The Captive Heart (34 page)

Samuel eyed the woman with a new understanding. No wonder she’d not been the least bit nervous to travel those few days to Newcastle with naught but a Negro. With Mingo and that pistol, she could kill a pack of wolves in a heartbeat.

She offered the pistol on an outstretched palm. “Just a sample.”

The Beloved Man snatched the pistol, sighted along the barrel, then aimed it directly at the woman’s forehead.

Silence sealed the lips of every clan member. Red Bird slapped her hand over her mouth. Behind him, Mingo’s breaths came heavy and fast.

A smile split a gash in the Beloved Man’s face. He lowered the pistol and tossed it to Standing Raven, then untucked the talking stick from his waistband. His black eyes sought Samuel’s. “Ya’nu, take the woman back to the lodge.”

“But …” The word died on Miss Browndell’s lips, so fiercely did Attakullakulla turn on her, shoving the carved piece of hickory in her face.

“The talking stick is in my hand, woman. Not yours. You go now.”

Samuel stood, pulling Red Bird up alongside. Normally he’d mind leaving a council meeting mid-discussion, but not tonight—not if it meant he could somehow wrangle the munitions information out of Miss Browndell.

And he had to—or a killing spree would bloody this land, the likes of which these colonies had never seen.

Eleanor fixed her gaze on the awful sight of Miss Browndell toe to toe with the most fearsome warrior she’d ever seen. The man shoved a stick in her face, yet she didn’t cower. Steel girded the woman’s bones—and for a single, curious moment, Eleanor wished she might be as brave as Miss Browndell, for it certainly captured the attention of her husband. He’d not pulled his eyes from her since this council began. He’d never studied her, his own wife, that intently, and for some odd reason, that irked her. Though it oughtn’t … should it?

She lowered her face, refusing to watch the confusing scene—or sort through her even more confusing emotions. Surely such unrest must be blamed upon the strange-tasting tea Samuel’s grandmother had urged on her this afternoon. Or maybe she’d simply become oversentimental after hearing about the death of his parents. Whatever the reason, no good would come of forgetting that Samuel Heath owned her, nothing more.

Pinching a loose thread on her sleeve between forefinger and thumb, she rolled it back and forth, trying to ignore the hard-edged stare of a native woman who sat farther down the circle. Eleanor had made the mistake of glancing at her when she’d entered the lodge, and that brief flash of contact had lifted tiny bumps on her arms. She’d seen that look before—the night she’d refused her father’s proposal to keep company with one of his debt holders. Rage came in many colors, of course, but she’d identified a new shade that night—hellfire red.

Why would a native woman take such an instant dislike to her? Had whites been responsible for some tragedy in her young life? For she was young. Maybe a few years less than herself. The woman’s skin was the lovely color of burnt cream, fresh from the oven, and her deerskin dress hugged shapely curves. Surely she didn’t see Eleanor as competition for one of the other men here?

Silence fell on the council, but it came as a sweet reprieve. The twisted language made no sense whatsoever, and in truth, she was tired of hearing it. Why had Samuel brought her?

His big hand wrapped around her arm, lifting her to her feet. She peered at him, but his face was unreadable in the dimly lit lodge. He led her to the door without a word.

The urge to stamp her foot at his crass treatment nearly caused her to stumble out into the night air. She knew exactly how Grace must feel—for he wouldn’t have treated her any differently. Shuffled here. Put there. Stay in this lodge. No, go to that one. Eleanor pulled from his grasp as soon as they cleared the council hut. “Why did Miss Browndell give that man money and a firearm? What did they say? Surely this had nothing to do with God.”

Samuel retrieved one of the many unlit vigil torches leaned against the lodge wall and touched it to a larger flame that burned atop a beacon post. “None of your concern, wife.”

“Stop treating me like a child!” This time she did stamp her foot—and immediately regretted it.

He lifted his hand to her face, humor twitching the corners of his mouth. “Then stop behaving like one. Now I’m going to cut you some slack because Lord knows what Grandmother gave you to drink today, but listen well. What’s being said in there”—he jerked his head toward the lodge— “is dangerous for you to know. A danger I’m not willing to take. Understand?”

“No. I do not. If you would just—”

“Well, well.” Miss Browndell’s voice interrupted. “I hope I’m not intruding upon a tender moment.”

Samuel dropped his hand, and Eleanor retreated a step as the woman fully emerged from the lodge. She advanced toward Samuel, stepping so close, her skirt swung out to touch his pants hem.

“I’d like a word with you, Mr. Heath.” She slipped a catty glance at Eleanor. “Alone.”

Eleanor looked deep inside, trying to find her own measure of steel, resolving to not care one way or another how Samuel answered. Even so, she leaned toward him to hear his answer.

He turned to her, away from Miss Browndell and her black knight, Mingo. The movement reset her world on its axis.

Then knocked it completely askew when he handed her the torch. “Do you remember your way back to Grandmother’s lodge?”

She gripped the stick, burnt pitch acrid in her nose, his flat rejection of her every bit as acerbic. Not that she wanted him to spend the night with her, but surely he wouldn’t while it away with Miss Browndell?

And why would she care if he did?

She gave a sharp, short nod.

Something flickered in Samuel’s dark eyes—something more than firelight.

“You’ll be fine, Tatsu’hwa.” His voice softened, mellow as a late summer day. “There is no danger for you here.”

Some of her resolve drained, but not all. Suddenly she was unsure which to hold on to—the tender tone he used with her alone, or anger that he was choosing Miss Browndell over her.

The decision was made for her. Miss Browndell stepped up to his side and ran a finger along his bicep. “Don’t fret, Mrs. Heath. I’ll return him in one piece.”

Heat blazed up Eleanor’s neck and spread across her cheeks. A more brazen woman would not be found walking the Wapping Wharves at night. Yet Samuel said nothing.

His jaw might have hardened, but Eleanor couldn’t be sure, for she whirled so fast the torch spluttered. She stomped ahead, but the farther she drew from the council chamber and the bright beacon torches, the more blackness closed in on her little light. She swallowed. Maybe it hadn’t been so bad being treated like Grace. At least she hadn’t been alone.

An owl’s mournful hoot echoed the emptiness in her heart. How had her life come to this? Pining like a schoolgirl for a man she’d pledged the rest of her life to.

She stopped dead in her tracks, stunned, the realization as bright as a noonday sun. She loved him—and had for quite some time if she were brutally honest. And it was brutal, this feeling, as if she walked upon glass and must be careful or all would shatter. For one crazed eternity, she considered turning back, running full force into Samuel’s arms, and telling him everything. How she wanted him. How he’d become her world. How she needed his touch, his kiss….

Miss Browndell’s giggle carried on the night air, stabbing her in the back. Sucking in a lungful of cool air, Eleanor packed up all her tender feelings and stowed them away. Far. Deep. Better to hide them and forget—a lesson she’d learned all too well the day her father stopped loving her.

Grasping the torch tighter, she marched across the field, stars and crescent moon her only companions. So be it, then. She’d show Samuel Heath. She’d be the best, most compliant servant wife he could ever imagine—but he’d never coax another smile out of her. Let him savor Miss Browndell’s lurid grins, if that’s what he really wanted.

She fumed all the way to the darkened lodge, set close to the river. A good sleep would smooth the jagged edges of her emotions. Maybe she might even find another cup of his grandmother’s tea. She stopped before the door, allowing the nearby river sounds to wash over her ruffled feelings. Indeed. A sound sleep on soft furs. The whooshing rush of water over rocks.

And the sharp crack of a stick just behind her.

S
amuel watched Red Bird stalk off into the darkness, shoulders straight, steps determined, the sway of her hips denouncing him in ways he wasn’t sure he understood. Something simmered under that lid of compliance. A slow fuse burned. When and where she’d explode concerned him. What kind of damage, how much hurt, and why worried him more.

“Such an odd little wife you’ve chosen, Mr. Heath.” Miss Browndell’s voice curled into his ear. “Which makes you all the more an enigma. I rather like that.”

He spun and grabbed her by the throat, pressure not enough to choke her, just the right amount to make a point. Behind her, Mingo advanced—until Samuel lifted a killing stare at him.

He lowered his gaze back to the woman. “You’re no more interested in me than you are in any man. Drop the charade.”

“We all know you won’t harm me.” Her voice vibrated beneath his palm. “We are two players on the same team, you and I.”

The idea of being yoked with her for anything left a rancid taste in his mouth. He dropped his hand and retreated a step. “I’m listening.”

A skeleton couldn’t have grinned with more eerie finesse. “Major Rafferty said you hold your cards tight to your chest. He wasn’t jesting.”

His mind rifled through every conversation he’d had with the woman the past five days. She’d never once mentioned the major. Either this was a trap … or a confirmation that she believed him loyal to the crown. But which?

He slipped his gaze past her to the open door of the council, where the low drone of discussion wafted out, then snapped his stare back to her. “These are dangerous times. I had to be sure of you and your manservant.”

She tipped her face to a seductive tilt. “And are you?”

Absolutely. This woman was death in a skirt. He folded his arms instead of voicing his conviction. “Certainty is a currency I rarely trade in.”

“Have I not shown my true colors?” Torchlight danced in her eyes, the flames reflecting a soul as lost as Hades.

Fatigue weighed heavy on his shoulders. This night, this entire journey sapped the life from him. He walked a razor-thin line between showing too much eagerness in conversation or not enough. Slipping one way or the other would keep the information inside her locked tight.

He unfolded his arms and lowered his voice, speaking as he might to a friend—though the act chipped away at his dignity. “Like I said, Miss Browndell, the charade is over, and for that I am grateful. What do you want to know?”

She glanced over her shoulder at the lodge, then lifted her face back to him. For the first time, doubt flickered at the corners of her mouth when she spoke. “What will they decide in there? What will be the outcome? You’re one of them. You would know.”

He rubbed a thumb along his jawline, stalling. How to steer this conversation through the white water of her quick mind? “My guess is Attakullakulla will prevail here—but at Chota?” He shook his head. “Dragging Canoe will not easily be convinced.”

A frown marred her face. “What will it take?”

“The Ani’yunwiya are tired of white lies. It will take more than the flash of a shiny new pistol to sway their minds.”

Her lips flattened, and she started pacing. Three steps one way, three back. Good. Let her come to her own conclusions before asking him. Finally, she stopped and faced him. “What do you suggest?”

“As I said, nothing is certain.” He shrugged. “But if you let one of them confirm the firearms exist, at least they’d know it’s not an empty promise.”

“No. Absolutely not.” Her voice turned to a freshly sharpened axe blade. “If that location gets into the wrong hands, there will be no mercy for me, though I am a woman.”

Planting seeds was always about timing. Waiting for the soil to warm. The fall of spring rains. Unearthing the dirt to just the right depth. Samuel counted the seconds, as if his mind were working to solve the dilemma for her, when all along his words were ready to sow.

“What if …” He rubbed the back of his neck, adding to the effect. “I suppose you could change the location once it’s confirmed. That way, Dragging Canoe will be satisfied the firearms are set aside for him, and you’d be assured the munitions are tucked away somewhere else. Even if by some chance the word got out, it would not matter.”

The bait was set. The hook sharp. Nothing more to be done but allow the woman to decide if she would bite.

Except for prayer.
Your will, Lord. Your will.

An angry voice shot from the lodge door, sharp as an arrow. Attakullakulla roared like a bear in response. Apparently the Beloved Man met with unwelcome opposition.

Samuel grabbed another vigil torch and lit the flame. “It will not bode well if we are found lurking at this door. I’ll see you to the guest lodge, Miss Browndell.”

The woman remained as silent as Mingo, who followed behind. Even when Samuel stopped at the lodge door and handed her the torch, she said nothing.