by Donna Cooner
“What, and you think you don’t have to oblige?” His fingers bit ever more deeply into her arms. He had shaken her so hard that her hair had come free and tumbled down her back in a tangle of pins. She felt tears stinging her eyes and longed to pummel him with her fists.
“I didn’t intend to run off or—”
“What did you intend, then? ‘Ah, bring on your alligators and savages!’ Do you remember saying those words, my love? You wanted out of New Orleans. Well, you are out now. You are married. So just what did you intend?”
“Let go of me!” she demanded. “You’re—hurting me!”
“I’ll grip you a hell of a lot harder if you don’t start explaining yourself, Mrs. McKenzie.”
“Damn it, you don’t have to be concerned—” she began, furious with herself for the pleading sound that was slipping into her voice. Dear God! It seemed at this moment that she had hopped from the frying pan right into the fire. “I just meant that you don’t have to be obliged, I thank you for what you’ve done, and I’ll really be fine now on my own!” she finished breathlessly. “I’m trying to say that you don’t have to be concerned about me, you quite apparently had a life going on here before I intruded on it and …”
She wasn’t doing well. Her voice trailed away beneath the black anger in his eyes. “You’ve people you’re close to here. You probably have certain … relationships already.” Dear Lord, she was doing worse and worse. “I’m so very grateful to you, and though I’ve learned so very little about her, I do know that your heart remains with your wife.”
“You are my wife,” he said harshly, and it seemed that he could barely form the words from between clenched teeth. She wondered if he was trying to remind her of that fact, or himself.
“Not the one you want!” she cried softly, and realized that she was succeeding only in making him more furious with every word. And nothing seemed to be working. “You’re hurting me!” she whispered again.
He suddenly let her go. He strode back to the door. It looked as if he felt he had to escape the room—or throttle her.
But he paused in the doorway, his back to her. His shoulders seemed very broad, his height imposing, even his ebony hair adding to the look of strength and determination in his stance.
He spun around to stare at her again, carefully keeping his distance, and her heart seemed to leap into her throat. She was frightened by his anger. And still, it seemed that flood waters were ripping through her, she wanted to run both away from him and straight to him. She wanted to beat her fists against him and be held by him.
And yet in the end, it seemed, it would make no difference. He was bound on a fool’s quest. He didn’t want to fight the savages—he had turned down the military man who had offered him an army commission.
He just wanted to go home.
To a plantation that bordered Indian lands.
“If you’re interested in your predecessor,” he told her, his words heated, electric with emotion, “I can tell you this about her. She wasn’t a coward. She wasn’t afraid of people who were different, of places she didn’t know.”
“But I’m not Lisa!” she reminded him.
“As I am well aware. But you married me,” he said, and his voice was low, even. Yet it rang with a warning that chilled her to the bone. “And, my love, you are obliged to me! Where I go, you will follow! You’ve spent so damned much time running! But you will not run from me. I will hunt you down. I will find you, wherever you go. You chose to make the commitment. No one forced you. You will honor your vows!”
“And what of you?” she demanded, finding it difficult to give force to her voice but determined that she would fight. She couldn’t understand him! He didn’t seem at all afraid, even though Nancy Reynolds had told Tara that Lisa had died—with the Indians!
“What?” he demanded.
“What of you?” she cried again. “You vowed to cherish and care for a wife! Would you so easily send another to her death with the savages?”
This time, she thought, he would stride to her and strike her to the floor. Black fire leapt into his eyes, and his features darkened and tightened even as the line of his mouth grew tighter, whiter still. She held her ground, barely able to breathe, suddenly, desperately, wishing that she had never spoken. Tears threatened her eyes, and she blinked them back furiously. She had learned more than that his first wife had somehow perished among the Indians. She had learned that Jarrett McKenzie had loved her deeply, and that he hadn’t cared much for anything except his land since.
Tara was simply an acquisition. Men had land, houses, ships, horses—and wives. She had been well worth three hundred dollars. Priceless, he had once whispered. But that had been in the dark. And yet in that same darkness he had touched her, and a tempest had been born within her own heart.
It suddenly didn’t matter who was right or wrong. She wanted to back down. She wanted to say something that would ease the tension and anger from his face.
Her words didn’t come quickly enough.
“Pity the poor savages!” he said softly.
He spun around sharply, pulling open the door, striding out. The door slammed in his wake.
Her knees gave way at last, and she sank down to the bed, shivering still. She hurt in a way she had never begun to imagine, in a way she didn’t fully understand. She was afraid of the future, and yet his disappointment in her created a pain that seemed to outweigh the fear. And yet the fear of the unknown remained pulsing beneath. She wanted to run after him, and she wanted to run away.
Think! she commanded herself. Think! You’ve been running so very long, Tara, surely you can run farther.
But she couldn’t think. Or even seem to move. She lay there and wondered and worried.
And prayed that the very man she was fighting had not gone down to spend time with the dark exotic girl below the stairs, who was obviously more than willing to follow him anywhere.
Run! she urged herself again.
But she wasn’t going to run. No matter how frightened she was. She was going to meet her damned obligations. She was going to find out the truth about Lisa, and about Jarrett McKenzie, and his strange relationship with the various denizens of Florida. And she was going to fight against—and for!—the searing dark-eyed stranger who had so entangled her within his grasp. The man who had awakened her passions and something even more dangerous within her heart and soul.
The man who loved the courageous Lisa.
Lisa was gone.
And Tara was his wife now. She shivered wildly again, closing her eyes and hugging her arms about her chest. Had she forgotten that he had plucked her out of New Orleans? She did owe him, no wonder he was so angry.
But why was she so jealous?
And torn. Even as she listened to herself fight him, tell him that she could not go with him, she had wondered if she could ever willingly walk away from him. He seemed a darker mystery than she could ever be herself, so striking, so haunted, so confident, assured. So compelling in his touch, his words.…
The way he held her.
She was emmeshed with him, their lives were interwoven already. It seemed their passions ran so high, their tempers rose so swiftly. And yet, when he touched her, those very passions carried such a wealth of magic.
He was a practiced lover, she told herself.
And she was right! All of the men and women living in Tampa were afraid of Indian attacks, there was a war on. He needed to be afraid. Surely she was right in her arguments!
It didn’t help.
She still lay awake. In torment again, wondering about Sheila with the dark eyes and the bold words.
He would come back to her tonight, Tara thought. He had married her.
But the hours passed.
And he did not return.
And the torment haunted her on through the long hours before the dawn.
Chapter 7
Tara awoke with a start, certain that she had just fallen asleep. Then she realized that day ha
d come again, that light was streaming in the windows of Mrs. Conolly’s largest, most comfortable room, and that there was motion near her as well. She blinked against the light and realized that she had slept fully clothed, after the hours she had lain awake wondering if Jarrett would come back.
He had come back. She kept her lashes low over her eyes as she watched him. He was clad in hugging breeches and boots and was just donning a clean white shirt. He stared out the window, then his gaze fell upon her. She closed her eyes again and rolled away, still very tired and determined to pretend that she was asleep. Had he slept in this room? She didn’t think so. From the few seconds’ view of the room she had allowed herself, she’d seen that his pillow hadn’t the hint of an indentation on it. She was appalled by the jealousy and anger that so instantly filled her.
She opened her eyes slightly again and gasped. She was startled to discover he had come around the side of the bed in silence and hunkered down before her by the bed waiting for her to open her eyes once again. There could be no pretense anymore. She sat up quickly, deeply irritated that he had caught her so easily and swiftly in her act. Damn him! How could such a man move so swiftly and without the least bit of noise?
“I see you’re awake,” he remarked sardonically, standing. “I’m glad. I want to sail again within the next two hours.”
Her heart slammed with a thud of hope against her chest. “To a northern port?” she inquired quickly.
“To home,” he said flatly. “I’d thought to stay here longer, to give you more time to see the town, meet people—shop for your own things—but under the circumstances I’m very anxious to reach the house.”
“If it’s standing,” Tara said.
“It will be standing,” he assured her.
“I imagine that other homeowners will be flocking here for protection. Perhaps we should wait and see what is happening.”
“We could wait years,” he said curtly, unswayed and growing ever more impatient. “There’s wash water on the dresser and coffee on the table by the window. We can’t travel half so quickly up the river as we do on the open sea, so I would like to leave as soon as possible.”
Tara rose quickly, trying to straighten the wild strands of her hair that were slipping in long tendrils from the pins at her nape. She strode quickly toward the table and poured herself coffee, sipping it as she stared out the window at the beautiful day. The sun was shining brilliantly. The sky was powder-blue.
“Be ready, Tara,” he reminded her.
She didn’t reply. He turned, opening the bedroom door to exit the room. She heard the door close behind him.
“Be ready!” she muttered angrily. “We want to hurry up and go into the wilderness, where the Indians can slice us to pieces! He’s so damned anxious to leave! I’d assumed he’d done so last night!”
She spoke to the window, to the pretty sky. Silence—expected silence—followed her outburst.
But she got a response, the sound of dry laughter.
Stunned, she spun around.
Jarrett remained in the room.
“Ah! Did you miss me, then? And I thought you’d be anxious to be free of my company!”
She was anxious to throttle him at the moment. He’d never left the room. He had started to—but he had come back in and closed the door. Facing him now, she felt her cheeks redden, felt all her frustrations and fears rise high within her.
“I was delighted to be free of your company,” she said heatedly.
“You should have thought of that before you married me,” he said grimly.
“I’d no idea then that you could be so totally unreasonable.”
“Have I failed you yet?” he demanded coolly.
“I don’t know.”
“Did I abandon you to the cutthroats in New Orleans?” he asked her.
“That’s different.”
“It’s not different. And I gave you every warning about my life. You made the commitment.”
“And so did you!” she snapped. “Perhaps whoever shared your evening with you last night is more eager to travel the river than I am!”
An ebony brow hiked over a dark eye and a thick silence followed her words. She was alarmed by them herself.
“You will travel the river with me,” he said after a moment.
“But I’m not the one—”
“You are the one who is wed to me, my love. I’ll be back for you in an hour.”
This time, when the door opened, he did pass through it. Shaking, Tara carried her coffee to the bed and sat at the foot of it. Dear God, what was she doing? She had all but spit in his face when he had once saved her from disaster. She was so afraid again. And jealous as well. And lost, and feeling that she was sinking.
He hadn’t failed her in New Orleans, he had fought for her when she had been nothing more to him than an amusing tavern wench. And yet this was very different, and he couldn’t deny it! Men had been after her in New Orleans, but this battle was against a whole tribe—or tribes!—of Indians.
And Jarrett didn’t want to fight them. The army desperately needed men who knew the interior as Jarrett knew it, and Jarrett was refusing to accept a commission. She didn’t want him riding into an ambush like that poor Major Dade, but neither did she want to wait until the Indians came after them.
Her coffee was gone. She leapt up and hurried to pour herself another cup, and drank it down quickly, almost as if it were whiskey or wine. It had no such effect, but it did make her feel more fully awake, and where she had earlier felt numb, she now started to move very fast, washing her face furiously, digging into the trunk for a cooler gown to wear.
She paused suddenly, shivering. She was so good at running. And she had been so wretched when she had lain awake waiting and wondering.
She dropped the clothing she lifted from the trunk as if it had suddenly turned to fire and burned her fingers. These were his wife’s things. They had belonged to the woman he had loved. The woman who had somehow lost her life among the Indians. How? She hadn’t died like Major Dade and his men, Nancy had said. But then …?
She sat back on the bed again. She didn’t want to wear her predecessor’s clothing. But she had nothing else. And Jarrett had given these things to her.
No. It was Robert who had brought the trunk to her.
She sighed. There wasn’t much choice. She could wear one of these gowns, or nothing, since it seemed the dress and cape she had worn when escaping New Orleans remained aboard the Magda.
Don’t think about it, she told herself sternly, and she found a cotton dress in a soft flowered pink print. With her mind made up she dressed quickly, and was brushing out the length of her hair to pin it again when Jarrett reappeared in the room. He didn’t knock, he just stepped inside. She hadn’t even heard him come and hadn’t known that he was there until she saw him scowling at her from the mirror’s reflection. Her brush wavered. She was still here—she hadn’t run—but it seemed she was an errant wife once again. He had come for her, and she was not ready, and the sight of her brushing out her hair and clad in one of Lisa’s gowns must have been very irritating.
She whipped the length of her hair quickly into a knot and pinned it securely, then spun around. “Is it time to leave?” she asked icily. As he watched her with his glittering black stare, she felt a swift stab of pain once again. What had she done? What had they done? Did the dusky-skinned beauty below the stairs care that he had taken a new wife? Would it matter to Sheila in the night what commitments had been made?
Did it matter to Jarrett?
“Yes. Shall we?” He turned to leave, expecting her to follow.
She remained stubbornly still. “What about our things?” she asked.
“The trunks will be on the Magda before we are,” he assured her, turning back. “Come on, we must leave.”
But she still didn’t move. “I want you to know that I am doing this under protest.”
“Amazingly, I am aware of that fact,” he murmured.
; “It’s not just the situation,” she told him. “The uprising—the danger of being slaughtered in our beds. We should have had—some time. Here. With others. With—with dressmakers. I have only another woman’s belongings—”
She broke off as he hiked up an arched brow. “Demanding little runaway, aren’t you?” he inquired softly.
She stood tall and straight and silent for a moment, then said softly, “I wouldn’t dream of demanding a thing, not when you make the extent of my debt to you so painfully clear. Yet it can’t make you happy to see me in your wife’s clothing.”
“There is little making me happy at this moment,” he assured her. “May we please leave?”
Perhaps Tara had wanted him to tell her she was his wife now. He didn’t. It seemed he only mentioned the fact to remind her that she was bound to follow his dictates.
She sailed by him, pausing when she was just a step ahead of him. “We’re in such a hurry now. It’s a pity you didn’t know that night when you were playing poker that so much was happening here.”
“As it turned out,” he said smoothly behind her, “it was rather fortunate, wasn’t it? I never would have reached home so quickly had I not been escaping New Orleans with you. Keep walking, Tara.”
She clenched her fingers into fists and started walking. He made a derisive sound, and she spun around, finding those black eyes shooting into her like Stygian blades.
“I had not imagined that you would prove to be so—timid.”
“I am not, McKenzie. I am simply sensible.”
“I ask you again, have I failed you yet?”
“Perhaps you should explain your fantastic confidence in regard to the savages.”
“Perhaps you should explain why you are now beholden to live with me among them?” he suggested smoothly.
She swung around again, seething. Trust him—with the truth!—when they were all but bitter enemies?
She kept walking, and this time she didn’t stop until she had reached the foot of the stairs, where Mrs. Conolly was waiting to say her farewells and hug Tara and welcome her to the territory once again.
