Midwife of the Blue Ridge (38 page)

glare.

“I’ve not forgotten the last time we met,” Cavendish contin-

ued. “As I recall, you declined the generous offer I made on this

girl’s contract. Perhaps today you are . . . inclined?”

Random spits of rain began blowing in on the wind and Seth

stood quiet for a moment, weighing his options before speaking.

“It’s true ye find me in desperate straits, sir, but dinna assume I’m

sae eager to sign away th’ only asset to which I hold clear title.”

“Two weeks.” Cavendish tossed out his offer casually. “You

wanted time? You may have two weeks and the right to keep

your harvest in exchange for the girl.”

Maggie leaned into Seth and dug her thumb into his leg.

“Och.” Seth shrugged, equally casual. “I’m reconciled to bein’

dispossessed. The lass is a skilled midwife, and I wager there’s

muckle silver to be earned if I put her out t’ work in Richmond-

town . . .”

“Scots!” Cavendish rolled his eyes at Connor and heaved a

sigh. “Very well, I will sweeten the pot—two weeks
and
”—he

pointed his riding crop to the hog rooting for spilled corn at the

base of the tulip tree—“the pig you so desire.”

“Aye . . . a good offer.” Seth worried the stubble on his chin.

“But as ye must ken by now—a young, fi ne- lookin’ white woman

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
271

on th’ frontier is scarcer than a preacher in paradise. I’ll want

both the pig
and
the mule,” he countered, smiling. “One must

pay dearly for a scarce commodity, na?”

Maggie pulled her shoulders back. In her best imitation of

Bess Hawkins, she breathed deep, forcing her breasts to plump

up beyond the constraints of bodice and blouse.

The muscle in the viscount’s jaw twitched. “I am not one to

dicker over picayune details. Keep the beasts—both of them.”

Maggie double-jabbed Seth with her elbow, but he had caught

whiff of the upper hand. Seth bounced on the balls of his moc-

casined feet as if he were getting set to run a race. “Let me be

certain we understand one another, sir. In exchange for the lass’s

paper, I’ll have two weeks—unhindered—the harvest, the hog,

and the

mule”—he glanced behind to where Peavey leaned

against the cabin wall—“
and
my flintlock returned to me.”

Cavendish rapped the leather quirt to the palm of his hand.

“Your tenacity has ceased to amuse, yeoman . . .”

Connor bristled. “The Scotman’s a canny devil, m’lord.”

“And yer a wee Irish catch-fart.” Seth sneered.

Moffat butted in. “This man’s a crack shot, m’lord. Give him

that gun and he’ll have a ball lodged in the nape of your neck

afore we reach the tree line.”

Seth placed a hand over his heart and intoned, “I swear on the

lives of my children and the grave of my dear wife, I willna seek

violent retribution against

you”—he paused to cast a derisive

glance Connor’s way—“or yer fl unkies. Ye have my word on it.”

“His
word
!” Connor sputtered.

Cavendish silenced Connor with a wave of his hand. “And I

should trust in your word?”

“The only thing I’ve left to give and keep is my word, sir.

Those are my terms—have we a bargain?”

Cavendish looked Maggie over once again. She tilted her chin

and tucked a curl behind her ear; the pink tip of her tongue

darted out for an instant to touch the corner of her mouth.

272 Christine

Blevins

“Two weeks, corn, hog, mule, and rifle.” Cavendish rapped

out the terms. “Agreed?”

“Agreed. I’ll fetch the paper.” Seth gave Maggie’s hand a

squeeze before turning to run into the cabin.

“Mr. Moffat, go and bring the horses so we can be on our way.”

Raindrops began to patter a random rhythm on the leaves of

the tulip tree. Seth returned shortly to hand the contract to Con-

nor. “I’ve signed my mark to it.”

Connor examined the document. “All in order,” he informed

the viscount, and added the sheet to the others in his wallet.

“Will the lass be riding with you, m’lord?”

“I think not.” Cavendish mounted and leaned forward to

stroke his Andalusian’s neck. “I’d rather not tax my boy in the

rain . . . bind her hands and have Figg lead her afoot.”

Connor grabbed Maggie by both wrists. “Figg! Bring rope.”

“Let go, ye grubshite!” Maggie twisted and tried to jerk away

from his grasp.

“Ye needna bind the lass,” Seth exclaimed. “She goes will-

ing . . .”

“Mind yer business—she’s his now. FIGG!” Connor struggled

to hold on to Maggie, scrunching his nose as Figg came near.

“
Phew!
Th’ smell of ye, man . . . yer funkin’!”

Maggie stopped thrashing at the sight of Figg. The giant’s

wide face mushed from smile to frown and back to smile in an

instant. He took her hands and stroked one palm with his sau-

sage finger—a sound like the purr of a cat resonated from his

massive chest. “Soft and sweet’s yer hand, sez I . . .”

Connor gave Figg a shove. “Arrah now—shut yer potato trap

and get busy.”

Figg bound her wrists with a length of fuzzy rope. Maggie

nodded to the children, who’d come out from the cabin, cluster-

ing around Susannah in tears, and called out with a brave smile,

“Dinna fash for me—I’ll be fi ne.”

“That’s the best feather in yer wing, lass—yer strength.” Seth

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
273

opened wide his arms. “I’ll not forget what ye did here for us,

Maggie Duncan.” Maggie stepped into the bear hug and he whis-

pered, “Be strong—be ready—two weeks at most, sooner if I

can.” She buried her face in his neck and nodded.

Connor came between them and pushed Seth away. Moffat

brought out the three horses they had hidden in the woods. As

the men began to mount, Seth called out, “Mr. Cavendish! My

weapon, sir—as agreed—”

“Of course.” Cavendish smiled. “Mr. Peavey—the man’s

rifl e—
à tout de suite . . .
”

Simon slipped Seth’s rifle from his shoulder. He snapped open

the frizzen and blew the powder out the pan. He twisted the fl int

from the jaws on the cock and dropped it into his pocket. After

jamming the rifle, muzzle first, straight down into the dirt, he

strode over and dropped the weapon—lock, stock, and barrel—

into the water trough.

“Your rifle, Mr. Martin—as agreed.” Cavendish turned his

steed and headed out.

Thunder rumbled through the hills, sounding like a brewer’s

cart on a cobblestone street. Cavendish led the string of horsemen

toward the cornfield. Figg trailed at the end, pulling Maggie

along by her tether. She stumbled to keep up with his long strides,

struggling against the wind. She did not look back.

Heavy rain arrived in a
whoosh
, sheets of water driven by

strong gusts of wind. Seth leaped up onto the bench and watched

Maggie being led off like a sheep to slaughter. Suddenly Simon

Peavey broke away from the orderly column. Turning his mount,

the renegade backtracked past the others, to meet with Figg and

Maggie in the rear.

Cavendish continued into the cornfield, but Connor turned,

shouting, “Peavey! What are ye doin’? Get back here, ye hea-

then!”

Simon did not suffer a glance back. He leaned over and said

something to Maggie that Seth could not hear over the wind.

274 Christine

Blevins

Maggie lifted her bound wrists; the renegade drew his knife and

freed her hands. With Figg’s aid, Maggie mounted to ride pillion

behind Peavey and they rejoined the column. Clutching the dan-

gling rope in his hand, Figg leaned into the wind and ran to catch

up.

Two weeks . . .
Seth thought, watching Figg’s bobbing head

disappear in the cornfield. As soon as the party of horsemen pro-

gressed beyond his sight, he jumped down and ran to fish his gun

from the water trough. He peered down the barrel.
There’s a half

a day’s work . . .

Seth yanked hard on the latchstring and swung open the cabin

door.

19

No Man’s Slave

Simon Peavey leaned from his saddle, reaching out to her with

one hand. “Ride with me.”

Maggie stood in the pouring rain, bound hands raised like a

supplicant at an altar. “I canna—”

He freed her hands with a flick of the sharp knife drawn from

his belt. Verdant-green eyes locked on hers as he took fi rm hold

of her upper arm. “Ready?”

Maggie leaped and swung her leg over; her free arm fl ailing, she

could not get a good grasp on the horse’s round, wet rump. Caught

midmount, she dangled by one heel hooked at the gelding’s tail

and one arm held in the renegade’s grip. The horse lost patience

with her clumsiness and balked. Maggie’s arm slipped through Si-

mon’s fingers and she fell, landing flat on her back.

“Figg!” Peavey worked the reins to control his skittish mount.

“Help the gal up.”

The giant loomed over Maggie. Before she could even utter a

gasp, Figg pulled at the waistband of her skirt and propped her

up to stand in the morass churned by thrashing hooves.

Peavey maneuvered his mount closer and offered his hand

once again. “C’mon . . .”

276 Christine

Blevins

Wringing wet, covered with mud, hair dripping, Maggie threw

her arms in the air and sobbed, “It’s no use . . .”

Heedless, Figg spanned her waist with his hands and hoisted

her astride the dapple-gray gelding as if she weighed no more

than a gunnysack full of plucked goose feathers. She clutched

Peavey by the shoulders and wriggled to find a secure seat.

Bare legs dangled from sodden skirts bunched thick and lumpy

around her. Bristly horsehair scoured the skin on her thighs and

she squirmed, wishing for a bit more padding between her parts

and the horse’s rump. Maggie had never ridden beastback in her

life, and this perch so very high off the ground seemed extremely

precarious.

Peavey reached back and tugged her arms, pulling them to

wrap about his waist. “Hold tight.” He clicked his tongue, kicked

heels to horse, and they cantered forward. Pelted by wind and

rain, Maggie hunkered close to Simon’s back, pressing her cheek

to the wet wool of his regimental red coat, glad for something

warm to cling to.

They entered the forest and the storm instantly lost its fury

under the trees. Only the most determined raindrops breached

the thick canopy churning overhead. Driving rain diminished

into a rhythmic drumming on the leaves and soft forest fl oor.

Maggie sat back a bit. “Where we headin’?”

“Roundabout.”

“Roundabout!”
Maggie breathed easier. The prospect of a

familiar place and friendly faces did much to cheer her.

Simon glanced over his shoulder. “They ain’t there no more.”

“Who?”

“All of ’em—they took off.”

“Took off?”

“Yep—took off afore he could run ’em off.”

He. Him. Cavendish.
In a few short days the world had gone

so suddenly mad, lives irreparably altered by the coming of this

one man. She felt heavy, saturated with dread. Maggie sagged

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
277

against Simon and they bounced along the narrow footpath, her

anguish a hard, sharp thing caught in her throat, as if she’d swal-

lowed a shard of glass.

Worry saps strength an’ dulls th’ wits.
Maggie drew herself

upright and sucked in a great lungful of air. She could ill afford

to dwell on dread and could hear Hannah’s voice in her ear.

What canna be cured must be endured.
Maggie would not be

undone by the likes of Julian Cavendish. She’d survived much in

her young life, and she was determined to survive the next two

weeks.
Then I’m off . . .

“I know you’re gonna run.”

Maggie jerked. “What?”

“I heard you whisperin’ with Seth—you’re set to run once the

corn’s in.”

It was as if he had read her thoughts. Maggie’s heart tumbled

topsy-turvy in her chest. “Ye heard
wrong
.”

“I’m glad you’re gonna run.” He turned around in the saddle

and smiled. “Don’t fret. I’m no snitch.”

She’d always been so distracted by Peavey’s rather frightening

Indian regalia and stern countenance, she never noticed he was

quite a winning lad. Simon’s genuine smile—the fi rst she’d ever

seen on him—eased many misgivings. She said with a wry grin,

“Aye, maybe yer no snitch—well and

good—but I’m no run-

away.”

“Well, from what I seen, you sure ain’t no man’s slave.”

The shadow of several days’ growth strengthened the line of

his angular jaw and darkened his upper lip, providing a bit of

roughness to counter pleasing features that bordered on pretty.

Soaking wet, his cropped hair curled and framed a lean, sun-

browned face, marred only by the scar of black powder freckles

burned into his right temple. Maggie reached up and Simon

flinched. She ran a finger over the tiny black specks and felt the

muscles across his back draw taut as a bowstring.