PART THREE
CHAPTER 13
Rebecca
“ALONE I SEE? About time you came up for air!”
Rebecca looked up as Maggie let herself into the long house, smiling at her friend despite the flush of warmth settling over her cheeks. Leave it to Maggie to be crass about the marriage bed.
“Do all women from the future speak so–so brazen?” Rebecca chastised her, smiling despite her embarrassment. “I wouldn’t fault yer husband for taking a switch to ye, not fer one second!”
Maggie burst into a fit of giggles as she bounced onto Rebecca’s bedding platform. Her red hair was spread like a fan across her shoulders, and Rebecca noted she wore a new dress lined with embroidered edging. It was in a high-waist style and flattered her petite figure in a pleasing manner.
“It’s just an observation, no harm,” Maggie retorted. “And if Winn ever laid a hand to me, I’d break his good right arm.”
“Maggie!”
“What? Come on now!” Maggie snorted. “You know me better than that. From the future or not, I won’t stand for that sort of thing and you know it.”
“Might do ye some good,” Rebecca muttered with a smile. Maggie kicked her legs out and leaned back on the platform on her elbows, eyeing Rebecca in a most severe manner.
“So. Where did your new husband run off to? Is he with mine? I can’t seem to find Winn anywhere. I worry when he goes off without telling me.”
Rebecca regained her composure and resorted to folding her linens in a more methodical manner. Maggie needed no encouragement when she was up to something, and it was quite clear the Chief’s wife was plotting some scheme. With the intent of trying to decipher her friend’s game, Rebecca averted her eyes and tried to flesh out the truth.
“I’m sure they’re just busy,” Rebecca answered. Maggie scowled.
“Right. So fess up. You know what they’re up to, don’t you?”
“No! I mean…well…Makedewa did mention something about going into town. But they would have told us. They wouldna just leave without a word,” Rebecca admitted. She was not entirely comfortable disclosing any tidbit of information to Maggie, lest the woman run off half-cocked and tumble into trouble.
“I knew it!” Maggie muttered. She jumped off the bed and went for the door, and Rebecca grabbed her by the wrist before she could leave.
“Come back here!” Rebecca admonished her. She pulled her friend over to the platform and resorted to yanking on her arm to get her to sit. Maggie acquiesced without too much fight, much to Rebecca’s relief.
“I just have a bad feeling. Something’s not right, I don’t want them to go into town. There’s some reason Benjamin didn’t come back and they’re keeping it from us,” Maggie admitted.
“Hush. Ye spend so much time worrying on things ye have no say in. Ye know Winn only means to keep ye happy. If there was something amiss, he would tell ye.”
Maggie sighed. Rebecca wound her fingers through Maggie’s and clasped her hand tightly. Maggie squeezed her gently back in return.
“I suppose you’re right,” Maggie replied.
“Maybe he’s just staying away. Maybe he still mourns Marcus. Or…” Rebecca drifted off without finishing the thought, her mind wandering back to them time Benjamin had lived among them. She was aware of the history between Maggie and Benjamin, and because of it Rebecca was not surprised Benjamin stayed away. Although no one blamed Benjamin outright for the death of Marcus, she knew some made whisper of the accusation when the Chief was out of earshot. Maggie and Winn seemed to have moved beyond the ghosts of the past when it came to Benjamin, and they expected all others to do the same. Yet nevertheless Benjamin had left the village, and he stayed away even as Makedewa returned.
Rebecca would not admit it, but Maggie was right. There was some reason Benjamin stayed away. Until he chose to return, they had no way of knowing what that reason was.
“All right then. Fine. I’ll leave it be. I suppose he has his reasons for staying away,” Maggie sighed. “I can see Winn is troubled over it. I just wish I could help somehow.”
“Ye can help by leaving it to the men. Tend yer husband and do his bidding. Like ye usually do,” Rebecca laughed, adding the last tidbit with a sly smile. Maggie elbowed her in the ribs and they both laughed, but Rebecca could see the remnants of unease eating at Maggie. “Was it so different? I mean, where ye came from? I love ye senseless, Maggie, but sometimes ye have the strangest ideas. I canna imagine what sort of life ye lived before ye came here,” Rebecca added.
Maggie stilled at the question, her laughter tapering off into a stilted chuckle. Rebecca squeezed her hand and Maggie returned the gesture, but the mood between them suddenly changed.
“Some things were different,” Maggie said softly. She let loose a short sigh and her green eyes seemed to glisten. Maggie’s lips thinned into a tight line, and her teeth bit down over her lower lip before she spoke. “I had other things to worry over then. Paying the bills, keeping the farm running. Caring for my grandfather. But I took care of it all somehow. I could fix anything, or at least it seemed that way. And if I couldn’t fix it myself, then Marcus was there to help.”
“I know ye miss him. We all do,” Rebecca said.
Maggie nodded, smiling. “Oh, I do miss him. It seems like a dream now, when I think on it. Marcus…Grandfather. As if it’s some story I made up in my head, something I never truly lived. But I did live it, it was my life. I was in college, I had a few friends…I thought someday I would get married, have kids and a dog, like everyone else.”
“Would ye go back to it, if ye could?” Rebecca asked. She feared speaking the question aloud but could not stem it. It was a question she often asked of herself. It hung there in the silence between them as Maggie took a long moment to respond.
“Go back? No,” she whispered. “This is the place I was meant for. Even if I’m just a spectator most of them time, I know it’s where I should be. Sometimes I dream I’m back in the farmhouse in my old room, and I wake up on soft cotton sheets with my head on a fluffy feather pillow. And then, as the dream drifts away and I wake up, I feel Winn’s arm around me. Even if he’s not there, I still…feel him. He ties me to him, like we’re twisted together somewhere deep down. I can’t say it any other way. I don’t know how we’re bound, but we are, and it’s something I cannot run from.”
Maggie squeezed Rebecca’s fingers. “You’ll know how that is, right?”
Rebecca nodded, swallowing down the tightness in her throat. Yes, she understood a bit of that twisting. It was that twining between two people, the tendrils that linked them together. It might start out small, a tiny knot, but over time it grew larger, tighter. Stronger. And even if you panicked and tried to unravel it, the fight only gave it strength. It could not be broken.
“Oh, I think I know,” Rebecca answered. They sat shoulder to shoulder, the conversation left hanging in the silence of the Long house.
Kyra burst into the Long house as a wee whirlwind. Her cheeks were round red cherries standing out against her dirt-stained skin, her chest rising and falling in rapid excited breaths.
“Mama, come quick. Morgan’s here!” the girl shouted. Kyra scarce took a breath before she raced off again, leaving them in the wake of her declaration.
“Morgan? Kwetii, wait!” Maggie replied. “Come on–sounds like we have visitors. I can’t feed them all by myself.”
Rebecca followed Maggie from the long house. She smiled at the sight of her friend picking up the skirts of her new dress and taking off into a run after her daughter through the yard.
John Jackson perched in the middle of a group of enamored young Norsemen. The Norse traveled only infrequently into the English towns, so the advent of a friendly visitor brought their work for the afternoon to a sudden halt. With one raised leg resting on the edge of the well, the visitor accepted the offer of mead from Cormaic and settled down to give them gossip from town.
Rebecca had only met him once or twice, b
ut he was an affable fellow and seemed to mean no harm to them. Although John was an Englishman, his mother had been French, and despite his oath laden speech he was a well-educated man. Rebecca was aware Young Morgan White was John’s ward, and they all owed thanks to John and Morgan for helping Chief Winn when he was captured. If not for John sending Morgan to alert them, Winn would have been hung by the English.
She noticed Kyra flanking the older boys. Ahi Kekeleksu and Morgan sat by the woods in a semi circle, drawing figures in the sandy soil. Iain, an older half-Norse, half-Indian youth, stood watching them. Occasionally one of the boys would toss a pebble or stick at Kyra to chase her off, but the girl would not be swayed. Kyra followed Morgan as if she were a lost puppy, watching his every move and thrilled with even a smile from him.
“She is fixed on Young Morgan,” Rebecca commented to Maggie. As Maggie filled a pitcher with fresh mead, she glanced over at the children with a smile.
“Uhm, yeah, she sure is,” Maggie replied. “Keke teases her about it. She punched her cousin in the gut over it, and Winn had to scold her.”
“I am not surprised by that,” Rebecca laughed. She hoisted a basket of bread up near her shoulder and brought it to the table, and as she bent to place it she noticed her husband join the men. From his place beside Chief Winn, Makedewa met her gaze across the yard. He made no outward smile, always the stalwart one, but she could see his eyes brighten and his brows raise when he saw her. Arms crossed over his chest, he stood with legs braced slightly apart. When he raised his chin in her direction she saw Chetan roll his eyes, and Makedewa shot him a seething glare. The exchange made her giggle, and drew Maggie’s attention.
“Oh, good. They’re back,” Maggie commented. When Maggie set off to see Winn, Rebecca wiped her damp hands off on her apron and followed her, lugging a pitcher of mead along to distribute. For once she was glad Maggie was impetuous and bold; surely there was no harm in following the Chief’s wife, and if it meant seeing Makedewa sooner rather than later, then it was well worth it.
The men were deep in conversation when the two women came into earshot. John Jackson spoke in a cluttered mixture of English and French, with the frequent obscenities flagrant enough to make her blush. It seemed not to bother then men, but she regretted intruding on them. Unlike Maggie, Rebecca was content with the knowledge that there were some things the men needed to deal with alone.
When Maggie offered the men cups, Rebecca made rounds to fill them. Winn did not go out of his way to acknowledge his wife, but Rebecca saw the subtle movement of his hand brushing Maggie’s hip when she greeted him. Would things ever be so easy between her and Makedewa?
Early that morning Makedewa expressed remorse at needing to leave their marriage bed, but she understood he had duties to his kin. After their first night together as man and wife she had longed to waste the day away in exploration of their newfound bond, yet that respite was not theirs to be had. Life marched on, newly married or no. Makedewa wore his careful aloof mask, and Rebecca felt like a flustered girl once more under his watchful stare.
When she finally made way to Makedewa and moved to fill his cup, he closed his fingers over hers and kept her close. Only for a moment, it was a gesture so slight that no one noticed, and warmth coursed over her skin at his touch.
“Hello, wife,” he murmured, bending so that his lips brushed her ear. She kept her head lowered and smiled as the men continued with their conversation.
“Hello, husband,” she whispered. He raised the cup to his mouth, and she could see the corners turned up in a grin over the rim.
“And Makedewa, what say you? I hear ye’ve married this Englishwoman, vous batard cornee! Dare I bid ye good tidings, or do ye care naught for the well wishes of an Englishman?” John Jackson proclaimed, interrupting their private moment.
Makedewa took another sip, pausing before he responded. Rebecca thought she saw the light of tense amusement in his eyes as he glanced at John Jackson.
“Not from an Englishman. But I shall take it from a French fils de pute today,” Makedewa said evenly. She was not sure what was said, but from the way all the men grew silent she suspected it was not polite. She expected John Jackson’s mouth might catch a few bugs the way it gaped open, but she was relieved when the visitor resorted to a wide grin.
“Touche, my friend!” John bellowed. He was a short man, but his deep voice carried, and at the sound of renewed friendship, the other men went back to their rowdy conversation.
She noticed Makedewa nod to Winn before he took her elbow and steered her away from the crowd. She followed him away from the courtyard toward their Long house, pleased when he gently placed his hand on her lower back to guide her.
“Are you well this morning, wife?” he asked once they were out of earshot. His head tilted toward her, and she could see his features soften for a moment.
“Yes, of course. I mean, yes, I am well,” she stammered. Memories of their night sparked her gaze, and she felt her skin flush at the decadent thoughts.
“Then why do your cheeks look like red apples?” he teased. She stopped short with an indignant squeak as he laughed.
“I’m fine! And ye! Ye look like a–like a strutting peacock!” she retorted, elbowing him in the ribs. “And I—”
He stopped her words with his mouth, catching her face gently between his palms. He kissed her soundly until her murmurs ceased, then let his forehead rest against hers.
“I was teasing, chulentet. I only wish to know if you are pleased with me. With being my wife,” he said softly. His tender declaration brought the swell of tears to her eyes as she nodded.
“I am…most pleased,” she answered, not trusting her voice for more than a mere whisper. He smiled.
“Good. I thought of you all morning. I heard nothing of what my brothers spoke. All my thoughts were with you.”
“Yer brother would not be happy to hear that,” she chided him. He shrugged.
“I only care for what you think. Was I not clear on that last night?” he whispered, dappling a series of teasing kisses down her neck. Breathless, she squirmed away and gave him a gentle shove.
“So marriage suits ye!”
John Jackson approached them, a broad smile breaking his thin face. Rebecca stepped back from her husband as Makedewa made an annoyed grunting sound of acknowledgement.
“It does. Is your business ended here, John? I see not why you should stay much longer,” Makedewa answered. His words were said evenly, his voice tempered with restraint. Rebecca noticed the way her husband tensed in the presence of the Englishman. Even half-French and being a friend to Winn, it was not unusual for Makedewa to distrust outsiders. If there was one thing Rebecca knew of her new husband, it was that he did not place his loyalty lightly, and it seemed John Jackson had not met that threshold yet with Makedewa despite the help given to Chief Winn.
“Yes, yes, I shall be leaving. But I have news ye might find interest in. I wasna sure before, but yer the daughter of Robbie Graves, aren’t ye?”
She felt Makedewa close his hand over her wrist. The sting of her dead father’s name fell heavy in the air, spiking through her chest. It had been years since she said her father’s name. Although she thought of her family often, the image of seeing them slaughtered was one that still haunted her dreams. It was easier for them all to avoid that echo of the past.
“He–he was my father. They’re all–they’re all…”
Makedewa interrupted her.
“Her family is gone. Say what you must, but leave them to rest,” Makedewa said.
“I mean no disrespect. ‘Tis only that I have word from yer mother, no harm! She’d be right pleased to know her daughter still lives, she thought ye captured like my sister,” John prattled.
Her throat suddenly felt dry and her vision seemed to blur. Her mother? What was he talking about? She had watched her mother die. She would remember that day as long as she lived.
Rebecca pressed her cheek flat to the floor. She co
uld see her mother’s feet across the room from her hiding spot beneath the bed. Mother’s boots were ankle-high black leather, newly purchased from the trade-ship that arrived earlier in the week. Mother had been so happy to have new boots, and father was pleased to gift them to her. It was the little things that made mother happy; clean linens, serviceable dresses, and new boots were enough to make her swoon.
The door cracked against the wall when it burst open, causing mother to let out a screech.
“Please, we mean ye no harm!” Mother cried. Rebecca saw the boots slide back against the floor toward her hiding spot, the heels leaving black smudges on the wood plank flooring as the woman shuffled backward. A sickening thud came next, followed by mother slumping to the floor in a heap.
Rebecca clamped her hands over her mouth, but it was too late. At the sight of her mother’s lifeless face she uttered a scream. Mother’s eyes lolled back in her head, like a china doll, staring blankly back at her before they fluttered closed. Her mother’s lips made no sound, and Rebecca’s panic burned her throat as she struggled to keep from vomiting.
Two moccasin-clad feet walked toward the damaged door. She closed her eyes and swallowed as the savage left the room. After waiting for what seemed like hours, it was the empty gap of her mother’s open mouth that led her to crack. Her body shook with fright and tears fell free down her cheeks, muffled sobs coming through her closed fist.
It was then that the raider returned. She stifled her cries when she saw the bottoms of his browned legs return to the room. It was the same savage, she was sure of it by the color of his moccasins and the way her mother’s blood splashed his feet. He approached the bed and paused. She tried not to make a sound of relief when the feet shuffled around back the way he had come.
The trill of a whistle pierced the air, and then a hearty laugh. She could not stifle her scream when he stalked back toward the bed and then his body dropped flat to floor. He stayed there, staring at her with his face inches from hers, a grin stretched over his gleeful face. His teeth were bright against his brown skin, white daggers inside his malevolent mouth. When he reached for her, she finally let loose, screaming and thrashing at him with her last vestige of strength.
The Blooded Ones Page 61
