Captive (10 page)

John Harrington had found a mate for his paradise, or so it seemed.

“Perhaps you should go join her. When do you escort her to her father, and where? The last I heard, he was murdering men, women, and children in an area south of Ocala that would now, obviously, be very dangerous ground for anyone even remotely associated with the man.”

“Oh, we’ll not be leaving too quickly. I’ve got to take some dispatches to Tampa and return for her from there with a much larger escort. Warren has purchased a home in Tallahassee, but I still haven’t received word if that is where I am to take her. I believe Warren intends to go into politics when the war is over. Indian fighters seem to do very well in politics. Well, there was Andy Jackson,” he said, his voice bordering on the apologetic.

“Jackson survived all his wars. We’ll have to see … if Michael Warren survives his,” James murmured.

“Warren is tough.”

“So are a number of our war chiefs. Hell, I’d just as soon shoot the man as look at him,” he admitted.

But John Harrington wasn’t giving him his full attention anymore. He was staring straight forward, a smile curving his lips. “She just isn’t anything like him. Not anything at all.”

“How can you be so certain so quickly?”

John’s smile remained in place, and he shook his head. “I’ve spoken with her.”

“Well, there you have it!” James agreed with obvious sarcasm. But it was lost on John.

“She’s so interested in everything. You included.”

“What?”

“Oh, she’s very curious about you.”

“In what way?”

“Oh, the past, your upbringing … you know. That’s my whole point. She’s not one of those silly women who think that Indians are barely a step better than wild animals. Begging your pardon, James, but some people do feel that way—”

“As I am well aware. Go on.”

“She’s intrigued. With the languages, the life.”

“Hmm,” James muttered. “If she’s lucky, she’ll not find out too much about it.”

“You are a somber man this evening, James McKenzie.”

“I lead a somber life.”

“My friend, you need to learn to enjoy peace during the fragile moments when we share it.”

A moment’s guilt touched James. He was too somber. It was part annoyance, part envy, and both were threaded through with the fury he felt toward Michael Warren, exasperated by the appearance of the man’s stepdaughter. He told himself that the girl and Harrington would be perfect for each other. He should be happy for his friend.

But all he could think about was the swift burn of excitement she had made him feel. A sensation that would not leave him, that simmered and grew inside.

She wasn’t what he wanted or needed—or could have, he reminded himself firmly. He tried to see reason, to remember that Harrington was a fine man, a good friend. An enthusiastic friend at the moment.

James slowly grinned, nodded in rueful agreement to John. “Perhaps you’re right, and I do need to learn to enjoy peace and quiet while I can.”

Even as he spoke, he saw his sister-in-law at the breezeway doors, looking for them, he realized.

“There you are, you two. What are you doing out here?”

“Solving the war,” James replied, “at least between the two of us,” he amended.

“If it were between the two of you, there would be no war. But in truth, tonight there is no war in my house. Come inside, both of you. I’ve Jarrett’s cake positively bristling with candles, and I intend to force him to get them all with one breath.”

The two shrugged to each other and followed Tara back into the house.

James didn’t intend to look for Warren’s daughter; he did so anyway. He remained in the background as the cake was brought into the foyer and a table was drawn up for it. Jarrett was teased by his wife, congratulated by a group of nearly fifty guests now. Challenged by Tara, he managed to blow out the candles with a single breath. He was told he belonged in Tallahassee with the big-winded politicians, and laughter rose along with the music that began again.

Jeeves, the dapper, ebony-skinned butler—true ruler of Cimarron, as James affectionately called him—came to James with a silver tray loaded with champagne glasses. “James McKenzie, there’s too grave a look upon your face, my good young man.”

James accepted a glass of champagne. “I seem to be hearing that frequently enough tonight.”

“Enjoy the night, for tomorrow will come!”

“Now
you
are sounding grim and grave, my good man,” James said, saluting him.

Jeeves smiled, his teeth flashing remarkably white against his dark features. “I am merely admitting to the fact that our days are hard, and therefore, sir, I am suggesting that you seize the moment, the night, the magic, whatever there is to be seized, sir.”

James laughed softly, finished his champagne, and set the glass back. “If it will make you happy, then, my friend, I shall grin from ear to ear for the rest of the night.”

Jeeves held the tray with one hand, offering James a second flute of champagne with his free one. “This will help, sir. In a roundabout way, it’s come straight from France.”

“Well, then, it must be good and French, eh?”

“Get on with enjoying the night, sir,” Jeeves said, chin a bit indignantly high as he moved away.

James moved on into the parlor, where the guests were swirling about the room to the cheerful tune of a fiddle.

He wasn’t looking for her, but he found her right away. John Harrington, straight and handsome and just a bit stiff in his regulation uniform, was whirling at a dizzying pace with the Warren girl. His eyes were rapt upon her. She seemed not to notice. She was talking, speaking with the man all the while.

The music stopped. They were far across the room, but James watched as John politely spoke to her, then walked away from her, certainly on his way to fetch punch or champagne.

She stood alone on the dance floor. The music began again, a much slower ballad, the strains slow and heart-wrenching.

James strode across the room before he knew quite what he was doing. He had her in his arms, and swept her across the floor without giving her the first chance to acquiesce or protest.

But she didn’t attempt to object. She arched a brow high, staring straight into his eyes as he guided them through the dancers in the parlor, those in the broad hallway, and out onto the porch, beneath the moon. There were no other dancers out there, but they could still hear the music plainly and continued to dance.

“So you’ve come to Cimarron, and met your fiance, all in one day, Miss Warren.”

She shook her head, frowning slightly. “What do you mean?”

“My good friend Major Harrington.”

“But Major Harrington is not …” Her voice trailed away.

“He’s one of the finest white men I’ve ever met,” James told her. After a moment he added, “One of the finest men.”

“He is charming. But he is not my fiance.”

“He is. It seems Colonel Warren has been remiss.”

“Colonel Warren does not dictate my life.”

“He is your guardian. He gives orders.”

“I am not in his army. And I do not take orders.”

“No?”

“From any man,” she informed him coolly.

“Perhaps you’ll be in for a bit of surprise in our wilderness, Miss Warren. Sometimes it’s best to take orders. Sometimes it is safest. I assure you of this—it would be far better among the rivers and hammocks and swamps if you were known as Harrington’s wife rather than Warren’s daughter.”

“I shall try to keep that in mind, Mr. McKenzie. But I am curious. What has my stepfather done to you?”

“Directly?”

“Indeed, directly! Has he injured you, hunted you, insulted you?”

The hair at his nape seemed to rise, and his hand tightened upon her so that he actually saw her wince. “No, Miss Warren, bad Indian that I am. He has never touched me—were he to do so, I promise you, he would be a dead man. But he has offended me as few other men have ever managed to do. He has offended me with his brutality—”

“Brutality has been used against whites, too.”

“Not by me, Miss Warren. Not by me.”

“You are hurting me,” she told him levelly. “You are holding me too tightly.”

“Then you should not be held at all.”

“You came to me; I did not ask you to dance.”

“Indeed.” He stopped short. So quickly that she collided with him, slamming hard against his chest. She was so startled that she did not move away.

And he did not release her. He felt the thunder of his heart mingling with hers. Breathed in the sweet feminine scent of her. Felt those eyes of hers, emerald as they burned into his.

“There you are! The two of you!” they heard someone call.

James knew John Harrington’s voice. He stepped back, releasing Teela Warren.

“Champagne!” John said cheerfully. “Teela, James … ?”

“Thank you, I’ve had quite enough,” James said, then bowed to Miss Warren. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He turned, leaving them. He slipped through the crowd in the hallway, greeting old friends, being waylaid by a few. It was painful; it grew more painful as the war went on. The whites were afraid. They grew more hostile with their fear. They didn’t understand that the Indians were also afraid. That the war was a bitter burden on them as well. Their young men died. Their villages and homes were decimated. Their children starved.

He tried to say reassuring things. He tried to defend his people. How could any man defend war?

He escaped up the stairs at last. He looked in on his brother’s infant son, assuring himself that the boy slept peacefully in his cradle by his mother’s bed. He walked on down the hallway and peeked into his daughter’s room, assuring himself that Jennifer slept comfortably as well. She did. She even slept with a smile, her dark hair tumbling around her angelic little face.

She was a beautiful child. Her white blood was evident, but she looked like her mother. Her eyes were so amber, her hair so black with such a wonderful, rich, cascading, telltale wave. James kissed her forehead, and felt his heart twist once again for the wife and child he had lost.

In his own room, the guest room kept waiting for him always, he stripped off his dress frock coat and frilled shirt. Once again he was drawn to the night. In his breeches and boots he pressed open the doors that led to the balcony which overlooked the lawn and the rear
of the house, back to the end of Jarrett’s property where the wilderness began, cypress forests, exotic hammocks, dense acres of colorful foliage, ancient trees, winding rivers. There was fertile land to the east, but land that was now being charred and decimated as the Indians were raided, battled, and attacked—forced ever farther south.

He heard a noise suddenly and glanced down the balcony.

She
had come out to stand beneath the moon as well. She hadn’t seen him as yet. She had tentatively opened her bedroom doors and slipped outside. She walked to the rail, held it. Looked up at the moon and the sky, and shivered deliciously at the feel of the night breeze.

Her hair was free, newly brushed. The moon touched the radiant streaks of red that flowed down her back. Her nightdress was simple white cotton, all but entirely sheer in the moonlight. Her breasts were high and full, her waist tapering and tiny, her hips round and enticing.

Her effect on him was entirely maddening. There was nothing subtle or slow about it. His damned breeches barely contained the swift, violent rise of his sex.

“Damn her!”

He muttered the words out loud.

She spun around, startled, frightened.

He was in shadow, against the wall. He stepped forward and she nearly screamed, catching the sound with a hand quickly brought up to cover her mouth.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, frowning.

He stepped forward, pointed at his room, then folded his arms across his chest and strode closer to her. He leaned against the balcony rail at her side.

“I have a room here. It is my brother’s house.”

He thought that she would move away from him. She did not. She looked him up and down, studying him in the moonlight. “You claim your brother frequently enough when it is convenient to do so.”

“I always claim my brother.”

“But it is all right to be rude to his guests.”

“I am not frequently so.”

“How comforting to realize that I am special.”

“Miss Warren, quite frankly, you should be glad that the first Indian you’ve encountered was rude to you and no more.”

“If that’s your room, perhaps you’ll return to it.”

“Ah, but I was here first. You’ve disturbed my evening.”

She didn’t reply. She had turned slightly and looked straight at him. The breeze picked up her hair, lifted it to waft and dance beneath the soft glow of the night. Her eyes were so steady, so deep, so lustrous in their color. Her flesh again appeared as perfect as marble. Her nightdress was so thin, the rise and fall of her breasts so evident …

He touched her, goaded by sheer temptation and desire, by the heat that had been simmering inside him from the first moment he saw her. His knuckles rose to her cheek, brushed it. His hand fell to her shoulder. He drew her against him and lowered his head, driven by the desire to taste the fullness of her lips.

Her mouth was sweet, tasting of mint. Warm, evocative. His lips molded on hers, his tongue pressed them open. The rise of his manhood that seemed to all but cripple him stirred again. His fingers wound into the wealth of hair at her nape as his tongue plunged deeper. Not enough. He held her with his left hand, brought up his right. Caressed her breast, palm lifting the fullness of it, rubbing over the nipple.

She tensed. Palms fell against his shoulders. A strangled sound seemed to catch within the kiss.

He shuddered with a sudden rise of desire so violent that it convulsed the length of his body.

What in God’s name was he doing? He went rigid from head to toe, heedless of the anguish within him.
He could not do this. Could not, would not.

He set her firmly from him. She was trembling, shaking furiously in the wind, as she stared at him, stunned. Because he had touched her? Because he had let her go?