Runaway

by Heather Graham

  She found herself backing to the porch rail as he came closer and closer. Her hands, behind her, braced against the white-washed wood, but he didn’t touch her, he came to stand beside her. Even then she could feel the heat that seemed to radiate from him like a leashed violence. He wouldn’t hurt her, she thought. In very little time she had been able somewhat to take the measure of the man, even if she knew almost nothing about his life before the night he had won her in a Louisiana poker game. Yet she wanted to flee from where she stood. He was angry with her. Worse. He was disappointed. And she thought that he was swifter than any creature that ran in the night, and that he could turn on her with his black eyes an onyx fire at any moment and …

  “So, my love, how did you sleep?” he inquired, a lazy tone to his voice, yet even that touched by a deeper note with a harsh edge.

  “Fine, thank you.” The urge to bolt from him remained.

  “We must thank the good Lord you were not snatched from your bed in the middle of the night by naked savages.”

  “And you were not snatched from … wherever,” she retorted quickly.

  “But I was not afraid of such a thing happening.”

  “Oh, yes, I know. You are immune to Seminole knives and hatchets, so it would seem. But you do sport a beautiful head of thick rich hair, sir. Perhaps you should be just a bit more wary.”

  “Is it a beautiful head of hair?” he inquired. “I’m glad there is something about me of which you approve.”

  “I am rather fond of my own hair. I should like to keep it—along with the scalp to which it is attached.”

  “It’s late to worry, isn’t it? You were ready to drown yourself and offer your soul up to the devil—and now you are concerned about a few restless Indians?”

  They both knew that the trouble did not concern a few restless Indians.

  “It’s a war!” she reminded him.

  “Yes, and there have been wars before,” he muttered. “There will be war again. Men survive war.”

  “Sometimes. What about women?”

  “You, my dear, seem to be a survivor. But then, there is so little I know about you.”

  “Perhaps more than I know about you,” she assured him. “Tell me, sir, how did you sleep last night?” she could not help but inquire.

  “This is my home. I always sleep well within it.”

  At least he had slept in the house somewhere. With whom? a plaguing voice taunted.

  He hopped on the rail, very close, not touching her, but watching her with his fathomless black gaze.

  “Do you find the house lacking in any way?” he asked her politely.

  “It would be difficult to know, since I have seen very little of it,” she responded swiftly. “I was informed, upon arriving, that I would be given a tour, but, alas, the master of this paradise found himself too concerned with other matters.”

  “Ah, but the master of the house intended to give you a tour. His heart all but ceased beating when he couldn’t find the new mistress.”

  “Ah, but had he waited much longer to search for her, she might have grown old and gray, and he wouldn’t have recognized her anymore anyway.”

  A slight smile played at his lips. “Would she have grown old and gray waiting?” he asked softly. “Would that I dared think so! It’s far more likely she’d have navigated the deepest swamp to find her way out. Yet where would she have gone, I wonder?”

  His light tone, she warned herself, could be all too deceptive. Yet she was glad of it. She felt the strangest sense of security with him here on the porch, felt again that he could envelop her in his arms and protect her from any threat, indeed, send his own strength radiating into her like the warmth of the sun.

  She had fallen in love with him, she realized at that moment. With everything about him, dangerous dark eyes, the sound of his voice, the splay of his hands, the height and breadth of him, his tone, his touch.

  She looked down quickly.

  It was not a happy realization to discover she was in love with a man who had married her—to help her, yes—but who in his own heart and mind had seen her as nothing more than an attractive household decoration, a piece of functional flesh and blood.

  Yet she didn’t want to fight this afternoon. She didn’t want to be his enemy.

  “You promised me once,” she reminded him softly, “that you wouldn’t ask me any more questions.”

  “Did I promise?” he inquired.

  “I believe so.”

  “Ah, well. I cannot help but wonder. If you were to run, where would it be that you’d choose to go? To the North? Your accent is difficult to place, your speech is without regional clue. Sometimes I tell myself that I detect a hint of the South. Then I think, no, perhaps it is Bostonian. Then I think again that I haven’t the slightest clue of where you might come from.”

  “You promised—”

  “But I am free to wonder. Of course, you are free to offer information anytime,” he reminded her, his tone so soft, the words were almost a whisper. He reached out and lifted her chin, meeting her eyes.

  “Perhaps,” she murmured, “you’ll be good enough to explain to me just why you seem to feel that you are encased in steel, that no harm can come to you.”

  “No answers from you?” he cross-queried.

  “You promised not to ask for answers. I didn’t.”

  He cupped her cheek gently. She discovered that she was drawn against him, that she could feel the black heat and fire in his eyes. His fingers moved like a velvet caress against the soft flesh of her face, then his hand was at the nape of her neck and he was drawing her closer still. She stood between his legs where he sat upon the rail, held intimately, close and warm, as his lips touched hers. It was a tender, light, and somehow very seductive kiss. Then his eyes were upon hers again and his voice was very husky.

  “I tell you again, if you pay me heed, you will be safe. Stay within the boundaries I have given you, and no harm will befall you.”

  “How can you be so certain?” Tara demanded.

  He was about to answer her, she thought, yet what he had in mind to tell her she would never know, for they were interrupted by a cry from the docks. “Mr. McKenzie! Boat on the river, sir!”

  He stood, a deep frown knitting his brow. His hands lay upon her shoulders as he stared down to the river, but then he stepped by her. “Excuse me,” he murmured, and she was dismissed.

  She followed him as he walked down the steps from the porch to the lawn and made his way to the docks.

  The sloop that had come down the river carried eight cannons and soldiers armed with rifles lined the bow. As Tara looked on, she saw the tall man with the golden curls who had nodded to her when she left Tampa. She watched Jarrett’s friends greet him, and then saw him speak with her husband himself.

  She remained on the lawn, standing back about twenty feet from Jarrett as a plank was lowered and the tall soldier, in full military dress, came hurrying down the plank toward him.

  “Tyler!” Jarrett called. “I hadn’t thought to see you so soon!”

  “I assure you, I hadn’t planned on a wild ride down river—the men are complaining blue blazes, we had them rowing away at the slightest sign of a calm. I didn’t want to be here so soon, I assure you, but …” He shrugged, aware that two of his officers had followed behind him while the others remained on guard at the deck, and that Jarrett’s overseer, Rutger, was suspiciously watching the exchange. Even Jarrett’s new wife was standing just feet away.

  “Perhaps you could spare me some time in your office,” Tyler said.

  “Of course.” Jarrett lifted a hand, turning to direct the man back toward the house. His eyes lit on Tara. “Tara … I don’t believe you met Captain Argosy. Tyler, my wife, Tara.”

  The captain stepped forward and lifted her hand, a dashing smile on his face. “Mrs. McKenzie, it’s a pleasure and a privilege.”

  “Thank you, sir, the pleasure is mine,” she murmured, her eyes searching out Jarrett’s. Bu
t the captain had stepped back. “Jarrett, you know sergeants Culpeper and Rice,” he said, indicating the two young men. “Gentlemen, Mrs. McKenzie.”

  They both saluted her sharply and Tara smiled, nodding. “Welcome to Cimarron,” she murmured.

  “Tara, my love, I believe the gentlemen will be with us for dinner,” Jarrett said. He wasn’t looking at her—he was looking at Captain Argosy. He wanted her out of the way, she was certain, and she wondered what new atrocity had been practiced by the Indians that he would attempt to hide from her now.

  But she had promised him that she could be a good wife, and she intended to be one.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the men, and turned, walking back to the house while they spoke again for several seconds before following at a distance behind her.

  Tara found Jeeves in the kitchen, already in a discussion with Hattie, the plantation’s head cook, a tall woman with both black and Indian blood who seemed to speak very little but have a magic touch with food. Both of them stared at her as she entered the large kitchen, the first of the plantation’s outbuildings, and smiled quickly.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. McKenzie,” Jeeves said, inclining his head and offering her his warm smile. Jeeves, Tara thought, would go out of his way to be polite and serve her—unless her desires clashed in any way with her husband’s.

  And Jeeves was on the lookout to see that her desires didn’t clash with the master’s.

  “Good afternoon, missus,” Hattie added quietly, her almond eyes fixed seriously on Tara.

  “We’ve company for supper,” Tara said. “Captain Argosy and two of his men. His crew, I imagine, will remain aboard their ship.”

  “I’ll get the girls on it,” Hattie said. “We send those boys pies when they come. We—”

  She broke off, for Jeeves was staring at her.

  “We have always sent them pies,” Hattie amended. “Whatever you wish.”

  “We must continue to send them pies,” Tara said, feeling just a touch of exasperation.

  “Miz Lisa always did so,” Hattie said. “And Mr. McKenzie carried on with it.”

  “Tradition,” Tara said, forcing a small smile. “We must keep it up.”

  “I had planned chicken,” Hattie said. She glanced at Jeeves. Jeeves stood silent.

  “Perhaps,” Tara suggested, “we can have a roast? Potatoes, greens? A soup to start the meal, and a fish for the gentlemen as well?”

  “She makes the best catfish suppers in the whole of the territory!” Jeeves shot in with pride.

  “That would be wonderful,” Tara said.

  “What about dessert, missus?” Hattie asked.

  She smiled. “Have we apples?”

  “Bushels, ma’am.”

  “And her apple pie—”

  “Is the best in the territory,” Tara said before Jeeves could finish. She smiled. “We’re very lucky.”

  She turned and left the kitchen, wondering just how many comparisons they were making between her and the deceased Lisa. She heard movement behind her and swung around. Jeeves was there.

  “Yes?”

  “I thought, Mrs. McKenzie, that you might want to give me your preference for tonight’s wine,” he told her.

  “Thank you.”

  “We’ve a cellar, next building,” he told her.

  She nodded and accompanied him. The “cellar” was halfway above ground, and she imagined that in the lowland here it couldn’t be much deeper or else it would be a well. But it was generously stocked with vintage wines from France, Spain, and Italy and some homegrown specialties Jarrett had acquired on his travels to various places. She selected French wines for the evening, a red and a white, and studied the rest of the selections a few minutes longer before turning to leave. As usual she found that Jeeves was watching her with his somber dark eyes. Judging? Well, she was quite certain she hadn’t made any mistakes. She knew the role that she was expected to play here as mistress of the estate.

  “Do you approve my choices?” she asked him.

  “It’s not my place—” he began.

  “You’ve been running the house for quite some time and doing so impeccably well, so I’m quite certain you have an opinion,” she told him, but she smiled as she spoke the words, knowing well that she needed him as a friend in this house.

  He smiled in return, inclining his head in thanks for the compliment.

  “Your menu and your wine choices seem excellent,” he assured her.

  “What is Captain Argosy doing here?” she asked him.

  “Now, Mrs. McKenzie—”

  “Jeeves, do I look like a child?” she asked with a certain impatience.

  “Please, Mrs. McKenzie, I’m sure that the men are just now meeting in the library—”

  “And I’m quite certain that they’d like a whiskey. Would you please arrange a tray with drinks for the officers? I’ll bring it myself.”

  Jeeves chuckled softly. “Mrs. McKenzie, there’s a bar in the library. The gentlemen will be helping themselves to drinks as it is.”

  “Oh,” Tara murmured with frustration. Then she smiled and arched a brow to Jeeves. “I’d like a plate of fruit, please. Hattie has just assured me we have plenty of apples, and I’m sure we’ve a few other light delicacies to tempt the men while they await a heavier meal.”

  Jeeves let his eyes roll and he shook his head. “Mrs. McKenzie, I don’t—”

  “Jeeves,” she said firmly, “if you will please see to my request?”

  He had little choice, but even when she was supplied with her tray of tempting offerings for the men, it did her little good. When she tapped on the door to the library she was greeted first with silence and then a sharp “Come in!” When she entered, she quickly offered them her best and most innocent smile, and the gentlemen were all charming, leaping to their feet, giving her their fervent thanks. But Jarrett, his black eyes sternly upon her, was quickly by her side as well, thanking her for her thoughtfulness and then propelling her back out the door, his hand very firmly upon the small of her back.

  She found herself in the hallway again, no wiser as to what was going on.

  At length Jeeves found her there. With no comment on the fact that he had tried to warn her about what would happen, he politely suggested that she might want to bathe and dress for supper. He had taken the liberty of sending the hip tub up and it would be available at her leisure.

  A hot bath sounded wonderful. She smiled and thanked Jeeves, and she thought that maybe she was acquiring friends in the house.

  She soaked in the hot water for a while. When it grew cold, she rose to dress, then decided to finish one of the gowns she had been making. She was determined that she could do so if she hurried. Nancy Reynolds had told her that Jarrett’s laundress, Cota, was a skilled dressmaker, and so she asked Jeeves to send for the woman, and she came quickly.

  Tara had expected the laundress to be either black, Indian, or of mixed blood, but Cota, it turned out, was a pretty young Italian girl with blue-black hair and bright green eyes and an olive skin. She was still learning English, and she had not been in the household very long. She was very enthusiastic about her new mistress’s project, and she could sew both swiftly and beautifully.

  The two women were still at work when the door opened and Tara, dressed in corset and pantalettes, looked up to find her husband standing in the doorway. She felt a blush of color rise to her breast and cheeks and her heart skip a beat as she watched him. She waited for him to speak first.

  “Scusi!” Cota cried, blushing herself and jumping to her feet.

  “Cota—” Tara began, but the girl had already slipped past Jarrett and fled.

  Tara stood somewhat awkwardly herself, drawing her gown up along with her. It was finished except for the last ten inches of hem.

  Jarrett stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.

  “I had come to tell you that dinner is about to be served,” he said, yet did not move.

  She nodded, swallowi
ng. “I’ll—be right down.”

  But still he watched her. And then he took three long strides that brought him to the braided rug before the fire, where she still sat clasping her new gown to her chest. He hunched down himself, picking up the gown.

  “Cota made this today?” he queried, his fingers moving over the material, his eyes on her.

  She shook her head. “I started it on the ship, but we finished it this afternoon.”

  His brow rose. “You’re an excellent seamstress.”

  Her lashes fell, but her jaw was tight. “I told you I would make a good, functional wife.”

  “There’s only one function that really matters,” he murmured.

  Her eyes flew to his as a quick wave of fury fluttered in her heart. “And I have failed in that?” she demanded quickly. “I—”

  “You’ve failed in nothing—I have merely allowed you to forget the terms of marriage,” he told her, and she realized that he had never been reproaching her, that there was amusement in his voice, and the very curl of his lips was making her feel heated and flushed. Desperately she sought some way to change the subject, and as she hugged the gown more tightly to her chest, she remembered that she had been ready to batter the library door down not so long ago just to discover what was going on.

  She inched away from him. “Jarrett, why have they come?” she demanded.

  He hesitated. “I’ll explain later. There’s no time now.”

  “Just tell me—” she began, but she broke off, because he gripped her new gown firmly, and she had to release it, or allow it to be ripped. He stared at the style and intricacy of the gown again and then at her. “Paris?” he queried her. “Do you come from abroad? Jeeves is convinced, of course, that you come from the very best of families, that you are running away from some scandal. Right into the heart of the swamp.”

  She stood, snatching the dress back. “I asked a question first. Why have the soldiers come?”

  He didn’t answer her. His eyes rested upon her and the gown. “Exceptional,” he murmured.

  “The gown?”

  A subtle smile teased his lips. “Well, that. More so the form it would cover.” Again he had the gown in his hands, and she had to let go. But he didn’t study it again. He cast it aside. The creation of her hours and hours of labor, so simply cast aside. She started to reach for it, but his arm snaked out and his fingers clasped hard and warm around her shoulders, drawing her back.