"Different from what? The rest of the world? Have you no crime here? No a.s.sault? No-"

"My dear fellow!" Florian turned pale. "You cannot be suggesting that someone would...would... No. It's unthinkable. Everyone knows Priscilla. She is very well liked."

John groaned at the older man's naivete. "Priscilla is a very attractive young woman. There is always the possibility of someone pa.s.sing through. I did. Those men who kidnapped me did." He stopped, his stomach turning to ice. "Those men..."

His increasing fear had been only a general one before, the idea that something must have happened to keep Priscilla so late. But as he mentioned his kidnappers, his fear coalesced into a very real, very possible, form. The men had left their inn. But that did not necessarily mean that they had left the area. Perhaps they had moved into the woods, even taken up residence in the very shack where they had put him. One of them had seen him and Priscilla together yesterday in the village. What if they were not simply cowards who had run when they knew he had discovered them? What if they had decided to hide and catch Priscilla alone, then hold her to force him to give himself up to them?

"What are you talking about?" Florian asked, his brow now furrowed with worry. "Do you really think that Priscilla is in danger?"

"Yes. Yes, I really think so." He turned to the older man. "I am going to look for her."

"I will come with you."

"No. Just get me a lantern. You stay here in case Priscilla should come home. If she does, make sure she stays put-tie her up, if you have to."

Florian goggled at him. "I shouldn't think there would be any need for force. Priscilla is eminently reasonable."

John grimaced. "I have no time to discuss that now. If anyone shows up with a message for me, say I went to town today and have not gotten back yet. Don't let anyone know I am out looking for Priscilla."

"But I don't understand.... I would think the best thing would be to enlist all the help we can."

"No. Not yet. If I can't find her, we will get out a search party and comb the woods. But I have a fair idea where she is, if they have taken her."

"Who! If who have taken her?" Florian's voice rose in frustration. "Good Gad, man, you are talking in riddles. What the devil is going on?"

"I'm not sure. I will explain when I get back. Just do as I asked you. Please?"

"If you really think it's so important."

"It is. I promise you. It could mean your daughter's safety."

Florian nodded. "All right, then. I will do as you say. Take a message, say you are in town. Keep Priscilla here if she returns."

"Right."

"Let me get the lantern for you." Florian turned and led him through the house to the back door, surprisingly brisk and silent. The older man opened a cabinet door and pulled out an old lantern. Raising the side, he lit the wick, then handed the lantern to John. "Take care."

"I will. And I hope, when I return, I will bring Priscilla with me."

He strode out the door and through the backyard to the path behind the house that he and Priscilla had taken the day they went exploring. Priscilla had said that it was the path that led to Lady Chalcomb's manor house. He held the lantern up, looking carefully from side to side as he strode along, his long steps eating up the ground. He forced himself not to think about what might be happening to Priscilla right now, if she was indeed in those men's hands. He had to think, had to concentrate on what he was doing, if he expected to get Priscilla back. He could not let himself be distracted.

Before long he pa.s.sed the point where he and Priscilla had turned aside into the woods that day. He had not yet seen any footprints but Priscilla's. The earth was hard, and the path did not provide good tracks, but every once in a while he ran across the partial imprint of a woman's shoe. He had not yet seen the sign of any larger boot or shoe.

He hesitated, thinking of plunging into the woods to seek the shed right now, but he continued along the path. There was always the possibility that Priscilla had not been taken, but had somehow fallen and hurt herself. If she had indeed twisted an ankle, it would be no help to her if he went haring off through the woods looking for the hut. He walked on, alert to every noise in the night, to every deviation in the path. He was beginning to think that he might have to walk all the way to Chalcomb Manor when something on the path before him caught his eye.

The earth in front of him, unlike the rest of the trail, had been disturbed. The ground had been stirred up, scuffed and kicked, and the gra.s.s on either side looked as if it had been trodden on. A long, narrow rut made him think of the heel of a woman's shoe being dragged across the ground, and in the softer earth beside the trail, he could make out almost a whole bootprint, clearly large enough to be a man's. Most d.a.m.ning of all, a set of colored pencils lay scattered on the gra.s.s, along with a small drawing pad. Mrs. Smithson had said that Priscilla had gone to Chalcomb Hall to copy a design for her needlework.

John's heart thudded in his chest, and for a moment he was gripped by a fear so great he could hardly move, hardly breathe. They had seized Priscilla! Somehow, he had hoped deep inside that his fears would turn out to be foolish, that he would find Priscilla still deep in conversation with Lady Chalcomb, or even that he would find her furious and frustrated, sitting on a rock beside the road, nursing a sprained ankle or a broken bone. But there had obviously been a struggle here, and he knew that the worst had happened. The men-his enemies, for whatever reason-had taken Priscilla.

He had to get her back.

John turned and left the path, heading straight into the trees that grew close to the path. He remembered that he and Priscilla had left the trail and headed in a northeasterly way the other day. He thought that if he walked straight ahead, he would probably intersect the path they had taken then. It would be much quicker than going back to the place where they had left the path; he only hoped that he would not be thrown off by the different angle and be unable to find the shack.

Finding the small hut in the woods was not, he knew, a very viable proposition, anyway. He had been there only twice, and he was not familiar with the area. However, he was not about to wait for morning to start searching, nor was he about to waste time raising a search party of locals. He could not bear to think what might happen to Priscilla while time went by.

He was rewarded-and relieved-a few minutes later when the light from his lantern picked up a small sc.r.a.p of material caught on a thornbush, stirring in the faint breeze. He reached out and plucked it from the thorn, rubbing it between his fingers. There was no way of telling whether it had been torn from Priscilla's dress. He did not even know what color dress she had worn that day. But this did mean that someone had pa.s.sed here, and, judging by the condition of the material, it had been recently. It gave him hope, and he pressed on, on the lookout for any other signs that people had gone this way.

He found several such signs as he made his way through the dense darkness: the imprint of a man's boot in the mud, a snapped branch dangling from a tree, still moist inside with sap; another bit of cloth. And where there were no such signs, he struggled on through the trees and underbrush, hoping he was continuing in the right direction. There was a long period where he could see no sign of anyone's having pa.s.sed that way, and he became certain that he had wandered from the correct path, but then he came upon a small glade that looked familiar. He sank down gratefully on the fallen tree trunk. He was certain that he and Priscilla had pa.s.sed this trunk on their way to the shack.

Placing the lantern on the ground in front of him, he looked around, trying to get his bearings. He could see above him only a tiny slice of sky, where a few stars twinkled. He walked slowly around the clearing, cudgeling his brain for memories of the clearing and the way he and Priscilla had gone from there the other day. It seemed to him that they had walked into the clearing facing the fallen log, then walked out past it, whereas tonight he had walked in much closer to the log and to one side of it. Finally, without much confidence, he picked up the lantern and strode out past the log.

It was some time before he came upon the stream, and he could tell that he was farther downstream than he and Priscilla had been the other day. He walked along the bank of the small stream, shining the lantern on either bank, looking for footprints in the muddy area beside the creek. His pulse sped up when he saw a small trampled place on the other side of the stream. He leaped over the stream and held the lantern close to the ground. There were several prints, all of men's shoes, mingling and smeared, as if the men had slipped and struggled to regain their footing. There were no signs of a woman's shoes anywhere about.

But that, he told himself, made sense. They would have had to carry Priscilla; she would have fought too hard if she was on her feet. He surged forward through the trees with renewed strength. He was close; he was sure of it. Priscilla must have been taken to the hut. He would find her there. And he would find the men.

His fist knotted into a ball, and a certain gleam came into his eyes. If he found the men, he would make sure that they regretted this encounter. He wished he had brought a gun; even Florian's ancient dueling pistol would have been good for whacking someone over the head.

He was sure that he must be nearing the shack. It had not been far from the stream. He brought down the panels of the lantern on all sides except the one facing him, reducing the lantern's glow to the smallest amount he needed to see his way through the darkness. His pace slowed, and he took careful steps, so that his pa.s.sage through the trees was almost silent. All the while, he looked about sharply. If he were the one hiding someone in the shack, he would have one of the men sleeping and the other keeping guard, hidden in the trees so that he could see anyone who approached the cabin.

It seemed to John that the area in front of him was faintly lighter than the darkness around him. He slowed his steps even more, then stopped and brought down the final panel of the lantern, plunging himself into darkness. Slowly his eyes adjusted, and he could make out the shapes of trees in front of him. He was right. There was some small amount of light somewhere. He moved forward carefully and stopped beside a tree. In front of him lay a long, narrow clearing. The faint light came from the stars and moon that streamed into the clearing, not blocked by tree branches. It was not much, but it was enough for him to see the small, square ma.s.s of the hut sitting in the clearing. No light gleamed inside it.

They had her in the darkness. That fact made him burn with anger, but at least it meant that there would be almost no light to give away his presence as he approached the hut. He waited, half hidden by the large tree, and made a slow survey of the trees around the clearing. He could see no sign of a person standing or sitting anywhere among them. But he knew that did not mean there was no one. They would be as difficult to see as he was.

He moved through the trees to his right, on the lookout for guards, until he was positioned straight across from the door of the hut. There was an odd, shapeless bulk at the bottom of the door, and John stared at it for a long moment before he realized that it must be one of the men, sitting on guard outside the door-probably sleeping, judging from the way his form was sprawled.

It was possible, of course, that this was a trick, that the man's alert companion was hiding in the trees, watching to see if anyone would come and take the bait of the sleeping guard. John hesitated for a moment, looking around the edge of the clearing again.

He found it difficult to believe that either of these two had the mental capacity to think of a trick such as that. This, after all, was how they had guarded him, one there and one away, presumably sleeping in the comfort of a bed. He doubted that they would think a woman was worthy of another guard, even if he had demonstrated that they had been foolishly lax with him.

Or perhaps the other one was inside with Priscilla.

He hurtled forward at that thought. Even though he knew it was probably untrue-the man would have had some light with him, surely, and Priscilla would be screaming if anyone was hurting her-he could not stop himself from rushing forward. Propelled by the anxiety and fear of an entire evening, he charged the rec.u.mbent form and, dropping the lantern, he grabbed the man by his clothes and jerked him to his feet.

"Wha-?" The man's eyes flew open, and he gaped at John, but before he had time to even get a question out, John's fist smashed into his face.

The man lurched backward, letting out a cry of astonishment and pain. John went after him, hammering him with his fists. The man fell to the ground like a rock. He lay limp. John halted, frustrated. He would have liked to vent all his anger and fear on the man, but the d.a.m.n fellow hadn't put up enough of a fight.

He swung around and went to the door of the hut. It was fastened crudely but effectively, with a bar of wood across it. John jerked the bar up out of its slot and pulled open the door. He bent into the low doorway and peered inside. "Priscilla?"

A huddled heap in the corner launched itself at him, but even as John instinctively took a step back, Priscilla flung her arms around his neck and clung to him. "John! Thank G.o.d! I knew you would come!"

"Priscilla." Her name was a sigh of relief this time. His arms went around her, and he pulled her close, burying his face in her hair. For a long moment he luxuriated in the sheer sensation of holding her, murmuring soft endearments into the silken ma.s.s of her hair.

Priscilla turned her face up to look at him, caressing his cheek with her fingertips. "I was so scared. I told myself you would find me, that you would know that they had taken me here. But I was so afraid that you wouldn't be able to find it in the dark."

"I would find you anywhere," he murmured, gazing hungrily into her face, and then he bent to kiss her lips. As soon as his mouth touched hers, the pulse of fear that had been driving him turned into pa.s.sion. Heat flamed between them, fiercer than any fire.

He pulled her into him, his arms tightening around her, as if he could pull her into his body until she became part of him. He made a noise deep in his throat, a sound of pure animal desire. Priscilla clung to him, as suddenly, overwhelmingly, alive with pa.s.sion as he was. It was as if the emotions of the last few hours had stripped away all pretense, all trappings and teachings of society, and there was in them now only the elemental reality of their hunger for each other.

His hands moved eagerly up and down her back, smoothing over the curve of her hips, as they kissed again and again. Lips clung, tongues twined, fingers pressed into flesh. They were giddy and greedy, incapable of speaking, even of thinking.

He slipped a hand between them, curving it over her breast and cupping it, delighting in the exquisite softness, the contrasting hardness of the small pointing nipple in the center. Priscilla gasped at the sensations that flooded her at his touch. He rubbed his thumb over the hard little bud, and it tightened eagerly. Warmth flooded Priscilla's abdomen, and she was aware of a curious moisture between her legs. She squeezed her legs together tightly, wanting something, though she was not sure what. A pulse began there and grew as he stroked her nipple with his thumb, his hand gently cupping and squeezing her breast beneath the cloth of her dress.

His lips left her mouth and trailed down her neck, arousing the gentle flesh with hot, velvety kisses. Priscilla let out a soft mew of desire and leaned back against his arm, soft and pliant, her head drooping back, exposing more of her throat to his mouth. He took advantage of the mute invitation, raining kisses down her throat. His hand moved to her other breast, arousing and caressing it the same way. All the while, the heat built low in Priscilla's loins, pulsing and aching, turning her to fire.

Impatiently John pushed up her skirts and petticoats, delving beneath them to find her leg, clothed only by her soft cotton stocking. His breath came out in a groan as he caressed her thigh, sliding upward and over her garter to the bare skin above it. A shudder ran through him, and he raised his head and pressed his lips into hers once again. His tongue plunged inside her mouth, fierce and demanding, as his fingers teased her flesh. His hand moved upward, under the loose legs of her underwear, until it reached the hot, damp source of her pa.s.sion.

Priscilla gasped, the sound swallowed by his mouth on hers, and jerked in surprise. He murmured to her soothingly, soft, meaningless words, and kissed her cheek and eyes and ears, until she relaxed again. Then he returned to the long, drugging kiss on her mouth, and his fingers crept up to the joinder of her legs.

This time Priscilla did not jump, only quivered at the unexpected pleasure that rushed through her. It was startling, embarra.s.sing, and yet it was incredibly exciting, as well. She wanted it to continue, wanted to follow this pa.s.sion wherever it might lead.

Gently his fingers probed, separating the slick satin folds of flesh and sending exciting shivers through her. He caressed her, and her knees went so weak that she was afraid they would give way and she would fall to the ground. She trembled, feeling as if she were on the edge of a different world. Her breath rasped in her throat, and her hands dug into the front of his shirt, holding on for dear life.

And then there was a groan outside the cabin.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

PRISCILLA AND JOHN FROZE. There was another groan. They remembered then the man who had been standing guard outside the cabin, the man John had knocked down and left as he rushed to open the door of the shack.

John let go of Priscilla and stepped back, aghast at his own loss of control. He had been so caught up in his pa.s.sion, so blind to the outside world, that the guard he had knocked unconscious earlier could easily have awakened and come in and struck both of them down. It was sheer luck that the man had started groaning as he returned to consciousness.

He ran outside to where the man lay. Behind him, Priscilla hurriedly adjusted her clothing, a blush spreading over her cheeks. She had never in her life experienced anything like the past few moments, not even when John had kissed and caressed her before. She had been flooded with desire then, but that had been nothing like the all-consuming pa.s.sion, the greed to couple with him, that had overtaken her tonight. It had been as if nothing in the world existed except the two of them. Her limbs were still weak and trembling, her skin was tingling, and her blood was pulsing through her like mad.

A little shakily, she followed John out of the hut. She glanced around and found his darker form in the dim landscape. He was kneeling beside the tall guard, and he hauled the man up into a sitting position as Priscilla came up behind him. Blood trickled from the villain's nose and smeared his chin. His eyes rolled vaguely. He moved his arms and legs a little, as though not quite sure where they were or what they were supposed to do.

"I am glad to see that you're coming to," John said conversationally. "I was wanting to have a bit of chat with you."

The other man let out a snuffle that conveyed surprise.

"You thought I wouldn't? Oh, no, I am most eager to talk to you. Or, I should say, to hear what you have to say."

"Won't tell you nothin'," the man mumbled.

"You think not?" There was a dangerous quality to John's voice that Priscilla found rather chilling. "Somehow I think you will change your mind. Priscilla, dear, does that dress of yours have a sash?"

Priscilla blinked. "Uh, yes."

"Good. Then may I have it?"

Priscilla began to untie the sash, asking uneasily, "What are you planning to do?"

"Just tie up our friend here," John replied, whipping the man over onto his face and pulling his arms behind him before he could even begin to struggle. "Thank you."

He took the sash from Priscilla's hand and proceeded to tie the man up efficiently, knotting the fabric around his hands, then pulling the long strand of cloth down to tie it around the man's ankles, so that he lay awkwardly, his hands drawn back and down, and his feet up behind his back.

"'Ey!" the man protested.

"What? Are you uncomfortable? How unfortunate. Of course, I could have tossed you into that cabin and left you there in the dark for a few days, the way you did Priscilla and me. Until I brought back the constable. How long do you suppose you will get in prison?"

It occurred to Priscilla that John was talking this way in order to scare the man so that he would talk freely. But his voice and face were so cold, so suddenly foreign to her, that it frightened her a little. She went on hastily, "I think that getting the constable is an excellent idea. Why don't you put him in the shack and let's go?"

"The English are very law-abiding people, I find," John remarked. "I admire that in them. Of course, in America, we are not quite so particular. There's not always law around in the wilds, you see, and we are more apt to mete out our own justice. They hang men, you know, just for thievery." He lowered his voice, saying, "Worse than that, when it comes to harming a woman."

He hunkered down beside the man's head, staring down steadily into his eyes. "I don't take kindly to man-handling women. Especially when it is a woman who belongs to me."

Normally Priscilla would have bridled at the way he had referred to her, but she was too worried now about what his intentions were to bother with such niceties. She laid a hand on John's shoulder, softly saying his name.

Without moving his gaze from the other man's face, John patted her hand and said, "It's all right, Priscilla. Maybe you should go back into that little cabin, or over on the other side of it."

"Why?"

"So you won't have to hear or see anything that would offend you," John replied. "A slow death is not a pleasant thing to watch."

Priscilla's jaw dropped. The captive's eyes widened, the whites of his eyes glistening in the dark.

Priscilla stared at John, then said firmly, "No, thank you, I shall stay right here. John, what are you planning to do?"

"I wanted to ask this man-Will, your partner called you, wasn't it?-I wanted to ask Will some questions. For instance, who his partner is and why they attacked me. Why they kidnapped you. How they know Benjamin Oliver. That sort of thing. The only problem is, he said that he was not going to answer."

Priscilla went a little weak with relief. He was trying to frighten the man into answering questions. It had been foolish of her to suspect anything else. However, she was careful not to let her feelings show. It would ruin John's plan if she acted as if she didn't believe him.

"Oh, dear. Well, he might talk to you, you know. Perhaps he has changed his mind." She turned toward the ruffian on the ground. "Won't you reconsider?"

"I ain't no bleeding ratter," the man named Will responded, but his voice was less sure than it had been earlier.

"See? I told you. I will try to make him talk, of course. There are several things I learned from the Indians. Not many men can stand up to them."

Will's face turned a paler color, but John went on, oblivious, "But in the end, I imagine I shall have to kill him. Give him the death he deserves for hurting you."

"I'm not sure that it is worth killing over, you know," Priscilla suggested.

"We handle things differently in the United States. You can't let anyone get away with harming you or yours, or people will think you're weak. It's a hard land. Fortunately, living with the Indians those two years toughened me up."

"I-I've read of the sort of things they do to their captives. It's horrid, barbaric," Priscilla said, putting a quaver into her voice.

She was certain now that he must be putting on an act. But even so, she could not suppress a little gasp when he reached behind him and pulled a large knife from his belt. "John!"

"Did you think I would go out without a weapon when I came hunting for you? A knife is better than a gun in many ways, when you know how to use it. It's quiet, and it's better for what I need to do now."

"What are you going to do?" she asked dutifully, sneaking a glance at the other man's face. Beads of sweat had popped out on Will's upper lip and forehead, and she could see his throat bob as he swallowed nervously.

"I'm not sure. I thought of cutting out his tongue, but that would be defeating my purpose, now, wouldn't it? Staking him out on an anthill would take too long. Besides, I haven't got the equipment I'd need. I saw the Apaches skin a man alive once. It would probably be most effective."