Chase the Dawn by Jane Feather Read Free Book Online Page A

longer. You are still not as strong as you should be.”
    “Why will you not answer me?” Her voice was low and insistent as she took his arm with sudden urgency.
    “Because I cannot,” he said briefly. “Do not ask again.” Shaking off her hold, he turned his bare back on her for the first time and waded to the bank.
    Bryony stared, appalled. The broad, muscled back was crisscrossed with ridged white scars from his neck to his waist. “What happened to you?” Her voice was barely a whisper; she knew the answer well enough, and a wave of nausea churned in her belly, surged acid bile in her throat.
    From the bank, Benedict turned to look at her—standing waist-deep in the creek, her hand pressed to her mouth, her face the color of chalk, her eyes pools of horror. His lip curled; the black eyes seemed to flatten as all emotion left them. “Have you never before seen the scars of a flogging, Miss Bryony?”
    She had. Many times. But never on the back of a white man. “Why?” she whispered. Her feet seemed to have taken root in the muddy bottom of the creek, and a shudder of cold and revulsion shook her, bringing goose bumps pricking on her skin.
    “You will have to forgive me if I choose to keep my private affairs just that,” he drawled, pulling on his shirt, which clung immediately to his wet skin. “You were obviously not taught the difference between pertinent and impertinent questions.” He stepped into his britches, tugging them up roughly, pushing his shirt into the waistband.
    “I am sorry,” Bryony apologized wretchedly. “I did not mean to pry. It was just such a shock.”
    “You may count yourself fortunate if you receive no worse in your life,” he stated, thrusting his feet into his boots. “I am going to start the fire for supper.” He strode off through the trees, leaving the girl to uproot herself and stumble onto the bank.
    Who was he? What was he? What could he possibly have done to invite that torture? She knew he was tender, caring, humorous. But he had tied her to the bed without compunction, and she also knew he had fired the barn where she, for some unknown reason, had been hiding. Had she been hiding? There were too many questions—all without answers.
    Bryony dried herself with care, dabbing at her back, which had begun to sting again. The sensation brought renewed images of horror, and she bit her lip fiercely as she rubbed the water from her hair. Somehow, she had to discover the truth. And she was
not
going to accept his proscription on that wonderful activity to which she had just been introduced. Wrapped in the blanket, she marched determinedly back to the clearing, seeking refuge from her disturbing thoughts with action.
    Ben was squatting before a fire laid in a circle of stones. A flat stone rested on the ashes, and on its hot surface lay the catfish. The marvelous smells of woodsmoke and broiling fish set her saliva flowing, and she swallowed, sniffing hungrily. He glanced up, and she saw with relief that the dead, expressionless look in his eyes had vanished. In fact, they held a gleam of understanding humor as he read her expression. “Hungry?”
    “Famished,” she agreed, sitting down beside him.
    “You must do a little work, too, you know, if you expect to be fed,” he said with gentle irony.
    Bryony felt her cheeks warm, and she stood up again. “I am quite willing.”
    He smiled at the stiff dignity in her voice. “In the cabin you will find a stone jar. It contains a loaf of wheaten bread. There is butter in the crock on the shelf, where you will also find knives and platters. There is a jar of cider in the corner, by the hearth, tankards on the shelf.”
    “It would be easier to fetch and carry if I did not have to hold the blanket around me,” Bryony pointed out.
    “There must be something I can wear.”
    He frowned in thought. “I suppose you could wear one of my shirts for the moment. You will find one in the chest.”
    The chest was battered, bearing