by Donna Cooner
Perhaps just a report on what had happened with Osceola, she thought. She could not believe that he would want Jarrett to be riding out again!
She reached for the large linen towel that lay over the edge of the tub, rising and wrapping it around her. She stepped from the tub and came to stand beside Cota at the window.
The ship had docked, and it was indeed one of the military vessels from Tampa. Tara watched as the plank was secured against the dock. Tyler Argosy was first to walk off.
Tara didn’t realize that she had ceased breathing until instinct caused her to inhale on a ragged gasp.
No! He couldn’t have come here, oh, God, no, he couldn’t have come here, followed her.
But he had.
What a fool she had been to think that she might be safe! All because she hadn’t seen Clive in New Orleans. That hadn’t meant that he hadn’t been there. He must have been. He must have followed her himself.
And when he had discovered her gone he had tracked her. It probably hadn’t even been that hard for him to do. Indeed, it had taken him longer than she might have imagined.
But he would have been careful. He would have found out about Jarrett McKenzie. He would have made certain that he knew what he was dealing with, and he would have discovered that Jarrett was powerful and wealthy.
He would have waited until he could come with all the right weapons to use against them both.
And he was here now.
Clive Carter, tall, elegantly blond, clad in a crimson frock coat, always the perfect-looking gentleman, walked behind Tyler. His much-shorter henchmen, the pockmarked Jenson Jones, was at his side.
Of course he had come with Jenson! she thought. Clive had never been a fool. He had come south, to the home of a southern gentleman, to try to drag her back to justice. He would have to have his witness, a magistrate from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, to drag her back with him.
To make her beg for his mercy, accept his demands.
Or meet with the hangman.
Her fingers trembled—the whole of her body was shaken like a palm beneath the wind. But he wouldn’t touch her now. Ever. Not since she had known Jarrett, loved Jarrett. She would cast herself into a river or ocean to avoid him, she would gladly die.
Except that she didn’t want to die. She wanted to live. And wanted to believe that somehow she could cling to the love that she had found, find it shimmering again somewhere in the days to come.
They were coming to the lawn. Rutger had already greeted them. Jarrett, who had been with Jeeves since they had come back, was walking across the lawn. Tara briefly compared the two men. Clive, born and bred to Boston society. Vain, determined. The greediest wretch she had met in the whole of her life, yet he was artful and talented, oh, yes, he was talented, much more so than many a man with whom she had shared a stage. He was a good-looking man, a wealthy man, and yet, even if she hadn’t despised him with all of her heart, he would have come up short beside Jarrett. Her husband remained dressed in nothing but his white shirt, skin breeches, high simple black waistcoat. Clive, with all the color in his dress, the brocade of his waistcoat, the velvet of the frock coat above it, seemed like a peacock next to an eagle. Even as Tara knew that she dared not stand there any longer, she felt the sudden flip of her heart as she thought of how very much she loved Jarrett, of how strong and wonderful he seemed out on the lawn, ebony hair queued back, skin so bronze he might have had Indian blood himself, straight as an oak, standing his ground, master of his world.
She dared stay no longer. She turned around, heedless of Cota, and threw open her trunk, where her newly fashioned clothing awaited. A dusty-rose riding habit lay within the finished pieces and she dragged it out, grabbing only pantalettes and stockings and a soft chemise to wear beneath the coarser, warmer top fabric. She was growing so nervous now that she was all but willing to race out of the house naked, but the long spell of running she had already done had taught her that nights could grow cold and damp, and that she desperately needed something warm.
Cota stared at her, baffled, as she stumbled into her clothing. Tara came to the pretty Italian girl and set her hands on her shoulders. “Cota, I need help badly. Please, go to Peter, tell him I need a horse, a fresh horse, and that he mustn’t let anyone know, not anyone at all. Neither you nor he can even go near Master Jarrett now, else I might be in serious jeopardy. Please …”
“Signora McKenzie! I will help you, sí. But—”
“I can’t explain, Cota, I haven’t time. There’s a man who has come on that ship who wants to see me taken away. For something I didn’t do, I swear it. Whatever you hear, Cota, please believe that I was innocent. But I don’t dare take more time now. Go to Peter. Please tell him to have a horse for me where the lawn meets the cypress forest. Go now, I beg you!”
Cota’s eyes were filled with distress. She looked as if she would like to protest anew.
“Go!” Tara begged again.
Miserably, Cota shook her head. Tara gave her a little shove, and the girl then seemed to whir into action, all but flying out of the room. Tara dared not think anymore herself; she dragged on a pair of boots and sped out of the room, pausing to make sure that their demon visitor had not yet come to the house. She could hear no voices, and so she sped down the stairs and out the front door of the house.
She was certain, as she closed it, that she had done so just as the men had entered the house by the rear breezeway door.
It didn’t matter. She was out; she had made it. She paused for a moment, dragging in a deep and ragged breath. Oh, God, it had never hurt like this before! What if Jarrett believed the awful things that Clive would say, what if he believed that she had conspired to kill a man, that she had pulled the trigger, that she had committed murder?
She didn’t dare think! She only dared dream.
And believe they had to have a future!
But not if she stayed. Clive had come with the military; with the law. Jarrett, for all his strength, would have his hands tied.
She had to run. Faster than she had ever run before. Harder.
Perhaps she could make it.
After all, she was good at it. Even Jarrett had called her a runaway.
Jarrett was doing his very best to comprehend what was going on, even as his head seemed to spin with the ramifications of everything that Tyler was trying to say to him.
The bastard had come for Tara. That was easy enough to grasp.
The squat, ugly fellow with the sallow complexion, small dark eyes, and pockmarked face who had come with him carried a warrant for Tara’s arrest.
For the murder of an ex-senator of the United States.
He knew, from the moment that Tyler approached him with the men, that he would never hand his wife over to the bastards. Never. He didn’t know quite what he was going to do, or how the hell he was going to fight, but they would never leave here with Tara.
It seemed best to gain all the information he could. Knowledge would be his best weapon. But it was damned hard. He wanted to throttle the men.
And his heart ached with anguish. Why hadn’t she ever come out and told him the truth about herself? Why in God’s name had she left him vulnerable to this shock, desperate for any weapons in her defense?
Jarrett had listened to the men briefly by the docks, held his temper, and determined that he had to bring them back to the house.
On a pretense of telling Jeeves he wanted drinks, he slipped past the men into the breezeway, shouting for his servant, then hurrying into the library to speak with him before Tyler and his company could follow.
Of course Tyler would know that he was up to something—Tyler knew damned well that they could get their own drinks in the library. But Tyler didn’t open his mouth, and Jarrett was grateful, knowing full well that Tyler was trying to stand fast beside him, as fast as any friend could.
And he was also certain that Tyler believed in Tara. Tyler knew her. The honesty of her gaze, the innate goodness of her heart. He
r willingness to fight against the wrongs of the world.
“Jeeves!”
Jeeves had been watching the arrival of the ship and the men, Jarrett realized quickly, and it seemed that he had been waiting for some word.
Jarrett didn’t wait for his trusted right-hand man to speak; he set his hands on the black man’s shoulders and warned him quickly, “Find Tara. Get her out of here. Into the woods, somewhere, anywhere. Send Peter with her. He knows his way through the hammocks and the marshes.”
Jeeves nodded and slipped out of the room just as Tyler and the two men from Boston came into it. The first was Clive Carter, son of the late politician Julian Carter, and the second ugly little man was Jenson Jones, the lawman armed with the legal slip of paper that had brought Tyler and the government here with him.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” Jarrett said, indicating the deep leather sofa and chairs. “What is your preference? Whiskey?”
“A double for me, Jarrett,” Tyler said.
“Whiskey will be fine,” Clive Carter said, and it seemed that he spoke for his ugly little henchman too. Jarrett poured the drinks, studying Carter. He was a tall man, in fit enough condition. He had fine—almost too-fine—features and a full head of rich blond hair. He would be an attractive man to many a well-bred young lady, and probably to her parents as well, for Julian Carter had been a well-known and respected man. Jarrett had never been particularly interested in national politics, but naturally, especially with so many acts of Congress influencing his homeland, he had kept up with happenings in Washington, and had even corresponded at times with his old friend Andrew Jackson. He knew of the Carters. Julian Carter had been well liked in political circles, a man respected for his integrity by friend and foe alike. The Carter family, however, had gained its wealth at least a century ago. From what Jarrett had understood, though it had never been an open connection, a great deal of their money had been made in the slave trade. Everything Jarrett had heard had been rumor, and he was well aware that rumors could be false. But though Julian Carter had been well liked, there had also been a great deal of speculation about him, both whispered speculation in handsome drawing rooms, and open speculation in the newspapers. There had never been anything direct, of course, to tie the Carters with such a business. They would have been very careful. Even in the South, where slaves were the anchor of the economy, actually dealing in the trade with Africa had always been considered less than a genteel occupation. Jarrett imagined that in Boston, where the abolitionist movement was beginning to swell, a secret dabbling in the African market would be even more of a skeleton in the family closet.
None of which mattered now. This man’s connection to his wife did.
Jarrett sipped his own drink slowly, one elbow upon the mantel as he stared at Clive Carter. Well, Jarrett taunted himself, he had wanted answers. He was getting them now, in the form of this man. Carter was why Tara had been running. She had been terrified of him—and she had despised him. She had been willing to do anything at all to escape Carter.
Work in a tavern—marry a stranger.
“All right, gentlemen,” Jarrett said smoothly. “I’d like to go back to the beginning of this and try to understand. Mr. Carter, you’re trying to tell me that Mr. Jones here is carrying an arrest warrant for my wife—and that she is accused of killing your father.”
“Indeed, sir, I’m afraid that is the simple truth of it,” Carter said. He flashed an unhappy grimace. There was something oily about it. Jarrett felt canine, the hackles at the back of his neck rising.
“How do you know my wife, sir?”
Carter shrugged, and sighed as if with deep sorrow. “Again, I offer my apologies for this intrusion, sir, as it seems you are completely in the dark as to Tara’s past. I have been following Tara for a long time now. I nearly found her in New Orleans. It was from there that I traced her here to you.”
Jarrett kept his eyes upon the man. “Enlighten me, then.”
“Miss Brent was a playactress my father took beneath his wing. She was performing a comedy of errors with a troupe in my father’s house, a play written by another young man my father was eager to sponsor—Tara’s brother. Well, sir, my father was repaid with a bullet in his chest.”
“I am still at a loss as to why you think Tara might have fired this shot.”
“She was unhappy with my father, and thought that he planned to manipulate her life, when he was only trying to see to her welfare and to her future.”
Jarrett lifted his hands again, shaking his head. “Why do you believe it was Tara who killed him?”
“She shot him in front of an entire audience, sir. She saw him die—we all saw the blood burst out over his shirt—and then he died. If you do not believe me, sir, there was an audience made up of many members of the finest society in all of Boston.”
“I’d not have the warrant if it weren’t true, sir,” Jensen Jones supplied with a white-toothed grin. It was quite slimy as well, Jarrett determined.
But it couldn’t be true. Tara had never actually denied that she had been accused of such a crime—she had denied being guilty of it.
And if she claimed so, it was so.
Yet how to prove it?
He stood very still against the mantel. It did seem that these men had an ironclad case. Tara had been seen, in the middle of a play, shooting Julian Carter. Carter was dead. These men had the warrant for Tara.
She would be running all of her life. Carter would never relent.
“Jarrett,” Tyler said softly, miserably, “as far as I can see, Tara will have to stand trial.”
“My father was a very influential man—” Carter began imperiously.
“Ah, yes!” Jarrett interrupted. “I met your father once—in President Andy Jackson’s company!” he said with a smooth, dry smile. There was no need to mention that at the moment he and Ole Hickory were at grave odds over the Indian question. Since Carter wanted to throw names around, Jarrett simply felt that he needed to throw out a few of his own.
“Sir, I have witnesses! The President cannot intervene.”
“I hadn’t meant that he should. But if my wife were to go to Boston to stand trial, sir, I would demand time to prepare her defense—to interview these witnesses of yours.”
Clive Carter narrowed his eyes. They had a cruel gold gleam to them. Jarrett had the feeling that Julian hadn’t been the one trying to manipulate Tara’s life—it had been Clive himself. “You must do what you consider right, McKenzie. But perhaps I should inform you of something else as well.”
“That is?”
“Your ‘wife’ is guilty of bigamy as well. Tara was married to me the Saturday before my father’s death in a very private ceremony.”
“What?” The breath had gone out of him. He didn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it. Not for a second.
Carter cleared his throat, suddenly rising. He reached to Jenson Jones and Jones stood as well and fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, then produced a document. He handed it to Jarrett.
It looked like a legitimate wedding certificate. But it wasn’t. Somehow Jarrett was sure of that.
“I don’t particularly wish to see Tara hang, either, McKenzie,” Carter said. “She killed my father, but I am still willing to fight for her defense myself. I’d not even charge her with the bigamy, and of course, I’d pray that you would be gentleman enough to let her false wedding to you go unmentioned in any proceedings against her. You see, I know the best lawyers in Boston, Mr. McKenzie. If any man can find a way to see her freed, it is me. All that I have to do is find her and bring her home.”
“You say that she was your wife?” Jarrett queried.
“Sir, the marriage certificate rests in your hands.”
“But I protest. Tara did not marry you. Do you say you lived together as man and wife?”
“Indeed, though it was in secret. You see, my father wanted the marriage, he was deeply fond of her and wished that she might be taken care of all of her life. What better way tha
n to make her a daughter through a son?”
“Ah, and she was thrilled with the prospect?”
“Few women would not be.”
“But she was so pleased—–that she shot your father?”
“He had demanded that she quit acting—it was no longer a proper profession for her. She was always quite certain that she could charm, manipulate, seduce me—and to my everlasting sorrow it was, at the time, true. I love her still, of course. And so my determination to do all that I can for her.”
Jarrett looked at Tyler, shaking his head as he held the piece of paper, silently damning the wife he had come so desperately to adore. If she had only told him what had happened! If she had given him time, something to work with!
“That is impossible,” Jarrett insisted. “Unless you are impotent,” he added blandly. He was glad to see Carter’s face go white, his veins protrude with fury. Jarrett smiled and continued. “My wife, gentlemen—how shall I say this delicately?—was completely innocent upon the night of our marriage.”
Carter controlled his temper rather well, though the anger he tried to mask with his even tone was betrayed by trembling.
“Alas, Mr. McKenzie! You must remember—my wife is an actress. She can feign any accent, mimic any behavior. And I’m sure that if she feared for her life should she fail you, she could, I shall say most delicately—feign innocence as well!”
Jarrett fought hard to control his own temper. “Ah, but, sir! There are only so many things a woman could possibly feign unless she were wed to a total idiot—which I assure you, I am not. Would you call me so?”
Tyler made a slight snickering sound—or maybe it was a warning. Clive Carter glared furiously at them both.
“Are you calling me a liar, then?” he demanded.
Jarrett lifted his hands in the air. “Mr. Carter, I am loath to call any son of your father a liar. I don’t know what to say. Perhaps you are suffering from some delusion.”
“The delusion, McKenzie, is yours!” Carter roared, stepping forward. “And I demand my legal rights! Get Tara down here, now. One way or the other, sir, she is going to stand trial for the murder of my father!”
