Captive (11 page)

“Get back to your room!” he told her angrily.

She spun, heading toward her door as if to obey him. But she stopped dead and spun around again. Her eyes were a green blaze as she strode determinedly back to him. “You, sir, white or red or spotted with purple, have an incredible chip upon your shoulder, the manners of a monkey, and the crude audacity of a boar!” She lifted a hand and slapped him as hard as she could.

He should have seen it coming. He didn’t. He retaliated instinctively, catching her wrist, slamming her hard against him. He stared down into her eyes, wild eyes that still offered no apology or even fear.

His grip around her wrist must have hurt; she didn’t wince, nor did she fight his hold. She stared at him furiously, and she waited for him to release her.

“This once,” he warned her, “you’ll get away with that. But remember, we’re at war. Strike a red man, he strikes back.”

She didn’t reply. She continued to wait, seething, staring at him.

“Go back to your room!” he snapped at her, releasing his hold on her.

She rubbed her wrist, still staring at him. Then she spun around, heading toward her open doors.

But she paused there, head high, looking back. “This once I’ll do as you so courteously request. But we are at war. And this part of the balcony leads from my room, and it’s damned free territory, neutral ground. While I’m in residence, it is my place, and you’ll not order me away from it, sir.”

She finished the last with a passionate hiss, then spun around again and disappeared into her room, closing the doors sharply behind her.

He went into his own.

And to a long, fitful night that seemed to plague him with all the tortures of hell.

T
he dream began sweetly.

They were deep in the lands that had been good. The old Indians, native to the area, had all but died out when the Creek had first seen the vacant lands and come south to claim them. Land rich and abundant with deer and otter, wild fowl and fish. The soil was rich—corn and numerous other crops could be easily cultivated. There were acres to hunt, to run, to play … to fall in love.

They’d been from different clans, of course, for a man was expected to marry outside his own. But he had known her for many years, loved her since they were both children. He had come of age, educated by his father’s family and taught the way of the world by his mother’s brothers and kin. He had taken the black drink and shed his boy’s name for his man’s name. At the Green Corn Dance he would officially make her his wife. While adultery might be sternly punished—ears and noses were sometimes clipped for the crime—sex before marriage was not considered evil, and the time had simply come for them to be together. They were both in love.

The sun dappled through the trees. The day was hot beneath the sun but cooled by the shade. They had ridden into the forest, dismounted, sipped cool water from the stream, collected berries to eat. He had all but dozed beneath the tree when he heard her laughter, and caught her eyes upon him. She laughed again and ran toward the river when he threatened to make her pay for her laughter.

She was fleet; he was faster. He caught her mid-river, but even in his dream he could remember the moment
just before he did. She turned back to him, laughing. Her hair, darker than ink, falling thick and rich and arrow straight to her thighs, spun like a black shawl around her as she turned. She laughed still, breathlessly. She’d never had a chance and she knew it. She did not want to escape him.

He touched her and they fell together into the cool waters. White-tipped, it rushed on by them. He rose then, and she came to her knees, looking up at him. He reached down for her, and she came into his arms. She wore white that day, a bleached-white doeskin dress with leggings to match. He could still remember pulling the dress over her shoulders, dropping it into the river.

They made love there, in the water, the sun casting shadow and light upon them. They lay again beneath the low branches of a pine, and they spun their dreams just as any other young couple in love might do, with the whole of their lives before them.

They’d laughed again when they had to travel far down stream to find her embroidered white doeskin dress.

He tossed in his sleep. She was running again in his dream. He was trying to catch her. He couldn’t keep up. When she looked back, she wasn’t laughing….

She was gone. He stood in blackness. He saw the back of a man. A white man, kneeling down, his shoulders shaking with his tears.

James saw his brother’s face. Took his wife from his brother’s arms.

She lay in her coffin. Jarrett and he had built it from the thick trunk of a cypress, just as they had built a much smaller one for Sara. So small. A child’s coffin.

He had dressed Naomi in the embroidered white doeskin. She had kept it since the day they became man and wife. She was beautiful in it, beautiful even in death. No ravages of the fever remained. The dress was so white, her flesh smooth and copper. Her hair ebony against it.

Suddenly, he seemed to be standing in darkness. The coffin was so far away. He had left it in a burial cove,
above the ground, shadowed by trees, her belongings with her, her pots and pans, her clothing, her beads and necklaces. He could see the cove, but something was wrong. He tried to see into the coffin …

Naomi wasn’t within it.
She
lay within it instead. He could see the blazing red cascade of her hair spilling over the cypress. She was dressed in white, an embroidered gown in cotton and lace. Her face was so pale; her hands were folded before her.

Her eyes opened, met his. And she was suddenly screaming, aware that she was in a coffin. It was filling with blood. She was reaching out, calling his name …

James woke with a start, bathed in sweat.

He sat up, exhaling and gritting his teeth to ease himself from the tension of the dream. He stared outside. Darkness was just being lifted by the first pale streaks of dawn.

He groaned aloud and lay back down. Oddly enough, after his wretched dream James at long last fell into a deep and restful sleep. He thought that he was dreaming again when he first heard the tapping on the door. “Mastuh James, Mastuh James, coffee, sir!”

It had to be Dolly, a plump free woman of Bahamian and Indian descent who served in the kitchen. “Bring it in, then!” he called back, rolling over, his back toward the door. It had been one hell of an awful night. But now he was awake, and he wouldn’t sleep again. His brother’s house could make him too soft if he wasn’t careful.

Still, he closed his eyes anyway.

“Black, or cream, Mastuh James?” he heard. Right at his back. The damned woman just wasn’t leaving him in peace.

“I’ll take care of it myself, thank you,” he all but growled.

“On your head or in your face?” the voice inquired sweetly.

He swung around, shooting to a sitting position. Miss Teela Warren, fresh as a spring flower, dressed in a yellow
muslin that somehow seemed to emphasize the rise of her breasts, stood by his side, coffee cup in hand. He had the unnerving feeling that he was about the wear coffee somewhere uncomfortably low on his body.

“If you’re considering dropping that cup, may I suggest that you don’t?” he inquired.

“Why, Mr. McKenzie, since I am living in your brother’s house, I am trying to come up with some kind of peace terms for the duration.”

“Mmm,” he muttered doubtfully, pulling the white bed-sheet up against him. He was completely naked beneath it. Surely, she must know it. But she didn’t seem discomfited; she waited politely, coolly, for an answer on the coffee.

“Black!” he snapped, taking the coffee from her before she could do any damage with it.

A small smile played on her lips. “I intended no harm.”

“But you might have had an accident.”

“I’m quite careful.”

“You’re quite the southern belle. I’m sure all your accidents are well planned … Are you accustomed to bringing men coffee in their beds?”

She considered that and shrugged. “Actually, no. I’ve not had the opportunity before.”

“And I doubt that it could be considered proper behavior for a young woman of your breeding.”

“Probably not.”

“Alas, Miss Warren, it seems you will rot in hell.”

“Well, my sins are many, so perhaps I will. Though not, I think, for bringing you coffee.”

He sipped the coffee, staring at her. She had remained by his bedside. She had left her long hair free once again, and it was brushed to an extraordinary shine. It curled and waved and cascaded over her shoulders. Her dress was a perfectly decent day dress, he realized. It was just that the woman within it was exceptionally lush.

Damn it. Things were rising again. He drew up his knees to create a concealing tent of the bedding.

She sat down at the foot of his bed.

“Miss Warren, what are you doing?”

“Trying to make peace.”

“This is not the place—”

“Mr. McKenzie—”

He set his coffee on the cherrywood nightstand by the bed and reached forward suddenly, almost losing the sheet. He wound his fingers around her wrists and drew her forward, almost against him.

“My, my, Miss Warren, let’s get to the truth here. I’m your first Indian. I speak English. I’ve got white blood. You’re curious. Intrigued. Maybe even a bit tempted. Well, then. Touch while you’ve got the chance.” He drew her palm against his chest, held it there while she gritted her teeth and struggled against him. “Ah, look at that! The color did not rub off. And guess what, Miss Warren? There’s no other difference. Two arms, two legs, one …” His gaze dipped down to his lap. “Or did you want to check that out, too?”

She went dead still. Her eyes narrowed sharply, but she gave no other sign of her fury. “I don’t need to. I’d damned well bet it was pronged! You are atrocious.”

“You came into my bedroom! What would your fiance say?”

“I haven’t got a fiance—”

“I’ve told you I think he’s a damned good man, Miss Warren. Don’t be cruel to him; you’ll have the devil to pay.”

“He’s a gentleman; he’d never hurt me.” She tugged her arm, but he held it fast. “Why do you insist on behaving like such a wretched bastard?”

“Because you’re playing games, Miss Warren!” he suddenly roared and released her wrist.

She drew her hand back, tried to slap him. He was ready and caught her wrist again. “I told you, not again.”

“Let me—”

“No, let me. You’re playing with fire. You want your truces, you want to pick and poke and query. Well, you’re a fool, Miss Warren. And I guarantee you, you’re going to get hurt.”

“Mr. McKenzie, please quit worrying about me!”

Just who was he worrying about? he wondered. He was the one in agony, sitting with the woman almost on top of him, the sheet tented up in protection of his “pronged” desire.

He released her, twisting to throw his legs to the floor and sit up at her side, dragging his sheet along with him. He pressed his temples between his palms, then stared at her again. “Miss Warren …”

His voice trailed away. She was staring at his shoulders. She looked forward, then down to her now folded hands. Miles of red hair seemed to fall around her, shadowing her features.

“I did come to make peace,” she murmured.

“Don’t make peace. Don’t try to make peace. Don’t stay in Florida. Go home. Go back to Charleston. It’s a beautiful city.”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t exactly my choice to come here.” She was still for a moment and then shrugged. “I was ordered to come here. Army boys and I, Mr. McKenzie, have much in common. We are all supposed to jump on command.”

“If he doesn’t send you out of here, he is a fool. He will lose you. He is hated, and you are in danger.”

“Well, he considers himself above any threat, Mr. McKenzie. And I am not unhappy to be here. In fact, I’d be quite happy if it weren’t for the fact that … never mind. I love what I have seen so far. I’ve been reading about the Florida territory all my life. I am anxious to see St. Augustine, Jacksonville, Tallahassee. More. I want to sail by the Keys sometime at a leisurely pace; I want to swim in the rivers. I want to see and feel and taste it all.”

“You’ll feel a knife at your scalp, Teela.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Marry Huntington if you want to stay here. He’s absolutely infatuated with you. He’ll jump when you snap your fingers.”

She stood up. “I don’t want anyone to jump when I
snap my fingers, McKenzie. And John is very nice. But I’m not going to marry him.”

“Oh? You’ve decided already.”

“I’m not in love with him.”

James laughed, which definitely seemed to offend her. She barely managed to lift a hand when he caught both her wrists and dragged her back down beside him. “You’re not in love with him? My dear Miss Warren! I am familiar with your world, and you and I both know that love doesn’t always enter into marriage agreements. Your stepfather has conceived what he considers a very proper arrangement for you. What right have you to object?”

“It’s not my choice, Mr. McKenzie.”

“You’d refuse John just because your father chose him?”

“Stepfather.”

“All right, you’ve refused John just because your
stepfather
chose him?”

“No one will make me marry.”

“No,” he said softly. “John would never make you marry. But perhaps you should get to know him better.”

She stared at him. Her eyes seemed like emeralds, liquid, shimmering. Strands of her hair curled over his fingers. He suddenly lifted his hand, bringing hers with it, placing her palm and fingers over his cheek this time. She didn’t wrench away. Soft as silk, her fingertips moved over the contours of his face. He caught her wrist again. He meant to set her hand away. Instead he turned it within his own and lowered his head, kissing her palm, the tip of his tongue teasing its center. He heard the ragged intake of her breath. When he looked into her eyes, she was staring at him still. He leaned toward her. She moistened her lips. Her eyes half closed, her lips parted.

He should have left her just sitting so. Ignored the seduction. Let her know that she couldn’t ignite the least bit of hunger within him …