Now and Forever (72 page)

He arched a brow. The situation grew more strange with each revelation. "I am not familiar with this town," he said blandly. "Where do your friends reside?"

"They live in a big white house," she said. "Darling little Abigail said--"

#

One second Dakota was seated in a pile of leaves, the next she was dangling in the air, nose to nose with the angriest man on the planet.

"Abigail." You could actually growl a word. She wouldn't have believed it if she hadn't heard it with her very own ears. "If you know anything of her whereabouts, speak now, madam, or speak to your Maker before the moon rises."

"Too late." The words popped out before she could stop them. Talk about a death wish. "The moon's already up." Although you couldn't see it for the storm.

 
He pulled her close to him until she could feel the horn buttons on his coffee brown waistcoat pressing against her belly. He held her fast with just one arm--a remarkable feat considering the fact that her bathroom scale issued daily warnings. She felt downright petite and delicate, the way she had when he'd encircled her ankle with his hand. She'd always daydreamed about having a man span her waist with his hands and this was about as close as she was likely to get unless she met a guy with hands the size of a cherry picker.

Too bad he had to go and ruin the moment by wrapping one of his big hands around her throat and squeezing.

"I will continue to apply pressure, madam, until you tell me what you know about the child."

His fingers pressed harder on her windpipe. Good thing she'd had her tonsils removed when she was three years old, otherwise they'd be popping out the top of her head.

Your smart mouth's going to get you in trouble one day.
If she'd heard it once, she'd heard it a thousand times. She was about to give her life for a one-liner.

"You are moments away from unconsciousness," he said calmly. "Consider your options swiftly."

"C-can't talk." She pointed to her throat. "C-can't breathe either."

"Be quick, madam, or face my wrath."

Who does your dialogue, Rafael Sabatini?

"Where is the child?" he repeated.

The pressure eased and she gulped in a deep breath. "I don't know." The pressure returned briefly, a subtle reminder of who was in charge. "She ran off when she heard you approaching."

"Where did she run?"

"Into the woods." She watched, astonished, as the expression in his dark blue eyes changed from anger to fear. He was definitely the kid's father. "What on earth did you do to that child?" she berated him, hanging from his arm like an overcoat. "She said you don't like her."

He met her eyes. "The child is right."

The son of a bitch. What a way to build a kid's self-esteem. "No wonder she ran away."

"Madam, we have yet to explore your own virtues."

He threw her over his shoulder and started toward his horse. He had her cellulite in a death grip.

"Put me down!"

He ignored her.

"If you don't put me down I'll scream loud enough to wake the entire town."

"We are at war, madam," he shot back, not breaking stride. "A scream in the night is a frequent occurrence."

Her breath caught inside her chest. At war! Could it be? Had she somehow tumbled into the very place she needed to be? She struggled to stay calm. "How goes the fighting? I have had no news in days." Not bad. She sounded like a cross between
Masterpiece Theatre
and
Poor Richard's Almanack.

"Clever, madam. A simple request for information." She felt his chest rumble with laughter. "These are dangerous times. Spies come in many guises, some more memorable than others."

"You think I'm a spy?"

"I have yet to make that judgment."

"Trust me," she said. "I'm no spy. You have nothing to worry about on that account."

They reached the horse. He swung her up onto the saddle like she was a child then took his position behind her.

"You're making a mistake," she said. "There's nothing I can do for you."

"You will help me find the child, Mistress Dakota Wylie." He grabbed the reins and they were off in a swirl of snow and leaves.

Twenty-four hours ago she'd been camped in the woods with a bunch of women and kids, wondering if she was doomed to spend the rest of her life with people who couldn't remember her name. They'd called her Utah, Nevada and Montana and she supposed she should have been grateful they'd restricted themselves to states west of the Mississippi.

Now there she was, galloping through the woods on a moonlit night with a man who not only remembered her name but was able to carry her in his arms without turning red in the face and gasping for air.

Too bad it would probably end up with her in the town jail before sunrise.

#

She smelled better than a woman so strangely attired had any right to smell. There was about her person the scent of something floral and sweet, a scent at direct odds with her masculine attire and unusual haircomb. It rose up from her hair and skin, discernible even through the cold, wet smell of snow. Indeed, he could remember few women who smelled as enticing, especially when not fresh from bathing.

Susannah. The way the sun played off her lustrous golden hair. The laughter like a carillon of bells.

The heart of stone.

And you, madam?
he thought, glancing down at the woman cradled against his chest.
What manner of treachery are you about?

She could be a spy, sent by the British in New York to acquire information to help them in their cause. She could be a patriot, determined to discover where his own loyalties rested. She could be a good wife who had followed her husband into battle, only to find herself lost and alone as a storm approached.

Good wife.
The words sounded false to his ears. There was something most peculiar about the woman and he would be damned if he let her out of his sight until he determined exactly what it was.

"Stop!" Her voice sounded urgent.

He did as requested. "You are in pain, madam?"

"Over there." She pointed down and to her right. "That's Abigail's doll. Or at least part of it."

He turned to look. "I see naught but rags."

"I know that striped cloth," she persisted. "It was poking out from the doll's shoulder."

He had not realized Abigail possessed a rag doll. "This is no revelation, madam. No doubt both Abigail and her doll have traversed these woods with great regularity."

"She's here now."

"You cannot know that with certainty."

"Yes, I can."

"You are uncommonly stubborn, madam, or blessed with second sight."

"Do you want to argue with me or find your daughter?"

He dismounted. "I wish to put an end to this encounter as swiftly as possible."

She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Then listen to me: Abigail is behind the holly bushes about fifty yards from here. The hem of her cloak is showing."

He grabbed the peculiar woman by the waist and swung her down from the saddle.

"You can't expect me to walk with this ankle. Put me back on the horse."

"That would be most unwise."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said. "Where am I going to go?"

Grimly he tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

"You didn't really think I was going to run away?" Her voice was muffled by his back.

"Draw your own conclusions, madam, from the evidence at hand."

"Trust me, you didn't have to worry. Horses and I don't get along. When I was a kid I never..."

She talked more than any three women of his acquaintance but it was she who had spotted the hem of Abigail's cloak. That truth rankled as he strode toward the bushes with bleak determination.

#

Of course Dakota had lied to him when she said she had no intention of escaping. She'd had every intention of digging her heels into the horse's flanks and galloping hell-bent for leather as far away as she could possibly get.

Which, all things considered, would have been a mistake. Maybe all the blood rushing to her head as he carried her was helping to clarify the situation.

Dakota supposed any woman in her right mind would be royally insulted at being draped over a man's shoulder like a mailbag. An hour from now she would probably be furious, too, but right now she was enjoying the whole thing immensely. There was something to be said for feeling like a fragile flower of femininity. She wouldn't be surprised if her T-shirt and jeans were morphing into a satin ballgown. Even her hair felt longer and straighter.

She refused to believe her destiny was tied up with Devane and his daughter. This whole adventure was nothing more than the equivalent of taking the wrong exit on the Jersey Turnpike. You mutter a pungent phrase or two then get back on at the next exit and try again.

Of course it helped if you had someone to give you directions.

Too bad Patrick Devane didn't seem the helpful type.

You're a smart one,
she thought
. You're not going to make this easy on me.

He might be smart but she was smarter. She had two hundred years of additional evolution on her side and she had the feeling she would need every one of them.

Chapter Four

Abigail peered out from behind the holly bush at the astonishing sight. Papa had killed the monster and was carrying the body home so everyone would know how brave he was. The monster didn't look half so fierce draped over papa's shoulder. It looked little and weak, and Abigail felt sad that it had come to such a terrible end.

"Abigail!" Papa's voice rang out. He sounded angry, the way he had when Mama left with the soldier.

She ducked deeper in the bushes, holding back a sneeze as icy snowflakes tickled her nose.

"Now, Abigail!"

Maybe if she crouched down low and didn't so much as breathe he wouldn't realize she was there.

"This is stupid!"

Abigail's head popped up at the second voice.

"The poor kid's scared to death of you."

The monster was alive! How could that be?

Papa stepped forward until the toes of his black leather boots were close enough to touch. Her nose twitched from the smell of polish and earth.

Her teeth were chattering like marbles on a tin roof and all she could think of was Cook's tasty mutton stew, all piping hot from the hearth.
Don't be a baby, Abby! If you go home Papa will send you away to Boston.

She had to stay there in the woods even if she was afraid the bears would find her and grind her up for dinner.

"Abigail!"

He grabbed for her sleeve but she was too fast for him. Clutching Lucy, she darted out from the bushes and ran deeper into the woods. She wasn't afraid of anything, not wolves or bears or monsters. If Papa was going to send her off to school in Boston, first he'd have to catch her.

#

The kid ran as if the hounds of hell were at her heels. Those short legs managed to eat up an incredible amount of ground and, in an instant she vanished into the woods with her father close behind.

"Whither thou goest," Dakota muttered as Devane leaped a fallen tree like an Olympic hurdler. Too bad his boots hadn't been fitted with shock absorbers.

Her psychic antennae might be down but her imagination was up and running, and every scenario she came up with cast Patrick Devane as the villain. Not that the kid wasn't showing a marked tendency toward villainy herself--apparently tantrums had been invented long before child psychologists.

Father and daughter had some pretty strange family dynamics going on between them and if this were the twentieth century, she'd say they were prime candidates for Oprah or Phil.