Daughter of the Sword (30 page)

As if he read her mind, Rolf said, “If your blacksmith squaw-man hears where you are, for his sake, you'd better let him think what the town will. Because if he does interfere with my plans, try to take you away, I'll kill him.”

The Bowie pressed against her leg. Its touch reminded her that she wasn't defenseless. But she must pick the right time. She didn't want to kill him, only to hold him off till she could escape or wound him enough to make him harmless. If she got to Cordley first, she thought he'd believe her.

Drooping, she said, “I can't fight you now, Rolf. I—I'm so tired! I just want to sleep.”

“So you shall, love. Come along.”

Melissa was outside the kitchen. Perhaps she'd been listening. “I put out a nightgown and robe,” she told Deborah. “Shall I help you get ready for bed?”

“Thank you, no,” said Deborah.

“Good night, then. Do call me, dear, if you need anything in the night. My room's across the hall from yours.”

“Thank you,” Deborah said again.

No use appealing to Melissa, who was paid by Rolf, who'd be pleased to have Deborah out of the way when Dane came in the spring. Rolf opened the door of the last room on the right.

An oil lamp burned on a mirrored dresser. The covers were turned back from snowy sheets and eyelet-trimmed pillowcases. A ruffled flannel nightgown was spread across the bed next to an emerald-green velvet robe. A flowered china washbowl and filled pitcher were on the washstand next to perfumed soap and a pile of clean towels.

This would have seemed like heaven if it hadn't actually been a jail. “Here you are, darling. I'll leave money with Melissa to get you some clothes, whatever you need.” His gaze fixed longingly on her mouth, but he only took her hand instead, bringing it to his lips, pressing it to his face.

Her right hand was positioned to draw the Bowie from the secret slit in her skirt. In a moment he'd be gone. But if, with her left hand, she could pull the belt around—

Holding her breath, she succeeded. Now a quick reach beneath her skirt and she'd be armed! He was still kissing her open palm.

Bending swiftly, she reached up. As her hand closed on the knife, Rolf's fingers closed over hers, outside the skirt, but gripping till she couldn't move.

“Don't you remember? I was there when Chaudoin gave you this knife, when you decided how best to wear it.” He laughed softly, eyes blazing green-gold in the lamplight. “I'll put it in safe-keeping for you. Someday it may be an intriguing souvenir.”

His free hand found the skirt slit, reached behind her to untie the leather belt, then slip the knife out of her desperate grasp. He tossed it, still sheathed, on the bed. “Sweetheart,” he said huskily, “you owe me something for that.”

He brought her to him, taking her mouth, arms and hands, smothering her resistance, crushing her against him as if he burned to imprint her on the hard length of his body. She felt consumed, stifled, was close to fainting when he wrenched from the kiss, groaning.

“Did you mean to kill me?”

She stared into those strange jade eyes. “I meant to do whatever I had to in order to get away.”

“If I took you now, you might, being the puritan that you are, feel bound to marry me.” His hand touched her breast, then fell as she gave him a look of hatred. “No, Deborah, I won't dishonor you. Before I hold you naked in my arms, before I do everything I dream about, I'll marry you.”

“You won't. That would be my dishonor.”

He flushed before he went pale. “Don't provoke me,” he said between his teeth.

Releasing her, he swept up the belted knife. “I'll be back as soon as I can. When you think it over, I believe you'll know my plan is the best for you. At any rate, it's inevitable. If you won't marry me in a week or a month, you'll be glad to when our child's on the way.” Pausing in the door, his tone softened. “Give us a chance, darling. If you let me, I'll make you the best husband in the world.”

She could have been sorry for him if she hadn't been so besieged and fearful. “You'll never be my husband. I'd rather die.”

His mouth went taut. He took a stride forward, then checked himself. “I doubt that. In spite of your prudishness, you have in you a fountain, sweet like wine, dizzying. I had a sip of it one day. Soon I'll drink my fill. Your fountain will never go dry, Deborah. It'll well up, replenishing you, making you—and me—drunk with delight.”

Weakend by fatigue and outrage, Deborah gripped the bedstead. Her legs were swaying. Rolf wavered before her, outlined by a nimbus of light.

“Sleep, love,” he said. “Sleep now.”

The door closed. There was the sound of a key, a sharp click. Moving her head to clear it, Deborah Walked shakily to the one window and pulled back the flounced chintz curtains. The glass had been broken out and Melissa had apparently decided that boards were cheaper and less fragile. The opening was tightly nailed shut.

It was a prison.

But Melissa would have to open the door to feed her. Rolf would be gone a week or more. Cordley would come, surely, and he
might
be convinced that her brain wasn't turned. She might persuade him to at least talk to Sara, who'd swear Rolf wasn't her fiancé. Her gaze fixed on the lamp.

She'd hate to do something that might endanger others, but if nothing else worked, she'd dash the lamp in the corner and set the house on fire. That'd give Melissa more to worry about than keeping a prisoner.

Deborah was absolutely sure she wouldn't be in the room when Rolf came back. What she must do now was sleep, recover. She was going to need all her will, all her strength.

For the first time in her life, she went to bed without praying. What could she say about the grave in the stable, that other one on the Wakarusa, marked by a fallen tree? The flesh of her flesh lay underground, her parents, her twin; she felt naked and alone in a wind as flaying and icy as a blizzard.

To sink before it, to freeze to the warmth of eternal slumber, to join those she loved … Dane, she loved, but he'd left her. She saw no way, even if he came back, that he'd fit into the life before her. And she had to live. She was the only one to carry on her family's work, to remember and honor and vindicate them.

The weeping was all inside her now. Slipping out of her damp stained clothes, she washed, blew put the lamp, and got into bed. It seemed shameful to be naked and it was cold, but she couldn't bring herself to put on Melissa's gown.

She dreamed, seeing her parents or Thos in the distance, calling and running to them. Sometimes they faded from her vision. Sometimes they turned and were dead and she saw their wounds.

She jerked erect at the sound of the door closing. The room was dusky, but it must be day since slivers of light knifed through the boarded window and outlined the door.

A tray sat on the floor. Melissa's voice came through the keyhole. “If you need anything, there's a bell. Reverend Cordley's gone out with half a dozen men to bring in your parents and brother.”

“He—he didn't stop by to see me?”

“He did, but I told him you were sleeping. He's very glad, dear, that you have a fiancé to look after you in this awful time.”

Deborah started to spring out of bed, then remembered her nakedness and drew the covers close around her. “You know Rolf isn't my fiancé! You know—”

“I know he brought you here in an understandably distraught condition. The shocks you've had would turn any mind. Rest and quiet will make you well faster than anything. I shall see that you get them.”

Did Melissa believe what she was saying? Or was she inflicting subtle torment while pretending to sympathize? No use accusing or railing at her. Deborah choked back scalding words. “My brother was engaged to Sara Field at Chaudoin's smithy. Could word be sent to her?”

“She'll probably hear it from some traveler.”

“She has a right to come to the funeral.”

“As your fiancé, Rolf must make decisions like that.”

“But he'll be gone for days!”

“And meanwhile he's holding me accountable for you.” Melissa's tone sharpened. “I'm sorry for you, child. I'll do what I can to make you comfortable, fetch you anything within reason. I've already washed your clothes, and I'm going to look for shoes and stockings. All the books I have are on the tray along with the Bible and sketch pad Rolf had in his pack. I'll borrow some more for you since I know you like to read.”

“But you won't help me get away! You
know
it's Dane I love!”

“I know.” Melissa's tone was steely for a moment before it grew caressing. “But he left you, didn't he? It's Rolf who's helping you, a strong, rich, handsome young man who's mad for you, who'll take you to a city and give you everything.” Melissa's words were full of envy. “You're extremely fortunate, and if you don't know it, your brain
is
fevered!”

No use talking to the woman.

After waiting a moment, her steps receded down the hall. The room was cold and Deborah reluctantly pulled on the green robe before she moved across the carpet to the tray. Dane's sketch pad and the Whitlaw Bible were beneath Sir Walter Scott's
The Talisman,
Charlotte Brontë's
Jane Eyre,
and Hawthorne's
The Scarlet Letter.
All three novels were well worn, apparently often used to escape this small, raw settlement on the fringes of civilization. Melissa must have dreamed that Dane, or perhaps even Rolf, would offer her a wider, more romantic life.

Deborah put the novels on the table by the one cushioned chair, placed the Bible on the dresser, and put the sketch pad on the bed. Her clothes were gone. Melissa must have collected them soundlessly before closing the door. A dark gray poplin dress lay across a bench along with the daintiest lace-trimmed chemise, drawers, and petticoat Deborah had ever seen.

Unless she stayed in bed or wrapped herself up in the covers, she had to wear something of Melissa's. Her feet were icy now and she was shivering, so she carried the tray to the bedside stand, lit the lamp, piled the pillows high, got in bed, pulled the coverings up to her waist, and put the tray on her lap.

There was a glazed pot of real coffee and real sugar in a silver bowl. In one covered dish was cooked wheat, and the other held slices of ham and buttered toast. There was a pitcher of cream, and the marmalade was surely a gift from Rolf or Dane.

The good smells teased Deborah's appetite. She thought she'd have some toast and coffee. That roused her hunger and she finished everything.

Much restored by the hot food and coffee, she dressed, put on the house slippers, and brushed her hair. The chill soon made her add the robe to her clothing. She made the bed, then tried vainly to peer through the cracks in the window boards.

They were too narrow. It was like being sealed in a box. Deborah had always hated small closed spaces, confinement. Even had nothing been wrong, this imprisonment in a dimly lit room would have maddened her.

She couldn't stay here all day and night and the next and the next till Rolf came back, if he ever did! She couldn't! There must be some way to get out of here!

The other boarders!

Melissa must have another two or three. If only Deborah could make one of them understand, get one to believe her, let her out, or at least carry word to Johnny! Trembling at this sudden hope, Deborah pressed her hands to her forehead and tried to think.

If Melissa had gone out to buy stockings and shoes, this might be the best time to try to attract help. Deborah took the silver hand bell from the tray and rang it, listened, then rang it again.

No sound of response. Melissa must have gone shopping. Taking a deep breath, Deborah doubled her fists and pounded on the door, calling as loudly as she could for help.

There was confusion in the hall, a man's puzzled voice, Melissa's answer, accompanying footsteps hurrying to the door. “Such a pity, Mr. Townsend—the poor girl's on the verge of insanity, and no wonder! Mr. Hunter could calm her if he were here, but he felt, of course, that he must go after those Border Ruffians.” Just outside the door, her voice dropped. “Actually, it's a good thing you're here, though I wouldn't have disturbed you. I need to put these stockings and shoes inside and take out the poor child's breakfast tray. But you'll understand that I need some help in coping with her in this hysterical mood.”

“Indeed, ma'am,” came a gruff, hearty voice. “I'll do what I can to help with the young lady.”

“I knew you would, Mr. Townsend.” The key clicked. “I hope it won't be necessary to restrain her, but if she flies at me or tries to dodge past, I'll rely on you to stop her as gently as possible.”

“Be easy, Mrs. Eden. I had a sister who took fits. Many's the time I kept her from doing herself or others a mischief.”

“How fortunate that you're here!” Melissa breathed in a way that would have inflated any male chest.

The doorknob turned.

Mr. Townsend proved to be a broad, beefy man with ruddy cheeks and brown hair and brown eyes. He stood planted in the doorway, filling it. Trying to get past him could only mean a humiliating scuffle. Melissa opened her shopping bag and took out an attractive pair of black kid shoes and several pairs of stockings.

“Would you like to see if these suit you?” she asked.

Deborah ignored her. Trying to look sane and reasonable, though she was beginning to think perhaps she really was going mad, Deborah looked straight into the man's eyes. “I'm not out of my mind,” she said carefully, keeping her voice level. “I'm not engaged to Rolf Hunter. Please, whether you believe me or not, send word to Johnny Chaudoin—”

The man's face closed. “I never saw anyone as drunk as that blacksmith was the Fourth of July. Forget about that heathen, Miss, and let Mrs. Eden and Mr. Hunter take care of you.”