by Donna Cooner
“Just don’t go back on any of your promises,” he warned her.
“If I do?” she inquired, lifting her chin high again.
He really smiled then, brushing her cheek lightly with his knuckle. “I will be forced to see that you keep them!” he assured her.
She pushed his hand away and strode past him. She had to do this thing now and be done with it!
There would be more men to follow the two on the ground.
She swirled around, allowing her gaze to rise up and down his person, from his ebony dark hair to his high black boots.
“You’ll do,” she said coolly. “Can we get on with this?”
He started to laugh and strode the distance to her, setting an arm around her waist. She nearly leapt away at the searing touch.
“I’ll do! What flattery! I won’t do particularly well, but I’m better than the man you’re running away from, is that it?”
“I never promised explanations!” she retorted. “Only to be—a good wife.”
“And that you will be, my love. That you will be.” He paused under a lamp for just a moment, searching out her eyes once again, his own a startling coal fire. She shivered fiercely, afraid to be in his arms.…
And yet suddenly longing to be there. It would be tempest, it would be flame! she warned herself. And her knees seemed to have turned to water. God, yes! Whatever else, he had already protected her twice. It was a new beginning!
“That I will be!” she repeated. She was marrying a total stranger. She swallowed hard. Yes, just let him get her away from here tonight. She would pay any price.
“Then let’s get on with it, shall we?” he said.
“How? We can’t just be married tonight—”
“Oh, my sweet innocent! We can do anything in New Orleans tonight. Anything we pay for! Just follow me, my love. Just follow me.”
Through it all, she realized, she had never really believed that he was serious.
But he was.
An inquiry to a friend on a tawdry street—the friend was a bit tawdry looking too!—sent them to a nearby house. To her dismay Tara found herself wondering about McKenzie’s relationship with the buxom blonde who had sent them on their way.
Whores. They were a dime a dozen. He had told her so.
But the woman had sent them to a duly appointed minister of the church, and the man promised to see to it that they were legally wed once he had a good look at McKenzie’s gold pieces.
The minister called to his wife, and she came in, confused at first, but quick to understand that her husband was earning a very nice little stipend for the night’s work. She told them they were a beautiful couple, then set her rosy cheeks into a stern pattern to stand and witness the ceremony. It was a strange wedding in their small, dusty parlor. Tara and McKenzie were both standing together in front of the minister before McKenzie turned to her, a very dry smile curving his mouth. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Tara. Tara Brent.”
He studied her for a moment. “The last name doesn’t matter anymore. It’s McKenzie now. Tara McKenzie.”
She opened her mouth to ask him his given name, but the very well paid minister had begun the ceremony.
His name was Jarrett. Jarrett McKenzie. She was married to him. There was a massive ring on her fìnger, which had come off his, and the magnitude of what she had done suddenly seemed to sweep down on her. Not just her knees, but the whole of her body seemed weak.
“You may now kiss your bride, Mr. McKenzie!” the minister told him.
She had never really known what weak could mean. He turned to her with the devil’s own smile and swept her into his arms. His lips touched hers with a startling fire that burned and seemed to tear through the length of her, wet, hot, and evocative. She felt it in every limb, spiraling into some intangible center. Her lips parted. His tongue swept into her mouth. She clutched his shoulders as the world seemed to spin.
He set her down, staring at her again. He seemed to know that she would fall if he released her, because he continued to support her. There was hastily dug up champagne, a toast to the newlyweds.
He spoke politely with the minister and his wife. Then he took Tara’s glass from her cold fìngers and set it down on the buffet table in the hall. He took her hand. “Let’s go.”
She nodded, closing her eyes, praying for strength.
She had wanted to escape! She was certainly managing to do so.
“Now, Tara! Let’s go!”
She was tempted to run again. Run as far as she could go, run forever. But she had made her promises.
And he had vowed that she would keep them.
She could run no longer.
Clive Carter of the Boston Carters, son of the late and illustrious Julian Carter, waited at the inn, seated at the table where the poker players had gambled fate just hours before.
He was immaculately dressed in a crisp white shirt, cobalt breeches, and maroon frock coat with an embroidered waistcoat beneath. He was a handsome man, and a prosperous one. A man to draw respect. His dark blond hair was neatly queued at his nape, his hazel eyes were steady on those around him. His hands rested upon the curve of a silver-tipped walking stick as he watched those around him.
Seething.
The idiots in this place! And to think that he had missed her by less than an hour. His own men had not returned. Two humanlike apes in the employ of the incredibly stupid proprietor of the place had failed to return as well.
This was preposterous. How many states had he traveled so far, seeking her?
He had to find her before William could come to her aid. He would not let her escape. This afternoon he had learned definitely where to find her. Now he was here—and the wretched woman had escaped him once again! It was not to be borne. And he dealt with such fools. From here on out he would have the law with him. The law, the military—he’d bring his own damned gallows and rope soon!
The babbling proprietor had told him that McKenzie had the girl as payment of a debt, and that they were aggressively searching for the pair, even though it would definitely mean trouble because McKenzie could be a difficult man himself when he chose to be so.
So some bastard McKenzie had the girl!
That had started the pounding and pulsing within his head. The cold, hard fury that gripped his soul and made his fingers tense upon the walking cane while he managed to show no other sign of the extent of the anger that burned through him like the boiling of a cauldron. God, but his very fingers itched to touch her, and she’d been taken by this man named McKenzie!
He’d get her, Clive assured himself. In the end he’d get her. He didn’t know if he gave a damn whether it was alive or not anymore. She’d had every opportunity to choose to be with him. He’d managed to take everything that he had wanted from his father.
He would have shared it all with her.
She could have had velvet, lace, and luxury all the days of her life. Velvet, lace, luxury—and him. Now she would have the cold, dank steel of a prison door. She’d be broken, he’d see to that. And it would depend on just how prettily she could beg his pardon, and just how pretty she could stay in such wretched environs, and whether or not he’d see to it she ended her days at the end of a rope.
“Sir!” He stood, a man who had carefully watched politicians and men of means all his life. He kept his voice low, modulated, controlled. He was careful to be the embodiment of a man distressed, rather than one gripped by a deadly fury and obsession. “Who is this McKenzie? I must find Tara. It may mean her life! I have offered you a great reward, and more, sir, the very law is with me! If you refuse to aid me, I can only offer you the most dire consequences!”
Eastwood didn’t like the look of this man. Such a man, so evidently from the heart of northern society, meant trouble. Eastwood cursed the night in silence. If this fellow had only appeared moments earlier, or if the Frenchie and McKenzie had only played poker elsewhere …
Eastwood was a morose fellow,
and it didn’t occur to him to blame himself for any of the tumult or drudgery that befell him. Not that it mattered. This fellow didn’t want a piece of him. He just wanted Tara. And in Eastwood’s mind the girl, with her high and mighty ways, deserved a downfall at this fellow’s hands. If that’s what the fellow intended. Strange. The man kept talking about the law, but he didn’t want the law called in. Didn’t matter to Eastwood. This man was offering five hundred dollars for her. She sure was paying her way now. Eastwood couldn’t quite tell if this fellow wanted to strangle her or not. It was the girl’s fault. She caused trouble, she was trouble. He’d known it the first time he’d seen her, he’d just thought that she was the kind of trouble that might make him a lot of money. Hell, she’d turned down many a good offer from a decent man—including Eastman himself!—but tonight she was getting her comeuppance. She was already making good on three hundred dollars and when she was finally returned, she’d be worth five.
She would come back eventually, Eastwood assured himself. McKenzie had just liked the look of her. And it wasn’t that Eastwood was so friendly with McKenzie himself, but McKenzie came to New Orleans often enough, and naturally people talked about such a man. When he’d married a belle out of St. Augustine, he’d been the catch of the season, a rich, well-educated rake with a history of adventure behind him, a man determined on getting richer by settling and working freshly cleared lands just westward of the raw town of Tampa. McKenzie had made good, but the belle had died, and he now had the reputation of being a reckless adventurer once again. His interest in Tara Brent could only be fleeting.
There was no need to be unnerved, to stutter, to worry about this dandy demanding her now. All that he needed to think about was the kind of money—hard, cash money—he was going to make when she was returned. With that kind of money he could even make himself forget the way she made him feel when he tried to touch her, like he was something that crawled. She wouldn’t be good once these fellows had all finished with her. Maybe, when his boys brought her back, he’d even find a way to have a few moments with her himself after all. Then she’d be sorry for the way she’d treated him.
And while she was still being sorry, she could go on to this dandy fellow here.
No matter what he wanted her for.
“Mr. Blank, I do assure you, my men are out there searching with the same fervor as your own. I am ready, sir—no, eager—to see that she is delivered to you. As to McKenzie, well, sir, he is a planter out of Florida—”
“I will have him ripped to shreds!”
“No, sir, you don’t want to tangle with him! He’s a bit of a rogue himself, but highly respected by the law, a rich man, and a powerful one.”
“No matter how powerful he is—”
“She will return here, sir, I swear it!”
Clive took his seat again, staring at Eastwood. A sardonic smile twisted his lips, his glittering eyes narrowed sharply upon the other man.
“For your sake, Mr. Eastwood, let’s hope that she does! Indeed, sir, if you’re a praying man, perhaps you should begin right now.”
Eastwood felt a shiver seize him. And he wasn’t a praying man at all, but suddenly …
He damned sure was praying.
Chapter 4
When the wedding was over, Jarrett McKenzie was determined that they move once again.
“Just where are we going now?” Tara asked him breathlessly, trying to keep up with him while he led her along, his hand upon her elbow.
“As far away from New Orleans as we can get,” he told her curtly. She watched his dark profile and a hot tremor snaked along her spine. He was striking, rugged, and, at the moment, dead-set determined. Tall and powerful. He knew nothing about her, nothing at all.
But she also knew very little about him.
Those black eyes of his were suddenly staring down into hers once again. She flushed, aware of his scrutiny, and aware that he was aware of it.
“I was just wondering …” she murmured.
“What?”
“Where you learned to fight like that,” she said softly.
He smiled dryly, arching a brow to her. “Like what?”
“So—fast,” she said. “You knew when those men were behind you. You threw that knife faster than that Frenchman could pull a trigger. I was just wondering—”
“Then you must just wonder away, right?” he interrupted, a challenge flashing in his dark eyes. “I promised you no questions. This is it, watch your step.”
This was it—where were they? She hadn’t been paying attention, but they had come back to the docks. Yet she couldn’t see much of anything, other than darkness.
She nearly cried out with surprise when he suddenly lifted her, for it felt as if he meant to drop her right into the water. But she found herself set down in a small boat, and he was swiftly leaping down beside her. The night seemed to have grown very chill. She hugged her arms about herself while he released the tie rope from a wooden pillar and sent them drifting out into the Mississippi. He picked up the oars and a powerful thrust sent them shooting down the river.
He was quiet. A touch of moonlight fell upon the river, igniting it in a soft glow. Cold, she continued to hug herself, facing him. The moonlight did not touch the dark, craggy contours of his face, and she could not see his eyes, or read his expression.
“You’re rowing us to Florida?” she asked at last.
She saw the white flash of his teeth as he smiled. “The Magda is just ahead,” he assured her.
Tara twisted around and saw the much larger craft upon the water. Lanterns were lit, and the vessel seemed very warm and welcoming. She gazed at her new husband again, trying to grasp the fact that she had actually married a stranger. “Is it safe aboard her?” she asked softly.
“Well, I hope so. I own it.” “Oh.”
“Robert told you I was rich,” he reminded her, studying her eyes now. She wondered what he was looking for within her.
“What didn’t he tell me?” she asked him.
“A lot, I hope. If we’re to lead mystery lives, it’s only fair that some part of my own past be kept secret, don’t you think?”
She shrugged, wishing she hadn’t spoken. And then she found herself thinking again about the way he had come to her rescue. He was amazingly quick, almost as if he were invincible. He had knocked out two men without even raising a sweat. And when the Frenchman had pulled that gun …
Yes, he was quick, and hard, and could show little pity. What if he discovered the truth about the woman he had married? A second tremor came cascading down her spine, and this time she felt very cold.
“Hello there!” came a friendly voice in the night. The oars lapped against the water once again, and then the dinghy was knocking against the sides of the Magda. It wasn’t a huge ship, Tara thought, but it did stretch at least seventy feet. She was sleek and new, an elegant ship. As they drew alongside her, Tara saw his handsome young friend Robert with the quick, easy smile staring down at them. A rope ladder was tossed down to them.
“Can you manage?” her husband asked her.
“Yes,” she said quickly. Too quickly. When she stood, she was afraid she was going to teeter right over. He caught her, at ease with the little boat rocking dangerously, and set her fingers about one of the rope rungs. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Within seconds she was aboard the Magda, McKenzie at her rear should she falter, and Robert on deck to sweep her over the rail. He was still grinning broadly, apparently very much pleased with what he considered his night’s work.
“Welcome, Mrs. McKenzie!” Robert said, catching both her hands and drawing her near to kiss her cheeks good-naturedly. She realized that there were four more men on the deck, watching, waiting, and a blush touched her cheeks. But McKenzie was behind her now, his hands on her shoulders. “Gents, this is my wife, Tara. Tara, the first mate there is Leo Hume, and these other riffraff sailors are Ted and Nathan Nailor, and George Adair.”
“Hello,” she murm
ured, but the group of them grinned, bowing in return. The oldest of the lot seemed to be the one introduced as Ted Nailor, who she assumed must be Nathan’s father, for he seemed to be about forty, while Nathan couldn’t have been much more than seventeen. Both were stockily built redheads with freckled noses and quick, flashing grins. Leo Hume was dark and somewhat swarthy, as if there might have been a very dark Spaniard somewhere in his past, too, while George Adair was very tall and lean and dark haired and light eyed.
Ted was the one to address her, sweeping his cap from his head and bending very low. “Mrs. McKenzie, we are all ever-pleased to meet you—surprised, we do admit!—but delighted, and eager to serve you in any way!”
She smiled and was startled by the sudden prick of tears at the back of her eyes. She suddenly felt very much protected and surrounded by warmth. After so long a time of running, and after the people who had filled her life lately …
She closed her eyes. For a moment she could remember the busy streets of the very well-established city she had so recently fled. To her the city had been a dream. She had once thought that her future was there, and all that she needed to do was form it with her own two hands. It was different from the land of her birth, that of the rolling fields she had loved so well, but a place where too many people fought a land that refused to give a yield, where too many little children went hungry. A place where the very future lay in escape, no matter what the beauty.
She had been eager and so ready to love the city. It had been filled with elegant buildings, manicured parks. There had been people everywhere. Clad in fine furs and jackets when the winters came and the temperatures plummeted. The men were concerned with business, the women with the latest fashions. The men talked politics, the women raved over the most recent musician to come to town; they laughed, lowered their voices, talked about one another. Society was tight. If the doors were shut upon one, they stayed closed. The matrons could judge harshly, watch like hawks. She’d been so careful. She’d tried so very hard to be correct. But it hadn’t really saved her. She’d nearly won, but he’d arranged it to appear that she had killed the one man who had done so much for her.
