Scarlet RIbbons

by Judith E. French

  Sarah pulled the covers up over her bare breasts and sighed. "There are letters stitched into it. I wanted to know what it said, and I couldn't read it." She leaned forward eagerly. "Read it for me, Forest. Please! I got the L and the i, but the next letter was too hard." She seized the pillow and hurled it at him in exasperation. "What does it say?"

  " 'Liberty,' woman. It says 'Liberty.' " He swallowed hard, and she caught the gleam of moisture in his eyes. "You may not be able to read the word, Sarah, but you know what it means . . . if any of us do."

  "Liberty! It is a 'b' then," she declared. "I thought it was a 'b' or a 'd', but I wasn't sure which. Then the next letter—"

  "Enough!" He gathered up her shift and stockings and tossed them to her. "I'm starving and there's not a bite to eat in the house. What say you we pay a call on my mother and fetch our son?"

  "Oh, yes!" she cried. "But first I must bathe and comb my hair. I'll not meet your mother for the first time looking like a gypsy wench. Do you think you could fetch me some water and a little soap?"

  Forest donned his shirt and began to hunt under the bed for a missing stocking. "Whatever pleases you, wife," he agreed. "You're lucky this is Sunday. On any other day, this yard would be full of workmen by now." He bowed mockingly.

  "I'll bring water from the river for your bath, m'lady." His blue eyes twinkled with mischief. "There's an errand I can run while you make yourself ready."

  Sarah stared at him suspiciously. "You're not going to run off and abandon me, are you?"

  "Not a chance," he promised, patting her midsection. "You'll not be rid of this husband so easily."

  ~~~

  Sarah was fastening her ribbons in her hair when she heard Forest returning. She jumped up from the bed and threw open the door.

  "I've brought someone with me," Forest said as he swung down off his horse. Beside him, on a black pony, was her son.

  "Mama!" Joshua cried. "Come and see my pony!"

  Sarah dashed past Forest and threw her arms around the boy. "You've grown," she managed to say between kisses. "You've grown a foot."

  Joshua blushed as his mother lifted him from the saddle. "Mama!" he protested. "I'm too big for all this kissin'."

  Sarah hugged him until her heartbeat slowed to near normal "Are you well?" she asked. "Have you been a good boy?"

  "I told ye me and the little matey would get on prime," Gideon called.

  Sarah gave him a sparkling smile. "I'm sorry, Gideon. I didn't even see—"

  "No need t' fuss over me," the old seaman insisted as he rode his horse close to the step. "Me and the laddie did just fine."

  Joshua looked from Forest to his mother. "Forest says my papa is dead and he'll be my new papa from now on. Is he? Is Forest really my papa now?"

  Sarah smoothed Joshua's hair, taking in his new green woolen coat with shiny brass buttons, the neat doeskin breeches, and his expensive black leather boots. "Would you like Forest to be your father?" she asked.

  Joshua nodded. "Umm-humm." He tugged at Sarah's hand. "Come see my pony, Mama. Her name is Sugar, and she's all mine. Forest's mama gave her to me."

  Sarah's expression clouded. She glanced up at Forest. "I'm sure the pony is only yours to use, Joshua. She's beautiful but—"

  "Sugar's mine, isn't she Gideon?"

  "Aye. She belongs t' the wee matey, all right."

  Joshua set his foot into the stirrup and swung up into the saddle. "I promised I'd meet my friends Tom and Willy in the square before church. Can I go, Mama, please?"

  She hesitated and looked back at Forest.

  "Let him go," he urged. "He'll be safe enough."

  Sarah nodded. "All right."

  "You're not to be late for church, though," Forest admonished.

  "I won't!" Reining the pony around, Joshua set his heels into the animal's sides and galloped away.

  "I'd best be about my own business, ma'am," Gideon said, "but I'd like t' speak wi' ye later about me managin' King's Landin' fer ye."

  She nodded again. "Why do I feel as if everyone is playing a game and I don't know any of the rules?" she asked Forest when Gideon was gone. "Is there something more you'd like to tell me?"

  "Such as?"

  "Such as why my son—"

  "Our son," he corrected.

  "Our son is dressed like a young lord and riding a blooded pony a boat builder couldn't buy with a year's salary?"

  "Get your cloak, Sarah. I think it's time I took you home."

  "I'll not move a step until you give me some answers, Forest Irons!" She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

  He grinned. "Would you catch your death . . . and you carrying our babe?"

  "Forest."

  "Your cloak, woman. Please."

  She was back with her cloak and mittens in less than a minute. Forest reached down and took her hand, lifting her up before him on the saddle.

  "You aren't a boat builder, are you?" she asked softly.

  He chuckled. "Oh, but I am, Sarah." He held out his rough, scarred hands. "Are these the hands of a woodworker or not?" He turned the horse's head toward the road. "You never asked me if I owned the boatyard."

  "You own it? You're rich?"

  He laughed again. "Hardly rich, but the ships do bring in a good profit."

  "Ships? You own ships?"

  "Privateers, actually."

  "Why didn't you tell me before?"

  "Why didn't you tell me you were a widow?"

  They rode in silence up the road that led beside the blacksmith's shop and into the town. Men and women passing by on the street or coming out of their doors stopped to call out greetings.

  "Morning, lieutenant."

  "Good day t' ye, Master Irons."

  "Forest! It's good to see you! I thought the British would have hung you by now!"

  The houses were closer together as they continued along the road into the wealthier part of Chestertown. A few homes were built of brick, with wide double chimneys and spacious lawns stretching down to the river.

  Sarah sighed when Forest halted the horse in front of a grand brick mansion rising three stories high. The front door opened, and a servant ran down the wide stone steps to take the horse.

  "Welcome home, Master Irons," the man cried.

  "Thank you, Jesse. This is your new mistress."

  "Welcome to Broadmoor, ma'am."

  "Thank you," Sarah murmured.

  Forest set her lightly on the ground and dismounted. "Are you angry with me, darling?" he asked, as the servant led the horse away.

  Sarah stared at the house. "This is your mother's home?"

  "No, sweet." He bent his head and kissed her tenderly. "This is our home. My mother lives on the other side of Chestertown."

  "What else do you own?" she demanded.

  He laughed. "I'll arrange a meeting for you with my solicitor. He can tell you anything you want to know about my financial affairs and write a marriage agreement to your specifications, if you like."

  Sarah's arms tightened around his neck. "All this? I thought I was marrying a boat builder." She sighed again. "It will take some adjustment." Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Is there anything else?"

  "Nothing else, I swear."

  "Then we must make a bargain—no more secrets between us, ever."

  Forest kissed her again. "Never, Sarah. We'll have no more secrets from each other. I swear."

  She smiled at him with her heart in her eyes. "Then I think I can forgive you . . . in time."

  Laughing, Forest swept her up and carried her over the threshold of their home, into a new life, and into a new beginning.

  A Note from the Author

  Dear Reader,

  When I began writing, I was told to write about something I know and care deeply about. American history has always been a passion of mine. My father's people were heavily Native American, and my mother's family settled on the Eastern Shore of' the Chesapeake Bay in the 1660's, when Maryland was one of the 13 Colonies. As
a child, I heard stories of the trouble with England and the brave men and women who settled this wilderness, cut down forests and built towns, farms, and shipyards. Fascinated by the fragments of lives so different from my own, I began a serious study of our colonial period and the role of women here in the Mid-Atlantic.

  One of the most dramatic stories was how the women of Eastern Shore helped to save Washington's troops in the terrible winter of 1777 at Valley Forge. Ordinary housewives, merchants, tavern wenches, mothers, wives and daughters of every race risked their lives to smuggle supplies through the lines of the British and Hessian soldiers to provide desperately needed blankets, clothing, and food to the Continentals. Many of those courageous women were against the war, but the men they loved were in danger, and so they took up the cause for American independence with a vengeance. Some women actually served in Washington's army as infantrymen, cannoneers, and spies. We know because these women received pensions after the war.

  I wanted to tell the story of one woman's struggle to survive, to protect her child, and to find something greater than her own needs to fight for. Because I'm a romantic at heart, I wanted Sarah to find someone to protect and cherish her, a man who could give her hope for the future, and one who would appreciate her for the strong woman she was. I wanted him to be the kind of man who would be a lover, a best friend, and a father to her son. Only you can decide if I succeeded.

  Sincerely yours,

  Judith E French

  Penelope's Advantage

  July 4th, 2014

  Books by Judith E. French

  Fire Hawk’s Bride

  Windsong

  Scarlet Ribbons

  Tender Fortune

  Moonfeather

  By Love Alone

  Starfire

  Bold Surrender

  Highland Moon

  Moon Dancer

  Moonfeather

  Shawnee Moon

  Fortune’s Mistress

  Fortune’s Bride

  Fortune’s Flame

  Lovestorm

  Sundancer’s Woman

  The Fierce Loving

  The Warrior

  The Barbarian

  The Conquerer

  At Risk

  Blood Sport

  Blood Ties

  Blood Kin

  Books Written as Katherine Irons

  Seaborne

  Oceanborne

  Waterborne

  Contact Judith

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you have enjoyed Forest and Sarah’s story. If you did, please take a moment to go to your favorite e-book site and leave a review for Scarlet Ribbons. It will be deeply appreciated. Your input is invaluable to me.

  Also, please feel free to contact me. I always love hearing from readers!

  I hope that you will take a look at my other titles, both as e-books and in print.

  Thank you,

  Judith E. French

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/judith.french?fref=ts

  e-mail: JudithEFrenchNovels@gmail.com

  Judith E. French Biography

  Judith E. French has been writing professionally since she was 15. She has published over 60 novels in a career spanning nearly five decades and has over 2 million books in print. Her works have been translated into French, Spanish, German, Italian, Swedish, Norwegian, Russian, Bulgarian, Hungarian and Mandarin.

  She is the author of mysteries, contemporary romances, suspense novels, and paranormal thrillers. She is best known for her American historical romances, which frequently take place during the Colonial period in the Virginia-Maryland-Delaware Tidewater region.

  She is the recipient of Romantic Times' Career Achievement in American Historical Romance award, the PEARL award for Best Anthology, and the Delaware Diamond Award for Literary Excellence.

  Judith and her husband live with their two (very spoiled) dogs in a restored 18th-century farmhouse on the Delaware-Maryland border. Her home has been in her family since a land grant was awarded to a female ancestor by William Penn, nearly 350 years ago. She is a descendant of Scottish, English and Welsh settlers and the local Lenni Lenape Native Americans.

  She is the mother of best-selling novelist Colleen Faulkner, aka V.K. Forrest, Sarah Gray, and Hunter Morgan. Two of her grandchildren are at work on their first novels.

  Fire Hawk’s Bride

  Judith E. French

  Prologue

  The Golden Child

  Assateague Island

  Mid-Atlantic coast of North America

  Summer 1600

  A golden bronze child parted the pine boughs and stared with wonder at the herd of wild horses grazing in the salt-grass meadow. The seven-year-old's obsidian eyes were almond-shaped; his thick, gleaming hair—as night-black as the ebony stallion's mane—hung loosely over his lean, straight back. His narrow, high-arched feet were bare; his only garment was a twist of braided leaves around his loins. Around his slim, graceful neck hung a miniature quiver of feathered darts, and in one small hand he clutched a reed blowgun. He was a young Cherokee prince. The horses were close enough for the boy to smell their rich, heady odor, near enough to see the long dark lashes around their huge, liquid eyes. "Oooh." A sigh escaped his lips and his heart thudded wildly. More than anything, he wanted to run to them, press his fingers against the soft hides and feel their warm breath on his face.

  Nothing he had heard about the mystical creatures had prepared him for their stunning majesty. They were as brightly colored as birds—one red and white, one painted with the hue of summer clouds, another as red as wild strawberries. But best of all was the herd leader, a mighty black warrior with a wide chest, proudly arched neck, and the fierce eyes of an eagle.

  His cousin had told him that the horses were like giant dogs that ate human flesh, but they didn't look much like dogs, and they were eating grass. A bubble of joy swelled in his chest. It wasn't the first time Gar had lied.

  The stallion's nostrils flared, and he tossed his head so that the ocean wind billowed through his streaming, ebony mane. His large brown eyes widened as his gaze raked the rolling dunes for the source of the man-scent wafting on the salt air. Snorting, he pawed the sand with one glistening front hoof, and corded muscles rippled like water beneath his glossy hide.

  An aging bay mare, her belly swollen by an impending birth, paused in her grazing and nickered plaintively. Warily, the rest of the band raised their heads and sniffed the air.

  Streamers of purple-gold light radiated from a pulsing orange sun, tingeing the sea with blue-green iridescence and burning away the mist from the edges of the meadow. Still, the little prince stood motionless, committing every nicker, every movement of the horses to memory.

  As he watched, he listened intently, identifying each sound... the eternal ebb and flow of the waves, the high-pitched cry of the seabirds, the restless snorts and whinnies of the herd.

  Then another sound reached the child's consciousness, a shrill kakeer-kakeer. A faint smile crossed his lips as he recognized the hunting call of his spirit protector, the red-shouldered hawk. "Greetings, brother," he murmured, and glanced up to see the bird fold his wings and plunge toward the earth. Then an odd prickling at the nape of his neck warned him to look back at the black horse.

  The stallion bellowed a warning squeal and snaked out his neck, baring long, ivory teeth as he stamped the grass, then broke into a thundering charge. The boy didn't move a muscle. Not when the horse skidded to a stop, and not when he became a terrifying specter rearing over the boy with flailing hooves, white-rimmed eyes, and blood red mouth.

  No, you're not a dog, the child thought as he felt the animal's awesome life-force. I don't know what you are, but you're not a dog... and you're beautiful. Hot breath scalded his; foam from the horse's taut lips sprayed his bare chest; the stallion's angry bellow deafened him. Yet still he remained motionless, one hand extended, eyes dilated with wonder.

  "Are you spirit or solid?" he murmured, staring into the huge brown eyes.


  The animal reared again. His slashing forelegs missed the boy's temple by a hairsbreadth. The stallion gnashed his teeth, laid his ears flat to his head, and struck out with savage rage.

  "Shh," the boy soothed. "Beautiful one, sea king."

  The horse's gaze clouded with confusion, and he halted his attack. Gradually he grew calm.

  A strong gust off the ocean blew the child's hair across his face. As if curious, the stallion plucked a lock between his lips and nibbled, tasting it. The Cherokee boy continued to murmur softly, but his hand remained as still as the hot dune sand under his bare feet.

  Equine eyes stared into human ones. The stallion twitched his ears, gave another snort, and lowered his head to brush the child's palm with a velvet muzzle.

  The little prince thrilled to the sensation. "Soft as a new-hatched mallard duckling," he exclaimed softly.

  Without warning, the horse threw up his head, wheeled, and dashed toward his band. The old mare broke into a rolling canter, splashing water to her withers; a half-grown filly galloped after her. The stallion nipped the rump of a gray, and the whole herd fled across a marshy meadow and vanished into a stand of pine at the far side.