The Soul Survivors Series Boxed Set

by Vella Munn

  "Mixing blood, that's what it is. If you spit out a baby even lighter than yourself, 'specially a girl, she'll fetch a fortune."

  There won't be a baby; I can't... Trembling slightly now, she waited, wondering whether he'd punish her for her silence. But although his eyes took on a hungry look, he only wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him. He began a grinding movement designed to push his still-clothed member between her legs. Fighting down revulsion, she spread her legs slightly. It had happened before; his need had been so overwhelming that he'd come before he could pull down his pants. He'd cursed and slapped her then—not hard enough to leave a mark. Then he'd ordered her to get dressed and leave him.

  She could do that; oh yes, she could do that.

  "I know what you're thinking," he hissed. "But it ain't going to happen that way. Not today." When he shoved her away, she stumbled but didn't lose her balance. She stood before him, naked, arms limp at her sides, thoughts of a warm beach slipping out of reach. For the first time since exposing him, she noticed a puckered scar on his right side between two ribs. Why couldn't the wound have killed him? When he unfastened his pants and shoved them down over his hips, she kept her eyes locked on his, refused to look elsewhere.

  "I was watching the other night," he said. "Sinda and Jake. They were going at each other, so caught up in what they were doing that they didn't know anyone was there. Right under my window. All right, maybe not right under, but it wasn't hard for me to find them once I heard them ruttin' around. Sinda had her hand on Jake—right on him. They were moaning and carrying on like a stallion and a mare. That's what I want to hear out of you, Calida. Sounds like a mare being mounted."

  Master Croon loved saying things to shock her; she should be used to them. Still, her stomach knotted, and she felt half sick. With his pants now puddled around his knees, he took her hand and slowly, relentlessly brought it closer and closer to his bulging manhood. "Control," he hissed. "You don't even know the meaning of it, do you? And you ain't ever going to. That's what I was going to teach that savage. Give him a lesson about who's in control he'd never forget—not that he was going to live long enough to give it much thought. But someone got to him first. Someone—who was it Calida?"

  He still hadn't made her touch him; that's what she should be thinking about, these precious last seconds.

  "Who?" he insisted. "Was it you?"

  "If I say yes, will you kill me?"

  "You ain't worth much to me dead."

  She breathed; tried to anyway.

  "Or scarred up. Long as you've got your looks, you figure you aren't going to be beaten. How does that make you feel, knowing your looks are all that keeps you safe?"

  "I can't change what I am."

  "Damn right you can't. Just like me; I'll always be a soldier. And just like that Seminole; he'll always be a savage. All of them will. You know." He turned her hand so that the back of it was presented to his manhood. When she felt him press against her flesh, it was all she could do not to jerk away. "You didn't free him. Getting that close to a barbaric, you don't have it in you."

  What was he going to do now? The question was still echoing inside her when the door behind him flew open and Liana Croon burst into the room. The look on her face—rage, hate, despair seared itself into Calida's brain.

  "You bastard!" Mistress Liana shrieked. "I knew! Damn it, I knew!"

  "Keep your voice down. Your father—"

  "My father isn't here! He was delayed. I came back—because I knew what I'd find."

  Master Croon released Calida's hand and shoved her away. He reached for his pants but didn't yank them up over himself. "So he's not going to be a party to this little scene," he said almost conversationally. "Are you going to tell him?"

  The rage went out of Liana's eyes, leaving only hatred and desperation. "You're nothing without him! All the money he's given you—"

  "Because I'm the only man who'll marry his ugly daughter."

  "That's not true! Reddin, that's not—"

  Croon lurched toward his wife and struck her mouth. She shrank away, lip bleeding. Calida grabbed blindly for her dress but couldn't put her mind to the great task of dragging it over her head. She held it in front of her, gaping. Her master slowly, deliberately pulled his pants into place and fastened them. "You aren't going to say anything to your papa." He spoke through clenched teeth. "If you do, he'll insist you divorce me, and you'll have to go live with him. The humiliation—"

  "It would be better than this. Than having you take up with a slave."

  Calida felt violated. She should be used to it; still, being treated as if she didn't exist hurt.

  "I'm hardly the first man to spend his needs on a darkie, my dear wife. Or maybe your papa kept you so ignorant you don't even know that."

  "Stop it!" Mistress Liana ran the back of her hand over her mouth, stared at the blood. "I will not allow this!"

  "How are you going to stop me?"

  Mistress Liana rocked back on her heels. She blinked once, then glared through lowered lids. "I'll divorce you. Insist on getting everything, this miserable, so-called plantation, everything. My father will make sure you're driven out of here."

  "You'll run this place? Don't make me laugh."

  Uncertainty flickered across Mistress Liana's face. "I'll sell it. Take the proceeds and live wherever I want."

  "No you won't."

  Be careful, Calida wanted to scream. He's deadly when he's like this.

  "Are you threatening me?" Liana asked.

  "I'm telling you what's going to happen," Croon said in that deadly tone of his. "You're going to forget what you saw and when your father shows up, you're going to act the loving wife. You think your father's going to stand up to me for you? I'm a decorated war hero; you're nothing but a burden around his neck. Do you understand?"

  "No. I won't—"

  This time when he hit her, the sound vibrated throughout the room. Her head snapped back and she screamed. Then she came at her husband, her long nails reaching for his face. Master Croon ducked, but he wasn't fast enough. Liana's nails dug into the base of his throat and left five long, bleeding scratches in his flesh.

  "Damn you!"

  His fist, hardened by years of soldiering and the two years he'd spent wrestling a plantation out of the wilderness, slammed into the side of her neck. She fell backward, stopping only when her body hit the heavy dresser. She reached behind her in a desperate attempt to regain her balance, but he came at her again.

  Calida stood, dress clamped between her fingers, seeing nothing except the one-sided battle before her. Mistress Liana, her eyes dazed, had sunk to her knees. She stared up at her husband, exposing her dead-white face to the little bit of light filtering in from outside. Her mouth opened and closed. She lifted a thin hand to her throat and touched the reddened flesh where he'd hit her. "You bastard!"

  Croon kicked out. His boot landed in her belly, splattering her onto the floor. Moving as quick as a snake, he pounced over her, clamped his hands around her throat, squeezed, shook.

  Calida screamed. She heard the sound, a mouse-squeak. Her mistress's head flopped back and forth as if it were a rag being shaken by a playful dog. Then, although horror and disbelief still assaulted her, Calida ran over to her master and began pounding his back. "Stop it! You're going to kill her!"

  He only settled himself more squarely over his wife's limp body and continued the relentless shaking. "Stop it!" Calida shrieked. She fisted her hands more tightly, drew back, and hit him with all the strength in her. "You're killing her!"

  Mistress Liana's body settled against the floor with a dull thunk. Her legs and arms danced briefly, then fell quiet. Barely aware of what she was doing, Calida picked up her dress and held it in front of her again. Her mistress's head was tilted at an impossible angle. Her mouth hung open and blood dribbled out.

  Master Croon crouched beside his wife and held the back of his hand over her nose. He touched first the base of her throat and th
en his own where she'd scratched him.

  "She's dead," he said.

  Dead. Calida stumbled backward but couldn't think what to do after that. She watched, only half comprehending, when Master Croon stood and started toward her. "You killed her," he said.

  "Me? No!"

  Another step. "You hate the way she treats you; you've always hated the demeaning things she makes you do."

  "No."

  "Yes." The word felt like a blow. His eyes were wild, savage and determined. "Who's going to call me a liar—Liana? I'm the grieving widower. And you—" Another step. "You're only a slave. A slave who can't talk."

  He was going to cut out her tongue! Another mouse-squeak escaped her, a helpless little sound that might be her last. She sensed him readying himself to lunge for her. The instinct that had brought her to the savage's side kicked in, and she turned and ran. Ran for her life.

  Chapter 3

  Reddin Croon waited until dark before wrapping his wife's body in a blanket and carrying it out to the carriage she'd taken to St. Augustine. The moon would be out soon; he wanted to get away from the plantation with its worthless, wagging tongues before that happened. Still, it was all he could do to put his mind to the task he'd given himself.

  This lifeless lump was his wife, a woman who'd come to him with her rich father's dowry and her desperate need for a husband worthy of her father's wealth. She was dead; the Seminoles had killed her. All he had to do was make sure his father-in-law Isiah Yongue believed that.

  Leaving her crumpled in the bottom of the carriage, he went into the barn for the high-stepping mare Liana took such pride in. The mare nickered in irritation when he cinched a rope around her neck and dragged her from her stall. He quickly hitched her then headed toward the slave cabins. As he passed the hut where he'd thrown the big runaway last week, rage replaced the numbness that had enveloped him all afternoon. The Seminole chief—Panther—had been a damned fool to come looking for the Negro. If the storm hadn't kicked up, Panther's scalp would be dangling from his front porch.

  But he hadn't gotten back to the war chief in time and someone had freed him.

  Calida.

  Memories of the beautiful young slave replaced thoughts of what he would have done to both of his captives. He should have gone after Calida and hauled her back where she belonged, but he hadn't been able to move. While she bolted like a spooked deer, he'd stared first at her and then down at what was left of his wife. Calida with her doe eyes and sun-toasted skin was life and energy and spirit, while the woman who bore his name, who couldn't give him the son he needed—

  Cursing, he wove his way around the worthless curs clustered around the slave cabins until he reached the one in which Joseph lived. He yanked open the door and stomped in. Joseph and his scrawny old wife were sitting on the floor, protected from the packed dirt by the rags they used as rugs. They were dipping wooden spoons into a shared pot that held some kind of gray soup.

  "Get up," he ordered. "I need you."

  "What? Massa—"

  "I said"—he punctuated the order with a kick that caught Joseph's knee a glancing blow—"I've got a job for you to do. Now."

  Holding his knee, the ancient carriage driver scrabbled to his feet. He kept his eyes on the ground, his bony body seemingly jointless. "Yes sir, massa," he muttered. "You wants I should put on mah shoes first?"

  "You're not going to need them," he said tersely, then turned and walked out of the impossibly small cabin. Joseph knew better than to ask questions or stall; he'd be right behind him. Again Reddin's legs took him past where he'd left the Seminole trussed. Not only had the savage gotten loose, but the nigger had managed to dig himself out as well. As he glanced at the bits of cut leather, a smile—the first since rage overtook him earlier today—touched his lips. A man doesn't experience fifteen years of military duty without learning the meaning of control. Before this whole mess was over, he'd have what he wanted. What he needed.

  He told Joseph only that he'd decided to start for St. Augustine tonight and Joseph was to drive the carriage. The slave gave him a disbelieving look but said nothing. Instead, he first reassured himself that the mare was properly harnessed, then climbed up onto his high seat. Reddin settled his bulk onto the coach's interior, careful not to let his feet touch his wife's body.

  Once he looked behind him, watching as the emerging moon highlighted Croon Plantation—his land. It wasn't much, not nearly as grand as his father-in-law's, but more successful than the pathetic pieces of swamp closer to the coast, most of which had been destroyed by Seminoles a few months ago. Some of his neighbors were debating whether they dared remain or might have to desert their property until the Indian threat was over.

  Reddin wasn't worried; he had President Jackson's ear and had already ingratiated himself with Major General Jesup. Hell, he even knew the territorial governor well enough to make a direct request for protection. Both the President and major general had promised him that troops would remain stationed nearby as deterrent against the savages.

  Still, if he'd had time to kill Panther, the message would have gotten around; Osceola himself would understand that Reddin Croon wasn't a man to be crossed.

  The carriage jogged and bumped along, but Reddin didn't try to fight the motion. Instead, he relaxed his muscles, pulled out a jug, and drank deeply. The whisky hit the back of his throat and he traced its progress into his belly. Already the fine edge of tension was being sanded away. He wanted to follow the drink with another, but if he did, he might make a mistake.

  A thin trail that needed constant work had been hacked through the wilderness; except for that single way out, Croon Plantation was an island in the middle of nothing, cut off from so-called civilization.

  Liana hated—had hated—that. No matter how many parties she threw or how often she went to St. Augustine, she still complained that he'd hauled her off to live with savages and slaves. She didn't care that his sugarcane fields were the richest in the territory because in his years of traveling he'd learned that land had to be treated right if it was going to produce. It mattered not at all to her that he'd already doubled the amount Isiah Yongue had given him for taking his homely daughter off his hands.

  Well, she wouldn't be complaining any more.

  He waited until the carriage had gone a mile before ordering Joseph to stop. The slave gave the reins a gentle, almost imperceptible tug, and the mare immediately dropped her head, obviously relieved that she was no longer being forced to put herself out. Reddin cursed the spoiled, worthless nag then quickly calculated how much he'd get by offering her to St. Augustine's society ladies. If he told them how it grieved him to have his dead wife's beloved pet around, they would dig deep into their purses. Hell, maybe one of them would offer more than coins.

  Not bothering to tell Joseph what he was doing, he climbed out of the carriage and walked around until he had an unobstructed look at the old man. The moon all but glinted off Josephs white head; he'd pulled himself up as straight as he could, patiently waiting for his master to tell him what he wanted him to do next.

  Reddin reached inside his coat and pulled a knife he'd once taken from a dead Seminole out of his waistband. It felt heavy, a sure weapon for a man who had the sense to stay sober. Joseph's brows furrowed when he saw what his master held, but before he could do more than start to lift his hand, Reddin hurtled the weapon at Joseph's chest. His bony fingers slapped at the knife now buried in him almost to the hilt. His eyes bulged and locked with Reddin's. As Reddin watched, the slave rose out of his seat, then pitched forward. His limp body landed on the mare's rump, causing her to jump. She pranced excitedly until Reddin grabbed the reins and yanked. Trembling, the mare watched him out of the corner of her eyes. Between her legs, Joseph lay utterly still.

  When he was sure the mare wouldn't bolt, Reddin walked back to the carriage and climbed into it. He unwrapped his wife's body and forced her into a semblance of a sitting position. Then he slid away from her. Her neck was broken; a
blind man would know that. Would her father look at her and believe both she and the slave had died at the hands of the Seminoles? No matter how many ways he tried to make the answer come out yes, he knew he was lying to himself. There was only one thing left to do.

  Although touching her again repulsed him, he lifted Liana out of the carriage and placed her near the front wheels. Then he stooped, picked up a rock, and threw it at the mare's rump. She squealed, reared, then charged forward, dragging the carriage with her.

  Reddin looked down. The wheels had passed over his wife's chest, smearing her bloodied dress with mud from this afternoon's rain. When Isiah Yongue arrived in St. Augustine, his son-in-law would be there, a grief-stricken widower who barely comprehended that his "beloved" wife had been killed by brutal Seminoles. After a short—very short—period of grief, he'd insist he would never know peace until the murdering savages were hunted down.

  And as a former officer, he would be willing to lead any troops Jesup and the President—his friend—saw fit to assign to him.

  When he tried to approach the mare, she shied away, and he had to lunge for the dangling reins. He thought, seriously, about taking a crop to the miserable nag. Instead, he ran his hand almost gently over the mare's sweating neck before unfastening her. Seminoles stole horses, damn it. That meant he couldn't get away with selling her, but there were other ways of making his story stick.

  As he pushed his way into the wall of wet greenery, the moon seemed to be coming closer, silvered light outlining dense shadows. Teeth clenched, he listened to the night—the hissing, buzzing, growling night—and again congratulated himself on having stayed sober. The swamps that waited just beyond the road could all too easily trap someone who wasn't paying attention—who didn't understand the danger.

  Calida was terrified of the world beyond the plantation. She'd be back soon, hungry and miserable. His.

  * * *

  Calida crouched behind a huge damp-barked tree. She'd started shivering even before it became night. Now, watching Master Croon walk away from the two bodies while leading the horse, she trembled so much that she could barely force her legs under her. She'd seen her master hurtle a knife into Joseph. Although she didn't understand why he'd done what he had afterward, the image of carriage wheels grinding Mistress Liana's body into the earth sickened her.