Runaway

by Heather Graham

  “We do need to work on our marriage. I am greatly distressed to hear that you fear you have failed in any way.”

  She wanted him, wanted his touch, wanted his light, bantering tone. Too much, perhaps. Her heart seemed to be beating like thunder. She was breathless.

  “Jarrett, those men are waiting.”

  “Ah, yes! You did tell me not to touch you. But then, I was truthful from the start about exactly what I wanted from you.”

  “Jarrett!” she protested, wondering why she felt so desperate. “You tell me you’ve no time for answers! I demand to know—”

  “Ah, yes! You demand!” he murmured. He drew her closer. She moistened her lips, trembling from head to toe.

  Then, to her amazement, and perhaps disappointment, he released her. “You’ll get your answers tonight,” he said, his eyes black and fathomless once again. He swung around, striding to the door, then turned back to her once again. “And, Mrs. McKenzie, be forewarned. This is one night when I’ll not sit sentinel at your door. You wonder where I sleep. Tonight, be assured, it will be with you, and it is not a great deal of rest I’ll be expecting!”

  She had no chance to reply. He was out the door, and it closed decisively in his wake.

  Chapter 11

  Tara was shaking so badly, she had to sit again, her gown of yellow silk and white lace now curled in her hands. She quickly smoothed it. She began to wonder if she dreaded the ending of their evening meal this night, or hated the fact that she must suffer through it before they might be together again.

  Then she wondered anew what the men had come to say, and why they had caused such a fierce tension within her husband.

  She leapt up and dressed very quickly. She didn’t dare think about the rest of the night. She wanted answers to at least the one question now.

  The men were assembled in the dining room sipping drinks, politely awaiting her appearance.

  There was a shuffle as she entered the room, each man eager to greet her, sergeants Rice and Culpeper deferring to their senior officer, blushing a bit as they took care to step out of her way as Jarrett came forward to seat her at her end of the dining table. The table linen was snow white and impeccable, the silver was shining, the plates were a regal, blue-patterned porcelain, well befitting such a house.

  Lisa had probably brought the dinnerware into the house, she thought, and then she again silently chastised herself for resenting the dead woman.

  Jeeves cleared his throat, and she realized that he was standing just behind her chair, awaiting her word to serve the wine and the first course. She nodded to him, smiled, and received an encouraging smile in return. Pleasantries were exchanged. Sergeant Rodney Culpeper, sandy blond, freckled, and as friendly as an overgrown hound, told her how much better this winter was than the last. Tyler Argosy talked about the abundance of crops available, about the miracle of growing things throughout the year.

  “Ah, yes, and there is the wonder of a bloody Indian war as well!” Tara murmured. She tried not to meet Jarrett’s eyes, down the long table. Despite herself she looked at him. Just as she expected, twin orbs of ebony fire were narrowed her way.

  “It’s true that this is a new territory, a great deal of it wilderness. We haven’t the sophistication of such places as New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Richmond, Charleston, or the like, Mrs. McKenzie,” Tyler Argosy said.

  “Are you from the North, Mrs. McKenzie?” Sergeant Rice asked politely.

  “From the North?” she murmured, looking at her plate. She could still feel Jarrett’s eyes burning down the length of the table upon her. She raised her eyes to meet his. His brow was arched. Like Tyler he awaited an answer.

  “This is surely a southern lady!” Sergeant Rice, who she had learned hailed from Alabama, assured them all.

  “We’ve plenty of exceptionally fine women hailing from the North as well,” Sergeant Culpeper argued.

  Thank God for the two of them!

  “Gentlemen, let it be said that I do not hail from here!” Tara assured them with a laugh. A grateful one, if they only knew!

  “But, Mrs. McKenzie, you must—” Sergeant Rice began again, and to her surprise it was her husband who saved her this time.

  “My wife is an exceptional lady, and she wouldn’t want to disappoint either of you,” Jarrett said smoothly. “We met and married in New Orleans, and of course I was quite anxious to return home, due to circumstances here.”

  He had saved her, but he had given her an opportunity to learn something as well. She pounced upon it. “Just what are the circumstances?” she asked with soft-spoken innocence.

  There was silence for a moment. She met Jarrett’s eyes once again. He was the only one who would answer her; she knew that the others would not, not in Jarrett’s presence.

  His tone was light. “There’s a family not far from here that’s anxious to reach Tampa Bay. They don’t live along the river; they’re deeper into the interior. I’m going for them.”

  Her heart slammed against her chest and missed a beat. “What?” she whispered.

  “I’m going to escort them out,” Jarrett said impatiently.

  “But Captain Argosy has a ship of armed men.”

  “A company of men, Tara. Not enough to successfully wage battle on land. I can best handle this situation.”

  The dining room was then uncomfortably, explosively silent.

  “Why?” Tara burst out.

  “Because we’re trying not to provoke an attack, we just want to get the family out and not invite another slaughter. General Clinch is out in the field somewhere, militia units are fighting to hold together, and this way of doing it simply makes more sense,” he replied calmly, telling her everything and nothing at all. His eyes were hard as her lips formed another question. “My dear,” he said firmly, “I’m afraid that we’re making our guests feel quite uncomfortable.”

  Their guests be damned. She continued to stare at him. “Ah!” she said softly, and set her silver down. She took a sip of her wine, then smiled brilliantly at Captain Argosy, Sergeant Rice, and Sergeant Culpeper.

  “I do apologize! Please forgive me. You all must relax and enjoy Cimarron. I shall leave you gentlemen alone for your brandy and cigars,” she said politely. Neither dessert nor coffee had been served, but if she was mistress of this house, then dinner was ended.

  She wanted to scratch Jarrett’s eyes out, and she was sure she couldn’t sit calmly at the table while aching with every muscle in her body to leap across it.

  She stood; the men leapt up.

  “Tara—” Jarrett began, but she was already out of the room.

  She left the house, escaping out the back door and flying across the porch and out into the night. She ran across the lawn and incline, not stopping until she had come upon a tall tree. She gripped it, gasping for breath as she stared down to the river where the military ship lay docked so near the Magda, both alight with lanterns against the darkness of the night.

  He was leaving. Sweet Jesu, he was leaving. He had dragged her all the way out here, and now he was abandoning her as well!

  And yet she was not as frightened as she had been before. She simply didn’t want him leaving her. She didn’t want to lie awake, night after night, wondering if he was alive.

  “Damnit!” suddenly seemed to roar into her ears.

  She nearly screamed aloud as a hand fell upon her arm, spinning her around. Jarrett! She hadn’t even seen him exit the house, and yet in a matter of minutes he had found her here, amid the trees, where she should have been all but invisible.

  “Don’t you ‘damnit!’ to me!” she cried, fighting his hold. She couldn’t break it. She went dead still, staring at him. “You’re leaving!”

  “I hadn’t realized that you would miss me.”

  “I hadn’t thought that you would abandon me to the savages!”

  “Have you seen a savage on this property yet?” he demanded heatedly.

  “Your guests are inside!” she lashed back. “M
y departure was surely acceptable, for they will assume that I have escaped to absorb the knowledge that my husband is about to offer his head to the scalpers. But you, McKenzie, can hardly walk out on them so easily.”

  “Alas, my love, but I can!” he said, pulling her close. “I have come to gently console the poor bride who could really care less about my scalp and is furious only because she is certain I have forgotten about hers.”

  She tried to wrench free from him, but he would not let her go. Furious and ridiculously close to tears, she tried to kick him but he moved too swiftly. He swept her up into his arms despite her wild struggling, heading back to the house with long strides although her fists pummeled his chest all the while.

  “I’ll scream!” she warned him. “Your good friends in the military will really begin to wonder.”

  “They won’t wonder a thing. They’ve gone back to their ship.”

  Her threat thus defused, she stared at him with narrowed, totally accusatory eyes. “There is nothing honest or fair about you!” she charged.

  “Perfectly fair. I have always given you warning,” he told her, his stride now a leap that carried them up the porch steps, then across the flooring, and into the breezeway.

  “You are a tyrant.”

  “Indeed?”

  She should have been screaming, she thought. She had threatened; she should carry out her threats.

  She hadn’t the nerve, she realized. And if she were to scream, well, who would interfere with a married couple in their own home?

  They were halfway up the long stairway. In seconds a shove of his shoulder was opening the door to her room. His room. Their room.

  The windows were open to the cool night breeze, the curtains swaying out into the night. A sweet fragrance of wildflowers swept into the room.

  The bed coverings had been pulled down and a single lantern burned upon the washstand, bathing everything in mercurial shadows.

  She was still in his arms as he closed the door with the force of his back and looked down into her eyes. “I’ll be damned if I’ll leave you tonight,” he told her.

  She shook her head, wondering again that she should feel so desperate.

  “You’ve no problem leaving me tomorrow!” she charged him.

  “Ah! But I will carry tonight with me!”

  “What of last night?” she challenged him.

  A black brow arched at her. “You were concerned?”

  “I say again, you are a tyrant. I am ordered to be here, while you …” Her voice trailed. She lowered her lashes, feeling the ebony heat of his eyes on hers. She suddenly found herself on her feet, spun so that her back was to him, feeling the touch of his fingers upon the hooks and eyes she had so carefully fashioned into her gown. She tried to slip away from him but he firmly pulled her back. “Stand still. It is quite evident you worked hard upon this and I would not have you ruin it.”

  “Me! You’re the one—”

  “Stand still!”

  Trembling, chewing upon her lower lip, she did so. But after he lifted the gown over her head, she scurried away, facing him in corset, pantalettes, and petticoat. He scowled at her, hands on his hips. “I don’t recall hurting you, madam!”

  “I don’t recall saying that you did!” she responded. Then, to her amazement, he leapt atop and across the bed with a startling, swift bound, sweeping her into his arms again and down upon the white, welcoming sheets. She landed upon her stomach, her face in her pillow. He quickly straddled her, and she could feel his fingers deftly moving at the small of her back, at the satin ties of her corset.

  “What are you doing?” she cried.

  “I like my women to breathe!” he told her.

  She was a sudden momentum of strength, as she twisted beneath him, facing him. The impetus, however, finished his task for him, and the stays and lace fell away, baring her breasts. She felt the flood of color rise to her cheeks but kept her eyes steady on his.

  “Exactly!” she cried. “Your women!”

  He paused, easing back on his haunches, as well he might, for with the iron of his thighs straddling her, there was nowhere she was going.

  He lifted a hand in the air. “Pray, go on,” he said politely.

  “If you’re so anxious for me to keep breathing, you might consider moving,” she suggested.

  “Ah, my love! You haven’t a prayer of my doing so.” His fingers suddenly laced around hers, pinning them to the bed. She started to fight the hold, then went very still, meeting his eyes. He smiled slowly and leaned toward her. His lips touched hers. So gently. Feathering, molding, brushing against hers. His tongue, a streak of liquid fire, drew their form, and then the kiss deepened, coercive, seductive.

  He rose above her again, and she dragged air into her lungs.

  “I said that I needed a wife!” he reminded her softly.

  “I never meant to deny you that!” she whispered in turn. Then with honesty and anguish she cried out, “But I cannot be what you want if it is not fair.”

  “Fair?” he said, truly puzzled, and she found herself struggling for words.

  “I cannot be silent and forever grateful.”

  “Silent?” he echoed, a brow arched very high.

  “You saved me once, I am grateful. And you said exactly what you wanted and I—I wanted you with me as well, you—”

  “To save you from the Indians.”

  “You insisted on coming here; you should do so!”

  “I am to protect you with life and limb, and at least now I am to enjoy that luscious life for which I would give my own!” he taunted.

  “Oh!” she cried out with aggravation, trying to throw him from her. But he laughed and leaned nearer again, and when she twisted her head from the promise of his lips, his liquid caress fell upon her cheek, then her throat, her collarbone, and downward, his tongue, just the tip of it, circling her breast, teasing …

  “Where were you?” she demanded.

  Again, he paused. Ebony eyes met hers, and a slow smile curved his mouth. “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “In one of the guest rooms.”

  “And the night before?”

  He frowned. “On the ship, of course.”

  “In—in Tampa.”

  For a moment he hesitated, and she felt her heart begin to sink. Misery crawled over her. He had been with the ever luscious and so very bold young lady, Sheila.

  He sighed deeply. “I went to the fort, to speak with one of the men who survived the Dade massacre,” he told her quietly, and she knew that he had hesitated because he wondered whether a lie might have stood him better, whether she might have accepted a night with another woman more easily.

  “Oh!” she whispered.

  “Satisfied?”

  “I wish I could make you understand!” she whispered, meeting his eyes again. “If you tell me that I must sleep here—”

  His forefinger suddenly pressed against her lip, and she fell silent.

  “Then I must sleep here too,” he agreed very softly. He watched her eyes for a moment. Waited to see if she would speak again. She did not.

  His mouth touched down upon hers again. She could think of no more reason to fight him.

  Her lips shaped to his, parted to him. She seemed to sink into a bed of clouds as she felt the fire of his touch, the thirst of it, the sweet heat it elicited within her. Yet it seemed that her sudden, complete surrender surprised him, for despite the wild heat that quickly ignited within the passion of their kiss, he drew back from her, staring down at her. He took hold of her discarded corset and thrust it from the bed, then stood, catching her shoes one by one and swiftly tossing them heedlessly aside. Her petticoats went next, then she felt the hot pleasure of his hands upon her bare hips as he wrenched at the pantalettes, swearing when he ripped a satin tie. He trembled when she lay all but naked except for her stockings, and he paused again, smiling, and wickedly this time, she thought. And she soon knew why, for his hurried touch was somewhat stayed a
s he began to roll and slide the silk stocking from her leg, fingertips teasing all the way, a pause again here and there as he set his lips against her naked flesh. She held her breath, tried to breathe, tried not to feel the aching sensation that had begun to burn between the limbs he so tormented.

  He arched a brow, watching her, as her second stocking fell to the floor. She kept her gaze on his, and he suddenly hurried again, wrenching off his frock coat, waistcoat, heedless of buttons and threads. His steady gaze of ebony fire remained on her while he tugged off his boots and stockings, but she felt her eyes slipping from his, and sliding down the length of his body. For a moment she thought it curious that she could covet him so, admire the taut muscled angles and planes of him, the sleek bronze of his flesh, and know such great anger against him so frequently. Know such jealousy.

  Such longing. A fierce, hot trembling set into her as she realized that wanting him was both natural and right. She had married him, she was his wife. And most important, she was falling more and more in love with him.

  He cast his breeches to the floor and she discovered herself slipping like a wraith from their bed, anxious to touch him. His back had been to her, and her action took him by surprise, for he swung around with startling speed, his ebony eyes slightly wary as they fell upon her. For a moment she felt awkward, unsure. But haltingly she took a step forward, reaching out to set her fingers and palm upon his chest, near his heart. “I just wanted to—touch you,” she whispered.

  His hand closed over hers, and he drew her tight against his naked body. “Ah, my dear wife, there is nothing I could want so much as to be touched by you.”

  She felt a sweet smile of happiness slipping onto her lips, and he lifted her chin, barely brushing her lips with his own, then turned his back to her once more to kick the rest of his clothing out of the way. She stepped closer again, fingers delicately upon the breadth of his shoulders, her body all but brushing his, her lips upon the muscled, bronze flesh of his back. She heard him inhale sharply. He stood very still for a moment, and she came closer still, nuzzling against him, hands now exploring the length of him, her knuckles running down his back, her fingertips riding up again over his length. Bringing them down again she curled her fingers around his hard-muscled buttocks, and it was then that she heard him exhale. He spun around to her, this time all but savagely taking her lips with a heated passion as their bodies pressed close together, as the state of his arousal pulsed hard and insistent against the naked flesh of her belly. She clung to him, savoring the wild hunger of his kiss, the swift, forceful velvet of his tongue, the tempest it all awoke within her. His fever erupted further. She was suddenly off her feet and upon the bed, and his kisses still seared her mouth, her throat, her breasts.