Defiant

by Pamela Clare

  Feeling even less certain of herself now than she had when she’d crept up on his bath, she retrieved the soggy garment from the water and held it up. Dark blotches remained where blood had soaked the cloth, and it was torn in a few places. “Perhaps I can mend—”

  “There is no need.” He took the shirt from her, twisting it to wring out the water. “You should be helpin’ Joseph. He has greater need of your stitching than does my shirt.”

  That’s when she saw. “You’ve been wounded again.”

  He glanced down, as if he’d forgotten the wound was there. “’Tis just a graze.”

  A deep furrow ran along the side of his left shoulder, cutting through his Indian markings. Still oozing blood, it looked terribly painful. There was also a new cut on his forehead and several deep scratches on his arms. Together with the wound she’d sewn yesterday, they stood as a record, carved in flesh, of all he’d endured to save her.

  She touched his shoulder lightly, getting a closer look. “This must be dressed, or it will fester. I can—”

  “I dinnae need your help.” He drew back from her, wrung out the shirt again.

  His rejection of her stung. “I…I deeply regret all you’ve suffered on my account.”

  “This is war.” There was cold resignation in his voice. “I’m a soldier.”

  Had she so upset him that he would not even accept sympathy from her?

  “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” She turned to walk back to camp, then stopped. Hands balled into fists, she willed herself to speak. “I came here hoping to talk with you. I fear I have done something to displease you. If you would but tell me how I have given offense, I would make amends and set things right again.”

  For a moment, there was silence.

  Then Connor muttered a string of oaths in a language Sarah thought must be Gaelic. At last he spoke. “I find no fault wi’ you, lass. You’ve a noble heart. You’ve stood up to tribulations that would make cowards of many men.”

  “Then why do you not speak to me? Why do you turn away my help and dismiss even my compassion?” She turned to face him and named her secret fear. “You told me you would not think less of me if I yielded my virtue, but perhaps now you find me sullied and…”

  The anger on his face brought her words to a stop.

  He closed the distance between them in two long strides. “You told me you didna blame me for doin’ what had to be done that night. Yet now you can scarce look me in the eye, and you recoil from my slightest touch.”

  “That is not true!” Astonished by the accusation, she glared up at him.

  “Is it no’?” He cupped her cheek with his palm, ran his thumb over her lips.

  Taken by surprise, she stepped back, her fingers pressed against her mouth, which seemed to burn where he’d touched her.

  “If my touch doesna sicken you, then why do you draw away from me?”

  Trapped by her own undeniable response, she looked into his eyes, saw his anger and, beneath it, anguish. Is this why he’d avoided her? Did he truly believe she blamed him and found being near him hard to bear? “I do not feel repulsed by your touch. I feel…”

  Oh, how could she speak of this with him? She said nothing, hoping he would give her a reprieve and let the matter drop. But he did not, pinning her to the spot with his unyielding gaze.

  “I feel…confused.” Heat rose to her cheeks. “The way you look at me…I feel…naked. I struggle to breathe. And when you touch me…I feel warm, even when it is cold, and still I shiver.” Ashamed, she started to look away, but he caught her chin between his fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze.

  He seemed to study her for a moment, the anguish slowly leaving his eyes, his voice deep and warm. “There’s a name for what you’re feelin’, Sarah. Do you ken what it is?”

  Sarah shook her head. She was not sure she wanted to know. “Connor, I—”

  “’Tis desire.”

  She shook her head, took a step backward. “Nay, I—”

  “Shall we put my supposition to the test?” He pursued her in slow, easy steps, drew her into his arms.

  And then he kissed her.

  Chapter 13

  The moment his lips touched hers, Connor forgot the regret and rage that had vexed him so sorely these past two days, the sweet feel of Sarah in his arms scattering his thoughts. She did not draw away from him now, her body melting against his, her lips warm and pliant, her fingers sliding over the muscles of his arms. Her kiss was shy, but not timid, her lips parting to give him access, her tongue responding with its own sweet strokes.

  He nipped her lips, and she shivered. He held her tighter, and she arched against him. He ran his fingers down her spine, and she whimpered.

  Aye, she desired him as much as he desired her.

  The heady truth of it broke his restraint. He fisted his hands in her hair and claimed her mouth, the contact bringing something to life inside him, filling the emptiness in his chest, driving away memories of blood, of guilt, of long nights spent alone. The soft press of her body brought images of her naked beauty to his mind—her silky breasts with their rosy tips, the feminine curve of her hips, the bare cleft of her sex.

  And he felt himself grow hard.

  She trembled in his arms, her fingers curling in the hair at his nape, her tongue welcoming his invasion. Her nipples puckered against the cloth of her borrowed shirt, their hard little tips pressing like hot pebbles against his cool skin, betraying her arousal. Unable to resist their silent invitation, he reached down, cupped the fullness of one breast, the soft feel of it sending bolts of heat through his belly straight to his groin. He flicked the hard tip with his thumb, felt her tense.

  Then her head fell back on a moan, and she whispered his name. “Connor.”

  He groaned, accepting the sweet offering of her throat, nipping, licking, and kissing that sensitive flesh, her pulse beating frantically against his lips.

  Then from somewhere came Joseph’s whistle.

  Och, Satan’s hairy arse!

  Connor felt Sarah stiffen in his arms. He dragged his lips from her skin, but he couldn’t bring himself to release her. “All is well, lass. Joseph merely wishes to ken where we are.”

  He slowed his breathing, then gave the counterwhistle, still holding Sarah in his arms, her heart beating every bit as hard and fast as his, both of them trembling. He pressed his lips to her hair, whether to reassure her or to steady himself he didn’t know. Then reluctantly he set her from him. “We should return to camp. There’s much to be done ere the sun sets.”

  She looked up at him through eyes filled with confusion, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen. She seemed so vulnerable, so young, her gaze searching his as if seeking answers as to what had just happened between them.

  But Connor, his heart still thrumming, had none.

  Scarce able to breathe, Sarah held fast to the sides of the little canoe as Joseph and Connor guided it out onto the lake. It seemed impossible to her that it should float. She didn’t know why it hadn’t already filled with water and sunk to the bottom—or how it could possibly bear the weight of three. “I…I can’t swim.”

  Connor’s deep voice came from behind her. “We’ll no’ let you drown.”

  Joseph leapt gracefully out of knee-deep water and landed in the canoe in front of her, causing the small craft to rock.

  Sarah gasped and held tighter to the sides.

  Connor chuckled. “Easy, lass.” He leapt in behind her, making the canoe rock again.

  Then the two men picked up the crude oars they had fashioned and began to paddle. Somehow, the canoe remained afloat, dark water gliding silently by, the shoreline fading behind them. Slowly, her fears eased, and she loosened her grip.

  She could not see the far shore toward which they traveled. Nor could she see the thick beds of reeds that surrounded the lake, the trees now nothing more than a black outline against the night sky. But, although she could see very little, she could hear much. The whisper of the oars in
the water. The dissonant quacking of a duck disturbed in its nest. The plaintive howling of distant wolves. And above it all, the melody of the wind as it passed through the endless reaches of this vast and primal wilderness.

  Then Sarah looked up, breath filling her lungs in a slow gasp of amazement. The sky blazed with stars. Countless thousands shone like diamonds stitched into the dark fabric of the heavens. The sky over London most certainly did not look like this. Nor had she noticed the stars last night or any of the nights she’d been a captive. Perhaps it had been overcast. Or perhaps she’d been too terrified to pay them heed.

  “Have you ne’er seen the stars afore?” Connor whispered over her shoulder, his breath warm on her cheek, the scents of pine and leather filling her head.

  “Not like this.” Oh, would that she could put this to music and play through her fingers what she saw in the sky! But that would be impossible. Nothing she could compose could possibly match the beauty and grandeur that stretched out above her.

  How small she suddenly felt—one woman in the midst of an endless forest beneath the innumerable stars. The feeling did not leave her dispirited, but was instead strangely comforting. For if she was small, then her troubles, too, were of little import. Whether she survived this journey and returned to England or perished out here in the forest, whether her father found her a good husband or she lived out her life alone and in shame, these same stars would always shine, their silvery light untouched by human misery.

  “We’ve a good few hours ere we reach the other side.” Connor’s voice interrupted her musings, the warm sound of it moving over her like a caress. “Rest your head upon my pack and sleep while you can.”

  Sarah didn’t wish to sleep. She felt vibrantly alive, her new awareness of her own mortality—and the man behind her—filling the night with wonder.

  There’s a name for what you’re feelin’, Sarah. Do you ken what it is? ’Tis desire.

  Sarah’s belly fluttered as she remembered his words—and the kiss that had followed. The press of his lips against hers. The silken stroke of his tongue. The hard feel of his man’s body. The sweetness of his bite on her throat. The heat of his touch against her breast.

  Yes, she desired him.

  She supposed she ought to feel ashamed. Her mother had often told her that her passions would lead to her demise. And yet nothing about kissing Connor had felt wrong. Instead, it had seemed as wondrous and stirring as the sky that stretched out above her.

  Their wedding night might have been a sham, but it had awakened something inside her she’d never known existed. By treating her as his bride, had Connor somehow roused in her a bride’s natural desire for her husband?

  And your desire shall be for your husband.

  Words from Genesis that her mother had so often made her read aloud came to mind, and she pondered them afresh, feeling for the first time that she had some notion of what desire was—a yearning, an ache, a hunger that was both precious and sweet.

  But Connor wasn’t truly her husband, was he?

  She lay back and rested her head on the bundle of Connor’s pack, looking up from between his feet as he rowed, her mind filling with questions.

  He glanced down at her. “Sleep, lass. I’ll watch o’er you.”

  For a time, she watched him. But rocked gently by the canoe, she soon found it impossible to keep her eyes open. And slowly she drifted to sleep.

  Overhead, the silent stars wheeled.

  Connor paddled through the darkness, timing his strokes with Joseph’s, ignoring his fatigue and the ache in his shoulders, his gaze drawn time and again to the woman who slept near his feet, her hair fanned across his pack.

  Joseph spoke softly in Mahican. “She is Wentworth’s sister-daughter.”

  Did the man have eyes in the back of his bloody head?

  “I ken very well who she is.”

  Joseph said nothing but kept paddling.

  Where were they?

  Three days had gone by since William had sent Major MacKinnon and Captain Joseph after Sarah. Three days—and no sign of them.

  He’d thought she’d be back the next morning. When that hadn’t occurred, he’d been certain he’d see her that evening and had even asked his cook to prepare dishes William knew were to her liking. He’d eaten those dishes alone.

  He was not a man given to flights of fantasy, and yet he could not help but fear the worst. Perhaps they had not yet found her. Perhaps her captors had entirely eluded them. Or perhaps MacKinnon lay dead in the forest somewhere and all chance of finding and retrieving Sarah was now lost.

  William was not accustomed to having worries he could not set aside. But he could not free his mind this time. His fears followed him through the night and through every waking hour of the day.

  Was this what it was like to be a father?

  Good heavens!

  If so, then it had happened well that William had no children.

  Of course, William still hadn’t dispatched a letter to her father. He’d felt it prudent not to inform his sister that her youngest child had been taken captive by Indians—not when Sarah was surely in safe hands and on her way back this very moment. He could inform them when he knew the ending to the story so as not to alarm them.

  But what would he say to his sister if Sarah never came home?

  Sarah was roused from a dreamless sleep by Connor, who lifted her out of the canoe, carried her through knee-deep water, and lowered her gently to her feet on the rocky shore. It was still dark, a thick fog hovering above the treetops. Still groggy, she waited in the shelter of some trees while Connor and Joseph stripped to their skins, swam with the canoe into deep water, and sank it to conceal it from any passing enemy. Though Sarah meant to avert her gaze, she found herself watching as Connor waded ashore, some part of her disappointed that it was too dark for her to see his sex.

  For shame, Sarah! Mother always said you were far too curious.

  And yet wasn’t it natural for her to be curious? After all, that part of him had been joined to her, had been inside her, and she hadn’t yet seen it.

  Connor turned in her direction, and Sarah quickly looked away.

  But if he’d seen her watching him, he said nothing about it. The two men dressed quickly then began to set up camp, building the now familiar lean-to with its pallet of boughs and bearskin blanket. In no time, two muskets leaned up against the structure, their barrels stopped with carven bits of wood they called tompions, Connor’s claymore lying to one side. Their hair still wet, Joseph stretched out on the right, Connor on the left.

  Then Connor motioned for her to lie down in the middle. “Come. Let’s take some rest. We’ve a long journey still ahead.”

  She crawled between the two of them. Connor pulled the bearskin up to her chin, then drew her into his embrace, pillowing her head on his shoulder. Snuggled between the two men, with Connor’s arms around her, she drifted toward sleep once more. Her last thought ere dreams took her was that she’d gotten into bed with two men—one an Indian, the other a Ranger—and she hadn’t given it a second thought.

  The next morning, Connor let Joseph do the scouting. They left camp early, though not as early as Connor might have liked, as Sarah had insisted on bathing ere they left the lake behind. And what an ordeal that had been. Standing watch with his back turned while she undressed and walked into the water. Promising himself he would not look over his shoulder. Looking over his shoulder to see her waist-deep in the water, her hair clinging to her skin in wet ropes, her breasts bared, her nipples tight from the cold. His reward had been a painful cock stand—and a slightly guilty conscience.

  The guilty conscience had faded quickly. The ache in his cods had not.

  After breaking their fast, they headed northeast toward Fort Edward. Though the possibility of attack was ever present, war seemed but a distant shadow on this morning. The sky was blue, the air sweet with the scent of coming spring, patches of lingering snow melting into streams of quicksilver that danced
downhill. But there was more to Connor’s lightness of spirit than agreeable weather.

  With one kiss, a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Discovering that Sarah’s skittishness was caused by desire and not disgust had felt like absolution. His heart was already too heavy with sins to bear the burden of her loathing.

  They walked together, now conversing, now in companionable silence, Connor leading her by the safest paths, helping her when she had need. Still dressed in his shirt and the doeskin skirt and leggings, she looked like some kind of pagan forest nymph, her cheeks pink from exertion, her hair falling in gentle waves almost to her waist. And he found he could not look at her without feeling a fullness behind his breastbone, as if his heart had suddenly grown too large for his chest.

  “Why are you not married?” she asked when they stopped to drink.

  “I thought I was—to you, lass.” He grinned at the blush that stole over her cheeks, then raised the water skin to his mouth and drank deeply.

  “Certainly you do not jest about that.” Her outrage was unconvincing. “Marriage was forced upon both of us. Besides, such marriages are surely not recognized beyond this forest.”

  He handed her the water skin. “On the contrary, Sarah. Here, where there are more men than women and few churches, it is not uncommon for a man to take an Indian wife in just such a fashion or to make a woman his wife simply by buildin’ a cabin and movin’ in wi’ her. If a man claims a woman as his wife, folk here dinnae question it.”

  She finished drinking, then handed the water skin back to him. “Does that mean there are some here who would consider us truly wed?”

  Connor hung the water skin over his shoulder. “Aye, for certain.”

  Sarah made a little “hmm” sound.

  They moved on.

  “How does one end such a marriage?”

  Connor tried not to notice the way his spirits dropped a notch at her question. It was, after all, a natural one. She had not married him by choice, nor he her. “Amongst many tribes, a woman simply puts her husband’s belongings outside her lodge and tells him she is divorcing him and to be gone.”