Captive (9 page)

He clenched his teeth together tightly against an onslaught of pain that was like a physical blow. He would never, ever forget coming home, back to the place deep in the swampland where he had secreted his people, and seeing the fire, the back of the man, Naomi draped in his arms. The man, his brother, turning slowly, tears stinging his dark eyes. Naomi, beautiful in death, striking, so lovely that she seemed to sleep. James had taken her from Jarrett, held her in silence, and his brother had remained beside him, not speaking a word, knowing, sharing what he could. But it had been worse. His younger daughter, Sara, had been dead three days. His mother had been very ill, but well enough for the People
to take her more deeply into the swamp to keep her from the danger of the encroaching white troops. Such men as Warren would not care that she had been tender and good, that she had raised and adored another woman’s white child as she had Jarrett. Robert Trent had taken Jennifer back to Cimarron and Tara, and Jarrett alone had waited with the bodies for James to come, a brother to share a brother’s grief, a brother who knew more thoroughly than most full-blooded Indians how a burial for such loved ones should take place.

But she hadn’t died by white hands. By a bullet from a soldier’s gun, or the steel of an enemy’s blade. If she had died so, at the hands of such a man as Warren … His eyes opened. He stared out at the night again. From within he heard the soft sound of a woman’s laughter.

That she could be the man’s daughter!

He’d had to walk away. Walk away or do something terrible there, in his brother’s house. Do what? he mocked himself. When he had first seen her on the stairway, it had seemed as if the entire world, except for the woman, had been swept away. Receded to nothingness. She was startling with her vivid beauty. Her hair was red, not an orange red, but a burning, deep red, as mesmerizing as the dancing flames of a wild blaze. Framed by the startling shade of auburn, her face seemed like ivory, perfect in every way, flesh soft as silk and pale. Then again, her coloring dominated in eyes so green they dazzled like a gem, so deep they rivaled the shades of the forest after summer rains. Her lips were poetically rose, her features arranged with classical perfection. She stood tall, and slim and lithe, and still, against the taut velvet green bodice of her evening dress. The full rise of her breasts was unbearably evocative, and he found himself instantly thinking,
I want that woman.
Not a woman.
That
woman. And he hadn’t thought of Naomi or the war, or even of the world, as long moments ticked by, fading into history. He simply wanted her. She was beyond beauty. Passion and pride seemed to shimmer
like an aura of heat around her. He wanted to reach out and touch the fire of her hair, and see if it burned. He wanted to stroke the perfect alabastar of her cheek, and discover if it was as soft as silk. Most of all, he wanted to wrench her from the stairway, strip her of velvet and satin and lace, and find out if the passion and heat were real, and if they could obliterate the pain and the anger and the hatred and chaos that his world had become….

Moments of anguish, moments of hunger!

Until at last sanity returned. She was intrigued by him; she returned his stare as boldly. Another pretty little white girl fascinated by a red man. Yet there was a strange honesty about this one. She didn’t flinch, she didn’t flirt. She was swift to retort, she seemed to possess both intelligence and courage.

He had buried Naomi and with her, he thought, set to rest his youth, his soul, his ability to love. He could not completely forget the hungers of the flesh—that could only come, he surmised, with his own death, and he had not pretended to himself that he didn’t want a woman upon occasion. But in all worlds, red, white, and black, there were women to fulfill those hungers, and he had met a number of them. But he didn’t want another Indian wife, and the last thing he could have possibly wanted was a white temptress playing with fire for her own amusement. She was an exotic beauty. She tempted beyond human strength. Yet like so many such vivid creations, she could probably be quite deadly—to him.

Yet when he’d tried to walk away, he’d come back. He’d seen her in another man’s arms, and an entirely irrational fury had arisen within him. And though it disturbed him now, he realized that he had been determined to show her that a red man could dance with every bit as much skill and grace as a white man. He could play the role,
when
he chose.

Then he had heard her name …

And his hands shook; his fingers trembled. Rage, like a living evil, had been awakened within him. He had seen her vivid but delicate beauty, and he had thought
of the children killed with their heads bashed in to save bullets. He’d wanted to shake her, hurt her, and tell her that she was the child of a monster.

It was his brother’s house. And “savage” was not a race, it was a state of mind, a way of action. And still, he had to get away. To the night breeze. To the soft sound of the river. The whisper of the trees. The song of the night birds, and the call of the cricket.

“James!”

He heard his name called with enthusiasm and turned to see a man in a handsome dress-regulation army uniform coming toward him. The fellow was tall, with sandy hair, a slim build, and amber eyes. He was a soldier—the kind James had shot at during battle.

So much for “no military,” as Tara had promised him. Still, he felt no dismay. He was friends with a number of the soldiers, and this one was a good man. His name was John Harrington, and he had often served as a liaison when James had done the same for some of the war chiefs, and for some Seminoles weary of starving and fighting who had chosen to go west. He was a lieutenant who had served now nearly two years, a man who had not succumbed to the heat or the mosquitoes, or to any of the fevers they brought. He loved the swampy land, and sometimes seemed like a child when he observed it. Like James, he loved the river, and was a good companion on a journey along it.

“John, I hadn’t known you were due in,” James told him, rising, accepting his outstretched hand to shake it firmly. “Tara told me she and Jarrett weren’t expecting guests from the military.”

“I wasn’t expecting to be here myself; I’ve just arrived on a mission.”

“Ah?”

“A routine service assignment I hadn’t been expecting, but am finding quite intriguing,” John said, smiling. He slammed a fist against James’s shoulder. “Damn, man, but you are one fine figure, sir, in that suit! And it’s good to see you here. One of my greatest fears is
that I’ll charge into battle and face you with a rifle or bayonet.”

“It’s always a fear,” James agreed softly.

“I heard from Jarrett you have a few families interested in moving west.”

James nodded. “What’s left of a tribe. Four women, three very old men, ten children. The warriors are dead. The rest of the clan are dead. They cannot run anymore. They will starve, and those fighting cannot protect them.”

Harrington sniffed. “Well, since your great Osceola once masterminded the murder of one of his own for agreeing to go west, such a pathetic group seems brave for coming forward. They have my pity, James, for they are caught between the fire of their people and the might of the United States. In fact, you are lucky as well that Osceola has not pierced your heart with a bullet or blade for the friendship you have shown the whites.”

“John, you have met with Osceola, you know that he is no raving lunatic—”

“How would I know? He is an actor as much as anything else. He refuses to speak English, yet I could swear he knows the language. He is a handsome enough fellow, soft-spoken, for all the death and mayhem he has caused.”

“Death and mayhem have followed him all his life. He has little choice. And he has white blood himself and does not hate all things white. He is a man at war, but he is a man who understands blood and kin and friendship, and far more than any of your foolish generals out there, he is a man capable of judging other men for what they are.”

“He has killed mercilessly.”

“He is at war. To save his people, his nation, a way of life.”

“He is lucky to have such a fierce defender. I hope he never turns on you, as he did on Charlie Emathla.”

“John, you needn’t fear on my account. He understands my life. He respects Jarrett and admires Tara. I
have told you; he judges men and situations individually. I am not afraid of his wrath for what honorable arrangements I might make with you. He is not angry about desperate women giving in to hunger and terror and doing what they feel they must to survive. He is not against negotiation. You are an intelligent and honest man, John. You have admitted yourself often enough that the treaties made here have been willfully broken again and again, that military power and might were used unfairly—and that men such as Osceola have a right to their grievances.”

John sighed, leaning against the rail beside James. “And you are an intelligent man, my friend. Far more so than I. You must see that more and more soldiers will come. That the government will only become more determined to win this war.”

“Ah, but the army men weary of this war! Men who signed up for short enlistments will run home as soon as they can. Some of your army commanders have committed suicide,” James reminded him softly. “I heard tell of a fine young fellow who came to an abandoned fort in the interior, ordered to halt there. His men instantly fell ill to the fever; he suffered from the heat himself and perished not at Seminole hands but by swallowing his own sword. John, my people are fighters. They are desperate. They will not finish their time with the regular army or militia and go back to homes in Tennessee, Kentucky, or Georgia.”

John shook his head sadly. “I fear for us all!” he admitted. “The United States will not let go. And for all that you say, Osceola, no matter what his manners and intellect, can be as fierce and ruthless as a wild creature. Think back! When did this current war begin? With the massacre on Major Dade and his men. And where was the great war chief Osceola on that day, my friend? Murdering the Indian agent Wiley Thompson!”

“There are some men, white as well as red, who suggest Thompson deserved to be murdered.”

“You are purposely missing my point. Osceola did not
put the good of his people first that day. He should have been with the warriors attacking Major Dade.”

“It seems to me,” James suggested softly, “that Major Dade and his men died quite pathetically enough without Osceola’s help.”

“The point is that Osceola was being selfish—he was determined on his revenge above all else.”

“Wiley Thompson had Osceola chained. It was a tremendous humiliation to such a man. He was like an animal before his own people. Thompson signed his own death warrant that day.”

“Osceola has attacked plantations. Men, women, and children. Don’t fool yourself, James, that he is a good man.”

“But aren’t we all good men, and monsters too, depending on the point of view?”

“That I will not argue with you,” John said slowly, smiling again. He shook his head sadly. “It’s just that I so fear the future. You are my friend, many full-blooded red men are my friends. We talk, we part. And the day will come when we must seek to slit one another’s throats. Dear God, I’m being morbid. I just wish that you would remain in the suit you wear tonight, reside in your brother’s house—”

“Become white?”

“You are white.”

James shrugged. “The whites will accept me because they cannot throw me off property when I have the same legal title to it a white man might have.”

“Admit that you are white!”

“I have never denied it; my father was one of the greatest men I have ever known. My brother Jarrett is his image. But I cannot be blind to the things being done to my people. I would be half a man indeed if I could do so.”

“I will pray for you, always,” John said somberly.

James smiled. “And I will pray for you as well.”

“Maybe we will both survive this to spend lazy days fishing down cypress-shaded rivers.”

“Maybe. So what ‘routine’ assignment has brought you here now?” James asked him, suddenly curious.

“Ah! A most delightful one!” John said happily, amber eyes alight with pleasure. “Escort service brings me.” The light in his eyes suddenly faded, and he grimaced. “I’m afraid to go further, I know how you feel about the colonel who has sent me here. But have you seen
her?
I don’t give a damn what a man’s color, he’d have to find her exquisite. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and I was so damned afraid. Like him or not, Warren is my superior officer, and when he suggested most strongly that a marriage should be arranged, I was deeply worried, as well you can understand! He is such a harsh, unyielding, bastard….” He shuddered fiercely. “I mean, could you imagine Michael Warren a woman? She would be hideous—I had, indeed, imagined a most unfeminine creature—with a dark, coarse mustache perhaps. Even sideburns, mutton chops! I thought she’d be a monster, with a monster’s manner to match! I mean to tell you, I came here all but trembling in my boots, and your wretched brother was no help. He rolled his eyes and taunted me most cruelly upon my arrival, I will tell you. Then I was brought to her, and I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t even find voice to speak when we were introduced. I think your brother is still laughing at me.”

Something within James had been winding tighter and tighter as his friend spoke. He clenched down very hard on his teeth, willing his features to remain expressionless.

“You’re referring to Miss Warren?” he inquired.

John Harrington sighed deeply, like a man already in love. Infatuated beyond redemption, at the very least.

“Yes, indeed!” John said. “Have you met?”

“Oh, yes, we’ve met,” James said grimly.

“There’s such a magnificent spark of fire to her! So many other young women would be distressed to find themselves consigned to the wilds of Florida, but she
isn’t afraid. She’s already asked me dozens of questions. She is curious, intelligent—”

“And quite remarkably well put together,” James observed lightly.

“Well, yes, there is that—” John admitted innocently, then slapped James hard on the back, laughing. “Yes, there is that. But, James, of all men, you realize that there is more!” he continued earnestly. “A wife is a companion, and one who can understand a man’s love for a land so raw and savage as this …”