Free The Captive Heart by Michelle; Griep Page B

loosened. Would that the unmerciful squeeze of her stays might slacken as well. She tugged at the boning. She’d have to figure out some way to remove the stays laced at her back—and soon.
    But for now, Grace peered at her with big brown eyes, gnawing the edge of her crib with tiny, white teeth.
    “Poor thing!” She rushed over and scooped up the child. “You must be hungry. Shall we see about some porridge then, hmm?”
    Grace giggled and tugged at Eleanor’s hair, pulling loose the few strands yet moored by pins. Eleanor frowned. She’d have to figure something out about that unruly mess, too.
    The girl fidgeted, and she set her down. Grace took off like a musket ball, and Eleanor watched, wondering at the child’s speed. The girl raced over to a pot in the corner and hiked her little shift.
    Eleanor turned with a smile as liquid tinkled against earthenware. Managing Mr. Heath might be bothersome, but Grace was a continual delight.
    After a thorough search of the cabin, which uncovered more jerky, dried corn, a jar of mashed berries, and a mixture of who-knew-what, she abandoned any hope of finding a sack of oats for porridge. Maybe he’d purchased some yesterday?
    She held the front door open for Grace. “Come along, little one. We have a hunt ahead of us.”
    Eleanor paused on the porch while Grace worked her way down the few stairs. Cool air whispered through the pine boughs, lifting a wisp of hair across her face. She batted it back, taking strange delight in the way morning sunshine dappled patterns of contrasting greens on the cleared plot of land. England had its woods and forests, but not planted on rising slopes such as this.
    Grace scampered toward the stable, falling once with arms outstretched, but even as she surely must have felt the burn of gravel on the heels of her little hands, she never quit singing.
“Edoda, Edoda.”
    Lifting her skirt above her shoe tops, Eleanor descended from the porch and crossed the yard. As soon as she pulled the stable door wide enough for Grace to slip through, the fair-headed pixie darted inside.
    “Edoda!” Whatever the girl babbled about, she emphasized with a shriek.
    By the time Eleanor stepped inside and her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Grace’s happiness folded into a fat-lipped frown. She sat on a brown-furred pelt next to a stack of crates, clearly as rankled as the woolen blanket twisted into a ball near her feet. One stall over, the big horse stamped her hoof and whickered.
    A guilty stain spread over Eleanor’s heart. Clearly this was where Mr. Heath had spent the night. She’d driven the man—her
husband
—from his own house to sleep in a stable. What kind of woman did that?
    Instantly the shame evaporated, leaving behind a hard set to her jaw. The kind that didn’t want to be married in the first place.
    She snatched a metal bar from the bench near the door and stalked over to the crates, determined to pry the lid off each one until she uncovered some oats. Whether she liked it or not, this was her lot now. She’d make this place the best possible proper-English-home in this backcountry wilderness—or die in the trying. With each wedge of the bar and accompanying lift, wood splintered, but wouldn’t budge.
    “You’ll never aspire to anything higher than a trollop, girl.”
    “Yes, I will. Yes. I. Will!” She hadn’t realized she’d cried the words aloud until little hands wrapped around her legs from behind. She froze, staring at ruined wood. The lid would never be used again, for she’d battered it into nothing more fit than kindling.
    Spent, she let the rod slip from her fingers to the dirt floor, then turned and picked up Grace. “Come on, wee one. I think I know where there is some jerky.”
    She stepped out into the light—and nearly rammed into the broad chest of Mr. Heath. The top of his blue trade shirt was loosely laced. This close, she could see the curve of his collarbone, the hard planes of tanned skin sporting the same