Judith E. French (21 page)

The braves wore little more than loincloths; Cameron Stewart had traded his fine broadcloth shirt and silk waistcoat for a homespun shirt, fringed leather vest, and doeskin breeches. He wore high elkskin moccasins, much the same as her own.

No one would recognize Moonfeather as an English lady of high degree. She looked every inch a barbarian princess in a cream-colored fringed skirt and laced short-sleeved vest and quill-worked moccasins. Her long dark hair was braided into two thick plaits and held in place by a beaded headband. Strings of tiny shells hung from her ears, and her throat was covered with a scarf of brown silk embroidered in exquisite Indian designs. Slung over one shoulder was a bag made of the skin of an animal, complete with the head, and over the other, a light French rifle set with silver inlay. Around her waist, she wore a belt with a sheathed knife and a holstered pistol.

“For a peace woman, ye go well-armed,” Cailin had remarked early that morning.

“Those who love peace most are wise to be prepared for violence,” Moonfeather had answered smoothly.

Cailin wondered about that now. No one had offered her a weapon, and she’d not thought to ask. Was that because they thought she was too stupid to shoot a rifle?

She’d been given only a small pack to carry. Each of the warriors was weighed down with a heavy bundle of trade goods, but that hadn’t slowed down the march. She had begun the morning confident of her ability to walk as far and long as anyone, but by the time they’d stopped to sleep, she was struggling to keep up.

So now, why can’t I stop thinking and fall asleep? she agonized. In late afternoon, Joseph had pointed out the trail of the Mohawk war party. Sterling was alive and still with them, Cameron had assured her.

“They mean to take him to their home camp,” her father had said.

“For certain?” Cailin had asked him. She’d not missed the warning glance Moonfeather had thrown to the older Scot.

“Nothing’s for certain with Indians,” he’d admitted. “But he’s alive now. I’d stake my hair on it.”

“You might do that,” Pukasee had said in plain English, and several of the men had laughed.

A mosquito buzzed around Cailin’s head, and she rolled over onto her side. Doubtless, she would have been eaten alive by insects if it hadn’t been for the oil Moonfeather had given her to rub on her skin. So far, the potion had worked. She hadn’t been bitten, but it was still hard to ignore the high-pitched whine.

She tried to clear her mind, but all she could think of was Sterling. She wished she’d attempted to get him loose from the cart wheel ... insisted they try to escape by the river, or at least hide together in the chimney. Why had she gone along with his plan?

Oh, Sterling, she thought. I was so unfair to ye. He’d offered her nothing but kindness, and she’d thrown his love back in his face.

Now she’d lost him, along with all the others she’d cared for ...

No. She couldn’t think that way ... she wouldn’t. She’d fix her mind on the fact that he was alive and that they would attempt to rescue him. Surely, Moonfeather wouldn’t come all this way if she didn’t think they had a good chance of success. If she was as important as the Shawnee considered her, wouldn’t the Iroquois respect her position as well?

Cailin shifted again, wiggling until she dislodged the stone that dug into her hip. She knew she was drifting ... suspended in the twilight between consciousness and sleep. Her breathing became deeper, and for an instant, she could smell the sweet perfume of wild strawberries and feel the warm sun on her face.

Sterling’s voice ... echoing across time.

Laughing, he caught her around the waist and tumbled her into the high, soft grass.
And the memory possessed her ... pulling her back to a precious afternoon when all the world stretched out before them ...

 

“Cailin. Cailin, wake up.”

It was a man’s voice, but no longer Sterling’s. Confused, she blinked her eyes. She could still feel her husband’s arms around her, but the sensation was fast fading. She didn’t want it to stop.

“Cailin, it’s time to go.”

Cameron leaned over her and shook her gently.

“I’m awake,” she said. But she wasn’t, not really. She’d been dreaming, and the dream was better than reality. She wanted to stay there in the meadow with Sterling. Instead, she rose, shouldered her pack, and took her place in line.

They walked in almost total darkness, following a narrow game trail that seemed nonexistent to Cailin. They kept going as the stars twinkled out, one by one, and a purple mauve spread across the eastern sky.

By mid-morning, heavy clouds had gathered overhead. Cailin concentrated on putting one foot in front of another. She couldn’t forget her dream ... or the overwhelming sensation of Sterling’s arms around her.

Have I lost him forever? she wondered. She began to feel the same slight nausea she’d experienced the morning before. She swallowed, determined not to give in to her weakness.

Could it be possible? Her breasts were unusually tender, but then she was sore all over. The lack of appetite and the occasional dizziness might be signs of pregnancy, or they could be just the lingering results of her ordeal.

She had suspected that she might be carrying Sterling’s child before she left the Shawnee camp, but she hadn’t said anything to Cameron or Moonfeather. If they guessed, they might send her back, even now.

She did want a baby desperately. If Sterling was dead, it would give her something of his to hold on to—some part of him that she could keep.

How could she have changed so much in so short a time? She’d convinced herself that a child would bind her to Sterling ... would prevent her from returning to Scotland and fulfilling her duty to her family. That wasn’t true. A babe would give her something to live for ... someone to cherish. She would remember Sterling whenever she looked into the laughing face of their child.

“Cailin.” Cameron touched her arm.

“Oh.” She jumped.

He smiled. “You were about to walk on without us. We’re stopping to eat,” he said.

She thought she was too tired to be hungry, but she’d not admit it to him or let Moonfeather, a woman old enough to be her mother, outwalk her.

To her surprise, the Delaware Indian Lachpi led the way up a steep brush-covered hill to a cave. Joseph and Pukasee were already there. They’d built a fire, and were roasting some type of wild fowl over it.

Gratefully, Cailin sank down against a far wall. The floor was bare rock, but she didn’t care. Cameron went to the back of the cave and returned with a brimming cup of cold water.

“There’s a spring back there,” he said. “Drink this.”

She took the offering and drank. The water was clear and sweet, the best she’d ever tasted. “Thank you,” she said.

The rest of the group crouched around the fire and began to share the meat. Kitate seemed as taciturn as ever, but the others laughed and talked. She felt strangely at ease with these half-naked Indian warriors. Not a single one had looked at her with lust in his eyes or had offered her any affront. Instead, she’d been shown nothing but good humor and kindness, even when she was certain she was slowing the march down.

Ake and Joseph began to talk quietly in the Indian language. Koke-wah, the boy, came to sit near Cailin. He smiled shyly but didn’t speak.

“Koke-wah is a new man,” Moonfeather said. “This is his first journey since he became an adult.”