“Because,” she replied, and hit him squarely in the head with her next projectile. She darted away from him and grinned when his snowball missed her by a foot or so. “She was very beautiful, and we were alike enough for everyone to see she was prettier than me.”
Ian fell backwards into the snow, laughing.
“What are you doing?” she asked with irritation.
“A snow angel,” he said between gusts of laughter, waving his arms up and down.
*
“Did you ever love Margaret like you love Mama?” Ian asked Matthew as they hefted yet another heavy log onto the wood pile. Matthew grunted, busy avoiding getting his fingers squashed.
“No.” Matthew pulled off his glove to study his skinned knuckle. “Never.” He looked defiantly at Ian, receiving an amused stare in return.
“Alex and I…” Matthew stared off in the direction of his home. Winter dusk was falling, and he smiled when he saw Alex come out to help Ruth and Sarah light their snow lanterns. From the way she was jumping from side to side in the snow, he could tell she hadn’t bothered with pulling on her boots, wee daftie that she was at times. “...we just are,” he finished. “Mind you,” he said, bending down to grip the next log, “she isn’t always easy – very opinionated and all.”
“Was Mam easy?”
“Margaret? I didn’t know her well enough, lad. There were parts of her she always kept secret from me.” He grimaced; starting with her passion for his brother. “We didn’t talk, she and I, at least not much.” He straightened up and rubbed a hand up and down the side of his back. “It’s the talking that does it, to talk, and to keep on talking, all through your life. Not that the bedding isn’t important,” he said, grinning at Ian’s expression, “but one thing doesn’t exclude the other.”
Chapter 42
Late one Monday in March, Robert Chisholm and his youngest brother Martin came riding down the lane to Graham’s Garden. Matthew saw them coming, and with a reluctant little sigh he straightened up from where he’d been standing by the door to his finished barn, enjoying the warmth of the spring evening.
“Indians,” Robert said. “We were raided by Indians this morning.”
“Ah, was it bad?” Matthew asked.
“A few cows.” Robert’s bushy brows came down into a ferocious scowl. “And two of the wenches.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Matthew commiserated.
“Yes, well.” Robert scuffed at the ground. “Father is not convinced.”
“Not convinced? Of what?” Alex popped up beside them.
“It’s a mite unusual for an Indian to ride with saddle and bridle,” Martin said.
“So we think...” Robert retook the story. “Well, we wondered if this might be the work of those renegades, the Burleys.”
“Ah.” Matthew nodded.
“Father thought it best to let you know,” Robert said. “In view of what happened a few years back.”
“Not that they’re anywhere close; we’ve been scouring the woods for them.” Martin frowned. “Strange, I would swear at least two of them were real Indians – long black hair, dark of face.”
“I suppose there are renegade Indians as well,” Alex said.
A couple of minutes later, Matthew had a clear picture of the events. Six men, at least two of whom they thought were white, had ridden in just before dawn. The two unfortunate lasses had been milking the cows, and it was Robert’s opinion that taking them had been a spur of the moment thing, while the real target had been the beasts. The men had threatened to kill the wenches if the Chisholms rode after them, and something about how it was said had made Andrew Chisholm hold his sons back until noon.
“That sounds like a Burley to me,” Alex muttered.
“That sounds like a rogue – any rogue – covering his retreat.” But Matthew took a private decision to not go about alone or unarmed, at least not for the coming few weeks.
*
Five days later, Matthew grabbed his musket and his axe and told Alex he’d be spending most of the day up on the new clearings with Ian. It was a longish stretch through the woods, and they walked in silence, neither of them having any pressing matters to discuss.
“Hot,” Ian commented a few hours later. He’d discarded his shirt, working in only his breeches.
“Aye.” Matthew wiped his brow with his shirt tail, straightening up to stretch his back. Something flashed by, a blur, no more, right at the edge of his peripheral vision. Matthew stooped, closed his hand on his axe and listened. No birds.
Ian stopped mid-stroke. “There’s someone in the woods,” he said, taking a couple of paces towards Matthew.
“I know.” Matthew looked about for his musket, propped out of sight in a nearby shrub. The skin along his back was rising, his nape prickled, and with a certain detachment he noted how all of his body bunched. “Go, run, lad.”
Ian shook his head. “Nay, I stay. Besides—”
Whatever else he had planned on saying was drowned in a war cry. Out of the forest came four men, black braids down their backs, leather leggings and bare torsos. Except that one of them had short hair and eyes too light to be an Indian. Walter Burley. Last time Matthew had seen him was when the accursed whelp had pulled him off his horse.
“For Will,” Walter shrieked and raised his musket. A good shot. Matthew hurled himself to the ground, imagined he could feel the ball graze his skin. Up; on your feet, man, and where was Ian? Where was his axe? He groped for it, fingers grazed on the smooth worn wood of the handle, and then Walter barged into him, bringing him down to the ground.
Matthew heard his son cry out. There were shots, more cries, and all the while Walter Burley was on him. Something slashed down his arm. A nick no more, and now he’d gotten his dirk free, hearing Burley gasp when he cut him. Too shallow, in the wrong place, and, dear Lord, but this man was strong, light eyes far too close, close enough that Matthew could see the streaks of darker pigment that bordered the pupil.
“Da!” Ian screamed, and Matthew’s blood ran cold at the thought of his son dying. He grabbed hold of Burley’s ear and twisted. The man roared, his hold on Matthew slipped, and with a grunt Matthew regained his feet. Ian was standing a way off, two men circling him while the third was lying at his feet.
The musket. Matthew threw himself towards it. Something grabbed at his legs, his feet, and Matthew kicked. Walter groaned, but held on. Ian screamed again. Out of fear? Rage? Matthew had no idea; all he knew was that he had to go to the aid of his son, because the lad was untried in battle, and the two vultures circling him most certainly were not. They were but playing with the lad.
There, he was free again, and now there were only feet between him and his musket, and then he’d... Aaaah! He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream. He clapped his hand to his thigh, fell to his knees. He raised his eyes, and there was Walter, and in his hands was Matthew’s axe, and why was the head red with blood? Up went the axe. Matthew followed its arc, incapable of moving, of even attempting to save himself. I die; Alex, my Alex.
The clearing erupted with men. Walter faltered; Matthew dragged himself out of range. In his dazed state, all Matthew registered were Indians, many Indians. Burley stumbled backwards, dropped the axe and clutched at his shoulder. A loud, keening sound, and Burley turned and ran. Ian? His son? Blood, so much blood. Ian; arms round his shoulders, helping him to lie down. The sky, so blue, a beautiful, beautiful blue, and was that Rachel coming dancing towards him? Pain jolted through his system. Hands on his leg, sweetest merciful Lord but that hurt! A face swimming very close to his. Dark eyes, hair braided back. Qaachow. Ian said something, Matthew couldn’t hear him. Alex, I want Alex.
*
They brought him in on a rudimentary stretcher, and for an excruciating moment Alex was convinced he was dead, and then her skirts were in her hands and she was running, a wild, breat
hless spurt with her heart clawing its way up her throat.
He tried to smile at her, drawing his lips wide in what looked more like a grimace. “It’s alright,” he breathed. “I’m still here.”
“What happened?” Alex was running beside them as they rushed towards the house.
“Attacked,” Ian panted, “up in the woods...” He was the colour of old porridge, an ugly greyish beige.
“And you?”
“Da,” was all Ian said in a cracked voice. “Help Da.”
Qaachow carried Matthew inside, staggering under the weight. He laid him down on the table and nodded for Alex to begin. She forced herself to look at his leg. Jesus! His breeches were sodden with blood, from somewhere at groin level all the way down to his knee. Ian had wound his shirt tight around the upper thigh, and the grey linen was liberally stained with dark red splotches.
“What—?”
“Not now,” Qachow said. “That we can talk about later.”
Yes, of course. First things first, except she couldn’t quite remember what would be the first thing to do. So much blood... She swallowed and, with a decisive movement, tore the cloth off his skin, ignoring his inhalation, the way his eyes went round with pain. Blood welled in alarming quantities.
“Shit, shit, shit,” she said. “Djävla skit,” she added for emphasis and looked down at his face. “You could have died,” she squeaked, her fingers shaking as she tied a primitive tourniquet into place.
“But I haven’t, not yet,” he croaked. “Although, if all you’re going to do is stand and gawk at me, it seems I still might.”
She laughed; cried. Still alive, still capable of talking.
“I’ll do this.” Like a saving angel, Mrs Parson appeared at her side. Alex backed away, rushed to boil water, find bandages, fetch the catgut, bring the quart bottle of brandy, sear the needle – in short, supply Mrs Parson with everything she needed to save her husband’s leg. Over Mrs Parson’s shoulder she peeked at the long, deep gash, and her stomach cramped, sweat breaking out along her back.
Mercifully, he wasn’t all there when Mrs Parson began her work. Hot water, so much water. The stench of a heated blade against his flesh, and Alex had to bite her knuckles not to cry.
“I have to,” Mrs Parson said. “I must stop the bleeding.” Please do. The wound kept on welling blood, a sluggish trickle that dried up successively as Mrs Parson worked her way up the gash. Matthew was out cold, slumped like a dead jellyfish on the table, and Alex had to put a hand on his chest to reassure herself that his heart was still beating.
An unbearable hour later, Matthew’s cleaned and sewn leg was bandaged and he was transferred over to his bed. He had regained consciousness halfway through Mrs Parson sewing the gash together, and had since then refused to let go of Alex’s hand. That was perfectly fine with her, because at present all she wanted to do was crawl into bed with him and somehow fuse herself with him. But she had guests to see to, Ian to check on, and so she kissed him and tried to disengage her hand.
He tightened his hold. “Stay,” he whispered, “stay with me.”
She sat down beside him and shifted so that he could pillow his head on her lap, stroking him over his head and down his shoulder, long rhythmical movements that soothed them both. Only once he was asleep did she leave the room.
“Ian?” she asked, collapsing to sit on a bench. She managed to give Qaachow a smile, but when Mrs Parson set a plate in front of her, she shook her head.
“No great matter, a flesh wound no more.” Mrs Parson poured out a generous quantity of whisky and set the pewter cup in front of Alex. “Drink.”
“I...” Alex made a face; she rarely drank.
“I said, drink.”
So she did, and to her surprise it was just what she needed, a bubble of comforting heat that unclenched her gut.
“What happened?” she asked Qaachow, pillowing her head on her arms.
“Indians,” he said with a crooked smile. “One was a white man; the other three were Iroquois.”
“White?” Alex quavered.
“Your man called him Burley. I wounded him.” Qaachow mimed a knife throw.
“And where is he now?”
“He went into the river, as did one of the others. The other two are dead.”
“Oh,” Alex said.
“He would be a fool to come back,” Qaachow said, “and I dare say he knows it.”
“That’s a relief.” It wasn’t, not really.
“He probably thinks your man is dead – he looked as if he were dying – so why risk returning?”
That made some sort of awful sense, and Alex’s shoulders fell to a more comfortable level.
In a low voice Qaachow went on to tell her that they’d found one of the abducted girls, gagged and tied beside the ruffians’ horses.
“She’ll live,” he said, “but as to the other...” One shoulder came up in a shrug.
*
It was dusk by the time Matthew woke.
“Hi,” Alex said, and the rope frame squeaked when she sat down on the bed. He shifted to give her room, the movement arrested by the way his leg screeched in protest. A peek under the bedclothes, and he stared at his thigh, bandaged from groin to knee. He swallowed. Had the axe hit him a few inches higher up, he’d be dead by now, blood spurting out of him like a fountain.
“Does it hurt?” Alex asked.
“Aye.” He closed his eyes. “Ian?”
“Okay. I think he’s more shocked by the fact that he killed one of them than by the wound to his arm.”
“He killed?” Matthew struggled to sit. “That’s a terrible thing to do; gives you right troublesome dreams.”
“He’s with Jenny. I’m sure she’ll take care of him.”
Matthew smiled lopsidedly. As he recalled it, all he’d wanted to do was drink – and swive. A spurt of heat rose through his groin, his cock twitched into life. He slid his hand down to cup himself, a warm heaviness that reconfirmed that he was here, with her, not exsanguinated in the woods. He looked at her. His cock thudded.
“Come here,” he said, lifting the bedclothes out of the way.
“But, you’re...”
He took hold of her nape, pulled her close and kissed her. Her hair, her beautiful hair, now undone and floating like a veil around her. Her breasts; his hand closed on one and it was soft and warm. All of her in his arms, and he gasped when her leg knocked against his.
“Sorry, sorry,” she muttered, but he didn’t care, not really. Pain was good. Dead men felt no pain; dead men didn’t have their cock straining upwards, inwards, while their wives straddled them. He held her hips as she settled herself on him. His hands slid down to grip her buttocks. Warm skin under his touch. Alive, like him…
“Slower,” he said, “move slower.” So she did, a sinuous movement that sheathed him inside of her, all the way from his balls to the tip of his cock. Up and down, slowly, slowly, and Matthew’s buttocks bunched, his legs tensed, and with a loud exhalation he came.
Six days and he was up on his feet; a further week and he insisted he had to get back to work.
“You know what? I don’t care, okay? If you want to go gallivanting around on your unhealed leg, fine, go ahead. But don’t expect me to come rushing after you like some bloody Florence Nightingale and put the pieces back together afterwards!”
“Florence Nightingale? Is she someone I should know?”
“No,” Alex said, “seeing as she’s not even in the making yet.”
“Ah.” Matthew nodded. “Nice name. Sounds like a peaceful, soothing woman, all cool hands and a low sweet voice.”
“Bastard,” she muttered.
“Bitch,” he whispered back, amused by her indignant start at his use of this future pejorative. He grabbed at her hand and pulled her close.
“I can’t
sit idle with the spring planting going on.” He flexed his leg experimentally, biting back when the skin strained. “Ian and Mark are worked to the bone, and had we not had two such good workers in Jacob and Daniel...” He looked over with pride at the two lads, both of them half asleep over their supper. “I’m on the mend, and you’ll have to trust me to know my own limits.”
“Now why is that absolutely no comfort whatsoever?” Alex said, with an unwilling smile curling the corner of her mouth. He kissed her and hobbled off.
Not that he would ever admit it, but by the time the bell rang for supper next day, Matthew’s leg was numb with tension. It took considerable effort to walk across the yard without gritting his teeth at every step, but he managed well enough, he reckoned, sinking down to sit in his chair with relief.
“Massage?” Alex murmured while serving him beer. “You look as if you need it.”
“I do?” He shrugged. “Not really, but mayhap it helps in the healing.”
Alex grinned. “Sometimes you’re as transparent as a fishbowl, Mr Graham.”
No sooner had he finished eating but she led him off to their bedroom. Matthew stretched out on the bed; she kneeled beside him.
“I actually think the sow understands me,” Alex said, rubbing her oiled hands together. “So I’m somewhat circumspect in what I say around her, because it might hurt her feelings to know I only see her babies as hams on trotters.”
Matthew laughed, grunting when her hands became a wee bit too hard.
“It’s scary at times, how she stands on her hind legs and crosses her front legs. It makes her look horribly human.” She frowned at the pink bubbly scar tissue and prodded at his thigh muscle.
“Do you mind?” He made an effort to sound relaxed.
“Mind?” Alex raised her eyes to his face. “Do I mind you have a scar the size of a normal kitchen knife decorating your thigh?” She bent her head and kissed his exposed skin. “I’m glad you’re still here, so, no, I don’t mind.” She rested her cheek against his leg and moved so that her ear lay closer to his groin. Her hair tickled him. “My favourite sound in the world, the sound of your pulse.”
A Newfound Land (The Graham Saga) Page 37
