Beloved Captive (31 page)

“I’ve not yet told you a lie, and do not intend to do so in the future.”

But wasn’t allowing someone to believe what was not completely true also a lie? He shoved away the question along with its equally uncomfortable answer.

“You are the Benning.” A statement, not a question.

“I am Caleb Spencer, Miss Gayarre, and I defy you to prove otherwise.” The moment the words were out, he suppressed a groan.

“Take off your shirt,” she said, her voice without inflection. “An unmarked left shoulder will be your defense.”

“Surely you jest,” was his pathetic response.

“I assure you I am quite serious.”
 

Her expression told him she was.
“And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free
.
”
Yet the truth felt like a burden rather than an offer of freedom.

Miss Gayarre continued to stare, the handkerchief hanging limp in her hand.
 

To his utter astonishment, she rose on what appeared to be wobbly legs and walked right past him and out into the storm.

He went out to fetch her and haul her back inside draped over his good shoulder, one arm restraining her kicks and the other swiping the rain from his face.

“Put me down!” the schoolteacher shouted as she beat on his back with fists that carried surprising strength.
 

Once back inside the schoolhouse, Caleb was faced with a dilemma. As he’d tossed her over his shoulder like a bag of root vegetables—the better to retrieve her without argument or injury to himself—he could now see no gentle way to set her down.
 

Whether he dropped her or merely placed her feet on the ground, her flailing about would likely cause complications. To hold the woman any tighter would be to further cross the bounds of impropriety.

There was only one thing to do. As commander of this island, he must regain control.

“Cease this immediately,” he said with as much authority as he could muster under the circumstances, “or I shall be forced to treat you like the child your behavior emulates.”

“Child? How dare you insinuate such a thing? Why. . . ?” She paused, though her struggling continued. “What sort of threat are you making?”

“Well, Miss Gayarre,” he said as he shifted the wiggling bundle to ease the twinge in his sore shoulder. “What is it you do when one of your students misbehaves?”

She stilled, but only for a moment. “You wouldn’t.”

Of course not, but she did not know that. “Are you certain of this?”

Instantly, the fight went out of her. Caleb waited to be sure of it before sliding her to the floor. “I will turn my back to allow you to compose yourself,” he said, “but make no mistake: Neither of us is leaving until it is safe to do so.”

Even as he let her out of his sight, Caleb was careful to stand between the Gayarre woman and the door. If she tried the foolish move once, she might do it again.

As he waited, Caleb became aware of the silence in the room. Only the rain on the roof and its accompanying thunder broke the stillness.

“May I turn around?”

When she did not answer, he braved a look over his shoulder. She, too, had turned away, and all he could see was a blue bonnet, damp curls, and shoulders sagging forward.

“Miss Gayarre?”

Still no response.

Slowly, Caleb reached out to touch his palm to her shoulder. “Miss Gayarre, please accept my apologies for handling you so roughly. It’s just that I feared for your—”

To his surprise, the shoulder beneath his palm stiffened. “It. . .is. . .all. . .too. . .much.”

He felt terrible. Her voice, once so strong and defiant, held the tone of the child he’d just accused her of becoming. Worse, she began to tremble.

Caleb jerked back his hand to slide out of his jacket and place it around her. “Miss Gayarre?”

Even with the oversized jacket around her, the schoolteacher continued to shake. Caleb stepped around to stand in front of her. Carefully, he lifted her chin.

Her face was streaked with what had to be tears, not raindrops, and her eyes remained downcast. To see her now made him almost wish for the defiant woman who’d run out into the rain.

“It’s all too much,” she repeated.

“What’s all too much?” he echoed as frustration over his inability to understand rose.

“You were the first man to kiss me, yet. . .”

Tears spattered the toe of his boot as he took a step toward her. Searching for words caused his frustration to soar, and his inability to find them gave him pause to consider his next move.

Her chin tilted up to reveal a face now splotched with red and streaked with tears. Their gazes met. Perhaps he leaned forward, or maybe it was the schoolteacher who made the first move to fall into his embrace. The result was that Emilie Gayarre laid her head against his chest at the very spot where she’d once put a bullet.

Chapter 32

How long Emilie cried, her ear against Caleb Spencer’s chest and his rapidly beating heart, she had no idea. Reality crept up on her slowly, pushing away the clouds of grief until she saw clearly where she was and what she’d done.

With a start, she backed out of the judge’s arms and stood shaking like a fool. What had she been thinking to bare her pain to Caleb Spencer? Worse, to allow him to comfort her?
 

Clarity brought fresh grief along with the shame of letting her guard down with the last man she ever should have allowed to see her vulnerability. Fresh anger surprised her as the accusation spilled out.
 

“I believed I was a murderer,” Emilie said and felt him sigh. “But I am not.”

“No,” he said in a voice that was at once soft yet clear enough to be heard over the pounding rain.

She dared not look away, dared not move. “So you admit you are he.”

When he did not respond, she felt the tears well up again.
 

“The island, the kiss,” she said. “Will you also deny those?”

He looked away and said nothing, then reached for his pocket watch. “I think there have been enough questions for tonight.”

Something fell away from her shoulders, and Emilie realized she’d somehow donned his jacket. The judge reached down to retrieve it, and Emilie seized the opportunity to pick up her skirts and run out into the rain.

At first, her bonnet absorbed the worst of the rain, allowing Emilie to see her way toward the path to town clearly. Then, by degrees, the fabric lost its starch and drooped dangerously into her eyes. In order to swipe it away, she would have to let go of a corner of her skirt, which might then cause her to tumble down the steep hill.
 

It was, in all, quite the conundrum.

Emile sidestepped a puddle the size of her wash tub only to splash into another that had been hidden in the dark. She tromped on, the hem of her skirt now sodden with enough mud and rainwater to cause her to feel as if she was pulling it rather than wearing it.

Then her shoe caught in soft ground. Only the fact that it slipped off her foot and remained in the bog saved Emilie from a slide toward town on her backside.
 

“What next, Lord?” she called as lightning zigged dangerously across the sky and thunder cracked in its wake. “That was my best shoe.”

The hairs on her arms rose. Likely her shoe would see tomorrow, but if she turned back to fetch it, she might not.
 

Emilie picked up her pace, slinging her head back to force the sodden bonnet out of her eyes. The resulting rain peppering her face stung her eyes and temporarily blinded her, but to stop until she could see would be to risk allowing the judge to catch up to her.

That could not happen.

It simply could not.

She’d had all she could stand, and even if it meant walking through the worst weather the island had seen since last fall’s hurricane, so be it. Anything was better than spending one more minute caged in the small space with that man.

Once she reached the safety of her cottage, all would be well and worth the trouble.

“Miss Gayarre, I really must insist—” she heard just before a particularly loud crash of thunder.

The wind drove raindrops against her ear and through the soaked fabric of the bonnet as if it weren’t there. Still she pressed on, taking one step and then another until the ground came close to leveling out.
 

A group of Geiger trees hid the sharp turn that led to a fork in the road. To the right was the beach, while the left led to town. She took the path to the left by habit rather than sight, as seeing her way was quite impossible except when lightning illuminated her surroundings and cast the world in an eerie silver glow.

Soon the buildings of Fairweather Key’s downtown area came into view. Resisting the urge to see if her companion had followed, Emilie ran on until she reached the wooden sidewalk that led past the now-darkened and shuttered businesses. At the parsonage, she paused but a moment, then decided against stopping. There would be time enough to speak to Reverend Carter tomorrow. She pressed on past the trim cottage where her sister’s lamps burned bright, past the clinic where no doubt Micah Tate was resting, and past the funeral parlor where it seemed only yesterday that she’d seen to the arrangements for her brother’s burial.

Here and there, a curtain would lift and fall, but she saw no one. Likewise, the streets were barren of all signs of life. Faster now, and off across the path to take the road leading to her cottage.
 

Lightning streaked the sky as if showing her the way. By the time she reached the garden gate, she could barely go any farther. Somehow she climbed the steps, stumbled across the porch, and practically fell inside to slam and latch the door, leaving a trail of mud and rainwater from the parlor to the kitchen.

Emilie threw off her soiled garments and washed without light-
ing the lamps, then padded into her bedroom to don a fresh gown. It smelled of soap and sunshine, and those were the things she thought of as she fell asleep, heedless of the fact that it was barely past dinnertime.

When the wrecker’s warning bell jarred her from her sleep, Emilie rolled over and closed her eyes while the rain pounding on the roof lulled her back to her dreams.
     

* * *

August 16, 1836

The warehouse was full, and so was Caleb’s coffee cup. With only a few hours’ sleep, he felt as old as the antique silver service that was spread out in pieces on the table nearest the door. He looked around and shook his head. Until a full accounting of all valuables removed from last night’s wreck was made, he’d not rest.

“Ready to quit yet?”

Caleb turned to see the injured wrecker Micah Tate in the doorway. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the clinic?”

He shrugged, then gestured toward the arm tied up in a black sling. “I’m not one for lying around and waiting to feel better.”

“I see.”

He took a few steps forward, then stopped. “I’m here to ask for work,” he said. “Looks like you’re in need of some help, and I know I’m in need of something to occupy my time.”

Despite the man’s stellar reputation, Caleb was skeptical. “Why here?”

Tate nodded as if considering the question. Slowly, he began to smile. “I reckon I should be honest with you, Judge Spencer.”

Caleb leaned against the table and folded his hands over his chest. “That would be best.”

“I’ve got nowhere to go and nothing to do until this arm’s back to working right.” He paused. “I was master on two wrecks last week, but you and I both know it takes time for that to pay out.”

The process was lengthy, this Caleb was just learning. First the insurance companies had to be satisfied and then the owners. Last, the wreckers and the master saw their portions, but not until the auctioneer and the local authorities took their cuts.

“I’m an honest, God-fearing man, Judge Spencer, and I need something to fill my time. I’ve been talking to the reverend about helping at the church, but that’s not going to be anything but part time.” Another pause. “Reverend Carter’s wanting me to preach.”

“So you’re a preacher, are you?”

“No, I’m a wrecker, but the reverend, he says the Lord’s got plans for me.” Micah shrugged. “But I didn’t come here to talk about that. Are you going to try and do this all by yourself, or are you going to do the smart thing and hire me?”

Caleb laughed, then met the wrecker halfway to shake his hand. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Tate,” he said. “When can you start?”

“Now’s as good a time as any,” the redhead said. “Where do I begin?”

Ten minutes later Caleb was headed back to his office, secure in the knowledge that Micah Tate would do as good a job as he, possibly better. He sorted through several stacks of papers, but as his eyes began to glaze over, he decided to gather some of them up to take back to the boardinghouse.

When he walked in the door, fully expecting to be greeted by the ever-curious Mrs. Campbell, he found a trio of girlish voices harmonizing, while a woman sang the most lovely melody. Caleb crept closer to the kitchen, being careful not to call attention to his arrival.

There he found the woman named Ruby, who now helped Mrs. Campbell, standing at the stove, stirring something that smelled heavenly. At the table, three straw-haired girls bent over what looked like a schoolbook. A second glance showed the item to be a cookbook, though it appeared none of them could read it.

Leaving them to their work, Caleb slipped upstairs to his room and closed the door. Spreading the pages on the cabinet that served as desk and wardrobe, he picked up the most pressing of the group and began to formulate a response.

The attempt at work, however, lasted only as long as it took him to loosen his waistcoat and slip off his boots. He closed his eyes with the purpose of considering a supreme court opinion that seemed applicable to the issue on the page and awoke to the sound of someone calling him to supper.

Caleb sat bolt upright and tried to remember where he was. He’d dreamed of rainstorms and a missing slipper and of the woman who fled from his embrace without retrieving her shoe. She was beautiful, with wide brown eyes and a handkerchief covered with spring flowers and hair that smelled of lavender and salt air.