"So?"
"So, I figure my best chances of getting back to Annapolis alive are with you—and Jon."
He shook his head slowly, his cheeks glistening with water. "I'm no escort. I told you, I'm searching for my wife's killer."
"I know that, but he's a soldier, isn't he? Surely he's not this far west. Surely once you talk to this medicine man, you're going to have to head east again. Couldn't I just . . . tag along?"
"I don't think so, Alex." He began to put his shaving things back in the basket. "I think you'd best just go alone with Creeping Turtle's cousin."
"Why?"
Picking up his basket, he walked up to her. She rose up off the rock. For a moment they said nothing, their gazes locked.
"Why?" he asked.
"Why?" she repeated softly. "Why don't you want me with you?"
He exhaled slowly, as if measuring his words. She could tell that he wanted to look away, but he didn't. "All right, hell's fire, I'll admit it. I'm attracted to you, Alex. That's why I want you to go. I'm attracted to you and I don't want to be. The sooner you're gone, the sooner I'll forget you."
She glanced down at her moccasined feet, completely taken off guard by his words—and just a little flattered. "I don't know what to say."
"For once in your life, don't say anything. Just go with Creeping Turtle's cousin. It's like Jon said, I'm trouble."
"A man who says he's attracted to a woman so he wants her to go away. What an oddity." She laughed a little and when she looked up he was reaching out to touch her.
He stroked the curve of her chin with his index finger. "This . . . it just wouldn't be a good idea, Alex."
"Why?" she asked softly, not knowing what made her so bold. "Why isn't it a good idea?"
He dropped his hand. His hazel eyes were piercing. Alexandra's hand ached to reach out and touch a lock of the brilliant red hair that fell across his broad shoulder.
"I'm not Jon. I'm not interested in dalliances."
"Neither am I," she answered. "I've been a part of that dance one too many times."
"I'll not have another woman," he said. "I loved once and I lost her. It just hurt too damned much, can't you understand that? I'm just not cut of the cloth a man must be for romance."
"Better to leave that to me," Jon called, seeming to appear from nowhere.
Alexandra took a step back, annoyed by Jon's presence; annoyed that he'd broken the spell between her and Hunter. What was Hunter trying to say? That he was attracted in more than a sexual way? That he liked her enough to . . . no, that couldn't have been what he was saying. She must have misunderstood.
Hunter cleared his throat. "Jon—wondered when the hell you were going to get out of bed. Day's half over already."
Jon smiled lazily as he came to stand between the two of them. "Creeping Turtle sent me to find you. The shaman is back."
Hunter turned away. "Guess I'd best get back then. I'll speak to Creeping Turtle about that guide," he called to Alexandra over his shoulder.
She watched him disappear into the trees. Once again, she felt the twinges of jealousy. She knew it was crazy, but she wanted Hunter to care about her and her plight, not the dead woman.
Jon shook his head and headed down toward the water. "I warned you, Alex."
Reluctantly she turned her gaze from the direction in which Hunter had disappeared, and she watched Jon kneel and wash his face. "Warned me how?"
"Hunter. I told you. He's no ladies' man. Not like me."
She gave a little laugh. "What makes you think I'm interested in Hunter? The man is completely unsuitable, rich and titled or not—which I have to admit I question the validity of."
"Pretend you're not attracted to him if you like, but I'm telling you, you're only going to get hurt going for a man like Hunter." He stood and dried his face with a square of linen he carried over his shoulder. "Now me. I'm a man you can lay money on." He gave her a sideways grin. "I'd have you in a minute."
She laughed at the absurdity of his statement.
"Go ahead, laugh, but consider this. I'm headed back for England. Hunter can stay and play Indian if he likes, but I've had enough. Hunter's father has graciously given me a handsome allowance. With good luck at the gaming tables you and I could live quite comfortably in a nice apartment in Covent Gardens. Fine clothes, the best wines, important friends . . ."
She couldn't help smiling. The man was mad! "You're asking me to be your wife?"
It was his turn to laugh. "Of course not! I think both of us are too smart for that. Be my mistress. I'll treat you well. Better than any man treats a wife. You know I would."
She shook her head in disbelief. A few weeks ago she'd have been shocked. Appalled. But after all that had happened, it was just funny. Even a half-breed Indian bastard didn't want her for his wife!
"So what do you say?"
"You're serious, aren't you, Jon?"
"Damned serious. I told Hunter I'd stay with him until he catches Laughing Rain's killer, but then I'm a free man. If this shaman knows where to find the bastard, you and I could be sailing for England in a matter of a couple fortnights."
"I don't think so."
He walked toward her. "And why not? You like me, don't you?"
She couldn't resist his charm. "Of course I like you."
"So why not give it a whirl?" He stopped only a foot from her. "I'm a damned fine lover. Take you to the stars and back."
She felt her cheeks color. She looked away. "Jon, it's not that I'm not flattered, but, but I want to marry. I want to have a home, children."
She heard him sigh. He reached out and gently touched her arm. "Don't take this the wrong way, sweetheart. I wouldn't hurt you for the world. But let's face the reality of your situation. What do you think the chances are some titled skip-Jack's going to marry you now?"
When she didn't say anything, he went on. "You were carried off by renegade scum. God knows what they did to you. Another man would care, but I don't. I don't even want to know."
"I told you. Nothing happened. They never touched me. Not that way."
He waved his hand as if to say the truth didn't matter. "Just listen to me. Then if that wasn't enough, you've been traveling with two rogues like Hunter and me. What will people think? What will they say?"
Alexandra felt a lump rise in her throat. She didn't want to hear this, not from Jon, not from anyone.
"It's just not going to happen, Alex. It's just not. You get back to Annapolis and that aunt of yours'll ship you back to papa to live out your life as an old maid. If he won't take you, which is likely if he's got other daughters to marry off, then you'll most like be bumped from distant relative to distant relative the rest of your days, always the topic of hushed whispers." He stroked her arm. "I just think that would be a waste of all that spirit you've got inside you."
She stook a step back. "No, Jon. I'll be no man's wagtail. Not yours, not anyone's."
"We'd make a hell of a pair. Turn London town on its ear. Just think about it, will you?"
She turned away and started for the path that led back to the camp. "I have. The answer's no. I'm not a trollop."
Jon ran to catch up with her, seemingly unoffended by her turndown. "Well, think about it just the same. You'd be making a big mistake not to. You might not get a better offer. You certainly won't from Hunter."
Afraid she would break into tears in front of Jon and embarrass herself, Alexandra broke away and ran for the village. God knew she wanted someone to love and be loved by, but damned if she'd be whore to any man! She'd die an old spinster before she did that!
Hunter inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the fragrant, enveloping smoke of the clay pipe, and then handed it to the shaman's wife. She smiled, showing white teeth ground down by the years, as she accepted it.
He-Who-Wishes, the shaman of the village, watched his wife take a puff of the pipe.
Hunter had to smile. He thought of Laughing Rain and wondered if this was how he would have looked
at her when they were well into the seventieth winter. It was funny, but as he watched the old couple, he felt none of the pain he had grown so used to feeling each time he was reminded of his dead wife. Did time truly heal the wounds of life as the Shawnee said?
Oddly, Alexandra's comely face flashed in his head. He heard her laughter echoing in his head. Alex? Was that it? Was that brave young woman a salve sent by God to heal his heart? He had to consider it a possibility. The Shawnee always said that Wishemoto worked in puzzling ways.
He-Who-Wishes tapped his clay pipe and Hunter looked up.
"Lost in thought?" the old man asked in his native tongue.
"Aye," Hunter replied, his Shawnee impeccable. "Lost in memories of the past. Good memories."
"Your wife." It was a statement, not a question.
Creeping Turtle had told Hunter that the old man knew things he shouldn't know. "My wife," Hunter echoed. "My dead wife." He lifted his gaze to meet the shaman's. The man's dark eyes had faded to the palest steel gray. "That's why I've come to you, sir. To ask for your help. I seek the man who raped my Laughing Rain, then murdered her and our unborn child."
"Yes, yes, all in time." He-Who-Wishes fluttered a wrinkled hand. "But first let us speak of the living. Tell me of the other woman."
"Other woman?" Hunter shook his head in confusion. "What other woman?"
"The one who now tugs at your soul. I know not her name but I see her eyes in yours. She troubles you?"
Hunter lowered his gaze. He didn't know that he was comfortable discussing this with a man he'd never laid eyes on before a few minutes ago. But He-Who-Wishes was a shaman, and that put him in a class above others. If the shaman was going to help him, he knew he must be open with him. It was the way of the Shawnee. "There is another woman."
The shaman's wife grinned. "What is man without woman?" She cackled. "Nothing. Nothing."
Hunter's gaze cut back to He-Who-Wishes. "Her name is Alexandra. A white woman."
The old man shrugged. "It is not her fault Wishemoto put her soul in the body of a white," he said with good humor. "Do not hold it against her just as I do not hold it against you. Not all can be as lucky as The People."
Hunter had to smile. "I guess not. She was captured by a gaggle of Iroquois. They had her tied to a tree at a trading post off the Tuskit River. I rescued her and brought her along because I didn't have time to take her back to her home. I wanted to see you and head east again before the first snows."
"So what is it that troubles you about this white woman? Wishemoto has given her to you. You know it. I know it. Even this stupid old woman knows it."
The shaman's wife cackled and tossed a stick at him playfully. To her, his harsh words were endearments.
"I—" Hunter shook his head. The shaman made it sound so simple. But, of course he didn't understand. It wasn't simple. It wasn't possible. "I—I'm not worthy of another woman to love. Had I gone with my wife that day, she and my child would not be dead."
"Hah! You cannot change fate so easily and you are a fool if you think you can, Hunter of the Shawnee. What happens to us each day is written in the stars long before we are babes in our mother's wombs. Do not forget that, my fierce warrior."
Hunter nodded. "Just the same. I don't want another woman."
"You are afraid you would dishonor Laughing Rain to take another wife, to love again?"
"Yes," Hunter answered simply.
The old man smiled with his wrinkled face, casting a bright white light that seemed to emanate from within. "What makes you think that your wife did not ask the great Wishemoto to send this Alexandra to you? What makes you think it was not she that did not want to see her lover sleep alone the rest of his days?"
Hunter wiped the back of his mouth with his hand. He was confused. The shaman's words made sense to the Shawnee in him, but not to the white man in him. The white man in him told him to walk away from Alexandra.
The old man waved a hand. "Think on it, Hunter of the Shawnee. You will do the right thing. This man knows it. Now tell me what you know of your wife's killer and I will see if I can help you."
Hunter exhaled, glad to change the subject. He drew closer to the shaman and started to repeat the tale of his wife's death. Talk of Laughing Rain would make him forget about Alexandra and her dark, haunting eyes, or at least he hoped it would . . .
Chapter Nine
The vibrations of the hollow, pounding, Shawnee drums shook the ground beneath Alexandra's feet. The sound was completely foreign to her English ears, yet something about the driving rhythm drew her in.
The sun was just beginning to set over the treetops in the western sky. A cool breeze blew in from the northwest.
"The harvest song," Judith said, coming out of her wigwam to stand beside Alexandra. "Our crops are in. Our dried fish and meat are stored. We're ready for Father Winter once again and we give thanks."
The sweet sound of bone flutes, many joining as one, melded with the throb of the drums and for a moment Judith and Alexandra just stood there in the failing sunlight listening.
"It's so beautiful," Alexandra breathed, brushing back a lock of hair off her cheek. She had bathed in the river this evening with the other women and scrubbed her hair clean with the sudsy pith of some unknown plant. She could still smell its faint, pungent scent in her damp hair. "The sound is so . . . so hopeful." She laughed, thinking how silly she must sound. How could music be hopeful?
But Judith didn't laugh. Instead, she smiled. "I hear it, too. You must be a musician."
"No. My music instructor declared me hopeless at twelve years old. I always found the sound of the spinet cold and uncaring. But this . . ." She searched her mind for the right words, her heart for the right feelings. "There's just something about the sound that makes me feel good inside."
"These are the sounds of the rejoicing of the Shawnee. It's meant to bring joy to the heart. I'm told these drums have been beating the harvest song for more years than there are stars in the heavens."
The Shawnee villagers were now beginning to emerge from their wigwams. The men, women and children were dressed in their finest clothing. They wore buckskins decorated with seashells and porcupine quills. They wore white dresses of butter-soft tanned leather. They even wore an occasional pair of man's breeches or waistcoat. Their hair, as black as crows' wings, was adorned with feathers, beads, and seashells.
The villagers laughed and chatted with their neighbors as they headed toward the center of the camp where the sounds of the drums originated. There, Alexandra knew, from earlier in the day, were two great campfires with roasting venison halves hanging above stoked coals.
"A party," Alexandra murmured, delighted.
"Yes. A party." Judith smiled.
Alexandra had to smile back. As much as she hated to admit it, she liked Judith. The woman was kind and thoughtful. But more importantly, Alexandra found her in the last two days to be very forthright in her words, a trait seldom seen in the finer social circles of London. Judith said exactly what she thought, without ulterior motives. The trait was refreshingly admirable. Somehow Alexandra thought Hunter would think so as well.
"Winters are always long and often hard for these people," Judith went on. "This is one last chance to dance and sing before they settle in for the snows."
The tempo of the drums had again changed and Alexandra found herself tapping her foot to the rhythm. The sounds reminded her of a country dance she'd seen a long time ago.
"Join us," Judith encouraged. "There's good food, good drink. We'll dance until dawn. Harvest night is magical." She winked. "Perhaps you'll find a handsome brave to warm your bed."
Thinking of Jon and his outrageous proposal, Alexandra rolled her eyes. "I think not. My luck runs poorly with men. I think I'd best swear off them while I'm still ahead."
Judith laughed, her silky voice rich with a woman's intuition. "You just haven't found the right man, that's all. But speaking of the right man . . ."
Alexandra followed
Judith's gaze. Standing beside a wigwam, halfway across the camp was Hunter.
Alexandra suppressed a gasp. He was shamefully dressed in his leather loincloth again, his long muscular legs left bare, as well as a considerable portion of his buttocks. The sleeveless tunic he wore was quilled and adorned with feathers and shells. He was talking with Creeping Turtle and completely unaware of the two women who now watched him.
"As fine-loined a brave as I've ever laid eyes on," Judith remarked. "A comely specimen of a man."
Alexandra felt her cheeks grow warm. She looked away from Hunter. Imagine, dressing up like one of these savages! Still, she felt a silly nagging sense of jealousy at Judith's reaction to his obvious maleness. "I understand he's not looking for a wife," Alexandra said, forcing herself not to look back toward Hunter.
Judith shrugged, the bells in her ears tinkling. "So maybe I'll just have a pleasurable roll in the sleeping mats with him." She laughed as she walked away. "Enjoy your evening, Alexandra."
With a sigh, Alexandra watched Judith stroll between the wigwams toward Hunter, but she turned away before she reached him. Alexandra didn't want to watch. She didn't want to know. Hunter's personal life was certainly none of her business. Nor was Judith's.
Just the same, it irked her to think of the two of them together.
Alexandra started back for the wigwam she shared with Judith, but as she ducked through the door, Jon came around the corner. "Where are you going?" He grabbed her by the hand.
"Inside."
"And miss a night like this?" He flashed a handsome grin. His thick black hair was recently combed and slicked back over his head in a devil-may-care manner. "Come on!"
She could hear the sound of chanting now. "I don't think so. I'd rather be alone." Of course she wouldn't rather be alone, but she didn't want to have to sit and watch Judith work her womanly wiles on Hunter.
"Just have something to eat and then you can hibernate." He started to pull her along. "There's something I want you to try. A little Shawnee liquid refreshment Hunter introduced me to."
His Wild Heart Page 9
