Love's Awakening (The Ballantyne Legacy Book #2): A Novel (16 page)

“God forbid, but you’re ever’ bit as pretty as I’ve been told.” His other hand was in her hair, scattering its pins. At his touch she felt soiled, nearly nauseous.

“Please—stop!” Jerking away, she tripped over the boots of one man only to be righted by another. Ensnared again. They were laughing harder, the carriage in tatters, passing her from hand to hand in an endless circle, groping at her skirts, her tumbled hair, her gloves.

“Leave her be.” The lone man left on horseback spoke, angling his head to the east. Without another word, he rode off in the direction she’d come, his henchmen following.

Pulling in one ragged breath, then two, Ellie didn’t think she’d make it one step farther. Her heart drew her to home, but she couldn’t go back that way lest she meet up with the men again. Her only recourse was forward. Fixing her gaze on River Hill’s distant gates, she tried to calm the bay before climbing shakily into the battered chaise, hoping Jack would be away, trying to summon words for Chloe when she saw her.

The crunch of wheels atop the cobbled courtyard seemed to shout her arrival—as did the decrepit condition of her vehicle. A stable hand rushed to assist her, his shocked expression underscoring her predicament. Ellie’s heart sank further when Chloe came running from the garden, Ben trailing. At the sight of her, Chloe’s mouth formed a perfect
O
. White-faced, she wheeled toward the house, Jack’s name on her lips.

Standing in the sunlight as a great many men gathered to examine the chaise, Ellie put trembling hands to her hair, trying to draw the length into a knot only to realize she couldn’t. Nary a hairpin.

“You all right, Miz Ballantyne?” To her left was an elderly black man she’d never before seen, concern deepening the grooves in his solemn face.

She managed a nod, unable to force a reply past her parched throat. Spots began to dance before her eyes, stealing away her vision. Her skin felt warm to the point of fever, her stomach at sea.

Oh, for a shaded eave
. . .
a sip of water.

She tried to anchor her faltering gaze to an approaching figure, to little avail. Aside from the purposeful stride, she could barely make out who it was. Taking a few tentative steps toward the tall shadow, she collapsed at Jack Turlock’s feet.

 16 

He felt now that he was not simply close to her but that he did not know where he ended and she began.

L
EO
T
OLSTOY

At Chloe’s cry, Jack shot upright, almost overturning a bottle of ink. He’d been writing out the notice of sale for River Hill, carefully considering the terms, wanting no distractions. Pushing away from his desk, he left his study and cleared the hall in long strides, the alarm in her tone raking his every nerve. She rounded the corner to the foyer just as he did, her eyes alive with panic.

“Miss Ellie—she’s—”

Ellie?
Alarm drenched him at the mere mention of her name. Brushing past Chloe, he strode through the open front door, assessing everything in a heartbeat. The battered chaise. A passel of helpless stable hands. Dust and sunlight. And Ellie standing forlornly on the cobbles, hatless, her hair falling like a sooty curtain to her waist, her body trembling beneath a disheveled blue dress.

His voice rang out harshly as he cleared the steps. “Take the carriage to the coach house and turn the horse to pasture!” Used to his demands, the help scattered, sparing him their gawking.

“Ellie . . .” He held out a hand as he walked toward her, but it seemed she couldn’t see him, couldn’t focus. Her eyes were strangely blank, her cheeks like fire.

“Jack . . . ?” She seemed to melt before his eyes, swaying before he could reach her, and fell to the ground at his feet.

“Send for Dr. Brunot!” He shouted it, so panicked himself it seemed he shook when he gathered her up in his arms. He was barely aware of Chloe on his heels, crying and asking frantic questions till Mrs. Malarkey led her away.

He carried Ellie into the house, across the foyer into the blue room, and gently laid her on a sofa covered with an enormous dust cloth. Dirt smudged one of her cheeks, and he spied a dangling button on her bodice, a tear in her skirt. The sight shattered what little remained of his calm. He felt a wild, thundering rush of something he couldn’t name. She’d clearly been hurt. Manhandled. Assaulted?

God, no. God, help.

Her eyes slowly opened. “Where am I?”

His voice sounded strangled. “In the blue room. The front parlor.”

“I-I need to go home.” She struggled to sit up, palms flat against the sofa.

He knelt in front of her, taking her gloved hands in his. “Ellie, I can’t let you leave till you tell me what’s happened.”

Instead of answering, she wilted against him, her face nestled against the curve of his neck. This close he could feel the tick of her heart against his own racing pulse. She seemed so fragile . . . like lace or new snow. And the scent of her was like nothing he’d ever known. It was all too easy to cradle her, solace her. “You’re safe now. Dr. Brunot is coming.”

She drew back a bit. “I’m not hurt. Just frightened. Please—send for Ansel.”

Ansel. Not Peyton. Why, he wondered?

“Ellie, talk to me.” His mouth was near her ear, his face half buried in the glossy length of her hair. He shut his eyes, overcome. Ashamed of his desire when she was in need of comfort, protection. “Tell me what happened.”

She shuddered. “Some men—they stopped me on my way here.”

“Do you know them?”

“No . . . they were all masked. I-I can’t remember what they said. They’d been drinking—I could smell spirits. One of them knew my name.”

He swallowed hard, all but choking on the question, “Did they . . . hurt you?”

“Only the chaise. They seemed to be searching for something.” She raised her head, regret in her gaze. “I shouldn’t have come alone.”

“Aye, but what’s done is done.” His relief was short-lived as fury gained the upper hand, white-hot and unrelenting. He was far more at home with this than any fine feeling, only too glad to let his yearning ebb. “Stay here till Dr. Brunot and Ansel come.”

She nodded absently, sitting back on the sofa. The blue room, unused for a quarter of a century or better, was dark, and he went to get a light. Dust cloths covered the finely crafted Chippendale furnishings, hiding their graceful lines and rococo ornamentation, the damask drapes and shutters drawn. He returned with a candelabra, glad the room was cool, if stale. Pulling on an antique bell cord, he summoned Mrs. Malarkey and asked for tea, lingering on Ellie as she looked about the once grand room.

“What is that hiding in the corner?” she asked quietly.

Glad to distract her, he glanced at the musical instrument the judge had been so fond of. “The first armonica west of the mountains.”

“A glass harp? Dr. Franklin’s invention?” Her haunted expression now shone with such delight it almost seemed the wretched afternoon had never happened. “Do you . . . play anything, Jack?”

“Cards,” he murmured, taking a chair across from her and trying to keep his eye on the musical novelty.

She smiled slightly, bemusedly, drawing his attention back to her again. Candlelight was gilding her hair as it fell in waves to her waist, turning her so fetching he felt his throat tighten. He’d never seen her with her hair down. He’d only imagined it . . . and had fallen fall short of the mark. “Do you . . .” he asked, more polite than he’d ever been, “play an instrument?”

“Only the harp.”

Only.
Like the angel she was. Like the angelic mural gracing the stairwell at Broad Oak, the only bit of heaven in an otherwise miserable house. “I’ve never heard the harp,” he admitted.

Her surprise was plain. “Never?”

“There’s precious little chamber music in gin rooms, Ellie.”

“Oh, Jack . . .”

He wasn’t sure what dismayed her more, mentioning gin rooms or his complete ignorance of music. He wasn’t even sure how to operate the armonica, if time and neglect hadn’t stilled it forever. Tearing his attention from her, he looked toward the door and spied Chloe peering through a crack. Before he could motion her in, the door clicked closed.

Thankfully, Mrs. Malarkey soon served tea, eyes round as carriage wheels at Ellie’s tumbled appearance. He half expected her to bring hairpins next, but she left as quickly
as her arthritic legs would allow, leaving the door open wide in her wake as if to rebuke them for being alone.

As Ellie sipped her tea, he excused himself and sent word to Ansel, wishing Dr. Brunot would hurry. He had important business at Broad Oak and was determined to finish it before dusk.

Ansel rode in within the hour, his expression fraught with anxiety as he bypassed the stables and dismounted in front of River Hill’s front veranda. Jack met him there, realizing he’d been a bit too terse in his note, wishing he’d gone to fetch Ansel himself. He’d not spoken with Ellie’s youngest brother in years, only seen him along the levee at a distance or in passing on the road. Unlike Peyton, who ignored him, Ansel always nodded and gave a greeting. But he had none for Jack now and looked absolutely perplexed at finding Ellie at River Hill.

“She’s all right,” Jack said, leading him into the house. “There was some trouble on the road—highwaymen, maybe. They ruined the hood of her carriage, but she’s unharmed.”

“So she came here?”

The confusion on his face set Jack’s heart to pounding. This, he realized, was the end for Ellie and Chloe. Obviously Ansel didn’t know of their arrangement. And didn’t approve. Why hadn’t she told him? The answer came, and there was no shrugging it off.

Because Ellie was ashamed of their tie.

The certainty left him slightly sick. It was just as he’d told Chloe in the garden. A Ballantyne would never consort with a Turlock unless it was some sort of mercy mission. And Ansel’s shocked expression was confirming it now.

Jack stopped just shy of the blue room. “Dr. Brunot is on his way. I’ve some business elsewhere. If you need a coach, an escort to return you home—”

“Nay,” Ansel replied, going in to Ellie and shutting the parlor door.

Jack galloped down the back road linking New Hope and River Hill like a man possessed, his stallion raising clouds of dust that swirled like smoke to his thighs. The sight of the fracas was easy enough to find. Signs of several horses lingered in the dirt, as well as Ellie’s carriage tracks. Their wayward trail indicated she’d nearly been run off the road.

His fury spiked at the sight of a sewing basket discarded in a ditch amidst scattered garden seed. She’d obviously been too frightened to retrieve what was left of it. His worry deepened. Were these random thugs . . . highwaymen? Or slave catchers and bounty hunters? They’d left no evidence as to their identity, none that he could discern after a thorough going-over of the sight.

He picked up Ellie’s basket, eyes drawn to her discarded hat in a near ditch, the fine fabric and flowers battered beyond repair. He secreted both in the hollow of an oak to retrieve for her on his way home. For now he was intent on Broad Oak, wretched mission that it was.

As usual, he found Wade supervising the steaming mash tubs, with Josiah Kilgore inside the main distilling room. Glasses in hand, they downed the contents at Jack’s approach and turned toward him with little trace of welcome.

“Join us for a little pre-supper libation, Jack?” Already half inebriated, Kilgore gestured to a tapped barrel.

Wade was regarding Jack with mild amusement—maybe even a touch of scorn. Jack preferred gin, cheap and plentiful, a betrayal of the Turlock name and trade. It had been a source of dissension for years.

Jack shook his head and sent Kilgore on his way with a
look. Thoughts full of Ellie, he motioned Wade beyond the hearing of numerous slaves. His voice, when it finally came, was so low it belied the storm inside him. “What’s happening with the bounty hunters?”

Wade regarded him coldly. “What bounty hunters?”

“You led me to believe you’d called off the search.”

Heat threaded the blue-gray eyes. “No, Jack,
you
did when you pinned a McTavish to the wall.”

“Last time I was here, standing by the new still, you said you’d not enforce the bounty if it gained you the shipping deal with Peyton Ballantyne.”

Wade shrugged, turning surly and evasive, a habit Jack hated. No matter what was said, he couldn’t trust his brother—and never turned his back to him. Wade bent nearer the barrel to refill his glass, his smile in place when he straightened. “I’ve not yet sealed the deal, so—”