The Golden Dove

by Jo Ann Wendt

  "I killed them too quick," he snapped. "I should have sliced the flesh from them inch by inch."

  "It is not your way," d'Orias said softly.

  "Jericho, it's me! It's Dove. You're safe now. You're safe. The bad men are dead. I'm here. You're safe."

  Then she recognized him and began to sob, sobbing through the dirty gag they'd stuffed in her mouth, trying to.say his name. While d'Orias bundled her in blankets, Dove gently worked the gag free.

  "Dove," she sobbed. "Dove, don't look. I don't have- have cl-clothes on. They-they took off m-my clothes. I-I don't have any cl-clothes on. Don't 1-look, don't 1-look."

  He was touched. He held her close and let her sob, his cheek on her soft throbbing temple. "I won't. I won't," he promised. "I won't." He already had. As he'd bundled her into the cloak, he'd looked swiftly for signs of rape, for blood on her straight sturdy thighs. None, thank God. He conveyed that to d'Orias in a glance. Except for the bump on her head, she seemed to be untouched.

  "Is-is Pax all right?" she sobbed.

  "He has a bump on his head, as you do. But he'll be fine. Black Bartimaeus took him home. Daisy and Mrs. Phipps are tending him."

  "I w-want to go home, Dove!"

  "We'll go home in a minute, grubworm. But first, let's get you warm and dressed. Can I unbind your wrists now? Your ankles?"

  She nodded tearfully, her scared eyes as huge as pansies.

  "B-but don't 1-look."

  "I won't. I promise."

  While he tended Jericho, d'Orias quietly moved about the room, doing what needed to be done, closing the door, building up the fire, dragging the bodies out of sight and throwing a blanket over them so she wouldn't see them. Taking a dead man's musket and powder, d'Orias went outside and fired the signal. The thunderous musket cracks reverberated through the frozen wilderness. A few minutes later, a distant three- shot salvo answered. The search was over. The searchers could go home.

  Jericho burst into tears. "D-Dove? They-they w-were go- going to cut off my h-hand. To get my birthmark. They-they w-were going to cut off my-my hand and g-give my b-birth- mark to a fox. To a fox. They w-were go-going to give my birthmark to a fox."

  Dove stared at her, astounded that she could imagine such a thing. He and d'Orias exchanged a look and shook then- heads.

  "No, grubworm, no," he said quickly. "They were not going to do that. They were not. No." TTie men had had no such intention. What they had been going to do was rape her and sell her to the Indians. But, hell, he couldn't scare her with that. "They probably meant to hold you for ransom. They knew you were my bondslave. They knew I would pay."

  She shook her head, refusing it. "N-no. They-they w-were going to give my birthmark to a fox."

  He assured in every way he could think of, but she wasn't buying. Her tears flowed, her sobs erupted. When she was calmer, he hunted her clothes and brought them to her.

  "They-they tore my gown," she said, bursting into a new freshet of tears. He knew she wasn't crying for the gown. She was a tough little bondslave. She didn't cry over small potatoes. He seethed. He wanted to kill the bastards all over again.

  "Daisy will make you a new gown. I'll tell her to make you ten new gowns," he said, squatting at the fire. "Do you need help dressing?" He didn't have the least idea how to go about it. His experience lay in undressing females, not dressing them.

  But she shook her head with dignity. Carrying her clothes into a corner, she dressed modestly under the cloak.

  Finally, they were ready to start out. When d'Orias turned to close and latch the hut door behind them, Dove swung around.

  "Leave it open."

  D'Orias gestured. "The bodies, de Mont. Wolves ..."

  "Leave it open!"

  Chapter Eight

  "I cannot fathom it. I cannot puzzle it out," said Leonardo d'Orias, swirling tawny rum in a pewter cup that caught the firelight in Dove's parlor. "My understanding fails me, de Mont. Why should three men steal a child? A bondslave?"

  "Rape." Dove glanced at the ceiling. Upstairs, hours ago, Jericho had been petted and cossetted and tucked into a featherbed. Pax slept in a nest at the foot of her bed.

  The parlor finally stood empty of people. Dove felt relieved. As the searchers had returned, group by group, they'd come tramping in to refresh themselves with well-earned food and drink. Dove had been glad to feed and thank them. But it had been a strain telling and retelling the story of Jericho's rescue. He felt glad to sit alone at the fire, alone with d'Orias.

  Reaching for the rum pitcher, Dove leaned forward and topped d'Orias's cup. His hand still trembled from the night's events, and he tried to hide it from d'Orias. But he suspected those compassionate, watchful eyes missed nothing.

  "Perhaps." D'Orias sipped his rum. "Yet I feel there is more behind it. There must be more."

  Dove frowned impatiently. "What more could there be?"

  D'Orias shook his head, his hair so black in the firelight it looked blue. "One does not know, yes? One cannot even guess. Yet, so bizarre the story the child told! Cut off her hand? Cut off her birthmark? Give it to—how say you the animal in English—to, to a fox?"

  "She was overwrought. She imagined it."

  "Perhaps." D'Orias was reluctant to agree. "Perhaps."

  They sat together, sipping rum. Dove glanced at the big, broad-shouldered Italian. He liked him more than ever. He was staunch, reliable. No wonder his mother had trusted d'Orias to bring money and letters to New Amsterdam. And though he would rather jump off a cliff than admit it, he was grateful d'Orias was sitting up with him. Dove was shaken by the night's events.

  When the clock struck the hour of three, bonging mellowly, d'Orias put his cup aside and rose. "Now, my young friend, I must take my leave of you."

  "Of course,'' Dove agreed quickly. "You've earned bed.''

  D'Orias smiled gently. "You misunderstand. I must leave New Amsterdam. The last Company ship of the season sails today at dawn. If I am not to winter in New Amsterdam, I must be aboard her. The Hudson already is frozen hard. If bitter weather continues, the East River will freeze, too, and the harbor will be locked in ice until spring."

  "Leave?" Dove felt a genuine pang. In the short weeks he'd been acquainted with d'Orias, he'd grown damned fond of him. There was something familiar about d'Orias. It stirred a vague, unaccountable remembrance.

  D'Orias buttoned his doublet and drew on his coat.

  "Si. I must leave. Your mother will be anxiously awaiting my report. She will be eager to know I found you well and safe. No, no, do not get up. My trunk already is aboard the ship. I have the letters you entrusted to me, the letters to Lady de Mont, the letters to your brothers and to Lord Aubrey and to Lady Marguerite. If you wish to send aught else, dispatch it to the ship before dawn."

  "I will. Thank you. Hell, d'Orias, I'm sorry to see you

  go-

  The Italian's eyes lighted with affection. "I am sorry to leave you, de Mont. Much pleasure have I felt, meeting you."

  Unwilling to. part with d'Orias, reluctant to let him go, Dove strolled with him to the kitchen door.

  "You never told me. How did you come to be acquainted with my mother?"

  D'Orias gave him a wry, whimsical smile. "She put her dagger into me."

  "She what!"

  D'Orias stayed his gloved hand on the door latch. "It happened in a flower market in Paris. Lady de Mont was purchasing flowers, accompanied by her servants." D'Orias's' eyes took on a a soft glow. "Lady de Mont is a very beautiful woman. She looks much like you, yes? The same golden hair. The same bright, intelligent eyes. I fear I was so taken with her beauty that I did something foolish. I approached her." D'Orias gestured ruefully. "My English, it is lamentable. My French? Worse. I fear my lady takes me for a banditiy a highwayman. She stabs me. Just so." He tapped a spot dangerously near his heart.

  "Good lord! What happened then?"

  "I fall down in the stones and mud, bleeding. Certainly, I am dying. Your mother, she gathers up her silk skirts a
nd stalks off. A moment later, she comes stalking back, a fiery Juno. Scolding me without ceasing, she rips her petticoat to bind my wound and she commands her servants to carry me to her house, to put me to bed and fetch a surgeon.'' D'Orias's eyes glowed with amusement. "I do not know which was worse, my lady's tongue lashing or my wound. From that unlikely beginning came a friendship I shall cherish for the rest of my life."

  D'Orias looked at him with quiet challenge.

  "I am devoted to your mother."

  Came the dawn! Finally it dawned on Dove. He'd been deaf, blind, and thick-headed. The hushed reverent tone d'Orias used whenever speaking of his mother. The glow in his eyes. The concern that was as plain as sunrise and sunset. Protective of his mother, jealously protective of his father's memory, he bristled. He grew hostile.

  "And she? Is she devoted to you?"

  D'Orias raised a gloved hand. "No. Do not think it. No. Lady de Mont is a widow of impeccable character. She makes of widowhood a noble calling. She is devoted to your father's memory. She is devoted to her sons. She is zealous and tireless in her efforts to regain Arleigh Castle for her sons. She cares for nothing else."

  "But you care for her," Dove charged, unsatisfied.

  "Si," D'Orias admitted with steady calm. "Since the day I set eyes upon my lady, other women have ceased to exist for me. Is that a crime? If so, accuse me. But know this, de Mont. I worship your mother. I would lay down my life for her. And know this, too. I am not ignorant. I am aware that Lady de Mont is highborn. My mother, whom I loved with all my heart, was a peasant girl."

  Dove's heat abated. He didn't know what to say. He glanced at the snapping kitchen fire. He glanced across the room at Samuels and Black Bartimaeus, deep in sleep on their pallets, snoring, sawing wood.

  "Take—take care of my mother," Dove blurted awkwardly. "Until my brothers and I can return."

  "Be assured of it." A good-humored man, the ghost of a smile flickered once again in the dark eyes. "In so far as she will allow it. Now, my young friend, I bid you farewell. Take care of the little flower." His smile grew oddly enigmatic. "She will make someone a magnificent wife some day."

  "Wife?" Dove was astounded. "She's but a child."

  "Children grow up."

  Dove had trouble picturing it. The grubworm grown up. Did skinny, flat-chested little girls grow up into women?

  D'Orias thrust out his hand. Yanked back to the moment, Dove took it. They shook hands. A warm, firm clasp.

  "I owe you my life," Dove summed up.

  D'Orias refused to hear it. He adamantly shook his head. "No. Not so. Had I not been there, you would have thought of a way to save yourself. And to save the child. I have confidence in you, de Mont."

  D'Orias opened the door. A gust of frigid, arctic wind swept in, curling around Dove's legs, bringing back vivid and horrible memories of the cold night's work.

  "We worked well together, d'Orias."

  "We worked well."

  "We will meet again someday, I hope?"

  "Be assured of it."

  With that and with a swing of his black cloak, the tall Italian stepped out onto the stoop, descended the wooden steps and strode into the wind, into the darkness, into the shadowy lanes of New Amsterdam.

  Dove couldn't sleep. Killing a man, he discovered, was not conducive to a night's sleep. Killing three men? He probably would never sleep again. He roused Black Bartimaeus and requested a hot bath in front of the kitchen fire. He Scrubbed every inch of his flesh. He put on fresh clothes. Still, he smelled the blood ... the blood . . .

  He prowled the house, restless. Rouse John? Have a game of cards? No. John was exhausted. He too had tramped miles through deep snow, searching.

  He went up to his room. He started to write a letter, then ripped it up, half-finished. Blood. Even the ink smelled like blood. He went downstairs and prowled the house, moving from window to window, rubbing the accumulating frost off the inner pane with his shirt sleeve. He watched the klop- permen tramp by, patrolling, their lanterns swinging, boots crunching the hardpacked snow, pipesmoke rising like steam.

  Restless, he went to the kitchen and stood motionless, hands on hips, looking at everything, looking at nothing. Blood. Blood. He returned to his sleeping chamber, built up the fire, lighted a candle, and selected a book at random, any book. He willed morning to come. But this was winter. Darkness would enshroud New Amsterdam until nearly eight of the clock.

  He was trying, unsuccessfully, to read a French novel when his door latch clicked. The door opened, and Jericho stood there. Beneath the russet freckles, her face was whiter than her nightrail.

  "Dove?" she whispered. "Can-can I-I c-come in?"

  He sprang up. "Yes, of course." Jumpy, he was glad for company. Even a child's. He slung a second chair to the fireside and grabbed a goosefeather quilt from the bed. When she'd settled into chair and quilt, she said, "Dove? They- they w-were go-going to c-cut off m-my hand. They-they w-were g-going to cut off m-m-my birthmark. They-they w- were go-going to give it to a fox."

  "No, Jericho, no." He put another log on the fire. Sparks whooshed. "Hell's bells, grubworm, you imagined it, that's all."

  "N-no, Dove. I-I-I h-heard th-them s-say it. They-they w- were go-going to g-give m-my birthmark to-to a fox."

  "Then you misheard, eh? No one would do such a thing." Her eyes told him she wasn't buying.

  "Can-can I-I s-stay h-here w-with y-you for a-a w-while?"

  "Yes, of course. Do you want some rum?"

  She looked at him in surprise. "I-I th-think I-I'm too y- young to drink r-rum, Dove."

  "Hell, that's right. I forgot. Sometimes you seem young, sometimes you don't. Then I'll drink it." He retrieved his rum cup. A log rolled in the fire. He kicked it back. The fire hissed and crackled. The night was so cold that the room was frigid. The windows were solidly frosted.

  "W-well, may-may be I-I c-could h-have a s-sip, Dove. Th-then may-maybe I-I w-won't dream of foxes."

  Dove went to the window, rubbed a shilling-sized hole in the frost and looked out. "Believe me, grubworm, rum's not the solution. I've dreamed the same nightmare since I was three.'.'

  The fire crackled. In the distance, a wolf bayed.

  "A-about the-the dogs kill-killing y-your fa-father?"

  Dove swung around, surprised. She was an intelligent thing. More intelligent than a lot of adults. Perceptive. This time she'd certainly put two and two together.

  "Yes. It is."

  "I-I'm s-s-sorry y-you dream th-that, Dove."

  "I'm sorry, too."

  He smiled a little, feeling better about the night, and lightly bopped his rum cup on her shoulder as he strolled past and sank comfortably into his chair. They sat quietly, staring into the fire, mesmerized by the dancing flames. Her pansy eyes grew darker and darker, her pale eyelids heavier and heavier. At last she gave in. Exhausted, she fell asleep. When her head lolled back and banged into the chair frame, making her whimper in her sleep, Dove picked her up, quilt and all, and tucked her into his bed. Weary himself, he lay down beside her and curled into the goosedown quilt.

  It was Mrs. Phipps, rising first in the morning and tiptoeing past the open door of Dove's room, who found them like that. Her first thought was to scold. Jericho had no business being in Master Dove's bed. Master Dove had no business permitting it.

  Her second thought was kinder. What a pretty pair of children! Dove's thick sprawl of golden hair covered the pillow. His long, dark golden lashes were knitted in innocent sleep. His mouth was lax. He'd done a man's work last night. But just now he was an eighteen-year-old youth, deep in slumber.

  And Jericho. She was nestled in his arms, her curly red head on his shoulder. Pax had sneaked in sometime in the night. He slept upon the foot of the bed. Without moving a muscle, the dog opened his eye and stared warily. Mrs. Phipps wagged a warning finger, and, with a long-suffering sigh, he reluctantly jumped down. His nails clicked on the cold, drafty floorboards. He obediently padded down the stairs to the kitchen. Mrs
. Phipps closed the door.

  The faint click of the door closing woke Dove. Sleep drugged, he blearily opened his eyes and got the shock of his life. Nestled in his arms was a beautiful woman. She had witch's hair, red as flame. She had long, sweeping lashes of the same color. Startled, he blinked. His head shot up. Then he saw. He expelled a breath. God's soup, it was only Jericho. Carefully, he laid his head back down on the pillow. Don't wake her. She's had a bad night. Crying out in her sleep. Always the same cry. A fox, a fox.

  Queer. Very queer. He breathed quietly. He watched her, reassessing her. She was a decent-looking little thing. She didn't strike him as homely anymore. Were the freckles beginning to fade? He lifted his head. Hell's bells, they were. Someday she might be a pretty woman. Perhaps even a beautiful one. The thought surprised him. He tried to imagine her grown-up. He couldn't.

  His thoughts drifted. He should do something for her, provide for her. D'Orias was right. She wouldn't be a child forever. She would grow up someday. She was his responsibility. What good thing could he do for her? Thoughts came and went. He turned them over in his mind. A dowry, he decided. When she came of age, and her indenture ended, he would settle a dowry on her. Not a large dowiy that would attract scoundrels. A small dowry. But enough—certainly! —to save her from having to marry a wood chopper or a chicken plucker.

  Jericho, grown-up and married. Somehow, the thought irritated. He'd become used to having her fetch and carry for him. He'd become used to her unpredictable, ornery moods. He'd even become used to her stutter. Hell, he liked it! It was . . . charming.

  Jericho, grown-up and married. It irked. It irritated. Irked and irritated, he rolled away and got out of bed. The jiggling of the mattress made her stir. He stood beside the bed and watched her wake, half-scared to see what she'd be like this morning. Had what she'd gone through scarred her, destroyed her pluck? He held his breath, wondering what she would say.

  But what she did say, when she opened those pansy eyes in annoyed vexation, made him smile broadly. He needn't worry about this brat. She was as tough as old barrel staves. "Dove? W-where are my skates!"