by Jane Feather
A contented silence fell between them for the next half hour, until Bryony sighed with repletion. “That was wonderful.” She scraped the last morsel of fish from the wooden trencher with the tip of her knife and sucked it off. “I don’t think I have ever eaten anything so delicious.”
Benedict laughed. “I am sure you have. But food in the open air always tastes better. Now, since I both caught and cooked our supper, you may take responsibility for clearing it away.”
Bryony gathered up the trenchers, knives, and pitch-lined leather tankards. She looked uncertainly at the pile of fish bones. “What do I do with these?”
“Throw them back in the creek before you rinse off the platters,” he told her.
“But I just bathed in the creek!” Bryony exclaimed. “I don’t wish to bathe in water full of old fish bones and grease.”
“Nature will look after it, lass.” He shook his head. “The water is changing constantly with the river tide. Obviously, your education has been somewhat limited.”
“I don’t think I have ever washed dishes before, either,” she declared, looking with distaste at her burdens.
“New experiences never did anyone any harm.” He lay back on the grass with a contented sigh, gazing up at the sky, where the first stars were just beginning to appear.
When Bryony returned from the creek with the now clean dishes, the sleeves of the nightshirt sopping wet where they had fallen over her hands as she had bent to her task, Benedict was on his feet with the air of a man on the move. “I am going to leave you for an hour or two,” he said without preamble. “And I want your parole before I do.”
“My parole?” She stared, her eyes riveted on the pistols in his belt. “But I am not a prisoner.”
“As I said this morning, that is a matter for definition.” This was the other Ben, the man who set fire to barns. “Since I will not permit you, under any circumstances, to leave the clearing except to go down to that one part of the creek, you might say that you are a prisoner.”
“Why?” Bryony was suddenly angry. She owed him her life, but that did not give him the right to impose imprisonment for reasons that were not vouchsafed. It wasn’t as if she had done anything to deserve it; quite the reverse, since it was his fault that she was here at all.
“My reasons are my own,” he replied quietly. “But they are sufficient. Will you give me your parole?”
“Not unless you tell me why I should,” she said, her mouth taking a stubborn turn.
“Because if you do not, I shall have to confine you as I did earlier, and I do not wish to do that.” There was patience in his voice, but it could not disguise the implacability of the statement.
“Tie me to the bed?” She glared in disbelieving anger.
“If you give me no choice.” He glanced up at the sky and frowned. “I must leave now. Your parole?”
“No,” Bryony heard herself say. “Not without a reason.” She yelled as he lifted her as if she weighed no more than a kitten. But her twisting and writhing, the curses and imprecations, availed her not a whit. She was dumped in the middle of the bedstead and her wrist secured with the rawhide to the frame.
“Give me your parole, Bryony.” He stood looking down at her, showing no satisfaction at his easy victory.
It was her last chance, and as much as she feared being left alone and helpless in this degrading fashion, the stubborn refusal to submit to what she saw as clear injustice, a reaction that Eliza Paget would have recognized instantly, made her shake her head in mute denial.
Benedict shrugged and lit an oil lamp on the table.
“What if something happens to you and you do not come back?” she demanded through a throat of leather. “There are bears in the woods.”
“I will be back within two hours.” Then he was gone.
Bryony wrestled the knot with her free hand, but it was an intricate series of twists that evaded all her efforts. There was sufficient play in the strap to allow her to sit up, even to get off the bed, and to lie in whatever position she chose. Still, tears of angry frustration not unmixed with fright poured down her cheeks. At least she was not in darkness. Had he any cruelty in him, he would have left her alone without the comfort of the lamp. Instead, with an air of grim resignation, he had simply done what he decided he had to do. It was just another facet of the man, another piece of the jigsaw.
She fell into a fitful sleep eventually, and woke with pounding heart at the sound of the door opening. But it was Benedict. He came over to the cot and unfastened the strap from the bed, although leaving it attached to her wrist. “Do you wish to go outside?”
Bryony wished that she did not and could answer him by disdainfully turning away, but her body was not prepared to be accommodating. When she returned, he was standing quite naked by the table, trimming the lamp. Even in vexation, laboring under a powerful sense of injustice, she could not help the little thrill that ran through her at the sight of that slim-hipped, broad-shouldered, vigorous figure, where there was only muscle and sinew, the bronzed skin stretched taut over the large frame. In silence, she climbed up onto the straw-filled mattress and tugged crossly at the strap still on her wrist. Benedict brought the lamp over to the cot, setting it on a stool; then, as silent as she, he swung himself onto the bed beside her. Taking the free end of the rawhide, he calmly fastened it around his own wrist, blew out the lamp, and lay down, pulling the blanket over them.
Bryony lay rigid in the dark, feeling his warmth so close to her, the length of him, lean and muscled, against her softness, and her hurt and anger seemed to evaporate. He was going to win this battle of the parole because she did not want to fight with him; she wanted to make love with him. And that was clearly not a possibility in the present atmosphere. She edged closer, but to her disappointment there was no response. His breathing was deep and even, as if he had slipped instantly into sleep the minute he had lain down. Of course, she was swathed in yards of lawn, so it was hardly surprising that he could ignore her closeness. But there was always tomorrow.
The wood exploded with the joy of the dawn chorus, and Benedict slipped the knot on the strap that attached him to the still-sleeping figure and propped himself on one elbow to look down at her. That coloring was very Irish, he thought again, resisting the urge to trace with a fingertip the delicate flush of sleep high on her cheekbones. But whatever her history, he would stake his life that she had no firsthand knowledge of that strife-torn land.
“You are to be drawn on hurdles to the place of execution, where you are to be hanged by the neck, but not until you are dead; for, while you are still living, your bodies are to be taken down, your bowels torn out and burned before your faces, your heads then cut off, and your bodies divided each into four quarters, and your heads and quarters to be then at the King’s disposal; and may the Almighty God have mercy on your souls.”
The penalty for treason, but not if you were a Clare. When a Clare rebelled against the Crown, he was condemned to hear that ultimate sentence for his compatriots and then to hear for himself the mercy of a court presided over by a judge in the Clare family’s pocket: fourteen years of penal servitude as a bondsman in the Colonies. And to spare the family further disgrace, he would no longer bear the name of Clare. That had been his father’s sentence, and the bondsman had bowed his head in submission.
Until …
Benedict Clare sprang off the bed and strode naked to the door. At the creek, he swam vigorously, as he had swum in the rivers of his boyhood, cold, clear, pure Irish waters that drove the devils from the soul and the bleakest memories from the mind. But the devils and memories of boyhood had not the power of those that bedeviled maturity, and a Virginia creek was no Irish river.
She stood on the bank, watching him, waiting for him, feeling his pain across the distance that separated them, not understanding its whys or wherefores, but pierced by his agony, nonetheless. When he came out, his soul bared in his eyes, as naked as his body, as scarred as his back, she went to him,
enfolding him in her arms, the soft white folds of her gown billowing, clinging to his dampness; and as he had used his body to create a whole out of the fragments of her self, she used hers to heal, offering the essence of her womanhood to enclose and nurture.
Afterward, as they lay entwined on the bank, still wrapped in the magic of their union, she caressed his ruined back, learning each scar with her fingertips as her lips pressed into his neck, nipping and nuzzling like a foal against the salt-sweet skin. This time, she asked no questions, knowing with an age-old wisdom that the answers would emerge in their own good time and in the place of their choosing.
“You have unmanned me, sweeting,” he whispered at last, breaking the spell. “Destroyed my resolve, decimated my defenses.”
“Did you imagine I intended otherwise?” she returned in soft teasing, taking the free end of the strap that was still attached to her wrist and drawing it around his neck, pulling his head down to hers, tasting his lips with the tip of her tongue as a bee sips nectar. “I hold you prisoner now, do I not?”
“I fear so.” His hands reached up to grasp her wrists. “And it is a pretty tangle in which we are enmeshed, lass.” She felt the languor leave the hard body, the muscles tauten in thigh and belly as he prepared himself to move away from her. She pulled the strap tighter.
“Tell me, Ben. Tell me why it is such a tangle.”
“Were I to do that, my sweet Bryony, I should not ’scape hanging.” His voice was very sober, and the hands imprisoning her wrists gripped tighter, then broke her hold as if he were prying loose the little fingers of a baby, and slipped the strap from her wrist. He rolled off her and stood up. A glint of laughter in the black eyes chased away the somber expression.
“For a wood nymph, you are shockingly disheveled!” Bending, he caught her beneath the arms and pulled her upright, picking moss and twigs from the shining mass of black hair, brushing off dirt and grass that stuck to her sweat-slick skin. He shook his head in mock defeat. “I fear that it will have to be the creek again.” She protested, laughing, as he scooped her up and waded into the water. Still holding her, he dipped her beneath the surface, and she relaxed into his hold, lying heavy in his arms as she gave herself to the cool water lapping silkily over her skin.
“What an indolent creature you are,” he murmured, smiling down at her peaceful face, eyes closed in lazy pleasure, the raven’s hair streaming on the surface of the water. “It seems you cannot even take a bath for yourself.”
Her eyes shot open at the mischievous note, but the alert came too late to save herself. Before she could grab on to him, Ben dropped her. Chuckling, mightily pleased with himself, he left her floundering and sputtering in laughing indignation and waded to the bank.
“Bully!” Bryony accused, standing, hands on hips, in the waist-deep water.
“Not at all,” he denied, sounding hurt. “I am going to prepare your breakfast. I look after you very well.”
Which was undeniably true, Bryony reflected, watching him stride, wonderfully naked, through the trees. There was much softness in the man. Why would he not trust her with the truth?
She made her own way to the bank and picked up the soft lawn nightshirt that had been discarded in such haste during those wondrous moments when their bodies and minds had touched. The garment was much the worse for wear, she thought ruefully, shaking out the folds. Then her eye caught something she had not noticed before—two letters embroidered in white at the back of the collar: B.C.
B for Benedict. That was easy enough. What did the C stand for? And, more to the point, did she dare ask? It would be a perfectly understandable question, quite natural, under the circumstances. She dropped the shirt over her head, rolled up the now grubby sleeves, and fastened the limp cravat at her waist. Her hair dripped chilly water onto her shoulders, and she shivered uncomfortably. High summer it might be, but water was still wet and tended to be cold when it clung to the skin.
She ran through the trees back to the clearing, her bare feet now hardly noticing the prick of the pine needles. There was no sign of Ben, but a fire had been lit in the stone ring, and she sat down beside it, holding her wet hair to the warmth.
“It seems to me you need something a little more practical to wear.” Ben’s voice came from the cabin door, and she turned curiously. “Put this on.” He dropped something creamy and soft into her lap.
Bryony made haste to obey. It was a tunic of doeskin, the kind worn by Indian women, and it was the most comfortable garment Bryony could remember having worn. “It’s lovely. Where did it come from?” She smoothed the butter-soft hide over her hips. It came to just below her knees and seemed to accentuate the slimness of her calves and the neat turn of her ankles, she thought with complacent vanity, tossing back her hair and smiling at him.
Benedict laughed. “You vain creature! However, it does suit you quite admirably.”
Bryony flushed both at the accurate accusation and the compliment. “But where did it come from?” she asked again.
He shrugged. “A friend of mine. I acquired it last night.” He took a kettle from the fire and poured boiling water onto coffee in a pewter jug. “How does fried hominy appeal?”
Bryony frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t think I have ever had it.”
“Not a sufficiently refined dish, presumably,” he observed with a dry smile. “Pour the coffee.”
“I do not see why you should make mock in that manner,” she retorted, stung. “I would imagine that in your past life, you were too refined to eat it, also.”
If she had hoped for a reaction, she was disappointed. He merely shrugged and said, “Possibly.”
“What do the initials B.C. stand for?” There seemed little to be lost by the question, but Benedict sighed wearily.
“If you are going to persist in this inquisition, lass, we are going to have another falling out. I have told you that my private affairs are just that. It is for your safety as much as mine.” He spooned a mess of maize porridge onto a wooden trencher and handed it to her, advising, “Use your mouth for something other than questions.”
Bryony scowled but accepted the inevitable. The hominy was quite palatable, particularly when one was ravenous. She cleared the plates and utensils afterward without Ben’s prompting, but when she returned to the glade, it was to find him slinging a musket over his shoulder, counting bullets in the palm of his hand before dropping them into the deep pocket of his coat.
She felt a sudden flash of apprehensive premonition. “Where are you going?”
“Business,” he said shortly, and it was as if the morning by the creek had happened to two other people. “Do we have to go through the lesson of last night again?”
She bit her lip, hating to give in, yet knowing she had little choice. Reluctantly, she shook her head. “I will stay by the cabin.”
Benedict’s face cleared with relief. “I know it’s hard for you to accept, lass, but just trust me.”
“Oh, I do,” she replied with complete truth. “I trust you implicitly, which is why I don’t understand why you will not trust me.”
“It is not a question of trust,” he said quietly. “I do not know exactly how long I will be. If you become hungry, you will find bread and cheese in the stores.”
“But it is dangerous, what you are going to do, isn’t it?” She looked at him, the blue eyes clear and determined, showing no fear of the answer.
Slowly, he nodded. “But no more than usual.”
With that, Bryony must be satisfied, and she turned back to the cabin, strangely unwilling to see him out of sight. It was while she was putting away the dishes from their breakfast that she remembered something. It was nothing that seemed to have any direct relevance to herself; at least, it turned no keys in the locked area of her mind. But it seemed to have relevance to a great many other things. Bryony remembered the war.
It had been going on for just over four years, ever since British troops had arrived on a military exercise in Lexington, Massa
chusetts, where they had come across some seventy American minutemen gathered on the common in the mist of early morning. A series of blundered orders and misunderstandings, a volley of musket fire from each side, and eight minutemen lay dead in the dawn. At least, that was how she had heard it had begun, and in the years following, the fighting continued in the North, neither side winning a decisive victory. There had been no fighting south of Delaware. No, that was wrong. Something had been said….
She frowned, struggling to place the echo of a voice, to grasp elusive threads, knowing that they were somehow important. All she had were the bare bones of a story, but she could not find the flesh. She could not even remember why there was fighting. Benedict could tell her about the war. There could be nothing secret about that. Or could there? Was this dangerous business that he pursued tied up with the struggle?
She went to the door, intending to sit in the sun and worry at those facts she had, in the hope of elucidation. But at the door, she froze, her heart thudding against her ribs. An Indian brave stood in the trees at the edge of the clearing. He carried a musket and was clad in a pair of britches made of the same doeskin as her tunic. He was standing quite motionless, almost as if his body were an insect’s antenna picking up signals from the warm, summer air. A low whistle sounded as Bryony ducked behind the door, peering through the crack. Two more braves slid out of the trees.
There had been no Indian trouble for years, she told herself in an effort to quiet her pulse. But there were always renegades. She crept to the window at the back of the hut, stood on tiptoe to peer through. She could see no sign of life in the trees from here. But that didn’t mean that the Indians weren’t there. The forest was their home, an environment in which they blended without trace. Perhaps they were not interested in the cabin. Perhaps they would just disappear as soundlessly as they had come. And perhaps pigs could fly.
