“I’ve come to live in your house until we can arrange suitable passage home to Washington.” She glanced for the first time at the pack slung across his shoulder and the arsenal of weapons. “Where are you going?” she asked tightly, already guessing the answer.
“After Olivia. Wescott has her...but then I expect you already knew that.” His eyes were ice-cold, impaling her like daggers.
She took a small step back, placing one pale white hand at her throat protectively. There was no use trying to feign innocence regarding the damned little bitch. “Yes, I knew she agreed to accompany her guardian to New Orleans. According to Mr. Wescott, she’ll be heir to millions.” She knew how much he resented the Soames wealth. Let this work. “She’ll be beyond your reach. Give her up, Samuel.”
He paused. “If she left of her own choice, I’ll let
her go, but not until I hear it from her.”
“This is insane! You can’t go traipsing off after her like some lovesick schoolboy. You’ll look the fool.”
“And so will you—more to the point, isn’t it, Tish?”
“I warn you, Samuel—”
“And I warn you, Tish.” He moved suddenly across the space separating them, grasping her shoulders in his hands, squeezing the soft pale flesh cruelly. “If you so much as breathe a word about Olivia while I’m gone, I will snap that white...slender...swanlike neck of yours with my bare hands.” One large dark hand glided up from her shoulder to her throat, stroking it almost delicately, yet the menace behind the caress was palpable. He could feel her shudder and swallow convulsively before she spoke.
“You can’t threaten me, Samuel. I am your wife. We made a bargain.”
“So we did. And if Olivia is unharmed, I’ll return to it. But, Tish...if she’s been harmed, you and Emory Wescott will both wish you’d never been born.” With that he shoved her away and seized his rifle, then left the house without a backward glance at the pale trembling woman.
Tears of sheer rage gathered in Tish’s pale eyes. As they overflowed she blinked them away furiously, noticing for the first time the slaves standing awkwardly in the corner of the room, beside her trunks. “What are you staring at, imbeciles?” she shrieked, grabbing a candlestick from the table and hurling it in their direction.
They scattered, dashing out the door to huddle by the carriage as she fell into a full-blown temper tantrum, hurling every loose object around her at the walls until she finally collapsed, red-faced, spent and sobbing on a chair. That was how Richard Bullock found her half an hour later.
After dismissing the servants he knelt beside her and took her in his arms. “I told you it was a mistake coming here. You should’ve stayed with me at the Parkers’ residence. This place is little better than a woodsman’s cabin.”
“He’s gone after her, Richard,” she said in an eerily calm voice. Her face was red and puffy from crying but her eyes were ice-cold now, calculating.
“The St. Etienne girl? I was afraid Wescott’s forged letter wouldn’t deter him. He’ll never give her up, Tish. You know that now, don’t you?” he crooned, stroking her cheek tenderly.
She nodded slowly, then broke free of his embrace and stood up. “I shall need you to kill him after all, Richard.” She sighed in regret, rather the way she often did when a favorite knickknack was broken or a lavish gown ripped or stained. “A pity. He had the best potential of any of them.”
Richard Bullock watched her stop in front of a window, her pale hair gilded in the morning sun that was beginning to break through the fog in strong golden shafts. She stood in profile, so patrician and perfect, so cold and controlled. His heartbeat began to accelerate furiously and his mouth suddenly went dry.
Now is the time to tell her, an inner voice screamed at him. Dare he do it? There would never be a better opportunity.
“Tisha,” he said softly, coming up behind her to enfold her in his arms, letting his mouth tease the sensitive skin of her nape as his hands kneaded her breasts.
“Don’t, Richard. Someone might see you,” she said, breaking free from him and stepping away from the window.
“Damn if anyone does. Who cares what the rustics here think? I’ll kill Shelby for you, my pet. I want you free of him. It was a mistake to marry him in the first place.”
“I know that now,” she said, sighing. “I have always depended on you so, my darling. What would I do without you?” She glanced at the front door. He had closed it and slid the bolt when he entered. With a slow smile of invitation she began unfastening the buttons at the front of her bodice, letting the lush white bounty of her heavy breasts spill free.
He stalked over to her with glazed eyes, taking a large breast in each hand, lifting them and squeezing painfully with his slender strong fingers until she whimpered just the way he knew she would. Say it, now!
“Tisha, after I kill him...I want you.”
“You have always had me, my darling Richard, always,” she rasped, thrusting her hips against him as she writhed beneath the sharp, delicious pain he inflicted on her sensitive breasts, twisting them, then pinching the large distended nipples between his fingertips.
“But I don’t want it to be like this—a few moments snatched in secret, all the rest of the time pretending to be your beloved brother, so damn punctilious, so bloody proper. I want you for me...only for me...all for me...we can go away together, Tisha. I have money enough from my father’s estate. It doesn’t matter if the senator disowns you. We can go to London, Paris, Rome—wherever you want. No one will know us. We can be together, pet, just the two of us.”
All the while he talked, he continued the painful kneading of her breasts just the way he knew she liked it, but he could sense her gradual stiffening. The ecstasy-filled writhing stopped and her hands began to push at his shoulders as an expression of incredulity filled her face.
“You cannot be serious.” She felt his grip loosen and she backed away from him, her breasts swaying obscenely, her nakedness forgotten.
“I love you, Tisha. I always have. I’ll do anything for you—even kill. God how I’ve ached to kill Shelby ever since your wedding night. The thought of that bastard touching you sickened me. I was glad when he quit your bed. You belong to me, Tisha. Me!”
“You’re mad,” she said flatly. “Do you think I could marry my stepbrother?” There was contempt in her voice.
“No one would know if we went abroad.” He hated his pleading tone.
“I don’t want to live abroad. I want to live in Washington, to take the position I’ve been groomed for all of my life, where Daddy expects me to be—at the side of a president!”
“You’ve failed with Shelby, need I remind you?” he said nastily as a sick rage began to boil his blood.
“But I won’t fail with Senator Phillips. His period of mourning for his dead wife is almost over. I’ll be done mourning for Samuel just in time for a New Year’s wedding in 1813. That should give us plenty of time to handle matters here,” she said briskly, dismissing her stepbrother’s impossibly ridiculous suit out of hand.
“Phillips is an old man! Why he’s practically doddering,” Richard replied, aghast. This was the first she had ever mentioned the old senator to him.
Tish smiled slumberously at him. “All the better for us, my darling. He is a genuine war hero, even if it was the War for Independence. I shall manage him quite well and with Daddy’s backing, well, he’ll win the nomination and the election quite handily.”
“No. I won’t stand for it—that old goat pawing you. No more husbands, Tish. You’re mine,” he snarled, furious that she and Worthington Soames had cooked up this scheme behind his back. He grabbed her arm and yanked her against him roughly, pressing her lower body to his with one arm while his other hand seized a breast and squeezed it. He lowered his head and bit her neck, growing rougher as she struggled, cursing at him, kicking and trying to break free.
“You are mad,” she screamed, clawing at his face, raking a bloody furrow across his cheek.
But he seemed impervious to the injury as he continued savaging her breasts and throat, drawing blood as his teeth fastened on a nipple and clamped.
Tish pushed and kicked, all the while groping for the small English pistol he always carried in his satin waistcoat. Her hands finally found it and fastened around it with claw-like desperation. He was making low ferocious noises now, deep in his throat, snarling like a lion staking his claim on a downed piece of game.
“You belong to me—do you hear? Me!” he growled, looking up into her wild eyes, his own glittering with a bizarre mixture of crazed lust and utter despair.
“No, Richard. I belong to no man,” she said, pulling the gun free and shoving it against his chest. “Let me go.”
One hand still pressed her against his body as the other slid free of her hair where he had entangled it. He slipped
it down toward the gun and tried to pry it from her white frantic fingers. “Let go, my pet, before you do something we’ll both regret,” he said, a bit of the old smooth swagger back in his voice.
“Let me go, Richard,” she replied frantically, still trying to twist away from him as he maintained his grip on the gun she clutched.
“No Tisha, my love—”
Suddenly the loud report of a shot echoed in the small room and a look of surprise widened her pale gold eyes. Then the thick silvery lashes fluttered and she sagged against him...dead weight.
Richard looked down with horror at the small crimson hole in her breast, directly in front of her heart. How milky pale the skin looked around the angry red wound. “No, Tisha, no...no...no.’’ He crooned to her softly as they both sank to the floor.
His hold on her never slackened as he lowered her onto his lap. Then he took the gun, which had become twisted and turned inadvertently on her, and he pried it free of her lifeless fingers. Tossing it away, he began stroking her naked breasts which were now liberally smeared with blood.
“So beautiful, my beloved. Even in death, you are so utterly perfect.” He bent down and kissed her lips, then the tips of those magnificent breasts. They were beginning to show the marks of his hands with purplish bruises. Tenderly he caressed them, then pulled her bodice closed and fastened it once more.
For a moment he held her and stared across the room at the gun. Slowly he shifted Tish’s body from his lap and stretched her out carefully on the floor. He got to his feet and retrieved the small pistol. He righted an overturned chair and then sat, a smile spreading slowly across his handsome face.
“Yes, my pet, it is true. Blood calls out for blood.”