Frontier Highlander Vow of Love (American Wilderness Series Romance Book 4) (9 page)

The Countess refused to give her land back, ordered her carriage brought up, and told the driver to straightaway take Artis to the port. She also sent another man along with the driver and told them to be sure the girl caught a ship leaving soon for the colonies.

Glad to be rid of the haughty trouble maker, Steller had tossed Artis and her bag into the carriage himself and felt a sense of satisfaction as they took off. He’d kicked her dog when the animal growled at him. Then the dog took off chasing the carriage.

Steller angrily recalled the events that led him here. After she sent Artis away, the Countess ordered him to his quarters and questioned his men without him present. She soon verified Artis’ story. Afraid of scandal amongst her circle of high-born friends, she didn’t have him arrested, but that same week, she had banished him to the colonies. The ungrateful bitch. Trying to keep her hands clean, she had blamed him for the evil deeds done at her direction. She even had the audacity to say that if he didn’t leave the country, she would have him tried for murder.

But it wasn’t murder it was justice, Steller reasoned. Mary MacKay had poisoned Artis’ mind against him. She thought her daughter too good for him. The widow should have wished for her daughter to marry someone like him; after all, people considered him handsome and he was a factor responsible for managing the entire enormous estate. But when the impertinent widow had refused to leave her home and shown such insolence, he had no choice but to kill the stubborn woman.

The Countess stripped him of his rank in the Sutherland household and summarily dismissed him. He’d been disgraced in front of his men and treated like a criminal. Instead of gratitude and reward for clearing her land of the primitive crofters, she gave him just enough money for passage on a ship leaving the next month.

On the dreadfully long voyage, and during his interminable indenture, he’d deliberately let his hair and beard grow long to hide his identity.

He also let his hatred for Artis grow. If she hadn’t spurned him, he would never have killed her mother, and he would still be factor of Sutherland’s estate. If only she’d done what he asked and agreed to marry him!

After seven years of indentured servitude, he was now free to walk about the city. As he strode by the town’s docks, the buzz of activity amazed him. Dock workers hurried about loading cotton, tobacco, lumber, and other goods onto ships. Newly arrived slaves stood waiting to be auctioned to a gathering crowd of farmers and planters. Scottish merchants manned stores where they sold imported British goods. The city appeared far busier now than it did upon his arrival seven years ago.

But Patrick’s mind was focused on finding only one of the many Scots in North Carolina—Artis MacKay.

Now that he was free of his demeaning indenture—serving as a butler for Robert Murray, a Wilmington official, merchant, and planter—he could, finally, find Artis.

Find her and make her pay for ruining his life.

First, he would defile her—ravishing her hard and repeatedly. Then he would kill her, slowly.

Fortunately, colonists kept excellent records and it was only a matter of time before he determined her whereabouts. His first order of business was to visit the main office of the firm that sold his own indenture. The same company had likely sold Artis too.

The clerk glanced up from his ledger as he walked in. “May I help you, Sir?” the polite young man asked.

“Indeed ye may,” Steller replied. “I am lookin’ for my wife—Artis MacKay. I believe she became an indentured servant upon her arrival here in Wilmington. I was forced to remain in Scotland for a while before I had the funds to join her here.”

“Yes, many new arrivals from Scotland take that course. Usually, though, it’s the husband who comes first.”

“I rue the day her indenture separated us. I would like to learn where she went to serve out her contract. I hope to find her and be reunited at long last.”

“Do you know when she arrived in North Carolina, Mister MacKay?”

“Aye. It was seven years ago—midyear. I miss her so.” He did his best to make his voice sound sincere and woeful.

“In 1792 then?”

“Aye.”

The clerk hauled a thick ledger from a dusty shelf and flipped through a few pages before he finally stopped. The man ran the tip of his ink-stained finger down a long column. Then he did the same on the next page, and the next.

Steller’s stomach knotted as he awaited the information. He’d waited seven years for this moment, but now, each second made him grow more impatient. “Is she there or not, man?”

The young man’s finger finally stopped, and Patrick let out a sigh of relief as the clerk read aloud. “Artis MacKay, female, age fifteen…”

“Bloody hell, I know she’s female, where did she go?” he demanded.

The clerk frowned with silent indignation, but continued, “from Sutherland Estate, Scotland…”

Patrick slammed his fist down on the counter, making the clerk jump. “And I know she’s from Scotland. Where the hell did she go man?”

“Indentured, August, 1792, at Argyll Colony, to Morgan Roberts, Roanoke, Virginia.” He looked up, his expression one of pained tolerance.

Triumph flooded through him at the man’s words. “Anythin’ else?” he pressed.

“That is all the information I have.”

“How far is it from here to Roanoke?”

“Close to 300 miles. Good luck to your wife,” he said smoothly and closed the ledger with a thud, causing dust to fly into the clerk’s pocked face.

Patrick didn’t miss that the young man failed to wish him good luck. He wanted to reach out and throttle the bugger.

He turned abruptly and left, letting the door slam behind him. “Churlish fool,” he muttered as he marched away.

After hastily buying a few supplies for his journey—a blanket, a pot, coffee, dried meat, a small tinderbox containing flint, fire steel, and tinder, and a few other necessities—he made his way to the livery. He had stabled and ordered feed for the horse he’d bought earlier that morning with part of his freedom dues. He’d also bought a saddle and he quickly saddled and loaded his supplies on the gelding. With a harsh jerk on the bridle, he turned the horse’s head toward the road out of Wilmington, and gave a hard kick with his boot heels to the gelding’s sides.

So, Artis was no longer in North Carolina. She was three hundred miles away in Virginia. At a steady canter, his mount could cover the distance in three or four days. He didn’t care how hard he pushed the animal. He’d could always buy or steal another mount if he wore the gelding out.

When he got to Roanoke, he would find out where Morgan Roberts lived and question the man as to her whereabouts. And woes be to the man if he failed to cooperate.

His mouth curved into a smile at the thought of soon getting his hands, and his body, on Artis. He hoped she was still untouched. Taking her virginity was just one of the punishments she’d earned. As he rode, he savored malicious thought about how she would die.

Chapter 10

I
t took only a few minutes for Artis, Bear, and William to reach Whispering Hills, an enchanting spot on a rise that overlooked the higher hills rolling toward the distant horizon. The beginnings of a colorful sunset lit the sky with reds, corals, and golds—colors that matched the fall leaves on the endless trees covering the darkening hills.

As they rode up, Artis could hear a dog barking loudly inside the cabin. A moment later, she heard a door open and a tail-wagging large dog dashed out and ran toward William.

William stepped out of the saddle, and bent down to pet and rub the handsome blonde-furred dog. “This is Riley,” he said, introducing the dog, “the fourth member of our family. Kelly treats him like a child.”

“I had a dog in the Highlands that I loved greatly,” Artis said, looking down at her feet, “but I was forced to leave him behind.” She still pined for the huge black dog with white on his chest and front paws. He’d followed her to the Sutherland estate when she reported her mother’s murder, but when Steller flung her in the Countess’ carriage, he would not let her take her dog. The poor fellow had followed the carriage for miles until, exhausted, it finally gave up. Despite her desperate pleas, the carriage driver would not stop. Heartbroken yet again, she’d pounded on the carriage wall until her fist hurt, but still he refused to stop. “I’ll always miss him.”

“What was yer dog’s name?” Bear asked.

“Wilson,” she answered with a catch in her throat.

Riley hurried over to Bear’s horse and eyed the mountain lion strapped behind Bear’s saddle. A deep growl rolled from the dog’s chest.

“Na need to worry Riley,” Bear said, “Artis and I already killed him for ye.”

While William unsaddled, wiped down, fed, and put the three horses up in a pen made of logs, Artis decided to watch Bear skin the cat in the dim light.

Before he started, he took a moment to admire the mountain lion. “Tis a handsome and powerful animal. I’m sorry we had to take its life.” He gazed up at her. “But I’m immensely thankful I came along when I did.”

“It did na look so handsome leerin’ at me from the tree limb above my head,” Artis declared. “It looked more like a devil’s minion, waitin’ to rip the skin from my throat.” She put her hand to her neck and shuddered.

“Tis the way of the wild. The big and mighty eat things smaller than themselves. And little animals eat what’s even tinier than they.”

After gutting it near the tree line, and firmly telling Riley not to touch the pile of innards, he hauled the animal back near where Artis stood. While she stood petting Riley, Bear cut and then tugged the hide off the back legs. Then, he used a rope to hoist the carcass by the skinned hind legs to eye level and hung it from a study tree limb. After making a few more cuts, he fisted the rest of the hide off. She was shocked at how quickly Bear was able to accomplish the skinning.

Artis heard the cry of a hawk above them and glanced up. The soaring hunter probably smelled the blood of the remains.

Bear held the heavy fur out for her to touch. She ran her fingers over it as the breeze rippled the thick hair. Never had she touched anything so soft. “Can ye carry it?” he asked.

“Aye.”

He hiked toward what he called a smokehouse carrying the meat and she carried the beautiful fur. William headed to the creek at the bottom of the rise to bring back a bucket of water for Bear to wash in.

She followed Bear inside the smokehouse, intrigued by its unique fragrance—both sweet and charred—it smelled like blackened oak and burnt sugar.

“Is mountain lion enjoyable to eat?” she asked.

“Oh, aye, some think it the best meat there is,” Bear answered. It took him several minutes to get the carcass hung from the ceiling with a chain.

William stepped inside the smokehouse with them. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had any mountain lion,” William said, “but from what I remember, it was quite good.”

“How does your smokehouse work? They had smokeries in Scotland in the larger towns but they were used to smoke salmon,” Artis asked.

“Aye, I remember,” Bear said, “The smokeries gave the salmon a unique flavor. The Gauls called salmon
salmo
—meanin’ leaper. Tis said that salmon hold mysterious knowledge because they are as ancient as time and know all the long forgotten past and the unknown future.”

“Aye, tis also said that eating salmon can teach you how to get in touch with the knowledge of yer ancestors,” Artis added.

“Well, here we use the smokehouse mainly to keep meat from going bad and to store it for the winter. We cure pork, but it can be used for other meat too,” William explained. “We slaughter pigs after the first real cold norther, usually in December. Hog-killing day. After the animals are dressed and cleaned, they’re cut up. We heat water to boiling in Kelly’s washtub hung over a fire. The chunks are dropped in the boiling water to scald the hair off. Then, any hair that’s left is scraped off. The meat is layered in a barrel with sugar cure salt and it sits for several days and then more salt is added and we wait a few more days. The salt pulls the moisture from the meat and the water drains out a hole in the bottom of the barrel.”

“What happens next?” she asked, anxious to learn all she could about
how settlers survived in the wilderness.

“After that step, we remove most of the salt and hang the meat from the smokehouse rafters so it will be safe from predators and vermin. We build a small fire here in the center of the smokehouse,” he said, pointing to a fire pit in the center of the dirt floor, “and let the wood, usually oak or maple, turn to coals. We keep the coals burning and let it smolder for a couple of weeks. The smoke goes out that little hole in the center of the roof.”

“How long will the meat last?” Artis asked.

“Dried, the smoke-flavored meat is long-lasting. It can remain in the smokehouse for as long as two years. It’s so tasty, it never lasts that long though,” William answered.

The three stepped out into the cool evening air again. At once, Bear sat the bucket of water on a stump and scrubbed his hands and the edges of his shirt sleeves. She could see he was a clean man. Many men, as she saw on the wagon train west, would have just wiped their hands on their pants.

“Your smokery is marvelous,” Artis said. “But you won’t leave the skin in there will you?” She didn’t want it to smell like smoke.

“Nay,” Bear said, I just hung it in there to keep other animals from draggin’ it away tonight. We’ll scrape and salt the skin soon to dry it out.”

“Sam told me that the natives believe an arrow quiver made from a mountain lion’s hide will protect the bearer,” William said.

“Perhaps Artis would like it if I made her a fine cloak with it,” Bear said, glancing at her. “With winter comin’, you’ll need someone to keep ye warm
and
protected.” He eyed her and the meaning of his gaze was obvious.

Bear’s words shocked her, but left Artis feeling the oddest tingling in the pit of her stomach. What would it be like to have a man like Bear keep her warm? And the thought of him always being there to help protect her was certainly comforting.