Cherished

by Elizabeth Thornton

  He kissed her as though he were testing the waters. When Emily angled her head back, opening her mouth wide to his invasion, he groaned and settled himself more firmly against her softness. A sliver of paper could not have slipped between them.

  “This time,” he whispered, tonguing her ear, “I’m really going to give you something to cry about.”

  Sara threw off her blanket and padded to the door of the tent. “This is absurd,” she said. “How can we be expected to get to sleep with all that caterwauling?” She pulled back the flap and peered out. “Don’t those voyageurs ever stop singing for more than five minutes at a time?”

  Hester sniffed. “Perhaps that man should tell them what he told us.” She was referring to James. “We start early in the morning. Where is Emily?”

  “She wanted to have a word with Leon.”

  That man suddenly appeared in person in front of Sara, and she let out an infuriated yelp. “Must you always creep up on me?” Fear made her angry.

  Unabashed, James responded, “Don’t wait up for your sister.”

  “What? Where is Emily?”

  “Her husband has consented to bed her.”

  Wanting to rile her, he took no pleasure in his success. She raised her hand and would have struck him if his reflexes had not been so finely honed. One yank, and she tumbled into his arms. Before she could get her bearings, she was on the far side of the tent where no eyes could penetrate.

  “You’ve always wondered. Just once, wouldn’t you like to find out? I know I would.” His tone was low and softly persuasive.

  “What…what are you saying?”

  “I want to make love to you. Tell me you want it, too.”

  She was tempted, not only because James truly attracted her, but because she was a scorned wife. No one betrayed Lady Sara Brockford with impunity. She hesitated on the brink and in that split second of indecision, she knew that her answer had been bred into her.

  In an anguished undertone, she cried out, “James, I want to, but I can’t.”

  His nostrils flared. “It’s because I’m part Indian, isn’t it?”

  “No. You must believe me. I don’t really care about that. If I ever said anything to make you think otherwise, it was only to deflate your colossal conceit. If you knew my uncle, you would know that we Brockfords don’t set much store by a man’s beginnings. It’s what he makes of himself that counts.”

  He believed her and believing her, smiled. “Then what is it?” he asked softly.

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  She wished that he would stop her mouth with hard kisses, or seduce her with his touch. Then the decision would be taken away from her. He did none of those things, and though her respect for him rose by several notches, perversely she damned him for a fool.

  His hands dug into her shoulders and she got out, “It’s Aunt Zoë, don’t you see? It’s the way she has raised us.” She managed a shaky laugh. “You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I swear to you, James, I’m a very conventional girl at heart. I could not betray my husband if he were a monster with two heads.”

  He stared at her as though she were a stranger to him, which, indeed, she appeared to be.

  “It’s the truth! Aunt Zoë…How can I explain it to you? She filled our heads with stories of honor and all that nonsense. If I were to go against the tenets by which she raised Emily and me, it would be like…well, like destroying the best part of myself. I know I am not half the girl that Emily is, I am not even half the girl that Aunt Zoë thinks I am. But I want to be. Can you understand that?”

  His voice was harsher than he meant it to be. “Your husband may turn out to be worse than a monster with two heads. He may very well be a murderer. Have you considered that?”

  “No. It’s not true.”

  “Forget about Barbara Royston. Think about yourself. Would Benson profit by your death?” He had to shake her before she answered him.

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure how my moneys were settled. But even if what you say is true, it could never make a difference to us. Peter is my husband, don’t you see? I must stand by him.”

  He had never admired a woman more than he admired Sara at that moment, had never wanted a woman more. For the first time in his life, the masculine instinct to protect a female not of his tribe welled up from some spring inside himself that he had not known existed. And wanting to protect her, he became ruthless in pursuit of his goal.

  “He has a mistress, for God’s sake. Molly St. Laurent. You know that. He doesn’t love you. If he did, he would keep you on a tighter rein. He is indifferent, Sara. That’s why he permits you the liberties you enjoy.” He made a derisory sound. “God, if you were my wife, I would wring your neck if you tried to play your games with me.”

  She was trembling so hard her teeth were chattering. “Don’t lay my transgressions to Peter’s account. He never had a chance. I wouldn’t listen to him.”

  “Because he is weak and you are strong. He is a cipher, Sara. Admit it.”

  “No,” she sobbed out. “No. It’s all my fault.”

  Scathingly, he burst out, “Your loyalty is misplaced. He’s had a string of mistresses. Have you no pride?”

  Her slap rocked his head back on his shoulders. He saw the blow coming but did nothing to prevent it, knowing that he had provoked her to retaliate. When she ran into the tent, he stood motionless for a long time, one hand nursing his scalding cheek.

  By degrees, he became conscious that the voyageurs had embarked on yet another song. Smiling satirically, he moved to join them at the fire.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  On the second night out, there was no question in the minds of the voyageurs where Emily would be sleeping. With great guffaws of laughter and good-natured jibes, they set down the smaller canoe some ways from camp. No language was necessary to understand their comical gestures. They could not sing a note if their lives depended on it. Emily was thankful that the fading light concealed her blushes. She bent her head and made a great to-do of crumbling her bannock, but all the while she burned from the heat in her husband’s glances as they bored into her from across the campfire.

  When he set aside his utensils and came for her, she thought her heart would beat its way clear out of her chest.

  “Emily?”

  At the sound of his voice, Emily rose to her feet.

  Hester rose with her. “Leave the girl alone.” She had the look of a tigress defending her cub.

  Emily was aware of every eye trained on them. Even the wilderness seemed to be holding its breath. Leon took a step back as if relinquishing all claim to her, and she found her voice. “Give me your arm, Leon, in case I stumble.”

  When Emily pushed past her, Hester’s expression registered first shock, then outrage. At their retreating backs, she stormed, “If you force her, you will be no better than a beast of the field.”

  Leon spun round. “My wife may suit herself,” he said, and strode off with quick, impatient steps. Emily had to run to keep up with him.

  “Well!” Hester sank back on the upturned log which served as her seat. “Doesn’t she realize that the man is a murderer?”

  Sara didn’t bother to answer. Instead, she calmly went on spooning soup into her mouth.

  Once they were under the canvas, Leon hooked one arm around Emily’s shoulders, pillowing her head against his chest. “Go to sleep,” he murmured. “Morning will be here before you know it. You have done well today, but we have a long way to go yet. I don’t want you overtaxing your strength.”

  Raising herself slightly, she said, “I know we are traveling west on the fur trade route. Surely, Leon, this it taking us far out of our way?”

  He chuckled. “Very far,” he agreed, “but very necessary nonetheless. The woods are crawling with redcoats. Where we are going, they won’t show their faces.”

  “Where are we going, exactly?”

  “To Ste. Marie. It’s a trading post and settlement on a narrow strait of w
ater separating Lake Huron from Lake Superior. It’s ideally situated for my purposes. Across the strait is an American post.”

  She considered his words carefully. “How long before we reach this Ste. Marie?”

  “Two weeks.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Two weeks?”

  “I know.” Patting her on the shoulder, he went on. “But don’t upset yourself. I know what I am doing. I’ve made this journey more times than I can remember.”

  “That’s not it! There is something at Ste. Marie, some particular reason for us going there. There must be.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I…I don’t know. Womanly intuition, I suppose.”

  It was a long while before he answered, and when he did, he spoke with reluctance. “You are right. There is another reason, though I am half inclined to believe that no good will come of it. There is this girl, an Indian girl, who was once in Sara’s employ. She disappeared. We discovered that she was married to a guide, Doucette, and went along with him on one of the fur brigades to his place in Ste. Marie. I want to question her.” He shifted his position slightly. “You remember that when we were in New York, Sara became deathly ill?”

  “Of course. And we came to York to be with her.”

  His breathing made a soft, rasping sound in the silence. Finally, he said, “I was more concerned than I let on. You know now about the attacks in London?”

  “Yes, Peter told me.”

  “Then you may imagine my thoughts when Sara became ill. I sent word to James and asked him to investigate. The short of it is, we discovered that Sara was being drugged and we believe the maid was responsible.”

  There was a pause before she said, “You don’t trust either Peter or William, do you, Leon?”

  “I don’t trust anyone, especially when I don’t know what is going on. All of us—you, Sara and myself—have been targets at one time or another. I aim to remove us from danger.”

  It was a fantastic story, and one that Emily was not sure she believed. Careful to keep the skepticism from her voice, she asked, “How can finding this girl help you, Leon? That’s what I don’t understand.”

  He shifted her until they were facing each other. “She may know nothing at all. On the other hand, someone may have put her up to it. If you are not tired, there are other things I can suggest to occupy your beautiful mouth.”

  Her hand clutched at his shoulder, wedging a space between them. “You think the maid will be able to identify the perpetrator of all these crimes?”

  He stopped kissing her throat and moved to her mouth. “Yes.”

  “And you think you know who it is?”

  His sigh betrayed the merest trace of exasperation. “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “Peter Benson, or possibly William Addison.”

  Before her brain had time to sift everything through, her tongue found speech. “But what possible motive could either Peter or William have for murdering Mrs. Royston?”

  At the speed of lightning, he shot back, “What possible motive could I have for murdering Barbara Royston? Don’t wrack your brain for a way out of it. Why don’t you admit that you are still not convinced of my innocence?”

  “It’s not that,” she denied fiercely. “It’s just that Peter and William don’t seem…” This was the moment to stop, when she was aware that she had stepped from terra firma onto quicksand. Without thinking, she pushed on, trying to justify herself.

  “What I mean is this. They both come from old and distinguished families. I know I am not saying this well, but don’t you see, there has never been anything in their backgrounds to suggest such a thing?”

  “Whereas I was once an assassin?”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “No, but it’s what you were thinking.”

  Her hand curled into a fist, poised to strike him. Realizing that she was allowing her frustration to carry her away, she inhaled a calming breath, then another. “Leon,” she pleaded, “if I believed that, would I be here with you now? Last night, would I have allowed you to make love to me? Would I have made love to you?”

  Long fingers tightened around her throat and she caught back a startled cry. His voice was lazy with sensuality. His words were frightening. “Dear Emily, do you suppose that you are the first woman who has used her sex to barter with me for her life? I’ll say this for an assassin’s life. It has its compensations.”

  She shook her head. “It isn’t true. I don’t believe it,” and on the very next breath, “Who was she, Leon?”

  He left her so quickly, so silently, that she was apologizing to thin air before she knew it.

  “Lève! Lève! Lève!”

  Like a big bird of prey, the voyageur swooped among them, bellowing at the top of his lungs, desecrating the silence by beating a wooden spoon rhythmically against a tin plate. The din was earsplitting. “Lève! Lève! Lève!”

  Emily’s hand groped for Leon and found only his empty blanket. It was still warm from the heat of his body. At the next raucous cry, she got her bearings. Groaning, aware of every taut muscle, she slipped from beneath the upturned canoe, pulling the bedding with her. It took only a moment to fold the blankets and tie them with a leather thong.

  Two days on the trail, she was thinking, and already she knew the routine well. It was as dark as Hades, and only three o’clock in the morning, but within a very short while, camp would be struck and they would be on their way. There would be nothing to break their fast but a drink of cold water. The voyageurs were a hardy lot and didn’t believe in mollycoddling themselves. Three hours would pass before they stopped to consume the predictable meal of pea soup and cold bannock. Emily would have sold her soul for a cup of freshly brewed coffee.

  It was only a step or two to the water’s edge. She cupped her hands and buried her face in the cooling stream. Her movements were quick and efficient. There was little time for primping and preening. The voyageurs were impatient to be off.

  When the signal was given, she picked up her bundle and made for the canoe, her eyes scanning the shadows for a glimpse of Leon. When she saw him, she was off like a shot.

  “Leon, I know you slept with me last night.”

  He was crouched down, examining and adjusting packs as men picked them up to load them into the canoes. “This isn’t the time to conduct a discussion.”

  “There never is a right time. From dawn to dusk, you are always busy.” She wasn’t finding fault with him. This was no pleasure jaunt. Sometimes it seemed that there were more tasks to do than men to do them. Time was the enemy. Even a tenderfoot like Emily had grasped that truth. In the woods around them, game was plentiful and they would have welcomed a change from their monotonous diet. They stopped for nothing except to eat and sleep.

  He scowled up at her. “Look, you can suit yourself where you sleep. I already told you that. If you are afraid of me, I suggest you bed down with Sara and Hester or whomsoever you choose.”

  Someone called to him then, and he moved away. Emily wanted to pull out her hair by the roots, or his. Before she could vent her frustration at Leon, at herself, at a world that seemed wholly unjust, one of the voyageurs pounced on her. Though he was no taller than she herself, he picked her up as easily as if she were a feather and dumped her in the center of the boat. Hester and Sara were already in their places.

  Beyond a stiffly returned greeting, Hester preserved a stony silence. Fine. Emily was in no mood for small talk, either. But when Sara made the effort to smooth over the awkwardness, Emily unbent a little.

  “We are going to Ste. Marie,” said Sara.

  “Did Leon speak to you?”

  “No, James did. Last night, after you and Leon had retired.” Sara could hardly keep a straight face. Her eyes kept sliding to her sister-in-law’s stiff-as-starch figure.

  Emily wasn’t amused. “What else did James tell you?”

  “Oh, that he and the voyageurs will part company with us there. They are pushing on to Fort Wi
lliam.”

  This was news to Emily. It occurred to her that James might be laying a false trail to throw their pursuers off Leon’s scent. One glance at Hester’s unbending profile convinced her to keep this thought to herself. “Did he mention a girl, the wife of a guide?”

  “Not to me. Perhaps he said something to you, Hester?”

  For a moment it looked as though Hester was pretending to be deaf. Gradually, her expression altered and Emily deduced that either she knew something or curiosity was getting the better of her. Finally, she asked, “Which guide?”

  Emily had to wrack her brain before the name came to her. “Doucette,” she said. “The girl was once your maid, Sara. The Indian girl who ran away.”

  “What do they want with her?”

  By this time, both Hester and Sara were avidly curious. Emily hesitated for a moment, wondering belatedly if she was betraying Leon’s confidence by bringing the matter of the girl into the open. “Leon seems to think she may be able to help him clear his name,” she said vaguely.

  “My maid?” Sara looked at Emily as though she had taken leave of her senses. “What could she possibly know?”

  “Your former maid.”

  “I can’t recall a single thing about her, except that she was exceedingly shy.”

  “I remember her,” said Hester. “She was the one with light fingers. Nothing was safe from her. Plates, spoons, ribbons, notepaper—the girl was a veritable magpie. Unfortunately, I did not discover it till it was too late. If she had not left our employ voluntarily, I would have dismissed her. And this is the woman whom Devereux hopes will clear his name?” She made a sound that left her hearers in no doubt of her opinion. “He knows as well as I do that the girl would be laughed out of court. He is guilty, Emily, and the sooner you make your mind up to it, the sooner we can make plans to escape.”

  “I’m not leaving my husband,” said Emily.

  “Sara?”

  Sara shrank under Hester’s penetrating stare. “I…I’m not leaving Emily,” she said.

  On the first stop of the day, the girls took the opportunity to stretch their legs. Hester was sulking, and waved them away.