Wild legacy

by Conn, Phoebe

  Belle didn't want to take the time, but when Dominique stumbled off toward the stream, she followed. As predicted, their mares were grazing no more than fifteen feet away. Belle swerved to run her hand over Ladybug's rump, then hurried on to catch up with Dominique.

  "Hunter will be relentless," she worried aloud. She kicked off her shoes and sat down to remove her stockings. "His stallion is stronger than our mares, and he'll probably not carry anything heavier than a knife. That means the distance between us will shrink with every passing hour. He's got to know where we're going, but he can't know the route. If we make it erratic, it may compound his problems enough for us to retain the advantage."

  Dominique shucked off her gown, petticoats, and lingerie with great haste, then waded out into the stream. The water was icy cold, and the rocky stream-bed slippery, but she was too desperate to wash herself clean to be bothered by such slight discomforts. "I forgot to bring the soap and towels," she exclaimed. "Will you please run back and get them?"

  Belle weaved slightly as she rose, but wanting soap and a towel for herself, did her sister's bidding without complaint. "How very spoiled we are," she remarked as she

  returned to the water's edge. We don't even heat the water for our baths. We just step in when they're ready."

  Dominique leaned over to take the bar of soap from Belle's hand. "That was precisely my complaint yesterday. All that's been expected of us is that we sit and look pretty. We're encouraged to read widely, but never voice an original thought in front of anyone but the family." She began to scrub herself off with a vigorous rhythm. "When we're so pampered and weak, how are we ever to survive the ordeal of childbirth?"

  Belle dropped the last of her petticoats on the grass. She unlaced her corset, yanked off her chemise, and stepped out of her drawers. She stuck a toe in the stream and shivered. "Our Aunt Melissa didn't," she reminded her.

  That was such a sobering thought, Dominique could not let it pass. "Do you think of her often?" she asked. "After all, she paid a terrible price for loving Hunter."

  The water was so cold that Belle's teeth began to chatter as soon as she had stepped in, but she had a ready reply. "I like to think she was punished for not loving him, but no, I seldom think of her." She shared Dominique's soap and washed with a frantic thoroughness before stepping out on the grass. The sisters had bathed together since childhood and although Belle was slightly taller, they had figures so similar they could wear each other's clothes. Neither felt the slightest twinge of embarrassment as they dried off.

  It was Dominique who went to fetch their clean linen drawers, but both sisters dressed with a haste that would have shocked and amazed their mother. They ate ham, cheese, and bread while repacking their gear, and were in the saddle within half an hour of waking. They were not nearly as energetic as they had been the previous morning, but surviving the first night on their own, even if they had done it poorly, had given them the courage to go on.

  * * *

  Byron felt sick clear through. As a young man he had fought the French, and not been this frightened. Hunter's expression was serene, as though he were setting out to track a stag rather than two beautiful and defenseless young women. They had arrived at the ferry before the owner that morning and had to wait for the first crossing, but the moment the man appeared, Byron offered to reward him if his memory were good.

  "My daughters are blond, and riding a pair of matched bays. I think they may have come this way. Did you have any passengers who fit that description yesterday?"

  After years of working on the river, Simon Farquhar's back had acquired a permanent stoop and his deep-set eyes a perpetual squint. He peered up at Byron, taking note of the quiet elegance of his gray suit and proud beauty of his black stallion. He caught the distinct odor of wealth on the crisp morning air and hoped he could recall enough to satisfy the inquisitive gentleman.

  "Most of my passengers are simple folk traveling to and from settlements in the Ohio Valley," he began. "Families, mostly, and single men hoping for better than they've left."

  Byron nodded appreciatively. "Yes. I'm sure you tote more than your share of chickens and mules, but I'm looking for two pretty young women. You'd not have forgotten had you seen them."

  "I was just getting to them, sir," Simon argued. "They weren't like the usual traveler, so I'd have noticed them even if they had not been pretty."

  "They did cross here then?" Byron pressed.

  "Aye, that they did, around noon I think it was. Shy creatures they were, too. Barely looked up as they paid the fare."

  Surprised the girls would strike anyone as demure, Byron shot Hunter a questioning glance, and the Indian edged his mount forward. The sorrel horse was Rusty Nails' sire and

  also a magnificent beast. "Do you remember their gowns? Were they red, green?" he asked.

  Simon pursed his lips thoughtfully and stamped his right foot as though hoping to jog his memory. He tried not to stare at the Indian, but he had never seen another with such a fine horse, or traveling with a gentleman. "Blue," he announced suddenly. "One was dressed in blue, and the other had a gown with blue stripes. I remember the pair because they had such pretty hands. They had the pale, dainty hands of fine ladies."

  Byron doubted Simon had been close enough to that many fine ladies to observe their hands, but the clothes sounded right, and Belle and Dominique had inherited their mother's delicate hands and graceful gestures. "Did you see where they went when they left the ferry?"

  "That I did not," Simon replied, "but I could watch for them and send word to you if they come back across."

  Positive that if his daughters recrossed the river they would be on their way home, Byron shook his head. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary." He tipped the ferryman for his help, paid for two fares, then dismounted and led his horse onto the flat-bottomed boat.

  Hunter slipped from his saddle and followed Byron to the rail, but waited until the ferry got underway before he spoke. "It's clear your girls were not kidnapped, and they were smart to act shy."

  "Smart?" Byron scoffed. "They've been incredibly stupid. How could they have done this to us?"

  Hunter gazed out over the river. He would have preferred to swim across with his mount, and felt uneasy on the wide wooden boat. "They have done nothing to you," he argued persuasively. "They wanted something you and Arielle could not give."

  "That's impossible. They lack for nothing."

  Hunter had learned long ago that while he and Bryon might have lengthy conversations, they did not always un-

  derstand each other. He tried again. "They are as pretty as the roses in your garden, and smell as sweet, but they are too bright to be content without a purpose, and you can not give them that."

  Insulted by that peculiar opinion, Byron drew in a deep breath and released it in a weary sigh. He relied on Hunter for a great deal, but never for advice on how to run his family. "What purpose should a woman have other than to pursue an interest in literature and the arts and create a happy life for her family?"

  Hunter waited for Byron to answer his own question, and when he was unable to, the Seneca brave prompted him. "They are part of your family, but must long for families of their own. Why else would a young woman want to tend wounded soldiers? Wouldn't she rather have a baby to mind?"

  At last understanding Hunter's point, Byron nodded thoughtfully. "I want that for them, too. Should I have forced Falcon to wed Belle?"

  That was a much more difficult question, and Hunter took a long time to answer. "No, for neither of them would have been happy. Falcon would always have felt that he had no choice in the marriage, and Belle would have suffered the endless doubt that Falcon might not really love her. I would not wish that sorry fate on anyone, let alone my son and your daughter. Does it trouble you that they are kin?"

  Byron wondered if Hunter weren't attempting a diplomatic approach to asking if he objected to Belle marrying his son. When he and his brother, Elliott, had brought Hunter home back in 175
4, they had never imagined the brave would become part of their family. He had merely been an able scout they had admired. His sister, Melissa, had admired Hunter even more and Christian had been born as a result.

  "Had Belle fallen in love with Christian I could not have borne it," he confessed honestly. "But they are first cousins

  and I could have objected on those grounds. As for Falcon, well, he has always had a special fondness for Belle and been so protective of her that I know he'll make a fine husband. If we can find her and bring her home."

  Hunter pretended a rapt interest in the river. "Had Falcon wanted Dominique, I could not have borne that, so we are both lucky he and Belle chose wisely."

  Each Sunday the family attended the Bruton Parish Church in Williamsburg, and before returning home, Byron visited the graves of his father, brother, and sister. He frequently brought flowers, but the beauty of the blossoms never completely dissolved his sorrow at the sad errand. Even after all these years he still missed his brother and sister terribly.

  "Dominique is so much like Melissa it frightens me at times" Byron confessed softly. "Arielle didn't know Melissa, and Alanna is such a dear soul she has never drawn the comparison in my presence, but it's unmistakable. It would not surprise me to find this trip is her doing."

  The ferry had reached the opposite shore before Hunter had to comment but it was all he could do not to see Melissa whenever Dominique entered the room. Everything about his niece reminded him of the subtle seduction that had broken his heart and cost Melissa her life. Forcing away those tragic thoughts, he led his horse off the ferry. The road ahead was little more than a rutted wagon trail but too heavily trafficked for him to track the Barclay girls.

  "They may have traveled the road a ways so that anyone watching from the river would be confused, but they would soon turn south." He drew himself into his saddle with an easy stretch, then pointed to the grassy edge of the trail. "Watch for any sign of riders leaving the path before a crossroads. They have come a long way in a single day, and must have stopped for the night soon."

  "The ferryman said they crossed around noon."

  "Yes, but that does not mean they rode much farther."

  Convinced the pair had not, Hunter kept a sharp eye on the flat expanse of wire grass brushing the sides of the road. As the sun rose at their backs, the blue lobelia and lupines graced the landscape with a dreamlike azure cast. There were plantations on this side of the river, too, and in the distance tobacco fields of the same distinctive verdant beauty as their own beckoned invitingly.

  "Do they have friends on this side of the river where they might have passed the night?" Hunter asked.

  Byron knew every tobacco farmer in Virginia, but that did not mean he enjoyed every man's company, entertained them in his home, or visited in theirs. "No, we're too far from home to see any of these people except at Publick Times when the town is full. It would only be a waste of time to stop at each plantation to ask for them."

  Deeply troubled, he added another worry. "I don't want it to become common knowledge that my daughters are missing. That's why I didn't give the ferryman my name. You know as well as I do that there are unscrupulous men who would waste no time in searching for them, but who would not turn them over without expecting, or demanding, to be paid handsomely."

  Sorry that was true, Hunter merely nodded. When they had ridden an hour without sighting a fresh trail breaking away to the south, the Seneca brave drew his mount to a halt and Byron stopped with him. "We didn't think to follow the path alongside the river. Perhaps they used it rather than come inland."

  "No, not if they didn't want to be seen," Byron argued, "but they might have veered south the instant they left the ferry and ridden through the fields." He removed his cocked hat and wiped his forehead on his sleeve. While touched with gray, at fifty-one his blond curls were still thick. "I thought we'd find them before now."

  "So did I," Hunter agreed. "There's a trading post up

  ahead. We can get something to eat and ask if anyone there saw them."

  Byron struggled to fight back his rising panic. "I'm not hungry, but it will be worth the time to stop if they were seen nearby. They can't simply have vanished after leaving the ferry."

  "They may have used the plantation roads yesterday but skirted the houses. If no one has seen them at the trading post, I want you to go home. I'll ride south and get ahead of them if I must, but I'll find them more quickly on my own."

  Byron knew Hunter could travel faster alone, but while that might be the wisest alternative, he could not accept it. "I can't go home without them, Hunter. They're too precious to me and I could never face Arielle without them."

  Hunter did not confide his latest worry to Byron, but it had just occurred to him that they were not tracking two gently-bred girls, but a pair in which one possessed Falcon's skills. Falcon had taken great pride in teaching Belle his father's lessons, and Hunter had only laughed at the time. Now he knew just how dangerous it had been to teach Belle how to move through the forest with the stealth of a Seneca brave.

  He hesitated to give Byron advice, but he doubted they would find anything at the trading post except tasteless food and potent ale. As a young man, he had worked in a trading post on the Mohawk River. It was where he had learned to speak fluent English, and perhaps more importantly, how to use his fists to reduce another man to a quivering, sobbing wretch.

  The last stop for travelers bound inland, this small outpost was built of pine logs and held all manner of useful items from pots and pans to sacks of cornmeal. The musty odor of the squat building reminded Hunter of days he would rather forget; he sampled very little of the watery stew offered by the proprietor's wife, and none of the ale. Byron

  again asked about two young women traveling alone, but received only shrugs from the proprietor, Jason May.

  "I can't recall when I've seen women traveling alone," Jason declared in a booming voice that echoed off the brass pots dangling just above his head. "These are treacherous times, and no lady worthy of the name would travel the roads without an escort."

  "I agree," Byron assured him. He toyed briefly with the idea of describing Dominique and Belle as servants rather than his daughters, but again unwilling to inspire a search by men he did not know, he tipped Mr. May, downed a pint of ale, and walked outside with Hunter. "You know what we'll need better than I do. What should we purchase before we move on?"

  "I have been thinking," Hunter began in a hushed whisper.

  Byron leaned close. "Of what?"

  "We may have to go farther south than I thought to find the girls. While I would never deliberately lead you into one, it is possible we might encounter a British patrol. Your name alone will get you hanged."

  "I'm not fool enough to give it!"

  Hunter sent his friend a glance that readily conveyed his understanding of that obvious fact. "You are too well known, Byron, and if any of the British forces who have served in Williamsburg were to see you, they would not even ask your name before knotting a rope. To my shame, the Seneca are fighting with the British, so if I am found near their lines I can say I came to volunteer." He paused a moment to allow Byron time to consider the wisdom of his words.

  "The Patriots can not afford to lose you," Hunter stressed. "You must go home. Tell Arielle I will find her daughters and bring them home soon."

  Byron had been so concerned about the safety of his girls that he had not once considered the danger to himself in prowling the countryside between Williamsburg and

  Charleston. He took a step away, and then turned back. "I'd gladly give my life to save theirs, but that's not really the choice here."

  "No. It is not."

  Byron wanted to argue, but Hunter's advice was too wise to dispute. "What will you do?"

  "Cut south, and either get ahead of them to stop them from going on, or cross their trail and overtake them. Belle must be using what Falcon taught her, and I failed to consider that."

  "So did I." Byro
n did not want to go, but had to accept that he must. "I know you will treat my daughters as though they were your own."

  Hunter nodded. "Belle may be very clever, but she will tire and make mistakes. I'll catch them."

  "Do you need to buy supplies?" Byron offered, ready to pay for them.

  "There is better food in the forest than here." He watched Byron mount his horse and managed a smile for him. "Hurry, and you can be home before dark." As Hunter approached his own stallion, he had already forgotten his old friend and begun stalking his daughters.

  Traveling over the grassy forest floor and then along the banks of the Nottoway River, Belle and Dominique made nearly twenty miles on their second day. They had seen no one, and while they had again ridden as far as their weary mounts and they could stand, neither felt secure. They unsaddled their mares, let them drink from the river, then led them back into the sheltering trees to graze.

  "I'm going to catch us some fish for supper," Belle announced confidently. "You build the fire."

  "That seems fair," Dominique replied. She gathered a heap of fallen branches, then opened the tinderbox. She had never actually lit a fire by herself, but had seen it done

  often enough to believe it consisted of little more that striking a spark and standing back as the wood began to ignite. She had worked for half an hour with steel and flint and was near tears of frustrated rage before she remembered the servants saved all the worn handkerchiefs, linen underwear, and sheets for tinder.

  Lacking any spare bits of linen, she raked up a mound of dried leaves and after several more fruitless attempts to ignite a blaze, succeeded in striking a spark that caught the serrated edge of a crisp oak leaf. She blew on the tiny curl of smoke, and a flame danced into life. She shouted with glee, then kept adding leaves until the smallest of the branches began to burn. Enormously pleased with herself, she sat back to enjoy the fire's crackling warmth.