by E. B. Brown
“I should hope so,” the younger woman smiled. Rebecca perked up when Makedewa lifted his chin to her across the room. He split away from the group of men and moved to join them.
“I’ll leave you to your husband,” Maggie whispered, giving her friend’s arm a squeeze. She nodded to Makedewa. “Morning,” she said. He scowled and grunted a greeting under his breath, causing Maggie to roll her eyes with a sigh. Always coarse and unmanageable, Makedewa’s stony demeanor was a constant they could all rely on. Except when it came to his wife, there was little that would crack his facade, and even the impending birth of his first child had not softened him. If anything, his tension seemed to swell with each day that passed. She wondered if Rebecca was truly ready for the birth, or if she only wished to end her husband’s distress. It was anyone’s guess.
Maggie made her way across the Northern Hall. On the long table was the remnants of the morning meal. She let Malcolm chew on a piece of hard bread as she gathered food into her small pouch, taking enough to fill her belly and soothe the child. The rest of her family managed on their own; Winn ate with the men, and Malcolm sat with his friends. Maggie spotted eleven-year-old Kyra with her aunt Gwen near the hearth fire, and she knew all those she loved were fed. There was little she had control of in her world, but it was one thing she took comfort in seeing to.
Malcolm toddled ahead, happy to explore on his own as they left the hall and walked through the courtyard. Winn’s eyes met hers as she passed by the men. She ducked her chin down and kept going, knowing he was busy and she should leave him to it. Tending the village was a full-time occupation, and as Chief, Winn took it upon himself to see everyone’s needs were met. It was a duty that kept him long hours into the night, sometimes only returning to her bed in time to see the morning sunrise in the sky. As such, it was her responsibility to support him, and she tried her best to be the sort of wife he needed.
She was surprised, but entirely pleased when she felt Winn come up beside her, his stride matching hers. He took her elbow and pulled her to a stop. Although his eyes were still on the men, he dipped his head to her ear and his hand slipped down onto her hip. He rested it there for a moment, his fingers kneading her gently as his breath tickled her cheek.
“Did I say you could leave?” he asked, his voice low and teasing. She bit back a giggle and gave him a demure half-bow.
“No, my lord,” she shot back. Her surly response sent the corner of his lip up into a grin.
“You should mind your tongue, wife,” he said. He touched her neck with his fingertips, sending a shiver straight through to her toes. “You know I hate when you call me that. I would rather hear my name on your lips.”
“Oh, would you, my lord?” she laughed. His grip tightened on her and he pulled her close, despite the fact that they were in the middle of the busy courtyard and that people milled around them. She felt a rush of heat fill her cheeks.
“Yes, I would. Perhaps you have forgotten it. I could put off my duties if you require a lesson in how to address me properly,” he whispered. She swallowed as his blue eyes flashed with mock ire, his gaze drifting from her eyes to her lips.
“I’m not sure you can teach me anything,” she stammered. His brows narrowed.
“Oh, you will regret that,” he murmured. He took her hand and placed it flat against his chest, flush to his skin beneath the edge of his vest. His pulse beat madly under her fingers, showing her exactly how serious he was.
“I hope so,” she said softly as she caught her breath. She gathered her flailing wits and planted a playful kiss on his cheek as she whispered, “Have fun with the men, my lord. I’m very busy today, I have no time for talking.”
With his lips pressed lightly to her ear, he uttered his hoarse reply.
“When I see you next, you will have no need for talking. That, my wife, I promise you.”
She kept the rest of her retorts to herself when he left her standing there. He shook his head as he turned and left, and Maggie sighed with a grin spreading across her face. As she caught up ahead with Malcolm and swept him up in her arms, she glanced back at the men.
Winn was surrounded by the others, yet his eyes met hers through the crowd. She could see the promise in his gaze as clear as the sun blazing above them.
Oh, yes, she thought. Next time she saw him, there would be very little talking.
CHAPTER 2
Kyra
“Oh, I cannot stand it! Make it stop!” Kyra muttered. She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her palms over each ear to muffle the screams of childbirth, yet the clamor continued despite her efforts. There was no escape from Rebecca’s shrieks, which she thought had been going on an awfully long time in spite of there being plenty of help. Why didn’t Aunt Gwen do something to ease her pain, or have Gramma Finola utter a spell? Surely, there was some way to make it better!
“Are ye all right?”
She cracked open one eye, just a slit, but enough to cast a glare at sixteen-year-old Morgan. He kneeled beside her in the grass, looking idly toward the village and the sounds of Rebecca’s pain. The chaos seemed not to bother him so much.
“No. I think it’s killing her. The blasted wean is killing her, I’m sure of it!” she whispered. Unwilling to say much more, she shook her head in defiance and clamped her hands tight when another squeal pierced the air.
“Nay, it will be fine,” he assured her.
Morgan patted her arm, the motion hesitant but still comforting. In her panic to stop the screams from reaching her ears, Kyra ducked her head into Morgan’s shoulder. She heard the older boy let out a sigh as she burrowed into him, but he relented and made a clumsy attempt to comfort her by gently hugging her. Although she was only eleven, he still looked out for her, and she did not know what she would do if she did not have his friendship. They sat on the ground next to the moss-covered log as Morgan stammered words of consolation.
“Kyra!”
Uncle Chetan stood above them, his eyes wary, his hands planted on his hips. Chetan was not a man easily angered, so when Kyra saw the dark glare in his eyes she was instantly worried. He grabbed her by the elbow and yanked her up off the ground, out of Morgan’s arms, his face contorted as he surveyed them.
“What the–never mind! Be glad I found you instead of your father!” Chetan growled. Then he turned to Morgan, who was sprawled beside the log. “And you! Go back to town. I think you are too old for my niece to follow you any longer. Go. Now!”
Morgan slowly rose to his feet, his skin burning with crimson color from his neck to his ears. Although Chetan’s grip on her arm was unbreakable, his eyes were still fastened on Morgan. Kyra stomped her foot and tried to wrench her arm away from her uncle, but he held fast.
“Why must he leave? Uncle–”
“Not another word, Kwetii,” Chetan snapped. Her heart seemed squeezed by a fist as she watched Morgan mount his pony with a flying leap and take off away from the village.
Chetan escorted her to the Northern Hall, where her father was sitting at the long table with the other men. Uncle Makedewa sat beside him, not drinking like the rest, merely staring into the tankard he gripped it in both hands. It was clear the other men tried to console him as his wife labored to birth their child. As Chetan brought her into the hall, her father rose from his seat and met them near the door.
“Where have you been? Your mother was worried,” Chief Winn chastised her. She grimaced under his narrowed gaze and ducked her head. She knew she had been ordered to stay near the Longhouse, but when she saw Morgan had come to visit she could not help but escape with him to avoid hearing the wails. Everyone was so caught up in the birth of Rebecca’s child that they did not even notice when she slipped away. She didn’t understand why her uncle seemed so angry. After all, she had not been far away, and nothing bad had happened.
“I found her with Morgan White near the woods,” Chetan said. Kyra scowled at her uncle but quickly hid her scrunched face when her father turned his attention to her.
“I
s that true, Kwetii? Did you disobey your mother?” Father asked. She nodded sourly, keeping her eyes down at her feet. Great. She would be in trouble again. She hoped they would not make her sit in the corner. That was her mother’s favorite punishment, and Kyra found it entirely boring.
“I think Morgan is growing too old to play with Kyra any longer,” Chetan added. Kyra’s head snapped up at that.
“He’s not that old! I’ll be older soon, too!” she interrupted. Winn grunted a warning at her, and she put her head back down.
“Too old, hmm?” Winn asked. From the corner of her eye, she saw Chetan nod, and the two men exchanged a peculiar glance. Kyra did not like it, not one bit.
Chief Winn bent down, placing one hand on her shoulder. His gaze was still fierce, but his eyes held a twinkle of softness that she needed to see from her father.
“I know you grow older with each sunrise, but he is the age of your cousin and needs friends his own age. I think you should play with the girls from now on, daughter,” he said. She tried to stop the swell of tears that surfaced, wiping angrily at her eyes with one dusty fist.
“He’s my friend,” she said softly. Father squeezed her shoulder.
“I know. But he is no longer a child. Would you want the other boys to think him weak?”
“Morgan doesn’t care what the others think.”
“Maybe not, little one. But I do. You are my daughter, and I must look out for you. No more playing with Morgan in the woods. Play with the other girls. Make new friends.”
“Yes, Da,” she muttered. She said it, but she did not mean it, and she was certain her father could see through her shallow promise quite easily.
“Good. Go to your mother, she worries after you.”
Kyra shot one more seething glare at her uncle, then picked up her skirts and ran from the hall.
Well, her father might be Chief, but she still had two legs. There was no way he could command her to stop being friends with Morgan.
She stalked across the yard to their home, pausing outside the open door. The sounds of Rebecca’s screams reached a pealing squeal, yet still there was no sound of a babe. Kyra bypassed the door, went to her tied pony, and mounted up.
*****
It had been a long time since she had been allowed into town with her father, but the path was worn into a thin sandy line through the woods by the many times Morgan had traveled back and forth. Her pony followed the path without much prodding, which was fortunate since she was lost in her own thoughts as she approached Elizabeth City. She knew Morgan had moved there with his guardian, John Jackson, who was an acquaintance of her father’s. John Jackson was a gunsmith, and Kyra had heard Morgan speak once or twice about working at the local ordinary. It was not much to go on, but she was determined to find him. She needed to tell him that they would always be friends, no matter what her father or uncle had to say.
The town was much different from what she was accustomed to. People milled about, so many people that no one seemed to notice her at all. It was a comforting thought, since she was utterly exhausted of people butting into her business at every turn. Her mother could tell people to “mind your business!” but Kyra, unfortunately, was not allowed to speak to her elders that way.
She followed the sounds of music and bawdy laughter into the center of town. There, a brightly lit tavern stood, cramped full of bodies as daylight left the sky and settled into nightfall. She imagined someone there could help her find Morgan. After all, how many boys could there be named Morgan White in one town?
After tying her pony to a hitching post, she slid in through the open door. Lacking in manners in such a situation, it was all she could do to stare at the passel of English as she pushed through them. Some wore frilly finery, dressed in bright fanciful colors and covered with jeweled baubles. Others wore the clothes of laborers, with muted shades of homespun on breeches and tunics, pointed wool hats and work-stained hands. It fascinated her to see them all in one place, such a hodgepodge of different likes and tastes. 51 So caught up in taking it all in, Kyra was startled when a hand suddenly closed on her upper arm.
Her first reaction was to look down at the hand. It was large, quite large, in fact, and it was latched securely over hers as if the stranger held some authority over her. Who dared handle her in such a way? Well, obviously he did not know who she was, and her father would surely have words with him over his attempt to manhandle her.
“I beg yer pardon, ye ignorant old fool!” she hissed, trying to jerk her arm away.
The man bent down, and she clamped her mouth shut at the sight of him. He was bigger than her uncle Cormaic, even larger than her own father. A swatch of unruly black hair fell over his brow as he bent down to her level. His eyes were a deep, blazing blue, seeming alight with what she could neither discern as annoyance or amusement.
“Quiet yer tongue, lass! What on God’s earth are ye doing here?” he replied, shaking her a bit as he spoke. She peered up at him. Even kneeling, he was still a monster, and for the first time since her hasty escape from the village a sliver of fear infused her.
“I–I’m looking for my friend. It’s none of yer concern, sir!” she sniped. She figured at least if she sounded brave, he might think she was.
He glanced over his shoulder toward the long wooden bar, then turned back to her as he uttered a sigh. His face softened, only a bit, but enough to ease her mind that he meant her harm. Truth be told, the man seemed perplexed.
“Not quite eleven years old, and here in a tavern. Well, I suppose there’s a first for everything. Where’s yer father? Does he know ye’ve run away from him?”
“No,” she admitted. She saw a woman approach, and Kyra knew the strange man noticed her as well. The woman rubbed a glass in her hand with a cotton cloth as she approached, her eyebrows upraised in question. The man stood up straight as the woman joined them.
“What have ye got here, Benjamin?” the woman asked. She was pretty, Kyra thought, for an Englishwoman. More of the height of Kyra’s mother, the woman’s head barely reached the man’s shoulder. She did not seem intimidated by Benjamin in the least, tossing her loose brown hair back as she crossed her arms over her chest.
“Nothing fer ye to worry on. Just a stray from town, I’ll see her back to her folks,” Benjamin said. Kyra started to open her mouth, but clamped it shut instead. Something unspoken was going on between the two adults, and somehow she was plunked right smack in the middle of it.
Before Kyra could protest, she was shoved unceremoniously out the door, her arm still firm in the man named Benjamin’s hand. It suddenly occurred to her that she was in a heap of trouble. Lost in town, with no idea how to find Morgan, no one would know where to find her when she ended up dead. As much as the fear ignited her anger, she felt tears spring onto her cheeks as Benjamin dragged her out into the street. Despite her tears, he did not stop dragging her until they were alone in the shadows behind the tavern, out of sight of anyone she might call out to for help.
“So tell me where yer father is, so I might return ye to him,” Benjamin said softly, finally letting his grip on her arm loosen. He was no fool, however, and he did not let go entirely as he bent down again to her level.
“He–he’s not here,” she admitted as she started to cry. “And he’s gonna tan me good if I ever see him again!” Despite meaning not to, she burst into tears.
“Och, there, mite, don’t cry, I’ll take ye back to yer father. Ran away, did ye?” he asked gently, patting her back as she cried. She nodded. “Oh, I see. Like that, hmm? Sick of his uppity orders and such?”
She choked back a sob as she nodded and glanced up at him through her tear-soaked lashes.
“He said I couldna play with Morgan anymore. He said Morgan’s too old. But I’m almost grown! I’ll be older, soon, I will!” she explained.
Benjamin smiled. He took a clean cloth from his pocket and wiped the tears from her dirt-stained cheeks as she tried to control herself. Somehow, the stranger did not s
eem so threatening any longer. In fact, she felt quite comfortable with him.
“Well, if yer speakin’ of Morgan White, then I must agree with yer Da. Morgan’s a young man now, and he shouldna be playing with bitty girls like ye,” Benjamin said.
“Do ye know Morgan?” she said, her tears instantly squelched at the prospect. Benjamin nodded.
“Aye, I know the lad well. As I do yer Da.”
Benjamin looked a little sad at that confession, and Kyra wondered how they knew each other. If they had met before, she was certain she would have remembered him.
“I need to find Morgan.”
“Ye need to go home. C’mon. I’ll see ye back the way ye came.”
He kept hold of her hand as if she might run. As they rounded the corner to where her pony should have been standing, she let out a groan when she saw Blaze was not there. Oh, sweet Odin! Not only had she run away, but she’d lost her horse. If she made it home, she was going to be walking bow-legged from a busted arse for a solid week.
“My pony’s gone. Da’s gonna tan my arse,” she whispered. Benjamin’s eyes burst wide open and he uttered a deep laugh despite her dismay.
“He might, Kwetii, he might just that,” he agreed. A rush of unease surfaced at his use of her Indian name. How did he know it–and how did he know her?
“Here, we’ll make a stop, and then we’ll get going.”
She walked obediently with him down the street, for lack of options or lack of wits about her, she did not know. He had to be friends with her father is he knew her Paspahegh name. They stopped at a small cottage, and it was not long before she realized where they were. With the smoke stack above and the smell of gunpowder, it could only be the gunsmith’s house where Morgan lived.
When Benjamin knocked on the door it parted open only a notch, but he spoke swift and softly to the occupant. The door closed and a moment later Morgan came outside, rubbing his eyes with his closed fists with his hair sticking out in blond tangles around his face. He was dressed in a long shirt over a pair of breeches, hastily pushing them down into his tall boots as he joined them.