by Shawnee Moon
Cailin felt at ease with Moonfeather, but not with Kitate, who watched her every move with heavy-lidded black eyes. She didn’t like him, and he made no attempt to hide his distrust of her.
The other Shawnee were Ake, a tall, light-skinned brave with a wide mouth; a short, husky man who went by the Christian name of Joseph; a seasoned warrior with graying hair called Pukasee; and Koke-wah, a boy of about sixteen years of age. Koke-wah walked directly behind Cailin on the day’s march, and once, when she’d nearly tripped, he’d caught her arm, smiled reassuringly, and steadied her balance. The sixth member of their guard was a Delaware brave named Lachpi. He had never said anything to Cailin, but he laughed so easily that he reminded her of her cousin Alasdair, and she couldn’t help but be drawn to him. Lachpi was the other man standing guard duty with Kitate.
They’d not built a fire. Moonfeather had explained that they would rest for a few hours and then travel on through the early morning before dawn. Supper had been water from a fast-running stream and a mixture of dried meat and berries that had a strange consistency that Cailin found surprisingly filling.
No one had undressed. They had simply spread blankets on the ground and gone to sleep. Cailin had wanted to remove her high-laced moccasins, but she was afraid that if she did, she’d be unable to get them back on her swollen feet. She was the only one garbed in European clothing, a plain wool skirt and a bodice of Lincoln green that Moonfeather had given her.
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.
“Cailin! Cailin, here’s some.”
Sterling’s voice ... echoing across time.
She extended her hand, and his strong fingers closed around hers ... real and alive.
“Are you blind, woman, that you can’t see those ripe ones there?”
She stared into his face. “Sterling?”
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 ...
Chapter 20
“Sterling,” she protested between giggles. “How can I pick strawberries with you lying on top of me?”
“Excuses, excuses,” he teased, straddling her and leaning his weight on his elbows so that his face was inches from hers ... so close that she could read the flickering light of desire in his eyes.
He smiled, a lazy, heart-catching smile that made bird wings flutter in the pit of her belly. She tried to wiggle out from under him, but all she succeeded in doing was crushing the grass beneath her, filling her head with the sweet, familiar scent of new-cut hay.
“Scoundrel,” she accused. “You promised to help me fill my basket, and you’ve done nothing but eat the ones I pick.” Her skirts were flung indecently up around her knees, and she could feel the hard length of him pressed against her. “Ye set a poor example for the help, dashing about half dressed.” He wore only boots and breeches; his shirt and waistcoat had been discarded somewhere in the meadow. “My kitchen maids spend half their time trying to catch sight of you stripped to the waist, all brawny and full of ginger.”
He laughed. “What maids? I hadn’t noticed that I’d provided you with any, wife.”
“Well, they would do nothing if I had them. A master is supposed to be old and wizened with legs like broomsticks and arms as stringy as old mutton.” She sighed, secretly admitting to herself that she was the one who watched him—couldn’t keep her eyes off him. Face it, she told herself, you’re smitten with your own husband.
He plucked a clover blossom and brushed it slowly across her lower lip. “I do have nice legs,” he agreed. “I believe I’ll order some clocked stockings to show them off to advantage next time we’re invited to the governor’s house. Maybe in a bright orange.”
She giggled, picturing him in orange stockings and dainty gentleman’s shoes instead of the military boots he favored. “Nay,” she said. “Your calves are attraction enough without decking them like a mating peacock.”
He concentrated on tickling her lip with the stalk of clover. “You have strong opinions for a wife,” he said.
She made one last futile attempt to squirm away, then surrendered and relaxed. “Bully,” she accused.
He didn’t take her seriously for a moment. “For once, I have you where I want you,” he gloated.
The warmth of the earth under her was comforting, and the bright sun on her face made her so happy inside that she felt like bursting into song or doing handstands in th
e wide expanse of golden buttercups. “Is the sky bigger here in Maryland?” she asked. “I canna remember ever seeing it so high or wide in the Highlands. Or so blue ...”
He traced her upper lip with the clover, and it trickled. She licked at her lip. “Stop that,” she told him.
He obediently removed the offending clover and replaced it with his lips, kissing her with so much fervor that she was certain the ground swayed and the carpet of wildflowers swirled around her, all pink and blue and purple.
“Mmm,” he murmured when he broke for breath. “You have a mouth made for kissing, Cailin MacGreggor Gray.”
She savored the taste of him, letting her eyes drift shut. He was, she decided, a very demanding lover. Not that she minded ... She found it exciting and wonderful that he wanted her so much. “Are all Shawnee men so ... so attentive to their wives?” she asked him as she rubbed his cheek with her open palm, marveling at the smooth texture of his weathered face.
He laughed. “I can’t tell you about all Shawnee men, but making a wife happy is considered vital in an honored warrior of my mother’s people.”
He was toying with the laces of her bodice, and his slow, deliberate touch sent shivers of anticipation rippling up and down her spine. “I think I like that custom,” she said softly.
“It’s you,” he answered. “I’ve never felt this way about another woman. You make me like this, Cailin.”
“It’s the same for me,” she confided. “You make me feel more alive than I’ve ever been.”
He leaned so close that the tips of their noses touched, and devilment twinkled in his eyes. “Shawnee men cherish their wives,” he pronounced solemnly. “And this is one of their secret love practices that drive women mad.” He rubbed her nose with his, and she giggled like a twelve-year-old.
“But we came to pick strawberries,” she reminded him. She had picked some, along with violets, shooting stars, and wild sweet William. Her basket had overflowed with flowers, even before she’d dropped it.
“So we did, woman.” He reached over and dug a plump crimson strawberry from the pile strewn in the clover beside her overturned basket. “As red as your lips,” he mused, then used the berry to follow the natural curves of her mouth. “I fear I’ve made a stain,” he said, then touched her lower lip with his tongue. “I’ll fix it.”
His seeking fingers found the swell of her breast as he licked away the traces of berry juice from her lips. “Ummm, nice,” he whispered, reaching for another strawberry.
Her hands would not be still. She tried not to run her fingers through his hair ... fought and lost the struggle to keep from twining her fingers through his thick dark locks and pulling him closer as his mouth found her nipple and teased her willing flesh until she moaned with passion.
She strained against him, shamelessly arching her back to mold her hips and thighs to his ... helping him raise her skirts still higher. His heavy breathing stirred the wanton in her, and she met his probing kisses with open mouth, sucking at his hard tongue and digging her nails over the surface of his nipples until they were as love-swollen as her own.
He took another berry and dripped the juice in the hollow of her throat, then licked away each drop. She gasped. And when he put his mouth to her other breast and began to suckle harder, she writhed wildly, nipping his neck and chest with her teeth, feeling for his throbbing member and freeing it from the confines of his breeches.
He moaned, and a flush of heat washed over her. His hands were doing wonderful things ... His mouth ... his mouth ...
“Don’t stop,” she whispered hoarsely.
He laughed and crouched lower. “Lie still, woman,” he ordered. “There is more berry juice that must be washed from your body.”
She wanted to spread her legs to welcome his hard thrusts, but daring tempted her, and she lay back among the wild violets and stared at the clouds overhead. His lips brushed her belly, and she shuddered with longing.
“You have been very naughty,” he murmured. “It will take time to wash away—”
Her breathing was coming in broken gasps. Waves of rapture threatened to wash over her, but she held them back by watching a circling hawk climb higher and higher into the pristine blue sky. Her loins were aflame. She could feel the moistness pooling there. His warm, teasing tongue ... his hands ... were driving her mad.
“Please ...” she begged him.
“What is it? What do you want?”
“Ye know,” she moaned.
“Say it.”
She looked full into his proud face with his black devil eyes, his broad jutting nose, high chiseled cheekbones, and square chin, then lower, at his wide shoulders and sinewy chest, bronzed by the sun and sheened with a faint layer of perspiration. His scarred arms bulged with muscle; his hands were strong enough to wield a steel broadax for hours on end, yet gentle enough to make her body tremble with desire. He is a beautiful man, this husband of mine, she thought ... as beautiful as God’s first creation, Adam.
“Say it,” he commanded.
Shivers ran under her skin as she allowed her gaze to caress the hollow of his taut belly, the dark shadow of hair below his navel, and the glory of his erect male organ. “I want ye to love me,” she whispered.
She opened to receive him as naturally as the flowers around them opened their petals to the sun, taking him joyfully, sharing the beauty and passion of simple, wild lust. She clung to him, crying out with eager abandon and letting loose the primitive fierceness of her own searing passion.
Again and again, they came together, until rapture coursed through her veins in a flood tide of ecstasy. He slowed his thrusts until her intense pleasure became a warm contentment, then slowly stroked and teased her to the brink again. This time, when she let the pulsing storm spiral to culmination, he gave a shout of triumph and rode the wind with her, holding her safely against his heart until they found sweet, velvet serenity together.
Then, he lay back in the tall grass and pulled her down with him, and she listened to the lazy buzz of bees and the melody of birdsong. In the distance, Cailin could hear the sighing of the river and the rustle of leaves in the solitary oak tree that stood near the center of the meadow.
“Did I make you happy, Cailin?” he asked.
“Ye rolled on my berries and mashed them all,” she said.
“So I did.” A slow grin spread across his face. “And I suppose I have juice stains all over me.”
“Ye do.”
“There’s only one way to fix that,” he said. “And it’s up to my loving wife to—”
“You’re not suggesting that I—” she began.
“Ordering you.”
She laughed. “Give me a while to rest and then ... mayhap ...”
“I’ll take that as a solemn oath,” he said, placing her hand on the part of him that had only recently relaxed and was now taking on a new firmness.
“I love you,” she said.
He gave a mock growl and pretended to bite her neck. “You’re sweet enough to eat, woman.”
She put her hand on his chest and nestled close to him. “Hold me,” she begged him. “Hold me like this and never let me go.”
“Cailin, I—”
“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.