The Captive Heart (31 page)

“All’s forgiven.” Miss Browndell leaned over and patted her arm. “Besides, I’m not alone anymore. I have Mr. Heath and you.”

The woman’s gaze shot to the open door of the stable where Samuel and her manservant, Mingo, emerged. Mingo led a mount laden with packs. Samuel held a firm grasp on a tether attached to a high-stepping horse and … Eleanor narrowed her eyes. That was no sidesaddle.

“This one’s yours.” He handed the reins to Miss Browndell, a smirk lifting half his mouth as the horse shied violently away from her.

Miss Browndell pulled the mount under control without so much as wrinkling her skirt. “Not that I don’t appreciate the effort you’ve put into tacking up this horse for me, but where is the mount I rode in on?”

“That one would never make it. Not on the trail we’ll be traveling.” Samuel reset his hat and stared down at the petite woman. Either he credited her with proficiency or was making some kind of point. “If you can’t manage this, say so now. I’ll not have your broken neck on my conscience.”

Eleanor held her breath. Would the journey end before it began? Yes! Hopefully.
Please, Lord?

Miss Browndell arched her perfect little brow at Samuel, then urged the horse forward. She swung herself up and over the saddle, settling her skirts astride as if she rode like a man every day of her life. But hardly before her small backside stilled, the horse took off like buckshot.

“Samuel!” Eleanor’s hands flew to her chest. “She will be hurt.”

He stood, immovable, his eyes following the flight of the horse and rider—until Miss Browndell eventually trotted back, her cheeks all the rosier for the exertion.

“I think I shall enjoy this horse very much.” She smiled down at him. “Intuitive choice, Mr. Heath.”

A muscle jumped on Samuel’s jaw, but he said nothing. He merely wheeled about and untethered Wohali. He swung one long leg up and over, indicated Mingo should do the same with his mount, then trotted over to Eleanor. Bending, he offered her a hand. “Up you go, Tatsu’hwa.”

“You cannot be serious.” She frowned up at him. “Where is my mount?”

“You ride with me.”

Her lips pulled into a pout to rival one of Grace’s, yet there was nothing to be done for it.

“I can manage a horse as well as Miss Browndell.” She clamped her mouth shut. Did that petulant voice really belong to her?

“I’m not taking the risk.” His dark eyes bore into hers, void of humor. Even the brim of his hat frowned at her. “Grab my hand and hike your foot up on mine. I’ll do the rest.”

Rage crawled like ants beneath her skin. She was being treated no better than a child. Was that what he thought of her? She grabbed his hand and hauled herself up, straddling the horse behind him like a common hussy. Altogether horrified, she yanked her hand from his.

He cut a sharp look over his shoulder, the sweep of his long hair brushing against her cheek. “You can hold on to your anger all you like, but you better grab hold of me, as well. I’m not exaggerating when I say this will be a hard ride.”

If you’re that concerned, perhaps you ought strap me to your back like Grace.
The retort bristled on the end of her tongue, and she clenched her teeth. What was wrong with her?

“Is there a problem?” Miss Browndell angled her mount to line up with them. Behind her, Mingo’s horse snorted.

“No.” Eleanor lifted her chin. “No problem at all.”

Twisting slightly, she slipped her arms around Samuel’s waist in a slack hold. Solid muscle warmed through her sleeves, heating her skin … and her cheeks. This was obscene. No lady should have to be treated so—

“Hyah!”

Wohali took off before she was ready. Eleanor jerked backward, nearly tumbling off, but one of Samuel’s hands grabbed her forearm before she slipped loose. She threw her body against his back and clenched handfuls of his shirt. Sweet heavens! This was going to be a long trip.

Shifting, she dared a peek over her shoulder. Mingo brought up the rear. Miss Browndell rode safeguarded in the middle, her eyes gleaming and hardly a hair out of place beneath her jaunty riding cap.

This was going to be a very long trip indeed.

The day wore on with few stops—only for water and necessary breaks, and once to retrieve bread and dried venison for them each. Miss Browndell chattered during their stops, mostly to Samuel, but her manservant never said a word. He remained at the fringe of their company, compliant to whatever Miss Browndell or Samuel asked of him, but completely silent.

Slowly, the grandeur of the Carolina woods chipped away at Eleanor’s animosity. There was simply no way to remain out of sorts in the midst of such scenery. Noble pines, ash, and oaks towered around them, a canopy of green. Birdsong and squirrel chatter sang what might be praises, for surely how could it not be? The warmth of the afternoon sun on her back and the heat of her husband at her front lulled her into a trance.

Sleepy, she leaned her head against Samuel’s shirt, the move of his muscles riding against her cheek. She felt brazen and free and for once didn’t give a fig what anyone thought of it. She loved this land more than the stifling manor homes in England. And more than any man she’d ever known, she loved….

She bolted upright, heart racing, unwilling to finish that thought.

Samuel glanced back, a lift to his brow, yet he said nothing.

Neither did she. Nor did she relax against him again.

An hour or so later, Samuel guided Wohali off the trail, onto a flattened area sheltered on one side by a great boulder wall and on the other by an uprooted tree. He reined in the horse and turned in the saddle. “You can slide off here.”

Her legs tingled when her feet hit the ground. Her rear tingled even more. She arched, stretching the small of her back as Samuel swung off Wohali.

Miss Browndell and Mingo caught up, but neither dismounted. “Don’t tell me we’re stopping for the night.” The lady’s tone accused.

Samuel rolled his shoulders, saying nothing. So, it’d been a long ride for him as well? For some wicked reason, the notion pleased Eleanor.

“But it’s not sunset yet.” Miss Browndell huffed. “Surely we could cover a bit more ground?”

Samuel scrubbed his hand along his jaw, three days’ growth rasping against his fingers. “You’ve proved yourself on that horse in daylight. Night’s different. It falls fast and hard.”

“But I—”

“But nothing. My wife is wearied, and we camp here.”

Eleanor stared at him, mortified.
She
was tired? Wasn’t he the one just rolling the kinks out of his shoulders?

“I’ll gather some wood, and your man there can do the same.” He nodded at Mingo, then wheeled about and stalked off, calling over his shoulder. “You women unpack the blankets and set up camp.”

Behind her, Miss Browndell dismounted, her feet hardly a light tap as she landed. “It must be very difficult for you.”

Eleanor turned, facing her. “What do you mean?”

“He’s so … demanding.” She fluttered her fingertips to where Samuel disappeared into the woods. “Seems a bit rugged for a woman such as yourself.”

Was that a slight against Samuel or her? Either way, it rankled. “And what kind would that be?”

A feline smile lifted her lips. “Oh, nothing.”

Insufferable. The woman reminded her of the housekeeper at the first home she’d served in. That woman had never liked her—and dropped innuendos into her mistress’s ear so often that she’d had to defend herself constantly.

“Mingo, see to the wood.” Miss Browndell marched past Eleanor, dusted off the top of a large rock, and sat.

Eleanor frowned. Clearly the woman had no intention of helping. She whirled and crossed to Wohali, working to unbuckle and remove the saddle. As she whumped the leather to the ground, her fingernail caught and tore off to the quick. She lifted her finger to her lips, tears stinging her eyes—but not from the pain. Who was this woman she’d become, manhandling a saddle, about to sleep another night on the ground? What of the English miss, accustomed to warm counterpanes and meals served on porcelain? The fabric of her life had been picked apart, thread by thread, leaving nothing but a heap of strings.

Miss Browndell watched her from her perch. “Tell me, Mrs. Heath, how did you meet and marry Mr. Heath? Such an unusual match.”

She snatched a blanket off Wohali’s back and shook it open with a sharp snap. How was she to answer that with any dignity? Kicking aside a few stones, she laid the wool flat on the ground, stalling while her mind whirled.

“Of course, if you’d rather not answer …” The woman’s voice taunted from where she sat, as of yet, still not lifting a finger to help.

“No, I do not mind.” It wasn’t a lie, not really. Though it would prick to tell the full story, she’d finally settled on a version not quite as damaging to her pride. She retrieved one more blanket, speaking without facing the woman. “Samuel and I met when I arrived from England. He asked me to marry him straightaway. That is all there is to it.”

“Hmm. Charming.”

She smoothed the blankets and straightened, the knowing gleam in Miss Browndell’s eyes an indictment. Nosy, prodding woman.

“I think I shall need a moment to myself. But I’m unsure of where to go.” The woman’s gaze darted about the immediate area and finally settled back on Eleanor. “Would you be so kind as to find a necessary place for us, being that you’re used to such, er, harsh conditions?”

Eleanor clenched her teeth. The woman could manage a horse but not find a suitable place to do her business? She let out a long, low breath. In truth, she could use a break herself—especially from the conversation of Miss Browndell. She wheeled about and tromped back onto the trail, retracing the route to a side shoot she’d spied earlier.

She arrived back at camp the same time the sun slipped below the horizon, raising shadows from the dead. Samuel crouched in front of a pile of kindling, tinderbox in hand.

Miss Browndell huddled close to his side. “So glad you approve of the camp I made. Really, this trail is a bit much for your wife. Poor thing.”

Poor thing! Eleanor’s fingers dug into her palms. She was the one who’d set up the area. She stamped forward and dropped onto one of the blankets. Sparks caught the kindling and grew. Fire flared, painting everything red—exactly how she felt.

Samuel tucked away his flint and looked over at her. “You faring all right?”

“I am …” How to answer? Did he want truth or peace? And what about her? She gnawed the inside of her cheek as she considered which one she desired before finally answering. “I am well. Do not concern yourself.”

He narrowed his eyes.

She yanked off her hat, a snag of hair falling down from the violent attack. With more force than necessary, she curled the wayward piece behind her ear, then set her battered straw hat in her lap and stared at it, unwilling to meet Samuel’s gaze. She’d been wrong about this trip. Entirely wrong.

This journey would be never-ending.

Samuel dangled his hands between his knees where he squatted, studying Red Bird. Refusing to look at him, she sat like a toad on a log, trying hard not to be noticed—quite the opposite of the woman perched on a rock next to him. That one was a peacock in a skirt.

He rose and crossed over to his wife, extending a hand. “Let’s walk.”

She lifted her eyes to his fingers, but no farther.

Neither did she grab hold.

“Tatsu’hwa,” he whispered.

“Oh, don’t worry on my account.” Miss Browndell called behind him. “I’ll be fine right here by the fire. No doubt Mingo will return soon with more wood and we’ll have quite a merry blaze going before you return.”

Red Bird shoved out her hand and wrapped her fingers in his. He pulled her to her feet, and when she tried to yank away, he held tight. Guiding her back onto the trail, the last of day’s light shading everything to monotone, he strode until they were beyond earshot of Miss Browndell.

He cut her a sideways glance. “You feeling poorly? I need to know if you are. There’s no shame in illness.”

Catching him off-guard, she wrenched her hand from his. “I told you I am well.”

He hid a grin. Her behaviour said anything but. Clasping her shoulders, he forced her to face him. “You got something to say?”

“No. Nothing.” Her bottom lip quivered more than when he refused Grace a sweetmeat from Greeley’s.

“You’ve been a trap about to snap ever since you crossed paths with that woman.” He leaned closer. More than words spoke truth. The tic of an eye. The barest twitch of a jaw. He studied every nuance. “Why? What’s gotten into you?”

She jerked her face aside.

He grasped her chin and drew it back, resistance warm against his fingers. “I asked you a question.”

The blue of her eyes changed to purple-black—the threat before a storm. “How can you be so taken in by her? She is a fake! A sham. I do not know why Miss Browndell wants passage to Keowee, but I doubt very much it has anything to do with God.”

Blast it all! Did she not credit him with any sense whatsoever? He counted to ten before answering. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then why are you guiding her?” She blinked up at him, her brow a confusing mix of lines—lines that straightened as her eyes narrowed. “Oh. I see.”