She blushed, and he laughed again and held out his arms. Without a second's hesitation, she ran into them and lifted her face to be kissed.
Their lips met and the teasing kiss deepened into tender passion.
"Woman." Forest moaned. "Woman, you'd tempt a man to almost anything."
"You're not one who takes much tempting," she said breathlessly.
Forest was still laughing when the sound of hoofbeats came from the road. He chuckled as he opened the door and stepped into the yard, but his smile faded as he heard the news the post rider carried.
"A massacre!" the wild-eyed horseman called out. "At Black Bear Swamp, not five miles from here!" He slid from his mount and hurried toward the house, his florid features ashen gray. "Five men and a woman and child dead. Two others more dead than alive." The post rider stopped a few feet from the door and wiped his face. "One of the survivors said they passed through King's Landing yesterday morning."
Chapter Eleven
Massacre at Black Bear Swamp
Uncle John was dead. Forest had known it from the minute the post rider shouted the news about the ambush. He'd known it as he'd ridden the mule back along the narrow wooded track to Black Bear Swamp.
The dead were no longer there; they'd been moved to a nearby plantation for burial. But the tracks were visible in the dirt and bloodstained leaves for any man or woman with sense to read.
Forest swung down off the black mule and inspected the scene of yesterday's massacre. A tree had been cut down across the roadway to block the path of the carts. Men had lain in wait on either side of the track; another group had attacked from the rear. Forest guessed that the battle had lasted only a few minutes.
One of the carts had been turned over to act as a shelter for the defending force. One wheel smashed, the cart lay on the edge of the swamp, its sideboards splintered—pierced with musket balls in a dozen places. A dark red stain covered part of the floorboard. Was it Uncle John's blood? Forest wondered.
After a few minutes, he mounted his animal and followed the trail of the farm wagon to the plantation where the bodies had been taken.
Forest was not the first attracted to the scene of the tragedy. A knot of men stood talking on the lawn of the small frame house. They looked up as he approached, and several called a greeting.
Forest slid off the mule and limped toward the group. Introducing himself as Mistress Turner's man, he explained that he'd been sent to learn what had happened. "They said they was Virginia folks," Forest continued. "A couple I could recognize by name, Christian name at least. They didn't have too much to say."
"Anybody know this fella?" a thin, sour-faced woman demanded. Two dirty children clung to her apron.
"Yeah," a man answered. "I seen him at the tavern back in the summer. He ferried me and Naomi across the river."
"Another Tory bastard," someone mumbled.
"You might as well take a look," an older man said. "Everybody else has."
All of the furniture had been moved from the great hall. The dead were laid out on blankets on the floor, their faces decently covered.
"There's another woman was brought in just a little while ago," Forest's guide said, motioning toward the kitchen. "The womenfolk are cleanin' her up. Young, pretty thing. We figure they carried her off into the woods and raped her before they murdered her."
"She had a babe," Forest said.
"We found the baby. Shot to death."
One by one, Forest pulled back the sheets to see the dead. John's body was the last. Forest forced himself to cover his uncle's face without revealing the raw pain that knifed through his body. "This one they called John," he said. "He weren't a neighbor to the others. Said he had kin in Chestertown."
The farmer grunted and moved toward the door.
"Who done it?" Forest asked.
"There's a boy still alive. He's the one told us they crossed at King's Landin' yesterday mornin'. He said 'twas Tories. He said they were takin' supplies north to the Patriot army. The boy said they were keepin' close watch, but there was so many of 'em and they hit so fast and hard, they didn't have a chance." The man stared hard at Forest. "Seems like maybe them Tories knew they was comin' ahead of time."
~~~
The farmer's words haunted Forest as he rode back toward King's Landing. The October air was sharp with the crisp smells of autumn; the wooded trail was an artist's dream of brilliant gold-and-crimson leaves and rich earth browns. The soft thud of the mule's hooves and the creak of saddle leather did nothing to alarm the birds and chattering gray squirrels, but Forest was too deep in thought to see or hear anything around him.
What had happened between him and Sarah in that featherbed was more than sexual; he had wanted her more this morning than he had before, if that was possible. He had the uneasy feeling that despite all his suspicion that he had fallen hard for Sarah Turner. The word "love" surfaced in his mind, and he pushed it away. He wasn't ready to think of love—not so soon after the failure of his first marriage, and especially not with this woman.
Sarah. Her image formed behind his eyelids. Sarah asleep with her long, dark hair spread out like a curtain of raw silk around her . . . Sarah reaching out her arms to him, her unforgettable gray eyes heavy lidded with passion . . . Sarah laughing across the breakfast table . . .
It was hard for him to admit to himself that she might be a ruthless accomplice to murder. Was it possible she could lie in his arms all night knowing that she had just condemned all those men and women—that helpless infant—to death?
She'd left King's Landing after John's party passed through. Had she gone to Martha's plantation for Josh as she'd said, or had she ridden to inform the Tory bandits? Sarah had returned without the boy. Did that prove her guilt, or was it just coincidence?
He shed no tears for Uncle John; his pain was too deep. Both men had known the risks of the kind of warfare they were waging, but John's death would leave a hole in Forest's life that no man would ever be able to fill. John had deserved a cleaner passing . . . a peaceful slipping away in old age, not the agonizing, bloody end he'd met. And if Sarah Turner had been responsible for John's murder, she would pay for it . . . woman or not.
Less than a quarter of a mile from the tavern, the mule stopped so short in his tracks that Forest was thrown forward in the saddle. He cursed as he caught himself against the animal's strong neck. "What the hell's the matter with you?" He regained his seat and dug his heels into the beast's sides.
The mule laid back his ears and stood like a rock.
"Damn you to hell!"
Forest had never shared the poor opinion many men had of mules. Most of the ones he'd come in contact with had been intelligent, hardworking animals. Despite his hard trot, this beast had a long, steady, mile-eating stride that would put most riding horses to shame.
Nevertheless, Forest was about to reconsider his judgment. He slapped the reins sharply against the animal's neck. "Get up, Prince!" he ordered.
The mule didn't move a muscle.
Swearing a blue streak, Forest threw himself from the saddle and broke off a switch from the nearest tree, making certain he had a firm grip on the reins. Prince watched from the corners of his eyes.
Forest stepped in front of the animal and brought the switch down warningly across his own palm. "Am I making myself clear?"
The mule's eyes rolled back in his head until the whites showed. His back legs folded under him, followed by the front, and he rolled onto one side and lay still.
"Get up, damn you, you son of a flea-bitten jackass!" Forest swore. He yanked at the reins.
Prince wrinkled his nose so that his long yellow teeth showed. He gave one long, pitiful bray, flattened his ears back against his head, and closed his eyes.
Still cursing, Forest pulled the bridle off over the animal's head, slung it over his shoulder, took his musket from the saddle and started down the trail on foot. The mule didn't make a sound, and Forest didn't look back.
He'd gone o
nly a few hundred yards down the trail when he heard shouts. Leaving the road, Forest entered the woods and made his way to the tavern through the thicket.
The yard was full of men and horses. Sarah stood near the barn, arguing with Isaac. Loud squawks came from the henhouse, and Flirt's deep bark sounded from beyond the kitchen door.
Forest dropped to the ground and edged close enough to hear what Sarah was saying.
". . . take my flour, what am I going to do? I can't run a tavern without food and drink!"
Isaac sat on a big roan, his face impassive. "You got to do yer part for the war, Sary. I got orders to seize supplies for my militia. You'll be paid for yer stuff."
"With these?" Sarah threw a handful of paper sheets at him. "You've been giving me these for a year. They're worthless, Isaac!"
"Don't ferget that I got an interest in this place. There's fish in the river and turtles. Feed them to yer precious customers."
"And what do I feed my son?" Sarah was white-lipped with anger. "Obediah will—"
"Obediah's a soldier. He'd be the first to understand that orders is orders," Isaac said. "Now be a good girl, shut yer trap, and get out of our way."
"He'll be home soon on leave," Sarah flung back. "He won't stand for our bein' robbed to feed your scum."
Isaac reined the roan around close to Sarah, and his pig eyes narrowed. "I think it's time he come back t' teach you some manners, woman. 'Cause if he don't, I might just have to."
Reynolds, the tanner, came from the barn carrying a large, honking goose. "Mule's gone," he called to Isaac. "But I did find this. Make a nice supper, I reckon."
"Where's that black mule of yours, Sary? Got him hid out in the brier patch?" Isaac demanded.
Sarah threw herself at Reynolds and kicked him in the shins as hard as she could. He let out a yell, grabbed for his smarting leg, and she stuck one foot behind him and shoved him backward. Reynolds fell on his buttocks and struck his head against the side of the barn. The goose hissed angrily and beat at him with her powerful wings.
"Feathers!" Sarah yelled to the goose. "Goose feathers!" Sarah dodged Isaac's horse and kicked the fallen Reynolds in the knee.
The goose stuck out her long neck and made a mad dash for the river. Isaac unsheathed his musket and tried to take aim at the running bird. Another man dove for the goose and collided with a horseman intent on the same prey. Someone fired a pistol, and a horse began to buck, spilling cornmeal and wheat flour across the yard. The flour rose in billowing clouds, obscuring Isaac's view.
Forest choked back laughter as Sarah scooped up a pebble and hurled it with perfect aim at the rump of Isaac's horse. The roan screamed and reared and Isaac fought for control of the frightened animal.
Horses whinnied and bumped into each other as escaping chickens ran in all directions. Sarah ducked into the barn and slammed the door just as Isaac lost the battle and tumbled forward over his horse's neck.
Seconds later, Forest saw Sarah climb out a back window and run toward him. He got to his feet and motioned to her. "Sarah, this way."
She pointed in the opposite direction. "Quick!" she cried. "Follow me."
The sound of cracking wood told Forest that someone was attempting to break into the barn. The barn door had a heavy iron bolt on the inside, but Forest knew it wouldn't hold Isaac's men for long.
Sarah was running just ahead of him. She ducked under a low branch and was gone. Forest stopped short in astonishment and looked around. Where could she have gone?
He heard a low chuckle. A section of leaves a few feet from where he stood moved, and Sarah peered up at him from ground level.
"In here," she whispered. "Hurry." She raised a trapdoor of woven saplings and leaves, and Forest followed her down into a small, sandy cellar. She dropped the door in place and slid down the sandy incline to sit beside him in the semidarkness.
"What is this place?" Forest asked. The area was about five feet deep and wide enough so that he couldn't touch the sides. The floor was covered with pine needles. "It's not a root cellar." He knew potatoes and apples wouldn't keep without a thick layer of earth over them.
"Nope. Obediah used it to fight dogs in. After he went away, Joshua and I cleaned it out and made the cover. As long as nobody rides a horse over the top, we're as safe as a rabbit in a hole." She chuckled again. "That bastard stole my flour, but it was worth it to see him fall headfirst off that horse. Isaac never could ride."
Forest caught hold of her arm and pulled her against him. "Are you all right? Did they hurt you?"
She sighed. "No, but I'm ruined. Isaac took everything but the corn in the field. I've no salt, no flour—nothing to feed travelers. He even took my cider and lard. Without the cow for milk . . ." She leaned her head against his chest. "I've a little money set aside, but not enough to replace everything. Prices in town are sky-high."
"Shhh, someone's coming."
Above them in the woods they could hear angry men's voices and the crash of underbrush. A man cursed.
"Sarah!" Isaac's voice. "Sary!"
Sarah pressed closer against Forest. "I guess he didn't break his neck," she whispered. "I was hoping."
Forest crushed her protectively against him. What he had just seen in the farmyard convinced him that Isaac and his men were part of the Tory raiders. It had also given him reason to hope that Sarah was innocent. If she were an active partner in the violence, would Isaac have stolen her supplies?
The voices above grew faint and gradually faded.
"Do you think Polly got away?" Sarah asked softly.
"Polly?"
"You know, Joshua's goose. Isaac knows the boy dotes on her. Joshua would be heartbroken if anything happened to Polly."
"The last time I saw her, she was heading for the river."
"She's tough. The last time she hatched out a brood of goslings, she faced down a wild pig to protect them." Sarah seemed to be in no hurry to move from Forest's arms.
"What was that you said to her? Something about 'goose feathers'?"
"Obediah uses her quills for writing, and we pull down for pillows and such. She hates having her feathers plucked. So all you have to do is say the words 'goose feathers' and she takes off like her tail's on fire."
"I never heard of a goose that smart. I suppose she talks back to you, too," Forest quipped.
"God, I hope not. The men around here are bad enough."
Tendrils of Sarah's sweet-smelling hair brushed against his throat, and Forest felt an urgent surge of desire as memories of last night's ardent loving spilled through him. Her body molded tantalizingly against his; his pulse quickened as the heat of her breasts and thighs seared through her rough homespun gown. In another moment, he'd—
Sarah pulled away abruptly. "What of those farmers?" she asked. "Did they find the missing woman?"
Reason flooded Forest's mind with the shock of ice water. "Dead," he said. Guilt made his voice harsh. "Even the babe. A few survived." But not Uncle John, he thought bitterly . . . not John.
"I think Isaac murdered them," Sarah said.
"What did you say?" Forest took hold of both her arms.
She gasped as his fingers bit into her arm. "You're hurting me!"
He eased his grip. "I'm sorry. I didn't—"
"I don't have any proof," she continued breathlessly, "but I think—"
"Could he be working for someone else?"
"No, not Isaac. He'd never follow another man's orders." She twisted free of Forest and leaned against a wall. "I knew he was a thief, but I've never thought him capable of murder."
"This is wartime. If it is Isaac who's leading the band, there are many who wouldn't call what he's done murder."
Sarah was silent. There was no sound in the small cellar but the rustle of leaves above their head and the soft echo of their breathing. "You know I am loyal to the king," she answered finally. "But to kill wantonly is murder, no matter what the cause."
Forest felt a huge weight slide off his shoulders. Sara
h was not the informant; he was certain of it. "Would your husband agree with you?"
"Obediah?" She made a derogatory sound. "I gave up caring what he thought a long time ago."
"Harsh talk for a wife."
She bent her head and fingered the folds of her skirt. "It was never my choice to be his wife," she replied. "Back in England, my stepfather sold me to the Colonies as a bond servant. Obediah Turner bought my indenture and brought me here. He had a wife and child, did you know that?"
Forest sensed her pain. "There's no need to—"
"But there is need," she cried passionately. "I have a need to tell you." Tears began to fill her eyes and run down her cheeks, but Sarah ignored them. "I was a child," she insisted, "scarce begun my woman's courses." She hesitated and then went on in a rush of words. "He raped me, not once but many times. I ran away, but they kept bringing me back. Nobody would believe me—nobody cared what he did to me. When his wife and daughter were drowned in the bay, I was already pregnant with Joshua. He said I had to marry him or Joshua would be his bond servant until he was twenty-one." She choked back a sob. "He called me wanton—a whore. But I thought it was better to be the devil's wife than his harlot."
"Damn the bastards to hell," Forest swore softly. "Sarah . . . Sarah." He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her hard against him. "My God," he murmured. "I'm sorry, Sarah . . . I didn't know." He fought back waves of white-hot anger against men who would treat a helpless woman so. Lowering his head, he kissed her quivering lips.
He had known she was tough, as tough as most men. But he'd not guessed she'd survived so much hardship. "You're a brave woman," he murmured. He pulled her closer, overwhelmed with desire to shelter her . . . to keep her safe from harm.
Sarah clung to him, unable to stop the flood of tears. "I wasn't a whore," she protested. "I wasn't. I was just scared." Their lips met again, and he rocked her tenderly.
"Sarah . . . Sarah."
Gradually, her tears subsided. "I couldn't let him do that to my baby . . . I couldn't," she agonized. "Not for twenty-one years. A wife has rights. I knew I'd have a better chance of protecting my baby if I was Obediah's legal wife."
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