Chapter 4 #2
Dear God. A flash of memory sliced through him. Isabella, on her deathbed, crying over their lost infant. He shuddered. Nausea filled his stomach.
Footsteps sounded overhead.
“Please, Massar. Your going up there won’t do any good.” The girl swiped her cheek. A tear?
Mute, George stuffed his hands into his pockets and shifted closer to the banister.
Devon could not, would not put up with Morning Fawn being treated like this. He clenched his jaw and pivoted away. If he laid eyes on that cane-wielding puff-shirt right now, he was liable to throttle the man.
By the time he returned to Brownsville, Morning Fawn would be out of this house.
Two hours later, Devon crept up the forbidden stairs, mindful of every creak. He couldn’t sleep until he made sure Morning Fawn was all right. His palms throbbed from slamming his fists into them. Better his palms than LeBeau’s face. Too bad he hadn’t had a cord of wood to chop.
With no light in the attic foyer, he felt along the wall until he bumped the door handle. He had his pick in his pocket, but first, he traced the doorframe with his fingers. Along the top jamb, he struck metal.
Sweat dampened the armpits of his cotton undershirt as he inserted the key in the lock and turned. Morning Fawn might scream and wake up the whole house. Worse yet, she could be unconscious. He was hoping for somewhere in between.
A quiet hum drifted through the opening. A song he couldn’t quite place.
An orangeish glow emanated from the oil lamp, casting shadows across the plaster walls and wide oak rafters. His swallow stuck in his throat as his glance skittered from an overturned cane-bottom chair to the bed.
Eyelids sagging heavily, Morning Fawn rested on her side, half covered by a disheveled mess of bedclothes.
She hugged a blanket to her chest, but she’d kicked her lower legs free of covering.
The hem of her rumpled dress gathered just below her knees.
A torn stocking hung on the bedpost. Her honey-blond hair splayed across a pillow.
Alive. Beautiful. Subdued against her will.
His thoughts scattered. He shouldn’t be in here alone with her. But he couldn’t turn and leave without checking on her.
His foot struck something cool and squishy. Squash oozed into his stocking. He grimaced and reached for a towel on the washstand, bumping against a plate. Thump, thump. It rattled across the floorboards. He froze. What if someone came upstairs to check on the noise?
Morning Fawn raised her head an inch and squinted at him through her lashes. “What’re you doing here, Mr. Trouble?”
His skin prickled beneath her gaze. The door. He pivoted and closed it behind him without a whisper of a click. He yanked off his stocking and grabbed the towel.
“Everything. Today. Your fault.” She gnawed her lip as he bent to clean the floor. “You stay away.” Words slurred, her voice had lost its hard edge.
Nothing like the fighter he’d encountered on horseback today. No wonder she’d tried to run away. His stomach dropped.
“I wanted to see how you were doing, Morning Fawn.” He stood and righted the chair, placing it three or four feet from the head of the bed. He didn’t deserve to sit.
“Using my name will do you no good.” Eyes open to half mast now, she cuddled the blanket, nuzzling her chin against the white wool. “If you come too close, I’ve got a fork.” She poked metal tips out from beneath her covering.
The corner of his mouth twitched upward at the threat of the weapon, even as her lopsided smile sank his heart. LeBeau’s methods robbed her of her dignity. This wasn’t who she was, and she’d likely hate him for seeing her like this.
“Poor eye.” She pointed at his patch.
“It’ll heal. I hope.” His fingers twitched on the back of the chair.
A small desk sat beneath the window, supplemented by a cedar chest at the foot of the bed, a washstand with its jumbled items in the opposite corner, a tumbled stool, and a small bedside table and lamp.
Hardly anything to show that this was someone’s room and not just an extra bed tucked in the attic. “Where are all your belongings?”
“My belongings?” She frowned.
“You know, the things that make this room yours. Treasures, knickknacks, maybe a drawing—”
Her sharp exhale fluttered a strand that had fallen across her forehead.
“Women who live in an attic don’t get things, Mr. Trouble.
” She shoved her hair from her face. “You know I read a story about a woman in the attic a few weeks ago. Jane Eyre, that’s what it was called.
Every once in a while, they allow me a book.
I had to start with ABC’s and a McGruffy Duffy Reader, or something like that.
Thea thought she was so smart. Looked down on me like I was a six-year-old.
But I showed her. My reading came back to me in a matter of months.
” Her face glowed in the lamplight. “Sometimes when I’m downstairs, I sneak a book.
But when they saw me with Jane Eyre, they took it away, and I found out why too.
It’s about a woman in the attic. She’s insane.
Locked away up there, hidden. Finally, burns the house down, but you know what my question is?
” She raised up on both elbows and leaned toward him, so dangerously close to the edge of the bed, he had to stop himself from scurrying over to make sure she didn’t fall off.
“What is your question?” He waved his hand toward her as if that might give her a clue to move back.
“Question?” She squinted. “Oh, yes. Was she out of her mind before they locked her in the attic? I don’t think so.
I think it was that husband of hers, Mr. Rochester, sealing her up there ’cause he couldn’t control her, couldn’t make her behave.
He stuck her up there, nailed the windows shut, and threw away the key.
” She lifted her chin. “I think it’s my uncle’s favorite book.
Except the part about the house burning down. ”
His glance flickered to the sealed chimney.
Her eyes lit with amusement. “You’re worried? So are they.”
Was it just the laudanum talking? “I haven’t read the story. But it’s fiction, and it’s not you.”
She wagged a finger at him. “How many women do you have locked up in your attic?”
He crossed his arms. “I don’t lock women in attics.”
“But you take money for it. Three hundred dollars each. My uncle told me. You could make a lot of money if you have a big enough attic.”
He sank into the chair. Would to God he could throw the money in LeBeau’s face and take back any part he had in the matter. But if it hadn’t been him, LeBeau would have hired someone else. “I’m sorry I took you from your home.”
She blinked at him, her eyelids drooping. Would she remember any of this tomorrow? “Your fault.” She stuck out her lip. “They try to rob me. Take my mind.”
He leaned down, elbows on his knees. What if she became dependent on the medicine? Conviction steeled his words. “I’m not going to let them continue to treat you like this.”
“What are you going to do about it?” She rolled onto her back and spread her arm across the bed. “All you care about is your money.”
He looked away. “Which servant do you trust the most?” If he was going to do something about the laudanum, he’d need help.
“Hmmm. Lucy.” She wove her hand through the air. A giggle escaped her lips as she returned to her side and pulled the covers up. “I saw you looking at my ankles.”
“I…wasn’t.” But the heat that rushed up his neck contradicted his words.
“I don’t believe you.” She arched her eyebrows, but they only rose halfway. “They try to steal my breath too. Won’t even let me open my windows.”
“Windows?”
“I told you how they nailed them shut.”
“That was in the book.”
“Well, it’s here too. Trying to suffocate me.” Her eyes filled with unshed tears. “I used to ride toward the sunset as far and as fast as I could. You took the sunset. Now I have nothing.”
She might as well fill his boots with lead and throw him into the Brazos River.
“I don’t want you here, Mr. Trouble.” She nestled her head in the pillow and sniffled. Big, wet eyes, pools he could drown in, held him transfixed. “What if there’s no home for me left when I get back to my village?”
Enough. He jumped to his feet. He had to do something. “I’ll fix your window.”
“Really?”
He tiptoed over to the sash and fished his pick out of his pocket.
The forest-green drapes hung off to the sides, revealing a moonlit night through the half-barren branches of the cottonwood.
Morning Fawn plodded over.
He grimaced at the sound of her feet. If anyone below was awake listening—
“It’s there.” She stumbled up beside him and planted her finger over a dent in the window rail. “See.”
He sucked in a breath. The heat of her seemed to permeate his sleeve even though at least an inch separated her arm from his. Tensing, he kept his gaze trained on the window. “Move your finger.”
The scent of lavender mixed with a sickly sweet smell stung his nose. The brute had probably spilled some of the medicine on her dress.
Her hand dropped, and she swayed against the wall, head tilted against the sash. Oh my goodness. The last time he’d been alone with a woman this close, he’d been a married man.
Isabelle.
Did Morning Fawn think she was the only one who’d lost their sunset? Isabelle’s locket pressed against his sternum. He’d lost everything.
Best get his work done and get out of here. He moved his hand over the wood. Sure enough, a nail, and another one on the other side. Hammered in at an angle, a slim edge of each cap protruded. “I found them. You go lay down, and I’ll take care of it.”
“My people used to dance beneath a moon like that.” She rolled her eyes toward the pane. “Huge bonfire. Drums—”
“You need to go to bed.”
“I’m too tired to move.” Foreign words, Comanche, drifted across her lips as she wove a quiet melody beyond his comprehension.
He exhaled and pressed his lips together. The nail was snug. Someone had done their job well. Devon wedged his thin, pinky-length pick in at the nail’s edge and pried into the wood beneath the cap. A few splinters and a mashed finger later, he managed to wedge it free.
“You got it. Let me have it.” She leaned against his arm.
Sweat broke out along his hairline. “You don’t need it. You stay put there.” He nudged her back with his elbow and jammed his pick beneath the rim of the second nail.
His jabs left a mess of scratches. Hopefully, no one would look too close. He blew off the shavings and turned to her.
Although she attempted to steady her upper body against the wall, her feet slid out a foot or more. Like molasses, she was slowly inching her way down to the floor.
“Morning Fawn,” he whispered.
Her eyes flew open. “Yes?”
He held up the two nails.
A muffled squeal. “You did—”
“Shshsh.” He leaned down to meet her gaze. “If you wake them or tell them…they’ll put the nails back and kick me out of the house. Maybe out of the whole county.”
With a smile, she pinched her lips as if applying a clothespin. “Not a word, Mr. Trouble.”
“You need to go to bed, and I’ve got to leave.”
“I don’t think I can make it. My legs are like jelly.” She slipped another inch.
He groaned. There was no getting around it. He bent and scooped one arm beneath her knees and one behind her back.
Her eyes widened. “I’ve got a fork, you know.” But her head lolled back, and her shoulder-blade-length hair cascaded against his arm as he lifted.
Lilacs and heat and too much softness overwhelmed his senses, barely held intact by the stink of laudanum and the smell of horse.
Cheeks burning, he carried her to the bed and lowered her to the rumpled covers.
The movement roused her. She locked her fingers around his neck. “You’re breathing on me.”
“I’m trying to leave.” He arched against her hold, to the full length of her outstretched arms.
Her hands slipped loose, but before he could move, she latched onto the top button of his shirt, sending his pulse throbbing in his throat. “You took away my moon. How am I supposed to live without the moon?” A childlike tone crept into her voice.
His gaze sank into gold-speckled hazel, and he swallowed hard.
He could not leave her without hope. His voice was barely a whisper. “I’m going to get you out of here someday, Morning Fawn. The moon will be yours for the taking.”
She smiled as her eyes closed, and her hand dropped to her side. “I think you’re a fancy liar, Mr. Trouble.”
“We’ll see about that.” He stood and stepped toward the door, refusing to allow himself one more look. Tomorrow, she’d probably hate him. Then, again, she might not even remember tonight.
But he had no clue how he’d scrub the memory of her touch from his skin. And those eyes of hers went deeper still, piercing through cobwebs and dust to the dungeon door of his heart.