The Captive Heart (10 page)

“What are you asking, Ya’nu?”

He scrubbed the last bits of pemmican from his lips. “I need you to make the run this time.”

The caw of an overhead crow rode the crest of Inoli’s rumble of dissent. “I do not have enough English words.”

“No need.” With one more reach inside the pouch, he pulled out another scrap, this one of rag paper, smaller, rolled into a tight coil, and sealed in wax. He held it out in an open palm. “I never meet my contact face-to-face anyway. Just slip into Circular’s Graveyard, off Meeting Street. In the third to last row, closest to the hedges, there’s a skull engraved on the fifth headstone, a space carved out in the mouth. Name on the stone is Simmons, though I doubt that information will do you any good. Tuck these inside the hole—but watch your back.”

Inoli’s lips straightened into a line, unreadable in every sense, yet he reached for the note and the map.

A movement on the far side of the lea drew both their faces aside. The smallest flash of fawn rustled in the undergrowth, maybe twenty-five yards off. They stood together, the quick jut of Inoli’s chin handing him the privilege.

He frowned, but shrugged off his bow and reached for an arrow. It was certainly no privilege that he’d just handed his brother—it was a death sentence should Inoli be caught by the English.

And his own life if they tortured his name from his brother’s mouth.

C
ool night air crept across the floor and wrapped around Eleanor’s ankles, working its way up her legs beneath her skirt. If the front door had blown open, she sure hadn’t heard the gust of wind. She turned from the table she’d fashioned out of planks, then froze in place. Her husband had not only entered, but had already shut the front door and hung his hat on a peg. How could a man that big move with such silence? His gaze darted from the newly made table, to a mug of wildflowers she’d picked with Grace, then swept the perimeter, taking in the straightened crates, the pots hung on a wall instead of heaped in a pile, and the folded pile of Grace’s clothing set sweetly in a basket.

His lips parted, but it took awhile before sound came out. “What have you done?”

Clasping her hands in front of her, she lifted her chin. “This place was in need of some tidying up, Mister—”

His dark eyes shot to hers, and she clamped her mouth. Though he’d told her to call him otherwise, his name stuck in her throat, scraping it raw. It was too intimate to call the man Samuel, yet Heath seemed so harsh, something the likes of a pirate might catcall.

And husband was out of the question.

So she stood there, biting her lower lip, saying nothing.

“Well.” He kept his voice even, the half of his face she could see as stoic as a rune stone and about as impossible to read. “Looks like you had quite the busy time of it.”

Was he pleased? Angry? What? The longer she stood there trying to decipher the curve of his shoulders and set of his jaw, the larger her uncertainty grew—until it nearly squashed her beneath the weight.

Oh, bother! Why care what the man thought? He’d been gone all day, leaving her to fend for herself and Grace. Desperate for her hands to do something other than twist into knots, she swept her arm toward the table. “Would you like some dinner?”

His brow disappeared into the dark swath of hair covering his forehead. “I already ate dinner at noon. Around here we call the evening meal
supper.
But in answer to your question, aye … I’ve a fair appetite.”

In six long strides, he crossed the floor and straddled the barrel she’d hauled in.

She stood near her own barrel, opposite his, waiting for the brute to rise until she sat.

He merely picked up his knife.

She cleared her throat, several times over.

Finally, he cocked his head, suspending his speared piece of meat over the pot at center. “I suspect you’ve got something to say.”

A retort sat on the edge of her tongue, prickly and condemning. She swallowed it back. Why should she presume a wild man to know anything about manners?

“A gentleman waits for a lady to take her seat first,” she explained.

“That so?” He grunted like the animal he was. But to his credit, he set the meat back in the pot and rose, towering over her. “That better?”

“Much.” She awarded him a half smile, then spread her skirt over the barrel as she sat. The movement cut her stays into the bruises on her ribs, and she stifled a moan. Before he could load up his plate, she held out hers. “And a gentleman always serves a lady first, as well.”

His barrel groaned as he shifted—or had the noise come from his throat? No matter, for he skewered a piece of the rabbit she’d boiled all day and scraped it onto her plate, using the rim to lever it off.

A horrid odor wafted up from the grey chunk of meat in front of her, similar to the way leather shoes smelled when they’d been worn one too many times. She pressed down her knife—for knives were the only utensils she’d found—yet the meat in no way gave to the pressure. So she employed a sawing action, only to have the rabbit skate from one edge of the plate to the other. She dared a peek across the table, where he fared no better.

“The meat may be a little overcooked, I think.” Oh, that was brilliant. Her conversational skills suffered as much as she in this godforsaken country.

He wrapped his big fingers like a fist around the knife handle, then stabbed the point into his meal, pausing before popping the piece into his mouth. “I hauled home some venison today. Maybe you’ll fare better with that.”

He chewed, and chewed—then chewed some more. His jaw worked overtime, the muscles on the side of his neck standing out against his long sweep of hair. His throat bobbed, and she averted her eyes, not wishing to watch the big lump travel the length of his throat.

He snatched the mug off the table, guzzled a big drink, then spewed liquid all over the floor. “What is this?”

She frowned up at him, then took a sip of the tea she’d brewed nearly as long as she’d cooked the rabbit. A sour taste lodged at the back of her throat. No, not sour. The liquid tasted like death. Maybe those hadn’t been tea leaves in the pouch she’d found. She coughed her mouthful back into her cup, mortified, then seized the scrap of cloth she’d fashioned into a napkin and wiped her lips, tempted to dry off her tongue, too.

His eyes widened. “And what on God’s green earth is that?”

An angry whimper from Grace’s crib chided his volume.

“A napkin.” She forced her voice to remain calm, hoping the effect would bring peace.

He stood so quickly, the barrel wobbled. “Woman, didn’t I tell you you’re not in England anymore?”

She shot upward as well, anger shaking the fabric of her skirt. The nerve of the man! Everything about this severe and rugged place screamed at her, accusing her of her foreign status, reminding her she didn’t fit in—would
never
fit in. Nor did she want to, despite her pathetic attempts otherwise.

The crib rattled side to side as Grace rolled fitfully.

Eleanor tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear, unsure how to navigate the waters of roiling emotions churning in her empty belly. She frowned at her husband—then scowled inwardly at herself for thinking of him as such. “Manners are not bound by geographical locations, sir. If you want Grace to have a proper upbringing, then you will use a napkin when you dine.”

“I’m not hungry anymore.” He strode to the door.

“Wait!”

He wheeled about, a question written in the curve of his shoulders.

A sigh drained the rest of her anger, and she tugged at the stays digging into her ribs. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Indeed, nothing about this encounter was going as expected. He should’ve been pleased with her cleaning efforts, sated and relaxed after eating his fill of dinner, or supper, or whatever he wanted to call it, so much that he’d grant her request of going in to town on the morrow.

But the tainted taste of meat in her mouth and unused napkin staring up at her from the table trapped the appeal in her throat. She couldn’t ask him now, not when he bristled like a cornered porcupine.

Defeated, she simply nodded toward the pallet of pelts she’d made for him in the corner farthest from the bed. “You do not have to sleep in the stable.”

His head reared back, and he looked at her down his nose. “What are you saying, woman?”

Her mouth dried to ashes, and she licked her lips. Surely he didn’t think she’d just invited him into her bed? “I made up a pallet for you. This is your home, after all.”

For a moment, something flashed deep in his brown eyes, then disappeared as fast as it came. “No, it’s
our
home. And I thank you.”

He strode to the pallet and sank, pulling off one boot and then the other, though she wondered if they could be called such. Tall as Hessians, crafted of soft leather, sporting fringes at top and laces up front, these were nothing like she’d ever seen—and neither was the man. Oh, she’d spied many a brawny redcoat back in London, but Mr. Heath was more than height and muscle. Something about him filled the entire space of a room when he entered. Why? Was it the determined tilt of his jaw? The air of mystery he hid behind that swath of dark hair? Or maybe….

His gaze flicked up to hers, catching her in the act of studying him. She blustered into action, scraping the dinner remains back into the iron pot and covering all her humiliation with a lid. He chuckled.

She ignored him. Removing the glass chimney from the lamp, she blew out the flame. Darkness settled over the room, as even as Grace’s breathing. Eleanor padded to the bed and lay down on top of it, unwilling to commit to slipping beneath the blanket. Had she done the right thing by allowing him to remain in the same room all night? She turned to her side, slipping her hand beneath the pillow, and rested her fingers atop the cold metal of the knife she’d hidden.

“I’m facing the wall, Tatsu’hwa.” The man’s voice blended with the shadows, wending its way across the room. “I will not turn around. Be at peace and do what you need to ready yourself for bed.”

“I am in bed.” The words came out before she thought. Heat blazed from head to toe for saying such a thing to a man, even if the man was her husband.

His sigh rose, drifting somewhere up near the rafters. “You can’t sleep in your gown forever, woman. It will rot right off your bones. I give you my word I will not look.”

Her throat closed. If only it were that easy.

“Have I given you cause not to trust me?” His question came out low, husky, almost as if it might never have come out at all if he’d not forced it.

She shifted her head, sifting through the layers of what he asked, sensing her answer held some kind of strange power. The man knew tragedy—deeply, bitterly—as evidenced by the lack of a mother for Grace. Had his first wife not trusted him? What had happened to her? Was that the root of his brusque ways?

“No,” she said at last. “It is not that.”

“Then what is it?”

She bit the inside of her cheek so hard, a metallic taste spread on her tongue. How to answer? Invent a story? Concoct a logical answer that might satisfy? Embellish or outright lie?

She smoothed a hand along her tummy, and her stays took a bite. If she didn’t answer honestly, she might be buried in this bodice—soon. “It is my stays.”

The noise started low, kind of a rumble, really. She lifted her head, listening hard, and a great belly laugh slapped her in the face.

She rose to her elbows. “I find no humor in the situation, Mr. Heath!”

The laughter faded, and as soon as it disappeared, she missed the happy sound, for what came next chilled her to the marrow.

Rustling sounded on the pelts. Feet hit the floor.

“Get up,” he said.

She froze. “Pardon?” The black silhouette of the man stood at the foot of her bed. What little light crawled in through the cracks of burlap hung on the windows brushed moonfire along his profile, tracing half his face, the cut of his cheekbones, the square angles of his jaw, and the lines of his full mouth.

“I said get up, Tatsu’hwa.”

There was no disobeying that voice. She’d heard it before in the summons of a duke or instructions from a countess.

Rolling over, she slid the knife beneath her sleeve, concealing the weapon should she need it, then rose on legs as shaky as a newborn foal. What did he intend?

But he did not advance. He merely folded his arms. “Take the gown off.”

“Mr. Heath!” She backed up until the log wall slammed into her back.

He widened his stance, broad as a mountain and every bit as unmovable. “Take the gown off, and I’ll get you out of your stays.”

“And how do you propose to do that? For I shall not allow you to touch me.” She sucked in air, mind whirring. Instinct told her that simple scratches on this man’s face would not deter him as it had the duke. The knife pressed against her skin, cold and hard inside her sleeve. Would she be forced to use it against him?

Could she?

“No touching involved.” Moonlight slid along the sharp edge of his own raised blade, hers nothing but a child’s toy in comparison.

“No!” Her eyes widened. “Absolutely not. Come no closer.”

“How long have you been in that gown?”

Her cheeks scorched. This was worse than mortifying. This type of discussion would never happen in England.

Slowly, her head sank. As he had so aptly reminded her, England was far, far away. “Two days,” she whispered.

“Well, then I figure it’s like this.” He stepped toward her, stopping an arm’s length away. “There’s not another woman around for miles to assist you. Either you let me help, or you’ll develop such a rash as to take the hide off your bones. I suspect even now your ribs are bruised and you’re chafing something fierce.”

She jerked up her face, scowling. How would he know?

“So, Red Bird,” his voice softened. “Shall I cut the blessed thing off or unlace it?”

Her gaze shot from his face to his knife, then back again. Searching inwardly, desperately, she mustered every scrap of courage she could find to say what she must to this stranger. “Unlace it, please. But turn around, first.”