Lovestorm

by Judith E. French

  “A bride without spirit is like cold soup.” He grinned wryly. “This one does not think he has taken such a woman.”

  “We are not married,” she insisted. “Your corn and water mean nothing to me. I am a Christian.”

  “We trick you, but you say the words. Cocumtha gives the blessing. English, Lenni-Lenape, does not matter. We be man and woman. Water and corn taste the same no matter what the tongue speaks.”

  “You’ve taken leave of whatever sense you ever had!” Elizabeth flung back. “I’ll not be bullied by you or your crazy grandmother.” Angrily, she spun around and stalked off toward the wigwam. “If you come in here,” she threatened, “come at your own risk.”

  Cain watched her until she ducked inside the skin entrance flap of the wigwam. He had known Eliz-a-beth would be angry when she found out she was his wife. He hoped that anger would cool in the days and nights to come.

  The rays of the rising sun warmed his back. Taking a deep breath, he walked to the water’s edge and raised his arms in silent prayer, giving thanks to the Creator for a new day. When the familiar ritual was complete, he cast aside his loincloth and waded out into the rolling surf.

  The ocean water was cold and invigorating. Scooping up handfuls of sand, Cain scrubbed his chest and arms until they tingled. Salty foam lapped about his thighs as he walked out into deeper water. The sea floor was smooth sand, gently tapering to a dropoff beyond the breaking waves.

  The high, shrill hunting cry of an osprey sounded above the raucous clamor of the gulls, and Cain paused to stare up at the majestic bird swooping low over the water. It was a mighty sea hawk with a wingspread of six feet and gleaming white talons.

  “Greeting, brother,” Cain called to the huge black and white bird.

  The hawk dipped one wing, as if in salute, then dove and plucked a wiggling fish from the water. Clutching the fish, the bird rose into the air and flew inland, toward the shallow bay.

  Cain took a deep breath and plunged into the blue-green water. He opened his eyes, despite the salt sting, and swam a long way before surfacing. Then he floated on his back, letting his mind dwell on the foreign woman he had just taken as his wife.

  To trick Eliz-a-beth was wrong, but to take her without benefit of a marriage ceremony would be a greater wrong. There was no doubt in his mind that this was the woman promised to him by his spirit guide, and nothing would convince him that she did not return his love for her. It might be weeks or months before another of his people came to the beach—too long to wait for a proper wedding.

  The Lenni-Lenape code was rigid. A man might lie with a willing widow or a divorced woman. Those women were free to do as they chose without reproach. But for one such as Eliz-a-beth—a virgin—it was different. A man of honor could make love to a maid only if he made her his wife. That Eliz-a-beth was English made no difference. He was Lenni-Lenape; he was bound by the law.

  When Cain’s first wife and small daughters had died of the white man’s measles, he had wanted to follow them to the dream land. For many turns of the moon he had mourned them with a heavy heart. Then his grandmother had summoned him and bade him seek a vision. That vision had brought him here to the edge of the sea, had brought laughter back to his heart—and had prepared him for this woman with hair like autumn grass.

  The wait had been a long one. Twice, the time of snow and ice had come and gone. Twice, he had watched the pale green of new grass break through the sleeping earth. And then, when he was beginning to doubt the wisdom of his lonely vigil, the dolphins had led him to Eliz-a-beth.

  Even so, he had been patient, teaching her the ways of the people and letting her come to trust him. Night after night, he had lain awake listening to her soft breathing with the blood running hot in his veins. His desire for this Englishwoman was great, but he knew she must come to him of her own will.

  The night they had watched the gray vixen and her cubs, all was changed. Eliz-a-beth had come into his arms. He had seen the longing for him in her eyes, eyes the color of a stormy sea. He had wanted her as badly as he had ever wanted anything in his life, wanted to carry her to his sleeping platform and share the joys of the mat with her.

  Cain dove again, swimming with powerful thrusts of his legs to the bottom of the sea. A school of fish swam around him, moving with infinite grace. A larger shadow, perhaps a skate, hovered close to the sand. Cain swam until it felt as though his lungs were bursting, then at last he broke the surface and sucked in great mouthfuls of air.

  “I have waited long for you, Eliz-a-beth,” he shouted above the crash of the surf. “Now I have made you my wife, and I will wait no longer!”

  Chapter 8

  “Eliz-a-beth.” Cain crouched to enter the wigwam a short time later. “We must talk.”

  She raised her head and stared at him. “Yes. We must.” She swung her feet off the edge of her sleeping platform and sat up; her eyes were swollen and red with weeping, and her hair was plaited in one untidy braid that hung over her left shoulder.

  Cain smiled as he thought how beautiful she was. “You look like a sleepy child.”

  “Stop it! Don’t try to charm me. What you did was wrong. Don’t you realize that?” Her eyes darkened with anger. “You can’t force me to become your wife.”

  Cain took a few steps toward her and she stiffened. Immediately, he crouched down. “Be it wrong to love you, Eliz-a-beth?”

  “Yes, if it makes you hold me prisoner and try to trick me into marriage.” She rose to her feet. “I’m not an animal, Cain. You can’t trap me and hold me against my will.”

  His voice deepened. “You were promised to me in a vision. I took you from the sea.”

  “It was your vision—not mine!” She drew in a shuddering breath. “You treat your grandmother with honor, but what about me?”

  Cain winced at her harsh words. “You do not understand. I would never force—”

  “You’re forcing me now! I’m English, can’t you get that through your thick head?” Angry tears gathered in the corners of her eyes and she blinked them away. “I’m not an Indian, and you aren’t English.”

  “Cocumtha was born white, but she became one of the true people.”

  “If she is the real Virginia Dare, she was a baby when she went to live with the Indians. She never knew any other life. I have! Don’t you understand? ”

  He swallowed, struggling for composure. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. They were wed. Eliz-a-beth was supposed to throw herself into his arms, to let him touch her in the ways of a man and woman, to touch him. “You would have me take you to Jamestown so you might join with another man?”

  “You must. If you hold me here, I will hate you for the rest of my life.”

  Cain’s vision blurred as he turned away and left the wigwam. His stride lengthened, and he broke into a run, inhaling deep breaths as his feet flew over the hard-packed sand at the ocean’s edge.

  She is mine! I cannot give her up! He continued to run, staring with unseeing eyes at the beach ahead of him. Sweat beaded on his forehead and chest; the sinews in his powerful legs ached with the strain.

  Tawny sandpipers fluttered up in alarm as the man raced past them, and gulls screamed and wheeled over his head. He ran on, welcoming the pain of tired muscles, glad for anything that would distract him from the anguish in his heart.

  At last he slowed and sank down on the warm sand. The sound of the surf was loud in his ears as the image of Eliz-a-beth’s tearstained face rose to haunt him. I will hate you for the rest of my life, she had said.

  ″K’dalhole, Eliz-a-beth,” he whispered hoarsely. “I love you.” He choked back the sadness that threatened to overwhelm him. “I love you . . . but it is not enough.”

  For long moments he sat there, letting handfuls of sand run through his fingers. Then he stood up and began to retrace his steps.

  The sun was directly overhead when Cain reached the campsite. Elizabeth was waiting for him by the water’s edge, watching with reproachful eye
s as he drew near.

  “I take you back to your people on the next tide,” he told her.

  Her eyes widened in astonishment. “You’ll take me?”

  “I have said it.”

  “Oh. I—”

  Cain silenced her with a fierce look. “I take you to Jamestown. See this Englishman you wish to have as husband. Search his soul and your own. For the time of one turning of the moon I leave you to him, then I come again. The choice be yours, Eliz-a-beth.”

  Her face lit with joy as she took a hesitant step toward him. “Thank you, Cain.”

  “Do not thank me. I was wrong. Only a woman free to follow her own heart can be true wife to Shaakhan Kihittuun.”

  For five days, Cain paddled the small boat along the coast. Elizabeth sat in front of him, watching the sea birds and the passing shoreline, lost in her own thoughts. Cain seldom spoke to her, and he never sang as he had done on their earlier ventures at sea.

  They rode the tides southward, paddling for six hours, then pulling the dugout onto the sand to wait for the change of tide in another six hours. Elizabeth slept in fits and snatches—Cain seemed to never sleep. Although they saw no sign of human life, he grew more vigilant with each day’s passing.

  The weather remained fair, so they could camp on the beach at night with only the overturned boat as shelter. After the first three days, Cain refused to light a fire. They survived on dried fish, corn cakes, and a chewy mixture of dried meat, bear fat, and berries that he called pemmican. Twice, he left her alone while he went inland to find fresh water.

  The third time Cain went in search of water it was late at night, and they had beached the dugout on a small, wooded island. Elizabeth curled up in her deerskin and closed her eyes. If she slept, she wouldn’t hear the night noises or stare fearfully out into the darkness. This time, however, sleep wouldn’t come.

  Her initial excitement at the prospect of returning to her own world had dampened with each league they’d traveled. She had to admit to herself that she felt some regret in leaving the Eden she’d shared with Cain. She wondered what it would be like to rise to the clamor of bustling servants and be cinched into tight garments each morning, rather than awakening to birdsong and slipping a single loose dress over her head.

  Reaching Jamestown would mean the end of a freedom she had experienced in the wilderness but had never known in England. A lady of her station had a certain position to maintain. If she wished to keep her respectability, she must establish a staff of chaste female servants and wellborn ladies-in-waiting. She would spend her days surrounded by other people. Each hour of her day would be filled with routine activity—instructing the cook and housemaids, entertaining, being fitted for gowns by the mantuamaker, having her hair styled, and attending church services. There would be no leisurely walks alone on a pristine beach, no nights sitting before a flickering fire with the echoes of an eagle-bone flute wafting on the salt air.

  Doubtless, she and her betrothed would be wed as soon as the banns could be cried. She would be the subject of rampant gossip because she had spent weeks in the company of a red savage. It would be necessary to begin her life as wife and mistress of Edward Lindsey with as much decorum as possible in this uncivilized colony. Any doubts Edward had about her morals would be soothed as soon as they bedded. Her maidenhead was intact, and he would be the one to part it. As long as her husband believed she was pure, it wouldn’t matter what others speculated.

  Elizabeth’s maid, Bridget, had told her before she left England that even virgin brides didn’t always bleed enough to please jealous bridegrooms. With a little coaxing, the sassy wench had passed on a trick that she’d claimed Irish colleens had used for time out of time.

  “Not that I’d be suggestin’ ye would ha’ need o’ such a scheme yerself, m’lady,” Bridget had exclaimed with an exaggerated wink. “ ‘Tis just a bit o’ blarney.” She’d grinned broadly, exposing a missing tooth. “But they do say a lady should go nowhere wi’out her sewin’ bag—not even to her marriage bed.”

  Elizabeth opened her eyes and stared up at the myriad of twinkling lights that spilled across the heavens. Often on clear nights, Cain had pointed out groups of stars and told her stories about them—the rabbit, a pair of twin hunters, an eagle, and a throwing stick. She would miss their evenings together—she would miss Cain. She was going back to a life he could have no part of, but she knew that he would be hard to forget.

  They had come close to being much more than captor and captive; they had nearly become lovers. For a minute, Elizabeth let herself wonder what if. What if Cain had never agreed to return her to Jamestown? What if she had remained with him and become his wife?

  She exhaled sharply and shook her head. The shock of the shipwreck and her ordeal in the longboat had doubtlessly addled her brain. She’d been confused and ill, unable to reason. The physical attraction she’d felt for Cain must have been the result of that emotional turmoil. They were as unsuited to each other as a wolf would be to one of King Charles’s spaniels.

  She wiggled to get comfortable on the sand and noticed a star low in the east. Puzzled, she peered through the darkness at the unusually bright flicker and sat up. The star seemed so close. No, it’s not a star, it’s a light, she thought. “A boat lantern!”

  Suddenly, Cain materialized beside her. “Shhh,” he warned. “Make no sound.”

  “But it looks like-”

  “Shhh,” he ordered sternly. “Danger.”

  The strains of human voices echoed across the water, but it was too great a distance for Elizabeth to understand what they were saying.

  “It is a boat,” she whispered, shivering with excitement.

  Cain caught her wrist. “Come!” Pulling her along, he hurried toward the low shrub pines at the center of the island. “Trust me, Eliz-a-beth.”

  Once they reached the first trees, Cain began to run, dragging her after him. Bushes scratched her face and arms and caught in her hair. Finally, when she stumbled on the uneven ground, he slowed his pace. Elizabeth was breathing hard when he finally stopped beside a fallen cedar tree.

  Quickly, he tore aside the branches. “In here. Hide,” he commanded.

  “Why? They may be Englishmen.”

  “Or Spaniards.” He shoved her into the hole and piled the branches on top of her. “Ships come to this place for water. Stay here and make no sound.”

  “You’re leaving me alone?”

  “I must move the dugout.”

  Elizabeth felt something alive walking on the back of her neck. She stifled the urge to scream and swatted at it. She looked back at Cain, but he was gone, as elusive as the pale sliver of moonlight that pierced her hiding place.

  She squirmed trying to find a comfortable spot, and the creature resumed its maddening march down her spine. “Ugh,” she exclaimed, rubbing her back against the log. The prickly sensation stopped, and she concentrated on the mosquito buzzing dangerously close to her nose.

  This is ridiculous, she thought. If that is a ship out there, what makes him think they’re Spaniards? Why not Dutch or English? She made a tiny sound of disgust. I’m probably hiding like a rat in a hole from my own rescuers.

  A branch snapped to her left, and gooseflesh rose on her arms. The mosquito bit her cheek, but she was afraid to move to brush it away. Something rustled in the underbrush, and without warning a huge flapping shape descended toward the ground. An animal squealed and Elizabeth’s teeth clamped shut, catching a bit of flesh on the inside of her lip. She tasted the salty bite of blood as her eyes locked on the thrashing shadows.

  Then a man’s voice rang out of the darkness. Elizabeth couldn’t understand what he was saying, but she recognized the words as Spanish.

  Almost at once, a second man answered. She made out the word agua—which she knew meant water—and the name Manuel. Their voices rose, and they seemed to be arguing.

  Elizabeth gasped as an enormous white bird fluttered up, still clutching its prey. for a few seconds, the creature
lit on a branch overhead and was silhouetted against the moon. Then it stretched its wings and glided off as silently as a ghost.

  The silence was broken by male laughter and the low murmur of conversation.

  Another mosquito drilled into Elizabeth’s shoulder, but she was too frightened to move a muscle. Spaniards this far north of the Caribbean could only be pirates or privateers. If they found her hiding place, she’d probably be raped and murdered. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck, and her legs cramped as she strained to hear the men.

  To her relief, their voices grew fainter and then faded. The only sounds she could hear were the drone of insects and the low rumble of the surf. Elizabeth felt brave enough to smack the next mosquito that landed on her arm.

  “Eliz-a-beth.”

  She started, clamping a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out as a man’s form dropped from a tree branch a few yards away.

  “Shhh.” Cain pushed aside the brush and climbed into the hole beside her. “This one believes they are gone,” he whispered. “We wait.” He put an arm around her and leaned back against the tree trunk, positioning his bow carefully across his lap.

  “They were Spaniards. I heard them.”

  “So.”

  Elizabeth’s heartbeat slowed to normal. “How did you know they weren’t English?”

  “The English fear the night. Bad men fear day.”

  “Will they find our dugout?”

  ″Mata.”

  She tucked her hand into his. “I was afraid. How long were you hiding in the tree?”

  “Shhh. I keep you safe, Eliz-a-beth.”

  They waited in the darkness. Once the silence was broken by the muffled boom of a cannon and then a single musket shot. Cain’s arm tightened around her shoulders when they heard the shooting.

  Elizabeth’s eyelids grew heavy, and she let her head rest against Cain’s shoulder.

  Someone was shaking her. Elizabeth groaned and tried to ignore them. She was dreaming of the grand ball at Lady Upton’s country house. Two gentlemen of the King’s bedchamber were—