The Captive Heart (6 page)

What was that supposed to mean? Clearly the man was retaining information, for truth hid behind his forced smile. Surely a reverend wouldn’t willfully deceive … would he?

Nibbling her lower lip, she laid out her precious few puzzle pieces of information and tried to make some sort of picture. She’d had cryptic conversations before, even excelled in creating codes to keep her charges inquisitive and sharp, but now that the technique was turned back upon her, she wasn’t so sure she liked it.

Why did her master, Mr. Heath, not trust Mr. Beebright to deliver her?

E
leanor lay on the sharp edge of slumber, half-awake, half-dead with fatigue. It had been a fitful night. Biz’s snoring jolted her from sleep more than once. But now, with dawn’s grey just beginning to lighten the sky outside the window, she’d found a comfortable niche in the straw mattress, just out of reach of her bedmate’s sharp elbows, and she sank into oblivion—until the door burst open with a crash.

Eleanor shot up, clutching the counterpane to her chest, adding to what little modesty her shift allowed. Next to her, Biz cursed the noise, the hour, and for some odd reason, St. Patrick, then dove under the pillow, stopping up her ears.

“Which one?” A deep voice filled the room, belonging to a man who stood a few paces inside the small chamber. Yet even at such close range, his face was shadowed beneath the brim of a black hat. He was a silhouette, really. Darkness upon dark. Like the grim reaper paying a sudden visit without benefit of a calling card.

And he wore a tomahawk hanging off his belt.

Eleanor’s heart beat hard in her chest, a caged bird frantic to break loose. The man looked to be a savage.

“Really, Mr. Heath.” The reverend followed, out of breath and apparently out of charity as well, for his voice strained. “This is not in any way acceptable. You cannot enter a woman’s bedchamber!”

The big man turned to him, all but blocking Eleanor’s view of the reverend, and she gasped. A golden-haired child with snarls that needed a good brushing peeked out from a deerskin wrap tied to Mr. Heath. Craning her neck, the girl twisted to look at her with huge brown eyes. For a moment, the little one squirmed, planting her feet on the man’s back and arching up for a better view. Then, evidently satisfied she and Biz were not monsters, the girl popped a thumb in her mouth and settled down, resting her cheek against her father’s broad shoulder.

“Which one, Parker?” Mr. Heath’s tone demanded nothing short of complete obedience. “The sooner I get out of town, the better. But I reckon you know that.”

Tension throbbed in the room, quite the contrast with the way the small girl rested so contentedly on the man’s back. The reverend huffed like a horse. Eleanor wasn’t sure what to make of the exchange, but one thing she did know—despite the sweet little cherub he carried, Mr. Heath was not a master she wished to serve. She huddled closer to Biz, who clutched her pillow all the tighter.

Sidestepping Heath, the reverend approached the bed, his mouth drawn into a straight line. “My apologies, Miss Morgan, Miss Hunter. Mr. Heath seems to be in quite a hurry this morn, as he generally is when he comes to town. If you wouldn’t mind Miss Morgan—”

“And if you wouldn’t mind.” Heath wheeled about so fast, the little girl squealed with the movement. “Miss Morgan, is it? Let’s go. Now.”

His dark gaze pierced her against the pillow, so sharp were his eyes. His long hair—deep brown—crashed against his shoulders like a wave ravaging a Cornish cliff, all jagged and wild, hiding half his face with the thickness. The half she could see sported a shadow of stubble, riding just below the sharp angles of his cheekbones. Was everything about the man stormy blackness?

“Mr. Heath.” The reverend’s jaw clenched. “I insist you employ milder manners in this household.”

Biz bolted upward, throwing her pillow at the both of them. “Take yer quarrel downstairs! I’ve had more peace sleeping in a Shoreditch gutter.”

The reverend’s jaw dropped. Mr. Heath merely turned a steely glower upon Biz as her pillow bounced off his chest. Lightning flashed in his eyes, yet he said nothing—which made it worse.

Eleanor clutched the counterpane to her neck, using it as a shield. Highly illogical and pathetic, yes, but it was all she had. The realization struck her dumb for a moment. All that remained to her in this world was her fading sense of dignity—and the debt this man had paid for her passage from England.

“I shall be ready within ten minutes, Mr. Heath.” It was a lie, of course. She’d never be ready to leave with this wild man. It took all the effort she owned to force out the rest, her voice nothing more than a peeping sparrow. “Please wait for me downstairs.”

Mr. Heath stiffened. A muscle stood out on his neck as he slid his gaze to the reverend. “She’s English.”

The words were an indictment, one in which she was found guilty as charged—and left to swing from a rope.

“What did you expect, Mr. Heath? It was the best Mr. Beebright could manage.”

Something guttural rumbled in the big man’s throat. He pulled out a pocket watch and flipped it open, then looked at her. “I’ll give you five minutes, no more.”

He turned and stalked out, the little fair-haired head bobbing behind him.

Eleanor blinked at the incongruous sight, frozen in place.

The Reverend Parker sighed with a shake of his head. “I am so sorry, Miss Morgan. Had I known he’d stomp up here, I’d never have let him in the house.”

“I am sure you could not have known, could you?”

The reverend shrugged and headed toward the door. “He is a troubled man, much acquainted with grief. There’s a good heart somewhere in there, beneath the anger.” He paused on the threshold with a nod toward her. “It’s up to you and God to find it.”

When the door shut, Biz let out a long, low whistle. “Looks like yer gettin’ the worst of it, Elle Bell.”

“Do not address me so!” Eleanor launched from bed, cross at herself for snapping at Biz. Cross that she was to live with a barbarian for the next seven years. Cross that it appeared her father’s prediction would come true. She sniffled, and though she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, tears escaped anyway.

“No. No weeping. Don’t ever let a man make you cry. They ain’t worth it.” Biz came up behind her, turning her with a gentle touch on her shoulders. “Come on, Ellie. You like that better? Splash yer face with some water, and I’ll help you into yer stays and gown. Better you should make a grand entrance than have that Heath fellow tromping back up here and dragging you down the stairs like the brute he is.”

She drew in a shaky breath. Of course Biz was right, but for a moment, moving was out of the question. Fear weighed her down as if she were a paralytic. How could she force herself to leave this place of safety?

Biz did the moving for her, cinching her into her stays, helping her on with her gown. No time remained to style her hair, so Biz simply wound it up and stuck in the last of her pins.

“Off you go. Give him what for. I surely would.” Biz winked.

Suddenly emotional, Eleanor wrapped the bony woman in an embrace. “You are a good friend.”

Biz shoved her away with a curse. “Get on with ye.” She dove back beneath the covers, leaving Eleanor to face her fate alone.

A fate that rapped on the door. “Miss Morgan?” The reverend’s voice leached through the wood. “Mr. Heath and I are waiting for the ceremony to begin in the big room.”

The reverend’s summons made as much sense as Biz’s mumbled gripes. She opened the door, wondering at the strange colonial customs. Had Molly endured such a ritual yesterday? Was there to be shouting involved here as well? No doubt, if Mr. Heath were involved.

“What ceremony, sir?” she asked, feeling foolish for her ignorance.

“Er … did you not know, Miss Morgan?” His gaze darted everywhere except to her.

She tensed at the familiar tactic. She’d seen it hundreds of times from charges who’d stolen sweets from cook or short-sheeted her bed. Something was up. She’d wager on it, were she a rascal like Biz.

“Know what?”

The reverend gazed at her like a beggarly tot to be pitied. “You are to be wed.”

Wed?
The word buzzed in her ears. Somewhere behind her eyes, white rage exploded, blinding and hot. She gaped, sucking in a sharp breath. The agreement she’d signed aboard ship had said nothing of vows or marriage. She’d read it. Carefully. If Mr. Heath thought to bully an illiterate woman who didn’t know any better into lifelong drudgery—no,
slavery
—then she’d teach him a thing or two about intimidation right now. Convention be hanged. She brushed past the reverend.

“Miss Morgan, are you all right?”

The man’s question nipped at her back like a horsefly biting off bits of flesh. No. She was most certainly not.

Samuel gripped the mantle, facing a large, rough-hewn cross hung above the hearth. One of Grace’s shoes kicked against his back. He’d gladly take spikes through his hands and feet rather than bind himself to an Englishwoman.

English! He stifled a roar. Couldn’t Beebright tell the difference between an Irish, a Scot, or a murdering, thieving
gilisi
?

“Why God? Why?” He kept his voice low, but it shook. He yanked off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. Too many memories, too much tragedy, flashed through his mind. Redcoats and blood. His mother’s last breaths. His father’s shouts.

The reason he’d left his wife and child alone.

Closing his eyes, he bowed his head. “I can’t do this. I can’t. Give me one reason why.”

“Mr. Heath! Marriage is for the purpose of relationship and sanctification, a living picture of God’s union to the church, not a convenient way to meet your needs of housekeeper, nursemaid, and who knows what else.”

His head jerked up, and he wheeled about. A whirlwind in a dark grey skirt blew through the door.

Miss Morgan halted in front of him, hands fisted on her hips, blue fire in her eyes. “The contract I signed is a legal attachment, yes, but for seven years. Not life. I will
not
marry you, sir.”

Grace pulled a hank of his hair, as stinging as the sudden insight that this feisty woman felt as trapped as he did. Two foxes in a snare, both willing to chew off their foot to escape. But reality tugged his hair harder, then buried a soft face against his neck, giggling. For Grace’s sake, he was the one who would have to give.

This time, anyway.

“Miss Morgan.” He lowered his tone, keeping an even tempo, a negotiation trait that’d saved his life many times. “I allow that nothing in the document stated anything about marriage. I thought Grace needed a nursemaid, but I’ve since revised that opinion. She needs a mother.”

Her pert chin lifted. “And if I refuse?”

She had pluck, he’d give her that—and up the ante himself. “Then return the redemption fee I paid for you and walk out that door a free woman.”

He nodded past her, to where Parker strode through the opening.

“I … I cannot.” The woman deflated, studying the tips of her shoes, head bowed as if in prayer.

Parker stepped beside her, and she turned to him. “What happens if I do not reimburse what is owed to Mr. Heath?”

A fearsome scowl raged on the reverend’s face. “Mr. Heath can press charges, Miss Morgan. Gaol time, most likely, until the full amount is reimbursed.”

“Gaol or marriage?” She choked on a bitter laugh. “Sounds the same to me.”

Samuel snorted. “Aye, that it does.”

Her gaze shot to his. A spray of freckles darkened across the bridge of her nose. She said nothing as she stared, and he got the distinct impression that she might as well be gawking at a wagon wreck, so distastefully did her lips pinch.

Finally, she spoke. “I counter your proposal, sir.”

“Do you, now?” He grunted. This one could go nose to nose with Running Doe—and possibly come out the victor. “I would hear it.”

She stepped up to him, offering her hand. “I agree to marry you and care for little Grace on one condition.”

His gaze slid to her fingers. Except for a slight tremor, she held it true.

“Name it,” he said.

“We are husband and wife in title only, and that is as far as it goes. My body remains my own, as does yours.” The burst of flame on her cheeks rivaled the red streaks in her hair.

A bold move. One he might make. And definitely one he could live with.

“Agreed.” He took the woman’s small hand in his own and faced the reverend.

Parker shook his head. “I do not think this is a good idea.”

Heaven and earth! Neither did he—nor did the woman, judging by the clamminess of her grasp.

He set his jaw. “Even so, Parker, marry us, before the eyes of God and man.”

Next to him the woman stiffened. Grace squirmed, trying to climb over his shoulder. Steeling his spine, he reached behind and loosened the sling ties. He would enter this union for the sake of his child’s future, nothing more. Did God understand how much He was asking him to sacrifice by sending him an Englishwoman? With a swoop belying the heaviness of his heart, he pulled Grace around and cradled her in one arm.

He reached for the woman’s hand once more, catching a glimpse of the cross above the mantle. Sacrifice indeed.