Runaway (31 page)

Jarrett’s taut features loomed before her. He sat at her side and leaned over her, arms like bars on either side of her. Despite the fact that the room was barely lightened by the coming of dawn, he had been up for a while it seemed. Perhaps he had never slept. He was fully dressed in form-hugging brown breeches, a white shirt open at the neck, a muted green waistcoat, and a heavier, earth-colored frock coat. He wore high boots, coming almost to his knees. His black hair was queued at his nape, making his handsome features sharp and strong and, at the moment, menacing.

“Who’s William?” he demanded.

She shook her head. “No one you need be concerned with.”

“Who’s William?” he repeated.

“Jarrett—”

“Who the bloody hell is William?” he demanded anew. His hands fell upon her shoulders, his fingers biting into them. She found herself dragged up to face him, the sheets falling from her naked body, her hair becoming a wild fall that tangled around them both.

“Jarrett!” she protested.

“Who?” he demanded again, and the word thundered out to her.

No questions! He had promised her.

Yet it seemed that this was one question she had to answer, and answer now.

“My brother!” she cried out. “William is my brother!” she repeated, swallowing down the sob that caught at her throat. She wrenched herself from his touch and fell back to the bed, twisting away from him and onto her stomach, closing her eyes tightly, praying that she could fall back into the deep, deep, comforting sleep that had been hers just moments ago.

She still felt him by her.

“Your brother? You swear it?”

She let out a muffled oath of aggravation that must have assured him she was telling the truth.

She felt his hand upon her back, sweeping the fall of her hair from it. She felt the fire of his lips upon her bare flesh, just a touch.

“We’ll talk when I get back,” he said.

They’d talk, indeed! He’d ply her with questions and refuse to answer any himself!

But his touch had left her. A second later she realized that their bedroom door had opened and closed, and that he was gone.

She bolted up in the bed and started to leap from it. She realized she was naked, wrenched up the sheet, and raced for the door again.

Too late. She could already hear him below, calling out something to Jeeves as he mounted Charlemagne. Even as she hurried to the window, he was riding away. She trailed her sheet back to the bed and sank down to the foot of it, suddenly fighting tears. She hadn’t wanted him to go! She had wanted him to stay.

And not just because she was afraid.

But because she had been so glad and warmed to sleep beside him, feel his arms through the night.

Because she did, indeed, love him.

D
uring her first few weeks of residence in her new home, Tara learned a great deal about Cimarron.

To begin with she quickly realized her husband didn’t rely on goodwill alone for his safety.

Armed men guarded the property, almost as if it were a little kingdom unto itself. It wasn’t an armed camp, per se, but after a few days she noted that there were always men watching from vantage points atop the buildings at each end of the dock. Rutger rode from docks to fields throughout the day with others at his side, and even along the small stream and woods that bordered the Indian country, men were stationed right in the branches. By the fourth night of Jarrett’s departure Tara actually slept well and deeply, finally feeling safe at Cimarron. By then, of course, she was so exhausted that if any dreams did come along to trouble her, she was not aware of them.

She learned about the house itself as well, and the learning was not an unhappy experience. Jeeves showed it to her in its entirety, and it dawned on her slowly just how great an American empire it was that her husband had fashioned out of cypress hammocks, marsh, and swamp. The house had been beautifully designed and elegantly furnished, yet it was exceptionally comfortable
as well, a welcoming place. Though his room had seemed exceptionally masculine when she had arrived, little by little it was becoming her room as well. Small things changed it. Her toiletries now sat on the dresser. Jeeves had brought in a long swivel Queen Anne mirror and a dressing table to match.

Throughout the rest of the house, she had discovered, the furnishings had been carefully chosen to complement the home and each sector of it. One guest room was furnished with seventeenth-century French pieces, another was decorated in Tudor style with a large, dark wood canopied and curtained bed. Jarrett’s library and office were both more sparsely furnished with cleanly carved pieces straight from New England. The hall, or breezeway, was most elegant with its settees and mahogany tables, but even there the brocade- and velvet-covered chairs and settees seemed to beckon one to sit comfortably.

Only one occurrence during her extensive tours with Jeeves disturbed her, and that was the afternoon he brought her to the small library on the second floor.

There were two windows here, with a broad section of wall between them. It was an area perfect for a large painting and that’s exactly what had been placed there. The painting was of a woman. There was no perspective within the painting from which to judge her height, for she stood by a small flower stand, dressed in sunflower-yellow, a gown with a low-scooped bodice and the picturesque sweep of a train. Her neck was long and slender, her stance regal. Her eyes were a deep almond brown with a slight cast to them that gave her an exotic appeal. Her hair was a deep mahogany brown, swept cleanly off her beautiful neck. She had smiled for the artist, and it was a beautiful, whimsical smile that instantly caught
the eye of the beholder, compelling, engaging one to smile as well.

Yet Tara felt a hollowness within herself as she studied the painting, for she knew without being told that the lady was the true mistress of Cimarron—Jarrett’s “real” wife. Lisa. She had been exceptionally beautiful, and if the painting spoke truly of her, she had been vibrant and sweet as well. She had surely been the perfect social match for Jarrett, the perfect mistress of his home. She had set the standards, here at Cimarron.

But she was dead!
Tara reminded herself. She was ashamed to feel such jealousy again, but she was certain that Lisa had shared far more with Jarrett—his thoughts, mind, heart, and soul!—than Tara ever would.

Tara tried to stay away from the painting. Trying made it worse. Sometime during each day she found herself in the library, studying the painting.

When she wasn’t studying the painting, she tried to stay occupied, but in attempting to busy herself in any way with the house, she found that, with every task she performed, she wondered if Lisa had done things in the same manner she was doing them. How much soap had Lisa made, how many candles? How much meat was salted, how much smoked? Under Jeeves, of course, the plantation house all but managed itself, and yet he and the others were unerringly courteous to her and anxious to serve her. She quickly discovered, however, that no one would answer the multitude of questions she was always eager to ask. Jeeves, of course, was the one she asked first, asking point-blank how Lisa had died. But Jeeves had replied with a long sigh, and then he had told her point-blank that Master Jarrett would surely want to explain the situation himself. She tried again with Cota, but Cota knew nothing, and Hattie just rolled her eyes and all but mimicked Jeeves, assuring her that Mr. McKenzie
would scalp her sure as a Seminole might if she went talking out of turn.

One night she sent for Rutger, ostensibly to ask him if there’d been any news along the river. He supped with her in the dining room, telling her that one trader had passed by, stopping briefly and assuring him only that Tampa had not been attacked, not as yet. But Rutger either knew nothing about Lisa, or was quite a skilled actor himself, for when Tara tried more subtly to gain information, he slipped from her questions every time.

Great beings might have swept down out of the sky to spirit Lisa away for all the information Tara could gain on her predecessor.

But nothing that elusive had happened, she discovered, for Jeeves did at least have a bit of a heart about her curiosity. One afternoon when he discovered her in the library staring up at the portrait, he suggested that she might like to see Lisa’s grave, and—feeling just a little bit morbid—she quickly agreed. He took her out far past the last of the outbuildings and into a copse of trees, where a beautifully crafted wrought-iron fence encircled a burial plot. There were several graves toward the rear of the plot, but she barely saw them at first, for an exquisitely carved stone sarcophagus with a winged angel above it lay in the center of the graveyard. Tara stepped through the gate to the burial plot as Jeeves opened it for her and stared at the angel as she came close to the grave. She ran her fingers over the engraved words on the stone as she read them.
Here lieth the earthly remains of Lisa Marie McKenzie, born St. Augustine, Florida, 1806, taken by the Angels to Heaven, there to dwell, from her own earthly Paradise, January 18th, 1833. Beloved wife, blessed lady, mourned by all, yet she will live in our hearts forever
.

The words on the stone were not all that helpful. Tara
swung around to ask a question of Jeeves, but Jeeves had brought her here and then managed to disappear very quickly. Tara bit her lip and started to leave, but then she observed the rest of the stones in the graveyard and began to read them. She was puzzled when she read one that simply said,
One Who Runs
, and she thought that perhaps Jeeves would answer her about that grave. The one beside it read,
Mary Lyde, born Dublin, Ireland, 1811, died Cimarron Plantation, Florida Territory, 1831, also, her infant son, stillborn. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, God will bless his children
.

Poor Mary Lyde! Tara thought. And poor Lisa, both so very young.

A chill breeze suddenly seemed to stir as she stood there. There was just one more stone, set back a bit from Lisa’s. The large angel on Lisa’s grave had overshadowed it, but Tara saw, stepping around the above ground tomb of Lisa’s monument, that the memorial was a fantastic piece of art in itself. There was a small but beautiful stone sculpture of the Virgin Mary holding the infant Christ child. Upon the tiny slab of marble that stretched out from it two simple words were etched out in elaborate print.

Baby Daughter
.

Puzzled, Tara stared at the stone, then felt as if the cold breeze entered her heart.

Whose baby daughter?
Lisa’s—and Jarrett’s? So it seemed, but there were others buried in this plantation plot.

The breeze picked up again, scattering leaves by her feet. The sun was falling, she realized. She stood and looked to the river. Trees shadowed her vision. In the distance the day was still crimson and gold. Nearer, it seemed to be wrapped in darkness, and she was suddenly, despite herself, afraid. She thought of the beautiful
woman in the portrait, sleeping death’s sleep, deep in the ground.

Rotting, no matter how beautiful the monument to her.

What had happened to Lisa?
she wondered, and she suddenly thought that she was very much alone out here, that darkness was falling, that she couldn’t see any of the men she had seen so often before who so subtly patrolled the plantation.

She turned around, eager to flee the tiny cemetery, feeling as if all manner of eyes were staring at her from the encroaching shadows. As she hurried through the gate, her heart skipped a beat as she felt a hard tug upon her skirt. A flash of panic seized hold of her, and she briefly thought that the ghost of Jarrett’s first wife had returned to waylay her, to tell her that she was not mistress here, that she was an impostor in all that she had done.

Her skirt was caught on one of the elegantly designed flowers in the wrought-iron gate. She wrenched it free, and then, her heart still beating hard, decided that she would not race for the house.

She walked there slowly, almost sedately.

But her teeth chattered all the while.

She hurried into the buffet in the parlor and started to pour herself a sherry. She hesitated and strode into the library, found the whiskey bottle, and poured herself a stiff drink. It scalded her throat as she swallowed down two fingers, but it gave her the desired effect. She felt much calmer, and very foolish, and after a moment’s thought she was convinced she could find out the answers to the questions she was continually asking and everyone continually evading.

She told Hattie that she would take a tray in her room that night. When Jeeves delivered it, she took great
pleasure in thanking him for having shown her to the graveyard, but she didn’t ask him a single question about anyone buried within it. She smiled instead, and told him that she was amazed with the size and efficiency of the plantation.

“Of course, I realize that I’ve seen very little. Jarrett described many things for me; yet I’ve not quite got the lay of the place.”

“The lay of the place, Mrs. McKenzie?”

“Well,” she said innocently, “I have to admit, even the shape of the state is a little confused in my mind.” She walked over to her bed, sitting on it, drawing an imaginary peninsula.

“Jeeves, come show me the lay of the land. This stretch of the bed is the length of the territory. What is where?”

Jeeves frowned at her doubtfully for a moment, then shook his head and smiled. “All right,” he agreed, walking over to the side of the bed where she had drawn her imaginary map. “There are the Florida Keys down here, and all that swampland! Up here is Jacksonville, and down from there a bit, St. Augustine. Coming all the way around, far on the other side of the panhandle, there’s Pensacola. There, inward, toward the middle, is Tallahassee. Know why it’s the capital now?” Jeeves asked.

Tara shook her head. “No, why?”

Jeeves answered her, still smiling, involved in his geography lesson now. “Well, the lawmakers used to meet once a year at Pensacola, then the next time all the way around at St. Augustine, but either way it was about a fifty-nine-day journey by water, and once there was a shipwreck off the southern coast and half the men were stranded down there. Tallahassee was right in the middle, a good place to meet. Now, dropping down to the
middle of the territory, west side again, there’s Tampa. And there’s the river. And we’ve come in here, and all this—this is Indian land.”