The Sword of the Banshee (36 page)

She shook her head. “You must not worry. Your brother is strong.” India walked out onto the mill bridge and Ian followed behind her, murmuring, “I must tell Maxwell that he has been hurt too badly. The operation cannot resume for some time.”

India handed him a drink. “He will mend. He is luckier than many.”

“I know,” Ian sighed. “Everything is in chaos. Philadelphia will fall shortly.”

India frowned, wiping her hands on her apron. Her hair hung around her face in dirty tangles, and there were rings under her eyes. Ian fared no better. He looked thin, and his face was drawn.

“Is Parnell back in Wilmington?” she asked.

Ian nodded taking a pull of his ale and wiping his mouth. “He is well and has returned to work, injured foot and all. In spite of the danger, all of your contacts remain well, and they await your orders.”

India pursed her lips and shook her head. “Tell them nothing for now.”

Ian nodded, squeezed India’s hand then left to report back to Maxwell.

*           *            *

The days passed peacefully on the banks of the Brandywine River. Birds circled the river, otters slid up and down the banks playfully, and the water tumbled on its way to the bay. Overlooking it all was the old mill, the waterwheel motionless and the millstone removed. The two story field stone structure now resembled a home more than a refinery. India had made the vast space cozy with curtains, benches, and a small hutch. She brought in braided rugs to cover the rough wooden floors and a saffron-colored cloth to cover the rustic kitchen table.

Every morning, she would throw open the windows, bring in wildflowers and let the fresh river air sweep through the cottage. On hot oppressive days, the stone walls and low beamed ceilings kept the hideaway cool and dark making it a welcome escape from the heat.

Their routine varied little from day to day. India would rise, cook breakfast over an open fire on shore, clean house, and do laundry on the riverbank. She dressed in work clothes at the mill with a wide-brimmed straw hat to protect herself from the sun.

Phineas loved this new life in the woods. No more livery was necessary, and he could dress as he pleased, usually in his oldest clothes. He would fish and hunt bringing home trout, rabbit, and duck which India would serve with stores from the Calleigh root cellars. Two mornings a week, she would journey to the main house, bake bread and then forage for eggs from the chickens wandering the yard. In the evening, she would sew or read, rocking in her chair and keeping watch over Calleigh.

For the first time in her life, India was at peace. She did not rush, make plans, or speak of war and adversity. She was content and happy existing in this world of simplicity and calm, relishing the tranquility and repose.

Even in these pastoral surroundings, Quinn’s recovery was slow. When the horse had fallen on him, it had crushed his legs and fractured several of his ribs. He was in shock for many days and slept continuously, waking up only for short periods of time to take broth or cider. He fought infection which delayed his recovery greatly and was frequently delirious. India stayed nearby watching him diligently day and night. Phineas would help too, sitting at his bedside, whittling and whistling, stealing looks anxiously at his injured friend.

One afternoon when India came in from the river with a basket of laundry on her hip, she noticed Quinn watching her. A smile flickered on his lips.

She dropped down in a chair next to him. “Well, you look better,” she said.

He ran his eyes over her face then lifted his hand, motioning for her to bend forward. Ever so gently he pulled a little green inchworm from her hair.

“You were giving him a ride,” Quinn murmured. Their eyes met, and they smiled. They watched the little creature edge up Calleigh’s finger then he lowered his arm and eased the little worm onto the floor. “Thank you for taking care of us, inchworm and all,” he said.

India smiled and stood up. Quinn caught her hand and squeezed it. A thrill shot through her from the touch of his warm skin, and she held his gaze a moment before leaving the cottage.

From that day forward, Calleigh would acknowledge India by catching her hand or by pulling her apron strings. Depending upon her mood, she would either smile or feign annoyance, and his dark eyes would sparkle at her. Either way she read the affection in his face, and it would flood her with pleasure.

Phineas noticed the affection between them as well, but he said nothing. In a strange way, he too felt a part of this liaison. He felt as if he belonged to them, and that he too was part of this family.

Every day, Quinn grew stronger. Soon he was sitting up and taking full meals. By the beginning of October, he was awake all day and badgering India for attention, teasing her mercilessly. As he improved, he also grew restless, and when India went up to the big house to bake, he had Phineas push him around the grounds in a wheelbarrow. They would go fishing, ride through the woods, or Phineas would push him at breakneck speed back and forth across the old wooden bridge attached to the mill, whooping and hollering.

India was oblivious to this activity, and they kept her ignorant of it for weeks. The minute she would leave the mill, they would gather their poles, load Quinn in the wheelbarrow and set out for another adventure. They would sit on shore and fish or venture deep into the woods to shoot squirrels or rabbits.

The air was starting to grow cool, and Quinn noticed that it had a snap to it when it blew across his face one afternoon late in October. He felt a change coming, but he chose to ignore it. He would instead cast contentedly and gaze up at the crisp blue sky, letting the autumn sun warm his skin.

In these final days at the mill, Phineas was always by his side. Quinn noticed how the boy had grown and how his face was starting to harden into that of a young man. He guessed that he was now about twelve years of age.

As Calleigh’s health improved so did his ardor. He could not keep his eyes off of India. Sitting on the mill bridge, he would watch her move around boiling water for laundry, roasting game, or peeling vegetables. Her movements were fluid and poised, and even at these mundane tasks, he thought she moved with the grace of a queen.

When she was weary, she would straighten up and arch her back, and at these times Calleigh would run his eyes over her body hungrily. He had memorized every inch of her lithe frame and her round firm breasts. Sometimes the carnal pain seemed unbearable, and he would grit his teeth and look away with frustration.

Several times a week, India would walk downstream to wash her hair, and Quinn would watch her through the trees. She would remove her shoes, tuck her skirt into her belt and wade out into the river. Bending at the waist, she would dip her head in the water, then lather soap over her scalp and rinse. It was the intimacy of the act that gave Quinn pleasure, and when she returned to shore, he would watch her run a comb through her hair like a mermaid on the rocks. After that, she would leave her tresses down until they dried, returning at last to the soft color of wheat. India was not oblivious to Quinn watching her. She felt his eyes burning into her, and she would bite her lip, flooding with passion.

When the autumn weather was mild, Phineas would drag the kitchen table and chairs outside onto the bridge, where they would have supper and watch the ducks and geese glide down the river. The sun dropped a little earlier every night, and the temperature was starting to drop as well. With the leaves falling gently from the trees, the forest rained continual color.

One evening in early November while he smoked on the bridge, Quinn said, “While you were baking at the big house today, Ian brought word from headquarters.”

India’s stomach lurched, and she swallowed hard. She knew this could mean their idyllic days of autumn were coming to an end.

“The moment I am able to walk again, I am to resume command of the sharpshooters,” he said.

India made no reply. She clenched her teeth and looked at the rough-hewn floorboards of the bridge. Quinn added, “And tomorrow you are to leave for South Carolina.”

“What?” gasped India, straightening up.

“They need you for intelligence in the south. They believe the war will be escalating down there.”

“Impossible! Who will care for you?”

“Ian is coming tomorrow to transport me to a makeshift hospital near Lancaster.”

India looked away struggling with her feelings. “I see,” she murmured.

They spoke of it no more the rest of the night, but it hung over them like a dark cloud. When Phineas went to bed, India blew out the candles and undressed down to her shift. She walked quietly to Quinn’s bedside. He lay by the open window, propped up on some pillows, staring out at the moon and the dark river below. When she stepped up, he turned toward her, reached out and eased her down onto the edge of the bed. Without taking his eyes from her face he pulled her down to his lips.

India had taken her hair down and her tresses fell around the two them like a curtain. As they kissed, passion flooded them. Quinn grasped her arms and brought her down to press her breasts against his bare skin. With only the thin material between them, Calleigh was beside himself with desire.

He ran his hands down her back and over her hips then suddenly pushed her away. “I cannot,” he said, panting.

India sat up, pushing the hair from her face. She knew that he was referring to the completion of their intimacy.

He closed his eyes and grimaced. “I cannot do this. I am not ready—the pain.”

India bit her lip and nodded. “I—I understand,” she said breathlessly.

“Oh, how I want to be close to you,” he said emphatically. “Not having you is even more painful than my broken bones.”

He ran his eyes over her. “Just look at you in the moonlight. It took an entire horse falling on me to keep me from devouring you.”

India looked down at him and smiled.

“When I can walk again, this
will
happen,” he said.

Reluctantly, Quinn pulled himself up, grabbed a candle and lit his tobacco. They were quiet for a long time staring out at the river.

Gazing at the moon, India asked, “Where will they send you when you have recovered?”

Quinn blew out his smoke, shrugged carelessly and said, “General Washington is in White Marsh right now, but he is thinking of wintering in a place called Valley Forge.”

*           *            *

India was grateful for the activity of departure the next day, packing, organizing, and making arrangements. It was a welcome distraction and kept her from her thoughts and her anxieties. All night long, she had stared at the full moon, struggling with her contradictory feelings of despair and relief at Quinn’s departure. She felt as if she would bleed internally if she lost him, yet at the same time she was filled with relief that their physical union had been delayed. After the rapes, the thought of any man touching her had become, not only repulsive, but terrifying. She had never been a demonstrative person, but now more than ever, she found intimate contact unbearable.

India had hidden her anxiety from Quinn last night. Initially, she had burned for him, but when he put his lips on her skin, she recoiled. The faces of her assailants flashed into her mind, and their acts of horror returned to her. Even memories of Colm revisited her, so when he pulled away from her she was relieved, feeling as if she could catch her breath once more. It was only later, when she was alone, did she become outraged then despondent knowing that physical intimacy had been ruined for her perhaps forever.

The next evening after bags were packed, the mill closed up and arrangements made for someone to watch over the estate, Quinn asked, “Where is Phineas?” Calleigh was sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for the boy to help him outside onto the wagon. Ian and Quinn would be traveling under cover of darkness. “The sun is setting and we must go.”

Ian returned from outside. “The lad is nowhere to be found. Do you think you are strong enough to help, Lady Allen?”

“I do,” she said, stepping forward.

Quinn put one arm over India’s shoulder and the other over Ian, and they dragged him outside to the wagon. He managed to dangle in an upright position as they walked, but he could bear little weight on his legs. India staggered under the strain until Quinn pulled himself up onto the bed of the cart. He slid toward the driver’s seat to rest his back as Ian jumped up, taking the reins.

“Why, hello old girl,” Quinn said to the thoroughbred mare tied to the rear of the wagon. She snorted a greeting and tossed her head. “There’s a good Kyna,” he murmured.

“It’s good to have my old friends back again,” he announced, looking at the horses. “But where’s the damn boy?”

India handed him his rifle and looked upstream. Phineas was standing knee deep in the river casting. “There he is,” she announced, pointing. The sky was overcast and murky. Most of the trees had lost their leaves and they formed a gray, spiky tunnel along the channel.

“Phineas!” Quinn called. “Lad, I am leaving now!”

The boy ignored him and kept fishing. Quinn waited for a reply but none came. Growing angry he roared, “Damn it boy, I know you can hear me!”