had not made it easy. But even when he’d done his best to frighten her, she had not lost her courage. For that she had earned his grudging respect.
And he was not ungrateful for her gifts, Black Otter mused as he sank deeper into the softness of the quilt. Gratitude, however, was not the same as friendship. All whites were his enemies, this tall, strong-minded female among them. But if ever the chance came for vengeance he would remember this night and, perhaps, let her live.
He had resolved to not sleep, but as the warmth crept into his aching body he felt his eyelids grow heavy. The woman-musk scent of the quilt stole around him, awakening subtle urges in the depths of his body. He remembered touching her through the thin cloth, his fingertips tracing the long curve of her waist in search of the keys. If his hand had moved higher—or lower—would he have discovered her to be like the women of his people? Would his fingers have found the quivering softness of her breasts, the moist, secret cleft of her womanhood? Would her breath have caught and quickened at his touch?
Black Otter exhaled, pushing her image from his mind. Such careless thoughts would only do him harm. They would lull his spirit, causing him to lower his guard and miss the chance that would surely come. For such a lapse, he would never forgive himself.
He stared into the darkness, striving to fill it with the faces of those he had loved and remembered—pretty Morning Cloud who had died in his arms; their children, their friends, all of the people who made up the big, warm extended family of the village. He would return, Black Otter vowed. No matter what he had to do, no matter who he had to hurt, he would return.
His eyelids were growing heavy again, and the quilt was as soft and enfolding as a woman’s arms. Black Otter was drifting deeper, and he knew he could not battle sleep any longer. The white woman’s aura seeped like perfumed smoke through his senses. He smelled her, tasted her, and saw her dark-rimmed eyes in the candlelight. He heard her breathy gasp as his fingers touched her flesh.
As he sank into slumber, hers was the last image he saw.
“By my faith, have you lost your mind?” Sir Christopher confronted his daughter across the breakfast table. “What in heaven’s name were you thinking last night?”
“That our prisoner was in need of some common kindness.” Rowena willed herself to meet her father’s angry eyes. She knew better than to deny what she had done last night. Her quilt had already been discovered in the savage’s cell.
“The creature is dangerous, Rowena. He could have hurt you, even killed you!”
“As you can see for yourself, he did neither. I came away from the encounter quite unscathed.” Rowena avoided glancing at her wrists, which bore small, dark welts where the savage had jerked his chain around them. She had chosen a gown with long, lace-edged sleeves that covered all but her fingers. Her father did not need to know everything that had happened.
“This time you were fortunate,” Sir Christopher snapped. “But the savage is not to be trusted. You’re to have nothing more to do with him, and that’s that!”
“I suppose I should respect your wishes,” Rowena answered quietly. “But I am the only person in this place who has treated him kindly. You may discover that he trusts no one else.”
Sir Christopher cursed under his breath, swallowed his ale too quickly and broke into a fit of coughing. Rowena was on her feet at once, sprinting around the table to pound the old man between the shoulder blades until his raised hand signaled that he was all right. As the coughing subsided she bent closer, pressing the tankard toward his chapped lips. He waved her away.
“Don’t fuss over me!” he grunted. “I’m a man, not some ancient dotard who needs to be fed and wiped.”
“That I know.” Rowena sighed as she reined back the impulse to dab a bead of spittle from the end of his jutting chin. Only then did she notice the folded letter, its wax seal already broken, lying next to her father’s plate. A groan escaped her lips as she recognized the oddly back-slanted handwriting.
“Not Edward Bosley again! What does he want this time?”
“Need you ask?” Sir Christopher crumpled the letter between his arthritic hands. “The wretch is out of money again and asking for a handout! Just because he married your mother’s younger sister and worried her into an early grave, he thinks he’s entitled to bleed me dry!”
“Tell him no,” Rowena said. “If it were up to me, that’s what I would do.”
“Even if he were to inform you that he could find no more work in the theater and as a consequence his landlord was about to throw him into the street—in which case he would be forced to come and take shelter with us?”
Rowena sagged against the side of the table, remembering Edward Bosley’s last visit. “How much does he want?” she asked.
“Twenty pounds. For now.”
“And twenty pounds again next month, I’ll wager. Very well, I’ll see that the money is sent.” Rowena returned to her chair and forced herself to take a spoonful of porridge. “Now, about the savage, Father—”
He scowled up at her, eyes narrowing sharply behind his spectacles. “No, Rowena,” he said. “I know where this discussion is leading, and there’s no use—”
He broke off as Thomas burst into the hall. The husky Cornishman was out of breath. His fleshy face was as pale as a slab of lard.
“’Tis the savage, sir!” Thomas gasped. “He looked to be asleep, so I told Dickon to open up the door and get the slop bucket. The bastard jumped poor Dickon and got him by the throat! I managed t’ get the door shut, but Dickon is locked in the cell with the savage—that is, if ’e’s not kilt by now!”
“Bloody fool!” Sir Christopher was on his feet. “See what you’ve done!” he said, turning angrily to Rowena. “Your so-called kindness did little more than lessen the creature’s fear of us! Now there’ll be the devil to pay!”
“Oh, hurry, sir!” Thomas’s eyes bulged wildly. “The red ’eathen keeps screamin’ something about a key! If we don’t get down there…” The rest of his words were lost as he wheeled and raced back toward the corridor. Sir Christopher, feeling his arthritis, labored after him.
Rowena bumped her hip as she plunged around the corner of the table. The heavy key ring at her waist jangled as it struck wood.
Pausing, her father shot her a stern backward glance. “And where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
“I’m coming with you,” Rowena said. “If there’s anything I can do—”
“Haven’t you done enough harm already? Stay up here where you belong!”
“With all due respect, Father—” she began, but this was no time for an argument, and they both knew it. With an indignant huff, Sir Christopher turned on his heel and hobbled furiously toward the corridor. Rowena caught up her skirts and rushed after him. Dickon, for all his size and strength, was the gentlest of souls, an innocent creature with the mind of a child. He had grown up on the manor and, as a youth, taught her to ride her first pony. She could not bear the thought of his being hurt. As for the savage—
Rowena forced all concern for the dark-skinned prisoner from her mind as she pressed past her father in the narrow corridor. This was
