Captive (7 page)

Harrington, Jarrett thought with amusement, must be worrying right now about his senior officer’s determination that he wed the man’s daughter—after all, Harrington hadn’t even met the young lady. He was probably imagining the girl as a female version of Michael Warren.

Jarrett shuddered, then smiled. Harrington was going to be pleasantly surprised when he met Teela Warren.

Jarrett called out the order to bring his ship in, then came down the starboard side to where she stood, staring at the land, excitement bringing a shimmer to her eyes. “What do you think of Cimarron, Miss Warren?” he inquired.

What did she think? Teela shook her head in amazement. “It’s … extraordinary.” She’d seldom seen such a beautiful house, even in Charleston, where wealthy men prided themselves on the grace of their homes. The house was huge, whitewashed, elegant. Massive columns stood across the front, along with a veranda that encirled the whole of the first floor. Breezeway doors stood open to catch the air, cool though it still was. And even as men jumped from the ship to the dock, a woman appeared upon the porch, a tall, lovely woman with sun blond hair and a supple build, waving even as she started to run toward the ship.

Tara McKenzie, Teela thought. The wife the captain so adored. She’d heard little from him last night that didn’t circle back to his wife and his infant son.

Jarrett McKenzie was, in fact, off the ship with a smooth leap over the bow rail. His wife had made it to the dock by then, so he didn’t have far to go before reaching her, sweeping her up high, and clasping her in his arms. They met in a searing kiss, one so filled with both tenderness and passion that Teela found herself seeking somewhere else to look. It wasn’t difficult. The dock, though belonging to the one home, seemed a busy place. The crew greeted other men who had come from the fields or the house, clasping hands, tossing up bales and barrels. Everyone smiled at Teela even as they studied her with both frank curiosity and welcome. “Miss Warren!”

McKenzie had remembered her. Teela turned quickly, and saw that both Mr. and Mrs. McKenzie stood at the gangway, awaiting her. Startled that she should suddenly feel so shy, Teela hurried ashore.

Tara McKenzie slipped from her husband’s arms to greet Tara with a little hug. “Welcome, welcome to Cimarron.” She stepped back, smiling ruefully. “I admit, you’re not quite what I expected. I received a message from Tyler warning me that he presumed Jarrett would be bringing me a child.”

“Not a child,” Teela said. “But still beneath the wing of a guardian.”

Tara nodded, keeping her opinion on that silent. “We’re absolutely delighted to have you. In fact, you have arrived at a perfect time, for we’re having a small party this evening, a dance for my husband’s birthday. I assure you, our little community will be delighted to meet you. We do just love fuel for gossip here!” she warned teasingly.

“You’ll scare her!” Jarrett said.

Tara smiled, shaking her head. “Who could have been discussed more than me, eh, my love? Come now, Teela, you must see the house.”

With Tara’s arm linked through hers, Teela walked across the beautifully manicured lawn. Tara pointed out how the river ran, and the general directions in which their closest neighbors lived.

“Don’t you fear Indian attacks here?” Teela asked her.

“No,” Tara said simply as they came to the porch. A tall black woman was standing there with a baby on her shoulder. Tara reached for the child with a smile, but Jarrett reached past her.

“May I, Jeanne?” he asked politely, though it was his own child he plucked from her arms. The woman smiled, giving up the boy, and Jarrett held him high in the air while the baby gave out a delighted squeal.

“Ian McKenzie,” Tara announced. She glanced at her husband.

Teela smiled, watching the baby. “Congratulations,” she said softly. “He’s a beautiful child.”

“Thank you,” Tara said. She started to take the boy from her husband and hesitated. “Would you like to take him?”

“May I?” Teela inquired. She lifted the baby and laughed, delighted by the one-toothed smile he gave her. He reached for a strand of her hair. She caught his little fingers instead, laughing again. She hadn’t had a chance to really play with a baby in a long time, not since she
had done some nursing with her mother before Lilly took ill.

“He is just beautiful!” she said again, cuddling him against her. He smelled clean, a newly washed baby, wonderfully warm and sweet.

“Well, I’m very glad yo approve. We’d have had to throw him right out if she didn’t, right, Jarrett?” Tara teased.

Teela was surprised at how quickly the bantering made her feel welcome. They entered the house, and she was further entranced. The wooden floors were polished to an exquisite shine. Draperies hung from the window, and the wall coverings were certainly the latest fashion from Europe.

“I simply cannot believe that this house can be here,” Teela said, spinning around. The nurse came to take the baby back, and she reluctantly let him go.

“Thank you,” Jarrett said. “I do take that as a compliment.”

“It was meant as one, I assure you.” “And you have a home here for eternity if you choose,” Tara said with a laugh. “You have complimented the two things nearest and dearest to my husband’s heart—his house and his son.”

“I protest! She’s yet to compliment you,” Jarrett told Tara.

“Your wife is gorgeous,” Teela told him solemnly. “All right, she can stay. Forever,” Jarrett agreed. “You definitely get to stay,” Tara said. “You can see the house later. For now, let me give you a room so that you can freshen up.”

“She might like to lie down for a while. I heard her up all night.”

“I’m sorry!” Teela gasped. “I didn’t mean to disturb anyone. It was just so very dark, I couldn’t resist looking toward the shore. I have never seen anything like the darkness that surrounded us on the river, not even at sea.”

“It can be a frightening land,” Tara said lightly. “But
if you’re tired now, perhaps you should rest awhile. I’ll have water sent later for you to bathe. Our guests are due at sunset, and you’ll want to meet them all, I’m certain.”

“I wouldn’t mind sleeping,” Teela admitted.

“Everyone seems to need to catch up on his and her sleep here!” Tara said with a good-natured sigh.

“Not me,” Jarrett said blandly, staring at his wife. “I’ve no desire whatsoever for sleep.”

Tara flushed, smiling slowly. Teela turned quickly away as Jarrett took his wife into his arms, kissing her tenderly. Something in the touch seemed to burn into her heart. She felt tears sting her eyes, and she was glad that two such charming, giving people should be so happy together.

She had never felt so keen a sense of loneliness herself.

It was strange. When Michael had been so determined to arrange her marriage, she hadn’t really hated the man of her stepfather’s choice. She simply hadn’t loved him. She knew now, watching these two—or trying not to watch them—just what her objection had been. This was what she wanted. This fierce kind of love. Nothing less. And if she could not find it, then she wanted independence.

And nothing less.

Easy to want, hard to achieve …

Tara eased herself from her husband’s embrace and led them up a sweeping staircase. “This room, Teela,” she said, indicating a doorway, “is yours. I hope you’ll find everything you need. If not, there’s a bell pull by the bed. Jeeves will be happy to bring you anything you require.”

“I’m fine, thank you very much,” Teela said.

“Rest well,” Jarrett told her.

Before she had quite closed her door, Jarrett had set his hands upon his wife’s waist and was leading her down the hall.

A second later, she heard a door close with a soft
click. The master was home. The mistress was in his arms.

Teela
was
exhausted. She walked across the room with a giddy sense of excitement, so glad to be there.

Warren was sending someone for her, of course.

And when that time came, she would suffer again. But she wouldn’t ruin the excitement and wonder of now for what was threatened to come.

She stretched out on the bed, glad of its softness, glad to sleep on a bed that wasn’t on a moving vessel. She closed her eyes. Miraculously, and very quickly, she slept.

She awoke much later to a tap at her door. “Teela, guests will be arriving soon. Please come down whenever you’re ready!” Jarrett McKenzie called to her.

“Thank you!” she returned.

Sometime, even as she had slept, a servant had brought water, left a kettle to boil over the fire, and seen to it that her trunks had been brought up. Teela rose, washed and dressed swiftly, and left her room behind, anxious to see more of the house—and the guests who would soon fill it.

Cimarron had been prepared that evening for entertaining. It was obvious from the moment Teela stepped from her upstairs guest room.

The breezeway doors, leading to the lawn and river in front and down into stables and lawn and foliage in the rear, had been thrown open wide. Lanterns had been hung along the porches, adding soft light to that which burned from within the home. To either side of the main hall, the doors to parlors and sitting rooms had been cast open as well, making virtually one huge hall of all the downstairs rooms. Even as she came down the stairway, she could see clearly into the main parlor to her right.

When she first saw the tall figure standing before the fire, she thought that she had come upon her host. The man stood with his legs slightly apart, feet firmly planted
upon the hardwood floor, hands folded idly behind his back, head slightly bowed as he stared into the flames. His shoulders were broad, his waist was narrow, and his height and physique were emphasized by the cut of the elegant black frock coat he wore, ruffled, snow white shirt beneath, the collar and sleeves visible from her distance. His jet black hair waved just below the collar of his coat. With the fine cut of his clothing, the dignity of his stance, he gave every appearance of an elegant, cultured man, a ruggedly handsome but civilized man … her host.

Then he turned.

Teela started, for though the resemblence to Jarrett McKenzie remained, this was not her host at all. Something was familiar in the face and yet not familiar. It was perhaps one of the most arresting faces she had ever seen, the skin bronze, eyes a startling, burning blue, cheekbones high and broad. He was white; he was Indian. He was a man definitely created by both races, and created extraordinarily well. From this first sight of him, she felt something, as if his very life and vitality were a physical portent, lightning in the space that separated them, something that snapped and sizzled like a whisper of smoldering fire. Her breath quickened as he returned her stare, as he studied her in turn. Then he smiled slowly, bitterly—mockingly. He knew her thoughts exactly. Knew that she felt a draw. Knew perhaps his own sensuality or appeal, and knew that something screamed within her as well that he was forbidden, that he was Seminole.

Quite suddenly he bowed to her. When his eyes rose to meet hers once again, the blue glitter within them was sheerly wicked, taunting. Even touched with a flicker of contempt. And maybe even just a shade of self-mockery …

“Good evening.”

His voice was rich, cultured, with a deep timbre to it. Absurdly, she felt as if she trembled somewhere very deep inside her just at the sound of it. Her fingers
gripped more tightly the stair rail she held, and it seemed as if the very blood within her quickened, heated, came to life. He had a strange appeal, one that seemed to reach beneath all civilized veneer and touch raw instinct and emotion.

Teela instantly gave herself a mental shake, reminding herself that she had actually seen very few Indians, actually met or talked to even fewer. Nor had she ever imagined feeling such an intense and perhaps amused scrutiny by such a man, or that such a man could even exist.

“You do speak English?” he said, an ebony brow arched. She imagined it was a question he had heard directed to himself on occasion, though his white blood was every bit as apparent in his features as his Indian blood.

“Yes, I speak English,” Teela said, glad to hear a note of irritation slipping into her own tone.

“Do you plan to cling to the stair rail all night? You needn’t be afraid. I’ve yet to seize a white scalp in my brother’s house, miss … ?”

Her heart slammed suddenly against her chest. He didn’t know who she was. She hadn’t known who he was, and it was a bit difficult to equate Jarrett McKenzie with this man, except that the two did resemble one another physically. It was just that one was Indian, one was not.

She couldn’t begin to imagine admitting to any Indian that she was Michael Warren’s daughter, or even stepdaughter.

She forced her hand to go light on the rail, and to descend the steps in the most dignified and serene manner ever attributed to southern womanhood. She came to the landing in the foyer and faced him through the thrown-open doors to the parlor. She hesitated, appalled to think that she was almost afraid to go farther, afraid to come closer to the man, the impossibly elegant half-breed. But in all of her life, she had refused to show fear—Michael Warren had somehow given her that, at
the least. She stepped forward again, sweeping into the room, coming to the fire that burned in the hearth and stretching out her fingers to be warmed as she continued to study him as unabashedly as he watched her.

“I have no fear of losing my scalp, sir,” she informed him.

A dark brow arched even higher. “Then you are a fool, ma’am. All scalps are in danger in this territory as we speak.”

“You did just assure me that you had yet to take a scalp in your brother’s house. And since it seems you are well versed in civilized manners, it would seem to me that you would consider it incredibly rude to begin taking scalps here tonight from a newcomer to
your
territory.”

She was startled when he reached out, touching the lock of hair that she had left free from the twist of braids at her neck to wave over her shoulder. She was tempted to draw back, too fascinated to manage to do so. His hands were large, powerful, yet as lean and hard as his build. His fingers were very long and deeply bronze.