Moonlit Desire

by Carolann Camillo

  “Perhaps no more so than yourself.”

  “I believe my actions are open to argument.” The statement was no sooner made than he laid a finger lightly against her lips. “Don’t take that as an invitation.”

  She turned her head aside, away from his touch. “You seem so certain.”

  “He is possessive of you, as any sane man would be. In his arrogance, he must feel stripped of pride. He will come for you.”

  “What if he considers his life more precious than mine? Do you not understand? He might even have forgotten me by now.”

  * * * *

  Did she know so little of men? By Satan’s horns he had misjudged her innocence. Yet, how could he not when first he saw her with Flint? She had married him. Was it possible she had entered such a union out of love? The very idea seemed preposterous. Flint must be at least twice her age. An arranged marriage, perhaps? It happened frequently. Or maybe the marriage had come about through necessity.

  He thought back to the night he had waylaid their coach. Lashed to the top were her two small trunks. At the time he had given no attention to the paucity of her belongings. Now he realized they represented little in the way of earthly possessions. Yes, necessity seemed the most likely reason for her marriage. Given her education and beauty, she should have had her pick of men who possessed not just excellent character, but means. Unless, of course, the family had fallen upon hard times. Often that narrowed the field considerably. At some point in the future, the matter would bear investigating.

  Somehow, he would learn the truth of her unholy union with Flint. First he must survive the war. What were his chances now the British seemed to have taken the offensive? He shook his head as if the physical act could clear his mind of dark thoughts.

  “Come.” He stood and brought Catherine to her feet. “There is sport today. Perhaps you will cheer for me from the sidelines.” He pushed her gently to the doorway.

  Chapter 12

  “Sport you say?” Catherine glanced at the stick in his hand. It still resembled a weapon more than a sporting device.

  “You will find out in just a few minutes.”

  He led her outside and strode toward a grassy field where a dozen or more young men were running about. They were equipped with sticks identical to the one Rive carried and used them to scoop a ball into the latticed cup. Amid much jostling, a cracking sound echoed each time someone struck another’s stick.

  Rive slowed his pace, shaded his eyes with his hand and surveyed the spectators assembled on either side of the field.

  “There’s Louis.” He pointed. “Come, you will sit with him. He will instruct you in the game of lacrosse.”

  Catherine drew to a halt. She had matters far more important on her mind than games. “You have not answered my question. What do you intend to do if my husband has decided against my rescue?”

  He shook his head, and for a moment, his eyes looked weary. “You give me no peace, so let me answer your question and let that be the end of it. As you might wish for my demise, be assured I have no such desire for yours. You will never be harmed by me.” Then his eyes took on a sudden sparkle. “There are less troublesome methods of dealing with you.”

  “What are you up to? What “less troublesome” methods?”

  He searched the field then pointed. “I could give you to Gray Wolf. He has become quite smitten with you.”

  Catherine’s eyes followed the line of his hand. “You mean the boy who guards the lodge?” She watched the same young man, in near-naked splendor, scoop up the ball and race with it across the grass. “You cannot be serious.”

  “He is not a boy. In fact, he is quite sought after by the ladies. You could do worse.” His expression turned playful and slightly mocking.

  A brief glance warned of Louis’ imminent approach, and Catherine spoke quickly while they still had their privacy.

  “In that case, I would rather you end my life. Do not hesitate, though. For if you do, I swear I shall find a way to end yours first.”

  Rive threw back his head and laughed. “Be on your guard, Louis. This bloodthirsty wench has a heart colder than a witch’s kiss.” Then he loped off, looking every bit the primitive.

  Reluctantly, Catherine’s eyes followed him as he ran the length of the field. He was tall and lean, and the muscles that defined his angular body stood out in relief, unencumbered by the scanty attire that only accentuated the sensual movement of his hips. All but naked, his raven-dark hair swinging loose and untamed, he cut a truly magnificent figure.

  She tried to imagine him turned out in a satin coat, breeches and a ruffled shirt, his long legs encased in silk knee stockings, his feet cushioned in pumps sporting a silver buckle. The image made her smile, and she laughed inwardly at her musings. No, a gentleman’s attire was too incompatible with a man whose manner suggested surroundings far earthier than a grand palace or a well-appointed drawing room. Yet, for all his wild posturing, he was no primitive. He was too worldly, too self-assured, too well-spoken and informed—a leader, not a follower. According to Louis, he had been to court!

  A gentle tap on her shoulder made Catherine start.

  “If you follow me, I shall find a place where you will have a clear view of the playing area. Over there the grass is thick. You will be quite comfortable.”

  She followed him around the edge of the field. When they were settled, he began an explanation of the game in progress.

  “It is called lacrosse, from the French jeu de crosse, and has been a popular sport among Indian tribes for many years. The object is to net the ball and shoot it between the opposition’s stakes.”

  He indicated the two poles several feet apart and driven into the ground at each end of the field. “The man you see guarding the space between the stakes must try to keep the ball from passing through. If he does not succeed, the other side wins a point. A man may not touch the ball with his hands. However, it is perfectly permissible to knock it away from an opponent. But wait. You will see.”

  In the melee of flying sticks, it was difficult to follow the game’s progress. Then the ball sailed loose and several men scrambled to net it. One succeeded, but not for long. Rive, wielding his stick like a club, knocked the ball from the other’s possession. Securing it, he took off at a run.

  “It is a very rough game,” Louis continued, as if the idea had not already struck Catherine. “Always it ends with many bruises and sometimes, although not too often, a broken bone.”

  “It appears quite spirited.” She smiled in appreciation of the energy displayed.

  “It is, Madame.”

  She had come to know Louis better over the past several days when he invited her for brief walks by the river. Often they engaged in quiet conversation. He seemed disinclined to talk about himself but did divulge, for many years, that he lived in the wilderness, hunting and trapping. Men such as he were referred to as Coeurs de Bois.

  Sometimes, during an especially brutal winter, they would spend many weeks living among the Indians. He also enlightened her as to the purpose of the masks that hung from the wall of her lodge. Those who wore them believed they were potent enough to scare away evil spirits inhabiting the bodies of the sick. She never questioned him again about Rive, sensing he did not wish to discuss the subject. If he behaved as though there was nothing unusual in her being kept a prisoner by his friend, it was, she surmised, not through callousness, but from a genuine desire not to add to her distress. Again, she wondered if he thought she shared Rive’s bed. Unfortunately, there was still no delicate way to disabuse him of the notion.

  During those walks, Catherine often thought of escape. There were few means at her disposal. She would not venture far on foot, even if she did not get hopelessly lost in the forest. However, there were always canoes beached at the river. Most were of a size meant to accommodate a half dozen or so people. Others were more reasonably proportioned, including some only large enough for three or four. She was no sailor, but the canoes looked simple
in design, and from what she had observed, easy to maneuver. There were always paddles lying inside them. Even a woman with no skill might be able to make her way down the river in one. People lived along waterways, used them extensively for commerce and transportation. A settlement, maybe even a small town, might well lie around a bend.

  Dare she consider such a venture? The tiny taste of freedom she experienced during her walks only made her yearn for more. Each day, even as she hatched such a scheme, she had to confront the probability it would come to naught. She was constantly watched, if not by Louis or Gray Wolf, then by Rive.

  At first, she had been resigned to wait for Jeremy Flint to rescue her. The passage of time dimmed her hopes. She must rely on her own resources. Every hour seemed to increase her peril. Soon she would be beyond the reach of any man, save the one who kept her captive and whose life had become so intricately bound to hers. How long before the heated desire in his eyes overrode the gentleman’s code he adhered to with such obvious reluctance? Would he continue to deny himself? Then there was her own hypocrisy. She knew she did not despise him or his touch. Would her own body betray her one day?

  In spite of the fracas on the field, Catherine found it difficult to concentrate on the game. The morning’s developments had continued to alarm her, and she began to fidget. A few days, and then it would be too late.

  The game continued amid much shouting and clashing of sticks. All eyes were turned toward the playing field. Except for Louis, who would notice if she quietly slipped away? Louis remained seated almost at her elbow. Even if distracted, he would shortly become aware of her absence.

  The sun beat down, burning her skin and providing her with the perfect excuse. She began to fan her face with her hand. Then she slumped forward just enough to appear weary and discomfited.

  “Is something wrong?” Louis asked.

  She placed the back of her hand against her forehead. “I’m afraid the sun has made me ill. I would like to return to the lodge if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course.” He stood immediately and helped her to her feet. “I will walk with you.”

  She acquiesced, so as not to invite suspicion.

  When they reached their destination, he said, “Is there something I might bring you? Fresh water, perhaps?”

  “Nothing, thank you. I think I will just lie down for a while.”

  He pushed aside the deerskin flap and she entered into the dim coolness of the lodge. When the door covering fell in place once again, she stood perfectly still. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she feared losing her nerve. Mindful that the river posed many dangers and that she had no experience handling a canoe, she still was certain that now was the time to act. There would never be another. Whatever the risks, it was imperative she escape from this village—and Rive.

  She let a few moments pass before moving toward the doorway. Had Louis remained on the other side? He had never guarded her before. The raucous game was in full progress and he was ignorant of her plan, so hopefully he had returned to the playing field.

  She moved the deerskin aside the tiniest fraction, letting in a thin sliver of light. She peered through the small opening but saw no one about. Her mouth felt dry, and she held her breath as she inched the flap farther aside. No one guarded the lodge.

  She slipped outside and quickly navigated the embankment that led to the river. At any moment she expected discovery, expected Rive to come striding after her as he had the other day. She could still feel the touch of his strong hands as he held her and the hunger in his lips as they sought hers.

  Shouts emanated from the playing field, suggesting the game was still ongoing. Ignorant of its length, she hurried to where the canoes were beached and selected the smallest one. It contained two seats and, under each, a paddle. From watching the the Indians maneuver them, she felt confident she possessed enough skill to handle one, too.

  The canoe was surprisingly light, and she had less difficulty than expected launching it. She pushed it away from shore until the water rose above her knees, gripped one side and tried to figure out the best mode of entry. Too much pressure, she soon learned, brought it close to the surface and in peril of tipping over. She paused and considered the danger of that happening once the canoe was in motion but pushed aside the dark thought. She must risk it. Time passed quickly, and her only choice seemed to be to just throw herself in if that’s what it took to start moving.

  On the third attempt, immersed up to her hips, she managed to climb inside and settle onto the rear seat. When she reached for a paddle, the boat rocked dangerously, elevating her fear of capsizing. The air hung heavy with summer heat, and bugs flitted across the water’s surface. Behind her, she could hear the shouts of the men on the lacrosse field. Her heart pounded, and she paused only long enough to steady the canoe. Then, with steely determination, she paddled farther out into the river with no mishaps.

  Mimicking the Indians, she used her paddle to slice through the water. Remaining on an even keel required special care with every stroke. Out of sight of the Indian village and proceeding at a steady pace, she felt her confidence grow. She floated with the current and stayed close to shore. The nearby land provided a sense of security, although if the boat overturned she strongly suspected the worst. She would likely drown.

  The sun was setting, and birds were circling in a cloudless sky. She had no concept of time, but her clothes had begun to dry. She had probably been paddling in excess of an hour, which would account for the pain that shot through her shoulders and arms. Only exhaustion convinced her to slow her earlier pace. To her regret, she found no signs of human life. She spotted an occasional deer and once a fox drinking at the water’s edge. The silence—intense, eerie and broken only by the muffled splash of the paddle—unsettled her.

  One time, when coming around a bend, she almost collided with a pile of logs—what Rive had once identified as a beaver’s dam. Consequently, she became more observant and focused less on her physical discomfort.

  When large rocks or fallen trees blocked the way, she was forced to head farther out into the river. The boat cut through the surface with a certain rhythm, and she adapted her movements to it. It surprised her to realize she probably had an aptitude for handling small water craft. As twilight settled upon the land, the river flowed with a swifter current, and it took all of her newfound skill to manage it.

  Time passed, and with each stroke of the paddle, she felt more certain that freedom lay just around the next bend.

  Chapter 13

  “Catherine.”

  The sound of her name shouted on the brisk breeze was her first indication she had been discovered. There was no need to identify the caller. The voice had become as familiar as her own; it would ring true and clear in her mind for the remainder of her life. The voice of Rive St. Clair.

  From the moment she embarked on her escape, she had not allowed herself to think of him. Often, in days past, she had wondered if she would ever not feel his presence, if she would always carry some part of him in her memory: the lilt of his smile, his vexation when she challenged him, the way his green eyes changed color like a chameleon’s, his intractable will and mercurial moods.

  Now she rejoiced that, once her fear of the river had ebbed, she had stayed away from the shoreline. However, she must deal with the rushing tide constantly testing her. The ache in her arms had intensified. Pain stabbed between her shoulder blades. At least she was safely beyond his reach.

  “Turn in toward shore,” he yelled. “You do not know the river. There are rapids up ahead.”

  A furtive glance caught him sitting astride his horse, his long muscular legs bare, as was his chest. He wore only the breechcloth; the horse was unsaddled. In all probability, he had wasted not a moment once he discovered her absence. Riding along the river bank, he had no difficulty keeping pace with her.

  “Do as I say, Catherine. You will get killed out there.”

  “Go away.” She struggled with the paddle. The rive
r, once almost benign, had turned increasingly perilous. What had begun as harmless ripples swelled into frothy waves that compromised the canoe’s precarious equilibrium. Carried along on the swiftly moving tide, she expended ever more energy maneuvering through choppy swirls that threatened to spin her around. Still she was determined to continue.

  “You have headed into the rapids.” Rive’s voice now took on a distinct apprehension. “Beyond them are the falls.”

  Water splashed over the front of the canoe, settling in chilly pools around Catherine’s feet. Her breath wheezed with every stroke as she battled the churning river. When she could no longer steer a straight course, she conceded that she had lost control of the boat. Fear blossomed like a poisonous bud in the pit of her stomach.

  Glancing quickly toward shore, she watched Rive spur his horse on and ride some distance ahead. Then in one swift, fluid motion, he dismounted and dove into the water. With powerful strokes, he cut through the rapids. When the canoe reached the point where he could intercept it, he grasped hold along one side. The boat tipped to within inches of the surface. Catherine shrieked as she was thrown off balance. Then one of his long muscular legs gained purchase, and he seemed to roll up and out of the water. She dropped her paddle and grasped the sides of the rocking craft.

  “You are beyond stubborn,” he rasped from behind her, “as well as impossible and completely reckless.”

  She turned her head and saw him sitting with his back against the rear of the craft. He had managed to secure her paddle and was using it to steady the canoe. Up ahead, the river gave off a thunderous roar. The air was thick with mist, and a steady spray of water lashed out at her.

  “Get back here with me,” he shouted. “In less than a minute we are going over the falls.”

  She froze. Almost immediately, a powerful arm snaked around her waist, and she was abruptly yanked off the seat and pulled backward. She landed between Rive’s thighs, the little breath she had left knocked from her lungs.