The Color of Ivy (11 page)

“Dammit, hold still!”

The next thing she knew, she was trapped within an iron-like embrace.  Something cold and sharp pressed against her throat, then the next moment the noose around her throat was gone.  Ivy tried to suck in a huge gulp of air, but her throat still refused to open.

“Christ.”  She heard Sam mutter somewhere next to her.  “Are you all right?  Can you breathe?”

At last, her throat opened and Ivy sucked in a long, raspy breath.

“Ivy?”

She felt his hands on her and thought she detected a trace of fear in his voice.  Perhaps a bit of concern.

“Speak to me, Ivy
.”

“I-I’m f-fine.”  Tears stung the back of her eyes as she tried to control the sudden wave of trembles over her body.  Then she was back in his arms.  He press
ed her so hard against him, she could literally hear his heart rate beneath her ear.  It startled her to realize just how fast it was beating.

At last he pushed her away and propelled her back to the fire.  “Sit down, Ivy.  I’ll get a fire started and get you warmed up.”

She would have rather he held her a bit longer.  But since that was so uncharacteristic of her, she forced the thought aside and concentrated instead on calming her frenzied nerves.  She was trembling so terrible, no matter how hard she tried; she was unable to control the shakes.  Sam moved quickly near her, putting a fire together.  When the first flick of his match lit up the dark night, Ivy felt the first inkling of comfort.  The black forest felt like a fortress closing in around her.

Pulling her knees close, she automatically reached down and rubb
ed her ankle.  With the fire now lit, Sam came close and kneeled in front of her.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded vaguely, hating the sudden urge to cry.  He stared at her for a long time, but, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice.  Pushing himself up into a standing position, he turned to leave.  “I’ve got to get rid of the wolves or we’ll attract other scavengers tonight.”

Ivy watched him disappear behind the thick underbrush.  She shivered and drew her cloak closer.  The only lighting in the dark night was the tiny glow of the fire.  Though she couldn’t see him, she could hear Sam dragging the animals through the bush, the sound becoming distant until it faded altogether.  Once again, Ivy was all alone.

Her eyes peered into the black forest, fearful of other creatures waiting just beyond the camp perimeter, watching her with their beady eyes.  Hunger gnawing their empty stomachs.  A wave of fear slithered up her spine, growing with every minute Sam was away from camp.  When she heard the first rustle of bush her heart nearly stopped beating altogether until he emerged from the darkness.

A rush of relief flooded her body in the form of one huge tremble.  She closed her eyes, trying to still the emotion.

“Ivy?”

He
knelt down in front of her again, his eyes looking at her with such concern.  For some reason, it caused her chest to hurt.

“Lift your chin.” 
In the palm of his hand, he held his hat upside down.  Inside was some type of poultice.

Ivy complied.  “
What’s that?”

He placed the
mixture against her neck where the rope had left a nasty burn.  She couldn’t see it, but she could definitely feel it.   She flinched, though truthfully, more from the touch of his hands against her skin than from the poultice against her open wound.  His eyes drifted to her face.  Shadows of the night danced across his features and cast his eyes into darkness.  For some reason, Ivy wanted very much to see those hazel eyes.

“It’ll help the wound,” he told her.  “Hold out your wrists.”

Again she did as he asked.  He ministered to the rope burns on her wrists as well and Ivy felt tears sting the back of her eyes.  Not from the healing bite of the medicine, but from the soft and tenderness of his touch, so unlike any man’s she had ever felt before.

“How’s your ankle?”

Startled, she shook her head before she had a chance to stop herself.

He didn’t say anything immediately, instead concentrated on applying the herbal
concoction to her open cuts.  Then he asked in a low voice, “How did it happen?”

She knew his question referr
ed to the origin of her ankle’s injury rather than the evening’s events.  He had asked once before and she had ignored him.  For so long she had hidden the injury she had endured as a child, ashamed by those memories.  Yet, sitting there with him as he mended her injuries, she heard the words pass her lips, “I fell down a flight of stairs.”

He looked up, a frown noticeable even in the darkness.  “Didn’t you have it set?”

Ivy paused, weighing her next words.  Not sure how much she wanted to tell.  “No.”

His hands paused.  “Why not?”

She studied his neckline, the fire cast dancing shadows across his unshaved jaw.  “It wasn’t an accident.”

The
silence that followed lasted far longer than she preferred.  She inwardly sighed with relief when he returned to his task and believed the topic dropped.  But then, “You were pushed.”

Since it wasn’t a question, she didn’t bother responding.  Which she was glad.  She hated thinking about the past, let alone talking about it.  More silence fell between them.

Then he asked, “How did you get those scars on your back?”

Ivy felt her cheeks burn with humiliation.  Not only
because of the fact he was the only person who had ever seen those scars, but also from the matter in which he had seen them.  Thoughts of her lying naked in his arms, left her feeling very uncomfortable.  She shifted away from him.

He dropped his hands
, but did not otherwise move.  “Prison?”

“No!” she blurted out before she could bite her tongue.  Then sighed and automatically rubbed her raw wrists.  “I’ve never been to prison.”

She was uncertain how this bit of information was received since he remained still in the darkness.  When at last he spoke, his voice was flat.  “I find that hard to believe.  The way you were able to free yourself from those handcuffs as well as my restraints, and those scars on your back say otherwise.”

Ivy stared into the flames as they burn
ed hotter.  Unwillingly, images from the past flooded back to mind.  “There are other kinds of prisons, Mr. Michalski.”

Again he fell silent.  Ivy could not
bear to look him in the face.  Her past was by far too humiliating.  If anyone ever suspected what she and Moira had endured, she would rather bury herself alive than face their disgust.

Then out of the silence, he asked unexpectedly, “Why did you do it, Ivy?  Why did you kill that man?”

Chapter
8

Sam studied her expression, waiting for revealing signs.  He was not disappointed.  Her chin shot up, a frown etched across her innocent face.  How he hated the act.  Almost resented it.  He knew her next words would be of denial.  Not that he would have believed them.  Long before her, he had become immune to such pleas.  Particularly from a female.

“Don’t bother denying it.  There’s an eyewitness to the murder.”

He wished the lighting was better so he could read her eyes.  But as it was, she dropped her chin again and cast her eyes into darkness.  He supposed it was smart of her to remain silent.  Anything she said, she knew could be held against her in court.

But Sam needed to know.

“Did he put those scars on your back?”

For several minutes he didn’t think she was going to answer.  Then at last she offered one single word.  “No.”

He waited for her to continue, hoping for her to continue.  But she remained silent.  Simply sat shivering and staring into the fire.  So small and frail.  Not the image one associated with a heartless criminal.

He knew he was treading on dangerous ground.  Knew he was falling for her innocent act.  Perhaps that was why he needed to understand her reasons for ruthlessly killing a man in cold blood.  He was growing soft.

With a thrust, he pushed himself away from her and moved to the other side of the fire.  He knew better than to let a woman get to him.  What he should have done was remain distant as he planned from the beginning.  But that was before he held her soft body in his arms, saw the ugly evidence of abuse on her back.  He cursed silently a
t the fierce shock of rage he felt for that man, any man, laying his hands on her.

If her act of murder was triggered by the abuse at the hands of her victim, he would have almost have applauded her crime.  But she had denied it.  And he believed her.  It would be too easy for her to agree killing the man was based on
self-defense.  It might be difficult to prove in a court of law seeing that her victim was the son of an influential and respected gentleman, but the evidence on her back would have been enough to provide reasonable doubt.

But, oddly and more importantly, Sam needed this, wanted it.  Otherwise, he was left with no other conclusion.  Ivy
McGregor was a cold-blooded killer.

* * *

Ivy gave her neck a tentative touch.  She could feel the raw skin where the rope burned into her flesh.  A chilly foreshadow to the fate awaiting her in Chicago.

“Is it still sore?”

She glanced up, her hand stilling automatically, before she dropped it in her lap.  “Fine.”

“The
poultice should start healing it soon,” he told her as he poked the fire with a long thin stick.  “The pain should eventually ease.”

She was
already beginning to feel their effects.  “How did ye know about the plants?”

“I’ve done a lot of tracking.  Getting familiar with the outdoors was mandatory if I wanted to survive.”

“Have ye always done this?  I mean, have ye—have ye always—ye know—“

One brow arched as he offered, “Been a bounty hunter?”

She nodded and drew her cloak closer.  “Aye.”

“Not always.  I had my share of worthless jobs.  Not as profitable or satisfying.”

A chill rippled across Ivy’s body at his cold choice of words.  It bothered her to realize that Sam would find satisfaction in watching her hang.  She watched as he used a knife from his boot to slice open the dead carcass he had killed for their meal.  He did it without pause.  “How many men have ye killed?”

He glanced her way momentarily.  “More than I should have.”

Ivy frowned and shivered some more.  As she watched him slice open the animal and peel back its skin, she quietly asked, “And women?”

This made him pause.  “Less than I should have.”

Was she the one meant to rectify that ratio?  “Why is that?”

She didn’t think he was going to answer.  He
cut up the carcass and impaled individual pieces of raw meat onto some twigs he had gathered before laying them over the fire.  Then he turned and sat opposite her on the other side of the fire pit.

“I made the mistake of believing a woman’s lies.  It cost the life of an innocent man.  And his family.”  The last part he added quietly, but more savagely.  “I’m not about to make the same mistake again.”

His eyes bore across at Ivy and she knew he was speaking directly of her.  For some reason, she hated the fact he compared her to this other woman.  “I haven’t lied to ye, Mr. Michalski.”

“No?”  He sat back against a tree bark.  “How many men have you killed, Ms.
McGregor?”

She thought about his question.  An image from her past came to mind.  The faces of the Earl of W
ittfield and his despicable son haunted her thoughts.  And always would.  Vile filled her gut.

Glancing over at Sam, she offered back his own choice of words.  “Less than I should’ve.”

He actually smirked, though his voice sounded far from humorous.  “Was it jealousy then?”

“What?”

“The reason why you beat Philip Hendrickson to the point his face had literally collapsed?  Were you jealous?  That’s the motive the prosecutors are using to pin you with his murder.  According to them, you allegedly discovered Mr. Hendrickson had taken a new lover and lashed out in a fit of jealousy.”

Ivy flinched at Sam’s vulgar description of Phillip Hendrickson’s death.  Staring at him, she weighed her next words b
efore finally saying.  “Jealousy is a poisonous emotion, Mr. Michalski.”

“With deadly consequences?”

Ivy met his fixed stare across the flames.  His eyes held such a coldness to them.  A heaviness passed over Ivy’s heart.  Dropping her gaze, she muttered, “I suppose.”

His jaw tightened and the vein in his temple flexed as he clenched his jaw before asking, “Were you his lover?”

Was she imagining the sharpness to his voice?  Ivy frowned and thought of Philip Hendrickson.  As always, disgust filled her stomach.  Not even his death could lessen her revulsion.

Ivy shook her head.  “No.”

Knowing she was the recipient of so much hatred from the man across the fire, she could not bring herself to meet his gaze again.  Instead, she focused on her hands and the marks on her wrists from the rope.

“So, if you did not kill him out of jealousy and you did not kill him out of
self-defense,” Sam asked, his voice sounding as if he were controlling some kind of emotion.  “Why did you kill him?”

She looked over at him.  So much rage
loomed just beneath the surface.  She didn’t know why he felt so strongly about this murder.  A part of her wondered if perhaps he knew Philip personally.  Had made it his own mission to come out and track down his killer.

All this was a mystery to Ivy.  The only thing she knew for certain was with all that anger and rage, it didn’t matter what she said.  Sam didn’t want to hear her side of the story.

* * *

Getting to sleep was difficult that night.  Sam tossed and turned several times.  Something was troubling him.  No matter how much he hated to admit it, he knew their discussion was toying with his conscience.
She refused to impart her reasons for murdering Philip Hendrickson.  The only clue she gave was that jealousy had indeed been a factor in his death.  Sam just wasn’t sure how.

She had closed up and refused to talk for the remainder of the night, forcing him to simmer in his own rage.  He hated to admit it, but he had wanted to think Ivy wasn’t like that.  That she wasn’t capable of murder.  But, like his mother, she had killed for her own personal reasons.  For that, he could never understand.  He could never forgive.

Hell, why couldn’t she just tell him what happened?  More importantly, why did he need to know?  That, he knew, was what truly bothered him.  He couldn’t separate himself from this crime.

Needless of his rage and suspicion, he had not tied her up that night.  Knowing what he had done to her with his last restraint, he couldn’t bring himself to it.  If he was
being sincerely honest, maybe there was a small part of him that wished she would escape. He was getting too close to this prisoner.  Emotionally close.

Eventually, overwhelmed with exhaustion, he drifted off to sleep.
Though not for long.  Something woke him.  Prying open his exhausted eyes, he blinked in surprise to see Ivy looming above him.  For some strange reason, he felt no panic.  Instead, an unusual calm settled over him.

“Ivy?”

“Shh.”  She placed a silencing finger over her lips and stared at him in the darkness.

He stared back, a tiny frown tugging his brow low.  Then she moved and straddled his body.  Again, no fear entered him.  Only need.  Hell, he wanted her.  The realization was staggering.  More so due to the depth of how much he did.

Her hands reached out and ran along his arms until she cupped his face.  She was leaning so close, Sam could see the turmoil in her face.  Could see the pain in her eyes.  The urge to reach out and comfort was overwhelming.  Lifting his hand, he touched the side of her face.  Her eyes fluttered shut.

Sliding that same hand behind her head, he gently drew her close.  When her lips touched his, he thought he never tasted anything so perfect.  She returned his kiss with an aching sweetness.  Then, as if hungry, she delved deeper, kneading his lips like that of a starving woman.  Sam responded with his own unadulterated yearning.

His hands came up and wrapped around her, drawing her closer.  But he felt her pull back.  Felt her withdrawal.

Sitting up, she stared down at him, a sad, almost pitiful look crossing her face.  Then she offered him the merest smile.  Its innocence tugging at him.

Her arms fell
back behind her and Sam gazed up at her in bewilderment, torn between pushing her away or drawing her near.  Then a dark shadow crossed over her eyes, turning those frosty blues to a devilish green. Her sweet smile turned almost cunning-like as he realized she was lifting her arms over her head.

“Ivy?”

Too late, he saw the iron poker clutched between her hands.  Watched as her eyes lit with green venom.  He let out a horrified bellow the same moment the poker came crashing down on his skull.

“No!”  Sam jerked upright.  His eyes flew open and he stared into blackness.  The night was still.

“Sam?”  Ivy’s voice in the darkness drew his gaze to the area she slept.  “What’s wrong?”

It took him a moment to focus.  He blinked rapidly several times.  He’d been dreaming.  Christ.

Raising a hand, he ran it through his hair and along the back of his neck.  It troubled him to realize it was shaking.  Thank God for the darkness so that she was unable to see the revealing weakness.  He steadied his breathing and glanced at her silhouetted form in the darkness.  She had not visited him in his sleep.  Nor had she tried to escape.  This last thought was what had him coming back swiftly to consciousness.  She had not left.

Whether she realized it or not,
Sam was slowly gaining her trust.

“Nothing.  Go back to sleep.”

A hesitation filled with silence, then he heard her movement and knew she had lied back down on the cold earth.  Not anywhere near Sam.

* * *

By mid-morning the following day, they had not covered nearly enough miles as Sam would have liked.  He knew Ivy’s ankle was the cause.  It was slowing them down.  They would be spending another night out in the wilderness again if they didn’t reach a town soon.

Behind him, she fell for the umpteenth time.  He turned and watched her struggle to get back on her feet.  He wanted to go to her, help her, but
his dream still haunted him.

He headed down
an embankment and she followed.  They had covered about fifty feet of ground when the forest unexpectedly produced a small cone-shaped structure.  It was made out of eight vertical wooden poles and two large hoops keeping the frame secure near the top.  Standing close to seven feet tall and about a meter or so in depth, it looked like an oversized bird cage.

“What is it?”  Ivy asked next to him.

“A shaking tent.”  He took a step closer.  “It’s missing its rawhide, but it’s definitely one.”

“What’s a shaking tent?”

“It’s used by a shaman Indian when seeking power from the spiritual world.”

“Indians?”  The panic in her voice had him turning and looking down at her.  She looked paler, almost
gray and he knew her ankle was troubling her horribly.  His insides constricted painfully.  He hated admitting it to himself, but it tore at him to see her in so much pain.  The sooner he found them a horse, the better.

Her eyes and head darted around the forest as she wobbled to remain balanced on her good foot.  “Indians are nearby?”

“More than likely.  Their reserve must be somewhere in the area if they’ve performed a shaking tent ceremony here recently.”