Runaway (16 page)

When he and his men were not at sea, they all had their functions on Jarrett’s various land holdings. In their absence the household was run by Jeeves, a tall man of African and Indian ancestry, black as ebony, strong as an ox, a man who had acquired a cultured Brahman accent while working for a senator in Boston. Jeeves was a free man, paid highly for his services, and yet he had been with Jarrett so long that he seemed like a member of the family.

Jeeves himself seemed to be color blind. He directed the household and plantation servants—Indian, African, American, Irish, English, Spanish, Haitian, and Creole—with dignity and authority. Jarrett had a natural curiosity about people, and in his traveling, when he had come across the right person for a certain position at Cimarron, he had hired that man or woman on. He also had a tendency to collect lost souls. Two of his upstairs
maids were Irish lasses who had lost their parents to the sea on their journey to the States and wound up orphaned and penniless on the streets of Charleston. Many half-breed Indians, some lost in both worlds, had come to him for work. Sometimes, especially for those men working for him in the fields, the pay was small. But in compensation they all had their little bits of land to till, and they had freedom. Jarrett didn’t judge for other men, but in his own mind slavery was wrong. He had learned at an early age that a man couldn’t be judged by his color, and he had been privileged to see that men of the greatest integrity might be either full-blooded American Indians or Africans of the deepest ebony hue. The one thing that should never be stripped from any man was his dignity, and no matter how good a master might be, owning a man, taking away his free right to live and breathe and pursue his own dream, surely stripped away his dignity. Cimarron had proven to him that he could survive without slaves, and he meant to do so until his dying day.

Cimarron lacked almost nothing. Except, since Lisa’s death, a mistress. Jeeves, Jarrett thought, would be glad to see that his employer was bringing home a new wife. A mistress.

Jarrett swore softly to himself. No matter what pattern his thoughts ran in, they always returned to
her
.

His pants dried, his flesh dried. The sun was already beginning to set in the night sky. He heard laughter and a moment later the sound of Robert’s fiddle. Beautiful, plaintive strains of music rose into the soft, crimson and gold splashes of sunset. A moment later he heard
her
.

And of course, her voice was perfect. Crystal clear, true, melodic, lovely. Robert didn’t miss a note of the old English ballad, “Greensleeves.” A touch of a soft
accent—Irish, perhaps?—added a lilt and curved sweetly into her words as she sang the plaintive song.

Robert’s pleasant tenor joined in with the beautiful mezzo-soprano as she finished the chorus. A moment’s silence followed, then a rush of applause, and the sounds of laughter once again.

It was so easy for her to laugh with Robert, Jarrett mused. He realized that he was forever jumping down her throat, but then …

There was so much he had to reconcile within himself. And he’d be damned if he’d fall any farther under her spell. Not when she was so determined to keep her secrets.

“Captain?”

Leo was behind him, dark brows furrowed, his features concerned.

“What is it, Leo?”

“You haven’t eaten a bite today, sir. Nathan’s created a fine gumbo. I swear his stuff is just fine at sea—on land the lad’s food is inedible!”

“Anything will be edible at this moment. I am famished,” Jarrett said.

“Gumbo’s been delivered to the captain’s cabin, sir. Robert thought as how you might like to wash up before you eat, what with the sea salt on you and all.”

“Is that what Robert thought?”

“Oh, aye, sir. We’re running a bit low on fresh water—Robert thought as well that Mrs. McKenzie would like a hot bath after her swim.”

“So Robert thought, eh?”

“Oh, yes—well, your wife was most appreciative, Captain!”

“I do imagine,” Jarrett murmured. “But my wife has had her bath, and we’re now low on fresh water.”

“Aye, but we’re almost home, sir!”

“Of course. How forgetful of me,” Jarrett said.

His irony was lost on Leo.

“I’ll take the helm, sir. Shall we trim the sails in? Does seem the breeze is picking up again, from the northwest.”

“Aye, Leo. See to it,” Jarrett said. He left the helm, finding that he was not required to speak with any of his men, for Leo was shouting out his orders and the crew—including Robert—were busy with the sails.

Good.

At least they were no longer being musically seduced by his wife!

With a sigh and renewed determination to enjoy the benefits of his new marriage while keeping a careful emotional distance from his mystery bride, he quickened his footsteps. He was suddenly hungry and weary—and annoyingly eager to hear her laughter himself.

Tara heard his footsteps as he neared the cabin. Others had come to the cabin today—in fact, Robert and every man on the crew had come at one time or another to see to her welfare.

But as soon as she heard the tread, remarkably light for such a man, even upon the planks of a ship, she knew that he was coming. She felt her heart quicken, and she was not sure if it was with dread or anticipation.

She had been stretched out on the bunk musing over the strange man she had married.
Yes, he was incredibly
,
darkly
,
ruggedly handsome, a man with the lithe but muscled build of a buccaneer. She had never even begun to dream of the fires he could build within her, even if her breath had caught each time those eyes seared her. It seemed he was always demanding the truth, and if he were ever to know it …

She shivered fiercely. She hadn’t lied to him. He had demanded to know not if she had been accused of murder, but if she had been guilty of it. And she had not. And he had promised to demand no more of her. As long as she kept to her part of the bargain. Marriage … their
bargain
.

There was no hardship in it. Even last night when she had been hurt and angry and he had finally roused her from such a deep sleep. He could caress and arouse … seduce, so very easily.

And become so remote and angry again so quickly! She shivered, remembering how his voice could crack like deep thunder, how demanding he could be. Then she gritted down hard on her teeth and squared her shoulders. She had cast her fate with his—and he had swept her away from a fate she had considered much worse than death.

But what now lay ahead?

It didn’t matter, she determined. She was going to hold her own. She would keep up her part of this agreement and be whatever he wanted in a wife.

But she’d not let him dictate to her like a tyrant! She’d run too long on her own to surrender her independence and soul to any man. It had been months since she had escaped the disaster set upon her.

The doors opened. Despite all her resolve she found herself tucking her bare feet beneath the white gown she had found in the trunk. She felt that she was looking at him like a guilty child, and she quickly grew angry with
herself. She would not be intimidated. She admired him, she was grateful to him. And she had to be very careful, because he did seem to have the ability to steal her soul, bit by bit. She was quite certain he would have the same affect on other women. His power to seduce was as great as his quiet strength, a power that had already wrested her from a few forms of the devil. He had married her; he seemed to want her. He had no regrets, and yet …

She was, she thought, like anything else he might have acquired. He would take care of her. Tend to her well-being. And set her upon a shelf when he was busy elsewhere and expect her to behave. He would not want her interfering in his life.

The door closed behind him. He was still shirtless and barefoot, and though his breeches were dry, they still clung to his hips tightly. His shoulders and torso were nearly copper from the sun. The muscles in his calves and thighs were clearly delineated by the hugging fit of his breeches.

His dark eyes lit upon her as he strode the few feet to his desk. A dinner tray sat there, the silver cover still in place. He lifted it and saw one bowl, one round of bread, and one wineglass. He arched a brow at her.

“I’ve eaten,” she said quickly.

He nodded, sat in the chair behind his desk, and lifted the wineglass, black eyes on her while he sipped it. It struck Tara suddenly what an intimate—and awkward—moment this was. For a normal couple it might be a special time. The
Magda
rocked gently, the candle on his desk burned softly. The air was perfect, cool and fresh, and the cabin was both handsome and confining, bringing the two of them quite close together whether they wished it or not.

“So you’ve eaten—and bathed?” he said softly, finishing the wine, setting the glass down.

She nodded again, feeling a curious heat flood her. “Did I need permission to do either?” she heard herself asking, an edge to her tone.

He folded his hands idly in his lap, a slight curl to his lip as he watched her now. “Maybe. With most women, I could easily say a simple no. But with you, if I say no, you will most likely think of a plunge into the ocean or river as bathing. Or you will tell me that forging into the wilderness on your own is a hunt for dinner meat. You, madam, will thus find a way to have a reason for any course of action you want to take!”

“You needn’t fear. I’ll not be trudging into any wilderness,” she said. A sudden shuddering seized her. She prayed that he did not see the motion. She’d been afraid of spiders and snakes all of her life. She was aware that even Georgians—those living on the Florida border!—often considered the interior of Florida to be the most savage of all wilderness.

“How curious. You’re afraid of alligators and the like—yet haven’t the least fear of meeting up with a nasty shark!”

She shrugged uneasily. “I’m familiar with the ocean,” she murmured. “Are you?”

She didn’t answer. He picked up his gumbo and began to eat. He must have been very hungry, for he finished it quickly, poured himself more wine, and leaned back in his chair, studying its color, his bare flesh gleaming ever more copper in the candlelight, even the dark hair upon it touched by a golden glow. His gaze suddenly riveted itself back on her and she felt as if she had been physically touched.

“It’s a good thing you’re not afraid of pirates.”

“Pirates?”

“Indeed. José Gaspar used to cruise these waters.
There’s buried treasure everywhere on the barren sand islands. Dead men tell no tales, so they say, and I assure you, many a pirate has left the skeletal remains of his onetime companions to guard his gold and jewels.”

“You forget, I was living in New Orleans,” she reminded him with a wave of her hand. “Pirates helped defeat the British during the Battle of New Orleans. Jean Lafitte fought with Jackson.”

“Indeed he did,” Jarrett murmured.

“You say that with authority.”

“It’s history, is it not? And, alas, we’re sailing away from New Orleans.”

There was a challenge now in those dark eyes and she determined that she would not allow him to force her to betray herself in any way. She didn’t reply, but lowered her eyes, hugging her knees to her chest.

He rose and even before she looked up, she felt the burning ebony of his eyes pierce right into her.

He stood before her where she sat on the bunk, and she looked up slowly, painfully aware of the ridged muscles of his abdomen and the bareness of his coppery flesh. She met his eyes, forcing herself to lift a brow in a regal and silent question. He hunkered slowly down so that he was balancing himself on the balls of his feet, his eyes meeting hers on the same level.

“I’m curious!” he said softly. “When we’ve reached my one-man’s-heaven-another-man’s-hell, what then? Will you be seeking to run away again?”

She moistened her lips, meeting his gaze evenly. “I’ve nowhere to go,” she told him.

“Ah! Not a reassuring answer. If you had somewhere to go, would you then be running there, away from me?”

“I’ve not reneged on any bargain,” she whispered.

“You’ve not been given much chance.”

She lowered her eyes again, suddenly unable to meet
his. “Why would I wish to run from you? You have rescued me at peril to yourself.”

“Ah, but I saw the rage of independence in your eyes today! You seemed to believe that you had shackled yourself to a tyrant.”

“You were—extremely rude.”

“I can be a tyrant.”

“And I, sir, may then have my rages!” she responded, her words suddenly quite heated.

She was surprised when he laughed, rising to take a seat upon the bunk, then leaning against the paneled wall at its head. He pulled her back to lie upon his chest, her hips within the spread of his hard-muscled thighs. His fingers moved gently through the golden threads of her hair as he stretched tendril after tendril out over his own flesh.

“It’s really not so terrible!” he told her softly.