by Shawnee Moon
First, she’d caught him with the shepherd’s wife. Next, they’d had a public shouting match at the spring horse fair when he’d let his hands roam too freely over the flanks of a gypsy fortune-teller. And finally, MacGreggor had tried to turn her over his knee when she’d questioned him about the woman’s red satin garter she’d found in their own marriage bed.
He’d tried to explain and had failed most miserably. She’d not believed the lie that the single garter was a gift he’d bought for her. In the argument that had followed, they’d broken the pitcher and washbowl and torn the hangings from the poster bed, but it was MacGreggor who’d gone down to breakfast in the hall with an eye as black as the devil’s cod and scratches on his face that did not fade for a fortnight.
If she’d quickened with MacGreggor’s babe, perhaps they would have come to terms before parting. But she hadn’t. And the pleasure of his company was not enough to overcome her shame and anger at his roving eye. So she’d packed her trunk and returned to her stepfather’s house.
She’d remained there, a little wiser but no less stubborn. So complete and scandalous was their separation that MacGreggor’s death brought sadness and regret, but no real heartbreak.
A wolf howled nearby, and Cailin flinched.
“Shhh,” Sterling soothed. “They’ll do us no harm. The pack is hunting deer, most likely.” He pulled her close, and she relaxed and let her eyelids drift shut.
When I married MacGreggor, I was a woman in body but still a child in my mind, Cailin thought. Why couldn’t it have been Sterling whom I met at that wedding? If he had kissed me instead of MacGreggor ... if he had asked for my hand in wedlock ...
I would have slapped his face and set the dogs on him.
She caught her lower lip between her teeth.
If I was too young to recognize MacGreggor for what he was, I wouldn’t have been mature enough to see beyond Sterling’s enemy uniform.
Sadness swept over her. Two years she had promised Sterling Gray, and two years they would have. She would give her body willingly and take sensual joy in his. But theirs was an arrangement. When the time had passed, she would keep her vow and return to Scotland.
And regret leaving him for the rest of her life.
She was still tired from yesterday’s long day’s work. She had carried branches all afternoon and helped to dig the foundation trench for the cabin. She’d rolled rocks and carried water from the stream for the thirsty men to drink. She’d cleaned and cooked for seven men, and in an hour or two, she’d rise and begin all over again. But this morning—in the darkness before dawn—sleep eluded her.
Restlessly, she turned and wiggled. Something didn’t feel right. An odd, prickly sensation spread up the back of her neck. Uneasy, she opened her eyes and stifled a cry of alarm. Beyond the fire, in the stygian blackness of the forest, red eyes glowed.
“Sterling.” His name came out a bare whisper, but she felt him tense.
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s just a wolf.”
Cailin’s mouth was suddenly dry. “A wolf? Just a wolf?” She shrank back against him. “Aren’t you going to shoot it?”
“He’s just curious.”
As she watched, the animal’s eyes grew larger. “Sterling.” Gooseflesh rose on her arms.
“He won’t hurt us.” Sterling sat up. “Greetings, Brother M’wai-wah.”
The creature took a few steps closer to the fire, and a huge gray form emerged from the darkness. Cailin’s teeth began to chatter. The wolf’s legs were long and surprisingly slender, its coat gray-black. White hairs sprinkled the ruff of its neck and encircled its muzzle.
A cold wind rustled through the trees. A log on the fire cracked, shooting sparks into the air. White teeth gleamed in the beast’s mouth.
“Sterling!”
“Shhh.” He moved to kneel between her and the wolf. “M’wai-wah, ili klecheleche?”
For a long minute, he and the wolf stared into each other’s eyes. Slowly, Sterling smiled.
The wolf lifted one paw as if to salute them, and then dropped to its haunches and gave a low, doglike whine.
Sterling extended both hands, open to show that he held no weapons. “Auween khackey?” Who are you? he asked.
The wolf opened its mouth, letting a red tongue loll. Its eyes were yellow now, as bright as molten gold, and it was close enough for Sterling to hear its breathing. ,
Sterling was puzzled. He’d told Cailin that there was no reason to be afraid of the wolf, and normally that would be true, but this animal was not behaving as it should. It didn’t look sick or mad, but wolves were generally shy of humans, and it was late spring, a time when there were many young birds and animals, making food easier to come by for predators.
Sterling slowly reached for his rifle. He’d not shoot unless he or Cailin was in danger. Instinct told him that the wolf wouldn’t attack, but he couldn’t be sure. He’d never seen or heard of a wolf coming so close to fire.
“Are you someone’s pet?” he asked.
The animal maintained eye contact.
“What are you saying?” Cailin asked.
With a start, he realized that he’d been speaking in Algonquian ... thinking in it as well. How long had it been, he wondered, since he’d ceased to reason in his native tongue?
He kept his gaze fixed on the yellow eyes. Finally, the wolf lowered its head. Then Sterling glanced toward the second fire on the far side of the clearing where the workmen were sleeping. Not a soul was stirring. When he looked back, the wolf had gotten to its feet and was strolling off into the trees.
“It’s going away,” Cailin whispered.
The animal stopped, stared back at them, then trotted off. In seconds, it vanished into the underbrush.
Sterling noticed that the wind, which had come up quickly, had calmed. The fire was burning steadily; the flames flickered low. He would need to add more wood to keep it going until dawn.
“Sterling.”
He looked down at Cailin. She was visibly shaken, and he wondered if he’d been selfish to bring her with him to the frontier. “I told you that it was all right,” he said. “Probably a pet.”
“A pet wolf?” She sounded unconvinced.
He laughed. “Well, it’s no stranger an explanation than having a wild one come sit by our fire.”
“Ye spoke Indian, didn’t ye?”
She still clung to his arm, and he liked the feeling. When he was near Cailin, it was hard to think of anything but her. He was nearly overwhelmed with a desire to protect her—to make up for all she had suffered.
“Ye did speak Indian.”
Her insistence pulled him from his reverie. “I suppose I did,” he agreed, hugging her.
Strange how he’d seen her image so many years ago when he’d gone out to seek his spirit guide. Having a white woman appear in his vision—when he’d hoped for a bear, a hawk, or a mountain lion—had been a great trial to him. But now that he’d found her again, she seemed as much a part of him as his right arm. It didn’t matter what nonsense she prattled about going back to Scotland. She was his. Call it coincidence, Indian magic, or fate, Cailin was his woman. He’d never let her go.
He kissed the crown of her head. Her hair was soft and sweet-smelling. “It’s not wolves or bears you need to watch out for here in the woods,” he said, “it’s two-legged beasts. Unless you frighten a sow with her cub or come across a sick animal, they will give you a wide berth.”
“It sounds a wee bit like Gaelic—your heathen talk—but I dinna ken a word of it.”
He kissed her on the forehead, then got up and put several logs on the coals. “I don’t know why I started speaking Shawnee. I’ve gotten out of practice. My father threatened to whip me for forgetting to use English. I wasn’t even sure I remembered much Algonquian.”
She moved closer to the fire and laid a hand on his arm. “What did ye call it?”
“Algonquian. It’s a language used by most of the tribes along the Atlantic an
d west to the Great English Lakes. The Iroquois speak their own tongue, and so do the Cherokee in the south. But most of us between the ocean and the Mississippi River speak Algonquian. Each nation has a slightly different accent, but we can usually understand each other well enough. I’ve a few words of Iroquoian—at least I used to—but their speech is nothing like ours.”
“So you are Shawnee, but you speak Algonquian.”
“My mother was Shawnee,” he corrected. “I told you, I’m a half-breed. I like to consider myself English now.”
She sniffed. “I’d prefer ye to be Shawnee, I think. I’ve known none of them, so I have no trouble with them.” She looked over her shoulder anxiously. “Will the wolf come back, do ye think?”
“I doubt it.”
“So ye say.”
He fancied the Highland lilt of her husky voice. Her come always sounded like comb and her back like bock. “Think of that wolf’s visit as an adventure. Something to tell our children on winter nights, when we’re safe inside thick walls.” He smiled as he thought of her holding his son to her breast.
“I doubt there will be any bairns.”
“Why not?” he demanded. He’d never thought of being a father before—never thought of himself as a man who could settle down. That had changed at Culloden Field. Now, he couldn’t imagine not having children. Why else was he carving a plantation from virgin forest, if not to leave it to his sons and daughters?
“I had none with my first husband. And ...” She blushed faintly. “I told ye that there were ...”
“Other men.” He pushed back a primitive wave of jealousy and waited for her to go on.
“Nay so many,” she said. “At least not willingly.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. The fault wasn’t yours.” His chest tightened as black rage surged up within him. Had he guessed what was in store for her, he’d have accompanied the soldiers to Edinburgh. And had he known later, he’d have tracked them down and given each one a slow, painful death. “What happened before we wed is your own concern. God knows I’ve been no saint.”
“I only wanted to say that I dinna think I’m a fecund mare to quicken with babe easily.”
“I’ll get you with child, Cailin. I swear I will.” He took her in his arms again and looked into her face. “I’ve no babes that I know of either, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make a baker’s dozen between us.” He kissed her lightly on the lips. “Come to bed,” he coaxed. “Dawn will come soon enough.”
She followed him willingly to their bedroll and lay down in the circle of his arm. He pulled the wool blanket around them and rubbed the small of her back.
“I like sleeping next to you,” she admitted. “You’re big and warm, and you’re a good back scratcher.”
“Flatterer,” he said. “There’s something I have for you.” He’d picked up the necklace she’d thrown away in the bedroom weeks ago and taken it to a silversmith to have a new chain made. “I was planning to save it until the house was finished, but—”
“A present? What it is?” she demanded.
A wolf’s howl echoed through the clearing, and she began to tremble again. “Shhh,” he said. “I won’t let anything harm you, Cailin. I promise.” He reached for his leather shot bag and dug inside. “Here.” He pulled out a small bundle of velvet cloth and gave it to her.
She unrolled the velvet, and the necklace gleamed in the firelight. “My amulet,” she said with surprise. “’Tis called the Eye of Mist.”
“It has a name?”
“Aye, it does.”
“When the pendant struck the bricks on the hearth, some of the paint chipped away. I took it into Annapolis and had it cleaned and strung for you.”
“I thought it was gone for good,” she said.
“The pendant is solid gold, but I suppose you knew that. The merchant said it’s older than anything he’s ever worked with. He thought the markings on it might be Saracen.” He’d wanted to buy her gold earrings to go with the necklace, but they’d been too dear. What money he had left had to be stretched to cover draft animals, seed, and glass for the windows of the house. “Are you sorry I—”
“Nay.” Her voice choked with emotion. “’Tis not Saracen. ’Tis Pictish, my mother said. Handed down from mother to daughter for thousands of years.”
“It’s a family heirloom, then?”
“Aye, ye might say that. It’s all I ever had from the man who sired me.” She unfastened the clasp and put it around her throat. “I said I didn’t want it anymore, but ...”
“Why was it covered in that awful blue paint—a fine piece of gold jewelry?”
“To keep the English from stealing it.”
“Ouch. I asked for that.”
“So ye did, Sassenach.”
She snuggled against him, and he went all soft inside. “Someday I’ll buy you pearls,” he promised.
“I’m glad to have it back. I forgot it the next morning, and when I did remember to look, I couldn’t find it,” she admitted. “I thought one of the maids might have taken it, and I was too ashamed to say anything.”
“I took it while you slept. I didn’t know it was valuable, but I knew you always wore it.”
“Thank ye. It’s the nicest gift you’ve ever given me.”
“The only gift,” he corrected. “But there will be more, Cailin. Trust me. I’ll look after you. You have my word on it.”
She slipped her hand under his hunting shirt. The warmth of her palm against his skin made his groin tighten. “ ’Tis not your word I want now,” she teased.
“No? And what do you want?” He lowered his head and kissed her mouth. She tasted sweeter than wild honey.
She laughed and brushed his nipple with her fingertips. He groaned as his cock hardened and began to throb.
“I’m cold,” she whispered.
“Not for long.” He cupped a rounded breast. Her skin was like satin. Already, he could imagine himself driving into her soft, wet sheath, burying himself deep inside her, and pumping until she cried out with joy.
He loved her screams of satisfaction when he futtered her. Each sound she made increased his own pleasure twofold. He freed her breast and took her nipple into his mouth.
“Yes ... yes,” she murmured as he sucked harder. He kissed her lips, and she opened her mouth to take in his deep caress. Their tongues met and parted, then entwined again as she wound her bare legs around his. “God, but I can’t get enough of you,” he groaned. “I love you.”
“Sterling ...”
He caught her hand and brought it to his tumescent cock. “Like this,” he whispered. “Stroke it.” Her soft hand slid along the length of him, lingering on the throbbing head and slipping down to explore his heavy sacks. “Cailin,” he murmured.
“Shall I stop?”
“No ...” He writhed under her touch, thinking how lucky he was. Cailin was a sensuous woman and an adventurous bedmate. She never failed to set his blood to boil when she teased him like this.
“What is this I’ve found?”
“I’m not sure,” he answered, playing her game. She was stroking him faster now. His prick felt as if it were going to explode. He ran his palm down over her flat belly and spanned a bare hip.
She turned to face him, putting her arms around his neck and lifting her head for his caress.
“Cailin.” His heartbeat quickened, and the urgency in his groin grew more intense as a light film of perspiration broke out on his skin. He was panting now; the hot woman scent of her was driving him wild.
Her fingers played up and down his rod.
He exhaled softly. “You know what you’re doing to me?” He pushed her back and knelt between her legs. “Are you ready?” He knelt over her, rubbing the swollen tip of his erect phallus against her wet, silken cleft.
“Yes! Yes! I want it,” she replied.
His first thrust was hard and deep. He caught her arching hips and lifted her. She was tight and hot, and h
er eager pleas gave him strength to plunge still deeper. Far off, a wolf howled, but the sounds of the forest were lost in the heated frenzy of their mutual rapture.
Chapter 13
Isle of Skye, Scotland
May 1747
Duncan MacKinnon stepped into the shelter of the overhanging porch and shook the rain off his ragged cloak. He was dressed in worn woolen breeks and a homespun shirt of indiscriminate color. He wore no kilt, no plaid of any sort. The tartan had been banned on pain of death.
Naught but death and destruction reigned in the Highlands today, Duncan mused. By the devil’s bowels, he’d smelled his share of slaughtered cattle and burning men. He’d get not a wink of honest sleep until he’d put the shores of Scotland behind him.
“Jeanne,” he called softly. “’Tis me.”
“Duncan?”
“Aye, I said it, didn’t I?”
His young wife rose to meet him, and he was shamed at how threadbare her gown was. The skirt was burned in two places and torn along the hem; her bodice had seen better days.
“Did ye get it?” she asked anxiously. “The bread?”
“Aye, and a bit of cheese to go with it. As luck would have it, MacCrimmon needed help to geld I two colts. There’s enough here to last us today and tomorrow. We’ll be on the ship the following day. Donald promised that we’ll get daily rations.”
She reached for the bread and eagerly crammed a little in her mouth. “We’ll. save the cheese for Jamie,” she said. Pushing aside the blanket, she showed him his son’s sleeping face. “I think his cheeks look fuller today, don’t ye?”
Duncan gritted his teeth and turned away, as hot blood flushed his fair skin. The world was upside down when a MacKinnon had to beg day work to feed his wife and child. “I brought you milk for the bairn last night. I’ll do it again tonight.”
“Stolen,” she accused softly. “Taken from MacCrimmon’s cow in the dark of the moon.”
“Silence,” he warned her. “I do what I must, Jeanne.” He’d done worse than steal a noggin of milk to get them safely here from Johnnie MacLeod’s farmstead. He’d murdered two men to escape after he’d been captured by the Hanoverian troops, and he’d killed again before he reached the place where his wife and infant son were hiding. He’d kept himself from starving by eating raw horseflesh, and he’d stripped dead Scots of their shoes and clothing. And now—as a last resort—he’d sold both himself and his wife into servitude for three years to buy passage to Canada.