by Beth Trissel
“I lay beside you in the night and held you close.”
A strange fluttering stirred inside her, and she eyed him wordlessly.
“You called to your husband. I answered you with my lips. Do you remember this?”
“That was you? I thought it was a dream.”
“You thought I was him. So sweet you were in my arms. I wondered how you would be if you knew I kissed you.”
Not daring to look at him, she shifted her stare toward the stream. “You discovered, both times. Terrified.”
He lowered his hands. “Fear is only what made you pull from me. You felt far more than this.”
She focused on a blue-green dragonfly skimming over the water. “Last evening you said we could have no life together. You’re right. I cannot betray John’s memory. I owe him everything.”
“I owe him nothing, and I want you, Rebecca. I have not words enough to speak my wanting.”
“You don’t need words,” she whispered.
He stroked his curved knuckles over the tops of her breasts swelling above the corset where her shift had pulled down in the water. “Do not refuse me, fair one.”
Chills prickled through her. “Are you allowing me a choice?”
His voice was husky as he said, “It is not our way to force a woman. I swear to you I will not.”
She met the compelling appeal in his face. “If I give myself to you, what then?”
“I will care for you.”
“Like a mistress? Until you tire of me and take another?”
“I won’t tire, leaving you with child.”
Sadness sharpened the emotions clashing inside her. “I may trouble no man with a swollen belly. I fear I am barren.”
“You said your husband was often away.”
She hesitated, dropping her gaze. “But when he was with me, he loved me well. You understand what I mean?”
“Yes. It’s what I long to do.”
She lifted her eyes to the yearning in his. “You say that now. Once you have me will you still?”
“Can a stream overflowing its banks be pushed back?”
The wind blew his black hair across her cheek as he clasped her face and tilted her head toward him.
Heart drumming, she braced her palms on his chest. “Wait—I can’t kiss you again.”
“What if I am very gentle?”
She didn’t say yes, and she couldn’t say no.
Again, he chose for her, softly reclaiming her lips.
Shutting her eyes and her mind to all else, she surrendered to his irresistible persuasion. There was only Shoka, the warm sun, tumbling water, and the all-consuming need rising in her…but only for a giddy instant. This time it was he who broke away.
“Meshewa beckons,” he said under his breath.
Rebecca jerked back to reality. “Where?”
Shoka nodded toward the stream bank. Meshewa stood there waving at him, alarm clear on his face. Shoka slipped his fingers wistfully over her face, then he rose and half-stepped, half-leaped across the stones.
Meshewa ran to meet him, gesturing as he spoke. Snatching up her petticoats, Rebecca got to her feet and followed over the stones as quickly as she could without shoes.
Shoka glanced around, his eyes guarded. Grim lines edged his forehead and the corners of his mouth. “Catawba warriors are sighted not far from here.”
A wave of misgiving swept through her. “Will you fight?”
“We are too few until Black Knife returns. I must lead them away from camp, away from you.”
“It’s too dangerous,” she argued.
“It is more dangerous if they discover us.”
“You could be killed,” she whispered, fervently wishing she didn’t care as much as she did.
“I am not easily killed. Guard her well, Meshewa.” The look he gave her a held infinite promise, then he turned and dashed up the bank. In a moment, he’d disappeared into the leaves.
“I think you no longer wish to attack my cousin,” Meshewa said softly.
Angst over Shoka reached cold fingers into her heart and knotted her stomach. “Not just now.”
“Do not fear. Shoka sees, hears, what many do not.”
“Even so, how many Catawba is he up against?”
Meshewa shrugged bare shoulders. “Shoka is clever. Come with me now, Becca.”
Shivering again, she retrieved her shoes and went with him. All the warmth had gone from the day.
“Stay here.” He left her behind the enormous oak, huddled in her damp underclothes.
She shoved her feet into her shoes, lacing them while peering around the wide trunk. The activity in camp was hurried and muffled. The few able-bodied braves assisted the handful of injured men to heavy cover, smothered fires, and gathered up supplies.
Meshewa supported a barely conscious Lieutenant McClure. The strip of cloth tied around his mouth ensured his silence. Would Meshewa do the same to her when he returned?
She looked up as he slipped behind the trunk. “I won’t cry out. Please don’t bind me.”
He appraised her while uncorking the powder horn with his teeth and nodded. He tipped a little of the black powder into the long musket barrel and took a lead ball from the buckskin pouch. Wrapping it in a small cloth patch, he drove the shot into place with a wooden ramrod then slid the rod back along the front of the barrel. He poured powder into the flash pan.
She marveled at the sure speed of his skillful movements, a process he would have to repeat in a bare instant every time he fired. “Meshewa?”
He knelt with the musket in his hand, its barrel upright and the stock resting on the ground. “Yes?”
“If Catawba warriors come?”
“Skaki stands watch. We will hear the call of andakwa, the crow.”
“What then?”
“We fight. Perhaps die.”
She quailed at the thought of this fine youth cut down.
“Stay low, out of fire,” he whispered. “You, they will take alive. Catawba are allied to the English. Perhaps they will return you.” He hesitated. “Yet, they do as they like.”
No one would know if some Catawba warrior drove her through these mountains on a long trek south or search for her unless Shoka did. If enemy warriors invaded their camp, did that mean he wasn’t coming back?
This passive waiting would kill her. She fingered the brass inlay on the curly maple stock. John had taught her to handle the pistol. “Could I fire one of these?”
Meshewa weighed her in undisguised astonishment. “You wish to fight for us? Shoka must kiss very well.”
She felt her cheeks flush. “I have no wish to be taken by Catawba.”
He shook his head. “The musket is too heavy for you. See?” He shifted the weapon into her hands.
It was taller than she and very heavy. Just lifting the long barrel took nearly all her strength. Positioning the stock against her shoulder made her arms shake.
“If you fire, it will knock you down,” he said.
She’d forgotten the powerful kick these guns had and relinquished the cumbersome firearm. “Have you a pistol?”
He eyed her with an expression of bemusement. “No.”
A knife hung from his woven belt in a beaded sheath. “A spare knife?”
He smiled. “What would Black Knife say if I arm you?”
“I could help you fight.”
“In petticoats? That?” He gestured at her bodice. “Perhaps Catawba will forget to fight.”
She bent toward him eagerly. “Yes. I could hide the knife in my petticoats and—”
He broke in. “I will not give you my knife. Be still.”
Despising her helplessness, she leaned back against the trunk. She strained to catch every sound as Meshewa kept his eyes on the trees. All she could see were sycamore and hemlock branches rocking, and drifts of fern bending in the wind. Birds trilled from the sun-dappled leaves, and a tiny chipmunk scampered over the forest floor. But no warning cry.
�
�Has Shoka drawn them away?” she whispered at last.
“None come. He must have.”
“At what cost to himself?”
“Shoka will return.”
She quailed at her next question. “And if he doesn’t?”
“You belong to his brother.”
Chapter Seven
Rebecca started as though stung by a bee. She barely kept her dissent to a whisper. “Wabete hates me.”
Meshewa swiveled his head from watching beyond the oak for Catawba warriors. He held a finger to his lips. “No.”
She muffled her insistence. “He does.”
“How can any man hate you?” he asked with a hint of admiration in his greenish-brown eyes.
“My own father despises me.”
He crinkled his nose. “The English are strange.”
“Some are. Papa’s a drunkard. Please, if something happens to Shoka—” Her voice caught. “Let me stay with you.”
Meshewa made no effort to mask the longing in his gaze. “I like you more than any woman. Yet Wabete must say—”
A ‘klee klee klee’ shrilled from the trees, disrupting his low reply. Not the crow she had feared to hear, but the cry stood apart from the other bird chatter.
“Skaki signals.” Meshewa was somber.
“Oh God.” Rebecca covered her mouth with cold fingers.
“Wait here.” Musket in hand, Meshewa crept from behind the oak and disappeared into green hemlock boughs.
Her back flattened against the furrowed trunk, Rebecca waited in an agony of uncertainty. Would shots explode if the Catawba attacked? Worse, would they glide like shadows, falling on Meshewa with silent knives?
Don’t let them come, she prayed, jumping when Meshewa dashed back around the tree. Rather than alarm, she sensed an undercurrent of excitement in his demeanor.
“Catawba have gone. Capitaine Renault has come.”
She breathed out in relief at his first tidings and stiffened at the second. “Who?”
“The Frenchman Black Knife watches for. Black Knife admires his cunning.”
“That’s why we’re still in camp, to rendezvous with him?”
Meshewa gave a nod. “Capitaine Renault will lead our attack on—” he halted, clamping his lips together.
“Fort Warden,” she finished for him. “And Black Knife gained all he needed from me. Damn him.”
Frowning, Meshewa crouched beside her and gripped her upper arms. “Do not speak this.”
“Damn the capitaine, then.”
“You wish Shoka to find you bound on his return?”
“No. I’ll behave,” she said grudgingly.
He regarded her as he might a thief who required constant surveillance. “For how long? I will bind you if I must.”
She pushed back the lengths of hair whipping around her face in the strengthening breeze. “Don’t. Please.”
The severity in his eyes lessened. “With you I am too gentle. Still, I will not bind you. Yet,” he added, glancing around at the tread of hooves. “What must I do with you?” He swept his hand at her scanty attire. “If the capitaine sees you like this, he will desire you much.”
“Is this the Frenchman Shoka intended to sell me to?”
“Perhaps. He has money, likes women well.”
She straightened, her head held high. “I know his kind. Tell him to stay away.”
“It is not for me to tell this capitaine what he may do.”
“Then I’ll tell him.”
“Hold your tongue. Sit here. I will return.”
Her scornful bravado wavered and she caught his wrist as he stood. “Don’t let him have me, Meshewa. Please.”
He gave a quick shake of his head. “No.”
She watched from around the tree as he trotted out to meet the red-coated Skaki and another warrior going forward to greet the two mounted Frenchmen and the dozen or so warriors accompanying them on foot. She fastened her eyes on the Frenchmen. Who was the senior officer?
Instead of the justaucorps, or the formal great coats often worn by French marines, these men had on navy serge field coats. The brass buttons down the front were undone, likely the result of the day’s thickening warmth. Both men wore white shirts with the distinctive white cloth hearts at the point of their neck openings and sported navy bonnet du police caps with white fleur-de-lis emblems on the front.
Rather than the traditional dark blue breeches, one man was outfitted in finely tailored leather pants above his riding boots. The ruffles at the neck and cuffs of his shirt added elegance to his athletic figure. The cries of “Capitaine!” directed at him confirmed her suspicions.
Discounting the second Frenchman, she fixed on Capitaine Renault like a panther eyeing its prey.
He dismounted from a striking black horse and broke into an easy exchange of Shawnee and French with the welcoming warriors. Clapping Skaki on the shoulder, he threw back his head to laugh at something that outlandish brave had said.
Though Rebecca sat too far away to catch any of the French, the tone of the conversation was friendly. The other Frenchman and Meshewa joined in the banter, smiling at the capitaine’s wit. Clearly, he was well-liked and fast making himself at home. He rid himself of his long rifle, the kind Shoka coveted, she supposed. He set it aside, along with his powder horn and shot pouch, then took off his coat, tossed the cap, and stripped off his shirt.
Would his breeches follow? Skaki’s teasing jibe must have expressed her own unvoiced question.
“Non.” Renault grinned and smoothed the glossy chestnut hair tied back at his neck. Freed from his trappings, he unsaddled his mount and rubbed down its gleaming flanks. All the while, he smiled and chatted with his appreciative listeners.
Kate would love his horse, Rebecca thought, needled with anxiety. Worry for her sister and Shoka and fury at the arrival of the French marines fanned the rebellious flame simmering inside her.
What if Capitaine Renault were the very officer who’d taken John’s life?
Whether he was or wasn’t the same man, he embodied her despised enemy. She only just held herself back from leaping out and throwing rocks at the cocksure Frenchman. It was a futile gesture and she’d promised to behave. Wouldn’t Meshewa be horrified if she attacked their revered capitaine?
She almost laughed, sobering again at the thought of the impending attack on Fort Warden. The high spirits in camp lent the Frenchmen’s arrival the air of a social visit. If only it were. “Damn Capitaine Renault, damn Black Knife, and this wretched war,” she muttered. If she remained within sight of that cursed cavalier for one more second, she really would fly at him.
Meshewa’s order to stay put nagged at Rebecca as she stole down the bank through fern and grasses bending in the wind. She would stay put in a slightly removed spot, she reasoned.
The bluster whipped her hair. Her petticoats billowed around her. Beating down her skirts, she trod over the smaller stones to the flat rock by the stream where Shoka left her gown. Stiff breezes had partially blown her skirts into the water.
Hauling the sodden gown to a cedar, she spread it over the tangy boughs. It was inconvenient, to say the least, having only one frock. She, who’d been the most sought after young lady at balls and parties. Even her greedy father had realized the need for splendid gowns to impress, and she’d had aplenty. What a sight she must be now. Lord Carlton wouldn’t recognize her. None of them would. The life she’d known was a world away, her future as uncertain as the stream flowing around a ferny bend.
High overhead, an eagle soared above the ridges. If only she could leave all her cares behind and rise on the currents. Relishing the freedom of wind and sky, she lifted both arms over her head and swayed slowly around in a circle. Faster and faster she whirled until she sank, arms flung wide, into a bed of moss and fronds while the heavens revolved above her. For the first time in her life, she felt the pulse of the earth and her oneness with it.
The strains of a French love song broke into her reverie. She
froze at the man’s low voice.
“Bonjour, mon coeur, Bonjour ma douce vie.
Bonjour mon oeil, Bonjour ma chère amie.”
The singing drew nearer and Capitaine Renault walked down to the stream. He held a cake of soap and a razor, and a small towel lay folded over his arm.
She shrank back into the fern, peeking through the fronds as he knelt by the water and sluiced his muscular arms and torso. Should she make a run for camp while he rinsed? He was closer to the bank than she with ample time to cut her off should he care to. She suspected he would.
Go now, she urged herself while he soaped his chin. No. Wait. He might not notice her if she lay perfectly still.
The wind flapped her gown. He’d notice that in a moment.
Her silent debate evaporated as a long black snake slithered up to her head, its pale tongue flickering. She shrieked and catapulted to her feet.
Renault swiveled around, mouth agape. Lather dripped from his jaw.
“Get it away! Kill it!” She fled to the high flat stone where she and Shoka had settled earlier.
His aplomb apparently recovered, Renault strode toward her. “What frightens you, Mademoiselle?”
She crouched on the slab, feet tucked under her hem, and pointed to the sinuous movement in the grass. “There!”
“Ah. The black snake has no poison.”
She took a steadying breath as it slid away and unwound slightly. “Are you certain? I was nearly bitten by a venomous serpent yesterday.”
His eyes roved over her. “Quite certain. Were you also hiding then, chérie?”
“I wasn’t hiding this time, until you came, sir,” she said icily, wishing she weren’t exposing quite so much of herself to his unabashed study.
“I see.” Clearly unconvinced, he bent back over the water and rinsed the lather from his face. “You should dress with greater warmth for your escape.”
“I had no such intention.”
He stood upright and glanced at her, curbing what she was certain would have been a knowing smirk. “Captives are detained in camp. You will not also deny you are a captive?”
She feigned aloofness. “Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”
He patted his face with the towel and walked over to her, wiping his hands before casually flinging the damp cloth onto his shoulder. “I can learn all I need from the warriors.”
