Captive by Heather Graham Page A

saw his brother’s face. Took his wife from his brother’s arms.
    She lay in her coffin. Jarrett and he had built it from the thick trunk of a cypress, just as they had built a much smaller one for Sara. So small. A child’s coffin.
    He had dressed Naomi in the embroidered white doeskin. She had kept it since the day they became man and wife. She was beautiful in it, beautiful even in death. No ravages of the fever remained. The dress was so white, her flesh smooth and copper. Her hair ebony against it.
    Suddenly, he seemed to be standing in darkness. The coffin was so far away. He had left it in a burial cove,above the ground, shadowed by trees, her belongings with her, her pots and pans, her clothing, her beads and necklaces. He could see the cove, but something was wrong. He tried to see into the coffin …
    Naomi wasn’t within it.
She
lay within it instead. He could see the blazing red cascade of her hair spilling over the cypress. She was dressed in white, an embroidered gown in cotton and lace. Her face was so pale; her hands were folded before her.
    Her eyes opened, met his. And she was suddenly screaming, aware that she was in a coffin. It was filling with blood. She was reaching out, calling his name …
    James woke with a start, bathed in sweat.
    He sat up, exhaling and gritting his teeth to ease himself from the tension of the dream. He stared outside. Darkness was just being lifted by the first pale streaks of dawn.
    He groaned aloud and lay back down. Oddly enough, after his wretched dream James at long last fell into a deep and restful sleep. He thought that he was dreaming again when he first heard the tapping on the door. “Mastuh James, Mastuh James, coffee, sir!”
    It had to be Dolly, a plump free woman of Bahamian and Indian descent who served in the kitchen. “Bring it in, then!” he called back, rolling over, his back toward the door. It had been one hell of an awful night. But now he was awake, and he wouldn’t sleep again. His brother’s house could make him too soft if he wasn’t careful.
    Still, he closed his eyes anyway.
    “Black, or cream, Mastuh James?” he heard. Right at his back. The damned woman just wasn’t leaving him in peace.
    “I’ll take care of it myself, thank you,” he all but growled.
    “On your head or in your face?” the voice inquired sweetly.
    He swung around, shooting to a sitting position. Miss Teela Warren, fresh as a spring flower, dressed in a yellowmuslin that somehow seemed to emphasize the rise of her breasts, stood by his side, coffee cup in hand. He had the unnerving feeling that he was about the wear coffee somewhere uncomfortably low on his body.
    “If you’re considering dropping that cup, may I suggest that you don’t?” he inquired.
    “Why, Mr. McKenzie, since I am living in your brother’s house, I am trying to come up with some kind of peace terms for the duration.”
    “Mmm,” he muttered doubtfully, pulling the white bed-sheet up against him. He was completely naked beneath it. Surely, she must know it. But she didn’t seem discomfited; she waited politely, coolly, for an answer on the coffee.
    “Black!” he snapped, taking the coffee from her before she could do any damage with it.
    A small smile played on her lips. “I intended no harm.”
    “But you might have had an accident.”
    “I’m quite careful.”
    “You’re quite the southern belle. I’m sure all your accidents are well planned … Are you accustomed to bringing men coffee in their beds?”
    She considered that and shrugged. “Actually, no. I’ve not had the opportunity before.”
    “And I doubt that it could be considered proper behavior for a young woman of your breeding.”
    “Probably not.”
    “Alas, Miss Warren, it seems you will rot in hell.”
    “Well, my sins are many, so perhaps I will. Though not, I think, for bringing you coffee.”
    He sipped the coffee, staring at her. She had remained by his bedside. She had left her long hair free once again,