"God's bowel, listen to you! You sound like a smitten husband." Jon jogged to catch up. "I still can't believe you married the chit. I understand you're a man with a conscience. I can accept that. I understand you felt bad for leaving her at your betrothal party like that," he grimaced, "but for God's sake, did you have to marry her? I mean, that's for life, until one of you dies." He shrugged. "That, or one of you kills the other."
Hunter cut his eyes in Jon's direction, failing to see the humor of his words. "If I recall correctly it was you no more than a month ago who told me I was in need of an English wife to take home to my father and the family estates."
"A wife, yes, but not Alexandra Lambert I Where is your head, man? A wife must be a woman who can be easily manipulated, easily handled. A wife is to be impregnated once a year and sent off into the country for her lying-in." Jon tugged at his black queue. "I doubt your Lady Alexandra will be easily manipulated. I think I had the right idea. She'd have made a far better man's whore than wife."
Hunter elbowed Jon hard in the side. "Shut your mouth. She's my wife now and you'll not speak that way, else I'll cut out your tongue."
Unintimidated, Jon went on. "What I want to know is when are you going to tell her who you are? Surely before we see the white cliffs of Dover."
Hunter scowled. "I said nothing of returning to England. Perhaps I intend to remain here and raise my sons as colonials."
"And the Lady Alexandra's going to wear buckskin and sleep in a wigwam, right?" Jon slapped his thigh with a guffaw.
Hunter couldn't resist a smile at the thought. It was rather ludicrous to expect Alexandra to live out the rest of her life here in the colonies. Of course the other night when he'd married her he'd given no thought to the future. It had never occurred to him that he would have to return to England. All that mattered that night was Alex—the thought of possessing her, possessing her totally as only a husband and lover could.
"I'm waiting," Jon prodded. "When are you going to tell her you're the bastard who left her at the altar?"
"You make it sound overly dramatic, Jon, as always." Hunter grabbed a stick off the ground threw it end over end into the brush. "I just have to find the right moment. When I explain to her the circumstances, she'll understand."
"And now I'm Queen of the May."
Hunter opened his mouth to make a retort, but a sound in the brush off the side of the path silenced him. Jon froze. He'd heard it too. For a moment both men held perfectly still, listening, waiting, their hands on their weapons.
There it was again, very distinct this time. A moan.
Jon pointed into the brush in the direction the sound had come from. Hunter slipped his knife from his belt and cautiously walked off the path.
Jon swung his musket off his shoulder, aiming it into the brush to back Hunter up.
Silently, Hunter crept off the path. With a sudden motion he parted a tangled web of dying greenbriers and nameless underbrush, his knife held high. Immediately his knife fell to his side. He swore softly.
Crouched on the ground was an old man, a Shawnee by the appearance of his torn clothing. A dying man.
He turned his head toward Hunter, bloody holes where his eyes had once been. "N-xilt-o-wahkun," he cried. "Kill me and be done."
"No, no, it's all right," Hunter soothed in the man's native tongue. He returned his knife to its place in his belt. "I am not your enemy, brave warrior."
The old man slumped to the ground, his energy exhausted. "Who is that? Who is that speaks to me?"
Hunter pushed his way through the thicket and knelt. "I am the Hunter of the Shawnee," he said, reaching out to take the old man's shaking hand.
"White man?"
"Only of the skin, not of my heart," Hunter answered honestly. "Tell me who has done this to you? Who?" he demanded furiously.
The brave shook his head. "I do not know. They shamelessly attacked from behind. My nephews, they were taking me to see their mother. We carried no war weapons. We were but travelers."
"Were these men red or white who did this to you?"
"I do not know for sure. It happened so quickly." The old man held tightly to Hunter's hand. "I know only that I heard the cry of the Mohawk."
"Jon! Help me!"
Jon pushed his way through the brush. "Ah, Christ," he moaned when he saw the old Indian.
The old man shrank back at the sound of Jon's voice, but Jon put up his hands. "It's all right," he murmured in his best Shawnee. "I'll not harm you." He reached to help Hunter lift the man.
The old man looked up with unseeing eyes. "You are one of us," he murmured excitedly. "Not a white man."
Jon looked to Hunter and then back at the Indian. "It's true. I am Jon of the wolf clan of the Shawnee." He stumbled to find the right words. "My mother . . . my mother she is She-Who-Whispers-To-The-Wind of the wolf clan."
Hunter looked up at Jon, showing the slightest smile. This was the first time Jon had acknowledged his mother. "Let's get him out in the open where we can get a look at his other wounds."
The old man looked bad. Besides the obvious loss of his sight he had multiple stab wounds. Part of his scalp had been lifted. His flesh was cold, his bones stiff. It was a miracle he was still alive.
"How long ago did this happen, brave warrior?" Hunter asked.
The old man hung his head. "I am not brave. I did not save my nephews. I do not deserve the honor of your words. I am called Joseph Three Blankets. My people—what is left of my people—live on the Misicack."
Hunter and Jon carried Joseph out into the game path and gently laid him in the leaves. "How long ago?" Jon urged.
"Two nights. I think." Joseph rolled his head in confusion. "This old man is not sure."
"You've lain here for two days?" Jon asked in disbelief. He took off his outer cloak to use as a pillow for Joseph's head. "You're certain?"
The old man nodded. "Twice the mother sun has come and twice it has fallen. I asked the great Manito to take my soul, but he would not." His voice broke. "He would not."
"Where are your nephews?" Hunter stood to gaze at their surroundings.
"I do not know," Joseph answered. "I crawled away. I meant to hide only until they were gone and then I would have gone back to help my sister's sons." Tears seeped from his eye sockets to roll down his bloody cheeks. "But this stupid old man lost his way."
Jon slung his pack off his back and began to dig through it. Pulling out a linen towel he tore off a strip and wrapped it around the old man's eyes and tied it behind his head to keep the insects out of the wounds. Already the eye sockets were festering. Jon took his water skin and offered it to Joseph's lips. The old man drank a sip and then laid back, his strength sapped from speaking.
Hunter stood with his hands resting on his hips. "Jon," he said quietly.
Jon tried to stand, but Joseph grasped his hand. "Don't leave me," he said, only half lucid now. "Don't leave this old man to die alone, Jon of the turtle clan, son of She-Who-Whispers-To-The-Wind."
"I won't leave you," Jon vowed, amazed at how easily the Shawnee words came to mind when he wanted them to. "I'll be right here. I just have to speak to my friend." He squeezed Joseph's hand and then released it. Rising, he went to stand next to Hunter, out of earshot of the old man.
"One of us will have to go for help. He must have come from what's left of that village on the north side of the Misicack."
"We can't carry him?"
Hunter looked at Joseph and back at Jon. "He won't make it. It'll be faster to run for help."
"He's not going to make it anyway."
"No," Hunter answered, touched by Jon's concern for the old man. "But at least he can die in the arms of someone he knows."
"I doubt he'll even make it till tonight, Hunter."
Hunter shrugged. "Then someone can come to retrieve the body. It's all we can do. It's what we have to do."
Jon studied Hunter carefully. "And what about Cain? You run for this man's family and your captain might we
ll escape again."
Hunter shrugged. "The bastard will have to wait, won't he?" He sighed. "You stay here with Joseph Three Blankets. It can't be more than half a day's run to his village. I can be there by nightfall. I'll find Joseph's relatives, then I'll take the river by dugout, hook up with the Noniack and go back to the fort to get Alexandra. Once you see to the old man you can meet me back at the fort."
Jon nodded. "I'll move him off the game path and into a clearing. I'll find the nephews' bodies and cover them with brush. They've got to be nearby. How far could he have crawled?"
"Good enough." Hunter's gaze met Jon's. "You surprise me friend, all this concern for a stranger."
Jon looked away, uncomfortably. "Yes, well, just don't go repeating the story, all right? My reputation will be ruined."
Hunter watched Jon walk back to Joseph and kneel at his side. He listened as Jon quietly explained that Hunter was going for help and confirmed which village the old man was from. Joseph seemed grateful to know that the men would find his family for him.
Hunter unloaded his pack. He would travel light and fast: With only his bow and quiver of feathers on his back, and a skin of water flung over one shoulder, he turned west and began to run. He knew he had to do this for this old man he didn't know; it was the right thing to do. But he wanted to get to the Indian village and then on to the Fort on the Noniack as quickly as possible. Suddenly he wasn't comfortable with the thought of Alexandra being there alone. He had to get back to her. And this time he'd not leave her behind again.
Chapter Seventeen
Alexandra walked down the long hallway, a lantern swinging in her hand. She massaged the back of her neck, exhausted, but filled with a sense of accomplishment.
Sara had finally delivered a baby girl at noon. Both the mother and babe were well and sleeping comfortably. Alexandra smiled to herself. This was not the first time she'd witnessed the birth of a child. Her older cousin Natalie had two, her sister Margaret, twins. But this was the first time the birth of a child had touched her heart like this. Seeing that little baby suckling at her mother's breast had brought tears to Alexandra's eyes.
Secretly she wanted a baby of her own. Hunter's.
She pushed through the door to her room and closed it behind her. Sliding the bolt to lock it, she set down the lantern and went to the tiny fireplace to warm her hands.
She thought about Hunter and all the reasons why their marriage was doomed. For heaven's sake! She still didn't know his real name. For all she knew he could be a pauper, a runaway bondservant, a murderer!
And then there was the matter of the two of them being so different. He was so unconventional, she so conventional. She chuckled to herself as she looked down at the Shawnee doeskin tunic and leggings she wore. Perhaps she wasn't quite as conventional as she'd once been.
Then lastly, and probably most importantly, was the subject of the future. Hunter had married her without saying where they would live or how. Surely he knew that eventually she would be pregnant. Where did he intend to raise his children? Obviously he didn't expect her to spend the rest of her life moving from fort to Indian village to fort to Indian village as he'd apparently done since Laughing Rain's death. Or did he?
She picked up a plate of stew left on the mantel for her by She-Who-Stands-Strongly. She took a bite and then another, not really hungry, but knowing she should eat.
Her life at this moment seemed as uncertain as it had the day Two Crows had kidnapped her, but for some reason she wasn't afraid. She had had the will to survive. Hunter had rescued her. He'd protected her. He'd made her his wife. And though she had protested at the time, knowing it wasn't sensible, a part of her had been thrilled at the thought of marriage to a man like Hunter. And now with him gone, with him somewhere in the wilderness of the forest stalking a killer, she was glad he was her husband. Somehow they would find their way—together.
Finishing her stew, Alexandra slipped off her tunic and leggings and got into bed in the manner of the native American she was very quickly coming to respect a great deal—naked. Pulling the muslin sheet and pile of soft fur blankets up to her nose she rolled onto her side and blew out the oil lantern. She murmured a prayer asking God to protect Hunter and bring him home safely to her and then she fell into a deep sleep.
Sometime in the middle of the night something woke Alexandra. Her eyes flew open. Though she saw nothing in the darkness, she could feel her heart pounding in her chest. Embers in the hearth glowed, casting an eerie light against the log and chink walls of the tiny room.
"S . . . someone there?" she called.
She looked at the door. She could see that the bolt was still as she had left it when she climbed into bed. No one could possibly have gotten in, no one human . . .
Ghosts? Was she losing her mind? Or was it just the exhaustion and her fear for Hunter's safety?
She shivered violently. She was freezing cold, despite the furs she nestled under. Her nerve endings were raw with primal fear. But why? A nightmare she couldn't remember? A childish fear of the dark?
No. There was something in the room—someone. Instinctively she knew.
She lay perfectly still for a minute, listening. There was an icy breeze coming from somewhere . . .
Then she smelled it—the dank stench of uncured animal hide, the scent of an unwashed body and sour whiskey breath.
A man.
Alexandra was frozen in terror. How had he gotten in?
The window? But how could he possibly have gotten through such a tiny space, cut that size just to prevent intruders?
The important thing was, where was he?
Alexandra had to muster every ounce of strength she possessed to keep from leaping out of bed and running for the door.
She forced herself to breathe evenly.
Where was he and what did he want?
The musket Hunter had left her rested beside the fireplace out of arm's reach. The only other possible weapon she possessed was the dinner knife left on the mantel with her empty plate and that also was too far away to be of any comfort.
Suddenly Alexandra realized there was something familiar about the odor she smelled. Something about the intruder that was familiar.
Two Crows!
She bolted upright just as he wrapped his filthy hand around her mouth.
"Silence!" he hissed.
She struggled, clawing at his hand, trying desperately to call out to someone, to anyone.
"Silence, I said! I will not harm you!"
When she didn't cease her struggling, he shook her so hard that her teeth rattled.
"I said I would not harm you," he whispered harshly in her ear. "I come to warn you, but you call the soldiers or your man and you will not hear my words! I'll be gone before they make it to your door."
Alexandra's first instinct was to continue to fight, but to what end? she realized. She was alone with her enemy, Two Crows. She had no weapon. If he wanted to, he could slit her throat before she ever managed a word. She ceased her struggling.
"You will not scream?" he asked.
She shook her head no.
Slowly he lifted his hand from her mouth.
Despite her vow, it was all she could do to keep from screaming out. Hunter had said Two Crows was gone! He'd said he was tar from here by now. He'd said he'd gone home to his people.
"What do you want?" Alexandra demanded, rising up on her knees and dragging the furs with her to cover herself. Even in the darkness she could see the outline of his face. She could make out his bandaged hand.
"I told you I come to warn you."
"Warn me of what now? You already warned us."
"He came south for you. The cap-i-tan. He knows where you are. He comes for you. He brings Iroquois, men without law. Men who kill for the joy of the sight of blood. You must tell the Hunter of the Shawnee to take you far from here. Tonight. Now."
She looked at Two Crows. Apparently he didn't know Hunter wasn't in the fort. He didn't know Hunter had g
one out after Captain Cain. She certainly wasn't going to tell him. She didn't trust him, not as far as she could throw him. "Why would you warn us again?" she asked suspiciously. "Why would you put yourself in this kind of danger to save me?"
He glanced up at the tiny window he had squeezed through. The clouds shifted and moonlight poured through the opening, illuminating his scarred face. "I know this man has no conscience." He sighed. "This man has no conscience left, but his father, his father was a man of great honor."
"You speak of your father?"
Two Crows nodded. "My father was a great shaman respected by his people. He was a trusted man. I am glad that he is dead that he does not know what his son has become."
She almost laughed aloud. "You mean to tell me that you risked your life to come here out of a sense of honor for your dead father? You who played a part in the rape and murder of my cousin?" She felt a hysteria rising in her voice. "You who murdered my uncle? You, who sold me to some soldier to be sold as a whore or slave to other men!"
"Enough!" He raised his fist to her. "Why I have come does not matter. All that matters is that your man takes you from here, tonight."
She watched Two Crows creep around her bed, headed for the window. She still didn't trust him, but for some reason she believed him. His story was too absurd not to be believed. Somehow this really did have something to do with this sense of honor among the Indians that Hunter had tried to explain to her. Two Crows honestly had come to warn them. He did have a conscience buried somewhere in his heart. He regretted his past. He was trying to save face.
Two Crows swung up into the window and balanced on his palms in the sill.
"Thank you," she murmured.
"Go. Run. Fast. Save your lives."
She watched him squeeze through a space that seemed impossible to fit through and suddenly Two Crows was gone as quickly as he'd come.
Alexandra lay back in her bed, the blood in her veins racing with adrenalin. She listened, certain the Iroquois would not be able to make it out of the fort without being detected. Once she heard a dog whine, but then silence. After several minutes, she knew he had somehow gotten back over the fortress walls and had slipped into the darkness of the surrounding forest.
His Wild Heart Page 18