Savannah Heat

ACROSS A DEEP CHASM OF DARK SUSPICION
 … A DAWNING ADMIRATION
.

“I have no lover … would it matter if I did?”

“Yesterday I would have said no. Today maybe I’m not so sure.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“That if you were a man, I’d admire your courage.”

“But I’m a woman, so instead of being brave, I’m just a fool.”

Morgan didn’t answer.

“Tell me, did you play the gentleman last night—or breach my somewhat tattered modesty?”

“I prefer my women awake, Miss Jones.” Morgan’s mouth curved up in amusement. “Though there’s hardly an inch of you that hasn’t been soothed by my hand.” He indicated the basin of water and the damp cloth on the table beside the bed.

Silver felt the fire in her face burn through her limbs.

Morgan’s voice turned gentle. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, Silver. And neither have I.”

With that he walked out the door.

PRAISE FOR
KAT MARTIN

CREOLE FIRES

CAPTAIN’S BRIDE

TIN ANGEL

Dell Books by Kat Martin

CREOLE FIRES

NATCHEZ FLAME

SAVANNAH HEAT

Savannah, Georgia
1841

Escape! It was all she could think of, all she could dream. The word possessed her, crowding her thoughts and blotting her senses until it formed a prison all its own.

Silver Jones sank down on the low wooden cot in the corner of the rat-infested storeroom. Her blood still pumped from her latest unsuccessful effort: stacking heavy wooden crates and boxes one atop the other; then climbing the unstable pyramid to the small dirty window a dozen feet above her head.

This morning she had finally succeeded in prying open a side door, and though she hadn’t found an avenue of escape and only succeeded in tearing her nails and bloodying her fingers, she did find enough boxes in the adjoining room to build her shaky ladder.

Damn it to hell! Silver slammed her slender fist against the cot, then cursed again for her self-inflicted pain. She’d been so sure that once she reached the window she’d be able to squeeze
through the opening and make her escape. Instead she’d discovered, even as slenderly built as she was, the opening was just too small. Hours of shouting for help had only made her hoarse.

Silver released a weary sigh and glanced at her dismal surroundings. Along with the heavy boxes and her narrow wooden cot, a chipped pink porcelain water pitcher sat in a basin on an upturned crate next to a partly burned candle. The place smelled moldy and abandoned. Flies buzzed above a tray laden with a half-eaten crust of bread and an empty bowl of mutton stew.

From the corner of her eye, Silver spotted the gray-brown fur of a rat as it skittered behind a hogshead barrel in the corner, and clenched her teeth to stifle a scream. God, she hated the dirty little creatures. Bugs and spiders she could stand; there were lots of them where she came from. And lots of them here in the hot and humid climate of Savannah.

But rats—even tiny little field mice—were another matter altogether.

Silver shivered as the rat raced by just a few feet away and eventually disappeared. Ignoring thoughts of when it might return, she ran her fingers through her hair, tugging at a snarl here and there, and worked to comb out some of the tangles. The long, usually glistening silver strands that had inspired her nickname hung in grayish ropes around her face. Her low-cut white cotton peasant blouse and simple brown skirt, the uniform of the tavern maid at the White Horse Inn, where she had been working, were stained from the grime that covered the walls and floors and torn in several places.

At least they hadn’t mistreated her. Just spotted her in the tavern, then waited in the alley until she
finished her duties and left for her small attic bedchamber above the carriage house in the rear.

“It’s her all right,” the tallest man had whispered, just before his hand clamped over her mouth. Using the heavy weight of his body, he had forced her up against the building. “Hair as pale as spun silver, eyes like soft brown velvet, skin so fair and smooth makes a man itch to touch it.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Ferdinand Pinkard warned. “You know the deal—the girl goes back in good condition. There’ll be no reward if she’s been harmed.”

“Bloody hell!” Silver cursed behind the man’s foul-smelling fingers. Struggling wildly, she lashed out with her slender hands and feet. One solid blow connected with a heavy calf, eliciting a yelp of pain and a string of oaths, and her free hand clawed the side of the tall man’s face. With vicious determination, she sank her teeth into his palm.

“You damned hellion!” He shook her so hard she feared her neck might break.

“You’d better behave yourself, Miss Jones,” Pinkard warned. The chill in his voice sent a tremor of fear down her spine. “It’s a long way back—plenty of time for a few minor bruises to heal.”

Wiping at the blood on his cheek, the tall man tightened his hold. “You damnable she-devil.” Lacing his hand through her hair, he jerked her head back until tears stung her eyes.

“Careful, Julian.” Pinkard’s voice rang with a note of sarcasm. “We wouldn’t want His Lordship to be displeased.” There were four of them: two burly sailors, the tall, spidery man with the rancid breath who held her, and Ferdinand Pinkard.

“How did you find me?” Silver asked through clenched teeth, fighting the pain in her arm that the
man called Julian twisted up behind her back. “How—how did you know where to look?”

One of the sailors, a big, red-haired, mustached man, chuckled softly. “Pinkard could find the last rat on a sinkin’ ship. That pale hair o’ yours—and a face just as perty—you weren’t hardly no trouble a’tall.”

Silver felt a wave of despair. She had come so far, been so sure this time she would succeed. She wasn’t really afraid; she knew exactly what these men wanted. Though she’d done her best to throw them off her trail, she should have known someone would find her.

She should have known he would never let her go.

Arms bound behind her, an oily rag stuffed into her mouth and tied so tight she could barely breathe, Silver had little choice but to let Pinkard and his henchman drag her into the darkness of a waiting carriage.
Stay calm
, she told herself over and over.
Keep your wits about you. You’ve come too far to fail now
.

Working to control her pounding heart, she leaned against the padded wall of the sleek black carriage, listening to the clatter of the wheels against the cobblestone streets, then to the whir of wooden spokes as the road became a dusty lane. She should have kept running, should have gone inland.

She thought of the misery she had left behind and could almost taste the blood in her mouth, feel the heavy blows of his fists. How many times had she suffered his abuse? How many times had she quietly submitted, believing she somehow deserved it, sure each time would be the last? How many times had she rebelled and fought him and in the end endured far worse?

Silver watched the passing blur of darkness outside
the carriage window.
God in heaven, would this nightmare never end
?

It hadn’t taken long to reach their destination—an old abandoned warehouse somewhere distant from the docks. Pinkard had locked her in, leaving her bound and gagged all night just to make his authority clear. Her arms and mouth felt numb by morning, her tongue dry and swollen. She wished she could cry, but she didn’t dare. There wasn’t room for weakness, wasn’t room for tears.

In the early hours of the morning, Pinkard returned with one of his men, bringing water and something to eat, and releasing her from her bonds. They had come each day since, always careful, never sending a man alone, never allowing her to get too near them. They’d been schooled well—the man who would pay for her return had told them in no uncertain terms exactly how desperate she was.

Major Morgan Trask strode the long wooden dock toward the ship
Savannah
, just arrived from Charleston. As always, he admired her low, sleek lines, her graceful bowsprit arching out over the water, the two tall masts of stout spruce that soared upward into the dark night sky. Above them, clouds covered the moon, and a heavy drizzle hinted at a mild spring storm.