Savannah Heat (42 page)

“The colonel will suffer for our escape,” Ram told Silver. “I will not mourn his passing.” Silver liked the big Turk who was a friend of Morgan’s brother. And it was obvious Ram liked her.

“You remind me of someone, a lady I met in New Orleans,” he said. “In a different way, Nicole St. Claire has the same strength of will as you.” Ram chuckled. “Only her hair shines the color of copper, not silver, like yours.”

Two days passed before they began their journey back to the coast, long enough to tend the men’s wounds, give them a chance to regain some strength, and make preparations for the arduous trip. They were traveling south, back the opposite way Cookie
and Silver had journeyed with their small Mayan guide, though that one had fled the moment he’d escaped the prison.

Cookie had come by to see her, finding her outside the tent that had been provided for her and Teresa. But most of the time caring for the men had kept him busy. Teresa had remained distant, buried in the grief of her father’s death.

“I am sorry,
ma chère.
” Jacques had told her. “Your papa did not survive.” Teresa wept bitterly into his arms, and he seemed to share some of her pain. “Do not cry,” he soothed. “Alejandro Méndez died a ’ero. ’E had grown ill. ’E knew ’e would not live to gain ’is freedom. When another, younger man who ’ad befriended ’im drew the shortest straw, your father faced death in ’is place. It is said ’e spit in the face of ’is executioners.”

Teresa clutched him tighter, but pride shone in the youthful lines of her face. Silver left the beautiful Mexican girl to her grief.

Silver carried a grief of her own.

Since the night of their escape, when they had safely reached camp, it was Jacques, not Morgan, who watched after her, taking her to Teresa’s tent, fetching her blankets, and helping her make up her bedroll. In his own strong way, Jacques tried to reassure her without interfering.

“Where’s Morgan?” Silver had asked, knowing full well he was avoiding her.

“ ’E needs a little time to ’imself,” he said. “This ’as been ’ard on you both.” That something had happened between Silver and Morgan he knew, yet he said nothing more. Neither did Silver.

In the days that followed, Morgan had spoken to her only briefly, inquiring of her health, listening to the tale of her capture by Paulo Carrillo and his men,
and the proposed attack against the
Savannah
and her crew. Though his face still looked bruised and battered, and he winced with the pain in his back and ribs, he would not let her attend him. Never once did his vacant look soften, or the sound of his voice grow warm.

Nor was any mention made of Hernández or the scene he had witnessed in the general’s suite of rooms.

“I appreciate what you did for me,” was as close as he came, spoken brusquely, his eyes fixed somewhere on the gray-green horizon.

“I wanted to help you. What happened with the general wasn’t—”

“If you’ll excuse me, Silver, it’s time I saw to the men.”

And so it had gone. Whenever she tried to raise the subject, Morgan simply excused himself and walked away. He wasn’t unfriendly, wasn’t impolite—he just wasn’t there.

And the gap that yawned between them broke Silver’s heart.

The five-day journey to the coast seemed like weeks. An agony of walking and riding, of making camp and breaking it, of tending the wounded, feeding them, and helping them recover. The terrain to the south of the prison was damp and tropical, humid, and increasingly hot and buggy. It all seemed a haze of discomfort and despair.

Missing Morgan terribly, Silver found herself seeking out his brother. Brendan was usually off somewhere alone, quiet and withdrawn, not at all the wildly impulsive fun-loving man Morgan had described. Still, when Silver was with him, she felt a little closer to the man she loved.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, approaching
where he sat beside a granite outcrop that overlooked a ravine. He was a tall man with light blue eyes and coffee brown hair. Though his face looked gaunt and hollow, he was still a handsome man.

“Better.”
Outside at least
. Inside, Brendan wondered if he would ever be the same. “I’m beginning to put on some weight. Cookie always was a better than passable cook.”

“I take it you’re getting preferential treatment.”

“Definitely. And I don’t mind a bit.” Actually he would mind, if all the men weren’t being coddled just a little. They deserved it—after what they had suffered, they damned well deserved it.

“Your brother’s been worried about you. He loves you very much.”

I think he loves you, too. Though the blasted fool probably wouldn’t admit it
. “We’ve always been close. When we were younger, Morgan sacrificed everything for me. He worked twenty hours a day just to give me the ‘advantages’ he thought I deserved. Most of the time I paid him back with a healthy dose of mischief, but I guess he didn’t mind.”

“He’s a fine man,” Silver said.

Shifting on the rock, Brendan winced at the pain that shot up his arm. He’d taken a lead ball right before he’d been captured, but one of the men had dug it out. His arm still hung limp and useless, but there was a good chance it would recover.

Silver must have noticed his grimace. She leaned over to check the bandage, seemed satisfied, and smiled. “It looks to be healing well.”

“At least I didn’t lose it, like some of those other unlucky devils.” Brendan studied her closely. There was a sadness in her dark-fringed eyes that had been there since the first time he had seen her, standing inside the tunnel, looking at Morgan with such a
mixture of love and despair Brendan had felt a tightening in his chest. Morgan’s green eyes had reflected regret—and something else he couldn’t quite name.

Brendan wondered what his own eyes looked like. Bleak, he imagined, no longer shining with boyish anticipation. No longer bright with the dream of worlds he thought to conquer. He’d lost the last of his youth in the confines of a Mexican prison. Seen and done things he hadn’t known he could. Endured when he should have died, wept for the loss of his friends, and carried the burden of his survival like a weighty stone across his shoulders.

“Did he—has Morgan spoken to you about me?” Silver asked.

Brendan shook his head. “The subject of you seems to be closed at the moment.” Brendan had tried to approach him, tried to discover what had happened between the two. That Morgan felt more than a simple attraction for the woman was obvious. But his brother wouldn’t discuss it, and Brendan’s own heart felt so heavy he hadn’t the will to press him any further. “I’m sorry.”

Silver nodded, feeling an ache in her throat. When Brendan looked at her with pity and concern, it was all she could do to keep the tears behind her eyes from sliding down her cheeks. She knew why Morgan had abandoned her. It was more than just what he wrongly imagined had happened between General Hernandez and her. It was the fact she had sold herself to him. Bartered her body like a high-grade whore. That was how it must have seemed—and Morgan would never forgive her.

“I think I hear someone calling me.” It was a lie, and they both knew it, but Brendan just nodded. He was a man who had learned the value of privacy. “I’d better be going.”

The day before they reached the coast, the atmosphere in the camp began to change. The soldiers’ worry turned away from their fear of being attacked by Centralist soldiers to the possibility that the ships waiting to carry them home had been taken or destroyed. Silver was especially worried about Jordy.

“They’ll be there,” Morgan told her with more determination than conviction. “Jordy and the others will be fine.” It broke her heart to look at him, so far removed from her now that she barely recognized him as the man who had held her in his arms and passionately made love to her. That had been another lifetime.

Some other man.

Some other woman.

This woman was so in desperately in love she could think of nothing but memories of the person she knew to be locked inside this other—this soldier to whom she meant nothing. Thoughts of him clouded her world so thoroughly she plodded along in silence most of the time, placing one foot wearily in front of the other, barely noticing the towering trees overhead, the miserable humidity, the rain that had started to fall, or the dense tropical foliage that enshrouded them like a wet green coffin.

Then one morning the exhausted caravan climbed the final incline and looked down on the coastline near the mouth of the Champotón River. A huge cheer went up. Anchored just a short distance offshore, three tall-masted ships bobbed at anchor. At last they were going home.

“Take care, little brother.” Morgan clasped Brendan in a great bear hug.

“Take care, big brother—and thanks.” Brendan
turned to Silver, who carefully avoided his injured arm and gently kissed his cheek.

“Don’t stop fighting for what you want,” he whispered against her ear, and they both knew what he meant. She nodded and wiped away her tears—the ones she shed for the loss of her newfound friend, and the ones she shed for Morgan.

“I’ll take care of him,” Ram said with a grin, and Silver hugged him, too.

“Good-bye, Ram. I’m glad I met you.”

Ram touched her cheek. “You are quite a woman, Silver Jones.”

The Texians, all but Hamilton Riley and the four marines who had sailed with Morgan from Georgia, straggled down the beach toward the waiting shore boats. Only Morgan and his crew, the lieutenant and his marines, and the mercenaries Jacques had hired in Barbados would be returning aboard the
Savannah
.

“As soon as we reach the Georgia shore,” Morgan told her, with his now-customary reserve, “Riley and the marines will be leaving my command. My commission will expire, and I’ll be a civilian again.”

She wondered if he’d be glad ta get home but couldn’t tell from his vague expression. Immediately he excused himself and continued making ready for their departure.

“What about Teresa?” Silver asked Jacques, who had not yet said his good-byes to the woman standing some distance away, next to the small group of Federalist soldiers ready to return her to Campeche.

“She is just a child,” Jacques said, but his face looked grim. “I have grown sons nearly her age.”

“She is a woman,” Silver said.

Jacques didn’t answer. His eyes remained fixed on the small dark woman whose skirts whipped her
brown-skinned legs in the stiff ocean breeze. She brushed something from her eye and turned away. Still, Jacques did not move.

“Do you love her?” Silver asked softly.

“It does not matter. We do not suit.”

“I haven’t known you long, Jacques Bouillard, but I never thought you were a fool.” Sweeping strands of pale hair back from her face, Silver lifted her skirts and walked off down the beach. Jacques stared after her only a moment. Then with grim resignation, he started walking toward Teresa. When he reached her side, he turned her toward him and found her face wet with tears.

“Why do you cry,
chérie
? What ’as made you so sad?”

“I did not think you would say good-bye.”

Jacques’s chest tightened. “Does it matter so much?”

Teresa watched him sadly, searching his face for something, looking deeply into his eyes. When Jacques said nothing more, Teresa straightened her shoulders. “You have been very kind, senor. I only wished to thank you for your efforts to save my father.”

One of Jacques’s big hands lifted to cradle her cheek. “That is all? Just thank you. No good-bye kiss?” When Teresa didn’t move, Jacques lowered his mouth to hers, fitting it to the softness of her lips, molding them, tasting them until he heard himself groan. When at last he pulled away, Teresa was trembling, her eyes glistening with a mist of fresh tears.

“
Adios, mi amor
,” she whispered just before she turned to leave.

Jacques’s hand on her shoulder stopped her. He watched her a moment, taking in the stout yet feminine
width of her hips and shoulders, her smooth dark skin and big dark eyes. Something moved inside him. “You ’ave no one in Campeche to return to,” he said softly. “No man there to look after you. What will you do?”

“I will get by.”

“You need a man.”

Teresa said nothing.

Jacques cleared his throat. “I would be that man if you would let me.”

“Why?” Teresa asked. “You have already done more than enough.”

“You are a strong woman. The kind a man wants by ’is side.”

She only shook her head. “I do not want your Pity.”

Jacques cursed roundly. When Teresa turned to leave, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her against him. “It is not my pity I offer you—it is my love. Please,
mon coeur
, say you will be my wife.”

Teresa stared at him as if she hadn’t heard his words. Then her hands cupped his face against his heavy black beard, and Jacques’s powerful arms crushed her to him.

“
Te adoro, mi amor
,” she said past her tears. “You are the finest man I have ever known. I would be honored to be your wife.”

Jacques smiled into the shiny black hair that grazed his cheek. “I am only a seaman,
chérie
. I will sometimes be gone. But I ’ave put away some money, and Morgan has ’elped me invest it. I will provide for you well, and the sea does not beckon so strong as it once did.”

“I love you. I care for nothing except being by your side.”

“If Morgan no longer needs me, we will return to
Campeche and be married.” Jacques smiled with such happiness it overwhelmed him. “You can gather your things and say your good-byes. Afterward we will sail for Barbados. I own land there and ’ave often thought of making it my ’ome. The island is beautiful, and there are no wars.”

Teresa just smiled and hugged his neck. “Wherever you are is beautiful to me.”

When the first shore boat from the
Savannah
arrived, Jordy and Jeremy Flagg jumped over the gunwales and onto the sand.

“Silver!” Jordy raced up the beach in her direction. When he reached her side, he hugged her openly, as he hadn’t done before. “We was—were—so worried.”

“Thank God you’re safe.” She clasped his hand. “How did you escape them? They said their men would be waiting to block your way.”