Judith E French (15 page)

Ross dismounted and lifted Anne down from the saddle, keeping her in his arms. “The house my father calls Heatherfield, but I give it to ye as a bride’s gift, hinney. Ye may name it whatever ye wish.”

Anne stared at the house in wonder. “It’s . . . it’s beautiful,” she murmured. “I didn’t think . . .”

“Did ye expect me to bring ye to a cave?” Ross lifted the latch and stepped carefully around a rabbit nest on the doorsill. Shouldering the heavy door, he carried her inside. “Welcome home, Anne,” he said gruffly.

The only light in the hall parlor came from the open door. In the dimness, Ross could see the wide staircase with its carved cherry balustrade, dusty but intact, and the four paneled doors leading off the hall. “’Tis dark, I know, but when we open the inner doors and window shutters—” he began.

Anne kissed him and hugged his neck, squirming to be put down. “No,” she cried. “It’s a lovely, lovely house! I never thought—”

“Ye did believe I meant to bring ye to a cave.”

Anne’s feet touched the floor, and she ran to open the first door on the left. Her features froze as she saw the empty room. There was no furniture at all—none. As she took a hesitant step into the shadowy parlor, a mouse scampered past, and she gasped. “Oh!”

“I’ll open the outer shutters,” Ross offered. “’Tis a bonny house, but nothing in size to what you’re used to in England.” He hurried out, leaving her standing on the dusty hardwood floor.

Anne heard the squeak of boards and hinges, and a little more light filtered into the room. Ross returned and slid the heavy iron bars, opening the paneled inner shutters and folding them back against the window enclosures. Light flooded into the spacious parlor, revealing the raised paneling and built-in cupboards along the fireplace wall. “It’s all beautiful,” she said, running a finger along the dusty granite mantel. “It’s a wonderful house, Ross.”

“Aye, so think I, but ye could probably set it down in a corner of your home in—”

“It is a beautiful house,” she repeated, “and as you say, this is not England. Pray, husband, show me the rest.”

Proudly, he took her from room to room. She tried to hide her dismay at the lack of furnishings. There was nothing—not a chair or table, not even a bed.

“What do ye think?” he asked when they reached the master bedchamber with its wide windows overlooking the green valley.

Anne stepped around the mangy bearskin that lay in the center of the room. “A magnificent view,” she agreed sweetly. The fireplace was smaller than the one she had seen in the first parlor, directly below, but the cherry paneling was expertly fitted, and the wainscoting below the white plastered walls on the other three sides of the room gleamed in the sunlight. “A room as lovely as any I have ever lived in.” She eyed the bearskin surreptitiously for any sign of movement.

Ross was not deceived. “Ye think the house too small and mean for a lady such as yourself.”

“No,” she protested. “The house is—” She took a deep breath. “Where is the furniture? Is it in storage?”

Ross’s eyes narrowed. “I thought ye’d notice. There is none. The money ran out before Daddy could buy any. But I’ll get ye some if it means so much to ye.”

Anne’s lower lip quivered. “How can you expect me to live in a house without any furniture? Am I to sleep and eat on the floor?”

His copper tan deepened. “I thought I’d fetch us some cooking utensils and skins from the trading post.”

Her mouth gaped open. “Skins? You want me to sleep on skins? And the servants? Are they to cook over a campfire? Are they . . .” She trailed off, feeling suddenly foolish. “There are no servants, are there? You expect me to cook and sew and milk the cows.”

“Nay,” he answered quickly. “No milking. We’ve no cows to milk.”

“No cows. No poultry either, I suppose.”

Ross shook his head.

She covered her face with her hands as the awful truth became clear. Ross was a savage, and he expected her to live like one too.

“Now, hinney, don’t take on so,” he soothed.

Anger gave her sudden courage. “Don’t take on!” she flared. “I’m kidnapped, carried across the ocean, nearly drowned in a hurricane, and now you expect me to live without furniture? I won’t do it! I won’t!” she shouted. “Kill me if you want to, but I won’t live like this. I want to go home!” She rubbed at her eyes as they clouded with tears. “I want . . .” She gasped. “I . . . want . . . to . . .”

Ross’s arms closed around her. “Shhh, shhh, hinney,” he murmured. “You’ll have your furniture, I promise ye.” He kissed her hair, and her forehead, and her neck. “Shhh, darling, dinna cry. I canna bear it if ye cry.” He tilted her head up and kissed her full on the mouth. “You’re tired and hungry. Ye need rest. This be all strange to ye.” He kissed her again. “Let me take ye to the fort, hinney. It’s only a mile away, down the valley, beyond the trees. You’ll feel better tomorrow, I promise.”

 

They reached Fort Campbell at dusk. The rambling log structure was built on a hillside overlooking a river crossing and was surrounded by a log palisade with watchtowers at the four corners and a water-filled moat around the outside of the walls. Spiked logs, crisscrossed to form an impenetrable barrier, circled the moat.

“Is your father expecting a war?” Anne asked.

Ross grinned. “Always.” He rose in the saddle and pulled the rope of a bronze bell that hung from a post at the foot of the hill. Before the bell had stopped ringing, a pack of hounds burst from the open gate and ran toward them.

“Not more dogs,” Anne muttered under her breath.

Ross laughed. “They might lick you to death, but other than that, they’re harmless.” He twisted in the saddle and caught her with one arm, lowering her to the ground.

“No,” she protested. “I—” She broke off as an inhuman cry cut the still evening air. She whirled to see a painted and feathered Indian on a white horse appear in the gateway.

Ross stiffened in the saddle and screamed an answering war cry. He yanked back on the reins and Tusca reared, baring his teeth. Ross raised his rifle in defiance and reined the stallion into a tight circle, then gave another chilling whoop.

Anne stared in horror as the stranger echoed Ross’s challenge and galloped down the hill toward him, brandishing his own weapon. Clods of earth flew from the horses’ hooves as the two animals thundered toward each other. Ross let out another war cry and threw himself from the saddle seconds before they collided. Tusca veered to the left, barely missing the Indian who vaulted from his own mount, rolled, and leaped to his feet to face Ross.

Screaming a Shawnee war whoop, the buckskinned warrior threw aside his rifle and pulled a knife. Ross tossed his own weapon to the ground and retrieved a blade from the sheath at his waist.

“No!” Anne cried, running toward them. “Don’t!”

Crouching, the two circled each other. Anne could see now that Ross towered over the smaller man, but the Indian was quicker, and Anne’s blood ran cold as his burnished steel knife flashed in the fading twilight. He lunged toward Ross, and Ross grabbed him in a bearhug. Anne screamed and then came to an abrupt halt and blinked to make certain her eyes weren’t lying to her.

Ross Campbell was roaring with laughter—and he was enthusiastically kissing his painted opponent.

A
nne stared in disbelief at Ross and the Indian girl—for it was obvious to her now that this fierce warrior was clearly female. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “Ross? Do you know this—”

“Aye. I know her well enough.” He held the laughing woman at arm’s length and grinned at Anne. “Wife, meet the lass I almost married, Nibeeshu Meekwon—Leah Moonfeather Stewart.”

“Nay,” the stranger replied with a lilting Highland burr. “I am wed to an
Englishmanake
.” She gave Ross a mischievous smile. “I be Leah Moonfeather Wescott, now.” She tilted her beautiful heart-shaped face and covered her mouth with her fingertips, suppressing a soft giggle. “Lady Brandon, do ye please, Ross Campbell.”

Anne’s eyes widened. There was a ringing in her ears, and she felt as though she were going to faint. Surely she had heard wrong. The woman had not said her name was... “Leah?” she murmured. It was impossible, but the woman looked like her friend. “Leah?”

The Indian squaw spun around and fixed her intense gaze on Anne. Instantly, she flung herself forward and seized Anne’s hands. “Anne! Sister. What do ye do here?” Understanding dawned over her dirty, paint-smeared face, and she glanced back at Ross, “Ye be wed? Truly? Ye and my Anne?” Still grinning proudly, Ross nodded. “Aiyee,” Leah exclaimed, “can it be so?”

“Leah?” Anne repeated. She’d not expected to meet Brandon’s American wife here. They’d gone back to the Colonies two years ago, and she’d not heard from them. To find the only friend she had in this vast new land was impossible to believe. And to find Leah in the arms of her husband was insane. Confused, Anne looked from Leah to Ross and back again. The last time she’d seen Leah they’d returned from a day of sightseeing by coach in London; Leah had been dressed in an exquisite hooped gown. She’d been gloved and jeweled, and her hair had been fashionably dressed. Anne had known Brandon’s bride was an Indian native, of course, but she’d not seen her in skins and paint and feathers. Anne was shocked almost beyond speech.

Leah tugged at Anne’s hand. “It be so good to see ye, Anne,” she exclaimed. “Ye have been in my thoughts often.” Her gaze dropped to Anne’s amulet, and she waited expectantly. “Have ye never thought of me?” she asked.

Anne drew in a ragged breath. Leah’s huge dark eyes revealed an anxiousness absent in her speech. Anne was at a loss as to what was expected of her. “Yes,” she admitted slowly. “I did think of you . . . and of Brandon. Is he here?”

A ripple of disappointment passed over Leah’s copper-tinted face. “Nay,” she replied. “Brandon be not here. He is at the plantation—at King’s Gift near Annapolis.” She released Anne’s hand and glanced back at Ross. “They make harvest of tobacco in this moon. We have an agreement, Brandon and me. In winter, we are together in his English house beside the Chesapeake; in spring and summer, I return to my people with the children.”

Ross’s deep voice questioned lightly, “You are married and have children?”

“Ye knew of Kitate?” Leah said. She stepped back away from Anne. “And ye ken the death of my first husband.”

“Aye,” Ross answered.

Anne suddenly felt as though she had invaded the privacy of two strangers. Heat rose in her cheeks. “I didn’t know you and Leah were friends,” she stammered. “Did you have to attack each other like Mongols? Couldn’t you just have said
hello?
”

Ross didn’t seem to hear her. “I heard your husband had been killed,” he told Leah, “but I didn’t know ye had remarried—”

“An
Englishmanake,
” Leah finished for him. She brought the palms of her hands together and raised them until the tops of her fingers brushed her lips. “’Tis a long story,” she confided, “and one to be told over a late-night campfire.” She turned back to Anne. “If Ross Campbell is your husband, ye have picked a good man. Do not let him tease ye. We were children together.”

“More than that,” Ross insisted. He walked to Anne’s side and put his arm around her shoulders. “I asked Moonfeather to marry me.”

“He was sixteen,” Leah said.

“I asked you again when I was twenty,” he reminded her, “and again when—”

“And I said no.” Leah smiled shyly at Anne. “I did not wish to wed a white man.”

“Ye turned me down for not being Indian enough, and then you go and marry an Englishman!” Ross grimaced. “An Englishman. I’m hurt, Moonfeather. Deeply hurt.” His words were teasing, but his eyes revealed more to Anne than he wanted to admit.

Leah shrugged daintily. “Ye must content yourself with being my friend, Ross Campbell.” She picked up her fallen knife from the dust, cleaned it on her fringed legging, and slid it into the sheath. “And if ye did not know that I had wed, ye betrayed our love by choosing an Englishwoman instead of me—did ye not?” She giggled softly. “Enough. I be wed and content. Ye be the same, unless I am less a peace woman than I think.” She smiled at Anne once more. “As this one’s wife, do ye need to ask why I was reluctant to put my hand in his?”

“No,” Anne said firmly. “I don’t. I was somewhat reluctant myself.” Unfamiliar feelings rose to trouble her, feelings that smacked of jealousy and anger. The trouble was, she wasn’t certain she wanted to be angry with either of them. She took a deep breath. Beneath the dirt and blue and yellow streaks of paint, Leah was a breathtakingly beautiful woman, with her flawless complexion, high cheekbones, and dark curving brows—more attractive even than Anne remembered her from England. “You spoke of children,” Anne reminded Leah. “In England you told me of Kitate from your first marriage, but do you and Brandon—”

Leah beamed with motherly pride. “A little daughter,” she confided, “with eyes as blue as her father’s. She is inside the trading post. She sleeps now, but ye must admire her come morning.”

Ross caught the reins of the horses and together they walked up the hill toward the enclosure. “It’s quiet,” he said. “Where is everyone?”

“Angus was thrown off a horse this morning. Nothing is broken, but he is making life unpleasant for his woman. John Red Shirt has gone downriver with his family to trade, and Mary’s mother, Ruth, is visiting her other grandchildren across the Ohio. Your father will be glad to hold you in his arms. He does not say so, but I know he feared for you so far away in Scotland.”

“You didn’t come alone?” he questioned.

“Nay, Ross, I have an escort, but there is no need for you to make such a fierce face. I be a peace woman now. None will harm me or mine—not even the Iroquois. I can travel where and when I wish.”

“Why—”

Leah frowned. “Later. First you must take your bride to your father. We will eat together, and laugh and talk.”

“Aye. I’ve been around the whites so long I’ve almost forgotten Indian custom.” Ross tightened his grip on Anne’s shoulder. “It’s not polite to come right to the point with my mother’s people, hinney,” he explained. “First we talk about everything under the sun, then we get down to business.”

Leah laughed. “A civilized custom, ye must agree.”

“Daddy fell off a horse, you say?”

“Aye. A half-broke colt he bought off a Dutchman. Mary warned him to leave the training to you, but ye know Angus.”

“Mary is my father’s Indian wife,” Ross said. “You’ll like her.”

They entered the log palisade with the dogs following close behind. A small Indian boy appeared from behind the gate, bow and arrow in hand. The arrow was drawn and leveled at Ross’s chest.

“Nay,” Leah called. “’Tis no need for that. This is an old friend. Come Kitate, and meet Ross Campbell and my friend Anne.” She motioned to the boy. Cautiously, he moved toward the three of them. Leah smiled at him. “Ross, this be my son, Kitate. He is part of the escort I told ye of.”

Ross nodded to the boy. Ross’s features remained serious as he made a fist with his right hand and placed that fist over his heart. “Greetings, Kitate. It eases my heart that the peace woman has such a guard to protect her.”

The child lowered his bow and offered a shy smile as he repeated the formal greeting. “My mother speaks of you,” he said solemnly. “You helped her kill the bear.”

Ross chuckled. “A long time ago, little warrior.” He glanced at Anne. “May I present my wife, Anne. Anne, this is Moonfeather’s oldest son, Kitate.”

“Kitate,” Anne murmured. “Is there a younger son?”

Leah laughed softly. “Not yet, but Brandon has hope.”

Above them, on the palisade walk, Anne noticed two more painted Indian men armed with muskets. Nervously, she looked at Ross to see if he had seen them.

“They are my cousins, Niipan and Liiuan,” Leah explained. She waved to the guards, and they waved back. “They keep watch for Angus tonight. Ye need have no fear, it be only a precaution,” she said soothingly to Anne. “Those who do not sleep with one ear open sometimes sleep longer than they plan.” She motioned to the horses. “Take them for us, Kitate.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed.

“It is all right,” Leah assured him. “These are friends. Make certain that the black has grain and water. He has come a long way.”

“That he has,” Ross agreed. He led them toward the two-story log structure that stood in the center of the fort.

Night was falling fast, but Anne could see that there were no windows on the first floor, and only a narrow, low door in the center. A well stood a few feet from the door. “This place looks more like a fortress than a store,” she said. “I thought your father sold goods to the Indians.”

“More trading than selling,” Ross answered. “And there’s none done inside the house. Friendlies—friendly Indians—are invited into the post. The others do their dealing outside the walls. He rarely allows whites inside, French or British. Daddy prefers to keep his defenses secret.” He caught her hand and followed Leah inside. “Watch your step,” he warned.

Anne squinted to see in the darkness. The doorway was more of a tunnel than an entrance. A second door opened another six feet inside. Ross pulled her hard to the right, and she gasped as the floor vanished where she would have stepped if he hadn’t pulled her away.

“Murder hole,” Ross said. “’Course it won’t murder anyone. Step there, and you’ll slide into the cellar. Mary’s mother kept forgetting, so we had to put a pile of hay down there to keep her from breaking her neck.”

“Are you attacked often here?” Anne asked. What kind of place had Ross brought her to? A shiver passed up her spine. “Are we in danger?”

“Daddy didn’t live to have white hair without being cautious,” Ross answered. He sounded amused, but Anne found little about this place amusing.

Ross led her on through a room that smelled of black powder and musty skins. The walls were piled high with things she couldn’t make out in the darkness.

“This is where we store most of our trade goods,” he explained. “Cloth, knives, scissors, needles, salt. Daddy keeps some food stock for white folk, but most of his customers are Indian.”

Keeping close behind, she followed him up a flight of stairs, through another thick wooden door, and into a large room. One wall was dominated by a huge stone fireplace. There was a long table with benches, and chairs hanging on hooks along the walls. Animal-skin rugs lay on the wide plank floors. From the high peaked ceiling hung an assortment of strange items, interspersed with baskets and all manner of what could only be Indian weapons. The wall opposite the fireplace was an arsenal of muskets, rifles, and pistols. Shot bags, powder horns, knives, and bows and arrows hung in orderly rows from one end of the room to the other.

A smiling Indian woman with a round face rose from her sewing to greet them. She wore an English-style skirt and bodice of rough homespun, a white cap over her long braids, and beaded moccasins. “Ross!” she cried in a heavily accented lisping voice. “Well to come home!” She threw herself at him. “Angus! Angus! It be our Ross.”

Anne’s attention was riveted on the mountain of a man stretched out on a crude bed beside the fireplace. One leg was wrapped and bandaged from knee to toe, but it didn’t stop him from coming up off the bed with a roar. Using a musket as a crutch, he lunged toward Ross and the woman. Leah grabbed Anne and pulled her clear of the bearded man’s charge.

“Ross!” he bellowed. “Ross!”

Ross let go of Mary and braced himself for his father’s engulfing hug. “Daddy!” he exclaimed. Tears ran down the older man’s face as they held each other, and Angus pounded his son on the back with blows that would have felled a buffalo. Somewhere in the midst of the shouting and confusion, a crow fluttered down from the overhead beams and landed on Ross’s head.

“What in God’s name . . .” Anne began.

“Ignore the crow, it’s Angus’s pet. He wants you to make a fuss. Neither he nor Ross has ever grown up. They are like two bear cubs growling and swatting at one another.”

The crow spun off into the air as Angus continued to hug and slap Ross. Leah raised her hand, and the crow lit on her wrist. “This be Henry,” she said to Anne. “He talks but—”

“Hellfire. Hellfire,” the bird squawked.

The two men turned toward Anne and Leah. “Daddy, I brought home a bride. Ye’ll like my Anne, I promise ye—though she be English, and as much trouble as any Delaware squaw.” He grinned at Anne. “Hinney, meet my daddy, Angus Campbell.”

Flustered, feeling foolish, Anne dipped a graceful curtsy. “Lord Strathmar.” The earl was as unlikely a father-in-law as she had ever expected. He was as tall and broad shouldered as Ross. She could not guess his age, but his face was as weathered as the foremast of the
Laird’s Bounty
. Lord Strathmar’s nose had been broken and healed crookedly, and he bore a scar down one side of his face. His thick hair was as white as a swan, cut off straight at his shoulders and held off his face with a leather thong. His mustache was long and drooping, and his long white beard was braided into thick plaits. A Scots bonnet in Campbell blue and green perched on the back of his head, but other than that, he was garbed all in fringed buckskins. And his eyes . . . Anne took in a deep breath. His eyes were the milky white of opals.