Judith E French (16 page)

“Do you like what you see?” he taunted. His short fingers found the ties at the back of his breeches. His breathing grew loud in the room as he stepped out of his last garment, standing before her clad only in his boots.

Unconsciously, Leah held her breath. His man’s stick was thick and engorged; bright purple-red, it thrust into the cool air at a right angle. Charles motioned to the pallet. “What are you waiting for? Get over here. I want you facedown, so—”

Leah’s hand went to her left riding boot. Charles blinked once, and she lunged across the tiny room and placed the blade of a wicked-looking knife at his throat. “Move!” she dared him. “Breathe,
kuue! ”
Coward. “Do this for Moonfeather, and she will cut your throat.” She raised the skean so that the point dug into the skin under his chin. A drop of blood beaded to the surface and ran down the glittering steel.

Charles uttered an oath and grabbed for the knife. Leah ducked away and slashed downward, cutting a gash in the palm of his hand. He howled with pain.

“Kipitsheoote,”
she whispered. “Foolish . . . very foolish.” Her nostrils flared slightly as she balanced on the balls of her feet and dropped into a knifesman’s stance. “I could take your ears as a trophy,
Englishmanake.”
She smiled with her lips, but her eyes were as cold as black marble. “I could take more.”

Charles paled to the color of old tallow. “No!” he protested. “No, I . . .” His voice broke and he whimpered. “Please. It’s a mistake.”

Leah breathed deeply, fighting back the killing fury that threatened to engulf her. Every instinct urged her to plunge the knife into his heart. To slice the scalp from his head and throw it into his dead face! Instead, she took a step backward toward the open doorway. “We are enemies, you and I,” she said. “From this moment. If you ever try to touch me again—if you try to harm me or Brandon . . .” She swallowed and took another step. “Never,” she warned. “Never again, or ye will beg for death. By Inu-msi-ila-fe-wanu, I swear it.” She seized her riding coat from the floor and ran from the hut.

When she reached the horses, she grabbed both sets of reins and tried to mount Charles’s roan. The folds of her skirts tangled around her and the animal shied backward. Without hesitation, Leah sliced the clinging skirt from thigh to hem, back and front. Within seconds, her foot was in the iron stirrup and she was in the saddle. She set her boot heels into the horse’s side and galloped down the slope away from the stone hut, leading the riderless mare behind her.

When they reached the green moor below, Leah urged the animal even faster. She clung to the mane as the rocks and grass flashed by under the horse’s feet. The wind in her face made her eyes water, and she rubbed them with her sleeve.

A hedge barred the way, and the roan leaped over. She lost the mare’s reins at the jump, but the animal followed close behind, leathers dangling. At the edge of the woods, Leah pulled in her panting steed and slid down from the saddle. She leaned against the horse, her cheek pressed into his heaving, damp side, and caught her breath.

She had made a terrible mistake in leaving Charles alive. She’d shamed him, and that would make him even more dangerous than before. If he told—and she doubted he would dare—Brandon would be forced to kill him to save his own honor. Killing Charles would be a bad thing, but if someone had to do it, it should have been she. Charles and Brandon were linked by blood, and the killing of a clansman was a very bad sin.

Charles’s threat that Brandon would think she’d seduced Charles made her laugh. Brandon had a head as thick as iron, but he would never believe her guilty of whoring with his cousin. No, Brandon would believe her all too easily. He would tear his family apart by calling Charles out and putting a sword through his heart—unless Charles was the better swordsman.

“Ptahh!” She kicked a clump of grass with her toe. England was making her weak and stupid. She was beginning to think like a white woman. She had trusted Charles and let him trick her. She must stop thinking like an Englishwoman and think like a Shawnee.

Sighing, she shook her head and backed away from Charles’s mount. No, she could not tell what had happened. If she said nothing, it would worry Charles more than if she screamed rape. She would hold her silence and wait to see Charles’s reaction. And next time he threatened her—if there was a next time—he’d not live to grow an hour older.

It was an easy matter to catch the mare. Once Leah had done that, she cut the roan’s reins off short so that he wouldn’t tangle his front legs in them. She turned the horse loose and tossed stones at him to make him run away, then mounted the mare and rode back to the manor house.

At the stables, she ignored the groom’s questions about her ruined riding habit and Charles’s absence. He could come up with some lie to satisfy the servants. Charles, Leah decided, was probably better at lying than she was.

She left the stables and walked through the garden toward a side entrance to the house. She had no wish to meet Brandon’s mother and face her questions. As she hurried up the walk between the cedars, she heard the sound of Brandon’s voice. Leah hesitated and looked around as a woman’s soft laughter filtered through the trees.

“. . . thought of you often, Anne.”

The woman’s answer was too low for Leah to hear.

Leah started to continue up the path, but Brandon’s deep rumble drew her to the edge of the trees. Leah pushed aside the branch and peeked through. Beyond the cedars was open lawn, then a boxwood hedge. On the other side of the hedge was a fountain with a marble bench beside it. She knew because she could see the bench from her bedchamber window.

She could still hear them talking—first Brandon’s deep voice and then the woman’s reply. Her voice was too high to be Lady Kathryn’s. There must be visitors to Westover . . . not unusual. Lord and Lady Kentington often entertained for weeks at a time. Leah looked down at her torn riding skirt. No, this would not be the time to join Brandon and his guest. He would be furious with her if she appeared in such a condition.

It was easy to avoid the maids and footmen. Inside the house, Leah slipped by two servants gossiping on the staircase without them knowing she was there. Her rooms were on the second floor, but she had to pass the earl’s chambers to reach them.

Kathryn’s door was open, and she could hear Brandon’s mother’s voice.

“. . . vast lands in England and France to the family, as well as closer ties to the court.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” Kentington replied gruffly. “It’s that rash young pup you’ve given me.”

Leah moved closer to the doorway. They were talking about Brandon.

“She’s obviously still infatuated with him,” Lady Kathryn said. “I guessed as much when she accepted my invitation.”

Lord Kentington swore, and Leah heard a manservant’s soothing reply. The earl cleared his throat loudly. “. . . annulment. It’s what I said from the first. It’s the only solution, and he must agree quickly before that little savage gets with child.”

“Raymond, really! The servants. I can’t . . .”

There were footsteps coming down the hallway. Seething with resentment, Leah hurried on to her rooms. She’d known Brandon’s parents wanted to be rid of her, but asking a prospective wife here to meet him before Leah was out of the house was infuriating.

She entered her apartments and closed the door behind her. “Nancy,” she called to her maid. Her voice echoed in the huge shadowy room. There was no answer. The gold and white chairs and the French settee with thin curving legs and arms were as lifeless as a burned-out forest. The mullioned windows were shut tight against the soft April breeze.

Leah opened the inner door to her bedchamber and looked around. To her relief, Nancy was not there either. Leah tossed her rumpled riding coat onto a chair. It’s stifling in here, she thought, going to a window and pushing it open. She needed air if she was to think. So many problems . . . What was she going to do about Charles? And now his parents had taken steps to replace her. Leah sighed.

Far below in the garden, she saw the garden bench with Brandon and the woman. They were sitting close together, and Brandon was holding her hand and looking down at it. A high tinkling laughter rose in the air . . . the laughter of a woman in love.

Pain knifed through Leah’s heart. She turned away from the window, and her hand went to her belly where she believed a new life was beginning. “Oh, little one,” she murmured. “What do we do now?” And when the tears rolled down her cheeks, Leah made no effort to wipe them away.

B
randon turned over Lady Anne’s hand and inspected her delicate, pink palm. How fragile she seemed compared to Leah. Anne’s soft hands were sheltered from the weather by Spanish leather and the finest silk. No cuts or calluses marred her skin; her creamy nails were shaped and polished to perfect ovals. He smiled at lovely Anne, but his thoughts were of Leah.

When had he come to prefer a woman’s hands that were hard and dextrous—hands that could draw a bow with the skill of a huntsman, or catch a fish without a net? The vivid image of Leah’s copper-colored hands with their scratches and broken nails brought with it a sudden rush of emotions, and Brandon chuckled, all but forgetting the exquisite woman beside him. Leah’s small hands could do more than skin an animal or paddle a canoe; she could stroke his body softly until he was driven wild with lust. She could rub his back and neck until his muscle aches and pains melted away, and she could ball those same tiny hands into fists and fight him with the ferocity of a cornered badger.

“It’s been too long.” Anne called him gently back from his reverie.

He blinked, realizing he’d been daydreaming about his wife as foolishly as any love-stricken youth. “Anne,” he replied with enthusiasm, “you are exactly as I remember you.” She gave a gentle tug, and he laughed and let go of her hand. “Beautiful and composed,” he complimented.

He could never remember seeing Anne in a state of agitation—not since the day Charles had tried to drown her when they were all children. Even then, her concern had been more for her ruined dress than her near demise.

Westover’s magnificent gardens were a perfect setting for her quiet loveliness. Here on this bench, they were sheltered from even the slightest breeze by the tall hedges. The warm sun was bright on Anne’s translucent face, and the air was sweet with the scent of new cut grass and spring flowers. Anne and Westover—they seemed to belong together, and together they formed the elusive essence of England in his mind. When he was in America, this was the image that had wavered beyond his reach when he was overcome by homesickness.

He’d wanted this so badly . . . wanted Anne to be free of her marriage . . . wanted her here in his father’s gardens. Now the moment seemed hollow, as though he were an onlooker rather than the man beside her. Anne hadn’t changed, he realized. It was he who was different.

“Please don’t give me false compliments,” Anne answered in her low, melodious voice. “I’ve heard enough romantic drivel since my husband’s death to fill a broadsheet. I’m not a beauty, Brandon. My mother, Barbara, is the golden-haired enchantress—I know it as well as you.” Color rose to tint her cheekbones, and she looked shyly away.

He chuckled again. “Anne, Anne, you never change. When will you realize your own possibilities? Your mother is an acknowledged court beauty, I’ll admit. She’s as radiant and glowing as an August afternoon—but you, love, are an April morning. You have your own very special charm.”

“An April sparrow, more like,” she replied.

He covered her lips with his finger. “Enough of that talk. When have I ever lied to you?” It was true. He’d known Anne since she was five, and he’d always liked her. She was kind and easy to be with; she listened when people spoke and didn’t talk unless she had something worthwhile to say. He’d believed he had fallen in love with her before he went to America . . . at least he’d convinced himself he had. Now . . . I still love her, he thought, but she’s not Leah. Anne is a quiet oasis in a desert, but Leah is the wind that whips the sands. Leah’s a hunger I can’t fill. The more I have of her, the more I want her.

Anne shook her head. “You’ve never lied to me, at least not a lie that counted. You’ve always been a dear friend, even before we . . .” She blushed again. “I’ve made a fool of myself coming here, haven’t I? Your mother wrote and told me that you wanted to see me—that you were unhappy with your . . . your new bride.” Clearly distressed, she started to stand, but Brandon caught her hand and raised it to his lips.

“I did want to see you, Anne. Please wait and hear me out.” He squeezed her hand gently, and she settled back on the bench, the azure satin skirts of her full sacque gown covering the toes of her kid slippers. Brandon let his gaze travel approvingly over her fashionable attire. Around her shoulders and over her light brown hair, she wore a matching hooded cloak of azure velvet. The neckline of the Watteau gown was rounded and modestly trimmed with wide lace. Anne was, and always would be, a lady—which was more than he could say for her mother.

“I knew I shouldn’t have come.” Her voice choked. “When you left for America, I was desolate, and God forgive me, when my husband died, I hoped . . .” She bit her lower lip. “Forgive me, Brandon. I never meant . . .”

“Hush,” he soothed. He took a handkerchief from his inside pocket and wiped the corner of her eye. “You are very dear to me, Anne. You must believe that. And you don’t shame yourself by coming here. You’ve done me a great honor.” An ache formed at the back of his throat. Why can’t Leah feel this way about me? he thought. Why?

Anne took a deep breath. “You love her, don’t you?”

He nodded. “I do. It doesn’t lessen what we had together—what I hope we still have. I want to keep you as a friend, if that’s possible.”

“She must be very special . . . your Leah.”

Brandon smiled. “What I’ve always admired most about you is your intuitiveness. We would have been good together, you and I. If I hadn’t gone to America, if I hadn’t wed Leah, I would have fought for your hand in marriage.”

Anne folded her hands together in her lap and looked away. “What is she like, your beautiful Indian princess?”

“Wild . . . and funny, and a little sad.” He touched Anne’s arm lightly. “I think I’ve done her a great disservice, bringing her here. I knew if I left her in America when I sailed, I’d never see her again.” His features tightened. “It’s a man’s right to take his wife with him, isn’t it? She belongs to me.”

“Some women find that hard to accept,” Anne observed. A robin landed on the grass a few feet in front of them and began to peck at a worm.

“I thought when she was here it would be better,” Brandon continued. “In some ways, I think she’s content with me. But . . .” He dropped his hand to his side, startling the robin, and it fluttered away to the safety of a tree branch. “Leah has a small son from her first marriage,” he explained. “He’s still with her family. I wanted to bring him, but there wasn’t time. Leah misses him, and she’s homesick. She needs a friend badly.”

“Your mother isn’t making her welcome?”

“Would your mother?”

“Barbara?” Anne laughed, and her gray eyes sparkled with unshed tears. “If I came home with an Indian husband, Mother would have him poisoned.”

Brandon’s gaze met hers. “I’m not sure my mother didn’t try exactly that. The first day we were home, our cook put poison in the soup, then hanged himself.”

Anne looked shocked. “You’re not serious?” She paled. “You don’t really believe—”

“Mother? No. Charles and I are the only ones who eat turtle soup. But Edgar was the cook here for twenty-five years. It’s hard for me to think he happened to go crazy and decide to murder the household at my welcome-home dinner. Mother’s little dog did die, and she thought more of that dog than she does me, so I believe that clears her as a suspect. I don’t know who else would profit from my death, other than cousin Charles, but he doesn’t need my money—he’s got plenty of his own. Besides, Charles came close to being murdered too. It was his bowl of soup that killed the dog.”

“You don’t think it’s anything political? Those Jacobite rumors about you before you left for—”

“No. If they were anything more than rumors, I’d be in the Tower. His majesty can have my head easily enough, he doesn’t need to poison me. If I was convicted of treason, the Crown would take my inheritance. But enough about me, Anne. How are you, really? Are you managing?”

She rose and began to walk down the path between the Greek and Roman style statues. “I’m well enough, I suppose,” she said. “I have my books and my friends.”

Brandon walked beside her. “I’m glad you didn’t go into mourning for Lord Scarbrough.”

“He wouldn’t have expected it.” She sighed. “He was good to me, you know, always very kind.” She stopped and looked up into Brandon’s face. “Henry waited for me to grow up, and when I did, he was too ill to fulfill a husband’s role.”

“It was a blessing he passed on. You’re too young to play nurse to an old man. It was unfair of your family to force you into wedding Scarbrough.”

Anne pursed her lips. “Mother . . . Barbara—she always wants me to call her by her Christian name now; she says it makes her feel old when I call her Mother. She said I would be a young, rich widow, and I am. Too rich, I think.” Tears sparkled like diamonds on her golden lashes. “I am besieged by suitors, Brandon, and the only man I want, I can’t have.”

“You were fifteen when they arranged your marriage to the marquis. You’re not a babe any longer. Choose carefully, love. You’re a prize, and you can hold out for someone who will appreciate you for what you are.” Brandon bent to pick a bright spring blossom and handed it to her. “Stay here with us a while. I’d like you to get to know Leah.”

Anne cradled the yellow flower in her hands. “Later, maybe. For now, I think you ask too much . . . even for an old friend.” She smiled. “Besides, there’s Charles to contend with. He came to the funeral, you know. He wanted to be first in line.”

Brandon grimaced. “You never did favor my cousin.”

“He has cold hands and the manners of a drover.”

“Charles?”

“I can’t stand the sight of him.”

“You’ve never forgiven him for pushing you in the moat at Chatham Abby.”

“Or forgotten that you pulled me out when I couldn’t swim a stroke.” She laughed. “I must have been a sight. Remember how the dye ran in my green velvet? I had green legs for a month after.” She cut her eyes at him. “Barbara had my nurse spank me for ruining my gown.”

“Well, you owe me a boon for saving your life, and I’m claiming redemption. You must come to Mother’s birthday ball in London on the fourteenth of May. She’s invited all her friends, and they’ll be watching like hawks hoping Leah will appear in animal skins or do something clearly outlandish. I’d like to have at least one person there on our side—other than Charles.”

“Charles has never been on anyone’s side but his own.”

“You’re too hard on him, love.”

Anne tilted her head and arched an eyebrow. “It’s difficult for me to imagine anyone being too hard on Charles.”

“He’s mellowed with age.”

“Mmm,” she murmured. “I’m sure.” The robin returned to search for another worm, and Anne paused to watch him. “You’re coming up to London, then?”

“Yes, the last week of April. At first Mother thought it was her duty to remain here at Westover with Kentington, but he wants her to go. He thinks it’s better that she continue on—the physician tells him he could have another attack and go in his sleep tonight, or last this way for years.”

“Lord Kentington was always so active. It must be very difficult for him to be confined to bed—difficult for you all.” Anne raised the blossom to her nose. “These are so beautiful,” she said. “I’ve always wondered why they have no scent to match.”

“Promise me you’ll be there on the fourteenth.”

She nodded. “If you want me to.”

“I do. I’m not certain when I’ll be free to return to America, and I know Leah will be happier if she has—”

Anne stopped short. “You’re going back, then—to America? I thought . . .”

“I promised Leah I’d take her home after Father passes away. I believe I’d stay there if it wasn’t for my responsibilities here. Sometimes I’m tempted to hand it all over to Charles. Maryland’s a marvelous place, Anne. The soil is so rich. I can’t explain it, you’d have to see it for yourself. Father owns leagues of land there—too much to count. Most of the land is virgin timber, but some is cleared along the rivers and bay. It would be the perfect spot to try out my radical ideas on agriculture.”

“Then why don’t you?”

His brow creased. “I’ll be the Earl of Kentington. I have responsibilities I can’t escape. There’s been a Wescott here at Westover since—”

“I know,” she interjected. “I’ve heard it all from Barbara a hundred times. ‘You have responsibilities to your family . . . to your station.’ Sometimes, I wish I could run away from it all too. Just once, I’d like to think of what
I
want first—not what’s best for the family fortunes.”

“Wouldn’t we all?”

Anne shook her head. “No, Brandon. You say it, but I really mean it. Honestly.” She stepped away from him. “I’ll be going now.”

“You’re staying the night, at least,” he protested. “I want you to meet Leah, and Mother will cause a scene if you leave before tomorrow.”

“All right,” she agreed, “but I’ll leave first thing in the morning.” Her mouth quivered. “I do love you.” Her tone softened to a whisper. “I don’t want to come between you and Leah, but if . . .” She raised her expressive gaze to his. “If you ever change your mind, just toss a stone at my window and . . .”

Brandon took her in his arms and hugged her against him. “If I ever wanted to throw stones,” he murmured into her hair, “yours would be the first window I’d try.”

 

Minutes later, Leah sat cross-legged in the center of her bed with the velvet curtains drawn closed around her. She had loosened her hair and let it fall around her shoulders, and she wore nothing but her golden amulet. Her eyes were closed, and her hands lay open in her lap. Her breathing was shallow.

“Kitate,” she whispered. Her faint voice was lost in the heavy folds of blue and green velvet. In her mind’s eye, she was floating between earth and clouds. She could see and smell nothing of the strange English house or this echoing room. Instead, she caught the scent of dew-kissed grass and deep woodland pine. Her spirit ears heard the cry of a loon across the lake, and her heart was gladdened by the familiar trees overhead.