Columbine (13 page)

“I

would speak to you, too, Kit,” she began, planning to tell him of meeting Attawan, “and it’s better said without Mercy.”

“Stay, it cannot be more important than what I must say to you,” His voice dropped lower, his green eyes watched her closely beneath haft-closed lids.

“Why do you plague me so, Dianna? In North Boston, they’d try you for witchcraft for what you’ve done to me.”

Her back very straight, Dianna stared down at her hands clasped in her lap.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Aye, sweeting, I think you do.” Gently he took her hand in his, her slender fingers swallowed in his broad, rough palm. He meant merely to talk, not seduce her. There would be no harm in that.

“Would your hand be shaking like this, your palm damp, if you did not know?”

But already her nearness was testing his intentions.

In the heat of the kitchen, she had loosened the neckerchief she wore modestly tucked around her throat, leaving the soft curves of her breasts exposed. As she serf-consciously pulled the neckerchief back in place, the simple gesture of her graceful fingers twisting in the linen was more seductive than Kit could have dreamed possible. What was it about this woman that had that effect on him? He turned her hand over in his own, coaxing the clasped fingers open by tracing along the pale veins in her wrist, and he felt a shiver run the length of her arm. Slowly he lifted her hand to his lips, and let them retrace the same path.

Dianna could have held firm if he had been demanding with her again, as he had on the Prosperity. She was prepared for that. But this gentleness caught her unawares. One by one she felt her defenses flutter and fall before these feather-light, teasing caresses.

Through her clothes, she could feel the heat from his body where their legs touched on the bench, and his own special masculine scent almost overwhelmed her senses. Too vividly she recalled how he had kissed her before, and while her conscience weakly tried to rebel, she felt her heart beating faster in anticipation, her lips parting expectantly.

He raised his hand to touch her jaw, turning her face toward his. His eyes held hers fascinated, and for the first time Dianna noticed how their green depths were flecked with tiny sparks of gold.

Lightly he touched a forefinger to the cleft in her chin.

“I like this,” he said simply.

She closed her eyes to try to break the spell, but his voice, his touch remained. With one final effort her conscience struggled for something, anything, to save herself.

“Today an Indian tried to kill Mercy and me,” she blurted out, her eyes still tightly shut.

“Down beyond the west field, not two miles from here.”

Kit froze, all desire instantly gone.

“What the devil are you saying?”

“There was an Indian in the woods, and he drew his tomahawk and threatened us and was most fierce.”

“Dianna, by all that’s holy, if you seek to mock me”.”

Again he saw the place where the path curved to follow the bend in the river, the terrible, unexpected stillness of the late afternoon, the twisted body of his father’s yellow dog lying half in the water, her long tail floating gently with the current…. “There are no hostile Indians near Wickhamton,” he said hoarsely.

“No Englishman has died here by a savage’s hand for ten years. The militia, the trainband patrols, have made certain. There are no more hostile Indians.”

“But he said he knew you,” said Dianna defensively.

Why didn’t he believe her?

“He said his name was Attawan, and he called you friend.”

“Attawan. Aye, he has a right to call me that.”

Kit knew he should be relieved, but the tight coil of pain within his chest refused to unwind. It was more than just hearing his mother’s virginal again, though God knows that would be enough. No, it was Dianna herself and the old danger of caring too much.

He let her fingers slip from his own, and Dianna’s heart sank when she saw how cold and withdrawn his expression had become. Did she really mean so little to him that her fear was only a disagreeable interruption?

“It matters not if he knew you, Kit. He didn’t know me,” she persisted. She must have imagined the sympathy between them, for there was none of it now in those cold green eyes.

“If I’m to live in this wilderness, I don’t ever want to feel that helpless again.”

He rose and turned away so she could not see the anguish he was certain was on his face. How could he tell her that the helplessness never ended, that he faced it every day?

“You are a woman, Dianna,” he finally said, “and gently bred at that.”

“And that should be my excuse?” she asked incredulously.

“Nay, Kit, I can’t accept that. I want you to teach me to shoot a gun like yours.”

“You don’t know what you ask, sweeting.” His laugh was harsh, and the endearment this time was so tinged with bitter mockery that Dianna winced.

“A musket is nigh as long as you’re tall. If by some rare bit of luck you could hoist the butt to your shoulder, I doubt you’ve the strength to hold it steady enough to aim and fire. And if the recoil doesn’t knock you flat, then what? It’s half a minute for a grown man to reload. For you, twice that. In that time your enemy would have his leisure to dispose of you, and I’d be left with the blame. Nay, Dianna, I won’t do it.”

“You’d rather I stand meekly and meet my fate, and Mercy hers with me, than teach me to defend myself?.” She was standing now, too, her hands defiantly on her hips. She hated his contempt, and in that moment she hated him, as well.

“Then forgive me for insulting your curious sense of honor. I’ll ask Hester instead.”

“An’ I’ll be happy t’teach ye, too,” answered the older woman tartly from the doorway, “if the’ grand fine Colonel Sparhawk can’t bring himself t’do it.”

Dianna saw Kit’s shoulders tense, and knew Hester’s barb had struck home, just before the woman turned on her next.

“Mercy’s eager for home,” Hester said bluntly, the dismissal clear.

“Ye be done here this day. Best t’leave.”

Dianna paused uncertainly, hoping Kit would turn and look at her one more time. So they had come back to this once again, back to the distrust and the sharp words, and all the wishing in the world wasn’t going to change it. Angry tears stung her eyes, and with her head down, she hurried from the room.

Kit heard her leave.

“Mind your tongue, Hester,” he said sharply.

“You forget yourself, and your place.”

“Devil take your place, Kit Sparhawk,” snapped Hester.

“I thrashed your hindquarters when you were a lad, and I’ll do it again if I must. I’ll warrant ye been using that self-same tender part of’ your person for thinkin’ rather than sittin’ anyways, least where that girl’s concerned. I heard your ravin’ clear in the’ kitchen. Dianna Grey’s no part of’ your demons, Kit.

Unless ye let her be told or tell her yourself—” “Nay.” Through the diamond-paned window, Kit saw Dianna and Mercy walking hand in hand across the west field.

“Nay,” he said wearily.

“It’s past. I would not have her know.”

That night Asa returned home with Jeremiah, and after Mercy had gone to sleep, Dianna told him about meeting Attawan in the woods. Unlike Kit, Asa did not scoff at her story.

“It’s not the Indians that a-worry me,” he said, frowning.

“But with that rogue Robillard kickin’ up dust again, it don’t be safe for the’ pair of’ ye walkin’ clear t’Plumstead alone. I’ll send Jeremiah t’tell them that ye won’t be comin’ back t’morrow.”

Dismayed, Dianna realized that that was not at all what she wanted.

“You have two muskets, Asa. If you left one here for me—” “Nay, it be my place to keep ye safe,” said Asa firmly.

“Ye best stay here wit’ me, and we’ll see what Hester’s learned ye since I left.”

For the next weeks, until early June, Dianna and Mercy stayed within sight of the Wing house and yard, but with Hester’s advice still fresh, Dianna found there was plenty to do. Cooking took more time than she’d ever dreamed, though thanks to Hester she had become an adept, if simple, cook, and she was pleased when even Jeremiah began appearing at the house at mealtimes. Torn Wing had been a miller by trade, not a farmer, and he had bought or bartered for most of his family’s food. But his wife had kept a kitchen garden, now run to seed and overgrown, and it was this that Dianna sought first to reclaim. Next came the house itself, and after scouring and sweeping and scrubbing nearly a year’s dirt away, Dianna could finally see the little saltbox as a decent place to live. But best of all was the change in Mercy. Each day the girl seemed to giggle more, her cheeks growing rosier and her eyes brighter, and her periods of solitary grief became fewer and less severe as she followed Dianna around like a puppy.

In these early days of summer, Dianna worked harder and longer than she ever had before. Yet she would have been happier, too, than she’d been since her father’s death, were it not for the emptiness left by Kit Sparhawk.

It had taken nearly a fortnight for her to be able to think of him with anything short of outright hostility, and when her anger had faded, she was left with only a dull sadness that was infinitely harder to bear. Her heart loved him and ached to be loved in return, and her body desired him with an intensity that almost frightened her, while her mind and conscience remained painfully aware of how foolish and futile all her hopes were. She saw him each Sunday, of course, sitting there on the first bench in the meetinghouse with his pride and position for company, but when she noted how careful he was to avoid meeting her eyes, she kept her distance. She, too, had pride to protect.

“I wish Grandfer’d let us go back. I’ll wager Kit misses us up t’Plumstead,” confided Mercy sadly.

“I’ll wager he be lonely without us.”

Dianna had only shrugged and continued her weeding. She could not answer for Kit, but she herself had learned volumes about loneliness.

It was Hester who finally invited them back.

“It’s been too long since we’ve seen ye,” she said warmly to Dianna after services.

“There be new kittens in the barn, an’ I can use another pair of’ hands with the’ strawberries.”

Recognizing Dianna’s hesitation, Hester patted her hand and lowered her voice confidentially.

“Kit won’t be there, if that’s a-worryin’ ye. I know how you two be always at odds. He be headin’ to the upper river sawmill at daybreak.”

With reluctant permission from Asa and a promise to return well before nightfall, Mercy and Dianna headed to Plumstead the next afternoon. The day held the first true summer’s heat, and the green canopy of the forest offered a welcoming coolness after the brilliance of the sun. The paths that they had crossed with ease in the early spring were now crowded with ferns and other undergrowth, the buzzing of insects mingling with the birdcalls overhead.

Indians and Frenchmen seemed improbably remote on a day like this. Wildflowers nestled among the Wee roots, and Dianna wove the blossoms Mercy picked into wreaths for their hair. After twenty-two summers of being encased in sweltering layers of stays and petticoats, Dianna felt gloriously free with her feet bare on the moss and pine needles, her single skirt looped ankle-high over her shift. Impulsively she unbraided her hair, and laughing, shook the dark waves free over her shoulders.

“It be well Dr. Manning don’t be here t’see ye,” said Hester drily when they appeared in her kitchen.

“A proper pair of’ heathen strumpets ye look t’be.”

“Oh, Hester, ‘tis almost midsummer’s night,” teased Dianna as she plucked one of the deep-red strawberries from the baskets on the table and popped it into her mouth.

“Soon the Queen of the Faeries will come to dance from those very forests.”

Hester frowned sternly.

“I’ll hear none of’ that nonsense. Faeries! Next you’ll be beggin’ for Maypoles!

Wickhamton may not be so strict as them t’the east, but we still be good Christian folk, with no use for such flummery.” ;

Wide-eyed with her chin in her hand, Mercy stared up at Hester.

“Dianna’s told me of the’ faeries, but what be Maypoles?”

“There now, Dianna, I hope ye be happy!” The glance Hester shot her was sharp as a blade, and with both hands on Mercy’s shoulders she steered the girl toward the door.

“Maypoles be wickedness from Old England, Mercy, with no place in the New. Now come set your hands t’useful tasks an’ help me with the berryin’.”

Contritely Dianna gathered up an empty basket to follow, but Hester waved her back.

“I’ll thank ye t’take those shirts of’ Kit’s up this chamber for me first. My knees have had enough of’ the stairs for this day.”

“But which chamber?”

“Faith, lass, where be your wits?” called Hester over her shoulder.

“His be the’ only one that’s open!”

Three newly laundered shirts were draped across the back of a chair. Dianna picked one up gingerly and held it outstretched by the shoulders. Lord, he was a giant of a man, she marveled, with more admiration than she’d intended. Where were her wits, indeed? Hastily she collected the other shirts and ran up the front stairs.

Kit’s bedchamber was square and spacious, filling the house’s southwest corner. Unlike the parlor, the furniture here was plain, hewn from local oak and maple: a clothespress, a table and leather-covered armchair, the chest she remembered from the Prosperity, a poster bed. Easily Dianna pictured Kit here, his long legs sprawled under the table that served as his desk, pausing at his work to gaze out the windows to the river. The table was strewn with papers, bills and letters mostly, but what caught Dianna’s eye was a page of ink sketches of Thunder. In a few bold pen strokes, Kit had captured the horse’s spirit, and the confidence of the drawings surprised Dianna. Unexpected, too, was the well-worn copy of Aristotle.

How did a man who wrestled with knives in the dust come to sketch and read Greek?

With the shirts folded and placed on the chest, Dianna had no reason to linger, yet hungrily she continued to gaze around the room. The uniform coat hanging from a peg, the engraving of Jamaica pinned to the wall, the boyish collection of pinecones arranged by size along the mantel mall were clues to Kit. Slowly she pushed back the dark green curtains to the bed, the horn rings overhead squeaking as they slid along the rod. The pillows were neatly laid against the bolster, the coverlet smoothed in place, but Dianna could still make out the deep impression his broad frame had left in the feather mattress, and his scent still clung to the linens. Lightly she ran her hand across the coverlet and closed her eyes, imagining him lying there.