The Captive Heart (11 page)

Staring at her like a great black panther, he tucked the blade into the waistband of his breeches—thank the Lord he’d taken to his pallet without removing them—and turned his broad shoulders to her.

She slid out the knife from her sleeve and returned it to her hiding spot beneath the pillow. Her fingers trembled as she unpinned her bodice. As she peeled off her gown and slipped out of her petticoats, lying all on the bed, she shivered. In naught but her stays and shift, she felt as stripped bare and vulnerable as the many times her father thrashed her with a switch.

No. She would
not
think of him. Not now. Stiffening, she turned, so that they stood back to back. “All right. I am ready.”

He moved without sound, but move he did, for she could feel the burn of his gaze against her skin. She clenched every muscle, her fingernails digging crescent-moons into the palms of her hands.

His fingers skimmed over the fabric, warm as an August breeze tasting every leaf, then worked the knot set between her shoulder blades. Had Biz purposely tied such a tangle?

The dark world turned watery. This was silly. Hadn’t Biz said never to cry because of a man? Even so, this was not the way she’d envisioned marriage, the way of a husband with a wife. Unbidden, a single tear slipped quietly down her cheek, landing on her lip.

His breath moistened the nape of her neck. The heat of his fingers traveled down to the small of her back as he loosened the binding. The warmth of his body reached across the thin space between them and rippled across her shoulders, along her arms, and settled in her fingers, all shaky and moist. He smelled of earth and pine, like a beast of the forest in human form, all salty and woodsy.

A summer sun couldn’t have scorched her more thoroughly. She crossed her arms over her chest, a vain attempt to still the pounding against her ribs.

“I can almost hear your heartbeat, Tatsu’hwa,” he whispered, bending close, his words caressing the naked curve of her ear lobe. “Be at peace. I am not your enemy.”

She froze, standing there long after he retreated to his pallet across the room, concentrating on nothing but breathing for the longest time. If she let her thoughts roam free, she knew exactly from what cliff they’d plummet.

Allowing the man to remove her stays in the dark of night was one thing—but how would she get the wretched garment back on in the light of morning?

Samuel rolled off the pallet before daylight even thought of rising from its bed. Across the room, the woman breathed easy, as did Grace from the crib. Innocents always slept. He’d tried, well into the witching hours, but who could sleep when memories taunted without mercy? His body remembered all too well what it was like to touch a woman. His mind was assaulted by the civilizing ways of Red Bird, striking too close to the habits of his first wife, all fine porcelain and linens. And his heart? Well, other than God Almighty, who could plumb the depths of that capricious organ? He shoved his feet into his moccasins. Not a man such as himself.

He grabbed his coat, rifle, and hat on his way out the door. Pre-dawn air stung his face, and he sucked in a big draught, letting it go deep. He should’ve thought to ask the woman if she’d needed anything before leaving Newcastle the other day. Now there was no choice but to go back.

Wohali snorted a greeting as he flung open the stable door. After rummaging through a stack of his finest pelts, he pulled out and lashed together enough to purchase a firearm for Red Bird and anything else she’d need. Half a smile tugged his mouth as he readied his mount for the journey. Women’s garments and a firearm—both deadly.

By the time he rode off, grey light slivered across the horizon. And by the time he reined in Wohali at Greeley’s Mercantile, the sun beat hot against his shoulders. He tied his mount, keeping his back toward the charred lot across the road. Hard to tell which of the two—sun or nightmare—trickled sweat between his shoulder blades. He’d have to do something with that piece of dirt and blood.

But not yet.

He took the stairs in two strides and blew through the door like a summer storm.

Jonathan Greeley looked up from behind the counter. Though Samuel stood at least ten paces away, he smelled the man’s hair powder, something akin to toadstools after a fresh rain, though if asked, Greeley would swear it was the latest fragrance sent from France. The shopkeeper’s face was clean-shaven, and trim nails prettied his hands. Not a stain or wrinkle marred his work apron or suit beneath. He was a dandy, all right. A strutting peacock of a fellow. Or maybe he was just afraid of his wife’s wrath should he present himself any less formal.

“Morning, Heath.” Greeley shut his ledger and set down his pen. “Didn’t expect to see you twice in one week.”

Samuel tipped his hat brim forward a notch in greeting. “I need a few things.”

“Such as?”

He scanned the shop, wall to wall, pausing at the corner near the window. A fabric table was heaped with bolts of cloth, most sturdy but a few too flimsy to be of any use on the frontier. Shelves of ribbons and all manner of sewing things lined the wall behind it. Everything a woman might want—but no women in sight. Good.

He swung back to Greeley. “Ladies’ things.”

Greeley rolled to his toes, leaning forward. “Such as?”

He gritted his teeth. It’d been bad enough removing the woman’s stays last night under cover of darkness. Now he must speak aloud of the lacy bits of nothing? No. He stepped up to the counter and planted his feet. “Whatever it is that a backcountry woman might require.”

Greeley’s lips twitched. Clearly the man enjoyed this conversation far too much. “Such as?” he repeated.

“Blast it, man!” He threw his arms wide. “My wife needs clothes.”

A slow smile stretched across the shopkeeper’s mouth.

Reaching across the counter, he grasped Greeley’s collar and pulled him forward. “So help me, Greeley, if you say ‘such as’ one more time, I’ll march right out to that warehouse and upend every box and crate until I find what my wife might need.”

He splayed his fingers.

Greeley stumbled against the counter, coughing. “Really, Mr. Heath!” He tugged at his collar. “You are in town, sir, where such rough-and-tumble ways are frowned upon.”

He snorted. “A scuffle does a man good now and then.”

Greeley ignored the challenge, smoothing back his hair instead—though it only served to knock the greased strands more askew. Why he and his wife had set up shop in Newcastle, the dividing line between Cherokee country and civilization, had always been a wonder. They belonged in a city.

“Come back in a few hours.” Greeley sniffed. “I’ll have my wife’s new maid put something together for her. Being she’s from England as well, she might have a better idea than I what provisions your wife may need.”

“Good. Oh, and Greeley?”

“Yes?”

“You might want to …” Ought he tell the man a hank of his hair had broken free in the tussle and now stood at attention, like an Indian feather straight and tall on top of his head? Samuel ran a hand across his chin, debating.

“Go look in a mirror, man,” he called over his shoulder on his way out.

Wohali nuzzled him as he loosed the reins from the post. He walked the mount down the road, shying to the edge of the rutted dirt. A few horses clomped past, but he didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. The sneers were always the same. Not that they bothered him in the least. It was the occasional drawn lines of pity weighting a person’s brow that he couldn’t abide.

He crossed over to the trading post and hitched up Wohali, then unleashed and hefted the pack of pelts onto his shoulder. He mounted the few stairs and strode through the open door into dim light and an odor so powerful it could knock a grown man flat. Greeley might smell of hair powder and grease, but he’d take that any day over Renner—a man who’d not seen a comb, a bar of soap, or any sort of cleanliness in over a decade.

“Heath.” Renner’s words were as sparse as his teeth.

“Renner.” Samuel thwunked the pile of pelts to the floorboards, then stepped back.

Renner shot out from behind the counter. He crouched in front of the furs, running his fingers along the softness, then whipped out a knife and cut the binding. He sorted one after the other, rubbing them against his filthy cheek. When each fur had been measured and examined, he rocked back on his heels, then pushed up and resumed his perch on a barrel behind the counter. “What you trading for?”

Samuel sidestepped the pile of fur. “I need a firearm.”

Renner craned his neck, eyeballs hunting for the weapon strapped on Samuel’s back. “What’s wrong with yours?”

“Nothing.”

“What you looking for?”

“Something small. It’s for my wife.”

The man hopped off his barrel, then flipped it on its side. Beneath sat a pistol, a little rusty on the barrel, but a firearm nonetheless. He stood, holding it out on an open palm.

Samuel hefted the pistol in his own palm, weighing merit against detriment. The eight-inch barrel might need to be traded out, but would hold for now. He ran a finger along the lockplate, breech, and trigger. Solid. He squinted. No hairline fractures. Cocking the trigger, he listened hard. The flintlock mechanism clicked with ease. The bottom of the handle was broken off, though he could fashion a new one, or at the very least, mend it. Old scrollwork faded into nothing toward the edge of the muzzle, but cosmetics be hanged. The size and lightness of the weapon were perfect for Red Bird.

“I’ll take it. And I’ll need more lead for shot.” He slid his gaze from the pistol to Renner. “Be back for it in an hour.”

Behind him, boot steps thudded up the stairs and crossed the threshold.

“Thought I heard you rode into town.” Tobacco splatted against wooden planks, less offensive than the high-pitched voice. “Your new wife giving you trouble already?”

Turning, Samuel raised the pistol, sighting McDivitt’s chest with the muzzle. The man’s nostrils flared. Good. Let him think the thing was loaded.

“Good morning to you as well, McDivitt.”

Rage simmered beneath McDivitt’s glower, more satisfying than a plate of mutton hash. Samuel lowered the pistol and handed it back to Renner, making sure to keep Angus in a straight line of sight. One never knew when a snake would strike.

Renner collected the pistol, wafting a fresh stench of sweat as he moved. “You trading today, McDivitt?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Angus nodded. “For information.”

McDivitt stepped closer. “Seems that Indian friend of yours was spotted heading south, Heath. So I’m wondering … why would an Indian willingly leave the safety of Keowee and run headlong into white territory?”

The muscles of his neck and shoulders tightened. If McDivitt had Inoli followed all the way to Charles Towne … but no. His brother surely would not fall prey to such a scheme. He shifted his stance, one foot in front of the other, his back to Renner, ready for anything. “Since you’re of a mind to trade, what are you giving for the answer?”

Angus whipped a skinning knife from inside his coat and dropped to a crouch, the sharp edge of the blade ready to strike. “Your ability to walk out of that door still breathing.”

Behind Samuel, a hammer cocked. “Take it outside, McDivitt!”

Samuel smiled. After the past few days, a good fight was exactly what he needed. “Don’t fret, Renner. I got this.”

McDivitt growled. “Pride goes before a fall, Heath.”

“You ought to know.” Samuel slashed the man with a cutting sneer. “Since Mariah chose me over you.”

The blade scythed toward his throat.

Samuel flung up his right hand, catching McDivitt’s wrist and twisting his arm. He locked the man’s elbow in place and slammed the heel of his other hand against bone. A sickening crack sliced the air, followed by the clatter of metal against wood.

McDivitt roared, landing a left hook onto Samuel’s jaw.

He spun with the movement, lest his own bone give way, then slammed McDivitt’s body onto the planks next to his knife. Lungs heaving, he spit out a mouthful of blood and pinned McDivitt with a knee between his shoulder blades. “What Inoli does or doesn’t do is not your concern.”

Then he stood and stalked toward the door.

McDivitt’s voice, strained to a fine point, stabbed him in the back.

“Everything about the backcountry is a regulator’s concern. I’m the law around here, and I’ve got my eye on you, Heath. On you, your Indian friend—and your new wife. You’ll pay for this. You hear me? You’ll pay!”

E
leanor waited until the front door shut, then bolted upright in bed, drawing the counterpane to her throat. Thick darkness filled the small cabin, but the sun would be up soon. She knew. She’d counted each minute of the never-ending night, all of Grace’s sleepy murmurs—and every slight movement of her husband on the pallet across the room. Ever since he’d unloosened her stays, a different kind of constriction squeezed her chest.

Fear.

Which was silly, of course. If he’d wanted to take advantage of her, he’d surely have acted upon the urge by now. Even so, she knotted the blanket in her fingers. Lying in the same room with a man, clothed only in her linen shift, was atrocious behaviour. No, worse.