Perhaps she should have been afraid of him, but she’d never been less afraid of anyone in her life. She knew exactly what he was doing: She’d hurt his pride and now he was getting her back—just like any little boy would do.
“How kind of you to drop in on me like this, Captain, and what an interesting play-outfit. But you’d better release me before Sam finds out. He doesn’t have the sense of humor that I do.”
He took a long draw on his cigar. “I took care of both men and your maid before I came in here.”
She pulled against the ropes holding her. “If you’ve hurt any of my people, I’ll see you’re hung.”
“Hanged.”
“What?”
“The word is hanged, not hung. Hung is when God gives a man a special gift. Hanged is when men put a rope around somebody’s neck.”
“A special gift? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh? I would have thought you knew a great deal, what with the general and all.”
It was at that moment that Maddie understood what he was saying. His playing dress-up and tying her to a bed to prove a point didn’t make her angry, but his insinuation that there was something between her and the general did. “How dare you!” she gasped. “I’ll report you to your commanding officer for this. I’ll see that you’re hung—hanged—damn you, drawn and quartered, if you don’t release me this minute.”
“Careful. You’re making enough noise that the chorus of…what was that? La something, wasn’t it?”
“La Traviata, you boorish, backwoods, overgrown army mule! Release me!”
He slowly stood up and stretched. “If I’d been an Indian, I could have had your scalp by now, or a white man could have had anything he wanted.”
“Is that supposed to frighten me? Why in the world would an Indian want to risk starting a war just for my scalp?”
He sat down on the edge of the cot and looked at her. “Haven’t you heard how the Indians ravage white women, how they lust for their beauty?”
“Does all your reading matter consist of dime novels?”
He looked away and took a deep draw on the cigar. “You seem to know some about Indians. How does a duchess from Lanconia, isn’t it, know about Indians?”
Maddie started to tell him the truth but decided she’d be damned if she would. She wasn’t going to give this man the time of day if she could get out of it. “How very perceptive of you, Captain,” she said, practically purring at him. “The truth is that an old mountain man—you know, the men who used to trap the furs in the West—came to Lanconia and lived with us. As a child he used to dandle me on his knee and tell me lots of wonderful stories—true stories.”
“So now you’ve come west to see the land he told you about.”
“Oh, yes. And to sing too. I’m rather good at singing.”
He moved away from the cot, and while his back was turned Maddie struggled with the ropes, but the knots were intricate and well tied.
Abruptly, he glanced back at her, but she was quicker, and when he looked she was lying there peacefully, smiling at him.
“I’ve told you I don’t think you should go into the camps. They’re a rough lot and I’m afraid for your safety.”
Afraid you’ll have to follow me around, she thought, but she continued smiling. “I’ll be safe and you can return to your army. I promise I will write General Yovington the nicest letter possible. He’s a sweet man.”
“I would imagine you’d know.”
She clamped her teeth together. “I assure you, sir, that the general’s interest in me is purely artistic.”
“Artistic?”
Yes, you half-naked dodo bird, she thought. Artistic. But she smiled at him. “My singing. The man likes to hear me sing. If you would be so kind as to remove these ropes, I would sing for you.”
He gave her a patronizing little smile that made anger run through her like oil on a hot skillet: she was almost sizzling.
“Opera?” he asked. “No thanks.”