Runaway Read online

  Cimarron lacked almost nothing. Except, since Lisa’s death, a mistress. Jeeves, Jarrett thought, would be glad to see that his employer was bringing home a new wife. A mistress.

  Jarrett swore softly to himself. No matter what pattern his thoughts ran in, they always returned to her.

  His pants dried, his flesh dried. The sun was already beginning to set in the night sky. He heard laughter and a moment later the sound of Robert’s fiddle. Beautiful, plaintive strains of music rose into the soft, crimson and gold splashes of sunset. A moment later he heard her.

  And of course, her voice was perfect. Crystal clear, true, melodic, lovely. Robert didn’t miss a note of the old English ballad, “Greensleeves.” A touch of a soft accent—Irish, perhaps?—added a lilt and curved sweetly into her words as she sang the plaintive song.

  Alas, my love, you do me wrong,

  To cast me off discourteously,

  For I have loved you too long,

  Delighting in your company.…

  Robert’s pleasant tenor joined in with the beautiful mezzo-soprano as she finished the chorus. A moment’s silence followed, then a rush of applause, and the sounds of laughter once again.

  It was so easy for her to laugh with Robert, Jarrett mused. He realized that he was forever jumping down her throat, but then …

  There was so much he had to reconcile within himself. And he’d be damned if he’d fall any farther under her spell. Not when she was so determined to keep her secrets.

  “Captain?”

  Leo was behind him, dark brows furrowed, his features concerned.

  “What is it, Leo?”

  “You haven’t eaten a bite today, sir. Nathan’s created a fine gumbo. I swear his stuff is just fine at sea—on land the lad’s food is inedible!”

  “Anything will be edible at this moment. I am famished,” Jarrett said.

  “Gumbo’s been delivered to the captain’s cabin, sir. Robert thought as how you might like to wash up before you eat, what with the sea salt on you and all.”

  “Is that what Robert thought?”

  “Oh, aye, sir. We’re running a bit low on fresh water—Robert thought as well that Mrs. McKenzie would like a hot bath after her swim.”

  “So Robert thought, eh?”

  “Oh, yes—well, your wife was most appreciative, Captain!”

  “I do imagine,” Jarrett murmured. “But my wife has had her bath, and we’re now low on fresh water.”

  “Aye, but we’re almost home, sir!”

  “Of course. How forgetful of me,” Jarrett said.

  His irony was lost on Leo.

  “I’ll take the helm, sir. Shall we trim the sails in? Does seem the breeze is picking up again, from the northwest.”

  “Aye, Leo. See to it,” Jarrett said. He left the helm, finding that he was not required to speak with any of his men, for Leo was shouting out his orders and the crew—including Robert—were busy with the sails.

  Good.

  At least they were no longer being musically seduced by his wife!

  With a sigh and renewed determination to enjoy the benefits of his new marriage while keeping a careful emotional distance from his mystery bride, he quickened his footsteps. He was suddenly hungry and weary—and annoyingly eager to hear her laughter himself.

  Tara heard his footsteps as he neared the cabin. Others had come to the cabin today—in fact, Robert and every man on the crew had come at one time or another to see to her welfare.

  But as soon as she heard the tread, remarkably light for such a man, even upon the planks of a ship, she knew that he was coming. She felt her heart quicken, and she was not sure if it was with dread or anticipation.

  She had been stretched out on the bunk musing over the strange man she had married. Yes, he was incredibly, darkly, ruggedly handsome, a man with the lithe but muscled build of a buccaneer. She had never even begun to dream of the fires he could build within her, even if her breath had caught each time those eyes seared her. It seemed he was always demanding the truth, and if he were ever to know it …

  She shivered fiercely. She hadn’t lied to him. He had demanded to know not if she had been accused of murder, but if she had been guilty of it. And she had not. And he had promised to demand no more of her. As long as she kept to her part of the bargain. Marriage … their bargain.

  There was no hardship in it. Even last night when she had been hurt and angry and he had finally roused her from such a deep sleep. He could caress and arouse … seduce, so very easily.

  And become so remote and angry again so quickly! She shivered, remembering how his voice could crack like deep thunder, how demanding he could be. Then she gritted down hard on her teeth and squared her shoulders. She had cast her fate with his—and he had swept her away from a fate she had considered much worse than death.

  But what now lay ahead?

  It didn’t matter, she determined. She was going to hold her own. She would keep up her part of this agreement and be whatever he wanted in a wife.

  But she’d not let him dictate to her like a tyrant! She’d run too long on her own to surrender her independence and soul to any man. It had been months since she had escaped the disaster set upon her.

  The doors opened. Despite all her resolve she found herself tucking her bare feet beneath the white gown she had found in the trunk. She felt that she was looking at him like a guilty child, and she quickly grew angry with herself. She would not be intimidated. She admired him, she was grateful to him. And she had to be very careful, because he did seem to have the ability to steal her soul, bit by bit. She was quite certain he would have the same affect on other women. His power to seduce was as great as his quiet strength, a power that had already wrested her from a few forms of the devil. He had married her; he seemed to want her. He had no regrets, and yet …

  She was, she thought, like anything else he might have acquired. He would take care of her. Tend to her well-being. And set her upon a shelf when he was busy elsewhere and expect her to behave. He would not want her interfering in his life.

  The door closed behind him. He was still shirtless and barefoot, and though his breeches were dry, they still clung to his hips tightly. His shoulders and torso were nearly copper from the sun. The muscles in his calves and thighs were clearly delineated by the hugging fit of his breeches.

  His dark eyes lit upon her as he strode the few feet to his desk. A dinner tray sat there, the silver cover still in place. He lifted it and saw one bowl, one round of bread, and one wineglass. He arched a brow at her.

  “I’ve eaten,” she said quickly.

  He nodded, sat in the chair behind his desk, and lifted the wineglass, black eyes on her while he sipped it. It struck Tara suddenly what an intimate—and awkward—moment this was. For a normal couple it might be a special time. The Magda rocked gently, the candle on his desk burned softly. The air was perfect, cool and fresh, and the cabin was both handsome and confining, bringing the two of them quite close together whether they wished it or not.

  “So you’ve eaten—and bathed?” he said softly, finishing the wine, setting the glass down.

  She nodded again, feeling a curious heat flood her. “Did I need permission to do either?” she heard herself asking, an edge to her tone.

  He folded his hands idly in his lap, a slight curl to his lip as he watched her now. “Maybe. With most women, I could easily say a simple no. But with you, if I say no, you will most likely think of a plunge into the ocean or river as bathing. Or you will tell me that forging into the wilderness on your own is a hunt for dinner meat. You, madam, will thus find a way to have a reason for any course of action you want to take!”

  “You needn’t fear. I’ll not be trudging into any wilderness,” she said. A sudden shuddering seized her. She prayed that he did not see the motion. She’d been afraid of spiders and snakes all of her life. She was aware that even Georgians—those living on the Florida border!—often considered the interior of Florida to be the most savage of all w
ilderness.

  “How curious. You’re afraid of alligators and the like—yet haven’t the least fear of meeting up with a nasty shark!”

  She shrugged uneasily. “I’m familiar with the ocean,” she murmured. “Are you?”

  She didn’t answer. He picked up his gumbo and began to eat. He must have been very hungry, for he finished it quickly, poured himself more wine, and leaned back in his chair, studying its color, his bare flesh gleaming ever more copper in the candlelight, even the dark hair upon it touched by a golden glow. His gaze suddenly riveted itself back on her and she felt as if she had been physically touched.

  “It’s a good thing you’re not afraid of pirates.”

  “Pirates?”

  “Indeed. José Gaspar used to cruise these waters. There’s buried treasure everywhere on the barren sand islands. Dead men tell no tales, so they say, and I assure you, many a pirate has left the skeletal remains of his onetime companions to guard his gold and jewels.”

  “You forget, I was living in New Orleans,” she reminded him with a wave of her hand. “Pirates helped defeat the British during the Battle of New Orleans. Jean Lafitte fought with Jackson.”

  “Indeed he did,” Jarrett murmured.

  “You say that with authority.”

  “It’s history, is it not? And, alas, we’re sailing away from New Orleans.”

  There was a challenge now in those dark eyes and she determined that she would not allow him to force her to betray herself in any way. She didn’t reply, but lowered her eyes, hugging her knees to her chest.

  He rose and even before she looked up, she felt the burning ebony of his eyes pierce right into her.

  He stood before her where she sat on the bunk, and she looked up slowly, painfully aware of the ridged muscles of his abdomen and the bareness of his coppery flesh. She met his eyes, forcing herself to lift a brow in a regal and silent question. He hunkered slowly down so that he was balancing himself on the balls of his feet, his eyes meeting hers on the same level.

  “I’m curious!” he said softly. “When we’ve reached my one-man’s-heaven-another-man’s-hell, what then? Will you be seeking to run away again?”

  She moistened her lips, meeting his gaze evenly. “I’ve nowhere to go,” she told him.

  “Ah! Not a reassuring answer. If you had somewhere to go, would you then be running there, away from me?”

  “I’ve not reneged on any bargain,” she whispered.

  “You’ve not been given much chance.”

  She lowered her eyes again, suddenly unable to meet his. “Why would I wish to run from you? You have rescued me at peril to yourself.”

  “Ah, but I saw the rage of independence in your eyes today! You seemed to believe that you had shackled yourself to a tyrant.”

  “You were—extremely rude.”

  “I can be a tyrant.”

  “And I, sir, may then have my rages!” she responded, her words suddenly quite heated.

  She was surprised when he laughed, rising to take a seat upon the bunk, then leaning against the paneled wall at its head. He pulled her back to lie upon his chest, her hips within the spread of his hard-muscled thighs. His fingers moved gently through the golden threads of her hair as he stretched tendril after tendril out over his own flesh.

  “It’s really not so terrible!” he told her softly.

  “It—”

  “Home,” he murmured. “Florida. But then, I’ve watched much of it grow. Imagine, it takes fifteen to twenty-odd days to sail from Pensacola to St. Augustine. So far west, to so far east, and the peninsula so different up and down the length of it! The territorial delegates used to alternate years, meeting in Pensacola, west Florida, one year, then in St. Augustine, east Florida, the next. It was troublesome for the gents to take such long journeys, and once a shipload of lawmakers was wrecked at the tip of the peninsula. They were, needless to say, quite exasperated. That’s when they decided they must meet in the middle, and Tallahassee became the capital.”

  Tara remained silent, enjoying his musings. She could inhale the rich, masculine scent of his bare flesh, savor the gentleness of his touch.

  It had seemed forever since someone had made her feel so secure, touched her so tenderly.

  “Tallahassee. It’s an—Indian name,” she murmured.

  She felt him stiffen. “It is.”

  She shivered.

  “What?” he asked softly, the strangest edge to his voice. “Do you so despise Indians?”

  “I—fear them,” she admitted.

  He was silent again. After a moment she felt his hands moving in her hair. A gentle touch.

  The ship moved rhythmically. She closed her eyes, and in time began to drift. Deep, deep in the recesses of sleep she realized that he was touching her still. She lay upon her back, and he was straddling her, naked now, smooth, sleek, the length of him golden and copper.

  “Tara?”

  “Yes?”

  His lips touched hers. She discovered the white gown being quickly slipped over her shoulders. She might have slept again except that his lips and hands moved over her, touched her. Hot mercury followed each caress of his mouth, and each grew more intimate, touching her here, there, again.…

  She cried out at the sudden intimacy of his touch, cried out at the searing fever it evoked. Then she found herself within the strength of his arms, within the wild, raw rhythm of his passion. Again the fires created so deep within her seemed to swirl and rise, ignite to greater heights. She didn’t think that she could bear any more of the agony-ecstasy, and then it seemed that the sky burst into daylight above her, and the sun radiated a savage but delicious heat throughout her, and she lay again in wonder that anything could feel so wonderful, cause such a hunger, grant such sweet, sweet burning beauty.

  She buried her head against him when it was over, embarrassed that she should become so eager at his touch. She felt the pounding of his heart slowly ease and lay very still.

  “Tara?” he whispered.

  She feigned sleep.

  If he knew that she was doing so, he did not force the issue. His fingers moved gently over her hair once again.

  In time her sleep was real.

  PART TWO

  Savage Land

  Chapter 6

  Almost home, Jarrett thought, calling out an order to bring in the sails and cut hard to port to bring the ship around to the docks at Tampa Bay. Almost home. He still had to travel along the river to reach his plantation. But tonight he could introduce his wife to these “wilds” in the company of other men and women, friends—military and non—who lived here in this post that was still considered somewhat remote.

  What had begun as the military base Fort Brooke at Tampa Bay was now a city as well: in fact, it had become “Tampa” just last year.

  The place wasn’t exactly what might be termed elegant or even particularly civilized. It was still primarily a military base, and many men sent here felt as if they had been condemned to the bowels of hell.

  Others loved it. They loved the clean white beaches, the azure color of the water in the bay, the balmy breezes that swept around them, even in the height of winter. Only a few days each year could actually be considered cold, when even in Jacksonville and Pensacola there could be, upon rare occasion, snow.

  It remained a rough town. Where soldiers went, women usually followed. Some of them were the kind who liked to make a good living off the government—through the soldiers. But military men brought sutlers along with them as well; sutlers sometimes had wives, wives had children, and thus towns—rough as they might be—did arise, filled with a little bit of everything and everyone. Tampa was such a place now. The fort, with its high wood walls, was the predominant structure, while all manner of wooden buildings seemed to trail from it, almost as if it were the head of a comet. Docks and wooden sidewalks had been built to accommodate the skirts of the ladies in some areas; in others there was no choice but to walk in the mud after a rainy day. But each year the to
wn grew. There were establishments where ladies might stay, and establishments where a man might want to go when the last thing he wanted was a lady. There were barbers, doctors, dentists, apothecaries, and mercantiles. Chickens squawked, a cow was tended here and there, and along the roads handsome horses moved quickly, most of them now being ridden by members of the military.

  “A lot of activity, don’t you think?” Robert, standing behind him with a spyglass, asked quietly.

  Jarrett nodded, reaching for the glass that Robert offered him. Through it he could see that the base did indeed seem exceptionally busy. Over rough wood fences he could see that the soldiers were moving about quickly, groups of them responding to drills, single soldiers rushing from building to building, as if carrying messages of great importance. Even as Jarrett watched, a company of about twenty men mounted and started out from the enclosure at a brisk trot, men with a mission, so it appeared.