by E. B. Brown
She arched her back and cried out at the delicious sensation. He held her hips firmly with both hands as she quivered beneath him, and as she threw her head back against the furs he stopped.
“Let me worship you,” he whispered, his pupils wide as his dark eyes gleamed up at her. “As I will worship you for all the days that we live.”
Her breath wedged in her chest as she met his gaze. This was the man she loved. The man she trusted above all others. He had nothing to prove to her nor had he ever given her a reason to fear him, yet he remained patient and kind as he breached the barrier of her damaged heart. She was unable to form any words, but when she nodded her consent he grinned as he resumed his task. In only moments she felt the surge building again, some unknown sensation that roared through her body, and when she writhed up against his mouth with a cry he held her tight through her shuddering release. When her trembling finally slowed, she felt his lips press tenderly on her hip, and then her navel, until he slid up beside her and took her into his arms.
They lay next to each other, their breathing shallow and her face hidden in his shoulder as she wondered if they would both go to hell for what they had done. With a flush of heat to her face she realized she would do it again. And again. Somehow this man, her husband, could drive her wickedly to any sin.
“Is–is that proper?” she whispered, at loss to convey the thoughts racing through her mind.
“Yes,” he replied. He took her face in one hand and kissed her, his mouth firm yet restrained. His lips tasted tangy and the scent of their flesh filled her as he pulled her closer. She wanted to meld into him, to press her body to his, but when she felt his arousal against her belly, an unwelcome surge of panic caused her body to stiffen.
He immediately loosened his fingers and let her draw back, even as he waited for her to meet his gaze. No, he would never force himself on her, she knew that in both her head and her heart. Yet when he tipped her chin upward so she could not avoid his faithful stare, she knew he would no longer let her dwell on her fears alone.
“This choice is yours, chulentet. Only yours,” he said. She heard the way he steadied his voice, the words hoarse through his lips. She believed him. If she wished nothing more than to fall asleep in his arms, he would give it. But that was not what she wanted.
“I chose ye,” she murmured. He uttered a strangled groan as he kissed her, and she felt him sigh as if some barrier had fallen to pieces between them. When she touched her fingertips to his chest he shuddered. He covered her hand with his and pressed it flat over his heart where she could feel it pound beneath her palm.
“Here,” he whispered. He pulled her into his lap and sat slightly up, his weight shifting back against the wall. Slowly he drew her down until she straddled him.
“Show me,” she said. And then he did. His eyes held hers as he slowly slid inside her, his arms tensed as he guided her. In his own way, he surrendered to her, giving her control and bending to her mercy.
There was no darkness, only light, and suddenly she knew he was right. What had happened to her in the past was violence; what her husband did to her now was only love. There was nothing to compare.
Later Makedewa held her face in his hands and looked into her eyes as they held each other, covering her face in gentle kisses. Spent and breathless they clung to each other, and he crushed her to his chest until their tremors subsided.
“I love you,” he whispered as she snuggled closer.
She smiled. “Because of that?”
“No,” he growled, with the hint of a smirk on his lips. “Because you are mine. For always.”
She leaned up on an elbow to study his face.
“And ye are mine as well. For always.”
“Humph,” he grunted. He squeezed her close and placed a gentle kiss on her mouth, and she giggled at his mask.
When his breathing had slowed and she thought him asleep, she leaned over his torso with intent to see him. He fascinated her. Every inch of his russet skin, taut over the wiry muscles of his arms and chest. There was a long scar on his flesh, marking him below the right shoulder, as if something had been torn from his skin and left a ragged flap to heal in its place. When she traced her fingers over the site he covered her hand with his.
“It does not trouble me,” he said softly. She placed her cheek to his chest and snuggled down beside him.
“How did it happen?”
“It was a long time ago,” he replied.
“Please tell me,” she whispered.
He sighed. “My uncle wounded me. He was angered at me, and in his anger we fought.”
“But why?” she persisted. She could not see how he would ever betray his kin enough to cause such a fight, especially one that had ended so brutally with Makedewa wearing a deep scar.
He raised one eyebrow at her, then settled back into the furs.
“When he returned home from the hunt, he found his wife had put out his moccasins. He was very angry, and since he could not give his anger to her, he gave it to me.”
He closed his eyes then as if the story were finished, despite her resultant frown. She leaned over his face, letting her hair brush his bared skin. Reaching up to cup her chin, he smiled at her.
“I still don’t understand,” she said.
“A woman can cast out her husband if she chooses. She need only put his moccasins outside her yehakin. Then they are no longer married.”
“Oh. Like a divorce?” she exclaimed. It was unfathomable that Indian women could so easily rid themselves of a husband. It was something unheard of in her English life.
“Humph. Yes, like a divorce.”
Suddenly the interested waned and she was faced with another more pressing question. What on earth did any of that have to do with Makedewa?
“But why was your uncle angry at you?”
Makedewa closed his eyes long enough she thought he was pretending to sleep. She slapped her palm flat against his chest.
“Nahkeni!” he muttered, catching her hand. “Stop it, woman! It was not my fault!” he laughed. “I could not help it. She led me into manhood, and she decided she liked me better. I did not tell her to cast my uncle out.”
She felt her cheeks flame hotly as he chuckled, his amusement stoked by her response. Unwanted images of her husband writhing in the furs with another woman surfaced, and she quickly shot upward and crossed her arms over her chest. It was not anything she ever wanted to picture again.
“Nouwami,” he said softly as he rose up beside her. She felt his arms encircle her waist, and his chin rested on her shoulder as he clutched her to his warm chest. “I love you, little bird. That life is over. This life is ours. For all my days, this is where I will stay,” he said, clasping one hand tighter as he kissed her neck below her ear. She shivered and smiled despite her annoyance.
“Yer moccasins willna be going anywhere,” she whispered back. A half-grin twisted her mouth as he pulled her around in his arms to kiss her fully. He grunted something harsh in teasing Paspahegh and she laughed.
She knew him better than that. Under his facade was a gentle heart, one she was sure would belong to her forever.
CHAPTER 10
Benjamin
HE WAS AWAKE when the latch rattled and the heavy plank door creaked open. Benjamin had slept very little overnight in an upright position, braced against the wall in the corner of the narrow feather-stuffed mattress, but he had gleaned a bit of information from the surroundings of his guest room. Whoever Agnarr was, he was at least a very wealthy man compared to most Englishmen. Benjamin suspected it was uncommon for most criminals to keep prisoners in a finely furnished room, and apparently the man did not see him as much of a threat. With the tall, finely-carved mahogany wardrobe against the wall, and the heavy silver candle sticks sitting on the mantle, Benjamin could easily fashion a weapon. It was clear, however, that Agnarr carried no such fear of his captive, and for that, Benjamin was beyond puzzled.
As he considered his predicament, the only person wh
o could make the ringing in his head worse walked into the room. Jora left the door wide open behind her as if in invitation, her face a careful mask of demure propriety as she surveyed him.
“Agnarr will see ye in the yard. Here,” she said, tossing a pile of clothes at him. “See yerself dressed fer work. They need help with the new smoke house, and ye need to earn yer keep.”
He caught the bundle and considered her bold behavior. What was the chit up to now?
“You must have the wrong prisoner, lass, if ye think I plan to help ye do anything,” he answered, meeting her steady gaze. Her lips crowned into a wry smile.
“I don’t know what game ye play, son of Dagr, but it will not save ye. Unless ye wish me to put my hands on your skin again and find the rest of your secrets, I would advise ye to do what Agnarr asks. He’s being quite a gentleman, for himself, I’d say,” she replied sweetly.
Her threat was not one of bodily harm, but it had the same result. No, he did not want to risk the Seer gleaning any more from his head. So far it appeared he had protected his vow, and by all that he knew to be right and true he would continue to do so.
Benjamin shook his head with a low grating curse and proceeded to pull his tunic over his head. He threw it onto the cot and reached for the buckle of his braies, which he had to admit needed a good washing. As fingers plucked the button, he heard her sharp intake of breath, and he cocked one eyebrow curiously at her.
“Well?” he said. “Are ye gonna just stand there, or give me a bit of peace?”
He was surprised to see her skin glowing bright pink from the crown of her breasts to the tips of her ears, and when she uttered a muffled indignant shriek and slammed the door he could not help but grin. So there was something that startled her, and at least he was in control of that. Odd behavior for a kept woman, but he might use her unease to his benefit.
The clothes were of good quality, and it occurred to him that Agnarr must have more in mind for him than imprisonment or torture. Well, self-preservation had not been high on his list of late, and the only sensible thing Benjamin could think to do was to find out who exactly Agnarr was and what danger he posed to those Benjamin had sworn to protect.
As he shrugged a woven vest over the linen shirt, he recalled the day he had saved his brother from an English ambush. Benjamin could still feel the heat of the guards’ skin under his fist and the sticky blood that surged onto his hands as he cut his throat. The unlucky sot was the not first man Benjamin had ever killed, but the taking of a life had still left the sting of desolation heavy in his chest.
Later that evening after he had escaped with Winn, they finally had words. Even Winn doubted Benjamin was man enough to take a life, and still that memory rattled him.
Winn had been hung repeatedly by the English, and his throat was a matted mesh of blood and torn flesh. His dark Indian skin was marked with knife wounds meant to torture, not kill, and Benjamin was sure at least a few of his ribs were broken by the way he spit up frothy blood when he coughed. Yet his warrior brother still stood there, incredulous, questioning if Benjamin might yet be capable of doing what needed to be done.
“We will be followed. Are you ready to fight?” Winn asked, tilting his head as he looked at the man who was his brother. Benjamin let out an insulted sigh.
“Ask yourself such. I’m the one that saved yer bloody arse, didn’t I? I can kill a man, the same as ye.”
“So you’ve learned to kill?” Winn answered.
“I’ve changed a bit,” Benjamin said. “As have ye, brother.”
Yes, Benjamin thought. He had changed a bit. Losing everything his heart desired, yet knowing he was bound to a greater purpose by right of his very birth? Well, those things had a way of changing a man.
Benjamin finished dressing and walked out to the yard, wary of both Jora and Agnarr’s intentions, but eager to discover some answers. He needed to find out exactly who Agnarr was, and if the man and any of his cohorts were a danger to Winn’s family. It was all he had left to focus on, and he would not fail at the task.
Agnarr stood watching the men work on a new smokehouse. The structure was nearly complete, with the roof in process of being slat shingled and only the doors remaining unhinged. The man sipped from a pewter mug, his slanted eyes focused on the work before him, his broad shoulders tensed tight enough to stretch his fine cotton shirt. From the tips of his shiny leather boots to the top of his fashionably coiffed blond hair tied neatly with a ribbon, he dripped of entitlement. Whatever life the man had once lived, it was evident he now lived one of wealth. Benjamin wondered where in the past he had come from, and how he knew Marcus. Agnarr was a name Benjamin was certain he had never heard his father utter.
“G’morning, Dixon. I trust ye slept well,” Agnarr greeted him. Benjamin stared hard at him for a long moment, unsure how to approach the task. If he were to glean any information from the man, he needed to gain Agnarr’s trust. Yet for all his shortcomings, Benjamin was not skilled in deceit and found it was a new thing he must learn quickly if he were to succeed.
“Aye. As much as a prisoner might sleep, I suppose. One eye open, I’d say,” he answered evenly, meeting his captor’s gaze. To Benjamin’s surprise, Agnarr smiled. It was not a pleasant gesture, by any means, but he was amused, and that was something.
“Prisoner is an ugly word,” Agnarr said. “Perhaps guest is more fitting. At least when we speak as gentleman.”
“Gentlemen would state true intention, and I hear none of that yet. Until ye give me reason, I see ye as no more than another criminal,” Benjamin shot back. He knew he was taking a chance, but his need to know what this man wanted from him burned stronger than any ideas of self-preservation. If he could not find out what danger this man posed to his kin, then he was better off dead.
At his exclamation, Agnarr broke out in a laugh. The man waved his arm toward the road, where a squadron of King’s men rode toward them.
“A criminal, yea? Ha! I think ye should take a look around, my friend,” Agnarr chortled. “This is Wakehill, not a criminal’s lair.” Benjamin did so, grudgingly, acknowledging the evidence around him that he had missed on his initial perusal.
Yes, Agnarr was far from a criminal. Or else, he was a clever, wealthy one, with the strength of the King’s men at his command and impressive amount of wealth to throw around. When they had shuffled Benjamin into the house in the dark of night, hooded and bound, he had not been able to see the plantation, nor had he noticed it much when he stalked out to confront Agnarr when Jora summoned him. Now, staring at the impressive house and holdings, he knew he was in the presence of one of the wealthiest men in the colony. And that revelation made him more determined to discover what threat Agnarr was to the Neilsson Clan.
“So, shall we lay it out now? My truth for yours? I will start,” Agnarr said. He leaned back on the bed of a wagon, his face twisted in a surly grin. “You are the son of my old friend, Dagr Neilsson. I know he went to the future without issue, so ye must have been born there. Ye say ye had a wife, a blooded MacMhaolian, and that she died here in the Indian Massacre. Yet here ye are, here in this time. And ye say ye have no kin. Am I straight, fer now?”
Benjamin eyed him warily but nodded. It was the story he concocted, not entirely untrue, but the one he would stick to. Maggie was hale and hearty living as the wife of his brother, yet that detail was something Benjamin meant to protect above all else. If Agnarr believed the last of the MacMhaolians lost, then it would ensure the safety of those Benjamin loved.
“You say you were friend to my father,” Benjamin said.
“Our families have been…friends…for centuries. Longer than ye or I can imagine. Before our names were Sturlusson and Neilsson, they were other names, and even then our families were bound. And I know ye know what bound them, right, lad?”
“The blooded MacMhaolian,” Benjamin said simply. It was no use denying he knew it, and he suspected he could glean more information from Agnarr if he played along. The man seemed
to enjoy his storytelling.
“Well, we want the same thing, then. To protect them. To see them safe. After all, it is a powerful magic, one that no man alone should control. Do you not agree?”
Benjamin crossed his arms over his chest. He glanced over at the men laboring, and then at the soldiers who looked to be enjoying a meal. He noticed Jora standing at the door of the house, watching them, her fine satin skirt drifting with the breeze and echoing the sway of her loose hair on her neck. He wondered what part she truly played in this plan.
“Ye know I am bound to protect them,” Benjamin said, forcing his voice to steady instead of growl.
“As am I. Are we not both the sons of Chiefs? Do we not pledge the same vow?” Agnarr questioned.
“Then why set yer men on me? Why this game, if we are the same?”
Agnarr flicked his wrist up and rolled his eyes skyward, a rather dainty gesture for such a large man, and one that caused Benjamin to scowl.
“I havna seen another Time Walker in more than twenty years. That’s why I set Jora on ye. I needed to know what you were about, and if ye had a blooded MacMhaolian with ye.”
“And if I had?”
“Then I would have taken her. To protect her, of course,” Agnarr answered. The amusement left his gaze at this announcement, and his eyes narrowed. “But as it seems we are the same, with the same vows, then I give ye a proposition.”
“And that is?” Benjamin asked.
“You can see I am a wealthy man. I am the tobacco inspector for Elizabeth City, the only one sanctioned by the crown. You might say I am a man of…influence.” 48
Benjamin wanted to know exactly by what means Agnarr had amassed that wealth and influence, but the man seemed bent on another round of storytelling and would not be interrupted.
“…so I could use a man like ye. A man like myself.”
Agnarr glanced over at Jora, raising an eyebrow. The man gave a quick motion of his hand to wave her over and she complied. Benjamin noticed the girl went to Agnarr’s side, but she kept a careful distance between them, just out of reach of Agnarr’s grasp. Her action was not lost on him.
