Before the Scarlet Dawn (11 page)

A rush of scarlet flamed her cheeks. Perhaps her bravery and skill with a weapon would bring him one step closer to falling in love with her. She fixed her eyes warmly on his. “I saw the knife and had to help.”

Hayward put his hands around her waist and helped her back into the pillion. The gleam in his eyes, the soft smile that curved a corner of his mouth, pleased Eliza. He thrust his boot into the stirrup and mounted his horse. “We shall see how you do with a musket once we are settled.”

This thrilled her. “I promise, I shall be a better marksman than you, sir, and faster at loading.”

“I doubt that . . . But you may try, Eliza.”

“You may doubt all you wish. I shall only use that skill in self-defense if I need to. I am not inclined to show off.”

Despite their brush with dangerous men, her words brought light laughter to the trio as they passed through the woodlands.

The urge to cling to Hayward even tighter overwhelmed Eliza when the realization took hold that life was precarious in the wilderness, and that the unexpected loomed around every bend. Would he leave her to join the Continentals? How would she and Fiona do out at River Run all alone? The idea caused her to tremble inwardly. She laid her head on Hayward’s shoulder and longed to whisper in his ear,
Do not leave me . . . do not go to war. Stay. Stay.

She then remembered her father’s words on the day he told her he was not long for this world.
You shan’t ever be alone, Eliza. God will never leave you or forsake you.

10

B
linding flashes of lightning raced across the sky. Rain fell as soft as the pine needles it broke free from the evergreens along the road. Within the shelter of trees stood an abandoned cabin used by travelers.

“It is poor,” Hayward said to Eliza as he brought her down from Omega’s back. “But it is enough to shelter us from the storm.”

The feel of her waist against his palms proved enough to cause his blood to race. Her eyes captivated him, and he wished they were alone. He pushed open the door with his boot, went inside, and frowned at the dusty pine needles spread over a dirt floor, and at the leaky roof. At least the last visitor had left a stack of firewood beside the stone fireplace.

He banked a fire while Fiona laid out biscuits and jerky on a kerchief. Eliza spread three blankets over the floor. After they had eaten, and were comforted by the fire, the women fell asleep. Hayward sat opposite his wife, close to the door, where rainwater seeped between the logs in rivulets. Setting his pistol beside him, he studied her face: the closed lids, the parted lips, the blush the fire brought to her cheeks. He barely knew her and yet felt she had been near him all his life.

At that moment, he steeled his heart against falling in love. It would weaken him somehow—cause him to hesitate if called to fight. But it proved a bigger battle than he had imagined. The nights he held her in his arms, caressed her, loved her, and felt her kisses melt into his were like cracks in a dam. Ready to open wider and release the flood at any moment, they had to be held back. God only knew how long she would be his. He knew many settlers in these parts had lost wives to childbirth, Indians, smallpox, and fever. Best to keep his feelings in check to stay strong.

He recalled the hard lesson his father had taught him at the age of twelve. On the day they sent him off to school, his father saw him wipe his cheek with the back of his coat sleeve when his mother embraced him. He grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him into the stable, where he whipped him.

“That,” he said, “is enough to make you cry. Never cry over a woman, you hear? It will make you weak as water, and you shall become a slave. Woman is to be your slave, your servant. She is to lick your boots and always be a step behind you. She is to serve you. Never forget, you are the master.”

The words echoed in his mind. But when he looked over at Eliza wrapped in the blanket asleep, he saw a brave spirit. The way she had stood up to those footpads amazed him. And through the entire journey not a word of complaint had passed between her lips. No doubt Lilith Marsden would have fainted from the heat, and at the first sight of a ruffian, and complained incessantly that her comforts were not attended to in a satisfactory manner. Even under this broken roof, Eliza had not whined. And in the face of danger, she seemed more fascinated than afraid.

Lightning illuminated the hovel, and thunder shook the walls. Eliza’s eyes fluttered open.

“Are you frightened by the storm?” Hayward said.

“It causes me to tremble. But I think of the Scripture: he has lightning in his fists. I am not afraid.”

The Scripture painted a frightening picture in his mind of a wrathful god, a god he did not know, one who could strike him down at any moment with arrows of thunder.

“Fiona does not seem bothered either,” he said. “It has been a long journey for her, and she must be worn out.”

Fiona snored, curled in a blanket, fast asleep beside the fire.

Sleepy-eyed, Eliza crossed the blanket over her shoulders. “Will it be over soon?”

“Storms are fierce here, and wild like the land. But they pass quickly.”

“I can only imagine what the snow may be like in winter. Is there a cold cellar at River Run?”

“Yes, and the forests are rich with game, so we will not lack for meat.”

“Hayward, may I acquire cloth? Fiona and I can make our winter clothes. It would be more frugal than going to a dressmaker for me and a tailor for you.”

He picked up his pistol and ran a rag over the barrel to polish it. “To begin with, there are no dressmakers, nor tailors, close to River Run. You may have your cloth.”

She settled back down and rested her head over her arm. Long he gazed at her, holding her violet eyes, and she said more within her gaze than words could. He set the pistol aside and moved to her. Beside her, he drew the blanket over his body and brought her into his arms. She turned and he could not see her face, only the quiver of firelight in her hair that streaked it with dark red.

He brought his mouth close to her ear and whispered into it. “Now that you have traveled to this wilderness, would you return to England and safety, if you could?”

She nuzzled closer. “Only if I were with you. Where you go, I will go.”

In the morning, the storm sped off to the east and the clouds broke open. Ribbons of fog twisted through the bramble and vanished as the heat of the day strengthened.

Hayward had described little to Eliza about River Run, save that he had begun repairs on the old dwelling the moment he set his boots upon the sod. River Run had two lofty stories, gables, mullioned windows with stout shutters, and a fine porch. Window glass glimmered in the sunlight, and the inside walls were painted with soft shades of shell and marigold.

Furniture brought upriver from Williamsburg graced the rooms. He had planned all this for Lilith Marsden. But after he had met her again and realized her childish ways were not the stuff frontier wives were made of, he eventually became thankful for her rejection and the end of any understanding between them.

And he had met Eliza again—the girl he remembered as a barefoot child. She was braver than most men he knew, virtuous, and full of faith, and he finally concluded the Lord of the universe had ordained their union. A poetic belief, he thought, but nonetheless true.

He had informed Addison Crawley, who lived in the cabin in the rear, that upon his return he would bring a new bride to River Run. Addison was to see to it that the house was set in order as best a man could manage. Hayward knew it would lack all the touches of a woman, and perhaps Eliza would think it austere. No matter. He would give her leave to do with it whatever she wished, as long as she did not spend too much money in the process.

The following day, toward dusk, River Run came into view. Situated on a grassy knoll, the house gleamed in the sunlight. The porch shadowed the oak door. The windows sparkled, and on each end were chimneys made of the same stone as the house. Nearby weaved Israel Creek, and a stone mill’s wheel moved slowly with the flow of water.

Hayward set his jaw with the air of a man who had come into his own. He had land, a house, and a wife who would captivate his neighbors on both sides of the Potomac with her beauty. He turned and looked back over his shoulder at Eliza, one he had at first not given any thought to, not even the day he had met her on the downs with her silken hair blowing about her pretty face.

How could this girl love him to such lengths that she would follow him into the wilderness of Maryland? Would she have loved him if he had no money or land? He believed she would have, for she was convinced God had brought them together, and she had never inquired into what his yearly income was. If he did not love her, he would, at least, protect and shelter her.

He drew off his hat and set it on his thigh. “Our journey is over, Eliza. There sits our house. I hope it pleases you.”

Eliza’s warm sigh brushed over the back of his neck as he brought the horse around for her to see the house at River Run. “It pleases me greatly, Hayward. Such a beautiful, welcoming house.”

“It is that, Eliza, though not as grand as Havendale, or the plantation houses on the other side of the river. And you see the mill over there?”

“Yes, I see it,” she said excitedly. “Oh, I love old mills.”

“It will bring us a goodly income when the farmers come to grind their grain.”

Eliza turned her head to look at her faithful servant. “Fiona, see our new home? Is it not the loveliest house you have ever laid your eyes upon?”

Fiona halted the mare. “I’m thinking it will be a drafty place, being so old.”

“No more than what we were accustomed to.”

“There are not enough trees to block the wind.”

“We shall plant more. But see how the forest edges the land? Why, that is enough to break the heavy wind. And the creek looks so cooling.”

Eliza gripped Hayward’s arm and slipped down from the pillion. Lifting her skirts above her ankles, she strode toward the house. When Hayward saw she had no shoes, he stopped her. He swung down off the saddle and turned her round to face him. “Eliza. Haven’t you brought another pair of shoes? I shall not have my wife walking up to her new house barefooted and looking so poor.”

“I do have another, Hayward. But they are my best and I do not want to ruin them. Besides, I want to feel the grass beneath my feet . . . our grass. It is how it should be . . . at least for today. Say you understand.”

He glared down into her eyes, and the chill that perpetually lived in his heart melted. It was a wilderness vast and deep he had brought her to. He could bend to her desire to feel the coolness, the softness of the land.

With a coy look in her eyes, she tilted her head. “You could take off your boots and walk beside me.”

He drew up. “I am no gypsy.”

“Hmm. I cannot argue with that.” She walked on. “But I find it sad, Hayward.”

He stepped alongside her, a little more deliberate in his boots. “Why?”

“Well, because you are in this beautiful wilderness, and you will not shake off your blue blood just this once, for a cool walk in the grass, on the day you bring your wife home.” She moved ahead, mounting the stoop with her face touched by the gold and silver sunlight.