Moss Rose Page 2

Instead of replying, he merely cocked a brow, put his fingers to his lips, and whistled. From out of nowhere trotted one of the most magnificent animals she'd ever seen. The sleek, powerful stallion tossed its luxurious gray and black streaked mane before giving its owner an exuberant nudge, a greeting that would surely have knocked an average-sized man off his feet.

  "Probably shouldn't leave your mouth hanging open like that, Hawthorne. Lots of flies around here," he said as he vaulted effortlessly into the saddle.

  Still weak from the journey and encumbered by her ridiculous clothing, she struggled awkwardly atop the horse. He shook his head with disgust before turning his pewter-gray Arabian down the path. She had a sudden desire to ride in the opposite direction as fast as the old nag would carry her. But the chance of the slope-backed mare outrunning his muscular steed was as likely as a hedgehog overtaking a puma.

  "Move, man. I'm in a hurry," he commanded gruffly without turning his head.

  Realizing that she had no choice now but to follow, she squirmed trying to make herself comfortable on the bulky saddle. Compared to the narrow, English saddle she was accustomed to, it was unwieldy to say the least, but adapting quickly, she soon sat astride it with the grace of a trained rider. Although most of her time at Shadwell Hall was wasted on what she considered frivolous, feminine arts such as, needlepoint, pianoforte, and drawing-room French, she had still found stolen moments to indulge her love of horses. Mastering riding had not come naturally to Jensen. In fact, her first few times on a horse had been disastrous. Once, she had nearly crowned herself on the branches of the ancient oak that shaded the livery stables, reducing the usually poker faced grooms to fits of laughter. With persistence, though, she had managed to become skillful enough to out race her brother, Cyril. She had even defied proper etiquette by straddling a horse like a man. Riding had been her one true escape from the watchful eye of her uncle.

  Once on the trail, Jensen found that, even as an accomplished horsewoman, she had to pay close attention to the road they traveled, to call it a road would have been an exaggeration. It was a rough, rocky swath cut through a dense jungle of twisted limbs and branches. Levi North obviously knew the way well, because he frequently turned to look at her, squinting through his dark lashes, his smoky, gray eyes intense and unreadable. Flustered, Jensen avoided his gaze and stared down at the road or away into the distance where the mountains towered large and dark against the cloudless, whitewashed sky. Everywhere, she heard the trickle of running water as though there were a myriad of streams crisscrossing the forest.

  Jensen took surreptitious peeks at Levi North when his attention was diverted. He certainly did not resemble the colonists she had seen caricatured in the English papers. Depending upon the political slant of the publication, the colonists were pictured either as convicts in chains or pasty-faced, soberly clad, religious dissenters. Levi North actually reminded her more of the Indians she'd seen so savagely portrayed in oil paintings exhibited in the London galleries. His hair was long and so black that it shimmered blue in the strong sunlight, and she had glimpsed the flash of a silver earring against the brown of his skin. She wondered if he was really who he purported to be. After all, she wasn't really Duff Hawthorne.

  Nervously, she eyed the knife sheathed in a beaded, leather pouch strung from his belt. Almost delirious with fatigue and thirst, her mind suddenly filled with horrible visions of being scalped by this oversized heathen. His rough tone dispelled the appalling image. "Damn, Hawthorne, watch where you are leading my poor mare, you are liable to trip over a fallen tree and break her legs."

  Angered and humiliated by his insulting tone, Jensen muttered a string of French curses under her breath, suddenly grateful for her lessons and her rather unorthodox French tutor.

  As the last glow of the sun dissolved into a rosy twilight, they ended their day's trek. They made camp in a hollow protected by a canopy of fragrant mountain laurels. Jensen was so exhausted and sore she slid off the horse, falling to her feet with a thud. The air was becoming chilly, and instinctively she hugged herself tightly for warmth.

  Levi North studied her, rubbing his thumb along his bottom lip. "Hawthorne, you are a real puzzle. Truly, I have never seen any man act so oddly."

  "Perhaps it's my Englishness that you find strange," she said, hoping to put a quick end to the conversation.

  "No, it's not your Englishness." His lips twisted into a smirk. "I studied at Oxford for two years, and you are unlike any man I met there. And last I'd heard, we colonists are still considered English," he said, purposefully emphasizing his Virginia drawl. "Well, if we don't get a fire started soon, we'll be freezing our asses off."

  Her pulse quickened at the thought of being alone all night at the mercy of a stranger twice her size. She convinced herself that he still believed her to be a man, and this gave her some small comfort. After they had collected the wood, Levi North took a flint stone from a pouch slung over his chest and sent sparks toward the dried branches. Once the flames had become steady, he yanked his saddlebags from his steed and threw them in the dirt beside her. "You'll find a bedroll in there. Help yourself to the jerked venison and biscuits. I'm going to go water the horses." He took hold of the reins and disappeared with them through the wall of trees.

  Jensen pretended nonchalance until he was well out of sight and then pounced on the saddlebag. With greed she devoured a strip of the tough meat and three of the stale biscuits. Nothing had ever tasted so good. But the salty food intensified her incredible thirst. She eyed his flask but shuddered as she recalled the bitter taste of its contents. She worried that the only way to soothe her parched throat might be the moss-covered pond she had glimpsed through the leathery leaves of the laurels.

  As though he had read her mind, he returned and shoved a leather pouch under her nose. "Imagine you're thirsty for some water." Jensen accepted it warily, sniffing the contents first and then wiping the mouth of the container with her sleeve before guzzling the clean water. She drank so fast she could hardly catch her breath.

  "Damnation, first you insult me by wiping away my spit, and then you nearly polish off my entire supply," he laughed derisively.

  Furious to find that he'd had water all along, she was tempted to throw the last drops in his face. She couldn't believe that she'd had to endure that seemingly endless trail without anything to quench her thirst. In fear of giving herself away, she had remained mute almost the entire journey and now only permitted herself a hostile glare at the insensitive bastard. Crouching by the fire, he watched with amusement as she fussed with the bedroll to camouflage her anger. The cocky twinkle in his eye only incensed her more.

  Taking his gleaming knife from its leather sheath, he began to sharpen it on a stone. "Remove your hat Hawthorne, or are you expecting guests to tea?"

  The scraping sound made Jensen wince as she reluctantly removed her hat and hastily tucked her chin-length hair behind her ears. Cutting her thick locks and then masking their golden color with walnut dye had made her feel completely unfeminine. She prayed her disguise was convincing, and that she hadn't sacrificed her hair in vain.

  Levi lifted his eyes for a moment and seemed so struck with her appearance that his hand slipped, slicing his palm with the knife. "Son of a . . . ," he muttered under his breath.

  Instinctively, she ran and knelt by him taking his large, tan hand in her oversized, leather gloves. Snatching his hand away, he unwound his black neckcloth and awkwardly wrapped his wound, his eyes flickering with an indefinable intensity. Jensen sat motionless upon her heels, dumbstruck by her actions. She'd spent forty days pretending to be a man, and, in one fleeting moment, her womanly instincts had betrayed her. She felt the blood drain from her head. Terrified by the silence, she searched his face for a reaction but now saw only indifference in his gray eyes. Perhaps she was worrying about nothing, and he'd been momentarily stunned by the cut he'd inflicted. Silently, he rose to his feet and peeled off his deerskin jacket. It seemed as if a mere flexing of his p
owerful chest or shoulder muscles could easily burst the seams of his well-worn shirt. Jensen, flustered by his nearness, stumbled with her bedroll to the opposite side of the fire.

  As the first sprinkling of stars lit the jagged mountain range, an uneasy sense of quiet came over the forest clearing. Jensen couldn't believe she was sleeping outdoors in the wilderness. She had never slept outside before. Once or twice she had lazed under the shade of her uncle's orchard trees and almost drifted off. But on those warm and radiant afternoons, the closest encounter she had had with a wild beast was when a sulfur-hued butterfly had alighted on her arm. She had heard that America was teeming with wild creatures possessing bloodthirsty fangs and razor-edged talons. She glanced anxiously at Levi North, not sure if she feared him or was thankful for his presence.

  The leaves crunched under his moccasin boots as he strode purposefully to where she sat. Jensen trembled and avoided his eyes by staring at the crackling flames.

  "Throw me your shoes," he commanded.

  Reluctantly she lifted her eyes and nearly gasped. The man looked positively predatory with the flames glittering gold in his fierce eyes. "My shoes? What could you possibly want with them?" As it always did when she was angry, her sultry voice deepened.

  "Insurance, Hawthorne, so that you don't run off while I'm asleep," he said matter-of-factly.

  She flung the shoes at him with all her might, hitting him squarely in the shin, then carefully concealed her petite feet behind her satchel.

  Calmly, he picked up the shoes and placed them in his saddlebags.

  After securing the horses, he fattened the blaze with an armful of dried kindling. Moments later he had stretched his long, muscular body out under the coarse, woolen bedding, pulling his hair from under his back so that it washed over his saddlebag pillow. The firelight reflected off its glossy blackness, reminding Jensen of the sheen of a raven's feathers. The blaze illuminated his relaxed face. Panic swept through her as she realized that he had fallen instantly asleep. She sat motionless, feeling completely alone. She caught herself glancing over her shoulder expecting to see the beady yellow eyes of threatening creatures watching her. How she longed for the pristine, secure feel of her bedroom. The plush, satin covered eiderdown quilts and pillows that had adorned her bed at home provided immense comfort whenever she felt lonely. She longed to hear her brother Cyril's laugh or the low whinny of her horse Cinnabar. And then, remembering Cinnabar's fate, her eyes glossed with tears, but she didn't indulge herself in a much-needed cry. She was too tired, even for that.

  She wriggled down under her blanket as though the slightest noise might alert all the night predators lurking about. It seemed her mind wouldn't rest, but the overwhelming fatigue of her body pulled her down into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 2

  Fingers of sunlight poked through the shade of the trees and stroked Jensen's eyelids. She sat up, kneaded the back of her stiff neck, and shook the dried leaves from her hair. A wave of nausea swept over her, only this time it was not due to the incessant rolling of the sea but rather to her intense hunger. She glanced over to see if her traveling companion still slept but saw no trace of him or his horses. Fear gripped her as she bolted out of the bedroll. Had he deserted her? Her eyes lit upon the saddlebags. She looked swiftly over her shoulder to assure herself that she was alone. Jest's on him, she thought, I'll just take my shoes and be on my way. She raced over to the leather bags frantically dumping their entire contents onto the dirt, only to discover the shoes weren't there.

  "Dash it all," she muttered to herself as she hurled the empty bags away. Angrily, she headed in the direction of the watering hole, certain she would find her owner there. One step led her to the immediate conclusion that her feet were painfully tender. Cursing under her breath, she inched gingerly over the sharp rocks and twigs carpeting the forest floor. Making her way down to the pond at a snail's pace, she stopped every few feet to pull the burrs out of her flimsy-silk stockings.

  Drawn by the rich, heady scent of tobacco, she stumbled toward the evergreens shading the water. Through the needle-laden branches, she spied a shirtless Levi North lounging against a large, granite rock at the water's edge. A menacing tattoo encircled his powerful upper arm. Unlike the etched and dye-stained tattoos she'd seen a few of the sailors sport, this one was seared into his flesh like a brand. It appeared to be of an Indian design, with a dangling hawk feather that undulated as he brought the cheroot to his lips, the smoke coiling skyward.

  Pulling her eyes away from his hard, lethal form, she found the horses grazing on tufts of grass dotting the barren hillside, only a pebble's throw from her. She wondered if she could reach them before North noticed her. Jensen was certain that the Arabian would be fast enough to guarantee her freedom. During the painstaking journey, Levi North had often had to restrain his spirited mount. She smiled to herself envisioning this huge man in pursuit, astride the sorry, old mare.

  Jensen knew that she needed to move swiftly or lose her opportunity, yet her eyes were drawn back to Levi North. She'd never seen a man in this state of undress before. His broad shoulders and muscular chest glistened golden in the sun. With negligent ease, he raked his hair back from his face, and a foreign heat stole through her body. She very much doubted if her illustrious intended, Brant Mansfield III, looked anything like that under his crisply tailored dress shirt.

  A slight tug on the toe of her stocking broke her trance, and she glanced down to find a hideous spider the size of a dormouse creeping over her foot. Stifling a scream, she flung off the horrid creature with a violent kick, slipping on the graveled hillside. Landing hard on her back, she proceeded to slide ungracefully down the hill, her hair and clothing collecting most of the dirt and debris in her path. Her mortifying plunge came to an abrupt halt as her coat snagged and ripped on a jutting tree root. Except for some soreness, her body felt whole, but her pride was definitely in tatters.

  Just inches from her nose were those now familiar moccasin boots. She lay frozen, contemplating the dirt, too humiliated to stand. Above her the rich voice drawled lazily, "Mornin', Hawthorne. You know there is a much easier route down. But to each his own, I suppose."

  Pretending she hadn't heard his remarks, Jensen got to her feet slowly, shook out her coat, and wiped the dust from her eyes.

  He pulled on his cheroot. Jensen watched him form an "O" with his mouth and exhale a perfect circle of smoke. "Duff is certainly an unusual name. If I'm not mistaken, it's the term thieves use to refer to counterfeit items they hope to pawn off as the real article." His tone was bland, and yet there was something that flashed in the depths of those fathomless eyes that gave her pause. She was quick to convince herself that he wasn't accusing her of anything, that she was merely feeling a few qualms about her deception. After all, not one passenger aboard ship had questioned her gender.

  "How interesting."

  He tossed his glowing cheroot away. It trailed tiny red sparks. "It is, isn't it?" he acknowledged with an enigmatic smile.

  Propping his back against the rock, he tugged off a boot. "Before we leave, I'm going to wash up." His eyes inspected her critically, seeming to suggest that she'd be wise to do the same. When he began unlacing his breeches, she pretended to be occupied by the buttons on her coat. In her nervousness, she twisted loose one of the brass buttons and quickly shoved it into her pocket. Feeling as though his eyes were boring a hole in her, she blushed crimson.

  "Somethin' the matter, Hawthorne? You seem as nervous as a jackrabbit cornered by a pack of curs," he taunted. Hesitantly, she glanced in his direction. He had stopped disrobing and now stood perfectly still. His pants were untied and slung low on his hips exposing the downward trail of soft, dark hair bisecting his taut abdomen.

  Mustering the little bit of dignity left her, Jensen thrust her chin out at a stubborn angle. "Nothing's the matter, sir. I think I'll wait to take a proper bath when we arrive."

  The morning air seemed suddenly moist and stifling. She loosene
d her cravat as she watched his other boot drop to the dirt. A lopsided grin, punctuated by a dimple, creased his unshaven cheek as his big bare feet closed the distance between them. He was near enough now for Jensen to glimpse the beads of perspiration resting in the hollow at the base of his throat. She could feel the heat radiating from his sun-warmed skin.

  Levi North narrowed his metallic-gray eyes as he leaned uncomfortably close to her. His breath stirred her hair ever so slightly. "I guess it wouldn't be proper for a man to drop his breeches in front of a lady, now would it?"

  Jensen flinched as he reached toward her and caressed her bottom lip with a callused finger, snagging it ever so lightly and parting it from the perfectly shaped upper lip.

  "Why these lips would never suit a man's face," he said suggestively, his eyes lingering on her mouth.

  She stumbled back as if the ground had been pulled out from under her. "You--you smug arrogant . . . you've known it all along," she stammered. As her words echoed back to her, she actually felt some small relief that the truth had been exposed. Yet her heart beat so violently that she felt it might leap from her chest. Too afraid to look him in the eye, her gaze dropped, settling on his big hands, hands that could choke the breath from her with ease.

  Swallowing hard, she lifted her face and willed herself to meet his accusing glare. "Well, I've had about enough of your 'act', sir. If you'd be kind enough to lend me your mare, I will take my leave and trouble you no more."

  "My act?" Levi North threw his head back and burst out laughing with such force that it sent a scarlet cardinal flitting from the bush. "Take your leave, will you? Why settle for my silly old nag? Why not just take my stallion? Archer is a far superior mount," his words dripped with sarcasm.

  Pale eyes flashing with fury, Jensen straightened her spine and smoothed her soiled, rumpled clothing as though she wore the finest of gowns. "Amuse yourself as you will, Mr. North. But I'm leaving. I have already lost valuable time on this charade." With that, Jensen turned on her heels and began scrambling up the hill she had humiliatingly descended just moments before.