~ Deadly Attraction ~

by

Carolyn Hinchy-Wertman

Mirinda Caldwell clasped her trembling fingers in her lap, and bit back the retort at the tip of her tongue. Angering him certainly wouldn’t make things better, though she longed to vent her indignation. “Please, Colonel McDermott, you are the third person I have spoken with today. There must be something that can be done?”

Leaning back in his chair, his balding pate red and shining, The Colonel shrugged unaffected by her tears. “As I said earlier, I cannot help you. The matter is out of my hands. You have wasted your time journeying here to Washington. By all accounts, your brother will hang for treason.” He slipped the cigar he’d placed in the ashtray upon her arrival, back to his lips, and returned his quill to his hand, dismissing her without so much as looking in her direction.

Mirinda rose from the chair on weak, trembling knees and stood with her hand braced to the armrest for several seconds before attempting to move toward the door. Bile threatened at the base of her throat. The portal was ajar before she whirled about to face him in her fury, her breath barely able to be expelled against the tightness in her chest. “I will not stand for this injustice, sir. You cannot treat people with such callousness and expect no retribution!” She spun on her heels and stormed from the room in a swirl of muslin.

Abruptly, she came against a hard chest, and staggered backward in surprise. The man before her eyed her down the length of his nose. Mirinda assessed for a quick moment, giving him the once over even as she bestowed a glower in his direction. Dressed in the deep blue of an army uniform, brass buttons and belt buckle gleaming, he made a dashing figure. His dark hair curled slightly against his forehead, and was accented by sun-bronzed skin. Even in her misery, she noted the gentle curve of his lips, and the eyes like pools of onyx.

His hand reached for her as she sought to find her balance once more, and she sneered at him. “Get your filthy hands off me. I don’t want, or need, your assistance.” Forcing her way past him she descended the staircase to the foyer.

Oddly, she was grateful for the rain, which hid her tears, as she craned her neck back to her shoulders and drew a shaky breath passed her lips. Lost in her anguish, she allowed the cool drops to dampen her flesh, and sooth her sorrow. In the recesses of her mind she felt the presence behind her, knew she was no longer alone, and fought a shiver threatening at the base of her spine. Panic welled, ceasing her efforts at normal breathing, and dampening the valley between her breasts with a fine line of perspiration. She tamped it down, drew her shoulders back, and lifted her chin.

Though casual as she turned her head, her heart raced within the confines of her chest. A strangled sigh rose from her throat as she espied an elderly gentleman, spectacles balanced to the end of his nose, who nodded slightly before stepping past her. Feeling foolish, Mirinda curled her lips to a hesitant smile and watched him make his way toward the opposite side of the street. Her gaze focused to him, she gave no notice as another body brushed her hip. Only when fingers molded to her back, did she gasp, attempting to pivot as a firm force was applied to her shoulder blades. Taken aback, she staggered to the muddied road, her feet tangled within the folds of her gown.

The roar of the four-in-hand, heavy wagon in tow, echoed in her ears. Righting her balance, she twisted, stumbled in the mire, and sucked a ragged breath to her lungs as the team of horses plowed through the mud, their nostrils flaring warm mist against her cheek as they inched closer. The scream that lodged just behind her lips went unvoiced as her limbs locked, the image of the team seared to her mind. Unable to move, she released a soft whimper as the broad expanse of the nearest steed’s shoulder grazed her torso.

As if slapped, Mirinda shook herself from the fear that held her hostage. Tucking her chin to her chest, she curled to a tight ball, and rolled away from the sinewy muscles of the draft horse, careening through the sludge, as the air finally rushed from her mouth. A shutter crept along her trembling flesh as the hooves of the animal tossed the mire, where an instant before her face had been. Nearly standing, the coachman applied his foot to the brake beside him, and reined the team, pulling with enough force to bulge the veins on his arms, and one thick one at his neck. Only when the conveyance shuttered to a halt, did she release the sob caught beyond her teeth. For a long moment she held to her place, the wheels of the wagon, no more than a hair’s distance from her quaking hand.

Heart lodged to the base of her throat, she eyed the throng of onlookers amassed at the side of the road. None seemed overly pleased with her predicament, though in truth, none seemed overly upset, either. Yet, Mirinda knew as she scanned their visages, one of them was set upon her death. This attempt, the third on her life in less than a week, was nearly successful. Their hatred for her southern upbringing glinted in their eyes like cold steel. She was a pariah. Nausea roiled in her stomach, and teased at the bottom of her throat. Panicked, she swatted at the outstretched hand of a young lieutenant, who materialized beside her, and staggered to her feet. Her advance to the side of the road, though hasty, was made on limbs that shook violently beneath the sodden material of her dress. She cared little she seemed crazed as she stumbled away from the crowd, mud thick in her hair, and against her clothing. Nor did she look back at their frantic calls, her fear urging her on, as she huddled deep within the dirty shroud of her clothing, her only goal escape.

~ * ~

She was, Heath was certain, the most annoying and exasperating person he ever had the misfortune of setting eyes on. Like a leech, she clung to whomever was closest, sucking the life from them until they no longer suited her purpose, and were discarded for another. He prayed for that day. Though his commanding officer never asked, or gave an order for such, Heath had the distinct impression he had been assigned as her escort.

God help him! Having Gabrielle Selinsgrove, daughter of Congressman Selinsgrove from Pennsylvania, at his side at every affair was suffocating to his social life. He couldn’t remember the last time he actually left for a secluded place with a charming young woman on his arm, in hopes of an intimate evening. Gabby saw to that with a skill unmatched by any other. She had an ingratiating way of wrapping her hands about Heath’s arm, which told everyone within a hundred miles she staked a claim to him.

But beyond a doubt it was her laugh, which inspired children to cling to their mother’s skirts, and grown men cringe. It was like the sound of fingers on a slate board--raw, raspy--until Heath was certain he could take not one more instant of it, or he would reach his hands to her throat, and choke the life and laugh from her. Only having to inhale caused it to cease, and Gabby could hold her breath for a very long time.

Now, watching her make her way across the ballroom, his hands fisted in annoyance and he felt a wave of panic seize him. “Damnedable woman,” he sneered beneath his breath. It was as if she had some sort of inbuilt tracking device. His heart lurched as her skirts fair-bowled people over in her eager quest to reach him. Every yellow blond curl atop her head swayed, and matched the frantic beat of his heart with her advance.

Heath ducked behind a large potted plant, and eyed her through the leaves. His breath lodged in his throat as she continued forward, as if knowing where he was. Only a call from someone along her path halted her, and he took advantage of her averted gaze. Sidling behind several chairs and a set of drapes at one of the windows, he made a dash for the other side of the room. He cared little he looked like some madman as he sprinted over the floor; he was. She’d sucked the sanity from him. Almost home free near the entrance, he fought a shiver as her laughter grated on his nerves, and she called out to him in a breathy half shout that could be heard above the din of the room.

Pretending not to have heard, he darted toward a set of French doors in hopes of attaining the escape he sought. To his frustration, it was not to be. The balcony he found himself on allowed no escape, in fact, was above those serene paths, overlooking them by at least fifteen feet. The fleeting thought to jump played at the back of his mind. Instead, he pressed his body to the side of the house, and held his breath. Perhaps if he kept to the shadows, she would miss him in her quest...

Trapped there, he realized for the first time he was not alone. At the far end of the terrace a young woman leaned to the rail, her back to him. He could not readily place a name to her, and studied her for a long moment.

Her hair was a rich chestnut color that sparkled with each ray the setting sun cast upon it. Woven into what was the new height of fashion, a French braid, it was drawn against her head from her forehead back to her nape, then allowed to cascade over her shoulders in free flowing soft curls. Delicate heart-shaped flowers of soft pink laced through the braid, like jewels atop a velvet expanse. Her gown, of the same hue as the flowers, draped off her shoulders, to reveal the soft rose of her skin. The corset beneath was cinched tight, accenting a slender waist and curvaceous hips. She turned for a moment, placing herself in profile to him, and he drew in a slow breath. The gentle line of her jaw, soft slope of her cheeks, and sensual curve of her lips intrigued him, and he leaned out from the shadows slightly, wanting a better look. Had he not more pressing issues on his mind, he would gladly have introduced himself.