Captive Romance

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Brantley sat on the porch and stared out over the sunset-red horizon. He wasn't at all sure what to do and that knotted his fur worse than anything else ever had.

He hadn't liked this plan of Hoff's from the beginning and he was liking it less and less with each passing moment he spent with the woman—Rebecca. Shit, why had she told him her name? Why had he untied her and let her roam? He should have kept her tied up in that back room and ignored her just the way he'd been expected to.

She was beautiful, vulnerable, and so damn tiny. But that wasn't the worst of it. She wasn't the hoity toity, nose-in-the-air society wife Brantley had thought she'd be. Rebecca was..... genuine. She was smart and resourceful and clearly tough as nails since she hadn't broken a single time since her abduction.

Hell fire. Brantley wanted to know her better. He wanted to truly know her. And sure, he wanted to ride the hell out of her too, but, he could hardly be blamed for that purely male desire.

But Rebecca was a married woman. She was going to return to her husband just as soon as Hoff and the men returned.

He took a long draw off his cigarette. Brantley had never been one to resist temptation or deny himself what he wanted—especially when it was abundantly clear that what he wanted wanted him just as badly. He'd seen her flushed cheeks and wanting eyes. He'd noticed the increase in her pulse and the way her doe-eyes followed his movements.

It was the tenderness he felt growing in himself toward her that gave him pause. Tenderness could lead to more than Brantley was willing to risk just now.... But, then again, Brantley wasn't a young school boy. He wasn't some starry-eyed child. He was a grown man and could handle just about anything. He could surely handle a few ruts with a beautiful woman before she returned to her husband.

Brantley took another slow draw off his cigarette. He wanted her and he figured he might as well scratch that itch.

As if his thoughts of the woman had beckoned her from the cabin, Rebecca stepped onto the porch. Her brown hair fell across her brow and she pushed it back.

"May I join you?"

Brantley tipped his head toward the rickety rocking chair a few feet away.

Rebecca took a seat and an awkward silence reigned as Brantley tried to decide whether or not he was going to act on the temptation coursing in his blood.

Her clearing throat had him snapping from his carnal thoughts. "Why are you with these people?"

Brantley blew out a cloud of smoke, watching it swirl away in the sunset light. "What people? It's just you and I here right now."

A raise of her arched brow made it clear she didn't appreciate his sarcasm. "I'm serious, Brantley. You seem....different. Hoff is a bad man. I watched him murder an innocent, unarmed man in cold blood. And those other men seem just as rotten. You don't seem to be the same type."

Brantley shook his head. "Don't be making me out to be something that I'm not, lady. I'm no good man and I'm no conflicted hero. The sooner you pull your head out of those clouds, the better."

"My head is nice and grounded, Brantley. I can assure you of that. I have never been the type to let it wander. But you've avoided answering my question. Why are you with them?"

Brantley killed his cigarette on the bottom of his boot and sighed. The woman was smart—her mind was quick and sharp as a tack. But Brantley wasn't the type to divulge information. His personal thoughts and inner workings were for him and him alone to know.

"Life put me where I'm at and made me who I am. Just like it did to Hoff. Just like it does to all men." He shrugged. "And just like it did you."

At that, her gaze became thoughtful. She sat back in the chair, smoothed out her bloodstained dress and folded her hands in her lap. "Who has life made me, Brantley?"

Brantley was surprised by the question. He wondered why she asked but figured there wasn't much better to do than keep up the conversation—he was actually enjoying himself which was odd, he thought.

"I've gathered that you were born poor but you were also born pretty and life is always easier for a pretty poor girl."

Her jaw tightened. "And how's that?"

"The pretty ones get to entice the rich husbands and improve their position in the world. I'm not judging, Rebecca, merely stating fact. It's a bit harder for the ugly poor girls. They just get to stay poor, I reckon."

Brantley knew instantly that he'd struck a rather sensitive nerve with the woman. Her shoulders tensed, her eyes narrowed and her voice was carefully controlled and even as she spoke. "You know nothing about me, Brantley. I did not entice anyone to better my own situation."

Brantley chuckled. "Well, you went from poor to impossibly wealthy when you gained that husband of yours. You'll have to forgive my assumption of the facts."

"I was born to a poor family, Brantley. But I had a loving family and a mother and father who worked and slaved to provide for me and my two younger brothers. My father worked himself into the grave at far too young an age and my mother was left alone to try to feed her children. So many nights I can remember lying in bed with the hunger in my belly so intense, I could think of nothing else. I'd listen to the sound of my mother's muffled tears coming from her pallet on the dirt floor as she struggled to cope with the loss of her partner and the stress of knowing her children were starving. I can remember my fingers being so raw from washing clothes to earn coins that they would bleed and crack and be nearly useless. When I turned sixteen, I looked at my skeletal brothers and my tired, haggard mother and knew that I had to do something. My mother and I placed an ad in the paper and Martin answered it. The money he paid for my hand in marriage ensured that my brothers would be able to eat and thrive and grow into strong men that are able to work and provide for our mother and earn her the rest she deserves."

Brantley was quiet for several long moments. "You aren't a self-sacrificing martyr," he countered. "You earned yourself a golden spoon, a mansion, a fat coin purse and endless lace and silk."

Rebecca snorted in a way that was so unladylike it was nearly comical. Then her expression turned quite somber. She looked out over the horizon as tears shone in her brown eyes. "I would trade all that in a heartbeat."

Brantley studied her profile in the sunset. "For what?"

"Happiness. Just one fleeting moment of nothing but pure happiness."

Brantley shook his head. "Aren't you the one who just said your head is never in the clouds? Happiness is a myth."

Rebecca rose slowly to her feet and swiped at her eyes. "Perhaps it is." She made her way to the porch steps. "I'm going for a walk. I want to be alone but, dont' worry, I'll be back."

Brantley shrugged. "Do what you want."

As he watched her round the cabin and disappear from sight, Brantley felt about two inches tall and figured he'd start braying at any moment.

Conversation was a dangerous thing. He knew far too much about the tempting woman, yet, strangely enough, he wanted to learn more.

Brantley struck a match to relight his cigarette. He sat in the growing darkness and simply thought about the complicated woman fate had decided to toss into his simple life.