Judith E French (9 page)

Brandon’s stomach knotted. I’ll forget her as I forgot the others, he tried to convince himself. I remember their faces, but not their names. He splayed his fingers over her thigh, letting them slide over the curve of her hipbone.
Content,
Leah had said. He felt content when he held her like this, and overwhelmingly protective.

“Do ye have a mother across the sea? Brothers?”

Leah tugged at his ear, and Brandon realized he hadn’t been listening.

“Do ye sleep?” She repeated her first question.

“Oh, yes . . . a mother and a father. You’ll have earned my mother’s undying gratitude when I tell her that you saved my life.”

“More than once.”

He laughed. “Yes, more than once. I’m her only child. My father was married before, but his first wife died without issue. I’m the sole heir to their fortunes and to my father’s titles.”

“But ye said ye had a . . . a cousin. Did not your parents raise him? Surely he will get something.”

He put a finger over her lips. “Just once I want to hear you say
you.
Not
ye,
but
you.”

“Youh.”
She smiled up at him mischievously.
“Youh.”

“Close. Put your lips like this.” He demonstrated.
“You.”

Giggling, Leah kissed him.
“You.
I think I will need much practice.”

He grimaced. “Witch.”

She leaned her head back until her hair drifted on the surface of the water. “Your cousin . . . Charles. Will he not be an heir like
you?”

“Nay, lass,” he teased in a feigned Scottish accent. “He canna. ’Tis nay the custom o’ the
Englishmanake.”

“Then ’tis a bad custom. You said he grew in your father’s house. Among the Shawnee, it would make him your brother.”

“Charles has his own fortune. He doesn’t need mine, although he’ll be welcome to whatever I have if he ever does.”

Idly, Leah fingered the golden charm she wore around her neck. “Does this Charles have hair like ripe corn tassels and sky eyes?”

Brandon shook his head. “Charles’s hair is brown. He has the Wescott eyes, at least they’re—”

“Aiyee,” Leah cried, wiggling free. “Did ye see? A fish. Would ye . . .
you
like fish for the evening meal?”

“Fish would be a welcome break from meat, but we’ve no hooks or fishing lines.”

Leah gave him a look of pure astonishment. “We dinna need hooks or lines. Come, I will show
you.”
Holding her breath, she dove under water and swam to a place where tree roots extended into the water. Her head bobbed up and she waved to him. “Here, Brandon mine.”

He joined her, and she cautioned him to silence. “Dinna move,” she instructed. Only a few minutes passed before Brandon saw a shadow flash between Leah and the riverbank.

With a cry, she seized the struggling fish and tossed it up on the grass. “One more,” she promised. The second fish was larger than the first. Leah pronounced them both delicious eating and climbed up the bank to dress and start her cookfire.

“You are a wonder,” he said an hour later when they were nibbling at the broiled trout. She’d even thought to bring salt and herbs from the village, so their dinner was well seasoned. “If there hadn’t been so many warriors wanting to roast me or lift my scalp, I think I would have liked to spend a few more months with you.”

Her expression grew serious. “Nay,” she admonished. “For ye might then become a habit. ’Tis best as things be.”

When they had finished eating, Leah extinguished the fire and hid the evidence. They gathered their belongings and walked along the riverbank for nearly an hour before she signaled a halt for the night. “Tonight we will take turns sleeping,” she said. “One will keep the watch. Beyond the river is bad country, and we maun go carefully.”

“Iroquois?” he asked.

“Nay, white men. And, they be far more dangerous.”

 

Two days later, they crossed the first trail of man on horseback. Leah had sighted the smoke of a cabin earlier in the day, but she hadn’t pointed it out. The hoofprints of the horse were plain enough for Brandon to read himself.

“One white man alone,” she said, kneeling in the dust to finger the print. “He passed here in early morning.”

Brandon looked amused. “One man. And are you certain that it wasn’t an Indian?” He grinned at her. “Or a white woman?”

“The animal wears iron shoes.” She stood up and dusted off her clothing. “And an Indian woman might ride alone through the woods, but no white woman. They hide behind wooden walls.”

“Have you ever seen a white woman?”

“Nay, but Alex told me.”

“As he told you about the kissing.”

Leah laughed. “Still, I bet you my bow against your loincloth that ’twas a white man who rode here.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? The Viscount Brandon struts into Annapolis wearing nothing but a blush.”

She shook her head. “You would nay blush; ye be too much Shawnee now. Ye maun let the women blush.”

“I doubt it. How far are we from the first settlement, do you think?”

She rubbed her dusty hands on her leggings. “I dinna know. A day . . . maybe two. I have never been here. I only go by what Alex—”

“By what Alex said,” he finished for her. “Leah?”

“Aye.”

“This time with you has been . . .” He swallowed and looked away. “I’ll miss you, more than I ever thought possible.”

And I will miss you, she thought. She’d known the time they had together was drawing to an end, but she hadn’t wanted to admit it. She’d deliberately camped for the night when they could easily have walked on, and she’d taken Brandon south of the smoke. “I’ve been away too long,” she said. “My son awaits me. As soon as we find the white men, I will turn back.”

“I don’t want you to go.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Come with me, Leah—just for a little while. Come and see my father’s plantation. It sits on the Chesapeake. You’ve never seen a great body of water, a bay or an ocean, have you?”

“Nay, I dinna wish to,” she lied.

“You’re only half Shawnee, Leah. Didn’t your white half ever want to see the world your father came from? This is your chance. You’d be safe, I promise. I’d protect you and send you home loaded down with gifts for your family.”

“Nay,” she repeated. “’Tis not what we agreed on. How would I carry these gifts? The forest gives us what we need.” She tried to pull away from him. How had he seen into the deepest corner of her heart and guessed what she had wished as a child? How had Brandon known that she’d longed to see the great water and the canoes, the ships that flew along the water without paddles?

Again, Leah’s hand went to the amulet around her neck, and she closed her eyes as she rubbed the smooth gold between her thumb and forefinger. How many times had she gone over her father’s admonition in her mind?
Whosoever possesses the Eye of Mist shall be cursed and blessed. The curse is that you will be taken from your family and friends to a far-off land. The blessing is that you will be granted one wish. Whatever you ask you shall have—even unto the power of life and death.
Was it true? Was the charm magic—or was it a lie?

“I thought the Shawnee never lied,” Brandon said.

Her eyes flew open, and she wondered if he had the power to read her mind.

“You’re lying to me now, Leah,” he said. “You want to see the ships and the towns. I can show them to you.”

She twisted free and backed off a few steps, fighting temptation. It was impossible to think clearly with Brandon’s hands on her. He was right when he said she wanted to go with him. Leaving this blue-eyed Englishman would be the hardest thing she’d ever done, but she couldn’t go to the white settlements with him. There was too great a risk. If the Eye of Mist possessed the power her father had claimed, she might never return to her people, might never hold her precious son in her arms again.

“I promised Alex and Amookas I would return at once,” Leah said.

“A week. Just come with me for another week. I can show you—”

A musket roared from the edge of the clearing. Leah turned and ran toward the forest as two mounted white men burst from the trees and galloped toward them.

Brandon threw up his arms. “Stop!” he shouted. “Don’t—”

The second buckskinned rider fired. Leah cried out and crumpled facedown on the ground.

T
he horsesmen thundered across the clearing toward Brandon. The lead rider raised his musket clublike to strike him down. Cursing, Brandon stood his ground, then dodged the horse at the last possible instant. Seizing the bridle, Brandon thrust his weight into the animal’s neck, throwing both horse and man violently to earth. The rider fell sideways, struck his head, and lay as if dead. The bay horse struggled to his feet and backed away, snorting and tossing his mane. Wrenching the unconscious man’s musket from his hands, Brandon whirled to meet the second assailant’s charge.

Eyes rolling back in fear, the roan horse reared, and the red-bearded rider struggled to keep his seat on the startled animal. Brandon drove the musket barrel into the big man’s stomach, and the stranger toppled backward out of the saddle. By the time the man raised his head from the grass, Brandon’s moccasined foot was planted firmly in the center of his heaving chest, and Brandon’s skinning knife was at the man’s unshaven throat.

“I’m Robert Wescott, Viscount Brandon. I don’t know who the hell you are, but move a finger and you’re a dead man.”

“Don’t kill me,” the bearded man pleaded. “Don’t kill me, please. My name’s Sawyer, John Sawyer from Adam’s Crossing. We didn’t know ye were white. We thought ye were Injuns or maybe renegades.”

“Stay where you are,” Brandon threatened. Picking up the second musket, he ran to Leah’s still form. He threw down the weapons and knelt beside her. “Leah.” A groan escaped his lips as he saw the bullet wound and the blood staining the back of her vest. “Oh, Leah.” Panic welled up in him as he gathered her in his arms and searched her ashen face for any sign of life. “For the love of God,” he whispered. How could she be lying here like this when minutes before she had been well and whole—arguing with him?

He touched her cheek with a trembling hand. “Leah?”

She made no sound. Her eyes were closed; her long thick lashes lay motionless. Her head lolled back against his arm like that of a loosely stuffed rag doll. Brandon passed his fingers over her slightly parted lips, lips now paled from berry red to faint rose. Frantically, he sought to detect some faint sign of breathing, but he felt nothing.

Brandon’s anguished moan became a cry of rage. “Leah! Don’t. Don’t die on me, damn it. I won’t let you die.” He pulled her body against his chest and held her tightly, heedless of the dark red blood that oozed between his fingers. Blood . . . there’s so much blood, he thought. “How can there be . . .” His words died in his throat as reason flooded his brain. If she’s still bleeding, she can’t be dead!

Quickly, he laid her facedown and turned his attention to her terrible injury. There was a hole where the musket ball had entered Leah’s back, high and to the right. There was no exit wound, so he knew the bullet must still be embedded in her flesh. In desperation, he applied pressure to the gunshot with the flat of his hand. The flow of blood lessened but continued to seep ominously around the edges of his palm.

Brandon turned his head toward the white men. Sawyer was on his feet; the first man was sitting up, holding his arm and groaning, obviously in pain. “You, Sawyer!” Brandon ordered. “Get over here. I need something to stop this bleeding.”

Hesitantly, the man came closer. “It’s a woman, ain’t it?”

“She is.” Brandon’s eyes glittered with cold rage. “Her name is Leah Stewart, and if she dies, I’ll see the two of you hanged for murder.” He motioned Sawyer closer. “Take off your shirt and rip it into strips. Be quick about it unless you want to see an early grave.”

Sawyer obeyed. “She’s a white woman? She cain’t be. Sure looks Injun to me.”

Brandon balled a strip of the homespun cloth into a tight ball and pushed it against the wound. Next, he tied two strips together, wound them snugly around Leah, and secured the material over the makeshift bandage. “We’ve got to get her to a physician,” he said. “How far are we from the nearest settlement?”

Sawyer pointed east. “Eight, ten mile as the crow flies. But they ain’t no doctor there. Ain’t no doctor closer’n Annapolis, far as I know.” He looked down at Leah and shook his head. “She ain’t gonna last ten minutes, let alone long enough to get back to Adam’s Crossing. How was we ’sposed to know ye was white folks decked out in them Injun duds?” He glanced back toward his companion. “Will’s hurtin’ bad. Reckon his arm’s busted.”

“He’ll wish it was his neck if she dies. Catch those horses.”

“Ye really is the viscount, ain’t ye? Folks figured ye was dead, killed by them savages. They’s offerin’ a reward fer ye. Will heard tell of it up to Chestertown. Me an’ Will was huntin’ wild cattle. They’s a bull an’ three cows ’sposed to be out this way. Ye ain’t seen ’em, have ye?”

In one motion, Brandon leaped to his feet, seized the man by the throat, and shook him until his teeth rattled. Muscles corded across his bare shoulders as he lifted Sawyer off the ground and threw him head over heels into the dirt. “You’re not listening to me, you stupid colonial. This woman’s alive, and you’d better pray to whatever God you worship that she stays that way. Now bring me that bay horse, and get your friend up on the other one. You can ride behind him or you can run alongside like the cur you are, but you’re going to guide me back to this Adam’s Crossing now, or you’re not getting any older. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir, yer honor.” Sawyer staggered up and limped toward the nearer horse. The animal was standing, reins dangling, a few feet from the man called Will.

Brandon went back to Leah and picked her up. He brought his cheek close to her mouth and was rewarded by a faint breath of air against his skin. “Don’t die on me, Leah,” he whispered. She stirred in his arms and whimpered, and his heart leaped with hope. “Shhh,” he murmured, swallowing the choking lump in his throat. “It will be all right,” he promised. “I’ll take care of you.”

Her eyelashes flickered, and she sighed. She raised her head slightly. “Kitate.” Her voice was so weak that he could barely make out the child’s name.
“N’dellemuske,”
she whispered.

“I don’t understand,” Brandon answered. “English, speak English.”

“N’gattungwan
. . . Kitate . . .”

Brandon’s arms tightened around her. What was she saying? Something about the boy and being sleepy. “Hold on, Leah.” He blinked back the moisture that clouded his vision. “I’m going to get you to a doctor.”

Her eyelids trembled, then opened for an instant. “Brandon mine.” She smiled.
“K’daholel
. . . I love . . .” Her eyes closed as she slipped into unconsciousness again.

Minutes later, Brandon was mounted on the bay horse and galloping at breakneck speed east toward the settlement with Leah cradled in his arms.

 

At noon the following day, a young priest arrived on horseback at Adam’s Crossing, a small frontier settlement consisting of a blacksmith’s forge, a log tavern, and three houses. He dismounted and handed the reins of his mount to a towheaded boy in front of the inn. The tavern owner’s wife, a short, stout woman with graying hair and pox marks on her face, greeted the cleric and quickly ushered him into the low-ceilinged room where Leah lay dying.

“Viscount Brandon? I’m Father James.” The priest was unshaven and dressed in common buckskins, his unwashed hair tied back with a piece of stained ribbon. “Please forgive my attire. I’ve been in the saddle for two days. I’d only returned from a funeral on the Eastern Shore when your urgent message arrived.”

Brandon raised his head and stared across the dim room at the thin-faced priest. “Yes, I’m Lord Brandon.” The man didn’t look old enough to have finished his schooling, let alone be a priest. And the garments he was wearing were better suited to a huntsman than a man of God, Brandon thought wryly. He turned his bloodshot gaze back to Leah. She lay unmoving on the crude log bed, her face as pale as the homespun linen sheets, her dark hair spread around her face and over her shoulders like a curtain of night. “This is Leah Stewart. I want you to give her last rites.”

The stout woman held out a basin of water and a bar of lye soap. Father James washed his hands and dried them, then removed a bundle from his saddlebag. “Is she a Catholic?” he asked. “When did she last take the sacraments?”

Brandon caught the inside of his lip between his teeth and bit down until he tasted the salt of his own blood. He clasped her small hand in his, wondering if she felt pain or if she had slipped beyond such agony. The pain in his own heart was almost more than he could bear.

“Leah is a baptized Catholic,” Brandon said. As I am, he thought. Strange that he should want last rites for Leah, now that there was no more he could do for her. He’d never considered himself religious. He’d not attended mass regularly for many years, and when he did go, he’d given his attention to other matters rather than the ritual. He wasn’t certain if he had faith in an afterlife, but if there was one, he knew he wanted to be with Leah again.

“And her last confession?” Father James drew near to the bed, a small cross in his hand.

Brandon stroked Leah’s hand. He’d sent for a physician as well as a priest, but the rider who’d gone to summon the doctor hadn’t returned. Only one woman in the settlement, Anna, the tavern keeper’s wife, professed to have any knowledge of nursing, and she’d pronounced Leah’s wound beyond her skill. “She’s dying,” Anna had said. “No one can lose so much blood and live.”

Leah had bled again during the ride to Adam’s Crossing, and she had bled when Anna examined the wound.

“I try and take the musket ball out, she’ll bleed t’ death,” the woman had said.

“Can’t we just leave it in?” he’d asked.

“It’ll fester. Fever will take her. Best call Father James. He’s not the best priest, but he’s the only one who will come so far for the likes o’ her.”

There was no denying Leah’s Indian heritage, and the inhabitants of Adam’s Crossing made no attempt to deny their prejudice against her skin color. It was clear to Brandon that if he’d been an ordinary colonial instead of British nobility, Leah would have been denied shelter and the barest necessities.

Money and power, Brandon thought. Even in this wilderness, rank mattered. His speech and manner had been enough to procure clothing for them and a bed for Leah. The fact that he had no coin on him meant nothing; they knew that in time he would pay handsomely for whatever he desired. He’d been offered food and drink, but he couldn’t remember eating. The colorless whiskey they’d given him was harsh and burned a channel down his throat. He’d drained the small jug in the night and demanded another, but he wasn’t drunk. Rage burned inside him, an anger checked by concern for Leah. If she died, he’d wreak a terrible vengeance on the two men who had attacked them. For now, he couldn’t spare the time or energy to deal with them.

“Lord Brandon.” The priest was staring into his face. “Are you ill? I asked when the woman last received—”

“I know what you said,” Brandon snarled. “Say the words and anoint her with holy water. She was baptized. She’s a child of the Church and she’s dying. What more do you need?”

Father James’s face reddened. “Control your anger. A deathbed is hardly the place for—”

“Get on with it!” Brandon moved aside to allow the priest to lean over her. Vaguely, Brandon was aware of other figures pressing into the hot, smoky room. The single window was covered with a scraped calfskin in place of glass. The cabin walls were of log, and the floor was dirt. The room stank of whiskey, and sweat, and wet wool. The priest’s clothing and hair were damp. Brandon realized that the tapping sounds against the window must be rain.

Rain, he thought, it’s raining. Wouldn’t Leah rather be outside in the clean, cool rain than in this stifling room? This was no place for her to die.

Pain knifed through him again, and he reached out to touch a lock of her hair, oblivious of the priest and his hastily murmured prayers. Oh, Leah, he thought. Why did you come into my life if you were going to leave me like this? The depth of his feeling shocked him. A few days ago he had been willing—no,
eager
—to return to his father’s plantation without her. He’d been fond of her, he’d been grateful . . . When had those emotions turned to something far deeper? I love her, he thought. I love this woman, and I’m losing her.

Brandon lifted Leah’s limp fingers to his lips. “Father,” he said as the priest made the sign of the cross over her still body. “Father, we have lived together as man and wife. Can you make us so in the sight of God?”

The priest’s eyes widened. “You know she is close to death?”

“That’s why I’m asking you to perform the ceremony. I don’t want Leah to die with this sin on her soul.” God knows she wouldn’t consider what we’ve done a sin, Brandon thought, but I don’t want to tell the priest that. “We were handfasted, pledged to each other. I’d consider it a personal favor if you would marry us.”

Father James frowned. “This is quite irregular, but if, as you say, Lord Brandon, the two of you were . . .” He cleared his throat. “Under the circumstances, perhaps . . .” He glanced back toward the onlookers. “I will need two witnesses of the faith.”

“I’ll do it, Father,” Anna offered. “And my son John—he’s baptized proper. Get up here, John. Father James needs us.”

Brandon scowled as the red-bearded colonial sidled forward. “I don’t want . . .” He trailed off as he saw the priest touch Leah’s amulet.

“What is this heathen ornament? Take it off her at once,” Father James said. “I won’t—” Brandon’s iron grip closed around his wrist. The priest’s mouth dropped open.

“Don’t touch her necklace,” Brandon snapped.

“But, your lordship . . .”

“It’s not Indian, and it’s all she has left of her Scottish father.” Brandon released the priest’s wrist, and he pulled back.

“Very well, Lord Brandon,” he stammered. “As you wish. But I will take this matter up with my superiors. What is your Christian name?”