My Savage Lord (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

  She paused again. "An Indian?"

  "We called ourselves Kahnyen 'kehaka. The Mohawk Nation." We . . . we. No matter how Duncan tried to bury the past, he couldn't. He still felt like one of them, somewhere deep in his bones.

  "You loved her?"

  Duncan opened his eyes to look at Jillian. He could see her better now. She was a mess. She had been crying. Her rich, red hair was tumbled, her face streaked with dirt.

  She was as lovely as he'd ever seen her. He closed his eyes again.

  "Needle Woman was much older than I. Twenty years, probably. But she was good to me. She married me to save my life." He hadn't answered her question, and he wondered if she would call him on it. But he didn't know the answer.

  Again Duncan felt Jillian's warm hand wrap around his. He had expected a bitter response. What woman would not be resentful to hear a man speak fondly of his previous wife? But when Jillian's voice came again, there was no ill-will in her tone.

  "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

  He would have shrugged, except he was too fatigued, too sore. "You have a right to know."

  "Yes. But I shouldn't pry. You would have told me in due time. I shouldn't have looked at your face, either. I'm sorry. I apologize, Duncan. It was only that I wanted to understand."

  Duncan was so tired now that he could barely open his eyes, but he had to see her. "I should have showed you sooner. You have a right to know." He patted the bed beside him, letting his eyes drift shut once again. "It's past bedtime; now come, wife. We can talk on the morrow."

  Duncan heard her stand and heard the sound of her unclothing. She blew out the last lamp, and he lifted the edge of the counterpane for her. Jillian gingerly slid into the big bed beside him, and he wrapped his arm around her waist.

  "Good night, wife," he whispered, already drifting into a dreamless sleep.

  She snuggled against him. "Good night, husband . . ."

  Twelve

  "For me?" Jillian looked up from Duncan's desk where she was separating a pile of house repair bills. The office was freshly painted, his precious American Colony maps returned to the walls.

  "Yes, for you . . . if you'd like it." Duncan stood in the doorway, a tiny yellow kitten curled in the crook of his muscular forearm.

  The kitten mewed and attempted to climb up the sleeve of his doublet as Jillian came around the paneled desk. "You brought a kitten for me?" she repeated with disbelief. "Oh, Duncan, it looks just like my Sarah." She looked up at him as she took the cat into her hands. She was touched. "How did you know?"

  He tucked his hands behind his back awkwardly. "I asked your sister. I wanted to get you a gift, but not another gown or jewels. I wanted to get you something special." He touched the back of his head lightly. The bandage was gone, but Jillian knew the wound was still tender. "It's not every day a wife risks her own life to save her husband."

  Jillian lifted the kitten to her ear to listen to it purr. "I told you, you'd have done no less for me. I wasn't really in any danger."

  He leaned against the doorjamb, apparently in no hurry to be anywhere. "And I told you, it's not the same thing." He crossed his arms over his chest. "You're a different kind of woman, Jilly. Different than I expected."

  She lifted an eyebrow. "I'll take that as a compliment."

  He watched her. "I meant it as one." Then he smiled and chuckled. "I'm only sorry I was resting beneath the scaffold there. I'd like to have seen you ordering those workmen about. Beatrice said you were rather impressive. She thinks you should go into the business of restoration."

  "Business, indeed." Jillian cuddled the kitten to her breast. "Bea talks too much." She glanced up at him. "What shall I name—" She turned the kitten onto its back. "—her?"

  "Whatever you like. Sarah would be all right, though I was always fond of the name for a child. I'm not certain I would want my daughter named after my wife's cat."

  She turned her full attention to Duncan. The two weeks since the accident had not been perfect, but Jillian was satisfied with their progress. Though Duncan still had his moods, he and Jillian had begun the process of getting to know each other as a man and a wife should. Duncan did not volunteer information about himself often, but was revealing bits of his personality and of his past day by day. He had agreed not to wear the veil in the privacy of their bedchamber, and Jillian considered that a great step forward. She smiled a hesitant smile, her brow creasing. "You like the name for a girl?"

  "A daughter. Our daughter."

  This was the first Duncan had spoken of children since the degrading conversation he'd had with Jillian's mother the day he had come to sign Beatrice's betrothal agreement. "What about a boy?" Jillian prodded gently. "Have you a name picked out for a boy, too?"

  "Forrest. My grandsire's name."

  He acted as if he were going to say something else, but then hesitated. Jillian waited quietly.

  Her patience was rewarded.

  "I had a son once, a long time ago," he said after a moment.

  Jillian tried not to appear surprised. Why would she be? He had had a wife, why not children? "Does he live in the Colonies?" she asked carefully.

  The kitten mewed.

  Jillian watched as Duncan walked away from her toward the window. Whenever their conversations turned personal, he seemed unwilling, or perhaps unable, to look at her. "He died."

  She felt a twinge in her chest. "I'm sorry."

  "So was I." He continued to stare out the window at the autumn garden. "My wife died in childbirth and the babe . . . the babe was too small. He cried the first day . . . but after that, he didn't."

  Jillian could have sworn she saw Duncan lift his arms as if holding an infant; but from where she stood behind him, she couldn't be certain. "How long did he live?" she asked.

  "Three days. He died in my arms."

  "Did he have a name?"

  Duncan didn't answer immediately; but when he did, his voice seemed to come from a far-off place, a place Jillian knew she could never go. "The Mohawk say it is bad luck to speak the name of the dead." He chuckled, though there was no humor in his tone. "Of course everything was bad luck to them. His name was Winter's Spring, because he was born on a balmy day in December. I gave him the name. He didn't live long enough for the Women's Council to think he deserved a name, but I thought he deserved one." He balled his hand into a fist at his side. "He deserved a name."

  Jillian's first impulse was to go to Duncan and put her arms around him. She could hear the pain in his voice. But she knew her advances wouldn't be welcome. She knew Duncan well enough now to know when to leave him alone.

  After a moment of silence, Duncan turned away from the window. He was Jillian's again. "Will and I are going down to the dock. Would you care to meet us for supper tonight, at the Twin Cocks, perhaps?"

  She stroked the kitten. "I'd love to."

  "Good." He walked past her, toward the doorway. "I'll send a message from the shipyard as to the time. I can't tell you now when we'll be done."

  "That will be fine."

  Duncan waved a hand over his shoulder as he walked out of the office. "I'll see you then."

  She waited until he had started down the hallway, then called after him. She ran to catch up. "Duncan!" She wanted to tell him she loved him. Watching him near the window, hearing him speak of his dead son, Jillian knew it was true. Somehow she had managed to fall in love with the Earl of Cleaves, the man they called the Colonial Devil.

  "Yes? What is it?"

  But when he turned to look at her, she knew this wasn't the time, it wasn't the place to speak of love. Duncan wasn't ready to hear such declarations; he would only pull away from her. She would lose the ground she'd gained. She looked down at the floor, cradling his gift in her arms. "Thank you for the kitten, husband," she said softly.

  "You're welcome, wife."

  Jillian leaned against the wall to watch him go.

  Jillian laughed at Will's foolishness, picking up a discarded chestnut shell to
toss at him.

  Duncan broke into laughter as the shell reflected off Will's ear and fell into his lap.

  "Can't you control your wife?" Will demanded, feigning gruffness. "I thought a wife was to be seen, but never heard, and never, ever, caught throwing objects at her husband's guests."

  Duncan laughed harder, lifting a pewter cup of wine to his lips. "Not this wife. I fear I've chosen poorly, for I've no control over her whatsoever. I'm a failed man." He hung his head drolly. "A sorry excuse for an Englishman."

  "I'll drink to that." Will wiped at his tears of laughter and reached for his cup. His face was ruddy from drinking. "I make a toast to sorry Englishmen and to strong wives and the men who could make them happy if they'd only try." He clinked his cup to Jillian's and then Duncan's, and all three drank the deep-red wine.

  Jillian set her cup down on the table and pushed back in her chair, relaxing in the warmth of the cozy room and the friendliness of the atmosphere. Outside, thunder boomed and a cold rain pattered on the window glass. Inside, the blaze in the stone fireplace crackled and snapped, filling the room with the piquant smell of hickory smoke and the dancing light of a thousand candles.

  Duncan had rented a private room above the Twin Cocks Tavern in Piccadilly, as was customary with gentlemen. The tavern's host had delivered a fine feast of oyster pie, roasted goose, potatoes and leeks, and sweet, hot bread. For dessert there was dried fruit and nuts. The two men and Jillian sat cracking nuts and tossing the shells to the floor, sharing the good wine and each other's company.

  Will picked up the nutcracker and searched for a choice chestnut in the wooden bowl on the center of the table. "I've a meeting tomorrow with Dunbury concerning that land on the Chesapeake." He cracked the nut in half and began to pick the sweetmeat out with a knife and push it into his mouth with the sharp tip. "He says he'll sell. Could you possibly accompany me? I think I'd come up with a better price with your help. You're good at making prospective sellers squirm." He shrugged good-naturedly. "Good at making us all squirm at times."

  Duncan ignored his remark, reaching for the iron nutcracker with the boar's head. "Can't tomorrow. I'm going to New Forest to my hunting lodge. My caretaker's grown too old and feeble to ride my property and keep his eye out for poachers. He's sent word his grandson could take the job, but I want to meet the boy before I lay down my coin, as well as my trust." He picked a bit of the nut's meat from a half shell and offered it to Jillian. "Why not take my wife? I wager she's a better negotiator than I. Only yesterday, a contractor accosted me in my own hallway claiming my wife had hired him to repair stone fencing for less than the cost of the materials."

  Will laughed, slapping his palm on the trestle table still littered with dirty dishes and the goose carcass.

  Jillian smiled, nibbling on the pungent, sweet nut her husband had given her. "No. Land purchases are beyond my understanding." She lifted her hand. "I can't fathom why a man would want to buy forest, then work himself to death to burn and dig up the stumps to plant tobacco, anyway. I can't understand wanting to live so far from London, in the wilderness, with nothing but bears and murdering red savages to keep you."

  The moment the words were out of Jillian's mouth, she knew she'd made a mistake. Why had she not been more careful? Too much wine, she guessed. She'd let down her guard with Duncan when she knew better.

  Duncan's chair scraped on the planked wood floor. "No. Perhaps a woman cannot understand a man's motive for hard work that leads to profit. Perhaps a woman can't understand a man's need to set his booted foot on land no man has walked before." Duncan scowled, squeezing the nutcracker in his hand so hard that the walnut burst with a snap and fell into dust in his hand. "And as for the red savages, dear, they are not all murderers. Some are good, some are evil. The same as Englishmen."

  Will drew his chin down in an exaggerated frown, mimicking Duncan's sour face. Jillian knew he was only trying to lighten the mood, but she didn't smile. She folded her hands in her lap and stared at the floor.

  So much for the enjoyable evening. It was like this with Duncan. One minute he was laughing and open with her; the next minute he was angry and glaring. His mood swings irritated her to no end.

  After a moment of silence, Jillian rose. There was no point in staying any longer. "It's late, gentlemen. It's time I was abed. I've an early meeting with painters in the morning." She touched her quilted, amber petticoat, making a half dip of a curtsy. "Will."

  "G'night, sweetheart."

  She turned to Duncan. "Are you coming, sir, or do you stay longer?"

  "You've the coach?" It was that cool, distant voice of his that she hated. Always efficient, always calm, always just a little cruel.

  "Yes."

  He didn't look at her. "I'll grab a hell cart later. I think Will and I will play a hand or two of knap and slur. I'm certain that whatever wench it is that waits for him can wait a little while longer."

  "As you wish." She turned away, trying not to be angry or hurt. Even if nothing changed between her and Duncan, she knew she would have a better marriage than most Englishwomen. So why was she greedy? Why did she want more?

  "I'll escort you downstairs if you wish," Duncan called after her, but he made no move to get up from his chair. Jillian could hear him already shuffling the cards he must have pulled from his doublet.

  She snatched her blue wool cloak and lace vizard off the peg on the wall. "Don't bother, yourself, sir. I assure you, I can reach the coach on my own two feet. Atar will see that I get home."

  When Jillian stepped out of the private room and closed the door, she stood on the landing, putting on her cloak. She half-hoped she would hear Duncan's footsteps behind her. She half-hoped he would come after her to apologize, to offer to come home to their bed with her now.

  But he didn't. And Jillian rode home in the cold coach in the winter rain, alone.

  Duncan picked up his horse's reins and led the animal toward the thatch cottage nestled at the edge of his property in New Forest. Smoke rose from the dwelling's clay chimney and curled heavenward.

  In the distance, he could see the hunting lodge his grandfather had built of rough timber. Even at this distance, Duncan could make out the massive rack of stag antlers that ornamented the wide-cut plank door. The actual structure of the hunting lodge appeared to be in excellent condition, the windows battened down, the cedar shingles in good repair. Old Man Marshal had taken exceptional care of his property. Duncan made a mental note to remember to reward his loyalty to a master he'd not seen since he was a boy. All these years, the man had apparently cared for the property, even when he must have heard that the family had been murdered by savages.

  A dog barked, and the cur came running from the cottage. Behind him came an ancient, shriveled man hunkered down over a twisted cane. "Who's there?" he demanded. "Who's there, I say?"

  Duncan halted on the path, letting his horse's reins fall. It was Marshal, all right. Duncan could see that the old man's eyes were foggy and white, masked by cataracts. He had to be blind, or nearly so.

  "It's the Earl of Cleaves, Marshal. It's Duncan."

  The man broke into a spontaneous grin. "So it is. So it is! I can tell by your voice, though it's a mite deeper. It could be no other." He halted to wave his cane. "Come closer, let me see your face, boy."

  Duncan chuckled. "A boy no longer, I fear. I'm sorry it took me so long to come." He offered his hand to the caretaker.

  Marshal gripped it tightly. "Better than to have never made it at all, eh?"

  The two men laughed easily. It had been almost twenty-five years since they had last met, but the time meant nothing to either of them. It was Old Man Marshal, who had seemed very old even then to Duncan, who had taught him to shoot and to hunt.

  Marshal squinted, bringing his face only inches from Duncan's. "What the hell is that, boy? What you got on your face?" He shook his head. "I don't see like I used to. Couldn't bring down a deer now if it knocked me on my arse."

  Duncan let go of th
e old man's hand. "A scarf. I wear it to cover my scars." It wasn't exactly a lie. Duncan just didn't want to have to discuss the matter with his old friend.

  "Yeah, I heard some savages got ye in that faraway place. I'm just glad you got away from 'em." He looped his arm through Duncan's and led him toward the cottage. "Just glad ye made it home, boy."

  Duncan let Marshal lead him. "I won't be here much longer. I'm going back to the Colonies."

  Marshal made a clicking sound between his gums. His teeth appeared long gone. "Don't surprise me one bit. You was always hardheaded, and always determined." He slapped Duncan on the back, leaning against him for support. "So come share a nip of the jug with me. My grandson will be back after a bit and then you can talk to him. He's a good boy, my Eli."

  Duncan had to duck to make it in the cottage door. He hadn't really intended to visit, but since he would have to wait for the boy, why not share a drink with an old friend?

  A short time later, Marshal's grandson, Eli, came riding in with a hare flung over his back for the evening meal. Duncan's grandfather, then his father, and now he himself had given the caretaker and his family the right to hunt the Roderick land for food as long as they sold no pelts or abused the privilege in any way.

  Duncan took an immediate liking to young Eli. The boy was no more than sixteen or seventeen, but he'd been raised by his grandfather on the Roderick hunting grounds. He knew the boundaries by heart. He knew the herds that moved, and most importantly, he knew the poachers. When the King desired to hunt on Duncan's land, Duncan was certain there would be plenty of game.

  Duncan hired the boy as the new caretaker of his lodge, said his goodbyes to Old Man Marshal, and then rode out, taking the same path he had come on. Suddenly, he was anxious to get home to Jillian.

  He rode through the forest, enjoying the journey beneath the canopy of great oaks and maples, the last of leaves drifting through the air in a shower of autumn colors. Birds sang and squirrels chattered.

  At a bridge, he slowed his mount to a walk, the horse's hooves clip-clopping on the old timber planks. Duncan was oblivious to his worldly cares until he heard the distinct sound of an arrow pierce the late afternoon air.