Bold Surrender

by Judith E. French

Kelt swore under his breath as he watched Ashley rein the big bay horse off the road. She was taking that damned short cut again, but he was certain she was riding to the prize house. He'd intended to warn the families there of the danger of pirates. A prize house was too tempting for raiders. Tobacco was as good as gold in any port, and the pirates would have no way of knowing that Ashley had shipped all of hers to England. "May their souls burn for all eternity." He'd have to pull men from other work and set a watch at the prize house as well as on the rivers and the main dock near the manor house.

  Kelt grunted. God knew he was probably better suited to be a military man than a farmer. Few of his family had ever died in their beds; he'd sprung from a bloodthirsty lot of warriors.

  He'd need a complete list of weapons and ammunition, as well as information on who was trustworthy and could shoot. Boys could serve as riders, or better yet, watch for smoke signals. Ashley could have saved them time and effort if she hadn't gone riding off in a huff. She'd have the information he needed, probably without even going to her account books. "Hell, she probably knows how many rocks each boy has in his slingshot bag," he muttered to the horse. "Damnable woman!"

  He'd gotten precious little sleep since that morning in the duck blind several weeks ago. Ashley had come into his arms willingly enough, as passionate as any wench he'd ever tumbled, more so for the innocence that had been behind it. He wanted her in his bed, hell yes, but what worried him even more was that he knew making love to her wouldn't be enough. With Ashley, it wouldn't be just the joy of her body—and hers was meant to give a man joy if any woman's was. It would be something he had never felt before. Something he had stopped searching for...

  His loins tightened with desire as he remembered the feel of her satin-soft skin against his... the faint lavender scent of her hair and clothes... and clean, sweet taste of her ripe lips. Every instinct had urged him to push her down in the hay and take his pleasure. She wouldn't have fought him. But in winning, he would have lost. He might have had use of that lovely body, but Ashley Morgan would have slipped through his fingers like river mist. She was like some wild forest creature. She'd have to be tamed before he put his mark on her. And the fear was that if he did, he might become the captured quarry.

  Why didn't I have sense enough to seek a whore in Chestertown, or accept Joan's open invitation? Instead, I spend my nights with a brush and canvas. Poor comfort for a man.

  The portrait was another thorn in his side. The image he carried of Ashley in his mind and the one he sweated over in oil were not the same. He had the eye and hair color, the lines of her chin, the stubborn mouth, but the essence that was Ashley Morgan eluded him.

  Kelt was jerked from his reverie by the sight of Ashley crossing the meadow at a full gallop. A high split-rail fence stretched between the horse and the prize house compound. He unconsciously caught his breath as he watched her tense for the jump, leaning forward on the stallion's neck, blending with the magnificent animal.

  The bay soared upward. For a heartbeat, horse and rider seemed almost one and Kelt's artist's soul longed to capture the moment on canvas. Then, suddenly, Ashley fell to the right, grabbed frantically at the stallion's mane, lost her grip, and tumbled to the ground.

  By the time Kelt reached the fence and threw himself out of the saddle, the bay had limped back to where Ashley lay and was sniffing her still form. Kelt dropped to his knees beside her. Her face was as white as tallow, her eyes shut. Over her left eye a purpling bruise seeped dark blood. "Ashley! Ashley!" he called. He brought his cheek to her lips; her breathing was so shallow as to be almost nonexistent.

  "Ashley. Ashley. You're bleeding, damn it." Kelt's voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "If you're bleeding, you've got to be alive. Dinna ye ken, lass? You've got to be alive!"

  Chapter 7

  Kelt gathered her in his arms, cradling her limp form against his chest. The thick lashes lay unmoving against her ashen cheeks with no hint of consciousness. She was heavier than he would have believed; the muscle and sinew of an athlete lay hidden beneath her womanly curves. Still he lifted her easily and carried her with sure strides toward the nearest cabin.

  The wound on her forehead continued to bleed. The trickle of blood ran into her hair, matting the red-gold tresses with an uglier shade of crimson. "Hold on," he said between clenched teeth. "Just keep breathing, lass."

  He could feel no broken bones, but her head must have struck a fence rail as she fell, or else that bastard stallion had caught her with a hoof. Kelt bit back an oath. He'd known the animal was too much for a woman... known she would come to grief. But he hadn't known how much he would care.

  A thick ache rose in his throat. He felt no fear, only an emptiness in the pit of his stomach. He'd seen men die from less of a blow than this. If Ashley died... He pushed back the thought. She was alive now and he would keep her that way. Where in God's name was the nearest physician? And if they found him, would he know anything about head wounds? Kelt would stand for no senseless bloodletting. What she needed was quiet and warmth to give her body the chance to mend itself.

  Ashley's saddle lay on the grass not far from where she had fallen. When Kelt found out who had saddled the stallion, that man would rue the day he'd left his mother's apron strings. He'd known from the first that it was the saddle that had failed, not the horse or rider. The bay's form had been perfect as he started the jump. When the cinch came loose, Ashley had lost her balance and gone over with it.

  "Ashley?" He might have been carrying a rag doll in his arms. Her lips were parted slightly; the bottom one was fast swelling. Her breathing was still faint, but it was the color of her face that frightened him. Except for the injured lip and the bruise on her forehead, she might have been carved from marble.

  "Cara!" he shouted as he neared the cabin door. "Your mistress is hurt! Make ready a bed!"

  The bondwoman threw open the door; behind her stood Mari. They moved away as Kelt carried Ashley into the cabin. The Indian woman pulled back the quilt on the bed and watched as the Scot laid her on the clean linen sheets.

  "She fell from her horse," Kelt said gruffly. His eyes met Mari's and he was stunned by the compassion and peace she radiated. "I canna wake her." His voice trailed off and he moved back to let Mari examine Ashley's head wound. Behind him, a child whimpered and Cara hushed it with a sharp whisper. "I think she hit her head on the fence," Kelt explained.

  Swiftly the copper-skinned woman brushed fingertips across Ashley's lips and then down to rest on the curve of her throat. "Bring water," she ordered in a soft lisp. She turned fierce obsidian eyes on a small boy. "Cold—from the well. Quickly." She motioned Kelt to a three-legged stool. "Sit there, or go if you will. I will tend her."

  To his surprise, Kelt obeyed. There was no sting to the crisp order. The woman's hands were knowledgeable; Ashley would come to no harm through her ministration, of that he was confident.

  He removed his hat and fumbled with the tie of his cloak. The room was low ceilinged and overly warm, but spotless. The neatness of the cabin had struck him when he'd eaten here with Ashley once before. In his experience, most bondmen's quarters were barely inhabitable. A small girl-child tugged shyly on his sleeve.

  "Yer cloak, sir." She bobbed her head and reached for it. "Ahh..." Her face blushed crimson and she stared down at her scuffed leather moccasins. "Do ye..."

  Cara cleared her throat loudly, coming to the child's rescue. "Will ye take 'freshment, Master Saxon? Somethin' to drink?"

  He shook his head. "No."

  Mari moistened Ashley's lips with a wet cloth, then gently wiped the blood from her forehead. The bleeding had nearly stopped, but the bruise was now an uglier purple.

  Kelt's eyes followed Mari as she continued to care for her patient. Her hands were scrupulously clean, her hair neatly braided in waist-long plaits. The decent gown was augmented by a brightly beaded vest and headband. Azure glass beads dangled from her ears. He wondered how old she was. There was no hint of gray in the crow
-black hair; no wrinkles lined her face. And when she spoke, he caught a glimpse of white, even teeth. She could have passed as a woman of twenty, but he knew that must be impossible if she had acted as mother to Ashley when she was growing up.

  "Why doesn't she wake?" he demanded. The warmth of the room seemed to close in on him. "Do you know if there is a physician in Chestertown?"

  Mari shook her head gently and laid a finger on her lips for silence. "Her soul has left her body." She sighed and the dark lashes drooped like birds' wings across the high cheekbones. "We must not move her. Only wait awhile. It will return. Her life force is strong." A faint smile lit the ebony eyes. "You care more for her than you know, Kelt Saxon. It is good."

  For one hour, two—Kelt couldn't be sure—he waited. Others pressed into the cabin, asked questions, and were shooed away by the women. The strong smell of cooking soup filled the room. Children fussed and were fed. A baby cooed. Someone put a mug of ale into Kelt's hand; he raised it to his lips but couldn't swallow. I think I love her, he thought with sudden clarity. God, help me, I think I love her, and I'll never have the chance to tell her so.

  Suddenly he was startled by the Indian woman calling his name.

  "Now, Kelt Saxon. Call her back from across the river. Call her. Now!" With surprising strength, Mari caught his arm and pulled him to the bedside.

  His breath came in ragged gulps. Ashley looked no different than she had since the fall. Her breathing might be a little stronger, but he couldn't be certain. He had gazed so long and hard at her pale face without seeing any hint of consciousness. Still, it did not occur to him to doubt the urgent command. "Ashley," he whispered.

  "No!" Mari's bronzed fingers bit into his forearm.

  "Call her! Bring her back now or you will lose her forever!"

  "Ashley!" He bent over the still form and took hold of her shoulders. "Ashley!" he ordered. "Come back!"

  A flicker of color stained her cheeks and she drew in a long breath. The fingers on her right hand moved.

  "Ashley." Kelt's bones felt as though they had turned to milk. He cupped her face between his callused hands. "Ashley, lass," he pleaded. "Wake up. Ye've slept long enough."

  Her eyelashes fluttered, then opened. For a fraction of a second Kelt gazed into the familiar spark. Then, as quickly as it had come, the light faded; the eyes staring back at him were empty. Her lids closed and the faint breath ceased.

  "Dah-hai-tha!" Mari cried. With a wail that chilled his blood, the Indian woman fell to her knees and began to weep.

  "Ashley!" Kelt shook her roughly. "Damn you, Ashley, you canna die on me!" Instinctively he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers in a bittersweet kiss of unsuppressed longing. Tears clouded his eyes as he cradled her against him, gently kissing the curve of her brow, the swollen bruise, and the corners of her mouth. "Nay, lassie," he entreated. "The grave shall not have ye. Now now... not yet."

  Ashley gave a little moan deep in her throat and stirred in his arms. The awful pallor of her skin darkened to rose and she sighed, opening her eyes. "Kelt?" Her lips moved in a silent question.

  Kelt's sigh of relief was heard above the whispers. Trembling, he laid her back against the pillow, answering her weak smile with a crooked grin.

  Ashley took another deep breath and raised a hand to her forehead. "What happened?" she whispered huskily.

  "You fell off your horse," Mari scolded. "What would your grandfather think?" She brought a cup of water and offered it to Ashley even as her eyes signaled Kelt that all was well. "Must I strap you to a cradleboard like a papoose? You frightened us half to death."

  "Aye," Kelt agreed. He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his tousled hair. "I told you that stallion was too much for a lass."

  Ashley chuckled, then winced at the pain. "Go away and leave me in peace. I've no wish to have you laughing at me, and me as weak as a kitten."

  Kelt mumbled a reply and walked stiffly from the cabin. A throng of men immediately surrounded him.

  "Is she dead?" Joshua demanded. "Is the mistress kilt?"

  "Cara said—"

  "It was a bump on the head, nothing more," Kelt said. "She is awake and giving orders." The cold air felt good on his skin, but he wanted to be alone. What in the name of all that was holy had happened in there? He had believed her dead... or had he? "Back to your work, all of you!" He turned to Joshua. "Find me the man who saddled Baron this morning." Anger was slowly replacing the confusion Kelt felt, and he was glad. He could deal with anger.

  Joshua tugged at his forelock, not deceived for a second by the overseer's soft burr. "Yes, sir. I will, Master Saxon. Right away."

  A servant held Kelt's dappled-gray gelding for him to mount. The Scot set a booted foot into the stirrup. "Was the stallion hurt?" he demanded.

  "No, sir. He's over there."

  Kelt waved them away and rode over to where the bay was tied. Dismounting, he ran his hands over the stallion's legs, searching for swollen tendons or cuts. "The devil looks after his own, I see," Kelt murmured to the horse. "You seem to be all of a piece."

  The stallion nickered and turned his head to gaze past the man. Kelt looked up to see Mari standing there, wrapped in a red wool blanket. "What happened in there?" he asked.

  The Indian woman shrugged and glanced up at the gray Tidewater sky, making a slight motion with her right hand. "Mesawmi," she said. The Algonquin lilt to her words made it almost a prayer. Stepping forward, she touched his arm "Wishemenetoo has blessed you. Do not question the power."

  "She was dead."

  Mari favored him with an elusive smile. "What is death, Kelt Saxon?" She took her hand away and the tension drained from his muscles. "Lenawawe... she lives. Accept it, and accept this." The narrowed eyes of the squaw gleamed with ardent fervor. "From this time on, your lives are joined. You will find no happiness without her... or she without you."

  Kelt shook his head. "I dinna ken your ways and they are hard for me to reconcile with logic." He let out a long breath and his brow furrowed. "Ye ask me to believe what I know is impossible, woman. I must think on this. But..." Gray eyes met black. "If anyone saved her life, it was you." He colored. "I've not had the best opinion of ye, but I was wrong. I can see why a mon would choose a woman like you. And I'd like to count ye as my friend, if it's still possible."

  "A man or a woman cannot have too many friends, overseer. Ashley has been the child of my heart. I would love you for her sake, no matter what you thought of me."

  "No," Kelt protested. "Now 'tis ye who doesna understand. There can be nothing between Ashley and me. I'm naught but her hired man."

  'Mari's laughter was quick and tinkling. "Nothing between you and Ashley? Not Mistress Morgan?" She chuckled again, covering her mouth like a child. "Because I do not use the silly titles you English give each other, don't think I don't know them." She pulled the scarlet blanket up over her hair. "Protest all you like, Kelt Saxon. What will be will be."

  "Aye, there's sense enough to that, I suppose," he granted. "You're certain she'll be all right?"

  She nodded. "She is strong. All she needs now is sleep and time for her head to heal."

  Kelt looked unconvinced. "The cut looked deep enough to need stitching. Perhaps we should fetch a physician."

  "To sew the wound would cause a scar. I will pull it together and bind it with herbs." Mari flashed another smile. "When the corn is green again, you will see it only when she is angry." She nodded to him in regal dismissal and turned back toward the cabin.

  "I'll take your word for it... and"—he grinned at her—"I'm nae English. Would you have me call ye Iroquois?"

  'Mari's laughter echoed across the deserted yard.

  * * *

  Tears rolled down Dickon's face as the boy struggled to keep from crying. "I saddled Baron, Master Saxon. But I done it right! I swear it!" He rubbed his face with a dirty sleeve. "The cinch was tight. I checked it afore I led him out!"

  Kelt closed the account book on the desk in front of hi
m and considered the protesting child. The blue eyes were full of desperation, but there was no guilt.

  Dickon was innocent; Kelt was certain of it. "All right, then. We'll say no more about it. It was an accident, and your mistress is on the mend."

  "Is she fer certain, sir?" Dickon sniffed and wiped his nose. "She ain't dyin'?"

  "Mistress Morgan will be about her business in a few days." It was true. Even now, Ashley was installed in her bedchamber upstairs. He'd heard her arguing with Joan only a few minutes ago. By the week's end, she'd be on that bay devil again, jumping fences, or he'd miss his guess.

  "Sir." The boy shifted nervously from foot to foot. "Am I to be beat?" The small chin stiffened. "I don't mind it, Master Saxon. But if I am, could you do it here?" The boy reddened even more. "I don't want to cry in front of them." He made a motion with his head toward the farmyard. "I ain't a coward, but I ain't sure I won't yell if you use a strap."

  Kelt got to his feet. "No, you're nae to be whipped. I'll take your word on it. I only wanted to be sure you had tightened the cinch properly."

  "Oh, thank you, sir." The tears flowed harder. "Thank you."

  "Off with you now. And I'll be wanting a horse after the evening meal. I want to check the guard posts myself. You can come wi' me if you like."

  "Yes, sir. I'll have Falcon ready at the gate for you. Right after supper." Dickon yanked at the hair that fell down over his forehead and backed from the room.

  Kelt closed the library door and walked to the fireplace. Kneeling before it, he added a cedar log to the fire. Ashley's fall had been no accident. He'd examined the saddle himself. The cinch strap had been cut nearly through; only a small fraction had been torn from Ashley's weight at the jump. The culprit was clever. He had covered the slice with molasses, rubbing it into the leather so that the person saddling the horse wouldn't notice the severed spot underneath. The problem was. Who was trying to kill Ashley and why?

  He'd told no one of his suspicion so far, not even Ashley. He'd taken the cut strap and hidden it in his room until he could decide what to do about it. As long as the culprit was unaware that they were on to him, it would be easier to catch him. A renewed fury surged through Kelt as he remembered the seconds he had believed Ashley to be dead. He'd find whoever was responsible and they would pay dearly. It was a promise!