The Captive Heart (29 page)

Her fingers flew to her hair. La, she must look a fright—not a topic she wished to explore, especially with a man.

“I trust you are well?” she asked.

He laughed. “Likely faring better than you. Least yer still standing.”

She pursed her lips. What was she to say to that? “I am sorry; I do not understand.”

Beebright sucked in air between the gap in his front teeth. “Heath’s first wife didn’t last a year afore he got rid o’ her. I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t meet with the same lick of bad luck, though I didn’t want to tell you that up front.”

The words were a slap in the face. Had anyone in this town taken the time to find out the truth from Samuel? She lifted her chin and stared him down. “My husband had nothing whatsoever to do with that tragedy.”

Beebright rocked back on his heels, howling, his slanted shoulders riding the crest of the laughter like a fisherman’s bobber in the water. “Got to you, did he? That Heath, he do have a way with women. I ’spect you’ll be popping out a babe in no time.”

“Mr. Beebright!” she hissed, then darted past him, unwilling to listen to any more wicked conjecture. His laughter followed for a time until it blended into the backdrop of music and other revelers.

Skirting the dancers, she searched for Grace. The little blond head yet bobbed with a circle of other girls, right where she’d left her.

Eleanor bent, calling for the child. “Grace, shall we get a drink?”

The girl broke from the circle and ran to her. “Thirsty!”

“I thought so.” She smiled and held out her hand, her grin growing as little fingers wrapped around hers. Somehow, Grace always managed to set her world right.

Weaving past tables, Eleanor ignored a few lewd comments from trappers who’d clearly drunk enough to loosen their lips. The tang of homemade liquor stung her nose. This was no place for her and Grace on their own. Maybe she should have waited for Samuel to catch up.

But as she neared a sideboard loaded with crocks of cider and ale, the tension in her jaw slackened. Molly and Biz huddled together in front of it, jabbering away.

She led Grace to where they stood. “Good evening, ladies.”

Molly spun, beaming. “Eleanor! So happy you made it tonight.” She stooped and tugged one of Grace’s braids. “You, too, Miss Grace.”

The girl giggled, burying her face against Eleanor’s skirt.

“Where’s yer man?” Biz craned her neck, scanning the area, then blinked her feline eyes at Eleanor. “So, you run off, aye? Smart choice. I’m sure I can get Parker to take you and the girl in. He’s got a kind streak wide enough to drive a cart through. Maybe two. God’s truth, cuz I been using that to my advantage.”

For some odd reason, Biz’s wink and trademark smirk annoyed her, and she sighed. “No, Biz, I did nothing of the sort. And I want both you and Molly to know that what you told me about Mr. Heath this morning is patently untrue. He explained everything this afternoon. He is not to be blamed, leastwise not for his wife’s demise.”

“Demise?” Biz spit out the word as if tasting a lemon for the first time.

“Death,” Eleanor explained.

Molly looked from the child to Eleanor. “How can you be certain? The terrible things I’ve heard—”

“Are exactly that, Molly. Hearsay.” Eleanor shot her a pointed stare, driving home her point. “It is nothing but gossip and lies, and I will thank you to not repeat it anymore.”

“Hold on here a minute.” Biz elbowed her way between her and Molly. Her blue gaze dissected her like a butterfly pinned to a display board. “Why … yer as sweet on him as Molly is on Ben Sutton.”

“I am not!” Eleanor’s rebuttal shot out with Molly’s, both as jarring as the sudden tattoo of a drum, rat-a-tat-tatting on the night air.

Biz laughed. “You can say otherwise, Elle Bell, but look at yer cheeks. They’re a-flamin’ like a gypsy’s torch. Oh, you got it bad, luv. Din’t think to see that happen, you all bookish and mannerly and whatnot—and him no better than a cock fighter back at Old Nichol.”

“Do not be ridiculous. We have an understanding, Mr. Heath and I, and I assure you it is all very proper.” She tugged Grace sideways, bypassing Biz and snatching a cup of cider from the table.

Biz elbowed her as she passed. “I think yer a-wishin’ that would change though, aye?”

Snubbing Biz’s rudeness—and the traitorous agreement fluttering in her own belly—Eleanor bent and handed the cup to Grace.

“Stop it, Biz,” Molly scolded. “Don’t drive Eleanor away when we have such precious little time with her as is. Besides, I haven’t told either of you yet about the new arrival. She’s quite scandalous, really.”

Eleanor straightened, glad for the change of subject.

“Oh?” Biz jutted her chin. “Bit of competition for me, eh?”

Molly shrugged. “I shouldn’t think so. The woman is a missionary.”

A curse spewed out of Biz. She slapped her hand over her mouth and slipped a wild glance around. Apparently living with a pastor was affecting her in some small way. “What’s so scandalous about that?”

Molly leaned toward them both. “She rode into town alone.”

Grace banged the cup against Eleanor’s leg, and she took it from the child, setting it back on the board. All the while, she mulled over Molly’s information. Women simply did not ride alone in the wild, especially not an upstanding one. She faced Molly. “A lone woman traveling this backcountry … is that not a bit odd?”

Molly nodded. “To be fair, she does have a Negro manservant with her, and her situation could not be helped. The poor thing lost her uncle, you see—the reverend she’d traveled with from Charles Towne. He suffered some kind of fit a few days back, never to recover. They had to bury him. Oh, Miss Browndell is so brave! She reminds me of you, Eleanor. She pressed on and made it to Newcastle on her own. Can you imagine?” The whites of Molly’s eyes glowed in the torchlight. “I’d be so frightened.”

“Yes, very brave,” Eleanor murmured as she thought back on the past three months, faced with bears and Indians and all manner of harshness. A frown pulled at her lips. If it weren’t for Samuel, she’d not have known how to deal with any of it. And if it weren’t for herself, he’d not have risked his life so many times. Her heart squeezed.

“Eleanor?”

She jerked out of her morbid thoughts and offered a half smile to Molly. “Indeed. Miss Browndell must be very intelligent to have survived in the wilderness after the loss of her uncle.”

“She is!” Molly clasped her hands in front of her, almost a stance of worship. “Not that I’ve had the chance for much conversation with her, mind you, but listening to her discussions with Mrs. Greeley is quite exciting.” “Pish!” Biz’s face screwed into a disagreeable mask. “Can’t imagine she’d have anything to say I’d want to hear. I get an earful enough at home with ‘scripture says this’ and ‘scripture says that.’”

Eleanor quirked a brow. Clearly the woman had not heard enough to mend her ungodly ways.

Molly stepped closer. “But here’s the most interesting thing. The woman, Miss Browndell,” she indicated with a nod of her head toward a petite lady not far from them, talking with the plump Mrs. Greeley, “says she plans to continue on with her uncle’s mission—clear into Cherokee lands, with naught but her manservant to accompany her. Why, ’tis positively outrageous!”

Biz narrowed her eyes. “Either this fine miss is askin’ for a scalpin’ … or there’s more to her story than preachin’ to some heathens.”

Grace yanked on Eleanor’s hand, and she swung the girl up into her arms. For once, Eleanor realized, she agreed with Biz.

“Come on, girls.” Biz charged forward, glancing over her shoulder. “God fearin’ or not, I’d like to meet this scandalous woman.”

Molly bit her lip. “I don’t know, Biz. Mrs. Greeley might not like us barging in.”

Biz turned around, walking backward, a wicked wiggle to her eyebrows. “Don’t worry. Elle Bell there will use her pretty manners to make it all right.”

Molly shot her a pleading look as Biz scooted over to where Mrs. Greeley and Miss Browndell stood at the far end of the refreshment table.

Eleanor held Grace all the tighter. As excited as she had been to reunite with her friends, she suddenly wished for the seclusion of Samuel’s log cabin. A single rogue bear was less dangerous than a curious Biz—or a newcomer with mixed morals.

Samuel stalked past the outer ring of torches and stepped over the body of a longhunter who’d already hit the dirt from too much rattle-skull. Three steps later, he turned back. That passed-out sot could’ve been him—no—that
was
him, in years past. Stooping, he grabbed the man beneath the armpits and hauled him off to the side, dropping him next to the canvas of someone’s tent. At least there the fellow wouldn’t get a boot to the ribs or kick in the head and could sleep off his stupor in peace.

He wheeled about and shouldered past two traders leaning against each other for ballast. Time he found McDivitt, asked about the man seeking a guide, then got Red Bird and Grace out of here.

“Heath!”

The silhouette of a broad-shouldered man loomed black in front of a torch, five paces off. Sutton. After a rank-smelling trapper stumbled past, Samuel veered toward him, following where Sutton had disappeared behind the tent line. He caught up with him where he crouched in the grass, away from the festivities.

Samuel squatted as well. “What have you got?”

Even at this distance, the line of torches lit the whites of Sutton’s eyes in the darkness. “Newcomer rode in today, asking for a guide to the Lower Town.”

He chewed the inside of his cheek. Sutton’s words added credence to what he’d already learned from McDivitt … but Sutton wouldn’t have pulled him aside if there weren’t more to it. “You think it’s the negotiator?”

Sutton shrugged. “I can hardly square it. It’s for you to determine. All I can do is supply you with information.”

“Such as?”

“It’s a woman and her manservant what’s seeking passage. A Negro.”

Samuel rubbed the back of his neck, thinking hard. McDivitt hadn’t said anything about if it was a man or a woman.

“There’s more.” Sutton’s low voice cut into his thoughts. “She’s trying real hard to cover a Yorkshire accent, and doing a fair job of it, mind you. But now and then she slips, ever so slightly, and I can tell, my mam being from that part of the country.”

Samuel shook his head, a vain attempt to line up the strange nuggets of intelligence. “Why would a woman, an English one no less, want passage to Keowee?”

“Says she’s carrying out her uncle’s dying wishes.”

Woman. Unchaperoned, save for a servant. English. Bent on a promise to a dead man. How was he to track that trail? Which way did it lead? He blew out a long breath. “Either this woman is a naive fool, or she’s got grit. Unless it’s the manservant who’s using her for cover. Suppose I need to figure out which.”

The twitch at the corner of Sutton’s lips confirmed he’d already come to the same conclusion.

Samuel stood. “All right. Time I met this woman. Where is she?”

Sutton rose, staying him with a hand to the shoulder. “One more thing you should know, unrelated.”

Samuel shot him a sideways glance. “I’m listening.”

A fierce scowl carved into Sutton’s face, flickering torchlight intensifying his rage. “McDivitt. Watch your back.”

Samuel frowned. “That’s nothing new. He’s always had it in for me.” He cocked his head, searching Sutton’s eyes for an underlying message. “But you know that.”

“It’s different this time.” Sparks flamed in Sutton’s brown gaze—and not from the torches. “It’s not just you anymore. The man is unhinged. Even grabbed Greeley by the collar the other day, claiming he’d been shortchanged. He threatened Greeley with a strip-down beating right there on the loading dock if he didn’t get his money back. Didn’t care that God and half the town was watchin’.”

Samuel scrubbed his jaw. This was new. “What did Greeley do?”

“Said he’d bring in the law from Charles Towne and see McDivitt’s reign of terror over Newcastle was done.”

He snorted, wishing he’d been there to see Angus’s face. “That didn’t set well, I imagine.”

“Aye. McDivitt told him where to go, and it wasn’t to Charles Towne.” Half a smile lifted his mouth, then faded, a grim set to his jaw replacing any humor. “Something bad’s going to happen; I feel it in my gut. Greed’s eating the man alive. There’s no telling what McDivitt will do.”

“There never is.” The memory of McDivitt’s hands on Red Bird shook through him from head to toe. He stalked toward the tent line.

Sutton trailed him, his words a tomahawk between the shoulders. “If I were you, Heath, I wouldn’t just watch my own back. I’d keep an eye on my wife.”

He searched past the heads of men, drawn to a flash of red hair peeking out beneath a straw hat across the way. His wife huddled with her two friends near the drink table—friends every bit as dangerous as McDivitt.

He glanced back at Sutton. “Mind your own back as well, my friend.”

Weaving through those still standing, he set off to collect Red Bird—then find this lone woman with the gall of a man.

E
leanor and Molly tried to trail Biz, but the woman dashed off with the skill of a pickpocket bent on a mark. Perhaps she truly had been the finest cutpurse in the Old Nichol rookery. To be fair, though, a toddler didn’t cling to her neck, slowing her steps. Eleanor shifted Grace on her hip and quickened her pace, Molly at her side.