Dawn on a Distant Shore (73 page)

He said, "I
wonder sometimes how Carryck breathes, with so many people around him all day
long. Don't it bother you, Boots?"

His tone was easy, but
there was a tautness in his hand where it rested on her leg. He was asking something
important, and perhaps he did not even realize it himself.

She took up his
hand--she wondered sometimes if he knew what an effect even the sight of his hands
had on her--and held it between her own two. "Nathaniel. I would wish us home
this moment, if I could. This place--" She gestured around them.
"None of this means anything to me."

He pulled her closer,
wrapped his arms around her to bury his face in the crook of her shoulder.

"Thank God,"
he muttered.

"You did not
really think I might want to stay in Scotland? Surely you know me better."

He touched her hair,
smoothing it back from her face. "I was getting worried. Seeing you like this--"
His fingers plucked at her gown. "I don't know, Boots. Seems like you were
born to this kind of life."

"Oh,
Nathaniel." She pulled his face closer and kissed him. "I left this
world of my own free will once before. I was never happy. Why would I want to
stay now?"

He shrugged, and she
could feel him searching for words. "It ain't an easy life, back in Paradise."

"Ease is highly
overrated."

"Is it? I hope
you'll still feel that way in ten years or so."

"Nathaniel
Bonner, do you doubt me?"

He pulled her close.
"Never in this world."

This kiss was nothing
playful; it was rough and sure, as purposeful as the hand that cupped her breast.
He tasted of red wine and spiced peaches; his cheeks were rough with new beard.

When he let her catch
her breath she said, "You take delight in putting me in these awkward situations."

"Want me to
stop?" Even while his hands slipped into her bodice.

"Oh, no,"
Elizabeth said, pulling his face back down to kiss him of her own accord. "Nothing
so rash as that."

A whirlwind of a kiss.
She let it pull her along, feeling the center of herself go liquid and soft, no
matter what her rational mind was saying about this exposed place, the nearness
of the castle, the many windows where light still burned.

He lifted her so that
she knelt over his lap, her skirts flung out. The shoulder of her gown had
slipped to expose one breast and he tipped her backward to nuzzle, licking and
suckling until she gasped with it.

"Your leg?"
She touched his thigh where it was bandaged beneath his breeches.

"Never mind my
leg." He caught her hand and put it where he wanted it. And then his own
hands worked their way under petticoats and up her thighs, thumbs seeking. He
was short of breath, this man who could run a mile without a hitch or pause, and
how that pleased her. To have him want her so much: it was a gift he gave to
her. And still, the wind moved in the gnarled limbs of the fruit trees and called
her out of herself.

She raised her head.
"Nathaniel. Perhaps we should--"

But he cut her off.
Used his mouth and tongue and the strength of his desire to distract her,
drawing her so close that she could not have taken note of the rest of the
world even if it were to burst into flame. His hands busied themselves with
silk and gauze and the flies on his breeches. Knuckles rasped against her tenderest
flesh and then he lifted her, spread fingered.

"Aye," his
breath warm against her ear as he fit himself to her, seeking and finding, and
losing himself in the process. "We should."

They started back by
way of the north side of the castle, arm in arm.

"You're asleep on
your feet, Boots. Maybe I should carry you."

It was a tempting
idea, as each and every one of her bones felt twice its normal weight.

"I should make
you carry me," she said. "Perhaps then you would begin to see the
advantage of keeping this kind of activity in the bedchamber."

His thumb traveled
down her spine. "What kind of activity is that?"

"Public
fornication," she said.

He choked on a laugh,
and she pinched him.

"You needn't be
so very satisfied with yourself. Someday we will get caught out. And I will
leave the explaining to you."

"But I am
satisfied," he said, pulling her in close as his hand traced her backside.
"And so are you, darlin'. Ain't that explanation enough?"

She batted his hand
away. "I should like to see you make that argument to Mr. MacQuiddy,"
Elizabeth said. "I believe he would box your ears, though he should have
to climb up on a ladder to do it."

Nathaniel's laughter
died away suddenly.

Before them was
Elphinstone Tower. Hannah called this the secret tower, but it looked anything but
secret at this moment. Some kind of gathering was going on, and no one had
bothered to close the draperies.

Nathaniel took her arm
and pulled her away, around the corner and toward the gates into the courtyard.
They did not speak until they were out of the guard's hearing.

"What did Hannah
say about that tower?"

She lifted a shoulder.
"Not so very much, Nathaniel. Apparently Lady Carryck's chambers were
locked at her death, on the earl's orders. She did not admit to it, but I would
not be surprised if Jennet took her there somehow."

He said, "Right
now it don't look locked at all."

"Perhaps the earl
likes to spend some time there in privacy," Elizabeth suggested.
"Perhaps he took his guests to see his lady's portrait. Did you recognize
anyone?"

Nathaniel nodded.
"Carryck himself, and Contrecoeur."

"And Mrs.
Hope," she added. "But it may well be completely innocent, Nathaniel."

"Maybe so. But
there's something about the way they were standing there. Can't put my finger
on it right now."

"Nathaniel."
Elizabeth pulled his face around to her, and looked hard into his eyes.
"They might be playing whist, for all we know."

He frowned at her.
"Do you really believe that, Boots?"

Elizabeth shifted
uncomfortably. Her upbringing told her that it was wrong to be so inquisitive
about something obviously meant to be private; her experience with Moncrieff
and Carryck made it clear that propriety and good manners were a luxury she
must do without. None of it quite fit together, and it would keep her awake
tonight.

They were in the hall
off the courtyard when Nathaniel said, "What I want to know is, what
Contrecoeur has got to do with all this."

"So do I,
Nathaniel. But it can wait until tomorrow, can it not?"

He didn't even hear
her. His attention had shifted away suddenly, as if he had caught the scent of
something he had been looking for.

"Moncrieff."

She heard only the
sound of steps in the Great Hall, but she had no doubt that Nathaniel was right.
She followed him.

The courtyard lantern
cast enough light through the windows to show them that the room was empty. Then
Elizabeth's eyes adjusted to the shadows and she saw Angus Moncrieff at the far
end of the hall, near the door that must lead to Elphinstone Tower.

"Avoiding us,
Angus?" Nathaniel's voice echoed slightly. "Where you off to in such
a hurry?"

They had narrowed the
distance between them considerably before Moncrieff spoke.

"I have
business," he said stiffly.

"With the
earl," Nathaniel supplied. "And so do we. Maybe we'll just come
along."

"I canna allow
it," said Moncrieff. In the vague light Elizabeth could see the perspiration
on his forehead, just as she could read the flush of anger that ran through
Nathaniel by the way his back straightened. But there was nothing of it in his voice.

"Now, that's
curious," Nathaniel said, stopping just in front of the man. "You
thinkin' you can forbid me anything at all."

In a corner a mouse
scratched and worried, and for a moment that was the only sound. Then in one
quick movement Nathaniel reached out and neatly plucked a string that hung
around Moncrieff's neck and disappeared into his shirt. The string broke and Moncrieff
jerked in surprise, his voice spiking in outrage. "What's this? Have ye no
decency, man?"

Nathaniel stepped
back, examining his prize.

"That was ma
faither's. Ye've no use for it."

"I ain't so sure."

Elizabeth came closer
to look, and was surprised to see that it was not a pendant or medallion, but a
simple square of soft dark material, half the length of Nathaniel's thumb. In
its middle was another square, this one of white linen sewn down with a zigzag
stitch. The whole was faded and frayed at the edges, and the image on the white
linen was so faint that Elizabeth could not make it out in the poor light.

"I'll thank ye
tae give it back," Moncrieff said sharply. "It's got nothing to do with
you."

"You'll thank me.
Now, that's a novelty, ain't it. The earl wears something just like this around
his neck too."

Moncrieff's head
snapped back. "How--" And then, his whole body shaking in anger:
"Ye canna ha' seen what the earl wears or doesna wear around his
neck!"

"Maybe not, but
you just told me what I suspected. So what is this thing?"

"I'll say nae
more."

Nathaniel held it out
to Elizabeth. "Do you recognize this, Boots?"

Elizabeth took it and
went to the window to study it by the courtyard light.

"I do not,"
she said. "And it is too faded to read. But perhaps there is someone we
could ask. The earl?"

Moncrieff stilled
suddenly. "Ye canna bother the laird wi' this."

"I don't see why
not." Nathaniel reached for the door. "He's up there in the tower,
entertaining his visitors. A few more won't hurt."

"Ye have no
idea," Moncrieff said.

Elizabeth said,
"Exactly. That is exactly why we must persevere."

Whatever he had been
expecting, the tower room took Nathaniel by surprise. It smelled nothing of a
battlefield surgery and wounds gone bad.

Most of the people who
had been here just ten minutes ago were gone. The Hakim stood close by, and on
a chair next to a narrow bed sat Monsieur Contrecoeur, still dressed as he had been
for dinner, all in black from the fine coat and breeches to his gloves. He had
come here in a hurry, and the reason was clear: the man in the bed was dying.

"I tried--"
Moncrieff began, and the Frenchman cut him off with a raised hand.

"Never mind,
Angus. It doesn't matter now."

"Where's the earl?"
Nathaniel addressed Contrecoeur directly, in part to see if he would lie.

"In the chamber
just above us. I asked for a few minutes alone with Georges," said Contrecoeur.

"This is Monsieur
Dupuis?" Elizabeth directed her question to the Hakim, but Moncrieff answered.

"Aye."
Moncrieff's tone was bitter. "He's dying, as ye can see for yesel'. Will
you no' leave him in peace?"

Nathaniel crossed the
room and looked down.

The man in the bed
blinked up at him, his eyes hazy with pain. Around his neck was a cloth medallion
like the one Nathaniel had taken from Moncrieff. A crucifix hung over the bed. A
dying man; a Catholic. A stranger.

Then he smiled, and
Nathaniel recognized him.

He was clean shaven,
where once he had worn his beard long and ragged. The beard had first earned him
the name Dog-Face from the Kahnyen'kehâka --an honor they reserved for the
hairiest and ugliest O'seronni. But the priest had proved himself stronger and
braver than his countrymen, walking the gauntlet without a sound, falling under
one blow to get up again and take the next, and all so that he might be allowed
to tell them stories of his strange O'seronni heaven. They had renamed him
Iron-Dog.

"Wolf-Running-Fast,"
he whispered in the language of Nathaniel's adopted people. "You are here
at last."

Nathaniel fell without
a struggle into the rhythms of the language, and the things it demanded of him.
"Iron-Dog, my friend. On the Great River they tell stories of you. They
say that the Seneca burned you and ate your heart. They tell stories of your
bravery--"

Dupuis hitched a
breath and let it go in a long wheezing sigh. "God delivered me from that fate,"
he said, switching into English. "He had other work for me, here."

"What work?"

That saintly smile,
the one that had set him apart. "You know as well as I do. To see you and your
father reunited with your family."

"You're the one
who told Carryck where to find us."

He swallowed, and the
tumors on his neck writhed like living things. "I told Moncrieff where to
start looking. It took a long time. Almost too long." He closed his eyes,
and for a moment Nathaniel thought he had gone to sleep, but he spoke again,
his voice as strong as before.