Judith E French (8 page)

“Quiet. Stay down,” Leah cautioned, pushing him with the flat of her hand. “Keep your head low. The Indians be Mohawk—Iroquois.”

“But they’re with the French. Surely we can—” He broke off in mid-sentence as Leah brought her knife to his throat.

“Shhh,” she repeated urgently.

The tip of the knife blade pierced his skin, drawing a bead of blood. “Leah? What are you—” She glared at him so fiercely that he was silent.

They lay in the hot sun for a long time. Finally, Leah withdrew the knife and gestured toward a thick grove of trees. “Quickly,” she urged. “Move without leaving a trail a blind bairn could follow, if ye can.”

Brandon looked over the edge of the ridge again. The men, Indian and white, were gone. The clearing was empty. Tight-lipped with anger, he followed Leah back to the grove of trees. She didn’t stop until they were hidden beneath the sweeping branches of a hemlock. There she signaled him not to speak. Hardly breathing, she listened for a long time.

“Ye be angry wi’ me,” she whispered finally.

“You’re damned right I’m angry. What was that all about?” He rubbed the streak of dried blood on his neck. “Have you taken leave of your senses? Those soldiers were Frenchmen—white men. I could have called out to them.”

“Aye, so ye could. ’Twas why I put my skean to your flesh.”

“Would you have cut my throat, Leah, or was it a bluff ?”

She shrugged. How could she tell him something she didn’t know herself? “The leader of the soldiers, Roquette, we call the hair buyer. He trades guns for English scalps.”

“I don’t believe you,” Brandon snapped. “We’re at peace with the French. Why would a gentleman do such a thing?”

“The hair buyer be nay gentleman. He deals in blood and Shawnee women. If you had let them know we were hiding there, he would ha’ had ye killed. He would ha’ used me as a whore for his soldiers—or tried to.” Her tone softened. “I didna wish to kill ye, but there was no time to explain. Even now, ye think I lie.”

“I told you, we have a treaty with the French.”

“Go then and tell Roquette about this treaty. Follow his trail and surrender to him, but gi’ me time to get away first.” She looked into his eyes. “Trust me, Brandon mine, or trust Roquette.” She sank down and leaned back against a tree, suddenly overwhelmingly weary. “The Iroquois want guns,” she said, “and so they provide him with scalps. Some are English, some are Shawnee, and I dinna doubt that some be French. Better Matiassu catch us than the Iroquois. Do ye ken?”

He moved to sit beside her. “It’s true? The French are paying to have English settlers murdered?”

“Aye. Roquette says to kill only the Englishmen, but he pays the same for the hair of lass or lad, bairn or old one. He doesna say why he wants the scalps, and the Iroquois do not ask. I think the French want our land as badly as the British. The Shawnee and Delaware are few; the English are many. If Indians kill English settlers, perhaps they will not keep pushing west with their cabins and their cornfields. Perhaps they will stay on the coast and leave this land to the French.”

Brandon slipped his arm around her. “How long has it been going on?”

“Years. Not all of the Iroquois will deal with him, but some do. And it may be that a few of our warriors do also. There are good and bad men in all races.” She tried halfheartedly to push his arm away, but he kept it there. Her eyes stung, and she blinked back the moisture. “What can I say to make ye ken—”

“It’s all right,” he soothed. “You’re worn out. We both are.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder and fought back tears. A contrite Brandon was harder to accept than a stubborn one. She rubbed at her eyes with the back of a hand and tried to regain her composure.

She needed sleep as badly as he did, but he was helpless here in the woods. If she relaxed her guard—if she made a wrong choice—they would both die for it. Her eyes itched as though they had sand in them. A little sleep and I’ll be all right, she thought. She was hungry and thirsty, and her mind was buzzing like a broken beehive.

“I was wrong to doubt you,” he murmured.

Her mind was clouded with fatigue. “If I sleep,” she asked, “will ye stay awake and listen?” Could she trust him? She wasn’t certain, but she’d reached the end of her strength. She had to have sleep.

“I’ll keep watch,” he promised.

“If ye hear anything, anything at all, wake me. The Iroquois may have scouts in the forest, or they may come back. When it be dark, we will go from this place, but for now . . .” She yawned and snuggled her head against him.

“Sleep, Leah. I’ll listen for your Iroquois.”

“They make no noise, ’tis the trouble,” she answered sleepily. “They just . . .” Her eyes drooped and her breathing grew deep and regular. And throughout the long, still afternoon, Brandon held her close to him and watched over her.

 

Leah placed her fingers over Brandon’s mouth. His eyes snapped open, and his muscles tensed. She pressed against his lips and brought her mouth close to his ear. “Shhh, listen.”

The
gobble-gobble-gobble
of a wild turkey echoed through the still air. Leah pulled an arrow from her quiver and notched it into the bowstring. She paused and drew her knife, tossing it to Brandon hilt first. The turkey call came again, closer. Another turkey, a distance away, answered.

“Iroquois,” she whispered.

She pushed aside a feathery bough and pointed. Through the gap in the needles, Brandon saw a tall, dark-skinned Indian loping through the trees. He was naked except for a loincloth, and he carried a musket in one hand. Strapped to his back was a war club and a powder horn. His head was shaved; what hair that remained was a spiked crest along his bare skull.

“There be two of them.” Leah’s lips barely moved. “Keep still. We are safe so long as he doesna see our trail.”

The brave stopped and leaned his flintlock against a pine tree. He raised both hands to his mouth and gave an imitation of a turkey once more.

Leah drew back the bowstring. Her mouth felt dry, and her knees were weak. She knew she was close enough to kill the Iroquois, but then the other one would come. Worse yet, he would go for the rest of his friends.

The second Iroquois scout returned the signal, and the first man picked up his weapon and turned away in the direction of the cry. Leah stood motionless until he was out of sight.

“Will he be back?” Brandon asked after a time had passed.

Leah relaxed her bow and returned the arrow to its quiver. “I dinna think so. He didna know we were here.” She was trembling. “We must find water and a place . . .”

Brandon took the bow from her hands and leaned it against a tree.

“We have to . . .”

He shook his head.

“But . . .”

He took her in his arms and kissed her. Shuddering, she clung to him, letting the fear drain out of her mind and body.

“Brandon mine,” she murmured.

His lips were hard on hers. His tongue plunged into her mouth, filling her with eager thrusting. She welcomed his passion, welcomed the flood of desire that drove away the terror.

“Little Leah.” His words were a caress as his strong hands moved in slow, sensuous circles down her back. “I need you.” She sighed as reason fled and she was overwhelmed with the feeling that her muscles had turned to water. Together they sank onto the soft forest floor.

His hand cupped her breast through the soft deerskin, and she moaned with pleasure and squirmed against him. He raised up on one elbow and lowered his head to kiss her mouth, her ear, her throat. His tongue trailed a hot flame down her shoulder to the spot where the top lace held her vest together. Slowly, deliberately, he began to undo the garment. She wove her fingers through his yellow hair and pulled him down to her, savoring the sweet taste of his kisses.

“Don’t run away from me this time,” he begged hoarsely.

“Nay,” she promised, “I willna.”

“I
want to make love to you, Leah,” Brandon said huskily. “Will you let me?”

Her shining eyes, fringed with heavy dark lashes, quivered as she raised her gaze to meet his. “Aye,” she answered, “I will.” She undid the tie to her cape and pushed that and her quiver away.

Brandon’s mouth claimed hers in a searing kiss of unrestrained passion, and Leah shuddered as sweet waves of hot desire coursed through her. Boldly, her tongue met his, tasting, caressing as his roving hands stroked and teased her trembling body. They were so close she could feel the beating of his heart, and the sensation thrilled her beyond the pleasure he offered with his lips and hands.

“Leah,” he murmured.

She felt his fingers fumbling with the leather tie that laced her open vest. The thong pulled free, and Brandon pushed aside the deerskin to lave her nipple with a hot, wet tongue. She made a small sound of delight and arched against him, offering her other breast to be licked and kissed, and finally suckled.

“So beautiful . . .”

“Ummm.” Joy bubbled up inside her as she pressed ever closer to him.

“So good . . . my sweet, sweet lady.”

Leah buried her face in his cornsilk hair, breathing deep of the male scent of him. “Brandon mine,” she murmured. “Aye . . . aye . . . dinna stop . . . dinna ever . . . ever stop.” Her sighs of contentment changed to breathless moans as his hand slid up her thigh and fingered the warm wetness of her most intimate spot. “Oh,” she cried. “Ohhh.”

No man had ever made her feel like this before. With Brandon, she experienced more than the sexual pleasure her husband had given her; there was a deeper caring within her, a desire to know what he was thinking, a yearning to give him part of her that he would never lose.

He left her breast to taste her mouth again, and she caught his lower lip between her sharp teeth and nipped him lightly.
We have this moment,
she thought,
this small bit of time before we part forever.
Tears filled her eyes as her trembling fingertips brushed his cheekbones and his temple, drifting down to feel the line of his brows and the shape of his thin English nose. And all that she touched, each detail, she committed to memory, so that no ocean, no amount of time, could ever dim this joy.

Brandon rolled onto his back, pulled her on top of him, and showered her face with kisses. Her long, dark hair fell over her face, and he parted it gently. “Leah,” he murmured again, “my Indian Salome, love me, little Leah.”

Her teeth found his shoulder, and she lifted his leather vest to taste him with the tip of her tongue. The texture of Brandon’s skin was not the same as that of her dead husband’s. Brandon’s fair English skin was rougher, saltier, and Leah found the difference exciting.

Brandon moaned as she nipped him teasingly, then brushed the ends of a lock of her hair across the muscled surface of his tanned chest.

“Leah.” His tone was urgent, and she laughed softly. “Leah . . .” He found the tie at her waist and snapped the leather thong. Her skirt fell away, and then her leggings.

“Now your loincloth,” she urged. “Take it off.”

His breath was coming in deep shudders as he ripped the deerskin away. “Sit on me,” he said. “Please . . .”

“Not yet . . . not yet, Brandon mine.” She looked down at him and smiled.
“H’kah-nih,”
she teased. “Ye be a greater man than I thought.”

“I want you . . . all of you.”

Leah slid her body down his, taking care not to hurt his injured arm. She moved slowly, provocatively, savoring the sensations of his fair, salt-tinged skin, letting the intensity of her longing banish all fear and doubt. She rubbed her breasts against his chest, inflaming his ardor until he groaned with desire, fanning the throbbing ache within her until she felt she must satisfy it or die.

Her hand closed around his hard, swollen erection, stroking it as she pressed her cheek against his taut, muscled belly.
“K’daholel . . .”
I love you, she murmured in Shawnee, letting her breath stir the golden curls at the base of his shaft.

With a hoarse cry, Brandon seized her hips and raised her over him, lowering her until she sat astride his loins. She parted her legs eagerly, taking him within, filling herself with his tumescent love. His mouth was on her breasts, his hands clutching her, cradling her weight, guiding her. She strained to take all of him, and when he moved, she moved with him, finding his rhythm without hesitation.

The sweet aching in her blood had become a driving force, molten hot and insistent. The towering hemlocks, the needle-strewn earth beneath them, the blue sky above, all faded until there was nothing but this great golden man and the need to be one with him. Over and over, he called her name, and the sound of his voice whipped her passion to a frenzy. Finally, when she felt she could stand the agony no longer, she felt her soul break free from the earth and tumble into a bright abyss. Wave after wave of wondrous sensation broke over her, cresting and then receding, only to come again with glorious rapture.

Brandon shuddered and clasped her tighter to him. “Leah . . . Leah . . .” Breathless, damp with perspiration, exhausted, they clung to each other. He ran his fingers through her hair and whispered sweet love words. He raised a lock of her raven-black hair to his lips. “Sweetheart,” he rasped. “I’ve never been with a woman like you, a woman so full of life.”

She laughed softly, sighing. He turned onto his side, cradling her against him, and she caught his hand in hers. She traced the creases and mounds of his palm before bringing his fingers to her lips and nibbling at their tips.

“Woman, woman . . .” He groaned. “If you keep moving against me like that . . .”

She chuckled and nuzzled the golden hairs on his chest, then licked the nub of one male nipple. She stretched, rubbing her bare legs against his. “What, Brandon mine? What will ye do if I dinna stop?” She tasted his other nipple, then drew it between her lips, sucking lightly.

“Dare me, and you’ll find out.” He cupped her bare breast in his hand and teased the nipple erect. “Two can play at this game, wench.”

“Aye,” she answered. “Two can play, and two can win.” She laughed. “Ye need not worry that ye will gi’ me a bairn from this pleasure, as mightily as ye tried. Last night, before we left the village, I chewed the leaves that keep me from making a child.”

“Are you telling me you planned this?”

She smiled. “Nay, I didna plan it . . . but I did give thought that it might happen.” She sighed, knowing the mood was broken. “Ye needna fear. The herbs will work.”

“I’m sure you believe it.” He kissed the top of her head. “I think these pine needles have left me scarred for life. Either we change positions, or we find another spot.”

Leah wiggled free of his embrace and recovered her skirt and vest. Unconsciously, she pulled them on and tied them as best she could with the broken thongs. “I found nay fault wi’ my bed,” she said. “None at all.” She shook the needles out of his loincloth and tossed it at him. “And these be hemlock, nay pine. Will ye never learn?”

“Hemlock, then. But the twigs are just as sharp.” He held one up. “This one went in at least three inches.”

She began to rebraid her hair. “We can find water now and a place to eat. We will take the trail left by the French and Iroquois—only we will go the way they ha’ come.”

“And Matiassu won’t be able to tell our tracks from theirs.” Brandon wound the loincloth around himself awkwardly and hunted for his missing moccasin.

Leah scoffed. “Of course he will. But it willna make any difference. Once they find the Iroquois sign, the search party will forget about us.” She found his missing moccasin half buried in the needles and retrieved it. “’Tis true. That many Iroquois be a real danger. Matiassu can stop hunting us and concentrate on the enemy without losing face.”

“All the same, I’ll feel better when we’re safe behind English walls.”

“When ye be safe,” she corrected. “I’ll take ye within sight of your people—then I return to my own. As dear as ye be to me, Brandon mine, I be Shawnee. My place is with my own kind.” She kept her voice light, hiding the pain. What she had told him was true; there was no future for them together. As for what had just happened between them . . . She drew in a deep breath and began walking quickly away. I’ve no regrets, she thought,
none
. Brandon would go out of her life as her father had done, and she would learn to live without him.

Leah picked up the trail of the French and Iroquois a few hundred yards north of where she and Brandon had first seen them. Following the tracks was child’s play, and a brisk hour’s walk brought them to a wide, clear stream. Gratefully, they drank and ate the provisions Leah had packed in the camp. Again they slept for several hours, and at dusk, they took up the trek once more.

They walked until nearly daylight, seeing nothing more frightening than a gray vixen and her two fox cubs. Just before dawn, Leah found a sheltered spot beneath a rock overhang. With cool efficiency, she made a bed of pine boughs, and they slept until midmorning.

When they awoke, Brandon took her into his arms and they made slow, sensuous love. There was no hesitation, no denial, only a passionate sharing of the tenderness they had come to feel for each other. Leah made no promises she knew she could not keep. For her, it was enough to share with Brandon this magical time between the English world and the Indian, a world where each belonged equally.

On the afternoon of the eighth day, they came to a river large enough to swim in. Laughing, they pulled off their warm deerskin clothing and dove into the cool, refreshing current together. Once again, Leah insisted on scrubbing Brandon thoroughly with sand from the river bottom.

“To wash away the sweat,” she said.

“And make certain I don’t frighten away the game,” he finished. “And do I get to sand away your skin as well?”

She pushed his head under, and he came up sputtering. “I know how to wash myself,” she replied playfully.

The weather was perfect, the sun shining and a light breeze blowing to keep off the insects. They’d seen no sign of humans, and the forest seemed as peaceful to Brandon as Eden must have been. To his delight, Leah seemed willing to linger beside the river. They spent the long afternoon laughing and talking, and finally making love in the water.

Afterward they lay in the shallows in each others’ arms. “You seem so different here,” he murmured. He raised her small hand to his lips and pressed a kiss into her callused palm. “In the village you were—” He broke off, not certain how to express himself without hurting her.

“In the village you were verra rude.” She shook her wet hair, splattering him with drops. “A barbarian.”

“Was I?” he asked lazily. “Do you still think I am?” God, but she was warm in his arms. He nuzzled the back of her neck and pulled her into his lap. Leah’s copper-gold skin was like silk, and her wet hair smelled faintly of mint. She laughed, a low tinkling sound that made Brandon shiver inside.

“Aye, Brandon mine, I do—a great brawny broth of a barbarian. But I dinna mind so much now.” The tip of her tongue brushed his upper lip. “Ye have much strength . . . for an Englishman.”

He lowered his head and kissed her. Instantly, he felt heat flare up in his loins. “Damn me, Leah,” he swore, “you do to me what no other has ever done.” He’d wanted her sexually as he’d wanted other women—too many to count if he thought about it—but Leah was different. Once the physical act was finished and his arousal satisfied, he’d expected his desire for her to diminish as it always had before. Instead, he wanted her more than ever.

Why, in the name of all that’s holy, is this happening to me now? Brandon wondered. He was thirty, long past the age of boyish fancies and romantic claptrap. He’d had his fill of dalliances with red-cheeked dairy maids and ladies-in-waiting. Wasn’t he known in court circles as a cocksman of high degree? A reputation earned more by gossip than actual indulgence, he had to admit, but a distinction nevertheless.

I set out deliberately to make her fall in love with me, he thought. It was a conscious act—an attempt to use Leah to free myself from the Shawnee. And it worked, didn’t it? I’m free.

She laid her head against his chest and closed her eyes. “I like you,” she murmured. “You give me content.”

Brandon gritted his teeth and stared across the river into the trees without really seeing them. The closest he’d come to losing his own heart had been with the delicious Lady Anne. The scandal caused by their affair had landed him here in the Colonies—a scandal based on her infatuation with him and a few snatched kisses and some furtive handholding in a garden. Lady Anne was married; he’d known that from the start. He’d also known that her powerful husband was no man to cuckold, even if he was fool enough to neglect a wife young enough to be his granddaughter.

Brandon had genuinely liked Anne. If she’d not had a husband, she would have made a very suitable wife. Lady Anne had everything a man in his position needed in a mate; she was of noble birth, she was sweet-natured and biddable. By the king’s cod! She was as pretty as an orange girl and as rich as Croesus. He would have wedded her gladly, but, since he couldn’t, he would have bedded her with even greater enthusiasm. Unfortunately, Anne was an innocent, and her seduction had never materialized.

The point was, he’d been strongly attracted to Anne, and he should have been brokenhearted when they had been torn apart. But he hadn’t been . . . not really. He’d allowed his father to cozen him into coming to the Colonies, and in the excitement of anticipated adventure, he’d all but forgotten sweet Anne.

Leah put her arms around his neck and snuggled close. “I’ll miss ye,” she said. “Truly I will.” She touched his chin. “In time, I think I would ha’ forgiven the porcupine quills on your face.” Her dark eyes were luminous as she drew an imaginary line around his lips with her finger. “I believe I could ha’ made a Shawnee of ye, if you’d let me.”