Judith E French (24 page)

She smiled. “I hardly think a few days in bed and decent medical care will turn you into a spring lamb.” She raised his hard hand to her lips and ran the tip of her tongue across his knuckles. “You must be good,” she teased. “I have gifts for you, and if you’re bad, you’ll get nothing.”

“Let me guess,” he quipped. “Ye have velvet slippers to match that robe.” A slow smile spread over his face. “Keep doing what you’re doing, hinney, and ye can join me in this bed.”

She felt her cheeks grow warm. “Don’t you ever think of anything else?”

“Not when I’m naked.”

She laughed. “No, you must be serious, Ross. You must take the medicine the doctor left for you, and then I’ll give you your presents.”

“What did he prescribe—ground dog bones? Or unborn mice, seeped in wine, to be swallowed whole?”

“Ross!” she chided, only half in earnest.

“Any doctor fool enough to want to take more blood from a man who’s nearly bled to death would give such nonsense to his patients.”

Chuckling, Anne got up and went downstairs to the hall parlor to get the medicine. The physician had left powder to be mixed with wine for fever, as well as laudanum to help Ross sleep. She poured the correct dosages into a silver goblet, then paused, thinking how strong Ross was. If he didn’t take enough laudanum, he wouldn’t sleep, and if he didn’t get his rest, the wound wouldn’t heal. She wasn’t stupid—too much could kill a man. She didn’t want to put Ross in danger, but she did want him to get better as soon as possible. Pursing her lips, she added another spoonful of laudanum and the port, and stirred until the medication dissolved.

The house was unusually quiet. Sunday night was a holiday for Brandon’s servants. They attended church services in Annapolis and then stayed late in the town, visiting friends. Surprisingly, Anne didn’t mind the silence. Although she’d spent her entire life surrounded by servants, she found that she enjoyed the privacy of being alone.

She glanced into the great hall and stood for a moment admiring the elegant mahogany furnishings, then went to the window and looked out. Beyond the boxwood hedge stood a man with a musket—Cameron’s man. She knew a second guard was posted behind the house; both men had been sent as additional assurance that she had nothing more to fear from Murrane. Satisfied that all was well, she returned to the hall and checked the front door to make certain it was locked before she returned upstairs.

Ross grumbled bitterly as he drank the medication. “It tastes worse than horse piss,” he complained.

“I wouldn’t know, never having tasted the latter,” she said. When he’d drained the glass, she went to a cherry highboy and returned with several objects behind her back. Her mood grew serious as she held out the first, a cream-colored envelope. “This is for you, Ross.”

Anne watched with her heart in her throat as he took the letter, opened, and read it. When he raised his gaze to meet hers, his eyes were as hard as glass.

“What is this supposed to be?” he asked.

She moistened her lips nervously. “It’s a deed,” she murmured. “If the land is mine, as your solicitor said, then it’s mine to do with as I see fit. I’m giving it to you, Ross.
I . . . I
thought you’d be pleased.”

The deed was the reason her father had come to King’s Gift the night before. He’d had the papers prepared by Freeman, and all she’d had to do was sign. “If the wording isn’t correct, we can have it done again.” Her voice was so low it was barely audible. “You went to Scotland . . . you married me to try and buy the land. Now it’s not necessary.” The knot in her throat made it hard to talk, and her eyes stung with unshed tears. She was giving Ross everything he wanted, knowing that by doing so she was taking the chance that he wouldn’t need her anymore.

“What else are ye hiding behind your back? A bag of coin?” There was no hint of tenderness in his tone—his rising fury was evident in the chill of his words.

“Why are you angry with me?” What was wrong? She’d been so certain he’d be happy if she turned the property over to him.

Ross ripped the parchment in half and threw it into the empty fireplace. “To bloody hell with the land,” he said. “Do ye think that’s what matters to me? Do ye still believe that I count your worth by the gold guineas in your dowry?”

“
I . . . I
didn’t say that.” Bewildered, she backed away from the bed. Pain, sharper than any grief she’d ever known, knifed through her.

“Nay, hinney.” Gritting his teeth against the discomfort, he got up and came toward her. “Ye didn’t say so—I can read it in your eyes.”

“Don’t,” she whispered. “You’ll hurt your wound.” The ache in her heart had become a numbness that spread through her body like seeping cold.

He took another step and held out his arms to her. “I be not angry with ye, hinney. ’Tis my own harvest I’m reaping.” Ross began to weave, and she ran to steady him. “I’ve wronged ye, Anne,” he said.

“You mustn’t be up.”

“Hist now,” he rasped. “It’s warm in here—is it not? What did . . .” He blinked and rested his cheek against the crown of her hair. “Ye always had hair like a
silkie
.” He chuckled sleepily. “’Tis a Scottish mermaid. They be so beautiful that a man canna look upon them without being enchanted.” He kissed her hair. “I’m talking nonsense, am I not, sweeting?” He drew in a deep, ragged breath. “What did ye put in that goblet, hinney-lass? Be it aqua vitae, ’tis the strongest I’ve ever let slip down my . . .”

Anne struggled to lead him back to the bed. “Please, Ross, you’ll tear open your wound.”

“And what is this?” He captured her hand in his and lifted it so that he could see what she was hiding. “A child’s moccasin?”

“Lie down,” she insisted.

“Dinna fash me, darlin’. Ye said two gifts, did ye not?”

“You great braw of a man—back to bed, I say.” Tugging at him was like trying to move an ox. “If you really love me, Ross, you’ll do as I say. Please . . . get back into bed.” He licked his lips and swallowed. She knew the laudanum was taking effect quickly.

He grinned. “As ye wish, m’lady. At your service, m’lady. Your wish is my . . . my . . .” He staggered and fell on his hands and knees across the bed. “I love ye, Anne. Do ye understand?” Ross sighed and raised his head. “Love . . . the . . . lady wife.” He yawned and pushed himself up on one hand. “Anne! Anne!” he roared.

She started and scrambled across the bed to him. “Shhh, I’m here,” she soothed, cupping his chin in her hand. “I’m here. You don’t need to shout.”

“Mmm.” His eyes were heavy lidded. “Don’t want your money,” he mumbled. “No money . . . just my bonny Annie. Keep the land. Keep it.” His deep voice rose to a bellow. “Keep the bloody land.”

She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him against her. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she rocked to and fro cradling him. “Fie on you, Ross Campbell,” she murmured, “for you’re so drunk on laudanum that you can’t hear what I’m saying to you.”

“
I . . . I
can hear,” he answered sleepily.

She recovered one baby moccasin from the corner of the bed and held it inches from his eyes. “This is your gift,” she managed between sobs. “I’m with child, Ross . . . your child.”

He chuckled. “It’s . . . it’s about . . . time.”

She took his face between her hands and shook him. “So it’s all right about the land,” she said. “I don’t care. I’m staying with you forever, Ross. Do you hear me? Forever. I don’t care if we live in a wigwam or a hollow tree. I just want to be with you.”

“Hollow tree,” he repeated. “Live with my bonny Annie in a hollow tree.” He closed his eyes, and his breathing grew deep and regular. Then, just as Anne started to ease his head onto a pillow, one dark eye snapped open. “Give the land to the baby,” he whispered. “A christening gift . . . from a beautiful . . .
silkie
.” He shut his eyes; his features relaxed, and he sank into a drugged sleep.

For a long time, Anne held him, watching the steady rise and fall of his bare chest. Then, when his weight cramped her arms, she lowered his head onto a pillow and covered him with a sheet.

“What have I let myself in for?” she asked, and then she laughed softly. She leaned over and kissed his lips, then wiped her tear-stained cheeks. At least life will never be boring, she thought. She looked around for the mate to the moccasin and found it on the floor beside the bed. “Will you remember in the morning?” she asked him, “Or will I have to tell you all over again that you’re going to be a father?”

She felt as though a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders. Murrane’s threat meant nothing if Ross really loved her. And he had refused the land that meant so much to him.

She stretched and ran her fingers through her hair. Twilight was fast fading. She sighed, feeling the weariness in her muscles despite her inner elation. It was too early to retire for the night, and she knew she needed to give him another dose of medication later, but . . . It wouldn’t hurt to lie down, she thought, just for a few minutes. Removing her shoes, she climbed into bed fully dressed, molded her body to Ross’s, and dropped off to sleep in minutes.

 

 

Anne sat bolt upright in bed and listened. Her heart was pounding, and her mouth was dry. Something had startled her from her sleep. She held her breath and strained to hear. But there was nothing save the soft hoot of an owl and Ross’s steady, deep breathing beside her.

She sighed and closed her eyes, snuggling against him. The dream came back to her in bits and pieces. She’d dreamed of Barbara . . . but this was different. She touched her amulet for luck and wiggled deeper into the feather mattress.

From the far corner of the room came the rusty squeak of a cricket. Anne’s lips turned up in a smile as she remembered Ross’s intoxicated rambling. They’d live in a hollow tree, would they? “If I have anything to do with it, you bonny man,” she whispered to her sleeping husband, “I’ll fill that house of ours with furniture as fair as any that graces the manor of an English lord.”

She had almost drifted off again when the quiet autumn night was shattered by a musket shot.

H
eart pounding, Anne scrambled from the bed and ran to the window. In the moonlight, she could see dark figures running toward the house. One man in the lead brandished a flaming torch. There was a loud scream, and then another shot. “Ross! Ross! Wake up,” she cried desperately. She returned to the bed and shook him. “Ross!”

He groaned but didn’t move.

The sound of wood splintering made the hair stand up on the back of Anne’s neck. There was no doubt in her mind who the attackers were—it had to be Fitzhugh Murrane and his soldiers.

“Ross, please,” she pleaded urgently. “You’ve got to wake up!” Grabbing a pitcher of water off the table, she threw it over his face. He coughed and mumbled something in his sleep. Water soaked the sheet and pillow, but still he lay in deep sleep.

The laudanum, Anne remembered with horror. She’d given him too much, and now when they were in terrible danger, she couldn’t wake him. Her fear was so real she could taste it.

She heard glass breaking in a first-floor window and the heavy thud of men’s boots in the hall parlor. Frantically, she made her way to the highboy and felt for the third drawer. Ross’s pistol was there. She knew it was loaded but not primed. Ross had taught her how to fire a pistol. She’d watched him prime a flintlock a hundred times, but she’d never done it in pitch darkness.

“Campbell! I’ve come for my wife!” It was Fitzhugh Murrane’s voice.

“Bastard,” Anne whispered into the darkness. “You spawn of the devil.” She smelled smoke. Had they set the house on fire? The walls of the manor were eighteen-inch brick and plaster—would they burn?

Gripping the pistol and the powderhorn, she ran back to Ross. His breathing was still unnaturally heavy, and he hadn’t moved. “Oh, Ross,” she whispered. “What shall I do?” Murrane wanted her. She’d be safe enough, but if he found Ross helpless, she knew without a doubt that he’d kill him.

Downstairs, heavy objects crashed to the floor as furniture was overturned and the house ransacked. Curses and harsh laughter filtered through the wide boards beneath Anne’s feet. The thick, acid scent of smoke was stronger.

“Upstairs! Find them!” Murrane’s voice.

With trembling hands, Anne slipped her necklace off over her head and put it around Ross’s neck. “Please, God, keep him safe,” she whispered. Using all her strength, she wrapped him in the wet sheet and rolled him across the bed and off the far side onto the floor. Ross groaned as his head hit, but he didn’t regain consciousness. I must have given him enough laudanum to fell a horse, she thought.

She got down on her knees and pushed him under the bed, then recovered the pistol and powderhorn and hurried out of the room through the side door that led to a dressing chamber.

Moonlight spilled through the single twelve-paned window, and she crouched before it and measured out a small bit of fine black powder into the frozen pan. Anne’s fingers were shaking so hard that the first dusting spilled onto the floor, and she was forced to repeat the process. Loading the gun a second time would be impossible. She knew she’d have only one shot—but one would be enough if she could put that through Murrane’s black heart.

A red glow in the window drew her attention, and she stared out at flames leaping from the shake roof of one of the stables. Half-dressed men ran toward the barn with buckets of water but were driven back by the soldiers’ musket fire. A woman’s scream of terror pierced the hue and cry. Anne saw a slight figure fleeing across the yard with two soldiers in hot pursuit.

Sickened by the senseless violence, Anne ducked away from the window and hurried into the adjoining chamber. She could hear shouts in the upstairs hall, and she knew Murrane was closing in on her. She had to draw him away from Ross, but if she stepped into the hallway, she knew she’d be seen and captured.

Darting to the back right window, she forced it open. Below her, sloping toward the back, was the steep roof of a story-and-a-half-high wing of the main house. Holding tightly to the pistol with her left hand, Anne lowered herself through the open window and dropped onto the roof. She hit the hand-hewn cedar shakes and began to slide toward the edge. A heavy shower just that morning had made the shingles slippery and nearly impossible to hold on to.

Splinters dug into her palms, but she gritted her teeth against the pain and scrambled for a hold on the sharp pitch. She pressed her face against the rough wood, regaining her balance just as her bare toes reached the edge.

“Damn you to hell!” Murrane roared. China crashed, and Anne heard the sound of wood splitting. Torchlight gleamed from Ross’s bedchamber window above. A pistol shot rang out, and Anne stifled a scream as a man cried out in agony.

As she stared up, she lost her grip on the damp roof. She screamed as she slid off and tumbled into thin air. Branches from a cedar tree dug into her legs and arms, scratched her face, and yanked strands of her hair. She remained caught in the tree for what seemed like an eternity before she fell and landed with a thud in a shallow puddle. Miraculously, Ross’s pistol was still gripped in her hand.

Sucking in deep lungfuls of air, she stumbled to her feet and took a few steps—right into the arms of a man.

A hand clamped across her mouth, muffling her outcry. The musty smell of man-sweat and fear filled her nostrils. Fury gave her strength, and she clawed at his face with one hand and lashed out with the pistol with the other.

The heavy object glanced off his head. “Uhhh!” her assailant groaned. “Shhh, Lady Anne,” the man hissed in pain. “Be still. I won’t hurt ye. It’s Jacob—footman to Viscount Brandon. What in God’s name is happening here? Who are these people? What do they want? They’ve killed Brian and set fire to the stables.”

Anne stiffened and stopped struggling. She remembered a big footman. “What color is your hair?” she demanded.

“Brown, m’lady,” came the puzzled reply.

She breathed a sigh of relief. She couldn’t remember the tall footman’s name, but his hair was dark brown.

“Did you jump out the window, m’lady?”

“Something like that,” she replied.

He took hold of her hand. “This way. I don’t think they—”

The darkness exploded with gunshots. Jacob moaned and fell to his knees. A soldier in a leather helmet leaped forward and slashed a sword across the back of the fallen man’s neck. Anne shrieked as the footman’s head hit the grass with a sickening plop and rolled to her feet.

“Here! Lord Murrane!” John Brown yelled. “Campbell’s dead and I’ve got the woman!” Brown sheathed his sword and lunged for Anne.

“You bastard,” she said softly. Leveling the pistol at his midsection, she pulled the trigger. Flame and shot spat from the barrel of the gun. The recoil knocked her flat on the ground.

John Brown clutched his stomach and gave a gasp of astonishment. “Christ,” he moaned. “I’ve been shot.”

Anne scrambled to her feet and stared at him.

“I’m hit! “Murrane’s lieutenant cried. “In the name of God—I’m hit bad.” A dark stain widened on the front of his shirt. Blood seeped between his fingers and dripped onto his loose-fitting soldiers’ breeches.

Flames from the burning stable had lit the yard so brightly that Anne could see the whites of Brown’s eyes. His face contorted in pain as he staggered back away from her. “Lord Murrane . . .” Brown’s voice cracked to a hoarse whisper. “She’s here . . . she’s . . .” Small trickles of blood ran from his nose and the corners of his mouth. “The woman . . .”

Another soldier materialized from the shadows. He seized Anne’s shoulder, and she whirled and smashed him in the face with the pistol. She sprang away before he could recover and dashed across the yard toward the burning barn. A horseman galloped toward her.

“I’ve got you now, you bitch!” Murrane shouted.

An explosion shattered windows in the house. Anne spun on her heel and screamed Ross’s name as she saw flames shooting from the second floor. Then something hard struck her head, and the world dissolved in skyrockets and black velvet.

 

Pain knifed through Anne’s head. As she drifted in and out of consciousness, she was aware of rhythmic movement under her, and the slap of a horse’s hooves hitting dirt. She opened her eyes with a start as her mind cleared, and found that she was dangling facedown across the front of a saddle.

“Be still,” Murrane ordered, grinding his fist into the center of her back. “Or you’ll get the same as your lover.”

“Let me go!” she cried. Other horses galloped on either side of her. Two soldiers on foot ran on Murrane’s left. “You can’t do this,” she protested.

“Hold your tongue, slut.” Murrane wrenched her head back and struck her jaw so that she saw stars. Her tooth cut the inside of her mouth, and she tasted the salt of her own blood.

“Lord Murrane.” A soldier reined his horse close. “Brown’s dead. They want to know what to do with him.”

“Leave him.” Murrane’s fist slammed into Anne’s shoulder. “You murdering bitch, you’ve killed the best lieutenant I ever had.” His hard fingers tangled in her hair and lifted her head. “Don’t play games with me,” he growled. “I know you can hear me.”

She kept her eyes shut.

“I’d meant to kill you here—did you know that?” he said. “It would have been easier for you that way, believe me.” He shook her head. “Now, I’m taking you home to England, dear wife.” His voice was cold. “You’ll be seen there at my side, so that no one can deny our marriage. And then . . .” He laughed. “Then you’ll suffer an unfortunate accident, and I’ll be left a very rich widower.”

She swallowed the gorge rising in her throat. Murrane thought Ross was dead. If it was true, nothing Murrane could do to her could hurt her any more than losing the man she loved. But she remembered Ross’s unborn child with a rush of fierce protectiveness. Murrane would never let her carry the babe to term . . . or if he did, he would kill it at birth. Never! she decided. If the baby was all she had left of Ross, she’d guard it in this life and the next. Murrane wouldn’t live to harm her child.

“We sail with the tide,” Murrane continued. “And it will be a very interesting voyage . . . for me.” Then he struck her again, and she lost consciousness.

 

Minutes later, Ross choked and gasped for air.

“Lay him down there,” Cameron ordered.

Strange hands were carrying him, lowering him to the ground. Groggily, Ross opened his eyes. A fit of coughing seized him, and he sat up and leaned forward. His eyes stung from smoke, his lungs seemed full of the foul stuff. The sword cut across his ribs burned like fire. He drew a hand across his face. “Anne.” His fingers closed around her amulet.

“Ross.” Moonfeather’s voice penetrated his fogged mind.

“Moonfeather?” His throat was dry and swollen, his speech like that of an old man. He tried to rise, and gentle hands caught him.

“Easy.” Cameron’s voice. “Easy, Ross. You’ve breathed in a lot of smoke, and that wound in your side is bleeding again.”

Someone—a woman by the feel and scent of her—bathed his face with cool water. Ross blinked again, and his irritated eyes focused on Moonfeather. “What . . . what do ye do here?” he rasped. “Where’s Anne?” He rubbed the ancient golden charm. Strangely, he found it comforting.

“Murrane attacked the plantation,” Cameron said. “Some of my people saw the fire from the barn. We came as quickly as we could, but we got here too late to catch Murrane and stop him from carrying Anne off.” The older man’s face was grim. “I’ve sent a rider to the governor, and another to organize an armed rescue party.” He put one arm around Ross and helped him to his feet.

Moonfeather handed Ross his kilt and moccasins. Clenching his teeth, he forced himself to stand alone and put them on as Cameron continued his explanation.

“When we arrived, Leah, Niipan, and another man were bringing you out of the burning house.” He motioned toward the blackened walls of the building. “We were able to put out the fire, but the inside’s a hell of a mess.”

Ross leaned over as another choking fit seized him. His head felt as though it were full of moss, and his tongue seemed too thick for his mouth. The pain in his side was a throbbing ache, but he could bear it. Taking a deep breath, he looked questioningly at Moonfeather. “How did ye know I was still in the house?” he asked.

“I just knew.” She touched the amulet around his neck. “Perhaps the Eye of Mist called to me.” She grasped his arm. “You must find Anne,” she said in a low, tight voice. “She carries your child. If this evil one who has taken her learns of it, he will kill her.” Moonfeather’s face was pale in the firelight. “If she left you her amulet, she did it out of love, so that the magic would protect you.”

Niipan approached and passed a handful of dry leaves to Moonfeather. She nibbled the edge of one, then handed them to Ross. “Chew these,” she ordered. “They will clear your head and give you strength.” She motioned toward the house.

Ross obeyed without hesitation. The leaves were bitter on his tongue, but he chewed them all and swallowed, washing it down with water from a wooden bucket. The necklace seemed to settle around his neck as though it had always been a part of him. She loved him enough to leave him the amulet she cherished more than anything in the world. Anne, he thought. My Anne. He looked up with a start, realizing that Moonfeather was talking to him.

“We came home early to my Brandon, the children and I,” Moonfeather said. “I thought my sister would be waiting here for me. I brought with me an escort of twelve Shawnee warriors to ensure our safety. Take them with you. They are fierce fighters, and they will gladly wet their knives with the blood of Murrane and his followers.”

Ross turned hard eyes on Cameron. “Ye be Anne’s father. If ye care for her, why are ye here and not hot on Murrane’s trail?”

“We came to fight a fire, not a battle,” Cameron answered sharply. “We must have weapons and enough men to go against professional soldiers. Murrane hasn’t lived to be the age he is without being tough and smart. If I ran off half-cocked against him, chances are my people would be slaughtered uselessly and Anne might be killed in the process. I want my daughter back as much as you do—but I want her alive.” He frowned. “Besides, when Murrane and his men rode out of here, they took the road south, away from Annapolis. I want to know why.”