Amazed by her calm acceptance, Howard shook his dark head. "You're the damndest woman. You're not a bit scared, are you?"
She raised her chin at his tone. "Of course I am."
"You don't look it. You're like a . . . I don't know what. Cool as an icicle, though."
At his choice of words, Lauren's lips curved in a faint smile. "Perhaps I truly am melting. I thought it was just my imagination."
It was the first time Ben Howard had seen her smile. He stared at her for a moment, mesmerized. Then recovering with a start, he busied himself untying the kerchief about his throat and wetting it with a few drops of water from the canteen. "Here." He handed the cloth to her. "We can spare it. It only has to last till tonight. How come you didn't take off when I told you to?"
Grateful for the cooling moisture, Lauren wiped her brow. "I couldn't leave you to fight them by yourself." She sent him a worried glance as a disturbing thought struck her. "Would you have stood a better chance without me?"
Howard grinned. "Nope. If you hadn't been here to reload, they would have swamped me. I s'pose I have you to thank for saving my hide."
"I . . . I am sorry for having gotten you into this."
He shrugged. "It goes with the job. But as long as we're apologizin', I'm sorry, too, for letting it come to this. It was my responsibility to keep you safe." When she did not answer, Howard said, "You mind if I ask you a personal question, Miss Demarais?"
"How personal?" Lauren replied guardedly. She had told Ben Howard almost nothing about herself, saying only that her name was Margaret Demarais.
Hearing the defensive note in her voice, Howard stretched his lanky frame out on the rough ground and propped his head up with his elbow as he considered the young woman who sat but a yard away.
Even though the sun had burned her pale complexion and there were shadows of circles under her eyes, she was still a beauty. She was curved in all the right places—the faded blue cotton dress couldn't disguise the fact that she was an armful of woman. But she held herself so stiff and proud that he had never seriously considered overstepping the boundaries she had drawn. There was an elusiveness about her, even a slight chill, that told him she wasn't for the likes of him. And her eyes were the same—beautiful, but cool and remote, like a cat's. Still, there was a kind of vulnerability about her that made a man want to protect her. Ever since she had hired him, Howard had wondered about her.
"You said you didn't want questions, I know, but I was just wonderin' why you wanted to leave Louisiana so bad. And why you picked this way, through the wilderness."
Looking away, Lauren twisted the kerchief between her fingers. "I can't answer that, Mr. Howard."
He watched her for a while. "I'm usually the kind that minds my own business, but when a man's gonna die, he wants to know what he's dying for. Someone chasing you or something?"
"No. I just had to leave."
"Well," Howard shrugged, "whatever he did, he must have been a pretty rough character."
His assumption surprised a startled glance from Lauren. "Why do you say that? How do you know I didn't steal some money or kill someone?"
"You're not the type. And you chose a murderin' band of Creek Indians over going back to New Orleans. And something had to cause those nightmares of yours. Still, looking at you, I wouldn't have guessed you to be the kind to run away. Wouldn't have thought anyone could ruffle those feathers of yours."
"Mr. Howard," Lauren said carefully as she returned his gaze, "I have no wish to discuss this topic further. But I promise that if we should happen to meet in another world, I will explain it to your entire satisfaction."
His dark eyes widened perceptively as he stared at her. Then suddenly he chuckled. "I think I better go first and warn the devil you're comin'. Get some sleep, ma'am," he said when she smiled again. "It may be a long day."
It was a long day. The grueling miles of unaccustomed riding, the lack of rest during the nights when she tossed feverishly upon her bedroll, the suffocating heat and humidity, all had served to drain Lauren of strength. But although she was nearly drooping with fatigue, she couldn't sleep in the broiling sun. And even though her weary body cried out for release, her thoughts kept her awake. The afternoon stretched endlessly before her as she listened almost resentfully to Ben Howard's slow, monotonous breathing. At last she closed her eyes and drifted into a fitful doze, only to wake at dusk, stiff and sore and parched.
Ben Howard was already preparing for the attack, fortifying the cracks in the rock with stones. There was no food, but they shared a ration of water. Then he made her practice loading a long-barreled Kentucky rifle with her eyes shut to simulate darkness: priming the pan with powder from a paper cartridge, dumping the rest down the muzzle, and ramming home the greased wad of cloth that contained the bullet. When a quarter moon rose, however, she could see fairly well in the pale light. Howard blessed the lack of cloud cover, saying that at least they wouldn't be surprised by one of the savages sneaking up the hill.
She could hear them below. The strange chanting to the beat of drums made her shudder, while the intermittent war cries caused her to clench her hands and dig her nails viciously into her palms to keep fear from overwhelming her.
Suddenly everything grew quiet. The moon trailed a silver path across the sky while they waited. After a time, the silence became even more unnerving than the sounds had been. Lauren's nerves were strung so tightly that she felt sick to her stomach.
When she heard the thud of pounding hooves, she knew the Creek braves were preparing to make their move. Howard shifted beside her, sighting carefully along the long barrel of his rifle.
But the explosion never came.
Nor did the expected attack.
"What the hell?" Howard finally muttered in silence. Swiftly, he moved across the narrow chasm to climb the rocks behind Lauren. He stayed there for some time without speaking, his eyes searching the darkness below. Lauren decided that if he didn't say something soon, her nerves would shatter in a million fragments.
Howard slipped coming down and cursed quietly as a small avalanche of pebbles bounced off the rocks and sprayed Lauren with a cloud of dust. Then he dropped beside her. "No one there," he whispered. "The bluffs almost sheer and impossible to climb, but I thought they might be trying to get at us from behind. Stay quiet. It's some kind of trick."
And so they waited once more. Lauren clamped a hand over her mouth to prevent herself from releasing the unbearable tension in a scream. It isn't the idea of dying that is so frightening was the thought that flitted through her mind. It's the waiting. The eternity of waiting, the uncertainty of not knowing.
Then someone called her name.
"Did you hear that?" Ben Howard whispered as the voice echoed off the rocks behind them.
"Lauren!" They heard it again. Howard raised his rifle as a shadow moved below.
"No, wait!" Lauren gasped, and gripped Howard's sleeve.
Again the familiar velvet-edged voice called out. "Jason," she breathed.
"Who's he callin' to?" Howard asked in puzzlement.
Lauren didn't reply, for the world was spinning behind her eyes. She swayed, seeing black-and-silver wheels in her vision. They shrunk to tiny pinpoints, then disappeared altogether as she fainted.
She dreamed she was floating in a warm dark sea. Contentment washed over her in silken waves as she drifted languorously in the darkness. When the familiar nightmare- specters intruded on the peace she had found, Lauren whimpered in protest. "Hush, love," a velvet voice soothed. "Sleep." A hand softly stroked her hair. The visions went away, and so did her dream.
The yellow glow behind her eyes grew stronger, widening in a circle, till Lauren felt surrounded by warmth. Her eyelids fluttered open. The pearl-gray light in the sky heralded dawn, but the glow came from a crackling fire. She recognized Howard as he bent to pour himself a cup of coffee from a pot.
Lauren closed her eyes again, savoring the warmth of the blanket covering her body. It had al
l been just a nightmare. She was alive. Howard was alive. The Creek warriors didn't exist. Nothing had happened. When morning came, they would break camp and continue on their journey.
She was about to drift to sleep again when a horse whickered, calling her attention to the quiet murmur of voices. Lauren sat up suddenly, raising a hand to her brow. The conversation broke off as her gaze flew rapidly around the clearing.
They were camped in a sparse forest of red gum and hickory, she saw, looking around. Their horses—several of them—were tethered to a rope stretched between two hickory trees, the saddles lined up neatly on the ground. Two unoccupied bedrolls were spread near the fire, while sitting a short distance away were two men. They were both watching her. One of them was Howard, the other, Jason Stuart.
Lauren stared at Jason in horror, her heart pounding against her rib cage. He wore a buckskin outfit similar to Howard's, and several days' growth of beard covered the well- remembered features of his face. His jaw was set in an uncompromising line.
When he rolled slowly to his feet, Lauren gave a choked gasp and shrank back. But Jason didn't approach her. He turned his back to the circle of firelight and stood silently gazing into the shadows. Ben Howard rose then, to bring her a cup of hot coffee and a plate of food.
Lauren ignored his offer, feeling stunned and betrayed. When he set the plate on the ground, she drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms about them, burying her face in the scratchy wool blanket. A burning sensation welled in her throat, making it ache. She wanted to cry but her eyes were dry; the pain cut too deeply for tears.
For a time no one spoke. Then Howard went down on one knee beside her. "You have to eat somethin', Miss DeVries," he said gently. "We have a long way to go. We stopped here only so you could rest, but it isn't safe for us to stick around."
Slowly Lauren raised her head, giving him a look of such anguish that he was startled. "Go to hell," she whispered. "Go straight to hell and leave me alone."
He reached out to touch her shoulder. "You've suffered a shock, ma'am, so it's understandable—"
"Yes." Lauren gave a low laugh that was tinged with hysteria. "A great shock. But I think I would have preferred to take my chances with the Indians."
"You don't know what you're sayin'. Stuart risked his hide to rescue us—"
She brushed away his hand. "And did he tell you what he stood to gain? Did he tell you about the Carlin fortune? Or did he lie to you, too? Oh, God, how could you have listened to him?"
Ben Howard shook his head. "Ma'am, I think you should hear the whole story before you judge."
"Do you, Mr. Howard? How much gold did Jason Stuart pay you? Or was it silver? Thirty pieces?"
Tossing aside her blanket, Lauren climbed unsteadily to her feet. "Perhaps you should hear the whole story. Four years ago I had to leave England. Did Jason Stuart tell you why? Did he tell you I was being forced to marry him? Did he admit that he was part of a conspiracy with my guardian? Damn it, because of them I've had to live like a hunted animal these past four years! Because of them—how could you have believed him?"
The voice that rang out in the small clearing was grim and edged with steel. "No one forced you to leave England, Lauren," Jason interjected. "You made that decision on your own."
Lauren whirled to face him, her hand going to her throat in a defensive gesture. Jason was watching her, but she couldn't read his expression. His blue eyes were hooded and his face hidden in shadows.
What did he intend? she wondered. Would he, like her guardian, threaten to lock her up if she refused to go along with his plans? Or would he kill her now and be done with it? She was beyond caring. She only wanted to strike out at him, to hurt him the way he had hurt her with his betrayal.
"How you must have laughed," she observed bitterly. "Captain Jason Stuart protecting me from my guardian's men. So conveniently at hand to rescue me. I should have known you were part of it all along, especially after your sudden overwhelming desire to marry me—offered under the guise of wanting to protect me. You knew if I left, you would lose a fortune, didn't you? What did you intend by coming to New Orleans now? Were you planning on taking me back to England so I would be in Burroughs's control again? Or did you think your original plan the best—to marry me for the Carlin ships? Perhaps you want it all. How soon will I disappear after the wedding?"
Ben Howard was watching her with concerned dismay, but Lauren never noticed; her attention was focused entirely on Jason. Her voice dropped to a pained whisper. "You lied to me. After all that talk of honesty. Did you tell him about Matthew, Jason? How Matthew risked his life trying to defend me? God . . . they nearly killed him." She faltered, her throat aching with unshed tears. Jason must have known about Matthew, perhaps even ordered his death. And she had given herself to Jason like an unsuspecting, innocent, stupid fool.
She couldn't bear to face him or herself any longer. Turning abruptly, she went to where the horses were tied. For a moment she struggled with a heavy saddle before she managed to lift it to the back of the nearest animal, a chestnut with white markings. Neither man moved. Neither man spoke. The tension in the small clearing crackled like the flames of the campfire.
The silence ate at Lauren, arousing in her a perverse need to wring a response from Jason. "How did you intend to explain Matthew's death, Jason?" she asked with a vicious jerk on the saddle chinch. "How do you excuse murder?"
Jason took a step toward her, then stopped, his hands clenched at his sides. "I had intended to tell you the truth," he said slowly, "but I can see you aren't prepared to handle it. I doubt if you ever will be. When you can't face up to your problems, you run. Go ahead then. Run, Lauren. No one will stop you. But neither will anyone aid you. If you go, you go alone."
She shrugged defiantly, but then her shoulders slumped in despair. Wearily she leaned her forehead against the chestnut's neck. "Far better than going back to New Orleans where you can carry out whatever schemes you and George Burroughs have planned."
"That's another of your erroneous conclusions about the past. I couldn't return you to Burroughs, even if I wanted to, for the simple reason that he's dead."
"I don't believe you!"
"Believe what you choose. But he died of a diseased heart less than six months after you disappeared. He's buried in Cornwall, in the cemetery behind Carlin House."
Lauren whirled to face Jason again, her gold-flecked eyes full of pain. He was lying. He was telling her this so she would accompany him without protest. But she wouldn't allow him to dupe her again. She wouldn't allow him to hurt her this way again. Her fist came down hard on the saddle, even though her whispered words were almost a plea. "Damn you, I trusted you.
Jason shook his head slowly, holding her gaze with unyielding intensity. "No, you never trusted me. You don't know the meaning of trust. You use people, Lauren. You use whoever is available, whenever it is expedient. You used Matthew, Lila, me, Howard—you nearly got Howard killed yesterday. And if you hadn't run away in the first place, Matthew never would have risked his life. You're responsible for that, and you know it."
"No." Her denial, barely audible, was uttered without conviction. Jason had managed to strike at the heart of her guilt. She did feel responsible for endangering Matthew's life. But she wasn't at fault for trying to extricate herself from the nightmare of murder and greed Jason had conspired to create.
Again the pain of his betrayal raked her. "Bastard." The word was expelled on an anguished sob. "Filthy, bloody, lying bastard."
When Jason advanced another step, panic gripped Lauren. Desperately, she picked up a rifle that was leaning against the base of a tree and leveled it directly at his chest. "Stay away from me, do you hear? Don't come near me! I know how to use a gun now, Jason, and I swear, if you take one more step, I'll kill you!"
Chapter Eleven
She thought she imagined the look of pain that crossed Jason's face, for it was gone in an instant.
"Then shoot, Lauren. Aim for the he
art. Unlike you, I still have mine." Jason's tone was caustic, but he stood quite still as her finger trembled on the trigger. "Or are you too afraid? You've let fear rule your life until now. Why should this be different?"
When Lauren raised the muzzle another inch, Ben Howard let out his breath in a rush. "Damn, are you crazy, ma'am? He saved our lives!"
"Why? So he could have the Carlin fortune?" Lauren was surprised to hear how calm her voice sounded, for it seemed that her whole body was shaking. She should fire the gun, she told herself. She should pull the trigger. One slight movement of her finger would end her misery. One for you, one for me.
Her aim wavered as she gazed at Jason. It seemed that nothing would come into focus but his eyes. They held hers, communicating silently, offering comfort that she couldn't accept from him.
But she couldn't do it. She couldn't take Jason's life, not even to save her own. She lowered the weapon and let it slip unheeded to the ground, then turned and stumbled blindly from the clearing, her breath coming in shuddering gasps. Shortly she began to run, yet when she fell to the forest floor some time later, she lay there, without the will to go on, dry sobs racking her body.
Then someone was kneeling beside her, strong arms were lifting her up, enfolding her.
"That's enough, Lauren." Jason's voice was hoarse, anguished, but she didn't care. She didn't want him to touch her. Her body gave a reflexive jerk, but his arms tightened around her, holding her against him.
"I hate you!" she sobbed, wanting it to be true.
His lips covered hers then, demanding and desperate, as if he could drive away her despair with the sheer force of his will.
She struggled, pushing against his hard chest and imprisoning arms, yet through the haze of her pain, Lauren felt heat flare between them. His mouth was hard and searing, compelling a response from her. Even the rasp of his unshaven jaw against her skin excited and aroused her. How could she hate him so much, yet feel such wild longing for him? His kiss was subduing her, draining her of the will to fight. In a moment she would surrender to him completely. . . .
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