by Shawnee Moon
He flushed. “I cannot afford a private cabin for us, Cailin. The bribe I paid to save you from hanging was a year’s salary.”
The thoughtlessness of her tongue sobered her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didna mean to taunt ye for the thickness of your pocketbook. Being an officer of the king’s dragoons, you—”
“No more. That is behind me. I am simply Sterling Gray, a fool who tried to—”
She sneezed. “Haven’t we insulted each other enough for one morning? I tried to escape, and I failed. Now, I’ll stick to our bargain. Two years and then—”
“Will you?” He scowled at her. “I can’t trust you. You’ve proved that much to me.”
She shrugged. “Must ye hold a grudge? As I said, ’twas my last chance. Now, I’m stuck with ye. I can swim, but I canna walk on water.”
He took a few steps toward the door and glanced back at her. “You’ve no concept of honor, have you? Breaking your word means nothing.”
“Honor is a man’s word,” she scoffed. “Women do not play such silly games. We have not the luxury of made-up rules. When we play, it is for keeps.”
“You’re talking riddles, Cailin. All I know is that you gave me your promise that you would live with me as my wife for two years, and then you tried—”
“Nearly got away too. Ye swim better than any Englishman I’ve kent.”
“Your things are here somewhere in this mess. Change into them. And if you cause any problems at all, I swear I’ll have you bound and gagged and stuffed into a barrel in the hold.”
“Such venom,” she chided.
“You made me look a fool, woman,” he answered stiffly. “If Captain Daniels had refused to allow us to remain aboard, I wouldn’t have had enough money to buy passage on another ship.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“You say a lot, Cailin, but you mean little of it. We’ve scarce money left to travel to the frontier and make our start in America.”
“Surely, ye dinna expect me to stay below for the whole voyage. I’ll die down here in this devil’s hole of a closet.”
“I don’t want to see you, and I don’t want to hear you. Stay away from me. I warn you.”
“As ye wish,” she answered.
He stalked from the cabin, swearing under his breath. When she’d leaped over the side of the ship, he’d been stunned. He’d not dreamed that she’d risk death to keep from fulfilling her part of the agreement. The thought that he could have lost her forever shook him to the bone. A shudder passed through him.
She was meant to be his. They were linked together spiritually. Why couldn’t she see that? Since the time he’d seen her on his vision quest, he’d known, deep down, that she held his future in her hands. But now that he’d found her and altered his whole life for her, she refused to play her part. His career... his father... his country... None of it meant a damn against this slip of a redheaded girl.
He came up hard against the ship’s gunnel, unconsciously gripping the rail. His clothes were still soaked through, and the brisk wind chilled him, but he paid them no heed. He stared back toward the harbor, watching as anchored ships and buildings grew smaller and smaller in the distance.
“I love you, Cailin,” he murmured. “Why can’t you see that? And why can’t you love me a little in return?”
As Cailin had feared, most of the other women who shared her cabin quickly became seasick. On the second day out, the Galway Maid hit bad weather, and the ship tossed and bobbed like a cork in a millrace.
Cailin turned her back to the room and tried to shut out the smell of vomit and the sounds of weeping. She’d never been at sea before, but the rocking of the ship reminded her of a galloping horse. Had she been on deck with the salt breeze in her face, instead of in this cramped cabin, she was certain she’d enjoy the voyage—even when the waves turned to whitecaps and the wind howled through the sails.
The Reverend Stark’s wife was the worst of Cailin’s cabin mates. Mistress Trumby and her fourteen-year-old twins were repeatedly ill, and old Agnes Williams snored constantly and suffered from flatulence. But Margaret Stark lay flat on her back in the bunk beneath Cailin’s and moaned and prayed aloud for hours on end. Fortunately, her maid had a stronger stomach than her mistress, for the girl was kept busy running up and down emptying slop buckets and cleaning her mistress’s foul linen.
Water dripped down the hull wall, making Cailin’s blankets damp and giving the Trumby twins a cold. When the serving girl began to sneeze, Cailin could stand it no longer. She left the cabin and went topside.
Disregarding the stares of crewmen, she found a secluded spot near the stern of the vessel and let the sun and sea wash away the sights and odors of sickness. She’d not been there an hour when Sterling approached her.
She turned her head away, trying to ignore the thrill of excitement that rippled through her at the sight of his sun-bronzed features and piercing dark eyes.
He draped an arm carelessly around her shoulders. “Not planning on going for a swim, are you?” he asked sarcastically.
“Not this morning,” she replied, shaking off his arm. She refused to be drawn into another argument with him. If they fought, she knew he’d send her below again. One more day of Mistress Stark’s wailing and Cailin knew she’d lose her mind.
“You’re not ill, are you?”
She shook her head. “Nay.”
Why did looking at Sterling always make her heart race? Memories of their time together in the widow’s lodgings flashed across her mind, and she felt her cheeks grow warm as she pictured him standing before the fireplace stripped to the waist. The broad expanse of his smooth chest, the swelling muscles of his upper arms, and the way his unbound hair fell over his shoulders were enough to make a holy nun forsake her vows.
And she had never been a nun.
He brushed a wayward curl away from her eyes, and she flinched at the heat of his touch.
His black gaze twinkled with mischief. “Easy,” he soothed, as though she were a flighty mare. A slow grin revealed his even white teeth. “Peace, little wife. I’ve brought you a gift.”
“I need nothing from you,” she replied sharply. But she did. Heaven help her, she did.
“Trust me. You’ll like this.” He dug into a pocket and produced a fat green summer apple. “Eat this,” he said, offering it to her.
“Is it poisoned?” The words were out before she could guard her acid tongue, but she snatched the fruit before he could take back his offer.
He moved closer, watching her with those devil eyes that seemed to burn into her skin. “You needn’t worry about that. If you drive me to murder, you’ll know it. You are an exasperating woman, Cailin Gray.”
Cailin Gray. Was that her name now? Not MacGreggor, but Gray. How strange it sounded. She shook her head. It wouldn’t do to think too much about that. Next, she’d be wondering why, if she was a wife, she wasn’t fulfilling a wife’s duties to her husband. “Some men have called me difficult before, but I dinna believe them,” she replied.
He pushed her hooded cloak back, and his fingers brushed her temple. She shivered, but not from the cold wind off the water. Then, a sudden gust caught her linen cap, sending it flying across the waves.
“Sorry,” he said huskily. “I didn’t mean for you to lose your cap.”
He was staring at her hair. She’d braided it into two plaits and curled them around her head like a crown. The cap had held them firmly in place, but now the wind played havoc with the wayward strands.
“’Tis just a cap,” she said. “I have another.” It wasn’t the hat he was talking about and they both knew it. “Ye provided me with a generous wardrobe, and I am grateful.”
“The other women—are they kind to you?”
She laughed. “Kind? To a Scot?” Little chance of that. Granny Williams made rude remarks when she was awake, and Mistress Trumby had forbidden her daughters to speak to Cailin. Instead, they simply stared at her with stupid, sullen faces. “We h
ave not exchanged blows yet.” She smiled up at him. “As ye bid me, I am on my very best behavior.”
“See that you remain that way.”
She polished the apple on her sleeve and bit into it. The fruit was sour but juicy, and she relished the sharp bite on her tongue. He stood beside her in silence as she finished the apple, and she found his company strangely comforting.
“Save the seeds, and we’ll plant them on our land,” he said.
“Do apples grow in America?” Our land, he had said. Our land. The notion thrilled her. “What is it like—the Maryland Colony? I’ve heard of the redmen and the great trees, but I ken little else. Will ye have sheep and cows? I’m a good milker, and I churn the sweetest butter you’ve ever tasted.”
“There are mighty stretches of virgin forest,” he said, “with trees as high and wide as London towers. And there are clear, fast rivers, and a bay the likes of which you’ve never seen. Wheat grows from the rich earth, and corn, and tobacco. It’s been a long time since I’ve been there myself, but I remember heavens dark with flocks of geese and...”
Cailin found herself listening eagerly to his stories of the wilderness. For minutes that stretched into hours, she stood next to the man who was her greatest enemy and shared his dream of an untamed land to the west... a place where the waters teemed with fish and the hungry soil waited for apple seeds. And for a little while, both of them forgot their grievances, and they laughed together and talked like any newlywed couple bound for a new life and a bright future.
Far to the north of Dover, in Scotland, on the outskirts of the settlement of Fort William, a small boy watched the road and wiped tears from his grimy face with the back of his hand. “Cailin said she’d come for us. She promised.”
Big Fergus stopped and mopped the sweat from his broad face. The rock balanced precariously on his shoulder weighed more than a six-month calf, but that worried him not nearly as much as the child’s anguish. Thinking came hard to him. He was slow; he knew it. He’d always known it. And he’d long ago given up trying to figure things out for himself and just concentrated on following orders.
The Lady Cailin had entrusted the little chief to his care. “Go with him and protect him,” she’d said. “More than God, I count on you.” Those were her very words. Fergus had repeated them over and over in his mind. He didn’t like to remember the rest of what she’d said... the part about the ghost hounds eating him skin and bones. Fergus didn’t like scary stuff like silkies and haunts.
Just plain dead people didn’t bother him. He’d seen a lot of dead men and women in his life—more this past year than ever. But he’d found good work in digging graves since they came to Fort William. No, dead folk didn’t bother anyone. But ghosts... A shiver came over him just thinking about them.
“Fergus! Get to work! Do ye think this wall will build itself?” Artair Cameron shouted.
He shouted more too, bad stuff about Fergus being as stupid as a rock, but Fergus didn’t listen to that. He just dropped the stone into place and went to pick up another. He liked building stone fences. All he had to do was lift and carry. Somebody smarter would tell him where to put the rocks.
Fergus glanced back at Corey. He was a wee mite to be the MacLeod of Glen Garth, but Fergus guessed he’d grow in time. Corey was smart. Thinking never bothered him, and he never called Fergus names either. He’d make a laird a man could be proud to serve.
“You boy!” Artair yelled. “Stop sniveling and tote that water bag over here.”
Fergus frowned. Artair was mean to Corey too. He didn’t care that Corey was heir to Glen Garth or that his father had died at Culloden Moor. He’d paid Lady Cailin’s kin, the Stewarts, for the boy’s indenture, and now he was working the lad hard. Corey had cried a lot when Artair had sold his pony. And Artair kept threatening to get rid of Corey’s sheepdog. Corey thought a lot of that dog. Fergus didn’t think the boy could stand it if Artair killed his dog.
“Big Fergus. Big Fergus!”
Fergus looked down. Corey was tugging at his arm. Fergus smiled at him and bent down to look the lad square in the eye. “Aye, little laird, what is it?”
“Something’s happened to Cailin,” the bairn replied.
“What?” Fergus’s mouth dropped open. He straightened up and stared around him. “What’s happened to Lady Cailin?” he asked in astonishment. He didn’t see anything amiss. The only thing moving along the road was a flock of sheep.
“She said she’d come,” Corey insisted. “She promised. If she didn’t come, it’s because something’s wrong. She needs our help, Fergus.”
Fergus blinked. Artair was yelling again, but he didn’t pay any mind to him. Corey had said that the lady needed his help.
“We’re going home,” Corey declared. “Home to Glen Garth.”
Fergus chewed at his lower lip, trying to remember if the lady had said anything about not going home. While he was studying on it, Artair ran over and backhanded Corey. A black wave of anger swept over Fergus. “No!” he cried. “Dinna hit the bairn!”
Corey got to his feet. Blood was running down his chin, and his lip was swelling up like a pig’s bladder. “I’m going home!” he cried defiantly.
“You’ll do as I say, you little bastard,” Artair said. He swung his clenched fist at Corey’s head.
Fergus’s arm blocked the blow.
Artair turned on him. His hand went to the dirk at his waist. The knife slipped out of the leather sheath with a hiss, and the steel blade winked in the hot sun.
“Big Fergus!” Corey screamed.
Fergus meant to knock the weapon out of Artair’s hand. But the knife sliced a gash in his forearm, and the pain made him react without thinking. When the black fog receded from his head, Corey was pulling on his leg and Artair lay against the stone wall.
Artair wasn’t moving.
Something told Fergus that Artair wouldn’t get up—not then or later.
He looked down at the boy. “I hurt him, Corey. I hurt him bad. What do I do now?”
Corey’s small fingers entwined with his. “We’re going to Glen Garth to find Cailin and Grandda James.”
Fergus glanced at Artair’s sprawled form again. “I hurt him bad.”
“He was a bad man.”
Fergus’s throat felt funny. “You’re not mad?”
Corey shook his head. “You did right.”
“The lady won’t set the ghost hounds on me?”
“No, she won’t. I promise you.” He whistled to the black and white sheepdog. “Come on, Big Fergus. We’re going home.”
Chapter 10
Annapolis, Maryland Colony
December 24, 1746
Huge white snowflakes drifted lazily down to dust the ship’s yards, frost the rails and bowsprit, and lay in frothy heaps amid the stacked bales and barrels that crowded the deck. Cailin stood amidships, wrapped in her woolen cloak, oblivious to the salt-raw air and the raucous cries of seagulls that swooped overhead.
Passengers and crew crowded the railing, staring and pointing at the cluster of buildings just beyond the market square, and waving at people on shore. In the midst of all the excitement, Cailin felt as alone and confused as she had ever been in prison.
We’re finally here, she thought. So this is the Maryland Colony we’ve come so far to reach. Months had passed since the Galway Maid had sailed from Dover. Since then, the crew and passengers had weathered storms and becalmings, cholera, measles, and smallpox. A French pirate schooner had fired on them off the coast of the Canaries, and two Spanish sloops had chased them for days in the warm Caribbean waters.
Illness and bad luck had taken a toll on Cailin’s cabin mates. Old Mistress Williams had given up the ghost halfway across the Atlantic; one of the Trumby twins had died of fever, and Reverend Stark’s maid had fallen overboard and been eaten by sharks one day out of Jamaica.
Cailin had remained remarkably strong. When she’d discovered that Agnes Williams had brought two cows aboard the Galway Maid, s
he’d volunteered to care for the animals and milk them morning and night. The milk was supposed to supply the captain’s table, but Cailin made certain that she drank her share. The sea air had stimulated her appetite, and she was constantly hungry. Most of the women would leave the ship pale and wan-looking; she had regained muscle and curves that she’d lost in the dungeons of Edinburgh castle.
Scotland and the tragedy at Culloden seemed almost a lifetime ago. In so much time, her grandfather might have passed on. Her sister, or even Corey, might be dead. She turned her hand palm up and watched as snowflakes lit and melted there. Were the graves of her loved ones white with snow as well? she wondered. Or had they found a way to survive under Butcher Cumberland’s fist?
She glanced around the deck but didn’t see Sterling. He was probably still with that deckhand, she decided. In the Canaries, the Galway Maid had taken on a new crewman, Beck Erikson, a native of Lewes on the Delaware Bay. The sailor had been a farmer before going to sea and was able to answer many of Sterling’s questions about planting seasons and crops in the mid-Atlantic Colonies.
Sterling had written down all that Beck had told him in detail in a journal. “I lived in America as a child,” Sterling had explained to her on one of the occasions when they had shared a few hours together, “but I don’t know much about agriculture other than what I’ve read in books. My mother’s people raise corn and beans, but the fields are considered women’s work. Shawnee men are hunters and fishermen. I’ve a lot to learn if I want to become a successful planter.”
Other than short periods on deck, and once when they’d gone ashore in Jamaica, Cailin had seen little of Sterling. They were not important enough to be asked to the captain’s table for dinner, and Sterling could hardly come to the crowded women passengers’ cabin to talk with her. Since he slept in the fo’-c’s le with the crew, she could not venture there if she’d wanted to—which she hadn’t. At least, that’s what she’d convinced herself.
Although she and Sterling had had little opportunity to be together on the voyage, she felt that she knew him much better than she had when they’d set sail from England. He had a quick mind, a good sense of humor, and an obvious passion to learn whatever would aid him in his new life. Despite their differences, she’d found much to admire in his self-control and strength.