Moonlit Desire

by Carolann Camillo

  Chapter 17

  The sun had dipped farther toward the west when Rive and Catherine returned to the village.

  “Where have you detained my husband?” she asked.

  He pointed to a lodge where an Indian stood guard. Ignorant as to what had befallen Flint at the moment of his capture, she suspected he must now be incapacitated and no longer a threat to anyone. Yet he remained an even greater threat to her parents, for it was apparent Jeremy Flint would never leave here alive. It became imperative she speak with him. Perhaps, having been forced to face the horror of his past misdeeds, he might somehow find within himself a spark of humanity. Already the words she must say to him were forming in her mind.

  “I would like to see him.” She laid a hand lightly on Rive’s arm. She anticipated his objection. “Do not deny me this one request. It can do no harm. I must speak with him one last time.”

  Rive waited a moment. “It will bring him some measure of comfort.” He frowned and seemed on the verge of refusing.

  “Please. In this regard, I will ask nothing further of you.”

  He did not reply at once. “I suppose every man deserves some solace, no matter what his transgressions.”

  “I cannot offer him solace.”

  “Then why this request?”

  “It is a private matter between ... Mr. Flint and myself. Please.” She spoke quietly, but with urgency, nonetheless. “It will in no way change the circumstances in which he finds himself.”

  He appeared to weigh the merit of her plea. She searched his face and tried to read something in his expression. Finally he nodded and led her to a lodge. He spoke briefly to the Indian on guard.

  “I will not stay long.”

  “That would be wise.” He turned and strode away.

  Indeed she must keep the visit brief. Even then she realized the enormous challenge she faced in trying to conceal the utter disdain in which she held Flint. Condemning her father to a debtor’s prison, leaving her mother destitute, were acts every bit as unconscionable as murdering Rive’s father. She must know if Flint sent word to his London agent to cease payment to her family. Or had he, in his arrogance, assumed he would return home a victor? If the former, she must shortly confide in Rive and press upon him the immediacy of her returning to New York City and booking passage from there to England. His return to the war in Canada would have to wait.

  Then again, for the past few days, she had been thinking of the quill and small inkpot, along with the blank parchment sheet, she had discovered in Rive’s pouch. She had been curious as to what use he had put them, but not enough to provoke him with further questions. Now she sought an avenue by which they might be employed for her own purpose if she could convince her husband. Considering his plight, she did not expect to find him sympathetic. A refusal, however, would add little to her mounting anguish. She must make the attempt.

  She entered the lodge. Flint was seated on the dirt floor, his body slumped forward. He wore only dark breeches. As she drew closer, she saw his hands were bound and tethered to a tall stake driven into the ground behind him. His legs were stretched out in front, his feet secured in the same manner as his hands.

  At her approach, he straightened and looked up through eyes rimmed with dark circles. His face appeared thinner, making the cheekbones protrude with startling prominence. His mouth, a thin slash, turned into itself in a tight, twisted line. His teeth clenched. There, along his jaw line was the wound Rive had inflicted so many years ago. Until her abduction, she had never felt a moment’s curiosity about the scar, nor about Flint’s background. Had she thought on it, she could never have imagined what horrors he concealed.

  “Water.” His voice sounded ragged, barely above a croak. “Get ... water.” The order seemed to deplete what strength he still possessed, and he slumped forward again.

  She could find no pity in her heart. Yet she had not the will to inflict further cruelty by refusing his request.

  Nor must I anger him.

  “Hurry,” he begged.

  A cursory search turned up an empty pottery bowl. The lodge appeared stripped of anything that once might have made it habitable. Even the grass mats had been removed from the dirt floor.

  “I shall have to seek water elsewhere. Perhaps the Indian who guards the door will allow it, but I cannot be certain.”

  Flint’s lips moved again and she bent lower to hear.

  “No need ... a jug ... somewhere. Find it.” His head flicked toward the darkness beyond.

  She moved farther into the interior and found a gourd containing water. She poured a healthy draught into the bowl and brought it to him. As she held it to his lips, he fell upon it, sucking up the water in noisy gulps. No animal had ever approached a trough with greater need, nor had she ever imagined a man reduced to such a wretched state. Numbed by the day’s circumstances and revelations, however, she felt drained of all emotion.

  When he had drunk his fill, he turned away from the bowl. Looking up, his eyes bored into Catherine’s with a feverish light. “Good. You’re here. I counted on you finding a way.” Now his voice grew stronger, and, even though he was so miserably confined, he still managed to sound arrogant, as if he were in command.

  She replaced the bowl then stood quietly, searching for words that would neither offend nor give false hope. The implication behind his words was unclear. Had he referred to her presence or did he believe that somehow she might find a way to alter his fate? She had been honest with herself in that her visit had naught to do with his plight, but everything to do with hers.

  “You seem dour. Yet, as I watched you enter, I told myself that surely, by now, you had interceded with him and were bringing me good news.”

  “Good news?” She shook her head slowly. “You must disabuse yourself of such a notion. You will find no one here willing to take up your cause.”

  “You are wrong, wife. Shall I remind you that you enter into treacherous waters when you choose the wrong side against me?” His voice held the same malicious edge. Even on, perhaps, the last day of his life, he could not abandon it.

  Catherine fought to keep her composure. “I have said nothing to harm you further.”

  Flint fixed her with an accusatory stare. “Nor, apparently, have you felt any compulsion to argue on my behalf. So do not pretend this wifely visit has anything to do with duty or loyalty.”

  She would not lie. “I did my duty once, as you required it of me.”

  “Now you feel free of any obligation that binds you to me. How fortunate for you, Catherine. What will you do after I am dead? Live with him here?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Ah, innocence. It so becomes you, my dear. Once, I found it quite disarming. I think it has long since faded, along with your modesty. Yet neither seems to distress you.” His gaze settled momentarily on her bare legs before moving upward along her body. “Do you lie with him at night?”

  His words made her recoil. “Such an accusation is cruel and unjust. There is no truth in it. I was brought here through no misdeeds of my own, but solely through yours.” Although mindful that her mission was one of conciliation, she could not stand defenseless before him and allow him to impugn her character.

  “And that absolves you from remaining loyal to the oath you swore when you became my wife?”

  “Our marriage lacked a mutual devotion and came about for only one reason.” She spoke with a calm and even tone, fighting to suppress any hint of the biting recrimination she felt.

  “Yes. I should have guessed what brings you to me now.” His voice was sheathed in ice. “Obviously, it was not to ease my dilemma but to petition for an end to your family’s.”

  She looked directly into his eyes. “What satisfaction can you possibly derive from seeing my father spend his last years broken in health and spirit, or denying my mother refuge? They have caused you no harm. Indeed, they have been true and kind to all who have known them. Tell me. Have you sent word to London to cease p
ayment?”

  His eyes narrowed. When he spoke, he did not give the answer she sought. “Perhaps it is still possible for your parents to pass their final years in comfort. However, you must bring about such a resolution.”

  “If you are suggesting that somehow I might alleviate the seriousness of your situation or the peril in which you find yourself, you must take no heart.”

  Flint’s face creased into a web of fine lines, and his eyes gleamed with suspicion. “St. Clair has filled your ear with poison. He has turned you against me. Have you managed to bewitch him as well?”

  Catherine allowed a moment to pass before she trusted herself to speak. “You have accused me of wrongdoing and I have refuted it. So, if you persist, then you must believe whatever you wish. It is of no consequence now. You and I both know what brought about this turn of events.”

  He eyed her closely. “What has he told you?”

  “He has spoken what I believe is the truth.”

  Flint gave a thin, reedy laugh. “Your belief in the truth is misplaced. You would do better to accept it from your husband and not a cutthroat who is no better than the savages he surrounds himself with.”

  As Catherine’s eyes sought Flint’s scar, she thought of Rive and what he had witnessed as a boy before making his wild plunge at his father’s murderer. She could neither condone nor excuse her abduction, but neither could she condemn Rive for seeking retribution.

  “Well? What will it be?” His voice, raised in anger, brought the Indian guard into the lodge. At his sudden appearance, Catherine’s heart leapt in her chest.

  Several moments passed in which the Indian shifted his gaze away from her and to Flint. Then, perhaps satisfied that whatever had alerted him posed no danger, he grunted and returned to his post.

  Catherine released the breath she had been holding. “I have no wish to argue with you. Nor is it my place to sit in judgment.”

  “How solicitous.” Flint’s tone was ripe with sarcasm. “Before blame is laid and judgment passed, let me tell you what St. Clair has, no doubt, failed to disclose.”

  To Catherine, it seemed natural for Flint to wish to soothe his conscience. Perhaps, in unburdening himself, he might come to perceive the events of which Rive spoke, and the central part he played in them, as they really happened. Perhaps he might even feel some remorse.

  “I will listen to you, but I can offer nothing more.”

  His head snapped down toward his chest, then up to meet her gaze. A pleased expression flitted across his face, as if satisfied to have her once again capitulate to his wishes.

  “Sit by me.” His voice sounded as dry as dust.

  Catherine sank onto her knees then settled back, keeping space between them. To sit close to him repulsed her.

  “This happened years ago, too many now for me to remember. I was an army scout, a good enough occupation, I suppose. Back then, I had few opportunities, and I learned to live by my wits. That’s something you’d never understand, having spent your childhood spoiled and coddled. Sometimes it required a man to be harsh, even cruel. You either learn how to survive or your scalp could wind up dangling from some savage’s belt. They’re heathens.” His tone was heavy with derision. “In spite of the priests who bring them the Word of God.”

  Words that have apparently escaped the attention of Jeremy Flint. Her face remained expressionless; she felt no sympathy.

  “That is why they’ll attack a settlement with no regard for human life. Ask a woman whose husband was murdered or children were snatched up before her eyes. That was the kind of threat we had to stop.”

  He gave a vicious yank to the cords binding his wrists. Whether through hatred for the natives or from the frustration of being so incapacitated, she could not decide.

  “The settlement was two days’ ride east of here. Small, maybe twenty, thirty families. Indians came down on them so fast the men barely got off a shot. They killed all but one man, the one who lived to tell about it. Took the women and children who weren’t massacred.”

  She could see and hear the absence of feeling behind his words. It was merely a recitation; she suspected he had given it many times over the years.

  “We weren’t about to let that stand.” His voice, which had begun to rise on a wave of anger, was quickly brought under control. His gaze shifted to the doorway as if he expected the guard to reenter. “Took some time, but we found what we were looking for. At one of the villages, they hid the men. We found their women and children. Then ...” His lips parted in a pleased expression.

  “Wait. You said ‘one of the villages.’ Are you telling me you attacked more than one?”

  “Just what do you think they did, my dear, left their calling card on a silver tray? What did it matter? It had to be one of the tribes from around this valley.”

  Briefly, Catherine closed her eyes then opened them again to stare in horror.

  “One of them? Do you mean you were not certain who bore responsibility? You attacked a village, nay, more than one, where innocent people lived, without proof of their complicity? Do you even speak the truth of such a massacre?” His recitation sickened her.

  “Oh, I speak it.” His eyes stayed riveted on her face. Then he took a deep breath and leaned his head back against the pole to which he was bound. “Someone had to pay in blood. That’s how you teach people a lesson. For God’s sake, they’re filthy savages. There was the bounty. Do you know what a male scalp was worth?”

  A shudder passed through Catherine. Had she not already been seated, she feared she would have fallen.

  It was as if he had not spoken with such brutal disregard. “So now, wife, you must decide. Either you help me or stand warned of the consequences of a refusal. It will fall heavily upon you and yours.”

  Slowly, she shook her head. “There is nothing I can say to alter your fate.”

  “Oh, but you have led too sheltered a life.” His lips parted in a thin brittle smile.

  “I am glad of it, although it has no bearing here.”

  He inched closer to her, straining his bonds. “Perhaps St. Clair cannot be swayed with words. Neither could I were I in his place and he in mine. You say he has not bedded you. Don’t think for a moment he is satisfied. You can bargain with him. You can bargain with the one thing you possess that he, no doubt, most desires.”

  His words cut as sharply as if he had scored her flesh with a knife. For a moment she could find no words with which to answer him. “I know little of Rive St. Clair, the man of whom you speak. Yet, I can tell you without hesitation that neither the temptations of the flesh nor all the riches of this earth will sway him from the course he has set. As for myself, I shall not bargain with my own body. Henceforth, I shall share no man’s bed in the absence of mutual love and respect.”

  “You are very high-minded, wife. Perhaps you have forgotten one of the conditions set when we married: Should I predecease your father, all payment will cease. He will end his days in Newgate Prison. I hear it is exceedingly damp and cold within its stone walls. The meager bread ration is stale and the drinking water foul. The place is infested with rats.”

  “You can prevent it.” She begged him to allow her to write instructions she might deliver to his agent in London to continue the deposits to her father’s account. Flint had yanked enough at the leather thong that bound him to allow for enough play to affix his signature. “Can you not find it in your heart to show mercy?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Go to St. Clair. Make one final bargain to spare my life. Otherwise, bear the consequences.”

  “Even if I were so inclined, he will never veer from his course.”

  “Oh, but you sell yourself short, my dear. He will bed you. You might even enjoy a tumble with him. Go to him.”

  She wondered if he had gone mad. She could say nothing further. She rose to her feet.

  “I must be guided by my conscience.” Her hands trembled, but she managed to slip off the gold wedding band he had placed on her finger a mere two
weeks earlier. She dropped it near his feet.

  “Goodbye.” She walked to the doorway.

  “Catherine, wait, please.”

  She turned back toward him.

  “Will you perform a small act of charity?” Arrogance no longer commanded his voice, but a wheedling, uncharacteristic tone. “It will make no demands upon your principles. I ask only for a few sips of water.”

  She turned toward him, then walked back, refilled the bowl and held it to his lips.

  When he had drunk his fill, he said, “Will you leave it here, close to me, so I might lean over and drink again? They will hold a council to decide my fate. It could be days.”

  He spoke quietly with what seemed like resignation. This time she felt the tiniest stirrings of pity and placed the bowl beside him. Then she went to the doorway and, without a backward glance, exited the lodge.

  Chapter 18

  After Catherine left, Flint waited and silently willed the guard not to check on him again. Although anxious to set into motion the plan he’d devised only seconds before, he allowed several moments to pass before moving. Then, recognizing the danger of pausing too long, he leaned toward the water bowl. Using his elbow, he moved it closer. When able to grasp the rim with his fingers, he tipped and emptied it, then drew it next to his body.

  Earlier, he had tested the stake, the narrow trunk of a sapling shorn of its bark. It had been driven too deeply into the ground to uproot. However, that also meant he had something sturdy against which he might crack the bowl. Too hard a blow and the sound might alert the guard. The next few minutes called for the utmost caution.

  He grasped the bowl and lightly tapped the rim, its weakest part, against the stake. Then he paused and listened for noises from outside. Satisfied he went unheard, he tapped again and continued until a section of the bowl gave way and produced a shard of clay. Several minutes later, he had another, larger piece. Now, using his hands, he broke apart the remainder. He took the largest shard and ran his finger along the jagged edge. Then he cut into the leather strips binding his wrists. The clay held together well, but when it finally disintegrated, he found another piece and continued cutting. When he had only two shards left, the leather thong gave way, freeing his hands. Quickly he went to work on the bonds that tied his feet.