The Captive Heart Read online

  “There she is, ladies. Yer new home sweet home,” Mr. Beebright called from his perch on the driver’s seat.

  Biz scrambled to grasp Beebright’s seat back as the wagon crested the hill. Truly, the woman was as agile as a cat. “Sweet rat meat! Don’t tell me that’s Newcastle.”

  “What? Too much for you?” Beebright chuckled. “Beauty of an outpost, eh?”

  Unsure what to make of the conversation, Eleanor glanced at Molly, who sat next to her. “Are you ready to face our future?”

  A small smile curved her lips. “Aye, miss. Why, if it weren’t for you, I doubt I’d have a future. Thanks again for your care.”

  “Think nothing of it. If anything, caring for you gave me experience to nurse a sick little one should the need arise.”

  “Speaking of little ones, I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell you….” Molly’s hand slid to her belly.

  Eleanor’s eyes widened. “You are … with child?”

  A blush to shame the sunrise bloomed on Molly’s cheeks, and she nodded. “Near as I can tell.”

  “Oh, Molly! I am so happy you and the babe are well.” She pulled the woman into an embrace.

  “Aww! Quit yer jib-jabbering.” Biz’s voice cut into the tender moment. “Don’t ye want to see the slap-shacked hamlet tha’s to be our new home? Why, we’d a been better off stayin’ in the hold o’ that ship.”

  Eleanor pulled back and quirked a brow at Molly. “It can’t be all that bad. Shall we?”

  Molly scooted to one side of the wagon, Eleanor to the other, each bracing themselves from tumbling overboard as the wagon descended one more rolling hill.

  Eleanor’s chest tightened. Not that she hadn’t seen ramshackle villages back home, but this? No. Absolutely not. This was little more than a collection of cut logs nailed together, huddled along each side of a dirt trail that ended at a river—or what should have been a river. Even the body of water had the good sense to pack up and move on from this pathetic settlement, leaving nothing but a trickle over rocks as a farewell wave.

  For once, even Biz was speechless.

  “Oh, my,” Eleanor breathed out.

  Except for the bumpity-bump of the wagon wheels and creak of an axle that by now needed a good greasing, they rode the rest of the way in silence. A smithy stood near a building on the outskirts, watching their advance. He hailed Mr. Beebright with a “Hallo!” and the lift of a sooty hand. Dark smoke belched into the air behind him from a shed that leaned like an old woman with a cane.

  “Hallo, Zeke,” Beebright returned. “I see the town’s still standin’.”

  Fiddle music poured out the next open door, off-key, and with all the rhythm of a drunken sailor walking a plank. A beast of a man stood in the threshold, looking out. He wore deerskin breeches and a stained linen shirt, cinched at the waist with a wide belt. He cradled a rifle across one arm, and when his dark eyes met hers, she sucked in a breath. Bold. Dangerous. Determined. She’d read of frontiersmen, wild men who lived months at a time in the wild—but words on paper weren’t nearly as frightening as this man’s real-life dark gaze.

  Maneuvering over crates and sacks toward Molly, she put as much distance as possible between herself and the man’s suggestive stare. The scramble added another tear to the hem of her skirt, but the damage was worth it.

  A legal agency came next, maybe a gaol. Hard to tell. Next to that, judging by the pelts stacked high on the porch, was a fur trader. And at the end of the row, a charred lot.

  Eleanor shivered as she stared at the timbers, ash-whitened tips punctuating the scarred earth, like bones laid out to warn of the dangers of fire. Something bad had happened here. She could feel it. Not too far in, broken pieces of porcelain poked up from the rubble, looking for all the world like fangs about to snap shut. In one corner, an upturned cooking pot blossomed like a fat, black fungus. Ragweed crept inward from the edges in a valiant effort to choke out the dark tragedy with green. She frowned. Why had no one thought to clean this up?

  Mr. Beebright pulled the wagon to a stop, the sudden lack of movement bumping her into Molly’s shoulder.

  “Miss Molly gets out here.” Mr. Beebright clambered down from his seat, rounded the wagon, and swung open the back gate. The wood lined up even with a dock, making for a solid walkway, and he held out his hand. “You other two climb up front. I’ll send out young Sutton to unload.”

  Eleanor might almost feel sorry for Molly to live across from the blackened plot of ground, but her new home looked cheerful enough. The building stood two-stories tall, and though it bore no paint, was constructed of actual boards, sawn flat, not logs. Based on the hand-painted placard reading GREELEY’S MERCANTILE above the door, the place appeared to be a regular shop of commerce. It was certainly the finest building in town—if not a bit pretentious for this settlement in the middle of a wilderness.

  Molly took Mr. Beebright’s hand, allowing him to help her transfer from wagon to docket, then faced them. “Good-bye, Eleanor. Good-bye, Biz. I’m certain I’ll see you around, and be glad for it.”

  “I am sure of it, Molly.” Eleanor smiled, for she’d make a point to visit her new friend. Maybe even daily, if she packed up her new charge for a stroll. “All the best to you.” She waved.

  Biz just shook her head. “Off with you. I’m tired of your pretty face.”

  “Oh, Biz.” Eleanor sighed. “Can you not be more pleasant?”

  “What?” Biz bunched her nose as if she smelled something rotten. “I just said she were pretty, din’t I?”

  Mr. Beebright and Molly disappeared inside Greeley’s, but before the screen door slapped shut, a man’s voice raged inside. Poor Molly. What a greeting. Hopefully Biz and she would fare better than that.

  A strapping fellow emerged next. He greeted them with a tip of his cap and a “Good day, ladies,” before he bent to retrieve the first burlap bag nearest the wagon gate.

  His accent shot straight from Eleanor’s ears to her heart, the twinge of homesickness hitting her hard. “Good day, er, Mr. Sutton, is it? You are a Bristol man, if I do not miss my mark.”

  “Aye.” He straightened, hefting the bag over his shoulder, his green eyes wide and bright in the last of the day’s sun. “That I am. Have you kinfolk in the area?”

  A smile curved her lips. “No, none. But it does my ears good to hear something other than a Colonial drawl.”

  “Aye, and that be the truth of it, eh?” He pivoted and disappeared into the half of the building that looked like a warehouse.

  Eleanor stood, debating if she should swing her leg over the seatback like Biz had done in order to gain the front seat or if she should climb over the rest of the wagon’s crates and barrels and have at it from the side. Either way was an unladylike proposition, but quicker if she just gave in to impropriety and hurdled the seat. She landed with a thud on her bottom and a new tear in her skirt.

  Ignoring Biz’s laugh, she pressed out what wrinkles she could from her gown, glad she’d managed the feat before Mr. Sutton returned. “I wonder why Mr. Beebright did not drop us off first, unless he’s planning on turning the wagon around for another sweep through Newcastle.”

  “Who knows? Maybe he wanted to unload first. Makes no nevermind to me, long as I don’t have to sleep one more night in the open. Not that I’ve never shared a bed with vermin before, but the bugs ’round here have steel chompers.” Biz shaded her eyes from the lowering sun, eyeing her with a smirk. “Why, you’ll prob’ly scare the little hem-chaser you’re to look after, what with all them welts on your face.”

  Reprimanding the woman would do no good, for it was likely true. What a sight she must look. She smoothed back her hair, coaxing loose ends into the knot she’d fashioned with what remained of her hairpins. She could at least do that much. Hopefully, with cold chamomile compresses and time, the bumps on her skin would go away. And until then, oughtn’t a friendly smile put a child—and a master—at ease?

  Master. The thought stung, and she lowered
her hands to her lap, clenching them. Oh, she’d felt trapped by employers before, but she could always walk away if the situation merited. Or run, as in the case of her last position. But this time, God help her, she’d signed a legal document. If she left before the seven-year mark, she’d not only be a promise breaker but a criminal.

  “Quit yer sighing.” Biz elbowed her.

  “Was I?” She straightened, hoping good posture might lift her spirits as well. “Sorry.”

  Biz spit out a curse. “And quit yer blessed apologizing, too. Look around. Yer in America now, not pandering to lords and ladies. Yer proper ways will do you no good out here.”

  Eleanor pressed her lips together. Manners and order, not chaos and erratic behaviour, just might be the salvation of this wild and rugged land.

  Mr. Beebright’s whistle exited the building before he did. Apparently he’d not taken to heart whatever tongue-lashing had occurred inside. He paused his tune to thank Mr. Sutton and secure the back gate.

  “Off we go, ladies. Might as well stay where you are, for we haven’t far to go.” He climbed up next to them and, with a slap of the reins, urged the cart forward. He turned right at the end of the building. The road followed along the riverbed and ended in a graveyard.

  A graveyard? Why would he bring them here?

  But he turned right again, passing beneath a bower of pine, and there the ground opened into a sweet little patch of land, a surprisingly large house nearest the road, and a crop of green mounds dotted with purple flowers behind.

  Eleanor’s heart swelled. For the first time since that horrid night nearly three months ago, she smiled in full. Not that she’d choose to live in the middle of a backcountry with wild men and a woeful lack of necessities, but to reside in such pastoral scenery might almost make her feel at home.

  Mr. Beebright set the brake and hopped down. “This be the reverend’s house.”

  Biz belted out a bawdy laugh. “Ha! Looks like you better be a-watchin’ yer manners here, under God’s eyes and all, aye, Elle Bell?”

  Eleanor subdued a flinch at the nickname, determined not to let it ruin her happy moment. “I can only say that I hope you shall have yourself as merry a home as—”

  “Out you go, Miss Biz.”

  “What?” Their voices rose together, followed by a string of foul curses from Biz.

  Biz scrambled over the top of Eleanor, putting distance between herself and the house. “No! You can’t make me stay here. Why, I oughtta—”

  “Greetings, Mr. Beebright. Happy you’ve finally made it back.” God himself spoke, or rather what looked to be a god in human form striding out the front door. His hair was the color of October acorns, pulled back and tied into a neat queue. His eyes were so violet blue, they would shame a garden of periwinkles into wilting a bow. And when he smiled—Lord have mercy. Eleanor was tempted to fan herself. Next to her, Biz did.

  “And glad I am to be back, Reverend,” Beebright answered. “It were a dogged-hard trip. I’m gettin’ too old for this.”

  The reverend patted him on the back, then lifted his face to her and Biz. “Welcome to America, ladies. I’d offer you refreshment, but, well … God knows I lack in my house-tending skills, which is why I’m happy you are here. Which one of you—”

  “I am! Tha’s me! I’m your girl.” Biz crawled over her and jumped to the ground, landing so close to the reverend, she grabbed his arm to balance. She leaned toward him with a sway of her hips. “Point me in the right direction, and I’ll tend whatever ye’d like.”

  Eleanor gasped.

  Red crept up the reverend’s ears, and he retreated a step, escaping from Biz’s hold. “Oh, er …” He shot a glance at Beebright. “Mr. Beebright, are you sure—”

  “Back it off there, missy.” Beebright poked her in the shoulder, wedging himself between the two. “That there is the Reverend Jonah Parker, so keep your distance.”

  Beebright paused to spit out the wad of tobacco he’d been chewing since their last stop, the juice of it sending up a puff of dirt as it hit the ground. Swiping his mouth, he turned to the reverend. “And this here is Miss Elizabeth Hunter—Biz, as she calls herself. Keep an eye on that one, though. Sorry to be doin’ this to ye, but she were the best I could buy.”

  Jonah Parker’s throat bobbed, but then he recovered and straightened his shoulders. “Very well. Not like I haven’t had to deal with a difficult woman before, hmm?”

  “Well said, man.” Beebright snorted. “I’d best be off, then. Not much light left. As is, I’ll have to sport my Bessie and a lantern. Truth be told, though, I’m looking even less forward to spending a night under Heath’s roof than with the wildcats in the woods.”

  “Oh, that reminds me.” The reverend held up a hand, halting Beebright’s stride. “I meant to tell you that both ladies should remain here for now.”

  With a cleared shot to the reverend, Biz sidled over to him, aiming her finger at Eleanor. “We don’t need Miss Prim and Proper. I’m plenty enough for you.”

  The man’s jaw clenched as he once again looked to Mr. Beebright, the narrowing of his eyes censuring him for his choice of housekeepers.

  Eleanor frowned. Why would the man want two of them? “Am I not to care for a young child, then?”

  “Yes, ma’am, you will, but I am instructed to let Mr. Beebright know he is to inform Mr. Heath of your arrival. Mr. Heath himself asked for you to wait for him to pick you up instead of Mr. Beebright delivering you.”

  Odd. Why could they have simply not stopped by whatever building housed him? She shook her head. “I am a bit confused.”

  “Actually …” The reverend glanced heavenward. Was he praying? Here? Now? Then he directed his gaze at her. “It might be best that way.”

  What was that supposed to mean? Clearly the man was retaining information, for truth hid behind his forced smile. Surely a reverend wouldn’t willfully deceive … would he?

  Nibbling her lower lip, she laid out her precious few puzzle pieces of information and tried to make some sort of picture. She’d had cryptic conversations before, even excelled in creating codes to keep her charges inquisitive and sharp, but now that the technique was turned back upon her, she wasn’t so sure she liked it.

  Why did her master, Mr. Heath, not trust Mr. Beebright to deliver her?

  Chapter 6

  Eleanor lay on the sharp edge of slumber, half-awake, half-dead with fatigue. It had been a fitful night. Biz’s snoring jolted her from sleep more than once. But now, with dawn’s grey just beginning to lighten the sky outside the window, she’d found a comfortable niche in the straw mattress, just out of reach of her bedmate’s sharp elbows, and she sank into oblivion—until the door burst open with a crash.

  Eleanor shot up, clutching the counterpane to her chest, adding to what little modesty her shift allowed. Next to her, Biz cursed the noise, the hour, and for some odd reason, St. Patrick, then dove under the pillow, stopping up her ears.

  “Which one?” A deep voice filled the room, belonging to a man who stood a few paces inside the small chamber. Yet even at such close range, his face was shadowed beneath the brim of a black hat. He was a silhouette, really. Darkness upon dark. Like the grim reaper paying a sudden visit without benefit of a calling card.

  And he wore a tomahawk hanging off his belt.

  Eleanor’s heart beat hard in her chest, a caged bird frantic to break loose. The man looked to be a savage.

  “Really, Mr. Heath.” The reverend followed, out of breath and apparently out of charity as well, for his voice strained. “This is not in any way acceptable. You cannot enter a woman’s bedchamber!”

  The big man turned to him, all but blocking Eleanor’s view of the reverend, and she gasped. A golden-haired child with snarls that needed a good brushing peeked out from a deerskin wrap tied to Mr. Heath. Craning her neck, the girl twisted to look at her with huge brown eyes. For a moment, the little one squirmed, planting her feet on the man’s back and arching up for a better view. Then, evi
dently satisfied she and Biz were not monsters, the girl popped a thumb in her mouth and settled down, resting her cheek against her father’s broad shoulder.

  “Which one, Parker?” Mr. Heath’s tone demanded nothing short of complete obedience. “The sooner I get out of town, the better. But I reckon you know that.”

  Tension throbbed in the room, quite the contrast with the way the small girl rested so contentedly on the man’s back. The reverend huffed like a horse. Eleanor wasn’t sure what to make of the exchange, but one thing she did know—despite the sweet little cherub he carried, Mr. Heath was not a master she wished to serve. She huddled closer to Biz, who clutched her pillow all the tighter.

  Sidestepping Heath, the reverend approached the bed, his mouth drawn into a straight line. “My apologies, Miss Morgan, Miss Hunter. Mr. Heath seems to be in quite a hurry this morn, as he generally is when he comes to town. If you wouldn’t mind Miss Morgan—”

  “And if you wouldn’t mind.” Heath wheeled about so fast, the little girl squealed with the movement. “Miss Morgan, is it? Let’s go. Now.”

  His dark gaze pierced her against the pillow, so sharp were his eyes. His long hair—deep brown—crashed against his shoulders like a wave ravaging a Cornish cliff, all jagged and wild, hiding half his face with the thickness. The half she could see sported a shadow of stubble, riding just below the sharp angles of his cheekbones. Was everything about the man stormy blackness?

  “Mr. Heath.” The reverend’s jaw clenched. “I insist you employ milder manners in this household.”

  Biz bolted upward, throwing her pillow at the both of them. “Take yer quarrel downstairs! I’ve had more peace sleeping in a Shoreditch gutter.”

  The reverend’s jaw dropped. Mr. Heath merely turned a steely glower upon Biz as her pillow bounced off his chest. Lightning flashed in his eyes, yet he said nothing—which made it worse.

  Eleanor clutched the counterpane to her neck, using it as a shield. Highly illogical and pathetic, yes, but it was all she had. The realization struck her dumb for a moment. All that remained to her in this world was her fading sense of dignity—and the debt this man had paid for her passage from England.