The Captive Heart (43 page)

Clean-shaven, dressed in the garb of a gentleman, and every bit as imposing as a Grosvenor Square aristocrat, Samuel advanced. This could hardly be the same backcountry savage she’d known. But there, the puckered scar near his cheek. The full lips that’d once pressed against hers. The muscular arms that’d held her and saved her and comforted her time and again.

Mr. Taggerton cocked his head at the scene, studying her in particular, but there was no way to hide the rush of emotions inside her begging release, whether he watched her or not. She squeezed the leather highback, gripping tight to keep from tipping over.

“Samuel?” His name came out a shiver. A hope. A dream she’d long ago killed and buried and mourned.

“Well, well.” Mr. Taggerton looked from her to Samuel. “It seems I owe you an apology, Mr. Heath. Forgive my doubt, for clearly you spoke true.” Samuel shook his head, a familiar smile lifting half his mouth—the curve of which she longed to reach out and trace a finger along just to make sure he was real.

Oh God, please let this be real.

“No offense taken, Mr. Taggerton.” Samuel nodded once, the powerful affirmation that he had everything under control. “My offer still stands. The compensation remains the same.”

“Very generous of you, sir.” Mr. Taggerton leaned back and snuffed out his unattended cigar, then strode to the door. “I shall give you a few moments.”

The doorknob turned. The latch clicked. Eleanor flinched, not from the jarring sound but the sudden turn of events. For three never-ending months she’d tried to banish memories of this man standing flesh and blood in front of her. To deny she’d ever felt anything for him. To forget about his direct stare and the way he filled a room with security and strength simply by being in it. Yet now that he stood but a few breaths away, parts of her she thought she’d crucified rose to life.

She retreated a step as Samuel drew near. If he came any closer, she’d break. She must be careful. She was glass. Too many fragile sentiments surfaced, pooling just beneath her skin. He’d see, and she’d be undone, shattering to millions of pieces—unable to ever be put back to rights. She lifted her chin and forced herself to meet his gaze. Of course he’d not come for romantic reasons, but monetary. Nothing more. Had he not spoken so to Mr. Taggerton?

“Your face is white as a first snow.” Without shadow of stubble or beard, a deep dimple highlighted the lift of his mouth. “You look as if I’m a ghost.”

“You …” Sudden shyness thickened her tongue. Who was this stranger, this mighty man of suave power that wore a faint mask of Samuel? She cleared her throat and tried again. “You look so different.”

“You think Mr. Taggerton would admit a savage into his home?” His grin grew.

She sucked in a breath at the sight, inhaling more than just his sandalwood shaving tonic. There, a layer beneath the freshly scrubbed skin and tied-back hair, gunpowder and wood smoke yet clung to him. If he opened his arms and pulled her against his chest, she’d smell all his familiar scents. Her legs quivered from the thought.

He angled his head and studied her. “You tremble. Are you well?”

How was she to think, let alone put words together, when he stood there so masculine and appealing? She licked her lips, hoping the action would grease the way for words to flow, and prayed for a voice that wouldn’t break. “I am.”

Liar.
Oh God, forgive me. I am weak. Be my strength.
She clenched her hands into fists, the cut of her nails against her palms stinging her back to reality. “How did you find me?” Good. Her voice didn’t quaver a bit that time.

“I’m a tracker. It’s what I do. Though you didn’t really think the reverend would keep your whereabouts from me, did you?” He stepped closer and lifted her chin, looking deep into her eyes. “I’d have arrived sooner if not for a fever. Recovery took longer than I expected. Getting old, I guess.”

His gaze burned into hers, and her stomach clenched. She knew he wasn’t a patient man. Had experienced his lack many times over the course of the summer. She’d been a fool to ever think the small sum she’d left behind for him would’ve satisfied. “I am sorry to hear you were not well. And I am sorry I have not been able to send you a payment as of yet. Mr. Taggerton has not given me a quarterly stipend, but I swear, I shall pay back every penny I owe you.”

Samuel shook his head. No long hair brushed his collar. Why did that feel like such a loss?

“I don’t want your money. I’ve enough of my own.” He stepped closer, the heat of his body beckoning, taunting, wrapping around her like a heady embrace. “Why did you leave?”

It was a quiet question. Hardly more than a whisper. But the pain riding the crest of it washed over her, drowning her so that she choked. “How can you ask that? I failed you in every possible way! You and Grace. I nearly got you both killed time and time again. Why did you come here if not for recompense?”

“Is that not obvious? I came for you, Tatsu’hwa.” His big fingers slid down her arms, grabbing her hands as he slipped to one knee.

Her jaw dropped. She’d seen him prostrated such as this only one time before—when tied to a tree, his back torn open by a lash in her stead.

“I want you as my wife. My true wife.” His husky tone left no doubt about his meaning. “But this time I’m giving you a choice, a
real
choice, with no coercion. Will you have me, Eleanor Morgan, as your husband, or do you want your freedom? Speak what is on your heart, and you shall have it.”

Samuel stared hard up at Eleanor’s lips, waiting for one word. Just one.

But waiting never came easy. Never had. Waiting for the grief of Inoli’s death to pass—but that was a battle he yet fought every day. Waiting for the festering gunshot wound to heal so he could be on the move again. Waiting to find out if Stane successfully carried out the mission Samuel couldn’t by bringing the munitions intelligence to the Sons of Liberty. One never knew with a mercenary. But apparently Stane had been amply compensated not only by Samuel but by the Sons, for Stane had made the trip to Charles Towne. Because of his information, an ambush waylaid those double-barreled firearms. For now, at least, the threat of violence from Attakullakulla and his ilk had been put on hold.

Still, the worst wait of all was the current slow bleed draining the life from him as he waited for Red Bird to answer.

He set his jaw, clenching his teeth until a crack sounded in his ear. He would wait, by God’s grace. He would wait. There’d be no pressure this time, not from him. He’d have all of her freely—or none at all.

Staring up at her, he memorized the curve of her cheek. The outrageous red curl that refused to be tamed at her temple. How her eyes changed color from placid ocean to stormy sea.

“What about Miss Browndell?”

The question hit him like an arrow through the gut. He gaped. Of all the possible responses he’d concocted in his mind, of how Red Bird might accept or refuse his offer of troth, even during his feverish recovery he’d not thought of this one.

“Miss Browndell?” He couldn’t help but repeat the name, hoping it might lend some kind of credence to the inquiry. It didn’t. “What has she to do with anything?”

Tears shimmered in Red Bird’s eyes. “I found her ring, Samuel, amongst your belongings.”

Surely she didn’t think … he and Miss Browndell? He’d laugh, but even a boor such as himself knew that would be the end of this conversation. “Woman, please don’t tell me that’s why you left.”

Clipped steps sounded outside the door, and she glanced over her shoulder. By the time the sound faded and she looked back at him, the sheen in her eyes nearly spilled over. “I own I mainly left for your well-being. I put you and Grace into danger through my ignorance more than once. But yes, truth be known, Miss Browndell was also part of the reason.”

Women. Who could understand their logic? Slowly, he rose, let go of her fingers, and cupped her face with both hands. Logic be hanged. He didn’t need to understand this woman to love her—but clearly she needed to understand him.

“First off, stop blaming yourself for Grace’s safety. I can’t thank you enough for saving her from that fire. It was you, your quick thinking, that—” His voice broke. He’d almost lost his daughter once again to fire, were it not for this trembling woman in front of him.

He sucked in a breath and started again, staring deep into Red Bird’s eyes. “Secondly, my well-being isn’t your responsibility. It’s not you who numbers my days but God. If He grants I die in saving you because of your ignorance—as you call it—I can think of no greater honor. And lastly, as for Miss Browndell, well … let’s just say she was a means to an end, nothing more. She gave me information I passed on to….” He paused. Who knew if these walls had ears or where Taggerton’s political sentiments lay? Maybe someday he’d tell Red Bird of his involvement with the Sons of Liberty, but not now.

He shook his head. “I don’t expect to ever see Miss Browndell again.”

Red Bird’s gaze fixed on his. “You did not care for her?”

He snorted, rude for such a tender moment, but completely unstoppable. “Did you? Did anyone?”

Little crinkles creased her nose, making her freckles dance. “No. I did not.”

He leaned his forehead against hers, breathing deeply of her familiar scent, like sunlight warming a June afternoon. If he had to walk away from this room without her at his side, the sorrow would be unbearable. He ran his thumbs over her cheeks, and trembled from the soft skin beneath.

Closing his eyes, he poured out his heart. “You’re the one I love, Tatsu’hwa. Not Browndell. Not Running Doe. Not even Mariah. I’ve never spoken those words to any woman, because I never meant them. But I do now. With you. Only you. So … what is it to be?”

Her fingers ran up his back, lodged behind his head, and pulled his mouth down to hers.

“You.” Her word was a kiss. Her breaths thick and intoxicating against his skin. “Always. Only. You.”

A tremor shook through him. Desire. Hunger. He kissed her with all the passion so long denied, and he didn’t pull away until he’d backed her against the study wall. Horrified, he released her and retreated a step. Animal. He belonged in the woods. What must she think of him? “Forgive me. I’m not usually so unrestrained but—”

She reached out and placed a finger on his lips, so reminiscent of the times he’d done the same to her that his breath hitched.

“You forget, sir, that I know what a wild man you can be.”

Her other hand fumbled at her neck and pulled out the bear claw necklace. A feverish gleam lit her eyes, one he’d never seen—and shot a jolt to his belly.

She lifted a defiant chin. “Yet I will have you anyway. For you see, I love you with as much abandon. Besides, we have your grandmother’s prophecy to fulfill, do we not?”

He kissed her finger, and she pulled it away with a smile.

“Then come home with me, Mrs. Heath. I can’t promise you a cabin in the woods, not until next year, but I know a certain little girl who can’t wait to leap into your arms.” He reached for her hand and pulled her close. “Nor can I.”

G
race?” Eleanor darted down the corridor, peeking into empty rooms, hoping to catch a glimpse of golden hair. The only answer was the tap of her own shoes, clicking against the barren wood floors as she dashed along. Outside the townhome, jingling tack and whickering horses sped her steps. Of all the times for the girl to go missing, it had to be this morning?

“It is time to leave! Where have you gone off to?” She mounted the stairway to the second floor, fingers running along the cool bannister—the only thing cool on this humid morn. Winded, she halted at the top of the landing, then set off down the hall. “Grace?”

A squeak of a voice came from the end of the passage. “Here, Mama.”

Eleanor advanced toward the room she’d shared with Samuel these past five months. Why would Grace be in an empty bedchamber instead of out pestering her papa, especially on such an exciting day as this? She clipped through the door. “Why are you in here?”

Pausing, she studied the three-year-old who huddled in a corner, picking at a floorboard. Sunlight streamed through the window, Grace adding more dust motes to the rays with all her hard work. What on earth was she up to?

“What are you doing, little miss?”

With nary so much as a glance over her shoulder, the girl yanked on a board, and a six-inch section of wood gave way. Grace whumped onto her bottom, the thud reverberating the oaken planks. That had to hurt.

“Grace!” Eleanor darted to the child, but by the time she reached her side, the pixie stood and held up a small, wooden toy.

“My top!” Grace grinned, as pleased as if she’d pulled a plum from a Yuletide pie.

Eleanor planted her hands on her hips. Except for the yellow hair peeking from beneath the child’s cap, Grace was the image of her father—and even more like him in her behaviours. Had not Samuel hidden his medal of honor in much the same fashion?

What to do, though? There was no separating an inborn bent. Eleanor sighed. Neither would it do any good to scold the girl about the hole in the floor, for that would only cause tears and delay their departure even more.