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  Instantly, his hand shot out snatching a handful of her jacket collar and twirling her around so rapidly that she nearly lost her balance.

  Levi North was no longer laughing. His face was stern, his dark brow furrowed threateningly. He took hold of her arms. "What makes you think you are getting off that easily, Miss Hawthorne, or is that even your name? Why have you come to the colonies in such an elaborate disguise? Perchance, are you a fugitive?" With each question he lifted her higher until her feet dangled well above the ground. The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she stared straight into his penetrating eyes. "A murderess maybe, fleeing in her victim's clothes? You can tell me, your secret will be safe," he entreated in a terrifyingly soft drawl.

  She choked out the words, "Is a lady expected to endure this rough treatment in Virginia?" Writhing in his clutches, she kicked her legs furiously in a futile attempt to reach the ground. He looked down at her feet, and she was sure that she glimpsed a faint impression of a dimple scoring his cheek, as though he was actually enjoying her struggles. "You bloody bastard! I want away from you."

  When their eyes collided again she saw no trace of amusement, only white-hot anger. Setting her hard on her feet, he hissed through clenched teeth, "You little fool, you cannot possibly hope to survive in this vast wilderness without me."

  "Fool. Who's truly the fool here, sir. You swallowed my crude deception whole. It is you who hired a figment of my imagination as your horse trainer." There was something about his closeness that unnerved her. "As to finding my way back to the harbor, I will simply follow the trail that brought us here. I have a keen sense of direction."

  "I've known frontiersmen to travel in circles and perish in this desolate place, and they were the lucky ones, never having experienced the Iroquois's excruciating tortures." He accidentally brushed her cheek with his fingers as he swiped at a mosquito. His touch sent an unexpected shiver through her body.

  "I don't think the Indians will be falling all over themselves to add a hank of this hair to their belts, though." He gingerly lifted a strand of her dingy, cropped hair. "But you never know," he added darkly. He took no pains to disguise the fact that he found her a pitiful example of womanhood. She couldn't blame him, really, covered as she was in head to toe grime, her curves concealed beneath layers of clothing. The last time she'd seen her reflection was in the ship's bell. She'd recoiled at the sight of her filthy, soot-streaked face.

  Of course, she cared not a straw for his opinion, she reminded herself.

  "You do not frighten me, Mr. North. I believe I would rather take my chances on the evils I do not know." His grim warning had made her scalp crawl, but she had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of seeing her cower.

  His voice roughened with cruel humor. "Believe me when I say, your virtue is safe with me. I have no interest in seducing a little mouse like yourself." His barbed insults delivered a surprising sting, and she found herself blinking back tears. "Enough of this nonsense," he said gruffly. "Go back to camp and pack up."

  "What use could I possibly be to you and your plantation?"

  He sighed heavily, obviously annoyed by her persistence. "I'm sure Maggie, my housekeeper, will find plenty to keep you busy."

  "Bloody grand. I can only imagine how primitively you must live. 'Twould not surprise me if you have a dirt floor and a firepit for cooking."

  "Who needs a firepit? We savages like to eat our meat raw," he growled, baring his large, white teeth. "Fact is, Hawthorne, my lifestyle is of no consequence. You remain indebted to me," he continued in a cocksure manner. She responded by jutting her bottom lip out obstinately. Taking hold of her wrist in a viselike grip, he lowered his face to hers. She choked back a cry. "Goddammit woman, I guaranteed your passage to the colonies in return for four years of employment, and unless you have the means to repay the debt, you will serve me." His lips curled insolently. "Of course, if you would prefer spending some time in the gaol . . . ?"

  She sunk her teeth into her bottom lip to stop it from trembling and took a rather shallow breath before retorting, "Fine, you heartless brute." She peered down as his long fingers tightened with rough possessiveness around her wrist. "I will demean myself as your servant until I obtain the funds to redeem my freedom." She raised her chin and returned his cool stare. But the undeniable and dreadful fact was, she had no one to turn to for the money. Most certainly, she could never turn to her avaricious uncle, who had complete control of her small inheritance. However, she wasn't about to let this man know the desperate situation she faced.

  "Agreed," he replied, but it was obvious by the smile that tipped the corners of his mouth that he was certain she was his for the duration. "When I have the money in hand, you'll be released," and with that he let go of her wrist. "I'm taking a bath. You're welcome to join me." He threw the words over his shoulder as he strode off toward the watering hole.

  Jensen trudged back to her bedroll and angrily folded and refolded it until he returned, his inky-black hair dripping trails of water down his smooth, hairless chest.

  Shrugging into his shirt and jacket, he surveyed the contents of his saddlebags strewn over the ground. Reaching up, he gave the branch of a nearby tree a hard shake. Her shoes landed with a thud. "Looking for these?" He crossed his arms over his chest and watched as she retrieved them.

  He didn't move or say a word, but she immediately began collecting his things and shoving them back into the bags. Hunkering down on his haunches beside her, he spoke in a gentle tone, "You may not believe this, but you really can trust me with your secret."

  Trust this stranger, not bloody likely. She had trusted her uncle and eldest brother, and they were willing to sacrifice her happiness to procure a piece of land. She worried that if Levi North knew the entire truth he might try to exact money from her uncle in exchange for her safe return.

  Jensen hesitated for a moment, deciding to offer him a sliver of the truth. "I'm an orphan, and I was destined for a dismal existence." She thrust the bags at him as she got to her feet. "A pawn of another domineering man," she said caustically. She was momentarily startled as the mare's damp nose nuzzled her neck. Turning, she ran her fingers through its straw-like mane. "I was desperate to alter my future. I'd read an English pamphlet entitled 'A Perfect Description of Virginia', and it boasted of a warm, rich land . . . ."

  ". . . marbled by wholesome rivers brimming with oysters and fertile acreage for the asking," he finished the recitation with a roll of his eyes. "Where in your little pamphlet did it ever mention that a lone, frail female could prosper, let alone survive here in the wilds of Virginia?"

  "I faced such an abhorrent future in England." Stifling a sob, she pressed her cheek against the horse's warm neck. "I came here to start anew." She made a sound that fell somewhere between a laugh and a cry.

  "Sorry to have ruined your plans," he said, and it was Jensen's turn to roll her eyes in disbelief.

  After strapping his hunting knife across his chest, he jammed the bedrolls into the saddlebags and secured them to his horse. He bounded into the saddle and looked down at her. "Listen," his tone one of complete exasperation, "I bargained for a horse manager and instead got a spoiled, cheeky, little wench who's probably useless to boot. So you see, you have ruined my plans as well."

  He leaned over and removed the flask he had tucked in his boot and unwrapped the cloth from his injured hand. She found herself wincing along with him as he doused the wound with the burning liquid. "Besides, a position on my plantation may not be the worst thing that could befall you here in the Tidewaters."

  The nerve of this man, she thought, acting as if he were doing her a favor. The determined set of his strong jaw made it plain that she would have to take a far different approach if she were to ever see her aunt. Forgetting for a moment her bedraggled state, she peered coyly up at him through her thick, sable lashes. "Of course, you're right, Master North," she simpered, "'Tis plain that you will be a fair and just employer. An iron hand in a velvet
glove, as they say. I consider myself extremely fortunate to have been hired by a man with such integrity, but . . . ." Maddeningly, his dimple made another appearance, and the roguish charm of it cut short her performance.

  "Maybe I'll put you to work in my stables after all, Miss Hawthorne, you seem to have a knack for shoveling manure." Ignoring her offended gasp, he continued, "And, by the way, now that your little charade is over, you can drop that husky voice." He paused, running his eyes over her in a presumptuous manner. "Although I've grown rather fond of that honeyed whiskey sound." He raised his brows quizzically. "Hell, did I just say that aloud?" He shook his head and scrubbed his face with his hand.

  "I'm afraid this is my real voice," she retorted, unsure whether she should feel flattered or offended and wondering why she would care one way or the other. Muttering something about trouble that she couldn't quite grasp, he whipped his horse around.

  Still unwilling to give up, she boldly grabbed hold of his boot. She could feel the quills biting into her palm. "Please sir," she said, nearly gagging on the deferential tone she was taking. "Give me one month. There is something I must see to. And you have my word I will be yours . . . ." Intrigued, he tilted his head. "I--I mean, I will return to serve my term," she hastily revised. He stared at her, completely motionless, except for his thumb, which tapped impatiently against the pommel. Her confidence dwindled rapidly beneath his unyielding gaze. She released her hold on his boot as he bent low over the saddle.

  "Get on that horse," he said, each word enunciated with chilling precision, but it was the look in his eyes that sent her scurrying to the mare like the mouse he thought her to be.

  Chiding herself for a gutless twit, Jensen followed with a heavy heart, "four years of servitude" echoing in her mind.

  The trail became wider and steeper, and the horses plodded slowly upward, nearly lulling Jensen to sleep. Suddenly, a loud, shrieking whinny shattered the stillness of the hot, humid afternoon. She realized too late, that the high keening sound came from her own mount. The terrified animal reared up, and in an instant, the reins slipped from her grasp. She flailed her arms desperately snatching at the mane in a vain attempt to save herself. She landed on her backside with a jarring thud, knocking the wind from her.

  The horse fled in terror toward the woods. After catching her breath, she sat up slowly and painfully only to see a large, coiled snake rattling it's hideous tail in her direction. Hypnotized by its deadly slit-eyed glare, Jensen was immobilized. In an instant, a gleaming hunting knife whistled through the air severing the venomous head from its scaly body. The creature's lidless, yellow eyes remained transfixed on her. The last thought in her mind, as she slipped into darkness, was the eerie similarity between the diamond pattern on the snake's back and Levi North's tattoo.

  Chapter 3

  Regaining consciousness, Jensen found herself held high against Levi North's muscular chest. Peeking through her lashes, she could make out his prominent Adam's apple. "You're all right," he soothed, rubbing his jaw over the top of her head in a disconcertingly tender manner that made her skin tingle. Strangely comforted by his warm, masculine scent, she found herself melting into his arms.

  Cradling her tightly to his hard body, he lingered overlong by the remaining horse, long enough for Jensen to feel his erratic heartbeat slowing until it resumed a stable, steady beat. His warm breath gently ruffled her hair. She felt an unexpected tug at her heart when he finally released her from his protective embrace, lowering her feet softly to the ground. Jensen's legs still felt wobbly from fright, and she steadied herself on the stallion's saddle blanket, her backside throbbing painfully.

  Levi North mounted the horse. In a flash, his strong hand shot out, and in one swift movement, he had her placed snugly behind him on the saddle. She whimpered softly as her sore tailbone hit the hard leather. The tight fit forced her to press her entire body against his broad back, causing her nipples, already sore and sensitive from the binding she used to flatten her full breasts, to rub against him with each movement of the horse. She tried to create a space between their bodies by sitting perfectly upright and gripping the saddle edges with her fingertips. As they approached the rockiest section of the trail, Jensen was almost pulling the saddle side to side in an attempt to keep herself from toppling over.

  "Blasted, woman, both of us will end up splattered on these rocks if you don't grab ahold of me." His voice was edged with frustration.

  Knowing that he was right did not make it any easier for Jensen to comply. Shyly, she placed her arms around his lean waist. At first, she held lightly, but she was forced to tighten her grip as they descended the steep trail. She felt the pull of his taut muscles as he maneuvered the stallion over the unstable, rocky path.

  To bridge the tension that seemed to linger between them, she attempted to make small talk. "Is your stallion named for the unusual marking on his cannon. It reminds me of an archer's leather arm guard."

  "Very clever, Duff." She couldn't help but notice that he put special emphasis on her fake name, but she was still pleased with his compliment. Her pleasure was short-lived as he amended his comment, "I'll be damned, you actually know what the cannon is."

  Simmering in anger, she slackened her hold around his waist. He responded by reaching back, scooping up a handful of her bottom and positioning her so that she was mashed against his back.

  Finally giving in to exhaustion, Jensen allowed her face to rest against the solid muscles of his broad back. She could feel the warmth of him against her cheek. The stillness of the forest lulled her into a dreamlike state as her eyes absorbed the rich hues. The emerald greens of the foliage glistened with intricate spider webs. Velvety pink rhododendrons and creamy white azaleas spilled lavishly over the forest floor. Swamp blossoms edged the riverbanks with brilliant gold.

  Traveling through this wilderness of lush, impossible beauty, Jensen allowed herself the luxury of pretending that the giant she clung to so intimately was a heroic, dark knight.

  As they reached a clearing, the sun's dying light glanced off a polished wood sign, engraved with a simple, graceful rose, marking the entrance to the plantation. As its nostrils picked up the familiar scent of home, the weary horse began galloping. Jensen, with some curiosity, took in the vast farmlands cultivated with row upon row of fragile green seedlings. In the distance, silhouetted against the gold-streaked sky, Jensen glimpsed not the crude wooden hut she had been expecting but a palatial colonnaded manor. If she had not been destined for a dismal four years of servitude, she might have been able to appreciate the mansion's grandeur.

  Jensen shivered as they rode between the cool, sheltering rows of magnolia trees lining the path, their branches heavy with voluptuous, vanilla-white blossoms. As they neared the imposing brick building with its classical, fluted columns, it dawned on Jensen that clearly she had underestimated this man. She was humbled by this great estate that rivaled Brant Mansfield's and perhaps even surpassed it in fineness.

  Awe yielded quickly to anger. She fumed silently, surely a man of such wealth could easily have parted with the meager cost of an overseas journey. To force her to comply with the contract were the actions of a petty, black-hearted villain.

  Arrested by the sight of servants pouring out of the house to greet their master, she anxiously twisted the soft chamois fabric of his jacket between her fingers.

  "Somethin' troubling you, Duff?"

  Vexed by his snide tone, she pushed off his back nearly pitching herself out of the saddle. One more time, his hand caught a fistful of her rump, slamming her forcefully against his steel-hard body.

  "Bloody bastard," she muttered when she regained her breath.

  "That's twice. I'm going to ignore that once more, darlin'. But call me that again, and I sure as hell won't be so forgiving." He punctuated his warning by boldly squeezing her bottom.

  The servants were lined up obediently at the foot of the white marble steps beneath the vine-covered veranda. A tall, sinewy black man dres
sed in immaculate livery strode briskly toward them and took hold of the stallion's bridle, flashing North a warm, friendly grin.

  "Good to have you home, sir. We were concerned for your safety when the mare arrived riderless two hours ago." Catching sight of the thin, worn looking rider tucked in behind Levi North, the man's smile was swiftly supplanted by a puzzled frown. Jensen squirmed under his scrutiny.

  "Hell's fire, Thomas, I thought I'd never get home." He twisted his head and gave Jensen an annoyed look that she chose to ignore. "Obviously Archer will need a good grooming. He's been slogging through mud for the last mile or so," Levi remarked and with a singular movement wrapped his powerful arm around Jensen's waist and unceremoniously dropped her to her feet.

  Thomas turned his attention expectantly toward the plantation's gates.

  "No stable manager yet Thomas. It seems to be tougher than I thought to find someone trustworthy."

  Jensen's face flushed with shame. The servants were staring at her as though she were an oddity in a traveling sideshow. No doubt, they would soon be apprised of the deceitful trick she'd played on their beloved master.

  A warm breeze issued from the house as the heavy, oak door, adorned with an ornate window of leaded glass, swung open. A short, plump woman, with hair the color of toffee threaded with strands of silver, bounded out to greet the riders. Clapping authoritatively, she shouted, "Off to work with you, you lazy louts, the master is well in hand now." Without even waiting to see if her orders had been followed, she began hurling questions at her employer.

  "Master Levi, pray tell what happened? Thomas was in such a state after your mare came home alone. You must be starved, and goodness gracious, your hand. Have you injured yourself, sir? Come inside quickly. I've already asked John to bring up a ham from the smoking house, and cook is making some delicious stewed pumpkin. There's a mug of spiced cider waiting for you in your library. This must be Mr. Hawthorne . . . ."