The Captive Heart (7 page)

God help him. God help them all.

M
arried! And only an hour ago?”

Molly’s exclamation made Eleanor flinch, along with attracting the eyes of two other women who lingered over bolts of fabric. After a glance to see that Grace yet played with a ball of string on the floor where she’d left her, Eleanor pulled on Molly’s sleeve, leading her closer to the front door of the mercantile. From this angle, she could keep an eye on Grace, see Mr. Heath and Mr. Sutton loading supplies into the wagon outside, and hopefully keep from serving fodder to the town’s gossips.

“I can hardly believe it myself.” Her hands shook, and she smoothed them along her skirt, trying to brush away the feel of the man’s rough callouses imprinted into her palms. He’d gripped her fingers until the reverend pronounced them man and wife, then he’d splayed his own and stalked off. Not that she was a romantic, but at the very least, an encouraging half-smile from him would’ve done much to calm her heart—a heart that even now rampaged against her ribs like a frenzied stallion.

A sob welled in her throat. “I had no choice, Molly. It was either that or gaol.”

Molly’s grey eyes peered into her own, then turned and looked out the glass. “He’s a fearsome sight, that one. Bigger than a dockhand a-heftin’ crates off a merchantman. Hair wild as a gypsy’s. And those eyes, piercing enough to see what’s in a body’s soul and beyond. Why, I’d shake beneath my skirts if I had to face him alone. I think I’d rather be a prisoner.”

Molly whirled, slapping a hand against her chest. “Sorry. I had no right—”

“No, you
are
right. For that is truly what I am, a hostage to this land, and now to that man.” The words coated her tongue with despair, and she swallowed them down, where they lodged like bricks in the pit of her stomach. She wrapped her arms around herself, squeezing.

“What have I done?” she whispered.

“Poor thing. And here I thought I had it bad with Mrs. Greeley.” Molly lifted her hands and held them out. “But I suppose this is naught compared to what you’ll suffer.”

Eleanor snatched the girl’s hands into her own and studied the red welts atop the backs. “What is this?”

“When I make a mistake, Mrs. Greeley whacks me with a switch, miss.”

She frowned. “I am not a miss anymore, and please, call me Eleanor.” For she couldn’t bear to be called by her married name. Not yet—and maybe not ever.

Releasing Molly’s fingers, she checked on Grace one more time. The little girl—mayhap a year and a half or nearly two—alternately dropped the yarn ball then scooped it up again, laughing. How could the little one be so happy with a savage for a father?

Not willing to ponder that question too deeply, she turned back to Molly. “What kind of mistakes could you possibly be making? You have hardly been here a day.”

“Oh, everything. Anything, really.” A weak smile played on her lips. “What do I know of laying out garments or dressing hair or beauty treatments and such? I’m a tavern wench. What Mrs. Greeley wants is a proper lady’s maid. Can you imagine? Out here? The airs that woman puts on would make the king feel a pauper.”

“I might be able to help you, at least a little.” She cut a glance to where the other ladies stood, their gazes still pinned to them like falcons to a scampering rodent. At least Mrs. Greeley hadn’t swept in from the back rooms—a small mercy, that.

Eleanor lowered her voice. “I have lived in grand houses and know some tricks. Serve the lady her breakfast in bed. Not a large meal, mind you, maybe some toast and tea … or whatever it is they drink around here. Keep her gowns hung and brushed out, not folded in a trunk or left on a peg. And before bed each night, offer to comb the tangles from her hair, then braid it. She will sleep the better for it, and you will have a much easier task come morning.”

Molly beamed. “Thank you, miss—er … Eleanor.”

“Oh, and one more thing, ask her—no—require that she change into her best gown for dinner, put on earbobs, and a necklace. Above all, use confidence in your tone, and for heaven’s sake, keep your hands out of reach of her switch. You might even find a new storage place for it, hmm?”

Molly pulled her into a hug. This close to the window, the movement caught the eye of Mr. Heath, who angled his head at her. Between his untamed swath of hair and the way his hat rode so low, half his face hid in shadow, but his meaning was unmistakable.

“I must be off.” She broke free, missing the woman’s camaraderie before her fingertips left her sleeves.

She scooped up Grace, and the little girl wrapped her arms around her neck with a babbling sing-song.

Molly bent, retrieving the yarn ball. “At least you’ve got the wee one to console you.”

“True. She is the best part of this situation.” She nuzzled her chin against the top of the child’s head, amazed once again at the tot’s peaceful spirit.

She walked the few steps to the door, then turned back to Molly. “I’ll stop in for a visit as soon as I may.”

“God bless you … Eleanor.”

She grinned. “You as well.”

With a deep breath for courage, she crossed the threshold, wishing someone could give her advice for how to deal with the glowering brute outside.

Samuel swiped the sweat from his brow, then pulled his hat down low. Not yet noon and already the sun beat down with a heavy hand. But the longer he stood, staring across the road at the ruined corpse of a burnt house, the slicker his skin grew. Ahh, but what a liar he was. The sun had nothing to do with the perspiration coating him.

It was shame.

He flexed his fingers, trying to let go. Sure, he was a different man now. Fire had a way of forging one’s spirit, purifying, cleansing, making way for new growth.

But it also killed.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he breathed out for the hundredth time, “Forgive me, Mariah.”

Just like always, no answer came from her lips—and never would.

He turned his back on the charred patch of earth and stamped across the loading dock to where Ben Sutton hefted another crate to his shoulder. The sooner he left behind this heat, this town, the wicked ugly memories, the better.

Squatting, he heaved upward, lifting the box of long-overdue supplies. With a new wife, he’d likely have to make this trip more often.

Wife.
He clenched his jaw so hard it crackled. The word stuck in his craw like a hunk of unchewed meat. Yet it was done now. No going back.

He pivoted and hauled the crate to the back of the wagon, setting it next to the one Sutton set down.

Ben rubbed his hands together. “That ought to do it.”

Coppery-red flashed at the corner of his sight, and he turned. Inside the storefront window, the woman—what would he call her?—looked out at him with pale blue eyes. He gave a sharp nod for her to finish up and come out.

“Whoa.” A man’s voice called from behind—so high-pitched, it sounded as if he’d taken a good kick to the groin.

Unbidden, the sinful thought crossed Samuel’s mind that he’d like to be the one to give that kick.
Ahh, Lord, forgive me,
he prayed silently as he turned. Ignoring Angus McDivitt was an option, but it was always better to face an enemy head-on than take a stab in the back.

“Hallo, Heath.” McDivitt touched his forefinger to the brim of his hat in a half-hearted greeting. “Heard you married again.”

Samuel rolled his shoulders, working out the stiffness. This—
this
—was exactly what he hated about town. Everyone knowing everyone else’s business, or leastwise thinking they did. He skewered Angus with a scowl. “You heard right.”

Yellowed teeth peeked out from the man’s beard. “Hope this one knows how to tend a fire.”

Next to him, Sutton drew in a sharp breath.

Samuel clamped down on every muscle to keep from launching off the dock and pummeling the smirk from the man’s face.

Angus turned his head to the scorched plot across the road. A stream of tobacco juice shot out of his mouth, desecrating the ground, before he slipped his hooded eyes back to Samuel. “Oh, that’s right. Wasn’t her fault, was it?”

Samuel’s hands curled into fists, clenching so tight his knuckles might pop through the skin.

“He’s baitin’ ye, Heath,” Sutton said low and slow. “Leave it be.”

Samuel cocked his head at the young man. Sutton backed away, hands up. Smart fellow.

He swiveled that same killing stare to Angus. “You might fancy yourself a gentleman, McDivitt, but that beard, your manners, and the stench I’m catching downwind of you say otherwise. If you got words for me, then out with it. Otherwise, I’ll thank you to be on your way.”

Footsteps tapped across wood, lightly, accompanied by the swish of thin wool and linen. He didn’t have to turn around to see the woman draw near—he watched her approach by the widening of Angus’s eyes and the lust that grew in them with each of her steps.

Samuel may hardly know the woman, but she was his wife now. He sidestepped, blocking Angus’s view.

Angus glowered at him. “Does she know?”

He froze, breathing hard.

“Do I know what, Mr. Heath?” The woman’s voice drifted over his shoulder—

And stabbed him in the heart.

A shrewd leer twitched McDivitt’s beard, and he kicked his horse, trotting away.

“Mr. Heath?” the woman repeated. “Is there something I should know?”

He turned, then hesitated, taken aback for a moment. Grace curled one chubby arm around the woman’s neck, and with the other, ran her thumb over her cheek. Nothing astonishing, really, for his daughter was ever the most accepting of souls. The woman’s response, however, stymied him. Why would a prim-and-proper Englishwoman allow such an intimate touch from a child she barely knew? Nay, not merely allow, but lean into it? It looked as if they belonged to one another—and for some odd reason, that rankled him.

“We’ve a ride ahead of us.” His voice came out gruffer than he intended, and he worked to soften the rest. “Time we be going.”

He pulled Grace from the woman’s arms and trotted down the few steps, waiting for her at the front of the wagon. He offered his free hand to aid her up to the seat, and when she took it, she paused halfway up, staring hard at his exposed wrist and failing at stifling a gasp.

Thunder and earth! Had the woman never seen scars before? He shook his head. He had so many marks on his body, he’d lost count. If a little disfigurement gave her such pause, how would she react when she caught full sight of his face?

Depositing Grace in her open arms, he tugged his hat lower and rounded the front of the wagon. The big horse stamped his hoof at the movement. “Peace,
Wohali,
” Samuel breathed out, speaking as much to himself as to the horse.

Swinging up to the seat, he grabbed the reins and snapped the leather. Wohali whinnied a complaint at the added weight but turned onto the road. Samuel made straight for the creek, and as the horse descended the small embankment, the wagon bumped and jostled to one side, tipping the seat at an angle. Grace laughed, but the woman grabbed his arm and didn’t let go, even as the wheels splashed through the water.

Samuel hid a smile. Was the proper Englishwoman too dainty for a spray of creek water?

She yanked back her hand and glanced over her shoulder as Wohali led them up onto even ground. “Where are we going?”

He stood, scanning for the two tracks of grass flattened by his earlier ride, and guided Wohali toward them before he sat again. “Home.”

“But … the road, the town … they are behind us.”

Transferring the reins to one hand, he scratched the stubble on his chin. “Whatever gave you the impression I live in Newcastle?”

A martin’s song kept time with the roll of the wheels. Grace babbled nonsense mixed with Cherokee and a few English words thrown in until finally, after a big yawn, she settled on the woman’s lap and closed her eyes. The woman said nothing. For miles. Not even when the thick of forest ate them alive.

Reaching into a pouch at his side, he pulled out a piece of jerky, took a bite, then handed the rest to her.

Her eyes went wide, and for the briefest of moments, the freckles on her nose darkened, but then she set the jerky to her mouth and nibbled.

At last, she spoke. “Mr. Heath, may I ask how much farther it is to your home?”

“Woman, you can ask anything you like. You’re not in England anymore. And you can drop the mister. Call me Heath, or Samuel, if you prefer. Mister’s for a gentleman, which I’m not.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “To answer your question, though, we ought to make it by sundown.”

Grace shifted on her lap, the smell of jerky pulling her from her dreams. The woman looked to him with a question in her eyes, but none on her lips.

“She can have some,” he answered. He studied her face, what he could see of it from such an angle, anyway. The sun burnt her cheeks to a rosy red and washed out some of the color from the wisps of hair escaping her straw hat. She chewed quietly, while Grace smacked her lips.

“You know, most women would’ve jawed my ear off by now.”

She quirked a brow. “Sorry … jawed?”

“Talked. Spoken.
Gawonisgv.
” Her face twisted as the Cherokee slipped from his tongue, clearly confusing her. “Look, if you’ve a mind to say something, then say it. I don’t hold with pretense.”