“It’s over, then? Really over?” She tightened her arms around his neck. He swept her up in his arms, groaned loudly in jest, and carried her to their bed.
Their lips met again; this time a spark of desire flared between them and they clung to each other as though their lives depended on it.
“Over for me,” Garrett answered huskily. “I think it’s time I came home and gave our son a brother or sister for company.” The tip of his tongue brushed her lower lip, and Caroline shivered with anticipation.
“It’s been so long,” she said, pulling loose the ribbon that held his hair in a braided queue. “You’re in need of a bath, husband.”
“You don’t like sweaty men in your bed?” He dropped her onto the heaped feather ticks and knelt beside her, nuzzling her breasts.
“Are you mad to climb in my window?” she asked. “What if I’d taken you for a Tory scoundrel and shot you?”
“With what? You didn’t have a gun.” He proceeded to unlace the bodice of her gown with one hand, all the while running his other under her petticoats and up her thigh.
She giggled. “Well, if I’d had a gun, I could have shot you.”
He pulled the top of her gown off one shoulder and trailed kisses down her bare skin. “You smell like heaven,” he murmured.
“Why did you come in the window?” she insisted.
“If you must know . . .” He raised his head and winked at her. “I didn’t want to see anyone but you tonight. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I just wanted to tumble you.”
“Like any dairymaid?”
“Mmm.” He kissed her long and hard, and she tasted the sharp bite of rum on this tongue. “You talk too much, woman.”
She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of him. He was all tar and gunpowder, tobacco and spirits. “Are you here?” she asked him. “Really here, or have I dreamed it again?”
“I’m home, Caroline. Home to stay.”
“To be a farmer?” She gazed at his unshaved face and thought how lucky she was to have him. He tugged at his shirt and pulled it off over his head. Her heart rose in her throat as she saw the raw furrow of another fresh scar across his chest. I won’t ask him about that wound tonight, she thought . . . but she wanted to kiss it and take away the memory of the hurt.
“I’ve a mind to try growing tobacco,” he answered hoarsely. “And with Falconer’s help, I’d like to try to help make these Colonies into a whole. The war was only the start,” he said. “The real work of forging a country lies ahead.”
“Falconer?”
“I received a letter months ago, and I’ve just spoken with a barrister in Annapolis. Mistress Annemie is dead. She passed on last July.”
“And—?”
“And she left it all to me.”
“All of it? The Falconer empire?”
He grinned. “I don’t know whether to cheer or be sorry. It’s one hell of a responsibility.”
“And not all Falconer’s endeavors are honest ones.”
“Yes, I’ll have to straighten that out.”
“So you are Falconer now?”
“You could say that.”
“I think I prefer to keep you as Garrett Faulkner. But what will this inheritance mean to us? Can you stay here on the Chesapeake, or will you have to go to Jamaica?”
“I told you, darling, I’m home. I intend to stay right here with you and Peregrine. Those who want to do business with Falconer can come here.”
“Nothing would make me happier,” she murmured, unable to take her eyes off him. “Wait until you see that son of yours. He’s grown so—”
“Tomorrow,” Garrett replied, stripping out of his breeches.
She laughed. “Tomorrow.”
“What’s so funny about that?” He began to unlace her stays.
“Ask Peregrine,” she teased.
“What are you talking about? Ask Peregrine what?”
“You’ll see.”
He cupped her breast in his strong hand and leaned down to kiss it. She sighed with pleasure as sweet sensations raced through her blood and she reached to stroke his swollen manhood. “Have I ever told you that I love you?” he asked her.
“I think I remember you saying something like that,” she teased, “but I’d like to hear it again.”
“I love you.”
Then he pressed her back against the heaped pillows, and she forgot everything but the feel of the man in her arms, and the sweet, bold promise of what lay ahead.
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Judith E. French’s
SUNDANCER’S WOMAN
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Prologue
Albany, New York Colony
May 1755
It was the worst day of her entire life!
Elizabeth Anne Fleming, sister to the bridegroom and oldest daughter of Sir John Fleming of Charles Town, fled from the reception, her cheeks burning with shame. Hot tears stung her eyes and nearly blinded her as she dashed down the brick walk that led through the Van Meers’ formal gardens and into an orchard. A low-hanging branch caught her broad-brimmed, beribboned hat; she tore off the hat, flung it aside, and kept running.
Beyond the perfectly spaced rows of apple trees was a split-rail fence encircling a meadow. Elizabeth didn’t hesitate. Heedless of her azure silk gown and matching satin slippers, she girded up her petticoats and climbed the fence, then flung herself facedown in the fragrant clover and pounded the ground with clenched fists.
“It’s not fair!” Not only was she losing her favorite brother to Sophia Van Meer, a girl Elizabeth considered a featherbrained jade, but she herself had been made a laughingstock in front of the entire wedding reception. The cruel incident played over and over in her mind. Sophia and Pieter’s words were louder in her memory than the faint strains of fiddles coming from the manor house.
“Pieter, why don’t you ask little Elizabeth to dance?” Sophia had coyly asked her seventeen-year-old cousin, loud enough for Elizabeth and the entire bridal party to hear. “No one else has.”
Pieter’s scornful reply had pierced Elizabeth to the heart. “That carrot-top child? I’m hardly so desperate for a partner that I’d dance with a speckle-faced colt.”
Elizabeth ripped up a handful of fragrant clover and threw it. It was all so unfair. Fourteen was not a child. Some girls were wed at fourteen. Was it her fault if she was still as slender as a boy, or if she’d been born with hateful red hair and freckles? Could she be blamed if her breasts didn’t swell out of the neckline of her gown no matter how tightly her maid pulled the laces of her stays? Or that her teeth and eyes seemed too big for her face?
Pieter had been the only one of the Van Meers who’d been nice to her. He was so tall and handsome with his shoulder-length golden hair and Dutch-blue eyes. He’d seemed so sweet. How could he have publicly shamed her?
Elizabeth wiped at her tear-stained face. She’d never be able to face any of them again. Why hadn’t she had the good sense to remain in Charles Town with her father and younger sisters, instead of coming here to New York Colony with Mother to take part in Avery’s wedding?
She tried to regain her composure. Surely someone would be coming to find her. Her brother, maybe even Pieter, would apologize and beg her to come back to the festivities. “No, thank you,” she would intone with restrained dignity. “I have no wish to take part in affairs where a lady may be publicly insulted and—”
The yelp of a dog in pain sliced through her playacting. Always tenderhearted where animals were concerned, she forgot her own troubles and leaped to her feet. The sound had come from somewhere nearby; she was certain of it. Sophia’s little black terrier had run after her when she’d fled the wedding. She wondered if the small creature had been stung by a bee.
“Joop?” she called. “Joop? Where are you?” Spotting a small crumpled heap in the shade of an apple tree, Elizabeth scrambled awkwardly over the rails in her ruined gown and hurried to see what was amiss.
>
“Joop, you silly pup, what—” Elizabeth cried out and clapped her hand over her mouth. Sophia’s terrier lay sprawled on the moss, his eyes glazed and bulging, his lips drawn back over his teeth in a macabre grimace. A black-feathered arrow sprouted from the dog’s motionless body.
Joop was dead. She didn’t need to touch him to know it. She’d been the one to discover her beloved grandmother dead in her bed two Christmastides ago, and Grandmama’s eyes had been open and staring just like Joop’s. Elizabeth swallowed. Who could have done such a terrible thing to a helpless dog? “Oh, Joop,” she moaned. She reached out to touch a small, still paw, then drew back her hand.
Suddenly, the orchard that had seemed so bright became a haunt of shadows, and prickles of fear danced along her spine. “Mother,” she murmured. “Avery.” She’d taken the first running steps toward the swirling music of a country reel when a musket shot rang out.
She lifted her skirts and lengthened her strides, ducking apple branches as she ran. “Mother! Avery!”
Abruptly, the music dissolved into mingled shrieks and roaring flintlocks. Elizabeth stopped short as the bride’s father appeared at the edge of the formal garden.
“Mr. Van Meer,” she called. “What . . .”
Hendrick Van Meer staggered forward and fell, an ax protruding from his back.
“What’s happening?” Elizabeth whispered. Terror made her dizzy. Her tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth. “I don’t—”
A near-naked Indian darted around the boxwood hedge and put a foot on Sophia’s father’s shoulder. The Iroquois’ knife blade flashed in the sunlight, and Elizabeth moaned as the savage sliced down and ripped a bloody section of hair from Van Meer’s head.
It seemed to Elizabeth that the world had gone mad. The sweet-smelling orchard and gardens had turned to hell. Arrows flew through the air; women screamed as flintlocks boomed. There were Indians everywhere, chopping, shrieking, shooting. Wedding guests and servants ran in every direction; two Indians chased a Dutchman wearing a blood-soaked vest into the maze.
Elizabeth didn’t want to think about what would happen to him when they caught him. She didn’t want to hear his high-pitched squeal, but she couldn’t shut out the awful sights and sounds.
She knew she was a coward, standing frozen when she should be hunting for her mother, but her feet seemed rooted to the ground. Then a riderless horse galloped through the orchard, nearly crushing her under his hooves. At the last second, she leaped out of the way, lost her footing and fell to the ground. Facedown on the trampled grass, she inhaled the acrid scent of gunpowder and crushed green grass.
Bloodcurdling Indian war cries reverberated from the courtyard. Elizabeth closed her eyes, and covered her ears with her hands. This wasn’t real—it couldn’t be real. She must be having a nightmare.
Then a moccasined foot kicked hard against her hip.
Elizabeth whimpered as she stared up into the grotesque face of a Seneca warrior. Her cry of terror died in her throat as the brave’s war-painted features twisted into a snarl, and he lifted a steel tomahawk over her head. Then she saw only darkness.
Chapter 1
Charles Town, South Carolina
Summer 1764
“Nine years? You tell me you want me to fetch home a woman who’s been a prisoner of the Seneca for nine years?” Hunt Campbell rose to his feet and folded his muscular arms over his chest. “That’s a fool’s errand,” he said softly. “I’ve been called foolhardy by some, but never stupid. I’m not the man you want for this job.”
Sir John Fleming scowled at the tall woodsman dressed in buckskins and high fringed moccasins. “You’re hardly my idea of the right person—”
“He’s exactly the one,” interrupted Robert Bird, the third man in the room. “My employer assures me that Hunt is your only chance. You’ve already spent years and a small fortune trying to locate Elizabeth. Hunt’s more than a scout; he has a foot in both worlds, Indian and white. He has friends among the hostile tribes, and he speaks their languages. If any white man can go into Iroquois territory and retrieve your daughter, he can.”
Hunt frowned and glanced around the fancy parlor. Houses like this made him uncomfortable. He felt hemmed in by all the furniture, the ornate mirrors, and the silver tea service. It was a mistake to have come here, and one he wouldn’t have made if he hadn’t been desperate to earn the reward money Sir John was offering for the return of his daughter. White water and an overturned canoe had cost him every cent he’d earned in trading with the Indians the past two winters, and he was determined not to go hat in hand to his adopted father for help.
Hunt broke the strained silence that had fallen over the room. “I wouldn’t have wasted your time if Robert had told me that your Elizabeth was lost for nine years.”
Sir John’s mouth tightened into a thin line of displeasure. His plump, ruddy face paled to the hue of his powdered wig, and his starched lace stock cut into his thick neck until Hunt wondered how the man could draw enough wind to speak. It was plain Sir John wasn’t used to being refused by men he considered his inferiors. “What difference does time make?” he sputtered. “She’s alive. She was seen by a Catholic priest three months ago in a Seneca village south of Lake Ontario. For God’s sake, Campbell! You may have lived like an Indian, but you are white. How can you walk away from the chance to free Elizabeth? She’s hardly more than a child.”
Hunt reached for his long rifle, taking care not to mar the polished front of the Irish hunt table it stood against. He rested the stock on the red Turkey carpet between his feet, covered the muzzle with one sinewy hand, and leaned thoughtfully on the flintlock. Choosing the right words to tell the bare truth without hurting John Fleming any more than he’d already been hurt was harder than getting a bead on a charging Comanche horseman. He kept his voice low; these townmen might squawk as loud as blue jays, but he was used to Indian habits. “Your Elizabeth’s not a child anymore,” he said. “She’s a woman grown, with Indian thoughts and Indian ways. If your daughter’s alive, that means she’s made a life for herself. Best leave her to it.”
“Nonsense! What life could she have among savages?” Sir John demanded. “What could equal what I can offer her?” He waved his hand to indicate his grand possessions and by implication, the position he commanded in Charles Town and the colony. “Here, Elizabeth will have rank and privilege, her church, her family. What can she possibly have there?”
The answer might be obvious to Sir John, but Hunt Campbell knew it was likely to be far from obvious or simple, in truth. Suddenly he wanted very much to know what Elizabeth Fleming would choose.
Nearly a thousand miles to the north and west, Elizabeth Fleming settled her split-oak berry basket on the moss and lifted three-year-old Rachel over a fallen log.
“Are there bears here, Mama?” Rachel asked. “I don’t like bears.”
“I hope there are,” Jamie said. “If I see a bear, I’ll shoot it with my arrow. I’ll kill it and take the skin—”
Rachel giggled at her brother. “You’re on’y six.” She held up three fingers on one hand and five on the other. “If you see a bear, he’ll eat you in one bite.”
“He won’t! I’ll shoot him first.” Jamie mimicked drawing an imaginary arrow. “Father will give me an eagle feather for bravery.”
Rachel snatched a blueberry from Elizabeth’s basket and threw it at Jamie.
“Mama!” he protested.
“Enough, both of you,” Elizabeth chided softly. “It’s too pretty a day to argue. Look, there’s a bush no one’s picked yet. Look at the ripe berries.”
Rachel clapped her hands with excitement. “Fat ones! I’m going to eat them all.”
“You will not,” Elizabeth said. “You’ll help me pick.”
“Jamie pick too.” Black-eyed Rachel always had to have the last word. “Make him, Mama. Make him pick.”
“Boys don’t pick berries,” Jamie said. “Boys hunt. Father said so. Girls pick berries.”
>
His sister shook her head stubbornly. “No!”
“Shh,” Elizabeth said. “We’ll all pick.” She smiled patiently at Jamie’s growing pout. “None of that. We’ll all pick, and I’ll tell you a story about when I was a little girl, far away in Charles Town.”
“Tell about the pony, Mama,” Jamie urged. “Tell about the pony and I’ll help. But if I see a bear, I’m still going to kill it.”
“If we see a bear, you’ll do exactly what I tell you to,” she admonished gently. “Some day you will be a mighty hunter like your father, but your bow is too small to kill a bear yet. You’d only make him angry, and then where would we be?”
“I need a bigger bow,” Jamie agreed. “A giant bow.”
“Me too,” Rachel chimed in. “Me need a bow.”
“Girls don’t get bows,” he said.
“Do, too!” Rachel flung back.
“Enough of that,” Elizabeth warned. “I’ll tell about the pony, about all the ponies, and about our house and your white grandfather John, if you’ll both be very good.” She smiled at her sturdy little son. “You’re growing up so fast, Jamie. Soon you will be able to hunt with the men. I wish . . .” But she let the words die away. There was no sense in spoiling a wonderful day with her children by wishing for what could never be. Her life in the South Carolina colony was gone. Elizabeth Anne Fleming was as dead as if she’d never lived. And all the happiness she’d ever know was here with Rachel and Jamie in an alien world.
Elizabeth moved her basket to a spot beside the large blueberry bush and began to pick. As she gathered the luscious blue-black fruit, she told the children about the spacious house she’d grown up in, about the carriages and the ships that rode at anchor in Charles Town Harbor. She always spoke in English to them when they were alone, even though their father forbade it and her own command of the language was unsure after so many years. It was another small rebellion against Yellow Drum, one that she’d practiced secretly since Jamie was born.
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