Moonlit Desire

by Carolann Camillo

  “Stay put,” he ordered.

  He anchored her hips with his legs and tossed the paddle aside. The river roiled about them, and she thought it nothing short of a miracle they did not capsize.

  “We are heading over the falls,” he shouted. “Quickly, place your legs under the seat and hold on to me. Do not let go.”

  For once, she did as he ordered. He gripped the sides of the canoe and held on tightly enough to make the veins in his hands bulge. Then the river dropped away and they were pitched into nothingness.

  Catherine closed her eyes and screamed. Her stomach seemed to no longer reside where nature had intended it, resettling in her throat. Spume slapped her face. The roar of the falls deafened her, and she expected to be hurled from the canoe at any moment and carried away on a great tide of water.

  They landed with a tremendous thud, upright and—mercifully—not completely swamped. After an initial rush, the tide slowed and the river, having expended so much power, once again turned calm.

  They drifted on the current for several minutes. Catherine’s head rested against Rive’s shoulder, and she kept a tight grip on his legs. His breath came in short bursts, and she could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against her back. Then he placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned his head against hers.

  “Oh, my foolish ... headstrong ... Catherine,” he rasped against her ear.

  She wanted to tell him she was not his, she would never be his, but she was too exhausted to do anything beyond lean against him and fight to catch her breath.

  He brushed the wet hair from her face and wrapped her in his arms. “Promise this is ... the last time ... you ever run away from me.”

  Fright and frustration brought her to tears.

  “Promise you will never ... do anything this dangerous again.”

  When they drifted close enough to shore, he stepped out of the canoe and beached it. Then he lifted her out and set her on her feet. Her clothing was soaked through, but her arms and legs had nearly dried. Still, her eyes continued to mist.

  “I don’t believe it. Are you crying?”

  She sniffled once, then again. “Yes.”

  Placing a finger beneath her chin, he tipped her head back. “Tears of gratitude, I trust.”

  She pushed his hand away. “Gratitude?” She gave another sniffle. “What are you talking about?”

  “I saved your life. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

  “You are presumptuous to take credit for my rescue, when what you deserve is blame.”

  Daylight had begun to fade, and the air had turned cooler. Catherine rubbed her arms briskly in an attempt to create a tiny spark of heat.

  Exasperated, he pointed to the canoe. “Did I place your body in that craft? Did I force you to go off on a misadventure which, in the end, would have gotten you killed?”

  She stamped her feet to coax a bit more warmth into her body. “No, but only in the physical sense. If you had not ...”

  “I get the point.” He cut her off adroitly. “You may argue it all you wish—and I am certain you will—but not now. Not unless you wish to catch a chill.”

  * * * *

  When the sun arced nearer the horizon, it lost most of its potency. Rive watched Catherine’s efforts to warm herself. His anger at her recklessness had subsided and, in its place, came a grudging recognition of her courage. Her wet shirt clung to her breasts, outlining nipples that had peaked stiffly from the cold. It took all his willpower to direct his gaze elsewhere, when he desired nothing more than to strip off her wet clothing and hold her close against his body to warm her. That thought no sooner took form when a familiar stirring in his loins reminded him that the impulse, if acted upon, would have nothing to do with gallantry.

  Then she sneezed, and his mind cleared of all thoughts except to return to the village and build her a crackling fire. He even thought he could manage a hot bath.

  He took her hand and guided her up the embankment and back to where he had left his horse. She was shivering now, and he made haste lest she take sick. If she did, at least part of the blame would be his.

  As if holding in his hand a rakish hat festooned with a fine plume, he made a sweeping bow. “My lady’s transport awaits, once again.” Then he cupped his hands, boosted her up onto the horse’s back and swung up behind her.

  The sun melted behind the trees, throwing them into deepening shadows. She continued to shiver, and he gathered her in his arms. As he held her close, an unfamiliar stirring took hold of him, a stirring that in no way resembled the one he had experienced moments before on the river bank. No, this time it did not center in that part of his anatomy—the one that grew hard every time he touched her. It took him totally by surprise and should, under other circumstances, have given him cause to rejoice. Not this time. This time she had stirred his heart.

  Chapter 14

  Knees tucked under her chin, Catherine sat in her lodge before the fire Rive had hurriedly built. Her shirt, still wet, covered almost every inch of flesh, right down to her ankles. It took little convincing from him for her to shuck the sopping doeskin skirt, and the moment she did, her shivering began to abate. Anyway, if he had it in mind to make love to her, no garment, whether constructed from animal hide or chain mail, would stay him.

  She had come to appreciate the freedom of her new garments in comparison to the restrictions of her normal attire. The fashion in Europe demanded that women be tightly laced under clouds of fabric. She doubted the women of this village who cultivated the corn, beans and squash would trade their clothing for even the costliest wares featured in London’s finest shops.

  She tipped her head toward the fire. Her hair always took far too long to dry. At home, in London, she would sit on a stool before the fireplace in her bedroom, impatiently holding the strands as close to the flames as she dared. Then, when her hair was dry, she would brush it until it shone and fell in waves down her back. She had used the silver comb and brush set—etched with her mother’s initials—sparingly, knowing that one day she would inherit it. A year ago she had sold them, along with most everything else of value they could do without. Months before she set sail for New York, she had found a buyer for her beloved pianoforte. Although the money earned was never enough to make a dent in her father’s indebtedness, it went toward the purchase of much needed necessities.

  “I have brought you something.”

  Rive had entered so quietly, she had no idea how long he had stood there. The night air was chilly, and he was dressed in buckskin trousers and a shirt. This time she hadn’t let the warmth emanating from the fire lull her into sleep. After the other night when she had awakened in his arms, she found it prudent to stay alert after sundown.

  He placed the bottom half of a stout wooden barrel near the fire. Then he left, only to return several minutes later with two buckets of steaming water. He repeated this two more times. When finally he had emptied all the water into the barrel, it was filled nearly to the brim.

  “My lady’s bath,” he announced. “Alas, there is nothing at hand with which to perfume it. Still, it should suffice.”

  Catherine gaped at him. Ever since he’d abducted her, she’d had nothing remotely resembling a hot bath. True, in this settlement water had been provided each morning, but it was never hot and never so abundant. Had he been in possession of this tub all along? Perhaps he had been luxuriating in hot baths, leaving her to make the best of her rudimentary implements.

  “Where did you find this barrel?” She fully expected him to confess he had been hoarding it for his own use.

  “That is one question you do not want answered. It’s clean now and seems watertight enough. At least I believe it is.”

  She stared at him with the expression of someone who had just bitten into a wormy peach.

  “If you don’t want it, I’ll not let it go to waste.” He dipped a finger into the water. “Just right.” He began to pull up his shirt.

  “Don’t you dare.” She waved him
away. “Get out and give me some privacy.”

  He dropped his shirt back in place, but to her consternation made no move toward the doorway. Instead, he leaned over and proceeded to gather up her hair. From somewhere on his person, he produced a leather thong that he used to bind the thick, unruly strands and affix them atop her head.

  He accomplished his task adroitly. Evidently he had had much practice assisting a lady at her bath. Too much, no doubt, for nothing about him suggested inexperience with women. At the mere pondering of it, she felt herself blush right up to the roots of her hair.

  He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. “If I may be of any further service—” he whispered against her ear.

  “You may not.” Naked beneath the shirt and wrapped almost as effectively as a mummy, she found her movement restricted to all but her arms and hands. She waved him away. “The water is getting cold.”

  A few moments passed before he straightened to a standing position. “So it is. I shall leave you to bathe.”

  He had approached the doorway when she remembered something she wished to ask. “How did you find me today?”

  “Leaping Stag saw you. He’s only four years old but understood the danger. He told his mother that the woman with sun in her hair was out on the river in a canoe. By the time word reached me, you were halfway to the rapids.”

  Given the golden hue of her hair, Catherine saw the aptness of the child’s description. She rather liked it. Her lips tipped upward in a smile.

  “Later, I told him that in the future he must think of you with a new name.”

  “It’s beautiful. Why would you tell him otherwise?”

  “Because ‘Woman Who Has Lost Her Senses’ suits you better.”

  Catherine shook her head with such force, her hair threatened to come unbound. “Is there no end to your torments? Get ... out!”

  He ducked through the doorway, his laughter ringing in the gathering dusk.

  * * * *

  Keeping his eyes to the ground, Jeremy Flint followed the trail of fresh footprints he had picked up only a few minutes earlier. Slowly, he raised his arm and reined in his mount, indicating to the men who rode behind him to do likewise. Then he slipped from his horse and dropped to one knee, sifting the dirt, dried leaves and pine needles between his fingers. His recollection of the exact location of the Indian village had dimmed with the years. Still, he remembered it was on the river somewhere northwest of here, perhaps a half day’s journey.

  He hunkered lower, squinted and debated the merits of following this particular trail. Perhaps it would lead him to the village, or perhaps, like so many others, it would end nowhere. Studying the soft impressions on the forest floor, he became convinced that they had been laid by an Indian. He allowed his confidence to rise.

  Chapter 15

  Catherine awoke from a dreamless sleep at the sound of her name. A hand gripped her shoulder and gave it a firm shake.

  “Get up. Now.” The voice was low and unmistakably urgent.

  Still half asleep, it took a moment before her head cleared. When she opened her eyes, she found Rive leaning over her.

  He thrust a bundle of clothing onto the bed. “Get dressed, quickly.”

  In the gray light seeping through the roof opening, she could barely make out his features. She guessed it was not yet dawn but close to it.

  “What is it? What has happened?”

  “There’s no time for explanations. Get dressed.” He pushed aside the fur pelt that covered her legs and pulled her upright. “Hurry.”

  His tone, harsh and demanding, frightened her. What could be serious enough to bring him to her lodge this early in the morning? Then the answer rushed at her in sudden comprehension, jolting her wide awake.

  “My husband is here.”

  “Not yet. But close. There are no less than thirty men with him. They’re rough types, probably recruited in the taverns near the New York waterfront or from the docks. We picked up their trail less than an hour ago.”

  Thoughts, most of them ominous, swirled through Catherine’s head.

  “You have ten seconds to get into these clothes or you will leave this lodge dressed as you are.” Grasping her arms, he set her on her feet.

  She craved further explanation but recognized none would be forthcoming. Her skirt and moccasins lay on the bed where he had dropped them. Obediently, she snatched them up and hastily donned them. A moment later, they were outside in the gloomy half light.

  Silver mist hung over the river. The coming dawn brought the barest illumination, just enough for her to notice the fires burning in open pits. At first, she thought the women were preparing the morning meal, but there was no evidence of cooking pots. Also, she saw no sign of the spitted meats whose tantalizing aromas never failed to whet her appetite. Only the dogs, who scavenged for morsels, engaged in their usual morning ritual.

  Smoke hung in the air. In the murky light, small knots of men congregated around the fires. Unaccountably, grass burned along with the wood, intensifying the smoke. In some instances, an Indian sat just outside his lodge. After the urgency with which Rive had roused her, it seemed odd that no one else shared his concern. Then, peering into the gloom, she saw a large group heading in quiet haste away from the village and toward the forest. Used to the shouts and squeals of children and the unintelligible conversations of their elders, she was unnerved by the silence. Neither the young ones being led by hand nor the babes in arms uttered a sound. Coldness crept up her spine.

  Cupping her elbow, Rive hurried her along. They approached the first figures hunkered down around a fire pit. Fully clothed in buckskin shirts and trousers against the morning chill, the men sat cross-legged. The same scene repeated itself a half dozen times throughout the village, giving the impression of people going about their normal routine. Yet, there was something amiss. Why had those men not joined all the others? Why had they abandoned the comfort of their lodges?

  She walked quickly beside Rive and toward another group. When they drew close to the men, she realized exactly what was amiss: they were not human. Bundles of slender twigs extended from tunic sleeves. In the dim, smoky light, long spears of grass gave the appearance of human hair. They hung from the backs of carved wooden masks, like the ones mounted to the wall in her lodge. The tableau appeared both imaginative and frightening.

  She knew better than to question Rive as to the purpose of this ruse. She hurried to keep pace with him, and they shortly joined the band of Indians on foot. Moments later they melted into the protection of the trees.

  “Stay with the women.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Certainly blood would be spilled if the deception—and what else could this be—failed. “Let me go to my husband. Surely your need for revenge cannot outweigh the value of human life.”

  “It is not my need alone. Had it been, I would have killed him when first I spotted him on the dock. Many here seek the same retribution. Flint will pay the penalty for his treachery.”

  Catherine clutched his arm. “You must tell me what he has done.”

  “You’ll learn everything in due course. I promise. Not now.”

  As the women guided their children beyond the periphery of the forest, she made no move to join them. “You know he is close. Why draw him here?”

  “To avoid bloodshed. We will avoid it once their gunpowder is spent. You will see what I mean. Trust me.”

  He brought Catherine to the cluster of women and children, but she edged forward the moment he joined the men, who formed a half ring within the trees’ perimeter. From her vantage point behind a stout tree, she could just peer around it enough to spot the chief—surely too old and frail to engage in battle—beside Gray Wolf. Then she saw Louis standing close to Rive. Only a few men possessed muskets; everyone else carried a knife. They waited in utter silence while tension rent the air.

  The invaders came with a rush of horses and a crack of musket fire. Impervious to the danger, Catherine continued to move
forward. With Rive and Indians crouched low to the ground, she had a clear view of the village. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. The reek of gunpowder sullied the air, and the thunderous noise from the many weapons being discharged almost deafened her. No doubt those men assumed what she had earlier—that the figures hunkered around the fires were human. As the attack continued, several figures toppled sideways and fell perilously close to the flames. Mounted men broke from the group and charged the lodges, their horses trampling those seated in front. They fired into the dim interiors. The air became thick with clouds of dust, which partially obscured the scene. The shouts of the invaders and the discharge of weapons echoed throughout the valley.

  As the commotion abated, Catherine wondered if the attackers expected no defense. Then one of the men finally suspected the truth and poked at one of the buckskin-clad figures with the barrel of his musket. It toppled forward into the flames. Moments later came a shouted warning that they had ridden into a trap.

  Catherine let out her breath in a rush of air. Jeremy Flint must be somewhere among those men. As she searched for him, Rive and the Indian men silently advanced and swarmed out of the forest.

  The rising sun spread a carpet of pale light. Catherine moved ever closer and continued to watch from behind another thick tree trunk. The element of surprise enabled Rive and the others to safely reach the attackers. Some hastened to reload, but too late. Pulled from their horses, they were thrown to the ground and kept immobile by a well-placed knee to chest or back. Indian knives flashed and fully loaded muskets took aim. Rive, in the thick of it, leveled his pistol at a man’s head. Hadn’t he spoken to her about avoiding bloodshed? From the scene unfolding before her eyes, she fully expected to witness carnage.