Later, guests said they'd seen him that night. One minute he was there, the next he was gone. Later the gossips would say it was her disposition that had scared him off. After all, why would a handsome, titled man like Geoffry want to marry a shrew?
He left his father a brief note saying he'd gone to the American Colonies and to please extend his apologies to his betrothed. No one heard from him again.
Alexandra's father had felt insulted, insisting he could find his daughter a more suitable match. Alexandra's pain and embarrassment had turned to fury. How dare Geoffry walk out on her like that!
After word got around that the viscount had run as far as the colonies to escape marriage to the Earl of Monthrop's daughter, the earl found that no one suitable seemed to be interested in his comely, but headstrong daughter. Because of the vicious talk, the only takers he could find were elderly, toothless gentlemen and obvious fortune-seekers. Rumors concerning the Lady Alexandra had spread like a fire on Cheapside. Some said that she had a mental disorder that caused her to rant and rave and drool at the mouth; others said she had an illegitimate child by a gamekeeper's son. No matter how hard the family tried to prove that there was nothing truly wrong with Alexandra other than willfulness, the earl could find no takers.
Then, finally, an old friend of Alexandra's father, the Earl of Grant had declared that his son was in need of a wife. This time Alexandra insisted upon meeting the gentleman in question. She smiled to herself at the faded memories. Roland had been delightful—her own age, intelligent and still possessing his own teeth. They had taken an immediate liking to each other and there had been a whirlwind courtship. Roland had not found her to be shrewish; he'd actually admired her outspokenness. At last, Alexandra thought she had found a husband and been able to escape the fate Geoffry Rordan had left her to.
Alexandra bit down on her lower lip. But then she discovered the truth about Roland and she had allowed him quietly to end the relationship. She opened her eyes to chase away the memories, the disappointment that still lay heavily in her chest. There was no use going over all this now, no use thinking about Geoffry or Roland.
For the next three years the Earl of Monthrop tried to find another husband for his daughter, but after two respectable men had found her unacceptable, others shied away. Every gentleman in London seemed to know something of Lady Alexandra's reputation. That was when Alexandra's father, in desperation, decided to send her to the American Colonies. Surely her reputation would not have reached the Maryland Colony! Two months after she arrived at her uncle's, near Annapolis, Two Crows kidnapped her.
Alexandra stared up into the treetops above. She groaned. Damn men! Damn them all! But especially damn Geoffry Rordan for having gotten her in this mess to begin with. If only he'd married her as he'd agreed. If only he'd not slunk away like a coward.
Alexandra glanced over at Hunter and Jon. Both rested with their eyes closed. She was tired too, but first she had to see to necessity. She got up and quietly slipped into the brush. Unafraid of the dark she walked deeper into the woods. An owl hooted somewhere overhead.
Where are you, Geoffry Rordan? she thought bitterly. Are you somewhere here in the Colonies still, married to a blond twit? Or did the Indians scalp you? I can only hope . . .
Just as Alexandra went to lift her skirts, she heard a twig snap. Before she could spin around, a filthy hand clamped down on her mouth. Two Crows! She knew it was him before she saw his face.
She tried to scream, but she couldn't. Instead she bit down hard on his hand. He grunted and let go. Alexandra bolted.
"Let her go!" a voice came out of the darkness. Hunter's voice . . .
Alexandra turned to see Two Crows by the light of the moon pull his knife from his belt.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Hunter warned in a frighteningly even voice.
Alexandra couldn't see Hunter, but she knew he could only be a few feet away.
Two Crows drew back the hand he held the knife in. Alexandra opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
Musket fire broke the silence of the forest. A streak of light leapt out of the darkness and the smoke of gunpowder filled the night air.
Two Crows screamed as the knife fell from his hand under the impact of the musket ball.
Alexandra grimaced in horror, but she didn't turn away. Two Crows went down on his knees clutching his hand as he moaned, rocking back and forth.
Hunter stepped out of the brush, the musket in his hand still smoking. "Are you all right?" he asked Alexandra.
She turned to him, dropping one hand to her hip. Her heart was beating so hard in her chest that it pounded in her ears, but she recovered quickly. "What the hell were you doing following me out here?" she demanded. "Are you some kind of deviant or something?"
Chapter Three
Hunter blinked in disbelief. "Madame?"
"Have you lost the ability to hear, to respond, or both?" She pointed her finger like a taskmaster. "I asked you why you followed me into the woods when you knew full well I'd come to tend to personal needs."
If the chit had not been so serious, Hunter would have laughed. "I damned well saved your life, you ungrateful jade, and you chastise me!"
"That doesn't answer my question."
She tapped her bare foot impatiently, painting a particularly odd picture against the moonlit sky. Here was a woman who came within an ambsace of death and she was concerned with propriety!
"I want to know why you followed me," Alexandra insisted.
Hunter's dark eyes narrowed. "I should think this conversation would be better left until later." He nodded in the direction of Two Crows. "Right now I'd best deal with the savage that nearly slit your gullet."
"You truly see yourself as some sort of knight in armor, don't you?" She took a step toward Hunter. "Well, let me assure you, sir, that I could have handled the situation myself."
"I'm curious." He raised a dark eyebrow. "Just how is it that you handle a knife in your stomach?"
"He'd not have hurt me. Not after he'd kept me alive all these weeks. He was just trying to take back what he still considers his, or at least this cap-i-tan's."
She had a point, but Hunter refused to give in. "Do you always prattle on like this?"
"Only when I'm right."
Hunter lifted his gaze heavenward in exasperation and turned his attention back to Two Crows.
The renegade half-breed was still on his knees, but now he was searching frantically for something in the dry leaves that covered the ground. "Osnosa! Osnosa!" he cried frantically.
"You should not have followed us, Two Crows," Hunter said gruffly. "Take yourself north, go to your people. You do not belong here among the Shawnee."
"Osnosa!" Two Crows wailed, lifting up his bloody, mangled hand for Hunter to see. The musket ball had sliced through his flesh, knocking the knife from his hand and taking two fingers above the first knuckle with it. "Osnosa!"
Hunter hesitated for a moment, then leaned his musket against a tree trunk and squatted in the leaves across from Two Crows. With his knife on his belt and the Indian in such a state, he figured he was relatively safe. "Here. Here's your finger." He offered the bloody appendage and reached into the leaves again. "And here's the other. Now go." He pointed northward. "And do not let our paths cross again, else I will kill you."
Two Crows rose, his fingers clutched in his good hand, the injured hand tucked under his armpit. "You have shamed this man." His voice was bitter, his words laced with pain.
"You shame yourself by not knowing your adversaries better. I paid you for the white woman and now she is mine. You cannot take her back."
"She was not mine to sell!" he protested. "I took whiskey for her. Muskets. The cap-i-tan will be very angry."
"Don't tell me this is the first time you have ever sold the same goods twice, else I would have to call you a liar. Now take yourself from here before I grow angry and take back your fingers to hang on my belt!"
Two Crows s
tumbled backward, clutching his fingers tightly. "I have warned you, Redbeard. The cap-i-tan, he will come for you."
"My name is Hunter, the Hunter of the Shawnee. Tell your cap-i-tan that, so that he may find me!" Hunter called as the half-breed backed off into the brush.
Hunter picked up his musket and waited for the sounds of the fleeing half-breed to diminish before he turned back to the woman. When his gaze met hers, he could see that she was trembling from head to foot.
"His fingers," she mumbled. "You blew off his fingers."
"Aye." Hunter glanced up into her dark eyes, amazed that she could change moods so quickly. A moment ago she had been belligerent and as cool as a rock jutting from a freshwater spring. Now she was just a frightened woman, an alluring woman. He took the awkward moment to reload his musket. The darkness mattered little. He loaded by feel, not by sight. "Aye, I did take off his fingers. I should have taken off his head, but I've always been too damned soft-hearted with the Indians. Jon's always telling me so."
"His . . . his fingers."
Hunter watched her lower lip tremble. Christ, what was it about this wench that made him want to sweep her into his arms and kiss the frown from her lips? What was it about her that made him forget his beloved wife . . . and his mission?
He was on the trail of Laughing Rain's killer. He was still in mourning. It was a dishonor to her memory to look at Alexandra the way he had just looked at her. He looked away.
"His fingers," she repeated in horror. "You gave him his fingers."
Hunter tamped down the musket ball with a firm hand. "The Indians have this thing about being buried with all their body parts. From what I can gather, when the time comes, if they don't have all their appendages, their souls can't get to heaven." He shrugged. "I guess it was foolish of me to bother to find 'em for him. The Shawnee say the Mohawks haven't got souls anyway."
Alexandra just stood there and stared at him in wide-eyed shock.
Without thinking, he reached out to brush a lock of hair from her cheek. "You could bathe if you want," he said softly. "Neither Jon nor I will do you any harm and Two Crows'll certainly not be back."
She pushed away his hand. "You're saying I'm dirty?"
"You are dirty. Not that I mean it's your fault. Renegades like Two Crows are not known for their hygiene. If a little grit beneath your nails is all you came out of this with, you're a damned lucky woman. Jon says you've been with Two Crows nigh on a month. You're fortunate to be alive, Alex."
"It's Alexandra. Only my friends call me Alex, and you sir, are not a friend." She dropped her hands to her hips. "And who, might I ask, are you, to be making commentaries on my appearance. At least I have an excuse. Look at you." She threw up her hand. "From your speech, you obviously weren't raised in a dairy. But look at yourself. You're a disgrace to your family, whoever they might be, with . . . with your tangled hair and nasty beard!"
Hunter watched her stomp past him in the direction of the camp. He lifted his hand to stroke his red beard. "I should have given you back to Two Crows when I had the chance," he muttered, falling in behind her.
"By the king's cod, what are you doing, Hunter?" Jon came down to the stream's edge and bent over to splash cold water on his morning face.
Hunter adjusted the tiny piece of mirror he'd propped on a tree stump. "Shaving my beard, what's it look like?" he answered gruffly.
"Phew!" Jon shook his head. "Shaving your beard and washing your hair all in the same year? The fever taken you?"
Hunter frowned and went on scraping the whiskers from his cheek. "Did you wake up the woman?"
"Her name is Alexandra. Fine piece of fluff, don't you think?"
Hunter looked up. "Fluff! I think not. Hell and fire is more like it." He shook his head and went back to shaving. "Way out of your league, friend. She's neither a slut nor some wealthy man's forgotten country wife."
"She said she was a serving girl in Annapolis."
Hunter gave a laugh. "And I'm the Queen of the May."
"No. I didn't believe her either. Speech is too good. Clothes too fine, or at least what was left of them." Jon smiled. "She did paint a pretty fetching picture though, didn't she, with all that long leg and just a touch of white ass showing?"
Hunter splashed his face with water, washing away the remaining soap suds and whiskers with it. "The woman's just escaped a pack of Iroquois and all you can think about is tumbling with her! For God's sake! You're a sick man, Jon."
"And what? You're totally immune to a comely face? A shapely thigh?" Jon's voice lowered an octave, softening. "Christ, Hunter. Laughing Rain's been dead more than a year: It's time you got on with your life."
"The Shawnee say it is bad medicine to speak the name of the dead," Hunter murmured.
Laughing Rain. God, he'd loved her. From the first day she'd rode into the Delaware camp of the turtle clan, Hunter had known he would marry her. She was a tall woman, for a Delaware, but still a mite of a thing in comparison to his own hulking stature. She'd had the blackest eyes, eyes a man could lose himself in. They were married only three months to the day from their first meeting. What plans they had had. A cabin. A trading post where they would deal fairly between the white and red men. Children . . .
But then she'd gone hunting for honey in a grove of trees beyond the camp. She'd asked Hunter to go, but he'd been busy repairing a friend's musket. He remembered how she had teased him that the honeymoon must be over when he was no longer inclined to follow her alone into the woods.
Hunter closed his eyes, still tasting her lips on his. Then she was gone. When she didn't return at dusk, he went out looking for her. He found her beneath a tree, honeycombs littering the ground. He winced at the thought of the sight of her violated body. God in heaven, what the beast had done to her. Tortured . . . raped . . . murdered.
To judge from the signs in the grass, she had fought bravely, even wounded her attacker with her knife, but in the end she had lost the battle and her life. The life of their child.
Hunter averted his gaze from the mirror, not wanting to see his own face, not wanting to see his own tears.
Laughing Rain. He'd loved her so much. He'd find her killer and see justice done—or die trying. That was what this journey was about. He and Jon were traveling west to seek information on the English soldier known as Blue-Green Eyes to the Shawnee and the Delaware. Word was that the man claimed to be in the trade of buying and selling women, both red and white. Word was, that he was Hunter's man.
"Here she comes," Jon said, breaking Hunter from his reverie.
"Who?"
Jon punched his friend in the arm. "Alexandra, of course. I'm telling you, she has her eye on you. Best apply your charms while she's still all thankful you rescued her from the savages. I'll be more than happy to step aside and let you have a go."
Hunter snorted. "I'm not the rutting boar you are, Jon. Not interested."
"Then she's mine?"
"I'll wager you put one hand on that lily flesh and she'll take it off."
Jon arched a sooty eyebrow. "Is that a challenge?"
"No, it's not. And mind you, if she injures you, I'll not tend to your wounds."
The two men looked up to see her come through the trees and approach them.
Alexandra was a tall woman with long dark wavy hair and an olive complexion darkened by the sun in her weeks of travel. Even with her haunting dark eyes and perfect cheekbones she'd not be considered handsome by the standards of London. But to Hunter, who had grown accustomed to dark skin and nut brown eyes, she was a striking beauty.
Irritated by his thoughts, Hunter stood and reached behind his head to tie back his hair with a leather thong. This morning, on impulse, he'd trimmed his hair, shortening it to shoulder length. When he saw Alexandra and realized he'd done it for her benefit, he felt foolish. He thought he'd left his vanity back in London. His hair had been something to hide behind; if only he could have it back. Now the birds would use the bright red locks left on the ground to l
ine their nests come spring.
"Good morning." Alexandra nodded in the men's direction, but didn't bother to look at them. Then she stopped short. "Heavens!" She broke into a smile. "What happened to you?" She dropped a graceful hand to her hip, addressing Hunter. "You don't look like the same man!"
Hunter grabbed his straight razor and the piece of mirror and stuffed them into the leather knapsack he carried his personal belongings in. "A man has a right to shave his face without becoming a spectacle, doesn't he?"
She shook her head, still staring at him. With his hair trimmed and pulled back she could see a copper earring in one lobe. "I can't believe it! Why you could get into the queen's drawing room with a face like that."
Hunter felt his cheeks begin to burn and then he became irritated at the thought that this chit could embarrass him like this in front of Jon. There'd be no living with the man now.
Jon cackled. "Fair, isn't he?" He took a step back, turning to stand beside Alexandra so that he, too, could study Hunter. "I vow he could catch himself a wealthy man's daughter with those features."
"That he could." Thinking of the man who had left her, Alexandra turned away suddenly. "If you gentlemen have completed your morning ablutions, I'd ask that you leave me to mine." She ran a hand through her dirty hair. "I thought I might bathe in the river, if there's time before we go."
Hunter picked up his knapsack and started toward the camp. "Take your time. There's plenty of daylight left to this day." He looked back over his shoulder. "Call if you're in need of something. I don't expect to see Two Crows again, but we'll not go far."
She opened her mouth as if to say something, and then closed it again.
Hunter waited until Jon passed him, not wanting to have to put up with any more of his friend's harassment than necessary. "What is it?" he asked Alexandra when Jon had disappeared through the trees.
Alexandra tugged at the remnants of her blue gown and shirt. "My clothes. I'm showing more than I'm covering. Do you . . . could you . . ." She lifted her gaze. "Have you anything suitable for traveling I could borrow?"
His Wild Heart Page 3