She closed her eyes and sighed at the comfort of his touch. His blue eyes gleamed in the dim light.
“How you distract me, wife,” he murmured. She smiled.
“I didn’t do anything,” she whispered.
“No?”
He pulled her slowly down to sit on his lap.
“You’re the one bothering me, warrior.”
“Does this bother you?” he grinned.
“Yes,” she choked as he placed a soft kiss to the base of her throat. She glanced at the door. It was still closed, but she could hear voices nearby.
He nodded toward the back room, and she eagerly followed him. The respite was not theirs to be had, however. Before they reached the privacy of closed quarters, the door swung open and Teyas entered, followed by Marcus and Rebecca. Kwetii squealed from where she sat perched on Rebecca’s hip, launching into her own series of demands.
“Momma! Uppy! Uppy!”
Maggie took her daughter from Rebecca. She hid her flushed face against Kwetii and swung her around, causing the child to scream with laughter. Winn made a disjointed grunting sound, looking distinctly uncomfortable as he picked up his discarded weapons from the table and the others filed into the cottage. He kissed Kwetii on her head, and then his lips brushed Maggie’s ear as they parted.
“Later, you are mine,” he whispered. She smiled.
Teyas had a sharp eye and Maggie saw her nudge Winn as he passed.
“Interrupting something, brother?” Teyas asked.
“You have work to do,” he grumbled. “We leave in the morning.”
Maggie and Teyas exchanged grins as Winn left the cottage.
“He’s right,” Maggie agreed. “We all have a lot of work to do.”
Teyas and Rebecca went up to the loft, talking of what to do with the furniture they had grown fond of. Growing up as a Paspahegh, Teyas was well accustomed to moving several times a year, even more if necessary. Yet Rebecca in particular was having a difficult time with the idea of moving. Maggie wondered if she had second thoughts about her decision to stay with them instead of returning to the English.
“You rascal, stop squirming!” Maggie said.
She adjusted her wiggling child and tried to keep her pinned on her hip, but when Kwetii decided she wanted down, she would not relent. Maggie juggled the wooden ladle while trying to subdue her daughter, surprised when Marcus took the child from her.
“Here, I’ll watch her. She’s a handful enough without ye tending the food,” he said. He hefted Kwetii up against his shoulder and Maggie smiled when the toddler reached up and grabbed at his beard.
“She’s never seen facial hair on a man. I’m sure she’ll lose interest soon.”
“Oh? I suppose she wouldna, living out here with ye.”
Maggie turned back to the kettle, leaving them to their own devices. She heard Marcus clear his throat.
“We haven’t had much time to talk, with the others always about.”
She nodded, her back still turned to him. His voice betrayed his angst, his thick accent strained and his words stilted.
“I know ye married Benjamin, I found record of it. Will ye tell me, or leave me guessing what happened?”
“Things are different in this time,” she said quietly.
“I know that very well.”
“Winn was shot in front of my eyes, I thought he was dead. I didn’t know what to do.” She folded her hands and twisted her fingers together against her skirt as she turned to face him. “There was a man named Thomas Martin who claimed I was his niece, I suppose he did it for the bride price he would get when he settled a marriage contract. I had nowhere else to go.”
“Surely the Paspahegh would have helped ye.”
“I was carrying Kwetii. I thought they blamed me for Winn’s death. I had no way to reach them, and no means to take care of myself. Benjamin offered his protection, and I took it.”
Kwetii reached for her, and Maggie pulled her into her arms. The toddler stuck her thumb in her mouth and rested her head on her shoulder. Maggie rocked slowly to soothe the child as Marcus gazed at her with a frown. She could see the crease across his forehead and the way his jaw tightened as he considered her words. She had only given him the bare bones of the story. What would he think of her if she told him all of it?
“There’s no sin in such a thing, if that’s what yer asking,” he finally said. She swallowed hard.
“I didn’t know who he was until the day we gave him the Bloodstone. I thought we sent him home…to you,” she whispered, dipping her chin down into her daughter’s hair. There was so much she wanted to say to him, this gentle hulk of a man who had always watched over her. Yet seeing his eyes glazed with emotion and knowing her own tears were ready to surge, she held back the bulk of the truth until her breathing slowed.
“So there’s no hope for peace between Benjamin and Winn, then, is there?”
“You can’t fault Winn for that. They were friends before this, like brothers…” she paused, the statement sounding quite foolish.
“Aye, maybe. A woman has a way of changing things between friends. Even brothers.”
Marcus turned to the window. She followed behind him, swaying gently to ease Kwetii to sleep. Through the glass, she could see the yard where Makedewa stood with Rebecca, engaged in some sort of awkward discussion. She leaned in next to Marcus to get a closer look.
“It seems like you hate the Paspahegh. Your son is part of them,” she said quietly.
“Ye think I don’t know that? No, I don’t hate them. I hate the bloody foolish Weroance who caused all this grief. Without an old man’s senseless vision, none of this would have happened. We’re the last of our people because of him, Maggie. We’re what is left of the Blooded Ones.”
“Finola used that term once. What does it mean?”
“It’s from old magic. Blooded Ones are born with the power. It must be in yer blood, to use the stone. There were few of us even before Opechancanough wanted us all dead. He hunted them down, he ended our people. They’re all gone, except for us.”
“Us?” she asked.
“You, me. Benjamin and Winn. Your little one. That’s why I took your mother to the future. It was my duty to protect the last of our most powerful blood, that which flows in yer veins. You know nothing of what magic lies in your blood.”
“I think I know something of it,” she murmured.
She held her hand out, palm side up. The scar had faded to a silver-white hue, but the knotted design was still as clear as the day the Bloodstone had burned it into her flesh as it thrust her back through time.
“I didn’t have this until I came here. What really happened to my parents? Did you and Granddad lie about them, too?” she asked.
His mouth tensed tight at her question and his brows dipped down in a deep crease.
“They’re gone like the rest.” He reached inside his trade shirt and pulled out his Bloodstone. It was wrapped in tarnished copper, like Winn’s, and hanging from a rawhide cord from his neck. “I didn’t know if I could find ye and Benjamin, or if the Bloodstone would take my life when I traveled. It’s been a long time since I worked the magic. But I had to try. Yer all that’s left that matters to me.”
His shoulders relaxed and he let out a sigh. He let the Bloodstone pendant drop back down against his chest.
“You have Winn now, as well,” she said softly. “Will you stay here with us, once you find Benjamin?”
“It’s a one-way ticket, lamb. I won’t risk it again. Yes, I am here to stay.”
He kissed Kwetii softly before he left to join the men, leaving her watching them from the window.
CHAPTER 10
Makedewa
Makedewa threw an armful of sweet alfalfa grass to the ponies. He was restless, so he went to tend the horses and gather the livestock close to the houses. The animals now grazed loose inside the large barn, a remnant left over from the previous occupant of the farm. He did not care for the enclosed stru
cture yet he had to admit it was a sensible method of keeping the horses ready at a quick notice. With the attack by the deserters, it was more important than ever to be ready for anything. As he watched the horses, he heard footsteps on the packed clay path and raised his head. Rebecca peered around the barn door. At the sight of her round flushed face and curious stare, he felt his throat constrict.
“Are ye occupied, Makedewa? I willna bother ye if so,” she said softly.
Makedewa could utter nothing sensible, and all that came out was a half-snort, half-grunt as he shrugged.
“No, you are no bother to me,” he said with a frown. Rebecca ducked her chin and looked at her own clenched hands at the callous response. “Stay if you wish.”
“Are ye sure?”
“I said so, did I not?” he asked, his tone more irritated than he intended. “I meant–I–are you well, I mean?” he stammered.
She nodded and looked up at him, meeting his gaze for a fleeting moment, her corkscrew curls bouncing against her shoulders.
“I am well. It was only a fright for us hiding in the cellar. I worry for dear Maggie, though, she seems affected,” she murmured.
“Maggie has the heart of a brave, ease your mind of that,” Makedewa replied. Rebecca left the doorway and stepped into the barn, and he took an equal step backward. He did not wish to scare her off. In his haste to give her a wide berth, he knocked a pitchfork over and stumbled trying to catch it, and Rebecca leapt at it as well. They ended up each holding onto the tool, kneeling on the ground, laughing at each other.
“Makedewa?” she asked.
“Hmm?”
“Would ye teach me to–to shoot your bow? Or use thy knife? I think I should know more of such things, living among ye.”
“If you wish,” he muttered. “Tomorrow. I will teach you tomorrow.”
She smiled, and they both stood up.
“Thank ye. If you wish, I will teach you to read. I–I used to teach the children…once.”
Makedewa nodded without looking at her.
“A fair trade. You may teach me.”
She turned quickly, giving him a brief smile and an awkward nod before she walked back to the cottage.
Makedewa watched her go. It had been a long two years waiting for her to smile on him, and he would do anything to see it again. He would not mention he was already quite fluent in reading English.
CHAPTER 11
Rebecca
Rebecca decided it was time. For too long she had pushed his friendship away, yet still he persisted with silent patience. If there was ever a man she could trust, surely it was the quiet warrior who she shared a home with. She was tired of feeling like a burden to their mismatched family, the only woman among them who could not wield a weapon or contribute in a useful way. Yes, she cooked and cared for the children, but seeing the way Maggie and Winn interacted made her long for more. Her English life was long gone, and as Maggie had been telling her for months, there was much more to life than living in the past.
She lifted her skirts above her ankles as she made way through the tall grass. Makedewa was waiting in the field, where he had hung a hide against a wide tree trunk to take aim at. She watched him as she approached, noting with a flush of heat to her face how his skin glistened over his shoulders as he drew back the bow string, his arms flexed in readiness. He lowered the bow when he noticed her approach.
“The wind is quiet today. A good day to learn,” he said, his eyes meeting hers. She glanced up at the bright sky.
“It’s beautiful out today, surely,” she agreed. She smiled but he scowled, and suddenly her brave intention flew away. Had she already done something to annoy him? Sometimes it seemed her very presence irritated him, and her hopes for the day dimmed.
“Turn around,” he snapped. She did so without question, her breath a sharp intake when he untied the ribbon from her hair. He paused for a long moment, and then twisted her hair into a knot at her nape, securing it with a tug of the ribbon more toward her left shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. She turned to face him, perplexed at the way his eyes softened and his grimace lightened.
“For what?”
“I should have thought–my hair, I mean,” she said.
“You know nothing of how to shoot. Be sorry for naught,” he mumbled. “That is why my scalp is shaved here, so that the arrow does not get caught.” He pointed to the swatch of crescent shaped skin over his right ear, the skin smooth of any offending hair. The rest of his black mane fell loose down his back, which was unusual for him since he most often wore it knotted or in a braid. She thought he looked softer somehow with it down, as if his body had relaxed with the easy motion. Even the corner of his mouth appeared to twitch as if he wanted to smile but held back.
He thrust a smaller bow into her hands, holding an arrow in his fist as he stepped away. He picked up his own larger bow and demonstrated how to pull back on the string.
“Try this first, before I give you the arrow. Make your arm straight. Pull your hand back to your nose.”
She did so, plucking the string, which snapped back with a deep twang. She liked the feel of the curved wood in her hand and a smile spread over her lips as she glanced at Makedewa. He had dropped his bow and stood watching her, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Good. Here, now try this.”
He leaned across her and placed the notched end of the arrow on the string, grunting his approval when she balanced it on top of her other outstretched fist. When he stepped away, she drew the string but the arrow faltered, dipping to the side. She made several attempts to steady the thing before he would assist her, stepping to her side again. As much as she wanted to shoot the blasted arrow, his presence beside her led to complete distraction. Like the day he pulled her from the root cellar and held her in his arms, she could smell the scent of sweat on his skin and feel the warmth of his breath on her neck. Her throat tightened when he placed his hand over hers to steady the arrow and he slowly circled her shoulders with his other arm.
“Hold tight, here. Looser, here,” he said. She relaxed the fingers gripping the string and smiled when it worked. The arrow drifted back to meet the bow.
“Let go,” he murmured. She released her fingers and the arrow took flight, striking the edge of the target flap to lodge into the bark. She squealed with delight.
“Did ye see that? I did it! I hit the tree!” she laughed, swirling around in her excitement. He was still very close with his hand resting on her waist, but she did not mind it. In fact, it felt quite nice, and he had the making of a grin on his lips. For a man who rarely smiled, when his deep dark eyes softened and he relaxed, he looked nearly attractive.
“Good shot. Try again,” he agreed. He bent abruptly to pick up his own bow, standing beside her to shoot at the target. They practiced like that until the target was full of holes and the tree bark was shredded beneath the hide. Makedewa gave her occasional instruction but otherwise just supervised as she found her own technique, and by the end of the afternoon, she was quite pleased to be hitting the hide on every shot.
Her fingers ached and there were blisters on her thumb when she finally sat down beside him where he had taken a break, lying on the soft moss beneath another tree. He offered her a drink from his flask, which she took, watching as he leaned back onto his elbows and stretched out.
“The bow I use is much smaller than yours. Should I try the one ye use?” she commented.
“Keep the small one. It fits your hand, as it should. I made it for you.”
She smiled. It was strange to be alone with him, sitting in a field surrounded by nothingness. She thought briefly of her mother, and wondered what the woman would have thought of such a thing. Although she sometimes missed her parents, she did not miss the strict life they lived, with the constant threat of damnation forever held over her head. Learning to live with the Indians and accepting that she was no harlot for sharing the afternoon with a man? Well, those were things she s
till needed to resolve for herself.
His eyes closed to the sun overhead. As she looked down at him, sipping from his flask, she felt a tugging down deep in her belly. It was an unfamiliar sensation but it possessed her, and suddenly her hand moved as if directed by a devil and slid onto his chest. His body stiffened at her touch, the rise of his chest trapped in place, and he opened his eyes as he swallowed. He said nothing, his soft brown eyes fixed on hers as she slowly drew her hand away. He caught her fingers in his own and placed her hand flat against his heart.
“I–I’m sorry,” she stammered.
“I am not,” he replied, keeping her palm under his, his eyes still focused on hers. She felt the thud of his heart under her hand and saw the heat in his gaze pulling her closer. For once, she felt no panic. The only thing she knew was that she wanted to be closer to him, to explore something beyond their tenuous friendship. She had no experience with men, but she suspected he felt the same way underneath his angry facade.
“I never see ye smile, Makedewa,” she whispered.
“I smile…at times,” he said.
“Even now ye look angry. Do I anger ye?” she asked.
“It is not anger you see, I promise you.”
She nearly drew away when his hand slid up to cup her face, but instead she turned her cheek into his hand and closed her eyes. He moved swiftly then, sitting up beside her and taking her into his arms. She kept her eyes tightly closed, the feel of his touch burning her skin with rivulets of anticipation. Then his soft lips were on hers, gently covering her trembling mouth, the scent of his leather and sweat sending her senses into a spiral. Searching yet restrained, holding her face so tenderly as if she might crumble, his kiss led her closer into his embrace. When he pulled away he placed his cheek against hers and she could feel he struggled to slow his breathing the same as she.
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