Judith E. French (16 page)

“I missed the forest sky in England,” he confided to her. “The moon shines there, but it’s not the same moon. It can’t be.” He pointed at a group of stars. “There are the Brothers, and over there is the Great Bear ... and there ...” Sterling’s voice grew husky with emotion. “There is the Star Bridge of Souls.”

He stopped and pulled her into the circle of his arms. “I want you with me for the rest of my life,” he said hoarsely. “And when we die, I want our lights to shine side by side in the Star Bridge for our grandchildren and their grandchildren to see. I want you beside me, Cailin ... for all eternity.”

Before she could answer—before she could tell him no—he kissed her. And the heat of that kiss drove everything from her mind but the wanting. Trembling, she allowed him to undress her. Item by item, he removed her clothes until she stood proudly in front of him, hair unbound, garbed only in a dusting of moonlight.

“Now you,” she said. The aching between her legs grew more intense. When he took off his shirt and boots, she dropped to her knees and gently stroked his hard belly and the mat of curling black hair along the waistline of his breeches.

His quick intake of breath made her daring, and she found the ties at the small of his back. “Don’t move,” she said. “Stand where ye are and let me do it.”

She pressed her lips into his belly, feeling the texture of his hair against her lips. He smelled clean with no hint of sweat ... only a subtle scent of honest masculinity that awoke something wild and primitive within her.

“Cailin ...” He groaned.

She drew her fingers down, tracing the lines of his loins, gently teasing the growing tumescence. Then she slid the breeches over his slim hips so that his hard shaft was no longer encased in his garment.

“Cailin.”

“Shall I touch ye?” she asked. “Does it please you if I do this? And this?” Lightly, she brushed the length of him with slow, sensuous strokes. He uttered a sound of desperation, and she pushed his breeches down over his knees. “Ye must help me,” she reminded him. Obediently, he stepped out of first one leg and then the other. “Your stockings,” she said.

He reached a hand to her, but she shook her head. How beautiful he was in the moonlight, she thought, a great bronzed devil of a man. His broad, muscular chest; the sinewy shoulders and massive arms; the neatness of his hips; his well-formed legs. And his rod ... She smiled and moistened the tips of two fingers with her tongue.

“Which feels better?” she asked, caressing his straining phallus. “When I do this? Or this?” She leaned closer and parted her lips.

“Woman,” he grated. “Another second and I—”

She could not answer with words ... being currently occupied with other pursuits, but his groan of pleasure made her certain that he approved. Other parts worked as well as deft fingers, she decided.

His hands tangled in her hair, and he gasped as she drew him into her mouth.

Sterling shuddered and tried to grab hold of her arms to pull her up against him, but she was too quick. Twisting away, she laughed and jumped into the river. In the space of a heartbeat, she heard a second splash. She dived under and swam into deeper water.

When she surfaced, he was in front of her. He seized her shoulders and kissed her. She wrapped her legs around his waist and lay back in his arms so that he could find her breasts with his mouth.

They went under together and came up laughing. The river water was warmer than the air, but not as hot as her skin ... nor as hot as his erection.

He pressed against her, fiercely seeking entrance to her cleft. But she would not be caught so easily. She twisted away and went under, letting the current carry her along. She came up for air, laughing so hard that she got a mouthful of water.

He seized her and dragged her splashing into the shallows. Waist-deep in water, they stood up, blending limbs and souls as their playful kisses became deeper and more fevered. And when neither of them could wait another instant, she closed her eyes and gave up all resistance.

He entered her with all the glory of a spring sunrise, and her laughter became cries of delight. Each thrust brought her closer to the brink of fulfillment. She wanted desperately to prolong the act—to make certain that she pleased him as well as herself, but her need would not be denied. Rapture exploded within her.

To her surprise, Sterling continued to move, and Cailin found herself responding to his impassioned strokes. Swiftly, her excitement grew until once again searing, all-consuming tremors of luminous ecstasy rocked her body.

On the far bank, a doe, coming to the river to drink, froze in its tracks and stared at them.

Cailin saw nothing but Sterling. She heard nothing but his whispered words of love, and cared for nothing but this night of exquisite happiness illuminated by the haunting magic of the forest moon.

A
week passed, and then two. With each day, she and Sterling seemed to grow closer. Cailin had never felt like this before. Sterling was a wonderful lover, but her affection for him went far beyond sexual desire. He made her laugh, and he shared plans and dreams with her as he would with a close male friend. When she looked into his eyes, she saw respect, even admiration. And she knew that in another time and another place, she would have pledged her immortal soul to him.

Work on the plantation continued from early dawn to twilight’s dusk. Only Sunday was set aside as a day of worship and rest. Her husband, she was surprised to discover, was a man of deep spiritual faith. He began each Sabbath morning with a prayer and a short reading from a well-worn Bible. Those who labored for them were welcome to join in the ritual or not, according to their own consciences. Cailin had been christened and raised in the Holy Roman Church, but she saw nothing in Sterling’s prayers to offend even the strictest Catholic. And she found that setting aside a time for worship filled a long-neglected need within her.

Sterling had delayed plans to construct a stable and put all his efforts into building several smaller cabins for the workers on the far side of the clearing. “So that you may have your privacy behind our bed curtains,” he’d teased her.

Several days ago, another boat had come upriver from the bay, bringing more household goods and the loan of a half-dozen more bond servants from Lord Kentington’s plantation. Forrest Wescott had also sent two riding horses and a team of oxen by the land route.

“A man with any pride would return the horses and oxen,” Sterling had said on the afternoon they’d arrived. “God knows when I’ll be able to return the favor.”

“Ye canna do it,” Cailin whispered. “To throw the gift in his face would be to make an enemy of a good friend.”

“You’re right,” he agreed. “But I’ll not rest until I’ve settled my debts.”

“You’re a proud man and a generous one,” she’d added. “Perhaps you need this lesson to learn how to receive as well as to give.”

He’d scowled and grunted something at her, then hurried off to see the precious animals properly confined.

Among the new servants were two married couples. The women, Franny Simms, wife to Hob Simms; and Phoebe Smyth, Simon the carpenter’s wife, were both experienced in cooking and caring for the needs of large groups of men.

Franny was nearly six feet tall, plain of face and sparse of hair. She towered over her sour, whip-thin husband. Phoebe was of middling height with dark brown curling hair and laughing green eyes. Phoebe’s infant son, Jasper, was the image of his mother. Jasper was too young to walk, but he managed to get whatever he set his eyes on by creeping to the object and patiently pulling himself up with chubby, dirt-smeared hands. He was cutting his second tooth and spent much of his time gnawing on anything or anyone that he could capture.

Cailin was delighted to have the companionship of women again and to be relieved of the heavy chores. It was good to talk of small household matters and to hear a babe’s crowing laughter again. Even the hardfaced lumbermen grew foolish around Jasper and vied to see who could make the silliest faces for the child’s amusement.

Yesterday, she and Phoebe had planted a garden in a small cleared area. They’d marked off the rows with string and cultivated the hand-dug area with hoes and then their fingers, shaking out clumps of grass and tree roots left from the new plowing. Carefully, Cailin had sown turnip seed, radishes, kidney beans, corn, and squash. The corn, as Sterling had suggested, was planted Indian fashion in six-inch-high hills. First, Phoebe raked up individual mounds of rich soil and buried a fish deep in each one. Then, Cailin thrust kernels of corn into the center and surrounded the hills with squash seeds.

She and Phoebe had had a conflict of opinion about how many kernels should go in each hill, but Phoebe was firm. “One for the worm, one for the crow. One for God, and one to grow,” she insisted. “Four kernels in all.” Cailin found it impossible to argue with such colonial logic and agreed to risk an additional seed in each mound.

At the edge of the garden, Cailin had directed Joe to dig a hole to plant her first fruit tree, a golden pippin sapling that Kate had sent wrapped carefully in damp cloth. “Can you bake an apple pie?” Sterling had asked when Cailin had taken great pains to tamp the tiny tree in and water it properly.

“Aye,” she’d replied. “I can.” But she’d not added that by the time the first apple swelled on the branch, she’d be far away across the sea in Scotland.

That morning, she’d taken a quick look at her garden, admired the sturdy little apple tree, and left preparations for the midday meal in Franny and Phoebe’s capable hands. Taking her new pine-needle Indian basket, Cailin had followed the game trail through the woods to the meadow to hunt for any late-ripening strawberries. Phoebe claimed to have a rare talent with bread and pastry, and Cailin wanted her to make berry cobbler for supper.

When Cailin reached the place near the river where Sterling had shown her the patches of wild strawberries, she found only a few, and those she ate. The solitude was wonderful after being with a group for so long; the sun was warm and the field knee-deep in wildflowers.

The soothing sounds of running water added to her laziness, and she couldn’t resist taking off her shoes and stockings. After she was barefooted, it was impossible to resist the temptation to sit on the sunbaked rocks and dip her legs in the cool river. As she gazed at the shimmering blue-green surface, a great blue heron unfolded its wings and rose into the air on the far bank.

“Cailin!”

Sterling’s call broke into her peaceful reverie. She turned and waved. He stepped out of the shadow of the tall oaks and entered the meadow. “Here I am!” she answered, waving again.

I should have saved him some strawberries, she thought as memories of a late afternoon tryst they’d spent in this very spot brought a rush of blood to her cheeks.

He strode toward her, his raven-black hair gleaming in the bright sunshine, and she went all soft and fluttery inside. Sterling had been cutting timber all morning, and he was stripped to the waist, wearing nothing but his breeches and heavy boots. In one hand, he carried a steel broadax, and in the other, his cocked hat.

“Now, there’s a sight to turn a maid’s thoughts to lust,” she murmured too low for him to hear. “Damn me, but he’s as bonny a rogue as any Highlander.”

“I’ve been swinging this ax for five hours, and you’re whiling away the day like a countess.” Mischief lit his devil eyes, telling her that he was teasing.

“Had ye a mind to go for a dip?” she asked as he drew closer.

He grinned. “I don’t know if I’d have the strength to go back to the lumbering after I swam with you.”

“Coward.”

“Call me a coward, will you?”

“Aye.”

“We’ll see who’s the coward.” He propped the ax against a rock and laid his hat on a flat outcropping of shale.

Cailin scrambled up and started to him, then stopped when she heard an unusual sound—the faint tattoo of seeds shaken in a dry gourd. Instantly, the hair rose on the back of her neck. “What’s that—” She broke off as terror turned her limbs to wood.

A huge red-brown snake with a flat rust-colored head and triangular-banded markings undulated across the loose rock and lashed out at Sterling’s arm.

Cailin screamed.

The serpent coiled and struck again.

Cailin caught a glimpse of gleaming fangs in the gaping mouth. Sterling leaped back, grabbed the ax, and dispatched the snake with three quick blows.

“Jesus and Mary,” she exclaimed.

The snake was as thick around as her arm and longer than a man is tall. Decapitated and chopped into three separate pieces, the horrible creature continued to writhe and twist, making ugly patterns in its own blood against the rock. The odd vibrating continued from the severed tail section, not quite the same but near enough so that she realized it was the snake that had made the noise she’d heard.

Still tasting the metallic bitterness of fear in her mouth, Cailin flung herself against Sterling’s chest. “Holy Martyrs,” she cried. “That was close.” She clung to him so tightly that she could hear the pounding of his heart.

The thought of what could have happened sickened her. Sterling’s hand had been within inches of the creature’s yawning mouth—of those gleaming curved fangs. “What kind was it?” she asked. “Be it venomous?”

He looked down at her with a strange expression on his face. Beneath his tanned features, his face took on an unnatural gray hue.

“Be it venomous?” she repeated. Icy dread knotted her belly, and she began to tremble. “I was so scared. I thought that it—”

Sterling pushed her gently away, tossed the ax down, and took several steps backward. “It’s a copperhead,” he said quietly

She shuddered. The tone of his voice answered her question. She tried to say something, but her mouth was too dry. She licked her lips and managed to say, “Thank the Lord neither of us was bitten. I canna—”

He thrust out his right arm. Midway between wrist and elbow on the outside were four tiny spots of blood.

“It got ye.”

“Twice.”

“Mother of God.” This was a nightmare. Any second, she’d wake up and find that they were safe in their bed. “What shall I do?” She sounded breathless, as though she’d been climbing a steep hill. “Shall I run to the house for help?”

Sterling shook his head. “No, stay.” He dropped to his knees and then lay full-length in the grass.

She could not contain a small whimper of fright.

“I’m not dying yet,” he snapped. “I need to lie still to keep the poison from reaching my heart.” With his left hand, he drew his knife from his beaded scabbard. “Undo my belt and bind it tight just below my elbow,” he ordered. “Then use the knife point to cut slits directly over the bites.”

She untied his belt and removed the razor-sharp weapon with shaking hands. “How do ye feel?” Putting the knife between her teeth, she wrapped the leather around his arm and knotted it once.

“It burns like hell, but my mind’s still clear. If I pass out, remember to loosen the belt every quarter-hour. Too much pressure and I could lose the arm.” She made the knot tighter. “There, that’s good,” he said as she twisted the binding. “Now make the cuts.”

Gritting her teeth, Cailin poised the steel blade over his arm. Reason told her that what she was doing was dangerous and foolhardy. A knife used for surgery should be passed through fire .to drive away demons and cut the pain. She should have soap and bandages—men to hold him still while she did what must be done. But an older instinct bade her act before it was too late.

“Do it!” Sterling ordered.

Cailin swallowed hard. The area around the bites was already turning dark and swelling. Blood welled up as she pressed the keen steel into his flesh. The first slice went deeper than she wanted it to go, but Sterling didn’t flinch.

Tears clouded her vision, and she blinked them away. The second incision was easier. Yellow venom welled up on either side of the puncture as she dug into the wound. “Two more,” she said.

Sterling cursed, but kept up his courage. By the time she reached the last bite, his arm ran red, and she was afraid that she was going to be sick. “Done,” she said. He gave a sigh of relief. When she looked into his face, she saw that he was sweating profusely.

“Now run and get Isaac,” Sterling rasped. He put his mouth against the bleeding wounds and began to try to suck the poison out.

“Let me do that for you.”

He spat. “No. Go for help.”

“Are ye going to die?” It still seemed impossible. One moment, he was laughing and teasing her, and the next ...

He spat out another mouthful of blood. “Not if I can help it.”

“I can do that,” she said.

“Damn it, woman! For once, do as I say. Run!”

“Don’t ye die on me, you bastard. Don’t ye dare!” No longer able to hold back the tears, she turned and dashed across the meadow toward the path that led through the thick forest to the house.

She was ten yards from the tree line when she heard the first shots and then a woman’s scream, followed closely by a long, drawn-out, unearthly screech. She skidded to a halt, ran a few more steps, and stopped again.

Two more rifle shots rang out.

She glanced back over her shoulder, then plunged into the woods. Halfway down the trail, she heard the footfalls of someone running full out. Ducking off the path, she crouched in the shelter of a wind-damaged cedar tree.

Another whoop shattered the air. Then Franny’s ungainly form came pounding through the forest. Her dress was bloody and ripped to the waist. Half of her face was gone, and one big hand was a scarlet ruin. Right on her heels came two howling savages.

Cailin watched in horror as the lead warrior—a huge man with his face painted black and white to resemble a skull—hurled a tomahawk at Franny’s back. The bondwoman groaned, staggered to her knees, and then fell full-length on the forest floor. The ax handle quivered as Franny writhed in agony.

With a wild cry of triumph, the painted brave leaped forward and planted a moccasined foot on the dying woman’s spine. Franny uttered a bubbling groan, and her eyes rolled up in her head until Cailin could see nothing but white. Seizing a handful of Franny’s meager, graying hair, the Indian wrenched her head cruelly back until her neck snapped, and slashed down across her forehead with a fourteen-inch butcher knife.

Cailin shut her eyes. When she opened them again, Franny was motionless, and the skull-faced monster danced around her body brandishing a crimson mat of hair.

Cailin held her breath and remained motionless. The scent of crushed leaves and fear filled her nostrils. She perceived a salty taste on her tongue, then vaguely realized that it was her own blood. Exploring her inner mouth, she found she’d bitten the inside of her cheek, but strangely, she felt no pain. She felt nothing at all; she was numb all over.