She did neither. Burrowing deeper under the blanket, she lay awake for the better part of the night, wondering if her heart would stop its wild beating before it completely gave out.
Now, sitting astride the horse and rocking gently to its gait, she examined her fingers, stained purple from wild blueberries. They had picked them the previous day in order to supplement their diet of fish and small game. Would the stain, another visual reminder of her unkempt state, ever fade? Would she ever again sit down and eat a meal without using her fingers or perform her toilette in front of a mirror rather than behind a blanket or a bush? None of this seemed to bother Rive, and she no longer wasted her breath complaining.
More important topics occupied her mind, the most vital being their destination. She was as ignorant now as when they began their journey. So far her attempts to wring even the smallest scrap of information from him had gone unrewarded. Her repetitious questions irritated him, or so he claimed. His most effective strategy in silencing her was to place a finger against her lips. Too often, it strayed to the warm moist flesh within.
A wave of heat would build slowly inside her and her skin would prickle from her toes to her scalp. To her dismay, her nipples would peak, and the only way to stop this wanton reaction was to bat his hand away and excoriate him for being such a scoundrel.
She turned her face to the sun. It splashed through a break in the trees and onto the path they followed. Every part of her exposed flesh had turned a light brown. Was it just a few short days ago her skin had been as pale as milk? Surprisingly, her new sun-tinged hue did not discomfit her. The sight would have shocked her parents.
As her thoughts strayed to them, tears misted her eyes. How she longed to see them, to sit in their tiny drawing room and read aloud to her father or even perform some needed task to ease her mother’s day. From her mother, she had inherited the virtue of good common sense, which helped immeasurably as the family finances dwindled. Never profligate, she learned to become downright thrifty. Nothing went to waste. She found uses for every bit of fabric and devised ways to make even the meanest scrap of meat palatable. She had become expert at bargaining in shops.
From her father she had inherited her love of books and music. For her seventh birthday, he had bought her a pianoforte and engaged a teacher, who came to the house twice weekly. Her father loved to hear her play, and she had enjoyed giving little impromptu concerts.
Now, thinking of her parents and the danger her abduction had placed them in emboldened her to seek some nugget of information from Rive. She was dulled to consequences. “If you won’t give a reason for this unforgivable act, at least tell me where it will end. It costs you nothing.”
He continued expertly guiding the horse around thickets whose dense and thorny spikes reached out like talons to pluck at Catherine’s dress.
Her gaze settled on his broad back, slim hips and elegant swagger. Minutes elapsed and it became evident he wished to ignore her query.
“Why must you be so secretive?” His silence only made her press further. “Are you afraid you will prove yourself a worse villain?”
Finally he broke stride. When he turned to look up at her, the hard set of his jaw and the expression in his eyes bespoke his irritation. She blinked against the sun but otherwise kept her gaze steady. She wished he would put aside his annoyance and understand that she needed him to ease her fear and uncertainty. He muttered under his breath, a small exasperated sound. Then he climbed up into the saddle behind her.
“You seem anxious to complete our journey. Only, be warned that it might not end according to your liking, and that you will have just cause to regret the day you married Flint.”
They sat so close that her body seemed to melt into his, where it met the broad sweep of his chest and abdomen. His arm encircled her waist; his fingers rested on her hip.
She pounded his thigh with her fist. “I won’t put up with your insults.”
“You will put up with a lot more before I free you. In the meantime, exercise care lest your sharp tongue tempt a man to take you for something less than the genteel lady you claim to be.”
“I claim nothing except my right to freedom.”
The hand that had clasped her hip now found its way to the underside of her chin. He tipped her head back, and his lips brushed her ear.
“No.”
She bristled under his forceful tone and knew he wished to end the discussion.
“How can you be so unfeeling?” She turned her head and glanced up at him. “Do you respect no human life?”
“That is a question best put to your husband when next you see him.”
“Why won’t you answer a civil question?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps one, if it is asked with a civil tongue.”
She waited for her anger to subside. “Where are you taking me?” Although it rankled, in compliance with his terms, she injected her tone with what she considered deference. “It is a simple question and deserves an honest answer.”
Rive clasped her around the waist again and spurred his horse into a trot.
“We continue north to where I lived for two years as a boy.”
His vague reference left her as confused as ever. “Are you speaking of Canada?”
A quizzical expression crossed his face. “What makes you ask that?”
“You are French, or so you say. New France lies in the direction you stated.” Perhaps the war over Canada sat at the root of his hatred for Jeremy Flint. As a British subject, Flint might at one time have been pressed into service for the Crown. In years past, the two might have met at any number of battles. Yet she was reasonably certain their initial encounter harkened back to when Rive was a boy.
She was about to pose a question to that effect when the horse stopped. A moment later, Rive slipped to the ground. He cocked his head as if listening for some far-off sound.
Alert to the possibility of danger, Catherine listened as well. A reassuring stillness lay in the air, broken only by a soft, rhythmic trill not unlike some arrogant bird caught up in the ecstasy of a mating call. She searched the trees but could find no sign of one. Then Rive placed his hand beside his mouth and repeated an exact imitation of the sound.
Puzzled and amused, she grinned at his silly antics, which were so completely out of character. Indeed his call was so realistic she almost expected him to take flight. The image made her laugh. About to comment, she stopped when a man appeared in her line of vision.
Except for a square of animal hide that barely covered the area below his waist and a pair of moccasins, he was otherwise naked. A good deal of his scalp was totally devoid of hair. What did remain hung braided and adorned with a spray of feathers. Tall and muscular, his skin was even more deeply bronzed than Rive’s. At first sight of him, she felt herself blush. That soon gave way to fear as the Indian—she assumed that was his ancestry—approached. He carried a musket slung through the crook of his arm. After studying her for a moment, he addressed Rive.
They spoke neither French nor English, but in what had to be the savage’s tongue. Whatever they discussed, the bold way the Indian stared at her made her reasonably certain she was the main topic of their conversation.
Terror, more intense than anything she had experienced so far, sent blood pumping wildly into her head. She had read that the North American Indians sometimes made it a practice of selling captive women taken in raids on colonial settlements, or, even worse, keeping them. Unable to tear her eyes away from the two men, she was now convinced they were bartering for her. A chill swept through her body.
When the brief exchange ended, the Indian slipped away into the forest as suddenly as he had appeared. Although his leave-taking brought Catherine some relief, it did not totally calm her anxiety.
Rive gathered the reins, and they continued on in silence, dashing her hopes of an explanation. Although suspecting this was a chance encounter, she was almost certain Rive knew the Indian. Eventually, her curiosity replaced her fear
.
“What did he want?” she ventured.
Rive glanced up at her. “Nothing. Or did you think he wanted you?”
“It crossed my mind.”
“Well, he didn’t.”
His tone suggested he spoke the truth, but believing him was akin to trusting him. If she had learned one lesson, it was to guard against the danger trust might pose. She shook her head as if to chase away dark thoughts. “Since he wanted nothing, what did you say to him?”
He heaved a weary sigh. “I told him he could have you anyway, as you are a scold and a nuisance whose penchant for questions could turn a sober man to drink.”
“I hate you.”
He smiled. “I would never have guessed it. However, there will be time, in the long nights ahead, for you to change your mind.”
Chapter 6
They reached an Indian village just before sunset. The sky was streaked with orange and red, and the waning sun cast a fiery glow on the surface of a nearby river. Catherine’s first fleeting impression was of dome-roofed huts covered with tree bark and arranged haphazardly in a clearing. Canoes lined the riverbank, fish and spitted meats roasted over cooking fires, green melons grew in clusters among vines. Dogs ran loose. The natives themselves—expressions dour, eyes continually focused on her—were cause for some anxiety. Rive may have brought her here intentionally, but that did not mean these people welcomed her. Perhaps this was the tribe of the savage they had met along the trail. She hoped their stay would be brief.
There were perhaps sixty men, maybe half as many women and children, each one as brown as the Indian she had encountered in the forest. Some men wore odd-looking trousers made of animal hide, with a deerskin strip sewn front and back. Others sported only the scanty attire that had shocked her earlier. The smaller children, though completely naked, were utterly without shame. Upon studying the women, Catherine understood why.
Buckskin draped their hips, leaving their legs exposed to the knee. Some wore loose-fitting garments of the same hide above the waist, others homespun shirts. A few sported only strands of beads or feathered ornaments. These offered little in the way of concealment. Instinctively, Catherine’s hands flew to her bodice, as though to reassure herself that her own modesty was preserved.
As she and Rive progressed slowly into the heart of the village, the natives followed in a loosely knit half-circle. They spoke little and then only in hushed tones. Although their language was indecipherable, the looks directed at her confirmed Catherine’s suspicion: they spoke of her.
The procession halted before one of the huts. The deerskin flap that covered the doorway was thrown back, and a man emerged. He was well advanced in age, judging from the deep creases in his sun-scorched face. However, when he straightened, he stood as erect as the youngest man. He wore what seemed to be the traditional garb of buckskin trousers. Gray strands threaded his black hair, worn in two braids and adorned with a trio of black and white feathers. Necklaces of what looked like stone beads draped his bare chest. Like his arms, his chest bore many healed scars. A beaded strand, ending in a metal disk, hung suspended from each ear. Catherine stared at him, transfixed.
He extended an arm, which Rive stepped forward to clasp. The old man smiled, pleased at the sight of his visitor. Catherine could think of nothing to explain the relationship between the two. They began to speak in the same strange tongue she had heard earlier, unintelligible except for one word that raised goose bumps on the back of her neck: Flint.
The old man’s attention shifted to her. She could read nothing in his expression, neither welcome nor distaste. Then Rive lifted her down from the horse.
Questions rose to her lips, but she remained silent. Apparently, Rive was acquainted with these natives, and they knew about her husband. Perhaps, whatever once brought them together had happened right here. Something deadly and demanding restitution, judging from Rive’s hatred of Jeremy Flint. She could not deny Flint’s cruelty.
She remembered the night of her abduction. Rive had reminded Flint he would know where to find him. Had he referred to this village? If so, was this the end of their journey?
Finally, Rive turned to her. “Go with the women. They will take you to a lodge.”
Before she could ask the purpose, she was immediately surrounded. Ignorant of what lay ahead, she felt a wave of apprehension. She had no friends here. The one man who could have allayed her fears had turned his back and walked away.
Resigned, she followed the women. Several, tentatively at first then more boldly, reached out to touch her arms, gown and hair, chattering away in their own language. Whatever the gist, it inspired nods from the older women and fits of giggling from the younger ones.
At the entrance to the lodge, most of the women fell back. A half dozen of the elders remained in charge. Catherine stumbled through the low doorway, followed closely by her escort. Only a weak shaft of light spilled from a small opening in the roof, making it quite dim inside. Before she had an opportunity to study her surroundings, a gentle push urged her farther into the interior.
“Please.” She held up her hands, palms outward. “If I may just rest alone for a moment ...” She hoped, on the odd chance, one amongst them understood some English. “I’m really quite exhausted.”
Her protests were greeted by short bursts of laughter. Perhaps they found something amusing in the situation. She might take their good spirits as an encouraging sign if she wished to stretch her imagination. However, her distress made that impossible.
While three women held her firmly, two others began to remove her gown and shift. There seemed no point in resisting—her clothing had already suffered enough abuse—and she thought the wisest course was to ensure her garments survived in one piece. As she stood naked, she could read the looks of disapproval in the women’s eyes. Compared to their ripe figures, her slim frame must have appeared woefully undernourished.
Another woman entered with a deep clay bowl, its rim etched with simple animal designs. Catherine had no need for instruction. Cupping her hands, she splashed the cool water it contained over her body. Gradually the liquid sluiced down her arms and torso, and some of her tiredness dissipated. While it was the most primitive bath she had ever experienced, it was also one of the most welcome. No further amenities followed; only the warm air to dry her.
During this bathing ritual, a short, thickset woman gathered her hair. Another produced a sharp instrument resembling a comb and pulled it through the knots. Each yank made Catherine’s eyes water and her scalp tingle from the unaccustomed harshness. Still, it was worth suffering their ministrations just to feel refreshed again.
As they worked, no one spoke. Then another woman entered the lodge. She carried a small bundle of clothing like that worn by the natives. She draped a garment of pale doeskin around Catherine’s hips. Three rows of red and black beads weighted the hem, but it left a vast expanse of leg exposed. Catherine’s cry of dismay was quickly silenced with an admonishing wag of a finger.
Resigned, she stood silently, while another garment, as soft and pale as the first, was slipped over her head. There were no sleeves, and the beaded hem stopped several inches above her waist. She felt a hot flush suffuse her face. Was she not to wear her own clothing? Surely, no one expected her to show herself before the others dressed in this fashion. She looked about for her gown, but it was nowhere in sight. It seemed hopeless trying to explain “modesty” to these women. Hopefully, while she remained in this village, she would be kept in this lodge and away from the inhabitants.
Finally three necklaces—each strung with smooth, highly-polished cream and black stones interspersed with downy white feathers—were draped about her neck. The women stepped back, nodding and whispering as they surveyed their work.
Catherine kept her arms pressed to her sides and endured their inspection. Their expressions were difficult to read. Their eyes offered none of the warmth of friendship, their lips a mere glimmer of satisfaction. She wondered why they cared at
all. Before long the answer presented itself. The deerskin flap covering the doorway was brushed aside, and Rive slipped silently into the lodge. He was greeted with squeals of delight.
A sudden thought made Catherine almost leap out of their circle. The ritual had brought them pleasure because they had not done it for her, but to please him.
With a few whispered words, he shooed the women from the lodge, then slowly approached, a shadow vision, nearly naked except for the abbreviated strip of deerskin that covered his loins.
Catherine swallowed against the hard knot in her throat. An amber flame swayed in the clay bowl he held, sending shadows leaping across the walls and down the hard, muscular expanse of his bare chest. His eyes, vivid green shafts of color, impaled her, lingering on the soft, rounded curves barely concealed by her scanty garments.
She could not tear her eyes away. For days she had ridden with him, their bodies pressed so close she thought she knew every angle of his. At night they had slept side by side. With their wrists tethered, the slightest movement often brought his hand brushing against hers. They had eaten together and shared embarrassingly intimate moments. Each line and plane of his devilishly handsome face was committed to memory, and yet, none of these now seemed familiar. New images were transposed over old ones, redefining and reshaping what she had only thought she knew. She waited for him to speak, to break the silence that filled the air.
For the moment he seemed content just to stare. The slight upward curve of his lips told her what he saw brought him pleasure. She pulled at the doeskin skirt in a vain effort to extend its length.
“Don’t cover yourself.” His words were as familiar as a lover’s. “You are even more beautiful dressed this way.”
Still, Catherine’s fingers clutched at the skirt. Managing to pull her gaze from Rive’s, she dropped her eyes to the flame that licked at the edges of the bowl. Then, finally, she found her voice. “You are a scoundrel and a knave.”
Moonlit Desire Page 4