Suddenly the twins and Ian came rushing toward them, dirty and greasy from handling the fleece, demanding nourishment, and quickly Isobel was once again in her comfort zone.
The conversation turned to poaching, for unlike the land, Fletcher still owned all of the wildlife. “Is there much problem with poachers on the island?” Duncan asked.
Fletcher took long, deep gulps from the jug of tea. He wiped his mouth and handed the jug to Duncan. “Now and then, but I usually turn a blind eye to it.”
“Why would you do that?” Duncan took a meat pie from Isobel, giving her a quick smile as he did so.
So this is what it would be like, she thought. Companionable. Comfortable with one another.
“It’s a give and take thing,” Fletcher explained. “For instance, last winter I learned that Red Forest, the crofter who works the land nearest the woods, had felled a deer, so his family was well fed through the winter.”
“Why let it go?”
“Because, Red is an excellent blacksmith, better than the one in the village, and when I need a little work done, all I have to do is ask and he’s on the job immediately.”
“So, he knows you know about the poaching.”
“Yes, and if any of them were to take terrible advantage of it, I’d do something about it, but so far, we’re all quid pro quo.” He polished off a meat pie and then took another from the basket nearby. “Isobel,” he said. “When are you and Duncan going to decide what kind of cottage to build?”
Duncan answered, “A cottage? No sir, brother. We’re going to have a house with a second story, a garden, and a beautiful view of the ocean. Maybe it will be a mansion.”
Isobel gave him a sharp look. “You don’t mean that.”
Duncan gave her a puzzled look. “You don’t want a mansion, my Izzy? With servants and gardeners and a butler, maybe a maid or two to help you dress in the morning?”
She reached over and gave him a gentle punch on the arm. “You are a big tease.”
“I’m sure you’ll probably need more than two bedrooms,” his brother suggested.
Once again Duncan’s gaze landed on Isobel. “Indeed we might.”
Isobel could barely breathe. Her insides shook like leaves in the wind. It was one thing to speak of the house, quite another for them to banter back and forth about such an intimate thing.
“And, because I want you to be happy,” he said to Isobel, “I want it to be a home where you will be comfortable. That’s most important.”
Isobel looked off into the distance, still anxious about her future. “It all sounds lovely.”
Duncan came and stood in front of her. Once again, she noticed the rucked-up scar on his shoulder and suddenly felt a pang of anxiety for what may have happened to him. “It will be everything you want it to be.”
Chapter Fourteen
Bayous of Louisiana—September 1864
His eyelids fluttered. He winced as he tried to rise, and fell back against the cot. Something wet poked at his face. Forcing his eyes open he found a big, mangy mutt eyeing him.
“Titan, down.”
Duncan blinked repeatedly, searching for the sound of the voice. A young woman appeared next to him, her hair a shimmering mass of gold curls that created a halo around her head. “Are you an angel?” His voice was raspy; his throat hurt.
She giggled. “No, silly, I’m Kitten.”
“I’d have sworn you were an angel,” he answered, his mouth dry.
She turned and shouted, “Daddy Beau, he’s awake.” Her voice was smooth as maple syrup over a thick stack of cakes. He’d missed the sweet sound of a southern woman’s voice.
“Daddy Beau” entered and the mutt ambled to him, tail wagging, head down submissively. Duncan’s gaze wandered up the length of the man, for he was big and tall and imposing. He had long, stringy white hair and a healthy, if filthy, beard. His ragged eyebrows hung over his eyes like two pale caterpillars on the move. A tight shirt, that once had probably been white, was stretched over his portly gut. In spite of that, an apron of fat hung over his pants. He grinned at Duncan; he was missing a front tooth. “Well, good to see you’re awake, boy.”
Boy. Duncan didn’t like the sound of that. He tried to clear his throat.
“The damned Yankees got ya. My dog was barkin’ something fierce, and Kitten here and I found ya lyin’ ’neath a cypress after the fight.” He swore. “Them damned Yankees thought you was dead.” He leered again, revealing a mouth full of empty spaces where teeth used to be. “Thought so myself at first.”
“Water.” Duncan tried to swallow.
“Kitten! Get the jug.”
The girl scurried away, returning with something for him to drink.
“Water’s precious, boy; you’ll have to make do with what we got.”
Kitten bent over him, taking care not to spill as she helped him. Duncan struggled to his elbows, wincing at the pain in his shoulder, and allowed her to put the tumbler to his lips. He drank greedily, noting it was bitter and warm, but he didn’t care. When he’d finished, he asked, “Where was I shot?”
“They got ya in the shoulder, but when ya fell, ya broke yer ankle. Kitten here patched you up real good.” He gave the girl a lewd smile. “She’s a crackerjack, she is.”
Kitten offered the old man a smile, but Duncan saw something else in her eyes. Was it fear?
“Oh, Daddy Beau you make me blush.” To Duncan, her words sounded forced.
Daddy Beau laughed, a lascivious sound that rumbled up from his belly. “Blushin’ is one of the things you do best, Kitten.”
Duncan closed his eyes against the uncomfortable feeling in his gut. “Where are we?”
“I got me a little place deep in the bayou, boy. ’Fraid there’s no way to get you back to your outfit, the condition you’re in. You’ll have to stay here ’til you’re able to travel, and the good Lord only knows how long that’ll be.”
Duncan mouthed a curse, but he knew the old man was right. Once again he tried to sit up, but dizziness overcame him and he flopped back on the cot. His left shoulder and his right ankle throbbed like hell. And oddly, he couldn’t move his left ankle either.
“Now, now,” the girl—Kitten—soothed, “I’m going nurse you back to health, soldier, just wait and see. We got very little medicine, but we have plenty of Daddy Beau’s hooch.” She smiled, wrinkling her little nose. “That ought to take the edge off.”
Duncan studied the girl. She was older than he’d originally thought, though probably not yet out of her teens. She was pretty and petite, and he wondered how in the hell Daddy Beau could keep her cooped up in the backwaters of Louisiana.
“So,” he began, trying to make conversation, “why do they call you Kitten?”
She giggled sweetly again. “My papa and my mama, bless their souls,” she added, crossing herself, “named me Kitten.” She busied herself by fluffing up the gray and smelly pillow and straightening the bedding on the cot, which was in the corner of a large room that held a fireplace and a makeshift kitchen. “They told me when I was born I sounded just like a new kitty when I cried.
“You rest now,” Kitten ordered. “When you wake up, I’ll bring you some squirrel broth. You’ll have to start eating or you won’t heal. My mama always told me that.”
Later—he wasn’t sure how long he’d slept—he lay still and listened to the sounds around him. Insects hummed steadily; birdsong and bird calls drifted in through the windows. With nothing to keep the bugs out, they flittered and flew about, landing wherever they pleased. Duncan stopped a shiver. Good thing he didn’t hate bugs; Texas was rife with them, as was this place deep in the swamp.
It was light; he thought maybe late morning. But of what day? He heard Daddy Beau outside, talking to someone and cursing a blue streak. When he stepped inside, he saw that Duncan was awake.
He, with Titan following behind, lumbered over and pulled up a chair next to the cot and hefted his bulk into it. The hound curled up at his feet. Duncan sm
elled the man’s sweat; liquor and body odor wafted over Duncan and he swallowed hard.
“Them damned Yankees,” Daddy Beau muttered. “They went into Ponchatoula and sacked the town. Looted homes, took what they wanted and left a goddam mess. Dammit.” He shook his head, the jowls beneath his beard moving rhythmically. “They even sacked the post office, letters and torn newspapers scattered everywhere. Hell, they even got hold of Lenny’s fine stash of liquor, toting it away like they owned it.” He turned and spat. Duncan watched the ugly brown wad fly through the air into the spittoon, where it pinged against the side.
“They got soldiers stationed there, guardin’ the town. That’s another reason you can’t leave, boy. It ain’t safe.” He studied Duncan. “Where you from?”
Duncan didn’t feel much like talking. “Texas.”
“You’re an injun, ain’t ya?”
Duncan nodded. “Half.”
“So they let redskins fight for the Confederacy? I’da thought you’ll be more likely to be on the other side.”
“I fight for Texas,” Duncan answered.
Kitten moved toward them and Daddy Beau threw her a rough gaze. “Got that squirrel cookin’?”
“Yes, Daddy Beau.” Duncan wondered if both she and the dog had reason to fear this behemoth of a man.
“What do you do in Texas?” Kitten and her sweet voice were the only things palatable in this hellhole.
How much to tell them? “I work on a ranch,” was all he said. For some reason he was reluctant to tell them more.
“It is a big ranch?” As she attempted to move away from Daddy Beau, the corpulent man put his arm around her in a way that sent a jolt of revulsion through Duncan. Kitten stood stiffly in his grip as the fat man fondled her breast.
Duncan wanted to look away from the scene, instead he focused on the big man’s forehead. “I guess it’s big.” He noticed the fat man’s caterpillar eyebrows move up with interest. Duncan would say no more.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Texas,” Kitten said, her voice wistful.
“Like hell you’ll ever get out of the swamps, girl.” Daddy Beau sounded threatening, and Kitten maneuvered her way out of his grasp and started fussing with the bedding over Duncan’s legs.
“Lotsa open spaces, ’that right, boy?”
Kitten gave Duncan one of her sweet smiles. “He has a name, Daddy Beau. Don’t you?”
For some reason he didn’t want to divulge that information to this filthy man. “Daniel. Call me Daniel.” It was the first name that popped into his head. Feeling a trifle stronger, he tried once again to change the position of his left ankle. It moved slightly but it was as if he were shackled. The thought was ludicrous and he snuffled a quiet laugh.
“No sense tryin’ to pull free, boy,” Daddy Beau said, noting his confusion.
Something cold and alarming washed over Duncan. “What?”
“Now, me and Kitten had to make sure you wouldn’t hurt your injuries, ya know?”
Duncan shook his head to clear the fog between his ears. “You’ve shackled me to the bedpost? But…but why?”
Daddy Beau rubbed a huge paw over his face and sighed. “I got me some items here that might strike you as strange, being a Rebel and all.”
Duncan was still confused. “What do you mean?”
Daddy Beau snorted a derisive laugh. “You half-breeds a bit slow witted, are ya?”
Duncan closed his eyes. “Listen, old man, I don’t care what you’re hiding or for whom. I just want to get out of here.”
“Yeah, well here’s the thing, boy.” Daddy Beau drummed his sausage fingers against his heavy thigh. “I got me some information that tells me you might be worth somethin’ to the enemy, and I don’t just mean ’cause you’re a fightin’ Reb.”
Comprehension dawned. Of course. Before he was injured, he’d led a small band of men down to the Tickfaw where they had capsized a steamer, killing all men aboard. He must have stood out, and it was likely because of his coloring. “This is war, old man. Killing your enemy isn’t a crime.”
Daddy Beau’s jowls shook with laughter under his beard. “Boy, it’s a crime when they’re transportin’ secrets and you sent them down into the sluggish, muddy Tickfaw. And believe me, nothin’ save a miracle can bring them back from that sludge. Might as well be quicksand.”
So he was being held prisoner by a southerner who played both sides.
“But,” Daddy Beau continued, “before I turn you over, I’m gonna get you healed up a bit. Don’t want you dyin’ on me, since there’s a reward if yer turned in alive.” He smirked down at Duncan. “And I gotta keep my Kitten happy. She’s taken a likin’ to ya, despite the fact that yer half savage. No accountin’ for the taste of some young gals.” His laugh was loose and phlegmy as he pulled out a cigar butt and stuck it into his mouth. He didn’t light it; he just chewed on the end. It seemed to fit perfectly in the gap between his teeth.
At least a week had passed since Duncan had been “rescued” by the maniac Daddy Beau. In that time he had witnessed the ups and downs of the man’s personality. One minute he could be calm, and the next he would fly into a rage. The mutt was in tune to his master’s changes and sulked away with his tail between his legs when the fat man started to blow. And Duncan had witnessed the abuse he heaped on the dog when he was in a foul mood. It curdled Duncan’s stomach the way Daddy Beau treated the dog, who still loved him unconditionally. And his abuse didn’t stop with the dog; Kitten received her fair share, and Duncan prayed the old man would simply have a stroke and fall over dead.
The more he watched the chemistry between Daddy Beau and Kitten, the more Duncan realized she pacified him, if only to save herself from abuse. It didn’t always work. She sported bruises on her thin arms, and he was sure he noticed a fading bruise on her neck.
He was also certain they were putting something in his food or water, because he slept much of the time. And his shoulder throbbed like hell.
Most nights, Daddy Beau left the cabin for a spell, not long enough for Duncan to form any sort of plan for his escape. He left Kitten alone with Duncan, which surprised him. She joined him, sitting on a chair by the bed. Sometimes she would read to him from a tattered old Bible. Despite the fact that she probably hadn’t bathed in weeks, she looked winsome and sweet, and Duncan felt a brotherly protection toward her.
“Daddy Beau beats you and the dog.”
She jerked her head up, her blue eyes huge in her delicate face. “Yes,” she murmured.
“What’s making me so sleepy, Kitten?”
A flash of alarm lit her eyes, then was gone. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m sleeping all the time. What are you giving me?”
She threw a furtive glance at the doorway, then in a whisper, she said, “Daddy Beau thought it best for your healing if you slept, so he makes me put something in your food.”
Duncan took her hand and looked at her. “Please. Don’t do it anymore.”
She looked down at his big, brown hand as it covered her small white one. She squeezed his fingers, turned to the door and back again. “What will I tell him?”
“Don’t tell him anything. Just stop doing it, please?”
She chewed her lower lip. “But Daniel, why don’t you want to sleep?”
“I need a clear head, Kitten. Somehow I’ve got to get out of here.” They continued to hold hands; Kitten appeared reluctant to let him go.
“You think you can leave?” She appeared incredulous.
“I’ve got to. If I don’t, you know as well as I do that I’m a dead man.”
She threw him a guilty glance. “Your ankle isn’t broken.”
“What?”
“Daddy Beau said it was a sprain, but that it didn’t seem broken.”
“Then why tell me it was?” he demanded.
She studied the dirt floor. “He thought you wouldn’t try to move it too much if you thought it was broke.”
Duncan knew a sprain was sometim
es worse than a break, but he could deal with the pain. “Do you know your way out of here?”
“Sort of. My papa always told me I had ‘dead reckoning,’ which I guess means I know my directions.”
He wondered how long she’d been imprisoned in this hellhole with that bullying masochist. “Will you help me?”
Her sparkly blue eyes were wide. Myriad emotions played over her face and she knelt by the cot and grabbed his hand again. “If I promise to help you, you have to take me with you.”
He would need her to get clear of the bayou. After that…hell, he couldn’t just leave her to the old man’s rage.
He gave her a tender smile. “We’ll figure something out, Kitten.”
“Oh, Daniel, we’ll make it, I just know we will!”
Her enthusiasm was so great he almost felt like they had a chance.
Chapter Fifteen
Island of Hedabarr—1872
Isobel was in the kitchen nursing a cup of tea. She was thinking about her decision not to sew Duncan a wedding sark for fear he would automatically assume she was thinking of their marriage bed, because after all, even though the sark could be worn anywhere, under anything, a marriage sark was for, well, the marriage bed. And for all she knew, he wore nothing to bed. She honestly couldn’t envision him in a nightshirt. Heat rushed to her cheeks and her ears at that thought.
Delilah strode in, her hands on her hips. “Tomorrow be your wedding day and here ye are, sitting around as if ye’ve not a care in the world.”
Isobel inhaled deeply and looked up at her. “Looks can be deceiving, Delilah. My insides are whirling around in such a flurry I don’t even dare drink this tea for fear I’ll toss up everything I’ve eaten today.”
Delilah made a clucking sound and left for the root cellar, returning with a basket of vegetables. “It’s high time you quit frettin’ and start believin’ that it’ll be all right.”
Isobel pushed the teacup aside; tea sloshed over the lip, onto the saucer. “That what will be all right? That we are all expected to descend on the Castle Sheiling and put down roots there for God knows how long?” She stood and began to pace. “Just what exactly do you believe will be all right?”
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