Devon cleared his throat. “Miss Thea, I wouldn’t want to disturb your refined nature with such rough discussion.” He almost choked on the wordrefined. That’d be the day.
“But I must know about my cousin. So that I can be aware of any dangers, or so that I might find ways to comfort her.”
Even her mother had to smother a hiccup over that one.
Devon arched his eyebrows. “Gentleman do not tell tales on ladies. My lips are sealed regarding Miss Logan.”
“Surely, you’re not implying that my cousin is a lady?” She gaped.
He held up his wine glass toward LeBeau. “With an uncle like your father, how could she not be?”
Thea rolled her eyes.
But LeBeau threw back his shoulders. “We still have a substantial bit of polishing to do, but underneath, she’s a LeBeau.” His brow darkened. “Living with those savages would be enough to derange anyone’s mind.” His voice contorted withemotion. “I loved my sister dearly, and I will not give up on her daughter.”
Spoken like a Good Samaritan. The man probably felt he was caring well for his slaves, too, when he sent them out to the cotton fields from dawn to dusk likely dressed in raggedy homespun, feeding them on rough corn and bits of pork, separating families, laying the whip on them when they disobeyed. Shaped in the same mold as Devon’s stepfather.
LeBeau pushed his chair out. “Let’s talk of you, Reynolds. You mentioned you’re looking for a position. I have something in mind, but we’ll discuss it over cigars. We won’t bore the ladies with business. They can join afterwards for dessert in the parlor.”
“Papa, you mustn’t send him off on some far-flung mission. We have so few gentleman callers of class with the war on. We need his protection right here at Sweetbriar.”
Devon gritted his teeth. What if the success of his mission and his access to Morning Fawn hinged on his ability to feign interest in Thea LeBeau?
CHAPTER 4
How had she been so stupid to take off like that? Morning Fawn jabbed her arms together and paced from the closed window to the locked door. Thank goodness, it was late November, not July. The rough attic floor stung her scraped feet as she paced. Daylight had faded into darkness except for the flickering of the oil lamp. Shadowed rafters loomed overhead.
For months after her early failed attempts, she’d been biding her time, learning and preparing for the right opportunity. And today she’d given into temptation and run off without thought, throwing away every scrap of trust she’d managed to accumulate. How stupid.
They’d re-nailed both windows shut. Trapped. And her uncle had threatened to leave her up here for days—weeks, even. She dug her fingernails into the flesh of her arms. Someday she’d like to lock that man in a room and throw away the key.
Jaw clenched, she grabbed at the loose lace on her torn sleeve and yanked. The seams ripped free of the wool. She wadded the despicable material and tossed it. They’d taken hersewing basket. Another punishment? Or were they afraid she’d stab herself with a needle? Her improvised pick for the door had been buried in the swatches of cloth.
Thank goodness they hadn’t found her journal. At least, she’d had sense enough to return it to its hiding place on the far side of the bed, wedged in tight between the ropes and the mattress.
Her stomach growled as the delicious smell of baked chicken and buttered squash drifted her way, but her supper sat untouched on the silver tray. She knew better than to eat it after Thea’s comment about the laudanum. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d laced her food with the mind-numbing sedative after an incident. And if they figured out she hadn’t eaten, they’d try to get it in her another way. If she had a fireplace, she’d toss her uneaten meal in there and let it burn, but the chimney that ran up along the outer wall was solid brick, no opening in her room. The chamber pot would work if Lucy was the one who came to empty it in the morning. But sometimes they sent a different servant.
Sweat broke out on the back of her neck. Locked in. No escape. Her breath came short and quick. She had to think about something else before panic consumed her.
Morning Fawn paused at the small mirror over the washstand and hugged herself. Honey-blonde and light-skinned, she no longer looked Comanche. The mesquite dye used to darken her hair had faded to such a pitiful brown that she’d cut off the ends where the color remained. Her weather-beaten tan of nine years in the making had retreated in the seventeen months of heavy, bothersome clothing and stifling confinement where stepping outdoors was a privilege to be earned. If she made it back to Comancheria, would she be welcomed by anyone other than her pia and herahpu, who had adopted her and loved her as their own?
Since the first days of her life in the village, she’d devotedherself to blending in, to being the best Comanche she could be. The other girls had years of practice and experience over her, but by the time she was eighteen, she could ride, tan a hide, tear down and erect a tipi, and use a bow and arrow better than most. She’d caught the eye of a warrior named Two Feathers. But admiration of her skill didn’t equal love.
Stands-His-Ground had taken notice, as well. A strong warrior and good provider who’d lost his first wife, the man was twice her age. But her parents, concerned about her future, insisted she seriously consider his offer of marriage. Marriage to him would have given her standing in the tribe and respect she’d only dreamed of. Reynolds and his cohorts had torn her away from the village before she’d given her answer.
And here she was. Without a place in the world. Her head pounded. She needed to get her pick back. The security of knowing she could open the door, even if she didn’t, would ease the tension that gripped her chest?—
Heavy footsteps sounded on the staircase. Someone was coming to check on her.
Dashing to the dinner tray, she grabbed the plate and dropped to her knees by the bed. Mouthwatering food, but she couldn’t take the chance. She grabbed the chamber pot, yanked off the lid, and dropped the chicken in.
The door lock clicked.
Not enough time. She jumped to her feet and shoved the pot back under the bed, the half-empty plate still clutched in her hand.
The squash slid sideways on the porcelain and onto her rumpled green skirt as the heavy door opened.
Her uncle stood in the entrance, shadowed by Owens, LeBeau’s face as welcoming as a stone. “What have you been up to?” His gaze traveled from the spilled food to the bed.
