Captive Hearts (25 page)

With a shout, he jumped to his feet. “Run for the house, men. They’re covering us.” Thrusting his musket into the injured man’s hand, he levered Jackson to his feet, and bent to heft him over his shoulder as another round of fire came from the house.

Lead shot pinged through the brush at his right. He

ran for all he was worth, the weight of the man he carried throwing off his balance and making each step a struggle.

The overhead light faded quickly. Matthew waited to feel the bite of a lead ball ripping through his back.

A bright yellow glow of an oil lamp outlined an open doorway as he reached the back of the house. Brick particles exploded outward as a shot hit the wall just inches from his head. He felt the slight sting as tiny bits of masonry splattered his neck. He leaped through the door and dodged to the right out of the way of the men who followed him. Breathing hard, he lowered Jackson to the floor and turned to check the rest of his men. A quick head count reassured him they had left behind no one.

One man’s arm was bleeding and another was already ripping open the sleeve to check the injury.

“Webster, there are loaded weapons and shot on the dining room table one door down to the right. Distribute them to the men and spread out through the house.”

“Aye, Cap’in.”

He bent to see to Jackson. The man had been hit in the thigh. The ball had traveled through the muscle and out the other side. Meaty flesh showed from the hole in his breeches. As long as fabric hadn’t been carried into the wound, he’d have a chance to heal. Despite the blood, Matthew inspected the breeches for missing pieces. A semicircle of fabric held by a thread dangled from the edge of the opening. He fit it together.

“It’s all there, Jackson. There’s no cloth in the wound.”

“Praise be, sir,” the man said through gritted teeth.

Taking a knife from his boot, Matthew cut open the leg of the garment to expose the wound. He caught a glimpse of Franklin’s bright red hair as he appeared at his side with a bowl of water.

“Where the blazes did you get fireworks?” he asked as he glanced up. He shook free of his coat and ripped free the sleeve of his shirt to make a temporary bandage for Jackson’s leg. He rinsed away the blood from the wound and inspected the injury more closely.

“Lady Katherine got them from the attic. Her brother, John, saw fireworks on one of their outings to London and purchased a few. Master John had a liking

for anythin’ to do with powder or shot.”

“The more I hear about my wife’s brother, the more I’m certain I would have liked him a great deal.”

“I’m sure he would have liked you as well.” Katherine’s voice, slightly breathless, came from behind him. He glanced up in time to catch the movement of her eyes as she ran them downward in a quick inspection, searching for wounds.

“Your neck is bleeding,” she said, her features carefully composed as she set aside her weapon and kneeled beside him. Her hands shook, belying her outward calm as she gave the wound a quick inspection.

“It’s just a nick from a bit of brick. Jackson’s in worse shape than I.”

Her dark violet eyes looked almost black against the paleness of her skin. She smelled of spent powder and smoke. Bits of hair had escaped her braid to hang in spirals on either side of her face. She had never seemed as beautiful to him as she did in that moment.

She nodded, her attention swinging to the man on the floor. “Franklin, clean and bandage the Captain’s neck while I see to this man.”

“Yes, Lady Katherine.”

Matthew caught Jackson’s attention focused on Katherine’s face as he got to his feet and a quick wry smile twisted his lips. Even though he was injured and in pain, she had managed to capture the man’s attention enough to distract him. ****

Katherine pressed the sleeve Matthew had torn from his shirt to the man’s wound to staunch the worst of the bleeding. She shoved aside the spent weapons the man still held and guided his hand over the bandage. “Hold tight to that while I wash my hands.” She rushed to pump more water and quickly scrubbed her hands clean of powder and grime. The action gave her time to gather her scattered wits and shaky emotions. Thank God, thank God, Matthew was all right.

When she returned to the bleeding man on the floor, she was able to offer him a calm façade and a reassuring smile. “What’s your name?” she asked as she began to

clean away the blood and gore from the wound.

“Jackson, ma’am. Jerome Jackson.”

“Your accent sounds close to my husband’s, Mr.

Jackson.”

“My husband” the words reverberated through her mind. She couldn’t allow herself to think how close Matthew had come to being killed. She focused on the young man before her. His dark brows scrunched together in a frown of pain and his teeth clenched against it, his bush of black, curly hair fanned out about his face.

“You’re in good hands, Jackson,” Matthew said from her right.

“Aye, sir.”

Matthew laid a hand on her shoulder for a brief moment. She fought against the quick tears of relief that stung her eyes.

Sporadic fire from upstairs served to remind her of the threat outside. There were twenty-three men standing between her and that threat, but nothing standing between them and the men determined to kill them all.

Matthew left with William. She forced her attention back to Jackson. “Are you from Charleston, too?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She kept him talking as she cleaned the wound and staunched most of the bleeding. “I’ll have to bind this, Mr.

Jackson.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded.

She called to one of the men to stay with Jackson.

Instructing him to keep pressure on the wound, she ran up the servant’s stairs to retrieve some fabric from her sewing basket. Once again, the darkness held her back.

She waited for the sound of her mother’s voice, but all was quiet. Forcing herself to step over the threshold, she left the door open behind her. She had just enough light from the hallway to see what she was looking for. Basket in hand, she paused sensing something was wrong.

Quiet had settled over the house. The firing had stopped. Relief flowed through her. Perhaps they had gone. If they had, what then? She didn’t want to think about it. She could not protect the men who were here.

She could not even protect herself. She had been an idealistic fool spouting on about justice when what she

had really wanted was revenge. And it wasn’t she who was paying for it, but Matthew and the men. It wasn’t worth anyone else dying. Why hadn’t she realized that before it was too late?

Matthew watched as Katherine circulated from man to man pouring them tea from a pot that looked too big for her to lift. From a basket, she produced bread with thick slices of ham wedged between. He remembered a time when his mother had done the same for men on the front line. No doubt, she would have found a kinship with the woman he had married. She had done him proud tonight in front of his men, had done herself proud.

He rose from his position at one of the windows to join her. The soft candlelight etched the side of her face with light and touched her hair with copper highlights.

Grabbing the cloth she had used to handle the kettle, he lifted it from the floor.

She turned to look up at him. “I can get it.”

“I’m sure you can, but everything is quiet for the moment. I don’t mind helping.”

“I only have the men upstairs to see to.”

“Lead on, Mrs. Hamilton.”

Her gaze rested on him for a moment before she turned to do as he suggested.

“Jackson said he was feeling much better.”

“Good.” Her throat worked as she swallowed, her eyes glowed suspiciously bright. “He’ll have to be still otherwise, he’ll start bleeding again.”

“He seems to be doing well. As long as the wound doesn’t fester, he’ll heal.”

“I hope so. ’Twas lucky the shot didn’t hit the bone, or

’twould be a different story.”

They paused outside one of the bedrooms not as well lit as the rooms downstairs. He watched her as she braced herself to enter the room.

“The space is not close, Katherine.”

“I know. ’Tis the darkness that makes it seem so.”

“You weren’t afraid at Willingham’s.”

“You were there in the dark with me.”

“I still am.”

Her eyes looked so deep a violet they appeared almost black as she looked up at him. “I wish you weren’t,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper.

For countless moments, the hallway receded as their gazes met. Each breath she drew, he seemed to draw in sync. The touch of her hand against his cheek, the look on her face of emotions, unhampered by control, brought him a sense of hope. Then, she turned away to lead the way down the hall but he felt more encouraged than rebuffed.

They worked as a team serving the men tea and the food she had prepared. On the third floor, he retrieved the weapons she had left in the attic while she extinguished the oil lamps.

On the second floor, he tugged her into her bedroom where a fire and a lit candle had been left burning. “I thought we could share what was left of the tea and the food.” Setting aside the guns and pot he still carried, he went to the basin to wash his hands. By the time he had dried them, she had poured him a cup of tea and set out thick slices of bread and ham on a cloth before the hearth.

He placed another log on the fire to chase away the chill and settled there with her.

They ate in silence for a moment. “Will you tell me about your little girl?” she asked, surprising him.

He broke off a crust of bread and chewed it as he compiled his answer. “When Emily was born and Caroline died, for a time it was difficult for me to look at her. Even as a baby, she looked just like her mother.” He chewed slowly for a moment. “Of late, I’ve realized she has a great deal of me in her as well. She has a stubborn streak that runs bone deep. She’s been allowed to do as she pleases.

She can twist her uncles around her little finger.”

“And her father as well?” “Not as much, but yes, she has a way about her. It’s difficult for me to be harsh with her, since I feel her behavior is partially my own fault.

Because I’ve been gone a great deal, she and I haven’t exactly reached an understanding of who’s in charge yet.” She smiled.

“In fact, she reminds me of you.” One well-arched auburn brow rose in reaction to his observation. “You’re not in charge of me.”

“You couldn’t have made that clearer than when you left a note behind and expected me to let you go.” She looked away.

“I’d have been here sooner, but I had to go to the Caroline, find my purser, and turn everything over to him.”

“I’m sorry for inconveniencing you.” She bundled up the bread left over and put it back in the basket.

“I have less than a fortnight, Katherine. I have to leave England.”

“You should have stayed in London. You could already have been on your way back to your family.” When she started to rise, he grasped her wrists, stilling her movements. “You don’t know about Rudman’s edict, do you?”

She looked up, her brows furrowed with a frown. She shook her head. “What edict?”

“I have to be away before the fortnight. If not, he has threatened to have me thrown back in that hell hole again.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “He can’t do that. You haven’t done anything.”

“That didn’t stop him the first time.” She jerked her hands away and scrambled to her feet. “Damn him, and damn Edward for not telling me.” She snatched up the basket and swung it as though she wanted to throw it.

He got to his feet. “Would it have made any difference?” he asked, searching her face.

For a moment she remained silent, her mouth softly parted. The struggle she felt was, for once, plain on her face. He decided he didn’t want to hear her answer. His mouth swooped down to cover hers. She tasted of tea and ham, sweet and salty, and smelled like a blend of flowers and gunpowder. He wanted to revel in that fragrance, in her taste. Though her lips parted beneath the pressure of his, she held herself apart from him, the basket clutched in her hand. Matthew broke the contact long enough to wrestle the thing from her and set it aside.

His hand trailed down her back molding her more tightly against him. The full thrust of her breasts pressed

into his ribs. The tightening pull of arousal shifted into a full-fledged need. He wrapped her braid around his hand to pull her head back and find, with his lips, the throbbing heartbeat at its base. Her skin pulsed with warmth and life. He wanted to taste it, all of it.

He cupped the weight of her breast, and through the fabric, rubbed the nipple already beaded there. Her hand covered his. “We cannot, Matthew.” Her voice sounded breathy and weak. He could feel her trembling.

She shivered as he traced her ear with his tongue.

“There are a hundred different things we can do, all of them pleasurable, Katherine.”

His mouth caught hers in a blatant seduction, his tongue tempting hers to respond and when she finally did, he groaned in relief. She belonged to him. It was up to him to prove it to her.

The laces at the front of her plain, gray gown gave way with a quick tug. The sleeves of her gown fell down her shoulders, opening the modest neckline of the garment to him. The soft weight of her breast in his hand, and the responsive curl of her fingers around the back of his neck, felt more a victory than any battle he had ever fought.

She pulled the black ribbon loose to free his hair and ran her fingers through to caress the nape of his neck. He ran a hand into the bodice of her gown to caress the pale soft skin open to him. The touch of her tongue against his fired his blood. He cupped her buttocks to lift her against him and felt her hips tilt against the hard ridge of his erection as her arms went around his neck.

The bed seemed too far away as the thrust and parry of their tongues became torpid and hot. She pulled and tugged at the ill-fitting shirt until she parted it to run eager hands over his chest and back. Matthew managed to bare her breasts, though her stays prevented him from uncovering more. Responsive to his every touch she rubbed the rigid peeks against his chest, her skin like warm silk against his. Blood pooled in his groin making him throb with need. He groaned as he bunched the material of her gown upward and lifted her off her feet.