Judith E French (14 page)

“Ah, hinney,” he groaned. “I’ve missed ye so. Wanted ye . . . lain awake nights with sweat pouring off me, aching to touch ye like this . . .” His big fingers tugged at the ties of her corset, and the tight garment came loose.

Her hands dropped to his belt, then lower. Anne’s breath caught in her throat as she felt the heat of his huge, swollen manhood through the wet folds of his kilt. She slipped her fingers beneath the garment and clasped his silken-smooth shaft in her hand. Ross moaned and pushed her shift off one shoulder, gently lifting her breast free and stroking the nipple teasingly with the pad of his thumb. He caressed her ear with his lips, then laid a fiery trail of hot kisses to the nape of her neck.

Anne cried out with joy as sweet desire spread from her breast to her loins. Breathing heavily, she pushed him backward to the deck and raised his shirt, letting her hands trace the hard curves of his chest. She kissed his damp skin above his belt and laid her cheek against him as her fingers explored his muscular body.

Around them, the hurricane raged, but Anne no longer feared it. Ross’s nearness, the taste of his skin, the pressure of his hands caressing her, the scent of his virile manhood . . . they made the angry sea a far-off dream. This man was her only reality—this man and the white-hot yearning that possessed her.

“Anne,” he gasped. Stripping away his kilt, he claimed her mouth again, branding her with the heat of his own blazing passion. “I want ye, Anne. I want to fill ye with my love, to make ye part of me.”

She trembled with anticipation as the pounding need in her veins drove her almost mad with wanting him. “Yes,” she murmured, “yes.” And then he was pressing her back against the deck. Wet and ready for him, she opened her thighs to receive his great, tumescent member.

And it seemed to her that they were no longer carried on the storm, but they were the storm, rising and falling, caught in the crest of wind and wave, glorying in the power of their creation.

Time and space were lost to her.

And later, when she opened her eyes and stared into Ross’s incandescent ones, she did not try to speak. There were no words to express her feeling of bright, blithe rapture.

“Hinney.” He grinned down at her.

She shut her eyes. “Mmm?”

“Hinney, you . . .” He trailed off and chuckled. “Lass, lass, ye pass understanding.”

“Mmm.” She snuggled against his shoulder.

“Ye canna sleep now, wife. Have ye forgotten the storm?” He rose, pulling her up with him and snatching a blanket off the bunk, wrapping it around her shift-clad body. “I’m taking ye on deck, sweeting. The eye is passing over now, but when it—”

“The storm is over?” Anne blinked, realizing that the crashing of the waves had stopped. Sunlight spilled through the cabin windows. “It’s finished.”

He shook his head. “Nay. Would that it had. When the eye has passed, we’ll be hit again from the storm, but this time from another direction.” He donned his kilt and recovered the knife that had fallen from his sheath and slid away across the polished deck. “I mean to tie ye to the mast, to keep ye from being washed overboard.”

She began to shiver. “But you said—”

“I said ye were safer below.” His mouth firmed, and his loving eyes narrowed with resolve. “Now I say different.” He brushed her lips with his. “I will stay close. If the ship begins to break up. I’ll cut ye loose.”

“And Tusca? What of Tusca?” Her eyes clouded with moisture as she thought of the beautiful stallion trapped below in the hold. “We can’t leave him down there to—”

Ross caught her arm roughly. “I canna help him.” Anne was speechless as he shepherded her out of the cabin and up on deck. Captain Gordon was shouting commands; the sailors were too busy clearing fallen yards and tangled sails to pay Anne and Ross notice as he led her to the foremast and wrapped her waist with stout rope.

Anne stared up at the blue sky. It was inconceivable to her that the storm would return with full fury, when the winds had died and all around them the foamy waves were tinged with sparkling sunlight.

“God save ye, mistress.”

Anne turned her head to see the captain coming toward her. He was a little man, whip-thin, and burned as dark as tanned leather by the sun and salt of a seaman’s life. She could not guess his age—he could have been thirty or sixty—but his hair was gray and his pale eyes were old beyond his years.

“Pray for us,” Captain Gordon said in a thick Scottish burr. “She is a breme ship and I love her like a bridegroom loves his bonny bride. She rode a hurricane off Jamaica that took eleven ships to the briny deep, and wi’ God’s help, she’ll ride this one. But if she falters, ye maun make your peace with the Almighty, for we are leagues from land, and no man born of woman could survive in such a sea.” He motioned to his second-in-command. “Mr. Thomas, secure that spritsail.”

Thomas ordered two sailors to the bow to carry out the task, and Captain Gordon continued on toward the bridge without waiting for an answer from Anne.

“He’s a good man,” Ross murmured to her. “He’ll see us through this if anyone can.”

“I still think he looks like a pirate,” she replied. “They all look like pirates.”

Ross shaded his eyes with his hand and pointed toward the horizon. “Look there, hinney. See those clouds. It’s coming.”

In the time it took to harness a team of four to a coach, the sky had darkened overhead, and the first gusts of wind began to billow the sails. Anne’s pulse quickened as the temperature dropped and the light began to fade.

The waves grew higher. Ross leaned close and spoke above the wind. “I’ll keep ye safe, hinney. I promise.”

Ross’s words were something solid for Anne to cling to when the storm hit them full force, churning the blue-green water to a boiling caldron, and the howling wind ripped at the sails with dragon teeth and nails. Waves crashed across the deck, snapping rails and tearing loose cannon. Driving rain blinded her, and she clenched her eyes against the stinging salt.

Icy ocean water soaked her to the waist. Anne’s teeth chattered until she grew too numb to feel the cold. In desperation, she clutched her amulet and tried to pray, but fear had frozen her mind as well as her flesh, and she could only murmur a nursery prayer. And then she lost consciousness.

 

“Hinney. Hinney.”

Anne shook her head. She was sleepy . . . so sleepy. She was dreaming of a yule log in the great fireplace in Scarbrough’s country house. The flames from the hearth were warm, and she was sipping brandy. She choked as fiery liquor filled her mouth and trickled down her throat.

“Sip it, hinney. Easy.”

Ross’s voice. What was he doing in—She choked again and sputtered, opening her eyes. For a minute she couldn’t remember where she was, and then she saw the porthole over the bunk. The captain’s cabin. She was on a ship in the Caribbean. “No,” she protested. “No more.”

“Take a little,” Ross insisted. “’Twill warm your insides.”

She sipped the rum, then gasped as the alcohol seared a path to the pit of her stomach. She coughed and covered her hands with her face. “The storm . . .”

“Over.”

Anne’s fingers brushed the rough wool of a blanket. She realized she was lying on the bunk, and she was wrapped in a blanket. “It’s over?” she asked dumbly.

“Aye. Ye gave me a fright, lass. When I went to untie ye from the mast, ye hung there like a dead man on a gallows, pale as whey.” He rubbed her hair with a towel. “Ye’ve no fever, but you’ve been unconscious for hours.”

The rum felt warm in her stomach, and her eyelids seemed made of lead. “I’m sleepy,” she said, “and I want to go home. Take me home.”

“I am,” Ross said. “I’m taking ye to our home.”

Anne’s eyes snapped open. “I want to go home to England,” she cried, “to a place where—”

“Nay,” he answered gruffly. “Where I go, ye go. I’ll not give ye to the sea, or to any man. Ye be mine, Anne—as much a part of me as my right arm.” He leaned over her to kiss her, and she turned her head away.

“No. You can’t treat me like this. I won’t have it.”

“I love you,” he said hoarsely. “I canna give ye up.”

“Me or my money?”

His eyes narrowed in anger. “Does it matter? If ye canna read my heart by now, I’ll waste no words in trying to convince ye.”

“I can read you,” she flung back. “That’s the problem. I know what you want from me!”

He rose to his feet, glaring down at her. “Do ye now?”

“Yes. You’ve made it plain enough.”

He shrugged. “Have it your way then, Anne. But ye shall never see England again. Resign yourself to it.”

“Resign yourself to hell!” She grabbed the flask of rum off the bunk and threw it at his head. He ducked and caught the flask with one hand.

Tears ran down her cheeks.

“Save yourself the trouble,” he said. “Ye be my wife, and where I go, you go.”

“Better wife to the devil,” she sobbed.

“Perhaps, but he’ll have to kill me first if he wishes to wed ye.” With hard eyes he turned away and left her weeping her heartbreak into the empty cabin.

 

T
he forest towered over them, brown and green and full of life. To her left, Anne could hear the chattering of a squirrel; to her right, the ringing
kuk-kuh-kukkuk
of a pileated woodpecker. As she rode, she kept a sharp eye in the woodpecker’s direction, hoping to catch another glimpse of the large red-crested bird.

Anne was mounted behind Ross on Tusca’s broad back. They had been riding into the wilderness for weeks, ever since the
Laird’s Bounty
had limped into port in some godforsaken village in the Carolinas. They had ridden through swamp and meadow, crossed broad rivers and dense thickets, rarely catching sight of another human. Together, they had suffered rain and beating sun and the stifling heat of steaming hot nights when buzzing insects tormented them until they could not sleep.

But the discomforts of the journey had been dispelled by each day’s new experiences and new sights. She and Ross had swum in clean rivers and roasted fish over an open campfire. They had made love beneath the hanging branches of a willow tree and watched the sun come up over the horizon, all orange and pink and rose. They had found shelter from a storm beneath an overhang of rock where thick moss and wildflowers grew, and had witnessed a brilliantly hued rainbow when the heavens cleared. They had seen a fox vixen and her tiny cubs and watched a quail chick hatch from a shell. She and Ross had laughed together and teased each other, and told things they had never told another.

“He came to this land when it was really wild,” Ross had explained one evening, speaking of his father, Angus Campbell. “He went among the Shawnee, the Delaware, the Fox, and the Iroquois and learned to speak their tongues. He lived with them and took their daughters as wives. My mother brought him fifty thousand acres as her dowry. Wait until ye see it, hinney. It’s bonny country, I vow. He built his trading post at a spot on the Mesawmi River in a gap between two mountains.”

Ross threw another stick on the fire and put his arm protectively around her, and they listened in silence to the wolves howling on the far side of the river. Then Ross kissed the top of her head and continued. “Although my mother claimed all the land—”

“What was her name?” she interrupted, suddenly wondering what kind of woman had mothered such a man-child.

“Among the People, it’s considered bad luck to speak of the dead by name.”

“Surely you don’t believe such superstitious nonsense?”

“Whether I do or not means nothing, lassie. My mother believed, and I maun honor her memory.” He stretched out his long legs. “My mother claimed the land as hunting ground,” he said. “The Delaware and Shawnee dinna own land as the English do. All land belongs to Him above. Men and women merely have use of it. But my father was a Scotsman and canny. He drew up a treaty with the tribes and paid a token to all who would put their fingerprint in red paint to the elk hide—even babes made their mark. Paying the fee beggared him for years, but he was an honest trader, and in time he prospered. For years, he was the only white man for weeks’ travel. But. . .” Ross sighed. “Times change, sweeting. English and French soldiers, German settlers, other traders, other tribes. Times change, and the man who canna or willna change with them must vanish like the woods bison.”

“What of your mother?”

“She died, and my ‘little mother,’ her sister, died too, of a child’s disease—measles.” For the briefest flicker of time, Anne saw the pain on his face. Then his features smoothed and he smiled down at her. “Surely ye had the measles when ye were a babe, did ye not?” She nodded. “Aye, and so did I,” he went on. “My Scots blood made little of the sickness, so my father said I was not even abed the space of a day and night. But Daddy lost his wives, and another son, and two small daughters. For years, he lived alone. A few years back he took another wife, but so far they’ve nay been blessed with children. He’s stuck with me for an heir.”

“You claim the land? Regardless of your mother’s beliefs?”

Ross chuckled. “Aye, hinney. The Scots half of me lays claim to every foot of it—to every tree, and rock, and blade of grass. To every drop of sparkling water that runs down from the high places or falls from the clouds.” He exhaled softly. “The Indians call it Wanishish-eyun—Thou Art Fair.” He grinned. “Daddy and most everybody else call it Fort Campbell.”

Ross went on to explain that when he was grown, he’d been concerned that other white men would claim the land if they didn’t have English title to it. He’d traveled to the coast to secure the documents and found that he was too late by nearly sixty years. King Charles had awarded the land to a favorite after the Restoration—Fort Campbell stood on ground that belonged to an English nobleman who had never set foot in America.

“The rest I’ve told ye before,” Ross had concluded. “I went to Scotland hoping to get the money to buy Wanishish-eyun, and ended up with you.”

She’d been disturbed by his remark, but not so angry that they hadn’t ended the evening in each other’s arms.

Anne had buried her resentment at his kidnapping, her deep hurt that she was valuable to him only because of her fortune—buried it beneath the day-to-day living. Since childhood, it had been her way to accept graciously what happened to her. She was a woman. It was her place to bow before her parents’ wishes and before those of her husband. She did not forget the pain, but she hid it, and wished that things could be different between them. She would have given ten years of her life if only Ross loved her for herself, because, in spite of everything, she loved him.

That her love was illogical and impossible meant nothing—she adored Ross Campbell. She felt about him as she had never felt about another human being. She wanted to be with him, to touch him, to see his face when she opened her eyes in the morning, to feel his hard body over her at night.

But she had not told him of her love. She’d not shame herself by offering her undying love when she knew he didn’t return her feeling.

She pleased him physically; of that she was certain. Even in her inexperience, it was plain that they both found joy in their lovemaking. Ross was an exciting, thoughtful lover. He cared for more than his own pleasure; he wanted hers as well. He wooed her as romantically as any court gallant—picking wildflowers for her, and even singing love songs to her as they rode.

A woman of less sense would have been deceived, would have accepted Ross’s devotion as an honest declaration of love. But she knew all too well what she was. No man would want her if she were poor, especially a man like Ross who could have any woman he desired.

He could have her money and welcome to it. She had more than enough. So long as he left her enough to live as a gentlewoman, it would not matter.

But once he had the price of his land, he wouldn’t need her anymore. Then she would ask him to let her return home to England, and if he refused, she would find a way to get there on her own. A husband could control his wife’s finances, but he couldn’t take everything. Certain monies were hers as long as she lived.

This time with Ross was something she would remember all her life. She would enjoy every day, every passionate night. She would love him without reservation, and she would hide her secret heartache.

Anne laid her cheek against Ross’s broad back and closed her eyes. The smells of the forest filled her brain and crept under her skin. The crackle of dried leaves and the snap of twigs under the stallion’s hooves gave off a rich, musty scent. Evergreen branches brushed against her skirt. She opened her eyes, broke off a handful of needles, and lifted them to her nose, inhaling the sharp bite of cedar.

She had never realized how peaceful a forest could be, or how the majesty of trees and sky could make you feel as though you were in a great cathedral. Unconsciously, she tightened her grip on Ross’s waist. He looked back over his shoulder and smiled at her.

“We’re almost home, hinney,” he said. Her eyes widened in surprise, and he chuckled. “Did ye think we meant to ride forever?”

“It seemed like it,” she admitted. She leaned around his solid bulk, trying to see if the forest ahead looked any different.

“We’ve been riding over Wanishish-eyun since our noon meal,” he explained. “The fort is just ahead, no more than a mile as the crow flies. Lord, but Daddy will give ye a fine welcome. He’s been after me to marry for years. He wants grandchildren.”

Anne did not answer. When her courses had come a few days before, she’d hidden her disappointment. She, too, wanted Ross’s child. Now, the thought that he might want a son was frightening. If she gave birth to a child while she was here in America, would he let her take it back to England with her? What if he refused? Better to be barren than to have a babe and have it taken away from her.

Their magical time together had ended, she realized with a jolt. The arrival at Fort Campbell and the meeting with Ross’s father would mean the end of her courtship. She was a stranger, an Englishwoman, and she would have no friends here in the wilderness. Uneasy, she fingered her amulet.

“Ye need have no fear,” Ross murmured, as though he’d read her mind. “I’ll keep ye safe from harm. And in time, ye shall come to love Wanishish-eyun as I do. I promise ye.”

Anne bit back the angry words that threatened to spill out. Promises! Promises came easy to men . . . and what defense did she have if Ross failed to keep his promises?

Ross read the hostility in her eyes, and it shocked him. Once more, he wondered if he’d been wrong to bring Anne to the Colonies against her will.

Nay! he argued with his conscience. What choice did I have? If I’d left her behind in Scotland, her family would have turned her over to that slime, Murrane.

He fixed his gaze on Tusca’s twitching black ears. The stallion had picked up his pace. Even after the weeks of carrying double, the animal still had a reserve of blazing stamina. The horse knew he was nearing home and his stable.

Ross’s mouth firmed. ’Twas no use to pretend he’d brought sweet English Anne to America to save her from ill use. He’d brought her because she was a fire in his gut—because even the thought of the endless forests and dark rivers of his homeland seemed a prison without her near him. She would come to love the wilderness—who could not?

But if she didn’t? What then? Ross’s throat constricted. He would make Anne love his world. There was no other solution.

She was uneasy now, he knew that. Whenever she took comfort in her amulet, he knew she was afraid or apprehensive. The gypsies had said her necklace was a powerful charm. A totem, his mother’s people would have called it.

Anne’s golden amulet was unusual, but not so rare that he hadn’t seen another like it when he was a child. Moonfeather—the girl he’d meant to marry when he was grown—had worn one. Moonfeather’s amulet had been a different shape, triangular, almost like an arrowhead, but it had been gold too, he was certain of it. And both charms bore incised decoration. More than once, he’d meant to question Anne at length about her necklace, but each time he’d been unable to form the words.

Ross chuckled softly and patted the big horse’s neck. I’m more my mother’s son than I care to admit, Ross thought. To question another person about his totem was the worst possible display of bad taste. Even a nursing child knew better. An amulet was a personal link with the spirit world, and a polite person wouldn’t admit that he even noticed a totem being worn by another.

Tusca topped the ridge and broke into a downhill trot through the ancient oak trees. This section of woods had never been cut; if Ross had his way, they never would. The five thousand acres that made up Wanishish-eyun would be a sanctuary for the Delaware and the Shawnee, no matter how many whites moved west. And if he made any money when he took over the business from his father, he’d use that money to buy more land from the English. Indian titles meant nothing to the Europeans, but most English didn’t know he was half Delaware. He’d use their own rules against them and hold whatever land he could as the Creator had made it.

Ross wondered what Anne would think of his house—Angus’s house, really. His father had started the house as a twenty-first birthday present, and the edifice had taken four years to build. His father had brought German stonecutters and masons at great expense, along with carpenters and other workmen.

And he had never wanted it until now, never expected to have need of it. If he had wed Moonfeather or some other almond-eyed Indian beauty, the house would have been a joke. His wife would have been more comfortable in a wigwam or a simple log cabin.

The answer was so simple it amazed him. This was Anne’s house. It had been from the first. Hadn’t his mother always told him that all things were foreordained, that past and future were one? He chuckled again and reined in Tusca to point out the twin granite chimneys rising through the trees in the valley below.

“See there, hinney, ’tis your house.” She made a small sound of surprise, and he tightened his knees around the stallion. Eagerly, Tusca leaped forward into a canter.

The plastered and whitewashed stone house rose two and a half stories from the knee-high grass. It had five bays and was gable-ended, with a slate roof and massive end chimneys; the house was so similar to some Scottish manor houses it could have been whisked to the wilderness by magic. The massive front door was four inches of solid oak, studded with iron nails; the lovely twelve-pane windows boasted both inner and outer shutters on both floors.

Seven-foot-high stone walls extended ten yards from each end of the house, then ran back to form a half-acre walled garden with an iron gate at the far end. At the rear of the house, Angus Campbell’s shrewd Scots mind and a lifetime of living on the frontier prevailed. An attached battlemented projection formed a three-story, twenty-four-foot square tower with no outside door, with a natural spring in the cellar level and narrow slits through the granite walls for windows on the second and third stories.