Moonlight Rebel Read online

  Krystyna backed away, afraid of being touched after what had just happened. She wasn't about to trust, not even this man with gentle eyes. If she trusted no one, she'd be on her guard. It was as simple as that. But like it or not, she needed his help.

  "I wish to see my father buried, please."

  "Then he really is dead?"

  She pressed her lips together, the word bringing her pain back to her. To keep from crying, she sought refuge in anger. "I said they killed him, did I not?"

  "That you did." He drew a breath. "Where is he?"

  Krystyna pointed into the dark.

  "Show me."

  It took effort to still the trembling that threatened to overtake her limbs. "This way." She walked in front of Jason the few yards it took to reach her father's body.

  He bent over the squat, lifeless body that had been hidden in the shadows, and pity overwhelmed him. "I'm sorry."

  She didn't absorb the pity in his voice. She was already on her knees beside her father's body. Tenderly, she cradled his head in her lap. She stroked Stefan's cheek, already growing cold, and rocked. Within her young breast, her heart was breaking.

  "Goodbye, Papa," she whispered in their native tongue. "Goodbye." She kissed him one last time, a ragged sigh escaping her in lieu of a sob. Then she looked up at her new captor, something inside of her going dead. "Bury him, please." There was no command in her voice now, only a plea.

  "I can't leave you here," Jason told her. "And I don't have a shovel."

  "I cannot leave him here to be eaten by ... by things." The thought made her want to scream, to rant and rave to God who had not been watching over them. Somehow, she managed to keep her voice calm.

  "I didn't say we would leave him, but I've got to go find a shovel and those two may come back for you. I'll put your father's bo —" He stopped, instinctively knowing that word would intensify her pain. "I'll put your father across my horse until we find something to bury him with."

  Krystyna nodded. Gently, she slipped her father's head from her lap and rose, ignoring the hand that Jason offered her. She watched Jason struggle with and then lift the lifeless form in his arms. Drawing on an inner source of courage, she walked silently behind him.

  Chapter Five

  The heavy scarred door creaked as Jason pushed it open and entered the tavern for the second time that night. Once again, the smell of stew and ale assaulted his nostrils, the din of voices filled his ears. But this time he wasn't searching for a few hours of easy respite. This time his reason for entering the tavern was far more sobering.

  "I need a shovel, Sam." Jason's voice cut through the noise as he approached the bar on the far side of the large room.

  The heavyset man behind the bar continued to clean the counter slowly, as if deliberating Jason's request. "Strange time o' night to be diggin'." The eyes beneath the bushy gray brows shifted to the woman Jason held by the wrist. She looked lost in Jason's jacket. Interest highlighted Samuel's thick features, but he knew better than to ask Jason about her.

  "There's a dead man outside that needs burying," Jason answered simply.

  Samuel looked around at the faces closest to him. All customers of long standing. "Anyone we might know?"

  Jason shook his head. Though he liked and trusted Sam, he thought it safer not to discuss what had just happened. There were too many ears around, some unfamiliar. One never knew.

  Samuel gestured to the bar girl at a nearby table. Reluctantly, she left the side of a prospective customer. "Eileen, fetch a shovel from the back. Fine young Master McKinley wants to do some digging tonight." Samuel leaned over the bar toward Jason. "Just don't be buryin' him too close to the tavern." He winked and nodded his head toward the crowd of patrons. "Bad for business, you know. They tend to be believin' in spirits and such."

  And so did Sam, Jason knew.

  Several people, some drunk, some not, tumbled out of the tavern to watch as Jason dug a hole the size of a man near the rotting fence that ran along the back end of the tavern lot. The Count's final resting place.

  Krystyna was oblivious to the verbal exchanges that were going on around her. It was as if she were totally separated from the ill-smelling rabble now gawking and drinking near her, tankards still held tightly in their hands, some making rude comments. She stood numbly by, unconsciously clutching at her sampler as if to draw strength from it. But tears were gathering inside her as she watched Jason dig the shallow grave.

  When he finally laid her father in the dank earth, everything within her cried out: It should not be here. He deserves better than this. And he did. He deserved to lie next to her mother and his own father. He deserved a funeral ceremony, with all his old friends gathering around his casket to wish him Godspeed. She clenched her hands at her sides in mute horror. She desperately wanted this to be a nightmare. One that, no matter how horrible, she would wake up from. She had never experienced pain and desolation like this.

  She saw Jason looking toward her and she sensed his concern. He was a kind man, she supposed, though at the moment she wasn't disposed to think well of any of these Americans. Krystyna wet her lips; they felt so parched, so lifeless. "Is there a priest?" She hated asking for favors, but this was for her father, not for herself. "He was not a very religious man, but we are —were," the word came heavily to her, "Catholic and . . " She stopped, her emotions blocking her throat.

  Jason shook his head. "We have no priest." Though religion had never really mattered to him, he found himself wishing there was a man of the cloth about to give this woman comfort. "I can say a few words," he offered.

  Krystyna nodded, resigned. There was nothing else to be done.

  As Jason picked up the shovel to throw dirt back into the grave, she turned away. She couldn't bear to watch the process.

  Jason bowed his head, wondering at the whimsy of fate that had suddenly brought this woman into his life. An hour ago, he had been drinking in the tavern, his only thought to get home. Now he was standing over a grave, commending a man he did not know to God. "Dear Lord, please accept this man's soul."

  When there were no other words, Krystyna looked at him. "That is all?"

  What more did she want of him? "If he's with God, that'll be enough."

  Krystyna looked at Jason oddly, then turned away. He spoke the truth, but she took no comfort in it. Her father might be with God, but she was alone in a foreign land and fighting fears that threaten to overpower her.

  By now, the last of the onlookers had meandered back to the tavern, their curiosity satisfied in part, their thirst renewed by watching Jason work.

  Samuel, who had been standing in the back, silently watching, moved quietly toward Jason. He placed a hand on the shovel. "Will she be all right?" Samuel nodded toward Krystyna.

  Jason shrugged. He had no idea, but he had seen grief mark others before. "It'll probably take a while, I expect."

  Samuel nodded his shaggy head, then roughly patted the girl's shoulder as he walked away, leaving the two of them alone in the dark. Krystyna tried not to flinch. The man meant well.

  God, she wanted to be home.

  "Will they just go free?" Krystyna finally asked, her voice still and low, like whiskey flowing into a glass. She stared down at the fresh mound which hid her father from her.

  Jason turned to look at her. "Who?"

  How could he ask who after what they had just been through? "Those two horrible men." She gestured impatiently in the direction in which Fargo and Peter had long since disappeared.

  Jason knew it had to be frustrating for her. "It's just your word against theirs, even if we could catch them. And besides, we don't have any sort of court system here yet, the way they do in England." He turned toward his horse and checked to see if the cinch was secure. The horse would have a heavy load tonight. "Things like revenge are mainly left up to family." He turned back to look at her significantly. "Or God."

  "God is too slow." There was uncontrolled hatred in her voice.

  He studi
ed her face in the dim light afforded him from the tavern and the moon. He saw a mixture of hurt, raw anger, and rage — all barely kept in check. It will help her deal with the grief, he thought. A person can only handle so much hurt at one time. If she was busy being angry, the pain wouldn't engulf her.

  "Sometimes people are too fast," Jason answered philosophically. "Well, let's go." He placed an arm around her, intent on helping her onto his horse.

  Krystyna pulled back, suddenly realizing that he was trying to take her with him. "Go? Where?" Her eyes dared him to touch her again.

  "Home. I can't very well leave you here and," a grin came to his lips, "I did buy your 'contract' from those two."

  In frustration, Krystyna stamped her foot. "There is no contract!" she shouted. "And I will pay you back for your trouble and your money."

  "You have money with you?" He looked at her in surprise. The two men who had held her captive hadn't looked like the type to have left her with any valuables.

  "No, not with me. It is in —our trunk!" Her eyes grew wide as she suddenly realized what had happened. "They took the trunk! It was in the wagon!" Even as she looked toward where it might have been, her heart sank. She knew the wagon was gone.

  Jason shook his head, "I'm afraid it's long gone now. C'mon, we'd better be moving along. It's getting late."

  Hopelessness began to get the better of her. She felt overwhelmed, incapable of handling anything more. She needed to rest. Maybe tomorrow things would seem better. When she could think. "Can we not spend the night at some inn?"

  He laughed. "There is no inn." He saw the way she was looking toward the tavern. "I'd like to say I'd put you up in the tavern, but I'm already late getting back," he picked up the reins, "and I don't think you'd like the company there. I'm afraid we're going to have to get what sleep we can on the trail."

  She looked at him, dumbfounded. Was the man crazy? "Sleep while we are riding?"

  He laughed, finding her question somehow delightful. "No, we'd probably fall off." Although, if truth be known, he wouldn't have minded a tumble with her. There was something about her, even in her haughtiness, that pulled at him, that reminded him that he was, foremost, a man. "We can make camp in a few hours, but I've got to put some miles between the port and myself. My father's anxious to get the reports I have. And it wouldn't hurt to put some distance between us and your friends."

  She was alone in a strange, barbaric land. The hopelessness of her situation struck her like a knife slashing through the dark. "I have no friends," she said bitterly.

  "Oh, I wouldn't say that. You have me." He smiled at her, and received no response. "Can you ride?" He looked down at her. She was a full foot shorter than he was, and as far as he could see, she looked rather frail, although full breasted. The only women he knew who rode horseback used sidesaddles.

  She was about to say yes, she could ride very well, thank you, but then she thought better of it. An idea, born of desperation, came to her.

  "No," she told him. She didn't like the smile that came to his lips. It is too patronizing, she thought, just as he is.

  "That's all right, I'll be riding behind you. I won't let you fall. Let me just set you on this animal, and I'll get on back." He scooped her up in his arms, and she caught herself thinking that he handled her very gently for a man his size. "Here; hold onto this." He handed her the reins.

  Then he walked around to the side of the horse, but as he lifted his leg to get a foot in the stirrup, Krystyna dug her heels into the horse's flanks and slapped its neck with the reins. Jason fell backward and was sent sprawling as the horse galloped off.

  "Why you little-"

  He didn't waste any more words as he picked himself up. With two fingers in his mouth, he let out two short, sharp whistles, and the horse came to a halt. Krystyna gasped and grabbed onto the dark brown mane to keep from flying over the stallion's head. As she looked at the horse in horror, it turned around and trotted back to its master. She glared down at Jason's smug face.

  "I ought to tan your hide," he told her, but his anger was already cooling. Though he was having a lot of difficulty understanding what was going on in her head, he found himself intrigued enough to want to find out. For him, that was a new experience.

  Krystyna looked at him blankly. She didn't understand what he had said. To her, tanning was something that was done to the skins of animals. She thought he meant to skin her for her action. That would be in keeping with his kind.

  She made no apology to him as he took the horse's reins and looked up at her, obviously waiting for her to say something. She had just wanted to escape. She did not know where she would have gone, but she had wanted to be free. Of him, of what she was feeling inside right now. Of the terrible pain of seeing her father slain before her eyes. She knew by what the man said that he meant to take her home. God only knew what lay ahead for her after that.

  "Where did you think you were going?" Jason finally asked when she said nothing.

  "Away." The word was said with effort. She didn't want to answer him.

  "To where?" he wanted to know. "Do you have people here?" She shook her head in response and colored considerably as he laughed. She knew he was laughing at her, and she had always hated the condescending attitude men took with women. He shook his head. "You're going to need a keeper."

  She looked at him defiantly. "I am no one's property."

  "You don't have to worry about that." Jason swung himself into the saddle behind her and took the reins firmly in his hands. Krystyna felt the warm press of his hard body against hers. The sensation made her uncomfortably warm. She tried to put it out of her mind. "You're not anyone's property, just as you said."

  "Then why are you taking me with you?" she challenged.

  "Because," he began, amused at her tone of voice. This was no ordinary little waif he had found. He could tell by the way she spoke, accent and all, that this was someone used to giving orders and having them obeyed. "If I left you here, you'd be back in the same position I found you in a little while ago — struggling to get out from underneath some lusty male."

  The truth made her shift uncomfortably, even more than this awkward position of riding double. "I did not thank you for that," she murmured quietly.

  "No," he agreed. "You didn't."

  She could almost feel his smile. And she did feel his breath, warm and steady, against the crown of her head. "You are not making this easy."

  He knew that, but couldn't resist asking the obvious. "Why, aren't you used to thanking people?"

  For a long moment, she remained silent. Then, because manners demanded it, she said, "That was very kind of you to help me — and to bury my father."

  Pity flooded him. "Why did they kill him?"

  Krystyna hesitated. She couldn't trust him yet. She didn't know anything about him, other than the fact that he was good looking and strong. No, she wouldn't let herself be lulled into dropping her guard. Her father had, and look where he was now. "I do not know."

  "Because of the money?" he guessed.

  She jumped at the excuse. "Yes. They must have found out about the money. The tall one sailed with us, and his friend met him at the dock. Somehow, they must have known."

  Jason didn't quite know whether to believe her. She spoke too rapidly, as if her words set forth a lie that was coming to her. Or perhaps it was just her accent. He guided the horse to the left, working on instincts long burned into his brain.

  "Where do you come from?" he asked again. When she still didn't answer, he shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'll just tell my father I bought you from a trader."

  She felt her anger rise. She wanted to face this man, this barbarian. She twisted in the saddle. The motion caused her to brush against his chest. She wanted as little contact with him as was humanly possible. With effort, she held herself still. "No!" After a moment, she relented. She tried to imagine where he was taking her and what would happen once they arrived. "Will your father be angry?"

  "Over my
bringing home a beautiful woman? No." Jason laughed. "Never over that. He's quite a man, my father. Always says there's room for one more at the table. He won't mind my bringing home a ragged princess."

  Jason noted that she stiffened slightly at the title. Could he have hit closer to home than he'd thought? Well, she would tell him by and by, when she was ready.

  By now he was acutely aware of her sitting astride the horse, neatly nestled between his legs, her rump forced to rub against his inner thighs with each step the horse took. Without meaning to, Jason had allowed himself to be opened up to a cornucopia of sensations and feelings. Despite her disheveled appearance, the woman before him smelled of wild flowers. The tangled veil of black hair shone in the bright moonlight, and her form rocked against him. He wasn't surprised to find himself wondering what it would be like to hold her in his arms. To make wild, passionate love to her. There was passion there. He had seen it in her eyes. What would it be like, to have that passion directed toward him? He made a promise to himself that someday, soon, he would find out.

  She seemed to be almost oblivious to him. He felt a challenge forming. He wanted nothing more than to seduce her, to hear her cry his name as he filled her. But then he admonished himself for his thoughts. She had been through a great deal today. She had lost her father, had nearly been abducted and who knew what else? She was obviously hiding something, and just as obviously afraid to trust anyone. He could see she was of good family. They would have had to have been wealthy to have had their daughter taught a foreign language. And her hands, he noted, glancing down at her thighs where they rested, were soft. Only the rich could have pampered hands like that. Like his sister, Savannah.

  Like Charity. He almost laughed. How much more exciting this Krystyna seemed to him than Charity. Charity was like a pampered doll. The woman he had rescued tonight had life and fire to her. Charity had only empty, vapid thoughts and desires that no longer intrigued him. Who knew, perhaps he had caught himself a princess. All he knew was that he had one hell of a beautiful woman before him.