The Scent of Jasmine

  “And that means . . . ?”

  “Edilean, Virginia.”

  “Does anyone in Charleston know that’s where you live?” He was checking the packs on his horse.

  “Several people here know my family. My parents have been here often, and my brothers—”

  “Spare me the family history. You can’t go home because that’s the first place they’ll go after they question Connor.”

  “Can’t go home?” Cay smiled as she got up and went to her horse. “You have no idea who my father is, do you?”

  “He can’t help you now. Get on your horse, and try to keep your legs covered. They distract me from my purpose.”

  Cay wasn’t sure that was a compliment, but if it was, she didn’t like it. The images Hope had given her about what this man had done to his wife were vivid in her mind.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. “My father knows a lot of people and he could—”

  He reined his horse in tightly to stop beside her. “Your father was raised to be the laird of the McTern clan, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he was,” she said proudly.

  “Then he’ll be a man who protects his family?”

  “Of course. He’s the best—”

  “If you know that about him, then is it your intention to start a war between your father and the city of Charleston?”

  “Of course not.”

  “If you go home and hide with your father, he’ll no doubt fight to the death to protect you. Is it your aim to see your family dead?”

  “No,” she said, her breath held because she knew that’s exactly what her father and brothers would do. “I don’t want that, and when my father hears of this—”

  “I’m sure T.C. Connor will keep your father from hearing of it. What we must do is find you a safe place to hide until I can prove my innocence. When I’m free, so will you be.”

  “But—” She stopped herself from saying that she wasn’t so sure he was innocent. “How can you prove you’re not guilty if you’re traipsing around in the jungles of Florida?”

  “I need to give these people time to calm down. I found out at my trial that no one would listen to me. Too many people liked . . .” He looked as though he was about to choke.

  “Your wife?” she asked. “People liked her?”

  “Did you think I’d marry a woman no one liked?” he snapped.

  “Your ingratitude astonishes me. After all I’ve risked for you, you—” She took a breath. Saying what she wanted to wasn’t going to help the situation. “What did the doctor say?”

  “The bastard died of a heart attack the day after Lilith . . . left. She was buried before I saw her again.”

  “If she was well liked, then the doctor died from shock of it all, it’s no wonder people want to hang you for murdering her.”

  He seemed unperturbed by her accusation. “I will do more than hang the man who killed her,” he muttered. “Now follow me and don’t give me any more of your sass.”

  As Cay followed him, she tried to think of a way out of this predicament. If she couldn’t return to her godfather, couldn’t go to other family friends, and she couldn’t go home, where could she go? How long did being a fugitive from justice last? Maybe she should take a ship to Scotland and stay with her father’s family for a while. But how long would that be? Six months? A year? The Scotsman said he wanted to let the authorities in Charleston “calm down”—or as he said it, “caum doon”—then he planned to find his wife’s real murderer. Would that take long? What if he really was the murderer? That would mean he’d never be cleared. He’d always be a wanted man—which would mean that Cay would also be wanted by the law forever.

  She was still following him, but she was tempted to turn and head back to Charleston. But the memory of the men on the road looking for her, knowing who she was and where they could find her, stopped her. Also, the Scotsman’s words about her family’s reaction to all this kept her going forward. If she returned to Charleston, went to T.C.’s house, and gave herself up, she would no doubt be put in jail. She couldn’t imagine the anger that would engender in her family. She could almost see her father and her four brothers shooting their way in and out of the prison. Would one of them be killed?

  When tears started rolling down her cheeks, she didn’t bother to wipe them away. She tried to think of something good, but all that came to mind was how stupid she’d been. This was the first time she’d ever traveled alone—by herself except for her maid and her footman, Cuddy—and she’d had to argue for the privilege.

  “You’ll get into trouble without us there,” Tally had said.

  “You’ll meet other men, so you’ll have more than three marriage proposals to think about,” Ethan said, his eyes full of merriment.

  Nate gave her a list of books he wanted her to buy for him and said, “You’ll take care, won’t you?”

  Adam had been the worst. He’d kissed her forehead and told her he trusted her, believed in her, and knew that she had enough wisdom to conduct herself with propriety at all times.

  Cay glanced down the side of the horse and saw that one of her legs was exposed to above the knee. She tried to pull the cloak over it, but it was caught beneath her.

  As for her father, when she asked his permission to travel alone, he’d said, “No.” Just that. “No.” Her mother said, “Don’t worry, I’ll persuade him”—and she did.

  So now Cay had betrayed the trust of all of them—except for Tally, who thought his sister was a scatterbrained nincompoop.

  “Here!” the Scotsman said and handed her a dirty handkerchief. When she hesitated in taking it, he said, “Your nose will dirty it more so why does it need to start out being clean?”

  When she began to answer his question, he rolled his eyes skyward and urged his horse ahead of her.

  Cay blew her nose, then held the filthy cloth at arm’s length, not sure what to do with it.

  “Don’t drop it,” the Scotsman said quickly. “They’ll have dogs after us.”

  Cay was so shocked by that thought that she did drop the cloth, but the Scotsman pulled back on the reins of his horse and grabbed the handkerchief before it hit the ground.

  “You may not like me but we’re in this together,” he said angrily as he shoved the dirty cloth into a saddlebag. Then his voice softened. “I’m sorry, lass. I never meant to drag you into this, but then, I wouldn’t have sent a girl—”

  “If you say ‘to do a man’s job’ again I’ll turn you in myself.”

  She wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw a tiny smile under all the hair on his face.

  “Come on, lass,” he said, “cheer up. If they catch me, you’ll get to see me hang.”

  As he urged his horse forward, she said, “But will I hang next to you?”

  “No. Tell them I kidnapped you. They’ll believe that.”

  “I believe that,” she muttered as she kicked her horse and went after him.

  Three

  Cay’s legs hurt, her back ached, and she was so sleepy she could hardly hold on to the reins of the horse. They’d been riding all through the night and most of the day, and the poor horse was more tired than she was.

  But she didn’t complain to the man she was following. She looked at his back, at the way he sat straight up in the saddle, with no signs of fatigue, and she wondered if he was human.

  Abruptly, he turned back and was soon beside her. “We must rest the horses.”

  She started to say that he could ask about her, but she didn’t. “Yes, my horse is quite exhausted,” she said in her haughtiest tone. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw a bit of a smile in his blue eyes. With all the hair on his face, it was difficult to tell.

  “I want you to wait here for me.” He motioned to a big oak tree with branches that hung down to the ground. “Stay on the horse or you’ll never get back on.”

  “I think I’m fully capable of dismounting and remounting,” she said.

  “Dis and re.” He
shook his head at her. “Had some schooling, did you?”

  “I majored in good manners. Ever heard of them?”

  “Not in this country,” he said, but there seemed to be a smile under his untrimmed whiskers.

  She followed him under the tree, ducking to miss the low-hanging branches.

  “Do you have the money you were to pay the men?”

  Cay’s face showed her alarm. Was he going to take what little money she had and leave her there alone to face the law?

  The humor left his face and his eyes blazed fire. “I’m not a thief! I need a few coins to buy us a place to stay the night, and some food. You can keep the rest.”

  She reached into the satchel by her leg and pulled out the bag of money that Uncle T.C. had given her. She couldn’t help pausing for a moment as she remembered when he’d put it in her hand. He and Hope were so far away now.

  “Do you mean to keep it all night?” the Scotsman snapped at her.

  She wanted to throw the coins in his ungrateful face, but she held back. “How much do you need?”

  “A dollar or two should do it. Now, will you stay here and wait or will you run to the authorities? I need to know what to expect when I return.”

  Part of her wanted to go to the local sheriff and say she’d been kidnapped by this man, but the larger part of her knew she couldn’t do that. She’d never be able to face Uncle T.C. again. “I need a pen and paper and ink,” she said. “I must send a letter to my family letting them know I’m all right.”

  “Do you plan to lie then?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “You’re under the care of a man who was one day from being hanged. I don’t think your family will see that as ‘all right.’”

  Cay didn’t want to think about her father’s anger or her mother’s tears. She especially didn’t want to imagine what her brothers would do to search for her.

  “If you mean to weep again I’ll have to get the hanky.”

  Cay sat up straight in the saddle. “I am not going to cry and I’d rather blow my nose on my sleeve than use that filthy rag you gave me.”

  “Wise choice,” he said, his eyes again crinkling at the corners. “Now stay here, be quiet, and wait.”

  “I will if I feel like it,” she said defiantly but knowing that she just wanted to stop moving.

  Again she saw the corner of his mouth twitch, as though he was holding in laughter, and he turned his horse and headed east.

  When she was alone, Cay thought that she should get down, if for no other reason than to show him that she wasn’t going to be ruled by him. But she didn’t have the energy. Instead, she let her head drop forward, and she fell asleep instantly.

  When Alex returned, that’s how he found her, sitting on her horse, still holding the reins, and sound asleep. Leaning forward, he peered into her face. She was a pretty little thing. The beads on her fancy dress reflected onto her small chin, and she looked no more than twelve years old. What in the world had T.C. Connor been thinking when he’d sent this child into the middle of the hell that Alex’s life had become?

  There was a part of him that wanted to turn himself in and be done with it—done with life. There wasn’t one moment when he didn’t remember the vision of seeing the woman he loved lying beside him, her beautiful throat one bloody cut.

  Everything that happened after that, the way he’d been treated in jail, the trial, all of it, had seemed to be what he deserved, not because he’d harmed her, but because he’d failed to protect her.

  So now, T.C. Connor, the only man who’d been his friend during the ordeal, had put another woman under Alex’s care—and he was ill equipped to shield her from the dangers that were all around them.

  Carefully, he took the reins from her tired hands and led her horse forward. He watched to make sure she didn’t fall out of the saddle, but she held steady as they rode the distance to the barn where he’d bought them shelter for the night. The old man who owned the place, Yates, had driven a hard bargain, so Alex was glad he’d had little money with him. If the old man had seen the girl in her expensive dress, he would have demanded everything they had. Or worse, he would have put two and two together and gone to the sheriff.

  Alex knew that the two of them were such an incongruous pair that they’d arouse suspicion wherever they went. The girl was young, and there was an air about her that proclaimed that she was rich. From her hair, which fell about her shoulders in thick, lustrous curls, to her tiny feet encased in silver slippers, she shouted “money.” She reeked of wealth and class, education and refinement. He wondered if she’d ever drunk tea from a homemade mug. Or did she only use porcelain?

  As for him, he was the opposite. His clothes were torn and filthy, his body emaciated from the weeks he’d spent in prison. When T.C. came to visit he brought a box of food every time, but the guards had so delighted in “searching” the contents that by the time it reached Alex, the food was almost inedible.

  He’d been allowed no shaving materials, no washing water. The people of Charleston hated him for what they thought he’d done and had responded accordingly. He’d been treated worse than any animal.

  So now Alex had the care of this innocent young girl, and he had no idea what to do with her. Should he coach her in a lie that she could tell her family? She could say that she’d been kidnapped by an accused murderer and he wouldn’t let her go. But he doubted if she could carry that story off. If T.C. had somehow tricked her into going to meet an escaped prisoner, that meant she had a good heart but no sense of self-preservation.

  Besides, how was she to get back to her family on her own? How could he release a girl like her to her own protection? One glimpse of her fancy dress under that huge cloak and every thief from here to Charleston would be after her.

  No, he liked T.C.’s plan, where he was to join an exploration group and travel down into the wilds of Florida. The plan had been for T.C. to draw what they saw, while Alex was to be a wrangler. He was to handle the horses, to bring in game, and to help in any way he was needed.

  Today, on the way south, when he’d asked the girl why T.C. hadn’t shown up, she’d told Alex that T.C. had broken his leg. Just that morning, T.C. had climbed a ladder to the roof and fallen backward. Alex had muttered to himself about the stupidity of doing that on the day he was to help an escaped prisoner—but he’d kept his voice low. That the girl could understand him even in his heaviest accent had shocked him. When Alex first arrived in America, no one could comprehend a word he said. For the first six months, he’d had to pantomime everything. But he’d begun to learn the American way of speech and how every word was pronounced exactly as it was written. Personally, Alex thought that was boring and totally uncreative, but he managed it.

  By the time he met Lilith, the woman he was to marry, he spoke as clearly as most Americans. It was only in times of great stress, like when he escaped from prison and found a wee girl waiting for him, that his heaviest accent returned.

  It took just minutes to reach the dilapidated barn of the man Yates, and when Alex saw the old man’s face peering out of a dirty window, he placed his body in front of the girl’s and was glad he’d thought to cover all her hair with the hood. From this angle, no one would be able to tell if she was a girl or a boy—which he wanted, as Alex had said he was traveling with his young brother.

  Alex led the horses into the barn and dropped the crossbar over the door behind him. The old man had a cow and an ancient horse in there, and a few chickens roosting in the rafters. It was a dirty old building and Alex hoped it didn’t rain or they’d be soaked, for he could see the fading daylight through the holes in the roof. They’d been riding hard for nearly twenty-four hours.

  He left the girl, still asleep, on the horse as he checked that all he’d paid for was there. A bale of straw was in the corner, there were some oats for the horses, and a bowl of thin, watery soup and a hard hunk of bread was on an old table. Meager as it was, Alex felt that the old man had given as mu
ch as he could spare.

  After spreading the straw in an empty stall, Alex went for the girl. She was falling into a deeper sleep and beginning to weave about on the horse. He put his hand up to her waist to steady her and carefully pulled her toward him. She was a sturdy little thing, heavier than he’d thought, but then again, he was weaker than he usually was. Still asleep, she snuggled against him, as though she was used to being carried by a man—and he knew she was. One of the reasons he knew who she was and about her life was because when he was small, his mother had read the letters from her mother, Edilean Harcourt, aloud to Alex and his father.

  It was after his mother’s death, when he was just nine years old, that he started exchanging letters with Cay’s brother Nate. They were born in the same year, and Mrs. Harcourt thought that corresponding with someone his own age would help with Alex’s grief. It had, and he and Nate had never stopped writing each other.

  In the fifteen years or so that he’d been corresponding with her brother, he’d learned a lot about the Harcourt family. When he and Nate were ten, they decided to keep their letters secret. For Alex that meant he’d not read Nate’s letters aloud to his father—but he’d told his father everything. But for Nate, living with his large family and sharing everything, that meant he kept Alex for himself. Only his parents knew of the correspondence between the boys.

  Alex remembered every word Nate had written about his young sister, and while he was in prison, T.C. had said the daughter was visiting him in Charleston.

  “But he didn’t have to send her to me,” Alex muttered.

  The girl stirred in his arms, and as he lifted her higher, her arms went about his neck. The cloak fell away, revealing her iridescent white dress, her bare arm, and the upper part of her bosom.

  When he tried to cover her, he almost dropped her. Weeks of little food and no exercise had taken a toll on him.

  Carefully, he laid her down on the straw in the stall, then stood up and stretched his back. He couldn’t help looking at her. Her dark red hair was spread out around her like a halo, and the beautiful dress sparkled in the fading sunlight coming through the roof. She lay on the big cloak, which spread under her like a blanket. She was indeed a vision of loveliness—and the sight made him groan.