by Phoebe Conn
"No, that's not true," Byron insisted. "I'll admit our troops are a surly lot and unused to discipline, but that will soon change. By the time we reach the Ohio Valley, they'll have learned how to follow orders. They'll also have learned how greatly we rely on you. But if you leave us now, they'll have no opportunity to observe your skill."
"I don't need anything from them," Hunter reminded him. "They are the ones who need me."
Byron nodded. "Yes, that's certainly true, and while they don't appreciate that fact as yet, we do. I'm asking you to stay with us, but if I have to, I'll make it an order."
Hunter laughed. "I'm not one of your soldiers."
"Perhaps not, but you have given your word that you'll scout for us, and I expect you to keep it."
"You may be the ones to release me from that promise."
Confused, Byron looked toward Elliott before replying. "I know you won't get us lost, so why would we dismiss you?"
Hunter wore his knife in a beaded sheath on his belt. He rested his palm on the hilt as he spoke. "I demand the same respect as a white man, and because you give it, we have become friends. Some of your troops are not as generous, and it might cost them their lives. Am I worth that risk?"
The seriousness of Hunter's expression conveyed his conviction, and Byron understood the Indian was speaking about conflicts which would be an almost certain eventuality. It was not simply a matter of pride either, for there were men who equated Indian scouts with hunting dogs, and he was no more tolerant of such blatant prejudice than Hunter. "I heard that you put Vernon Avey in his place without having to strike a single blow. I think you'll be able to handle similar problems without bloodshed."
"And if I'm not?"
With that question, Byron had been pushed too far. "What do you expect from me, permission to kill whomever you dislike?"
"No, merely permission to defend myself."
"Every man has that right."
"Even an Indian?"
"Yes!"
Satisfied for the moment, Hunter nodded before turning away, but he intended to pursue their discussion until Byron agreed that taking a white bride was also among an Indian's rights.
Byron waited until he could not be overheard to speak to his brother. "Have we made a mistake?" he asked. "After all, what do we really know about Hunter?"
Elliott was understandably confused by Byron's apparent change of heart. "If you had reservations about his character, we shouldn't have taken him home with us. But except for the fact he didn't bother to excuse himself before leaving the farewell party, he was the perfect guest."
The thought of Hunter dancing with the delightfully demure Frederick sisters was so amusing, Byron could not help but smile. "That was probably our fault. He was undoubtedly too embarrassed to admit he didn't know any of our dances."
"Even if he had, would the girls have danced with him?"
"Alanna surely wouldn't, but Melissa probably would have. As for Sarah and Robin—" Byron paused a moment and then shook his head. "No, they would have gone home early rather than have danced with an Indian brave."
"Then it's a damn good thing he had sense enough to leave, rather than risk spoiling the party, so I'll not fault him for a lack of manners. Now let's just see he stays with us when he's in camp, and that ought to minimize the danger of anyone offending him." Elliott clapped Byron on the back, and the matter settled, they turned their attention to other duties.
* * *
For the first couple of nights after Hunter had left their home, Melissa lay awake until the pale pink rays of dawn filled the sky. It was only then that the burden of her dreadful secret lifted long enough for her to sleep, but her tortured soul filled her dreams with taunting memories of a dark-eyed man whose kisses were divine, and she awoke as exhausted as when she had gone to bed. She had successfully pretended to be in good spirits for her family's benefit, but on Sunday morning, the prospect of attending church and attempting to fool the whole town was too much for her. She complained of a severe headache and remained in bed while her parents and Alanna went into Williamsburg. She could hear the servants moving around downstairs, making the preparations for Sunday dinner, but while the familiar sound of their voices should have been reassuring, it was not.
Melissa drew in a deep breath and exhaled with a sob. If only she could sleep, she knew she would be much better able to cope. Brandy had helped one night, but she dared not rely on it. Not only would her father notice it was disappearing too fast, she knew men had nothing but contempt for women who drank. There were men who frequently got so drunk at the Raleigh Tavern they could not sit their horses to ride home, and no one thought less of them, but should a woman ever become tipsy, it was a cause of endless gossip and shame. She had trouble enough without inviting the kind brandy could bring.
Her mother had brought her a cup of chamomile tea before leaving for church, and although it had grown cold, Melissa sipped it slowly. She did not really have a headache, so it did not matter what she took to cure it, but she knew she could not continue to live indefinitely in such a miserable state. It was a great pity she hadn't felt well enough to attend church, because Ian Scott was usually there, and she did so want to see him. Just the thought of his charming smile brought a tear to her eye, and she had to set her teacup aside. She lay down and tried to think only of Ian, for his sweet teasing had always amused her. She would never need him more.
* * *
At Melissa's urging, Alanna wore another of her cousin's stylish gowns to church, and while she made a sincere effort not to glance in Randolph O'Neil's direction during the service, she nevertheless found herself doing just that. Each time their eyes met he would nod and smile, while she would blush and force her attention back to her prayer book. Merely curious, she had not meant to encourage him, but at the end of the service, when everyone gathered in front of the church to talk before going home, he hurried to her side.
"Good morning, Miss Barclay," he began in an enthusiastic rush. "I don't recall your ever being as beautiful as you are today."
Uncertain whether or not that was a compliment, Alanna hesitated a moment too long before replying. "Thank you."
Her delay made Randolph realize his remark had been ambiguous, if not just plain stupid, and he hastened to apologize. "Not that you don't always look pretty, of course, you do, but usually, well, I guess what I mean is your gown is especially attractive today. Pink is a very becoming color."
Melissa had been right, Alanna noted, for not only was Randolph O'Neil a nice man, his eyes were a vivid blue. Had he been closer to her age, she would have thought him handsome, but all she saw was a dear man who was old enough to be her father, and that precluded any romantic possibilities, had she wanted them, which she didn't. She liked him though, and it showed in her smile.
"I'm afraid I've neglected my wardrobe the last few years. This is Melissa's gown, and I'll tell her how much you liked it. I'm hoping to have some new gowns made soon, and I'll remember that you said I looked nice in pink."
Completely captivated by Alanna's quiet charm, Randolph strove to make an intelligent reply, but John Barclay spoke to him first and when he turned to respond, Ian Scott and Graham Tyler came forward to talk with Alanna. He had to step back to make room for them, and his opportunity to impress her was lost. Alanna had a maturity that appealed to him, and determined to get to know her better, he concentrated his efforts on strengthening his friendship with John and Rachel.
"Why didn't Melissa come to church?" Ian asked.
By comparison, Ian's greeting made Randolph's clumsy compliment appear devoted, and while Alanna could see by the Englishman's expression how worried he was, she could not excuse his rudeness. "I'm very well, thank you, and how are you?" she replied.
Flustered for an instant, Ian quickly recovered. "Good morning, Alanna. I didn't mean to ignore you, but when I saw you and not Melissa, I couldn't help but be concerned. Is she ill?"
Rather than speculate on the cause of the conti
nued distress Alanna had watched Melissa hide from others, she provided Ian with a concise report, and then added a suggestion. "I'm sure she'll feel better by this afternoon, should you wish to call on her."
"Do you really think so?"
"Yes, I do." Graham Tyler had been staring at her throughout that exchange, and she had not meant to exclude him. "Good morning, Lieutenant."
"Good morning, Miss Barclay," Graham greeted her, his grin wide. "You were so lovely in blue the other evening, but now I think pink is truly your color. Perhaps pastels flatter all blondes, but—"
Alanna attempted to feign interest as Graham continued to describe her as a fair beauty. He was attractive, and his gray eyes sparkled with admiration as he spoke, but she simply did not care to hear what he had to say. Although Randolph O'Neil was speaking with her uncle, he was still looking her way, and she began to regret letting Melissa talk her into having new gowns made. Not that she wished to embarrass her aunt and uncle with her old clothes, if truly she had, but if new gowns brought more unwanted attentions, then why should she buy them?
Her aunt and uncle had a great many friends, and it seemed as though each and every one wished to speak with them that morning, giving Graham an extended opportunity to talk with Alanna. His discussion of ladies' fashions reminded him of his three sisters, each of whom had her own interests, which ranged from playing the harp, and raising ponies, to painting watercolor seascapes. They sounded as though they might actually be delightful young women, but Graham described them in such minute detail, Alanna was again bored witless rather than entertained. When finally her uncle announced it was time to leave for home, she bid Graham goodbye in mid-sentence and hurried to their carriage.
As soon as Alanna arrived home, she traded Melissa's gown for one of her own. When new, the fabric had been a deep rose hue, but now it was faded to a soft shell pink. Comfortably worn, it required neither hoop nor an extravagant number of petticoats, and she wished she had worn it to church rather than a satin gown. Melissa was still in bed, and Alanna encouraged her to rise.
"Ian was disappointed not to see you at church. I think he may come by this afternoon. Of course, if you're still in bed, your mother won't allow him to come upstairs to see you."
Melissa threw back the covers. "Well, why didn't you say so?"
"I just did."
"I mean sooner, the instant you came through the door." Melissa raised her hands to her hair, felt the wild disarray of her sleep-tossed curls, sat down at her dressing table, and quickly went to work with her hairbrush. "Was he invited to dinner?"
"No, there will just be the four of us." Thank God, Alanna thought. She didn't remember Randolph O'Neil ever coming there to dine, but he had spoken with her aunt and uncle for so long, she would not have been surprised had he been invited that day. She walked up behind Melissa.
"You were right about Mr. O'Neil. He does like me more than I had realized. Is there a polite way to discourage a man's attentions that won't offend him?"
Melissa shot her cousin an exasperated glance in the mirror. "The man is absolutely perfect for you. Why would you want to discourage him?"
"I realize women usually wed men several years older than themselves, but—"
"Father is a dozen years older than Mother."
"Yes, I know, but even if Randolph were only twelve years older than me, I still wouldn't be interested in him."
"Whom do you like best, Randolph or Graham?"
"Randolph."
"Then you do like him," Melissa teased.
"Yes, I like him, but not the way you like Ian. As for Graham, I didn't think he had left any subject uncovered at the party, but this morning he told me more about his sisters than I will ever need to know."
Melissa leaned closer to the mirror to study her reflection. Despite her indiscretion, her prettiness was undimmed and reassured, she made Alanna a promise. "When Ian arrives, I'll invite him to stroll through the garden, and I'll make it plain to him that you'd rather not see Graham again. He might be with Ian today, but since this will be the last time, you can be nice to him, can't you?"
"I'd sooner throw myself into the river and drown."
When Melissa had contemplated just such a dire fate, she had been serious, and she did not find Alanna's comment in the least bit amusing. "Jokes about suicide are in extremely poor taste, Alanna. Don't make another."
Because they were so close in age, Melissa seldom spoke down to her, and predictably, Alanna rebelled. She left their room and went downstairs to ask her aunt's advice on how a young lady might tactfully rid herself of a boring admirer.
* * *
To Alanna's delight, Ian came calling alone that afternoon, and she went down by the river to read a favorite book while Melissa entertained the British officer. After daydreaming about Ian all morning, Melissa had been so thrilled to see him she had almost wept. As soon as they left the parlor to take a stroll in the garden, she reached for his hand.
"I'm so happy you came to see me today. We had such a wonderful time the other night, and I had hoped that you'd come to call on me again soon."
Ian was accustomed to Melissa's every gesture being flirtatious, but there was something else in her manner that day. Had he not known her better, he would have thought it desperation, but in the case of such a popular young woman, he discounted the possibility as absurd. As they entered a long row of azaleas, he pulled her around to face him and reached out to touch her forehead lightly.
"You don't feel feverish," he exclaimed. "To what do I owe this sudden enthusiasm for my company?"
Well aware of how thin a line existed between appealing femininity and a pathetic demand for attention, Melissa played her part with stunning success. She glanced down shyly, and then stared up at Ian through the dark veil of her lashes. It was one of her most irresistible poses and, predictably, Ian's expression instantly turned adoring.
"Is it wrong of me to admit how much I've missed you?" she asked.
"Certainly not, but—"
Melissa placed a fingertip on his lips. "No, don't say it," she whispered. "If you can't return my affection, just go, you needn't embarrass us both by putting your rejection into words."
Ian could scarcely believe his ears. Having been invited to Melissa's home, he was the envy of every man he knew, but he had been Byron and Elliott's friend first, not hers. He knew that she found him amusing, but he had never thought anything serious would come of their flirtation, when she could have her pick of Virginia's wealthy men. But if she had fallen for him—which he dared not hope—he would never refuse her love.
Watching her closely, he raised her hand from his lips and placed a kiss in her palm. When her eyes began to fill with tears, he felt he had his answer. There was an old oak tree not ten feet away, and he led her around to the far side, where they couldn't be observed from the house. He doubted her parents were spying on them, but he did not want to take the chance of being banished from their property either. He knew he ought to recite some bit of romantic poetry, but all he truly wanted to do was kiss her, and when she came into his arms without the slightest hesitation, he did.
Ian's first tentative kiss was warm and tender, but Hunter had taught Melissa the thrill of passion, and she was no longer satisfied with such a sweet gesture of devotion. She raised her arms to encircle his neck, relaxed against him, and then ran the tip of her tongue over his lower lip, seductively coaxing him into abandoning all sense of reserve. She wasn't merely acting, for she did truly care for him, and her affection was sincere.
Never guessing the enchantress in his arms had been tutored by a savage, Ian opened his mouth to slide his tongue over hers and, hungry for the taste of her, kissed her with the wild abandon she had so skillfully inspired. Lost in desire, he stood balanced against the gnarled old tree, so captivated by the woman he adored, that not a single thought of her purpose entered his mind. He noticed only the tantalizing fragrance of her perfume, the silken softness of her skin, and the delicious taste
of her kiss.
Melissa, however, was all too aware of the warmth of the day, the shrill cry of a mockingbird overhead, and the roughness of Ian's red coat. She had not been aware of a single such distraction when Hunter had kissed her, but while Ian's kiss was definitely pleasant, it was not nearly as exciting as the Indian's had been. She thought perhaps with practice they would reach the thrilling accord she had found at Hunter's first touch, but when Ian paused to catch his breath after more than a dozen kisses, she felt just as detached as during the first.
The hint of tears still glistened in Melissa's eyes, and believing she had somehow misunderstood him, Ian pressed her cheek close to his chest as he spoke. "I'm not nearly good enough for you. You know that, don't you?"
She was standing in a British officer's arms, but failing miserably to forget a forbidden romance with an Indian, and Melissa knew she wasn't nearly good enough for Ian. He saw only the attractive young woman he had admired, but inside she felt far from worthy of his love. She slid her arms around his waist and held on tight. She knew she could fool him, forever if need be. The question was, why had she ever thought she could fool herself?
"Melissa?"
"Hm?"
Ian gave her another joyous hug. "Have I spoken too soon?"
To Melissa's way of thinking, he had not spoken soon enough to save her from a lifetime of shame. There was always the river, but death frightened her far more than living a lie. She couldn't speak, but when she looked up at Ian, he bent down to kiss her again, and not expecting more than the sweet sensation she had felt before, she was no longer disappointed. She felt safe with Ian. She knew she could depend on him, and he would never betray her trust. The next time he drew away, she found it easy to smile.
"Was I unforgivably bold?" she asked.
"Not at all. Was I?"
Melissa reached up on her tiptoes to kiss him. "No, but I think we ought to continue our walk."
She tried to slip out of his arms, but Ian refused to release her. "Wait a minute," he scolded. "I realize I've gone about this all wrong, but if the love that flavors your kiss is real, shouldn't I ask for your father's permission to marry you? If he's going to refuse me—which he well might—I'd rather he did so today, before leaving you becomes impossible."