Judith E. French (26 page)

“Johnnie!” Cailin screamed.

 

Sterling’s gaze snapped from the dying Highlander to the source of the sound. Instinct told him that he’d heard a woman’s cry of anguish, but he didn’t believe it. No female would be here in the remains of the bloodiest battleground he’d ever endured.

Fog and cannon smoke obscured his line of vision; he could see no more than a dozen yards. Yet . . . There. Unconsciously, he tightened his grip on his sword hilt and strained to see. Yes! There on a pale horse sat a woman with long red-gold hair. So still and motionless was she that she didn’t seem real. Her face was white, her hand frozen in midair like some haunting specter.

Sterling blinked, half-expecting this disembodied spirit to vanish. But when he looked again, she was still there, staring at him across the blood-soaked earth.

His heart began to pound; his breathing quickened. Spots appeared before his eyes as his mind struggled to rise above the confusion. “You,” he whispered. “It’s you.”

And then the rolling mist swallowed horse and rider, enveloping her with a white nothingness.

“Come back,” he entreated. “Come back.” He ran toward the spot where he’d seen her, but when he reached it, there was only standing water . . . not even the mark of a single hoofprint to prove that she was not a vision of his strained imagination.

 

 

 

 

 

 

C
aptain Sterling Gray was exceedingly drunk for the second time in his life. His first experience with strong drink at seventeen had produced such horrendous results that he’d vowed never to repeat the incident. He had held fast to that rule for nineteen years; tonight he’d broken it with a vengeance.

He was not alone in his excessive consumption of potent Scots whiskey. Half the king’s soldiers in this Inverness public house had imbibed beyond the dictates of reason. Sterling’s best friend, Lieutenant George Whithall, was so intoxicated that he’d been attempting to relate the same story for the better part of an hour and couldn’t get past his opening sentence.

“And ... and . . .” Whithall slid forward onto the table and dissolved into laughter. “What the hell was that . . . that wench’s name, St . . . St . . . Sterlin’? The one . . . the one . . . with the . . . nose?”

Sterling mumbled an incoherent reply and drained the last of the whiskey from his pewter cup. Someone opened the outer door, and a blast of cold guttered the candle on the table in front of him. A scowling tavern girl relit the taper as Whithall stiffened in his chair and demanded another drink.

The air in the room was thick with the stench of too many unwashed men, spilled ale, and wet wool uniforms. A leg of stringy mutton sizzled on the spit in the open hearth, and the smell made Sterling’s stomach turn over. He’d never acquired a taste for mutton. Absently, he broke an oatcake in two as he stared at Whithall. From where he sat, it seemed as though there were two Georges. Either that or Whithall had a twin brother. “Have you a brother?” he asked, his sentence broken crudely by a loud hiccup.

Whithall laughed in reply and pinched the maid’s bottom. “Drink up, Sterlin’,” he urged. “Tomorrow we’ll be back in the saddle.”

They would that, Sterling mused. And he’d do his duty for king and country as befitted a son of Lord Oxley—even a half-breed son born on the wrong side of the blanket. For a few more days or weeks, he’d do his duty . . . Sterling signaled for another cup of whiskey. There’d be hell to pay when Baron Oxley learned what he’d done. Sterling smiled for the first time in over a week. His father would fly into a rage when he found out he had resigned his commission in the dragoons, the honor that had cost the old man two years’ income from his estates.

There’d be few men who’d not think Sterling a fool. Even Whithall would roast him royally.

The thought that he might be making the biggest mistake of his life crossed Sterling’s mind, but he shrugged it off. A man had to do what it took to maintain his self-respect ... and he couldn’t live with himself if he continued to follow commanders like Butcher Cumberland.

He was as drunk as a dragoon could be and still stand on two feet, but he hadn’t lost all sense of reason. He’d made his decision regarding the army, and he’d stick to it. What troubled him beyond the breaking point was the vision of the woman he’d seen in the heat of battle on Culloden Moor.

Sterling prided himself on his intelligence, on his ability to overcome the obstacles of his unorthodox birth and carve a place for himself among gentlemen. He had been decorated for bravery on the field of battle, and he’d earned the respect of his fellow soldiers as well as his superiors.

But tonight he was afraid.

He’d not been able to get her out of his mind since she’d vanished into the mist. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—as real as if she sat in Whithall’s chair across from him. More real than Whithall—he’d sprung a second head. The red-haired woman was flesh and blood.

She was also a ghost from his past . . . A past he’d believed he’d put behind him twenty-two years ago.

A pistol went off and Sterling stiffened, his hand on his own flintlock. When the loud crack was followed by a chorus of ribald laughter, he allowed himself the indulgence of sinking back into his own reverie.

No matter how many times he mentally attacked the problem of the woman’s appearance, he came to the same conclusion. She could only be a figment of his imagination, an illusion.

But she had been there. And she’d been as solid as the Scotsman’s broadsword that had nearly cleaved him from neck to cod.

His head ceased to spin, and the dizziness was gradually replaced by a deep, throbbing ache.

Maybe he’d been injured worse than he’d thought at Culloden, he reasoned. Or perhaps some tumor was growing in his head. A few more months and they could carry him home to Oxley Hall and lock him in the tower room until his beard hung to his knees and the village children shrieked taunts at the wild-eyed madman.

Except that he’d never been able to summon much of a beard, and his esteemed father would be as likely to have him committed to Bedlam as to trouble his nightly sleep or to bring shame on his true-born brothers by sheltering a madman. His light-skinned brothers. Henry and Hugh would be delighted if he went crazy. They’d made his home life a mockery, and if he obliged them by going quietly out of his mind, they’d whoop for joy

Or give their version of Indian war whoops.

Sterling folded his hands, closed his eyes against the dancing candlelight, and leaned forward on the scarred table. Whithall seemed not to have noticed that anything was amiss. He was still trying to remember his story about Nora, the willing dairymaid they had both tumbled one night in Yorkshire, the girl with a nose the size and shape of his horse’s saddle.

Whithall was as drunk as a sow, but he was a stout comrade, as good a man as any dragoon needed at his back. Born illegitimate himself, Whithall had never held Sterling’s Indian blood against him. In fact, he’d shown little curiosity about his captain’s former life as a savage running half-naked in the forests of the American Colonies.

Few people had asked questions, and those who had were usually seeking to make Sterling the butt of their jokes. It was not a mistake often repeated by the same man.

Sterling himself had pushed that part of his existence so far back in memory that at times it seemed like a dream. Tonight, his former life returned to sit on his shoulders with a heavy weight.

She had brought back his past.

So strong were his recollections that the man he’d once been threatened to suck the soul from the British Sterling Gray he was now. He’d fought the tide for days and nights.

With a groan of relief, he surrendered to his fears and let the familiar scents and sights of the wilderness sweep over him.

He was no longer Captain Sterling Gray, son of Lord Oxley and an officer in his Majesty’s dragoons. That man no longer existed.

He was Snow Ghost, a son of the Shawnee, born to the Wolf Clan, and about to endure his last trial of manhood—his vision quest.

For a Shawnee male, this ordeal was the most important spiritual search of his life. He was fourteen, and he had already proved his courage six months earlier by facing a Mohawk in full war paint in the midst of an attack on the Shawnee village. He’d killed the enemy brave in hand-to-hand combat and earned the right to wear a single eagle feather. But none of that mattered if he did not survive his vision quest or if Wishemenetoo showed His disapproval by failing to grant him a spirit guide.

Snow Ghost didn’t feel especially courageous as he began the ritual. For days, he had fasted and prayed; he’d endured the sweat lodge and danced for the brotherhood of warriors along with the two other boys who were candidates for manhood. He had chanted the poems that told of the creation of the world by the Creator, and he’d sung the sacred songs of his people. Now he was alone and must find his spiritual awakening or perish in the attempt.

The shaman had instructed him to go naked into the forest and seek a high place. There he must wait and search his heart until a vision came or he died of hunger and thirst. He was forbidden to run from danger or to cry for help. He was forbidden to utter a sound that was not a prayer or a hymn. The holy man told him to think of himself as an empty vessel and wait patiently for the spirit of the Almighty to fill it.

Snow Ghost had been determined to return to his village under the protection of a powerful guide. Since he had been a small child, he had waited for this time. He’d wondered if his personal guardian would be the spirit of the wolf, or a great humpbacked bear, or perhaps a soaring eagle.

Men rarely talked about their own experience, but when they did, it was to relate tales of fiery beasts or wise owls. Black Otter’s totem was a river catfish; Morning Sky looked to the Elk Spirit for wisdom. Old Two Toes claimed that his guide was a spotted frog. Snow Ghost had spent many nights lying awake and hoping that the Frog Spirit would pass him by. Two Toes was a poor hunter and as lazy as his slovenly wife. Morning Sky said that Two Toes wasn’t to blame, because a man protected by a lowly frog had poor luck to begin with and little hope that his life would ever improve.

Worse than having a frog or an insect for a spirit guide would be to have no vision at all. A man without a visitation by a protector was doomed to be a luckless outcast. No woman would choose to become his wife, and few war chiefs would ever include such a worthless individual in a scouting party or raid.

And so Snow Ghost had waited and prayed, watching the sun rise over the trees, cross the sky, and fade slowly into orange and purple before vanishing at twilight. Two days passed without the slightest sign, the longest days of Snow Ghost’s life. On the third day, he doubled his efforts, using every ounce of his strength to dance and chant, hoping to attract some passing spirit. At this point, he would have joyfully welcomed Rabbit . . . even Anequoi the silly squirrel.

The thought that he might lie and make up a story never crossed his mind. Such action would be unthinkable. The punishment for such treachery was swift and terrible—banishment from family and tribe. A boy without morals was not fit to call himself a Shawnee.

In the soft light of that third day, Snow Ghost’s vision came. So clear, so real, was the sight that he could hardly believe his eyes. One moment he was alone on the rocky hilltop, and the next—his greatest wish was fulfilled.

Except that nothing was as he had expected. There was no snarling wolf, no noble eagle landing gracefully at his feet. Instead, he saw a white woman, fair of skin and freckled, with hair as red as an English fox.

This was no heavenly angel such as the French priests spoke of—this was a living, breathing woman. She was not tall, and not nearly as plump as the white women Snow Ghost had seen at the Dutch trader’s post. Her mouth was wide and full, her chin too firm for a sweet disposition, her eyes large . . . not deep brown as those of his people, but golden-brown.

She wore a long skirt and leather shoes. Her upper body and part of her hair were covered by a single gray hooded garment. And she was staring at him as though she was every bit as astonished as he was.

He was so shocked that he forgot he wasn’t supposed to speak. “Who are you?” he demanded in Algonquian, then immediately repeated his question in English. “What are you doing here? Don’t you know that this is a sacred place?”

Her lips parted, and her eyes narrowed. For a second, he thought she was going to give him a piece of her mind. Mentally, he winced, preparing for the flood of abuse he knew she was going to heap on him. Then, suddenly, her mood changed. A look of comprehension came over her face, and she broke into a smile so intense, so endearing, that his heart began to pound and his breath caught in his throat.