Authors: Untamed
The next stop on her tour was the counting house. This turned out to be a large warehouse filled almost to the rafters with barrels and bales. Barbara’s nose tingled with the scents of fresh sawdust, hides, tallow, molasses and pepper.
Louise Morgan was poring over a ledger when her daughter ushered Barbara inside. The silk-gowned sophisticate of the night before was gone. In a skirt of sensible wool, a loose-sleeved blouse with mod
est lace trim and a canvas apron, Louise looked more like a shopkeeper than a woman of substantial wealth.
Mr. McRoberts was with her but left it to Louise to show her guest around the counting house. As she pointed out the various goods she traded in, she gave Barbara a glimpse of her intriguing past.
“I trapped the rivers in Indian Country for some years with Henri—your great-uncle. He teaches me to catch the beaver, the mink, even the polecat.”
“Skunk,” Vera supplied at Barbara’s blank look.
“After Henri dies, I go to New Orleans with Daniel to meet the merchant who buys our furs.” A fond smile played around Louise’s lips. “Monsieur Thibodeaux is dead now, but we did business together for many years.”
“Now Mama does business with so many different merchants even she has trouble keeping them all straight,” her daughter put in with a teasing smile.
Somehow Barbara doubted that. The shrewd trader taking her through the warehouse knew the precise contents of every barrel and bale. By the time they’d finished the tour, Barbara’s head reeled from so many pennyweights of this and hundred-weights of that.
She hoped Louise might use this time to reveal her decision regarding the five thousand pounds, but the subject had not arisen by the time a bell clanged to announce the noon meal. Accompanied by Vera and
her mother, Barbara once again stepped into the bright sunlight. She had raised her parasol and was about to join the other two women on the path to the house, when the sound of male laughter brought all three women around.
Zach and his father were coming up from the fields, accompanied by several field hands. The two Morgan men carried axes and were, Barbara saw with a sudden leap in her pulse, shirtless. The sight of Zach’s naked chest and roped muscles gleaming with sweat was like a swift, hard punch to her belly.
But when the men stopped at the well to sluice away their dirt and sweat, it was Daniel Morgan’s back that had Barbara biting back a horrified gasp. The man had been whipped. Whipped horribly. Every inch of skin from his neck to his waist showed a tortuous pattern of old, crisscrossing scars.
T
he image of Daniel’s tortured back remained in Barbara’s mind long after he’d poured a bucket of water over his head, swiped away his grime and dragged on his shirt. The horrific scars battled for precedence with the equally disturbing picture of his son’s naked, sweat-glistening chest.
Barbara couldn’t erase either during a midday meal taken at trestle tables set out under the trees behind the house. The family occupied a table set apart from the others. Still, Barbara felt more than a little odd sitting down to luncheon with servants and field hands at the next tables.
Their ranks appeared to include a wide variety of nationalities. Elaborate tattoos decorated the cheeks and chin of one tall, muscular African. Next to him was a sturdy German plowman, his face brick red
from the morning’s exertions. On the German’s other side was a girl of obvious Indian descent with thick black braids looped over her ears and a slashing scar across one cheek.
Hattie sat with the house servants. As befitting their more exalted status, they kept somewhat apart from the field and farm hands. The Morgans’ butler presided over their table. The man spoke a mix of English, French and Spanish with a musical accent that Barbara couldn’t begin to identify.
“Joseph’s from New Orleans,” the lieutenant explained when she inquired about the man. “My mother acquired his services when she visited there some years ago.”
“Ah, yes. I saw a number of slaves being marched to market when my ship docked in that city.”
“Joseph isn’t a slave. None of the people who make their home at Morgan’s Falls are. Nor do we buy any indentures.”
“Why so? I understand slave-holding is a common practice in Indian Country, as it is elsewhere in the Americas.”
And in Britain, although perhaps not for long. The abolitionist movement was growing more strident every day. Its proponents had succeeded in passing a law prohibiting British sea captains from transporting slaves, and Parliament was even now considering an act to abolish the institution of slavery itself.
The practice was not as deeply rooted in England
as it was in the colonies, though. When the Americas were first settled, Britain had shipped boatload after boatload of convicts and indentured servants to work the tobacco plantations. The white laborers had proved too susceptible to illness and disease, however, and a booming African slave trade had followed.
Now, Barbara thought with a tightening in her stomach, England shipped her convicts to Bermuda and Australia and chained them in rotting hulks. Haunted by the memory of Harry’s ravaged face the last time she’d seen him, Barbara wrenched her attention back to the American beside her.
“Slave-holding is common enough in these parts,” he agreed as he offered her a fresh-baked loaf. “My mother’s people make slaves of the captives they take in raids. Many of the eastern tribes purchase them at auction. The Cherokee and Choctaw migrating to Indian Country have brought their slaves with them. My father doesn’t hold with the practice, though. He was once in chains himself and won’t keep any man against his will.”
Tearing off the end of the loaf, Barbara set the crust on the edge of a pewter plate filled with rich, steaming stew. Her glance drifted to the man seated at the end of the table. Louise Morgan had mentioned that her husband had once languished in prison, and that she’d made a bargain with the devil
to secure his release. No doubt that was when he’d acquired those horrific scars on his back. His experiences might well make him more sympathetic to Harry’s plight. Barbara wanted very much to know how he came to endure such an ordeal, but hesitated to probe too deeply in such a public forum.
His son gave her the opportunity she sought after they’d finished their meal. While the servants cleared the table and dismantled the trestles, the lieutenant proposed an afternoon excursion.
“I’ll show you a bit more of the property. And if you’re up for it, we can ride to the south and give you a glimpse of the prairies I mentioned.”
“I seem to recall you also mentioned the frightening sight of a herd of buffalo thundering across those prairies.”
“I’ll make sure we steer well clear of all thundering herds,” he promised gravely.
“Very well, then. I’ll go upstairs and change.”
“My sisters ride astride but there’s a sidesaddle in the barn. I’ll dust it off for you.”
Having sailed from England to Bermuda with only her brother’s rescue in mind, Barbara had not anticipated afternoon jaunts about the countryside. She’d left her dashing Hussar-style riding habit behind, and would have to make do with her serviceable green gabardine traveling dress. The short jacket buttoned in the front, so she wouldn’t need Hattie’s assistance to get into it. Just as well,
she thought wryly, as the woman was nowhere to be seen.
Ingrained habit made her reach for her straw-chip bonnet to protect her complexion. She settled the crown on her hair and fashioned a bow under her chin. As quickly as she tied the ribbons, she untied them. With a perverse urge to feel the sun on her face, she tossed the bonnet aside.
The lieutenant was waiting with two mounts when Barbara rejoined him. She was no connoisseur of horseflesh. She and Harry had moved too often to maintain a stable and usually relied on rented hacks. But even her untutored eye could see the horses he’d saddled lacked any claim to noble bloodlines. Grinning, he answered the question she was too polite to ask.
“They’re a cross between Narragansett Pacer, English Thoroughbred and Indian pony. We’re working toward the perfect mix of gait, temperament and stamina.”
Dubious, she eyed the rough-coated bay he backed to the mounting block. “How close are you to attaining your goal?”
“You’ll have to determine that for yourself.”
He held the bay steady while she found her seat, then swung into the saddle of a sturdy roan. A half hour later they reined in on the crest of a low hill and Barbara was ready to pronounce judgment.
“You are indeed close to achieving the perfect mix.” Bending forward, she patted her mount’s neck. “This fellow is the sweetest stepper.”
“My father will be pleased to hear that. He’s negotiating with Colonel Arbuckle now to supply mounts for the additional ranger companies the colonel hopes Congress will authorize.”
Straightening, she sat back in the saddle. The lieutenant had provided just the opening she sought.
“Your father appears to be a man of many talents. Soldier, surveyor, horse breeder. Yet you say he once wore chains. How did that come about, if I may ask?”
“He was accused of murdering his first wife so he might marry my mother.”
Dear Lord! She hadn’t expected anything quite so dramatic. “I assume he was innocent of the crime, since he didn’t go to the gallows.”
“No, he didn’t go to the gallows. Shall we dismount and stretch our legs?”
He was out of the saddle and coming around to assist Barbara before she realized he’d evaded the question of his father’s innocence or guilt.
No wonder he’d shrugged aside her suggestion he might refuse to acknowledge the Chamberlains’ connection to his mother because Harry was a convict! The Morgan family also harbored a few skeletons in their closets.
Certain that must make them sympathetic to Harry’s plight, Barbara raised her knee over the pommel
and allowed Morgan to lift her from the saddle. He brought her down easily, lightly.
And neglected to remove his hands.
Caught between her mount’s warm, solid haunches and the lieutenant’s equally solid frame, Barbara tipped her head. She saw herself reflected in his brown eyes. Saw something else, as well. Something that set her pulse to skipping.
“I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about our walk in the moonlight,” he told her.
“I had hoped you would think about my brother’s situation.”
“He figured in my thoughts. Not as much as his sister, though. Not anywhere near as much.”
The edge to his voice sent a thrill through Barbara. Excitement fluttered in her veins, along with a heady sense of victory. She’d played the game too often, though, to show anything of her triumph.
“From what you’ve told me about your father, surely you understand Harry must be foremost in my thoughts. I asked you last night if you would add your voice to mine and press my brother’s cause with your mother. I ask you again.”
“No need.” Bending, he brushed his lips against her temple. “I spoke with my mother on your behalf this morning.”
The five thousand pounds were as good as in her hand! And without resorting to the document hidden in her valise. Giddy with relief, Barbara threw her arms around the lieutenant’s neck.
“Thank you!”
Thrilled by her victory, she ignored all Harry’s strictures against giving way to emotion. Her arms locked around the lieutenant’s neck. Her mouth was eager and greedy as it sought his.
When she felt him go taut against her, desire and a jubilant sense of power fired her blood. Zachariah Morgan was just a man. Sharp-witted and damnably attractive, to be sure, but a just a man. Elated by her success in bringing him around, Barbara pressed closer.
His reaction was immediate and intense. Shifting his stance, he dragged her against him. His tongue danced with hers. Every touch, every searing dart of flesh on flesh sent fire through Barbara’s veins. She forgot all Harry’s cautions and strictures, forgot as well the painful lesson she’d learned from the one other man who’d dragged her into his arms like this. That experience had been unpleasant in the extreme. This one set her blood to singing.
When she opened her mouth to his, the lieutenant took his cue from her. His mouth came down harder. His thigh thrust between hers. The angle of his hip against her belly caused the muscles low in Barbara’s womb to clench. A damp heat formed between her legs.
“Barbara. Sweeting…”
He dragged his head up. Red stained his cheeks, and his breath rasped hard and fast.
“You’d best have a care. I’m close to forgetting all that is civilized in me.”
The warning set off a clanging alarm. She wasn’t in some private drawing room, with her brother just a scream away. She was alone in the wilderness with a man whose arms banded her like tempered steel. Part of her knew she should pull away while she still could. The other part of her, the woman who’d spent her life taking one risk after another, thrilled to his hoarse admission that he was teetering on the edge.
“So am I,” she whispered with an honesty that surprised them both.
Zach sucked in a sharp breath. He knew damn well she had no inkling of the danger she was in. She couldn’t guess how close the beast in him was to breaking free of its chains.
He wanted this woman so bad he hurt with it, had wanted her from the first moment he’d spotted her by the river near Fort Gibson. Until this moment, though, he’d kept his lust on a tight leash. Now…
Now his blood pounded and her whisper screamed in his ears. Savagely, he beat back the urge to shove her against her mount, lift her skirts and take her right where she stood. She was a lady, for God’s sake! Not some trollop eager to spread her legs for a few pennies.
He tried to control himself. He loosed his hold, intending to put her away from him. But the heavy-lidded desire in her eyes drove a spike through every one of his noble intentions.
Training and a survival instinct too deep to ignore made him loop their mounts’ reins over a low branch before he swept an arm around her waist and dragged her against him once again. She came readily, her face flushed. Her mouth was eager under his, her breath sweet and hot.
Almost doubled over with wanting her, he put enough distance between them to strip off his shirt. He heard her breath hiss in and felt the fierce satisfaction of a man who knows himself strong and well muscled enough to pleasure his woman. Dropping to one knee, he spread the shirt on the tall, fragrant grass and caught her hand to tumble her down. She landed atop him in a flurry of skirts and breathless laughter.
He rolled over, taking her with him. She lay framed in cloud-white linen surrounded by a sea of green. Zach’s stomach clenched at the sheer perfection of her features. No poet himself, he began to understand what drove bards to pen such flowery lines as those describing the face that launched a thousand ships and toppled the towers of ancient Ilium. Swooping down, he claimed Barbara’s mouth with his.
When she arched to meet him, all thoughts of poetry and ancient legends fled. The last of Zach’s restraint went with it. Pressing her into the earth, he dragged up her skirts and wedged a knee between hers. His hand found the slit in her drawers. With a low growl, he slid a finger into her wet heat.
Her eyes flew open and she bucked like a startled colt. Zach gentled her the way he would a skittish yearling.
“Easy, sweeting.” His finger slid out, then in again. “We’ll take this easy.”
Trapped beneath his weight, Barbara fought a sudden sense of panic. Only one other man had touched her so intimately, and he’d been drunk as two wheelbarrows at the time. What followed had left her bruised and no little disgusted with herself for allowing matters to get so out of hand.
Harry had raked her over the coals for weeks after that sorry incident. The fact Barbara had lost her head angered him a great deal more than her lost virginity. He’d relented enough, though, to assure her she’d eventually enjoy the act of copulation. Harry certainly did, judging from the frequency with which he took women to his bed.
The truth of his offhand assurances came home to her with each slow, tantalizing thrust of Zach’s fingers. Barbara’s panic subsided. Pleasure swirled deep in her belly. The sensation spread to her limbs and stirred the hunger that had seized her earlier.
It leaped to life when he used his knee to pry her legs farther apart. And when he settled his weight between her thighs, Barbara knew without doubt this time would be different.
Pleasure already had her in its grip. She waited in a fever of impatience while he fumbled at the flap of
his trousers. Hungry and just a little nervous, she felt him ease into her. Slowly, deliberately, he eased out again.