by Sara Donati
The ridiculousness of the situation struck Lily then, and her shoulders began to shake with laughter.
“Ah, that's more like it,” Simon said. “Laughing Lily, come to me, lass.”
“I will not,” she said, fighting off his hands, but with less conviction now. When he caught her up against him and kissed her, the last of her resistance faded away.
“I'll make too much noise,” she said. “I can't help it.”
“That's true,” he said, pressing her down into the thin mattress, his hands to either side of her face. “You are a noisy wee thing when I've got you beneath me. And you wiggle too.”
“You are—” she said, and bit back a gasp.
“Just where I want to be,” he said against her mouth, and caught up every bit of noise she could make in his kiss.
In the morning she waited until the voltigeurs had left the cabin before she came out from behind the blanket to wash and dress in the warmth from the hearth. Simon had gone out some time ago to see to the horses and hitch them to the sleigh. Outside she could hear the voltigeurs, getting ready to be on their way. Lily raised her chin high to face the twenty-one men who had listened to the muffled sounds that came from the other side of the blanket.
If any one of them grinned at her, she would simply pull out the gun that Luke had given her, and shoot.
With this happy thought in her head she stepped out into the bitter morning cold. And found that their number had grown: the clearing around the cabin was crowded with soldiers—proper soldiers, in uniform and standing in formation—with no sign of Simon anywhere.
Lily was too surprised to be frightened until she saw Lieutenant MacLeod's expression, and understood there was some good reason for concern.
Then she saw a band of Mohawk warriors at the edge of the clearing. Among them was a familiar face, and she stepped off the porch in that direction without thinking.
“Miss,” said a very English voice behind her. “If you would be so good—”
“Sawatis!” Lily called, waving. And then, aloud in her surprise and pleasure: “That is my cousin Sawatis. Oh, and see my uncle Spotted- Fox with him.” She was so excited to see those two familiar faces that she forgot again that there was reason to be concerned, and she turned to the man who had addressed her with a great smile.
It would be much later before Lily came to realize how well timed her smile had been; at first, she only saw that the man she aimed it at was blinking in surprise. Then, slowly, he returned her smile with one of his own, albeit small and awkward. The effort made his cheeks jerk, as muscles seldom used will twitch when pressed into sudden service.
As distracted as she was, Lily could not help but note that the smile suited him; it turned a fine-looking man into a strikingly handsome one. Severe, yes, but with an intense quality in his eyes that must draw women to him.
She noted all of this with one part of her mind while the rest of it dealt with the jumble of questions that had no answers: Where was Simon? Who were these soldiers, wearing colors she did not recognize? And oddest of all, it seemed that her cousin and uncle had joined the fighting, on the side of the British Canadians, when Sawatis' brother Blue-Jay was somewhere on the St. Lawrence fighting for the American side.
Then Sawatis and Spotted-Fox were close enough and Lily went forward, quickly, her hands extended, and greeted them both in their own language, the familiar sounds gushing out like water from a crumbling dam. Tears in her eyes, and she dashed them away, impatient with herself.
To each of their children who lived to reach a certain age, Many-Doves and Runs-from-Bears had presented a choice: they could stay at Lake in the Clouds, or leave to make a life among the Kahnyen'kehàka. Blue-Jay had stayed and so would Annie, no doubt, both of them preferring English names and a red and white world to one that was, in Annie's eyes at least, monotone; Kateri and Sawatis had gone.
Kateri had taken a husband from the Turtle clan at Good Pasture, a serious young man called Broken-Blade, who might have also joined the fighting, for all Lily knew. With a pang she realized that she had given these matters—these life-and-death matters—little thought in the face of her own problems. But Good Pasture was a good twenty miles to the east of here, on land that the Canadians called their own, something that the Kahnyen'kehàka studiously overlooked.
Sawatis had wanted to be trained as a warrior, and so he was sent to the Wolf longhouse at Good Pasture, where his mother had been born. To Spotted-Fox, who would take on his training and see to it he learned what was necessary. Spotted-Fox had lost his own children to typhoid and measles, and was glad to accept the responsibility.
But here he was, the boy Lily had grown up with. She had played with him and wiped his face, and now his scalp was plucked and he wore stripes of paint on his cheekbones. He had chipped an eyetooth, but otherwise his smile was unchanged, and his hands on her shoulders made her realize how tall he had grown, and how strong.
He said, “Satahonhsata!” Listen. “Do not turn around to look at the officer behind you, he is already suspicious. Smile at me and listen.”
In the same language she said, “What of—” She hesitated to say the name. “The man who brought me this far?”
“He is being held on the other side of the cabin,” said Spotted- Fox.
“Held?” Lily echoed. “But why?”
Gooseflesh had risen all along her back but she smiled as she had been told, and wondered if her muscles might freeze just as they were.
“You must tread carefully, cousin,” said Sawatis. “And gather your courage to you. The officer is no fool, and he will question you closely.”
Of all the things Lily might have asked, one idea presented itself: it could be no coincidence that she had come across family just here and now. She said, “Why are you two here? What has happened?”
Sawatis stepped forward to put his arms around her; it looked like an embrace between cousins, but when he spoke at her ear it was nothing she wanted to hear. “The soldiers are on their way to Nut Island. We will go with them, now that you are here to carry our message back to Lake in the Clouds.”
She tried to speak but he quieted her with his expression, and the press of his hands. “My brother and yours have been taken prisoner,” he said. “They are being held in the garrison stockade on the island.”
“Miss Bonner,” said the officer, so close behind her now that Lily bumped into him when she tried to step backward. Then she pivoted awkwardly, lost her balance, and fell at his feet.
He bent down immediately, this man who had appeared without warning and changed everything in the world. The officer leaned in closer. Even in her duress she could not overlook that he was, in a word, beautiful. His face was square of jaw and perfectly proportioned, with eyes as blue as the sky overhead. As blue as her own, but cold.
“I startled you,” he said. “My apologies. Have you injured yourself?”
“My ankle,” Lily said, and then she did something she had never done before. Out of agitation, out of fear for herself and her brother, for Blue-Jay and Simon, out of anger and pain and shock, she burst into tears in front of this strange man, and gave him an advantage over herself.
Anyone who lived in Montreal knew of the King's Rangers, three hundred professional soldiers of the first stripe, Canadians and Englishmen. And in command of the corps a Major Christian Wyndham, born in Canada but schooled in England. The details came to Lily by way of the company surgeon, who was called immediately to look at her ankle as soon as she had been carried into the cabin.
Mr. Theriot was a French Canadian, a small, round man who stank of stale tobacco, mutton fat, and rum. Lily remembered Curiosity's dislike of Canadian doctors; she would give a great deal just now for Curiosity, who would deal with Theriot and Wyndham too, in short order. Lily felt a bubble of frantic laughter try to push itself out of her throat, and bit her lip.
The surgeon did not take long to examine her ankle, and he never took a lancet from the box of instruments he h
ad propped open—with a panther's skull, Lily saw—at his side.
She said, “I have a skull like that, at home.” And wondered how it was that such a thing could come out of her mouth at a time like this. The doctor didn't seem to notice, or care. He sat back on his heels and gave her moderately good news.
“The ankle is not broken,” he said. “But the sprain is serious. You have injured it before, I think?”
She agreed that, indeed, she had sprained it once as a girl, and quite badly. The same summer of the panther's skull; she almost said that too, but stopped herself by biting her tongue.
“A weak spot then. You will not be walking on it for a week at least, mademoiselle. I will bind it for you.”
The watery brown eyes considered her from underneath a tangle of eyebrows. “The major is waiting to question you, you realize.” He jerked his head over his shoulder. The blanket had been hung again, hastily, to provide her with some privacy.
“I can put him off while you rest for a few hours, if you prefer.”
Lily thought of Simon being held in the stable, under guard. She thought of Sawatis and Spotted-Fox and their news. For a moment she thought she might faint, but then she pinched the skin between thumb and first finger until her vision cleared.
“I am quite happy to speak to the major,” she said, conjuring up a smile from some spot inside her that she hadn't known existed.
Simon had been very specific: if they fell into unfriendly hands, she was to let him do the talking. But now he was somewhere else, and in his place was this man called Wyndham, with his cold smile and colder eyes.
He waited until a junior officer had helped her to the only stool in the cabin, set before the hearth. Then the same man went to a small table he had set up in the corner, where he bent over paper and picked up a quill.
This was an official inquiry, then. Lily did not know what to make of that, but she managed to keep her curiosity to herself and not ask any of the many questions that came to her, most of them highly unsuited to the occasion.
The major stood before her with his hands crossed on his back; Lily thought of reminding this English-schooled gentleman that it was rude to stare. Instead she counted the silver buttons that marched from the scarlet sash around his waist up the dark green coat to disappear in a ruffle of silver lace that spilled over a black velvet collar and lapels. His epaulettes were silver too. Altogether this Major Christian Wyndham was a splendid example of his kind, and now Lily remembered something: her teacher Monsieur Duhaut had been engaged to paint this man's portrait as soon as he returned to Montreal from an assignment to the west. No doubt she herself had prepared the very canvas where his likeness would be preserved, in green and black and silver. Lily thought of telling him that he had chosen the right unit—a scarlet coat would not have suited his complexion half so well. Instead she gave him a narrow and impatient smile.
The major did not like her smile, it seemed; he turned his back on her.
“Where are you going, Miss Bonner, in the middle of winter, and why?”
In a situation such as this, Luke and Simon had told her, the truth is the only defense. And what else? She struggled to remember. It came to her then: Say as little as possible, and volunteer nothing at all.
“Mr. Ballentyne is taking me home to my mother and father,” she said. She meant her voice to sound as it would when she spoke to any well-bred gentleman she might have met in her brother's parlor. She feared it did not, but then hoped that her fall and injury would explain any agitation.
“In the middle of winter, by such a backwoods route?”
“It is the fastest way to travel, in a sleigh. Or so I understand it.”
“And what is the hurry?”
She could not read his thoughts from the straight back or the set of his shoulders, but his tone gave her the idea that he did not believe anything she said.
Lily said, “That is a very personal question, sir.”
“One that requires an answer nonetheless, Miss Bonner.” He stood at the window, looking at his troops. The shutters had been pried away and lay about his feet in splinters.
Lily took a very deep breath. She said, “I wanted to be married at home, with my parents' blessing.”
“Ah,” said the major. “The infamous Nathaniel Bonner.”
To that Lily could say nothing. Of course her father's reputation would be known to this man. He had caused the British army enough trouble over the years.
Major Wyndham said, “I know your mother, or I knew her.”
Lily tried to look politely disinterested. “In England?”
“Yes, in England. You are familiar with the Spencers of Manhattan?”
Uneasy, Lily shifted and remembered her ankle, too late; it began to throb more insistently. “I have an uncle Spencer—”
“Once Viscount Durbeyfield,” said the major. “A traitor, I am sorry to say, to king and country. This continent seems to breed them.”
“Sir,” Lily said. “Whatever quarrel you have with my uncle, it has nothing to do with me.”
He shot her a sharp look. “You are not in Canada at your uncle's request?”
Lily wondered if she looked as surprised as she felt. “I came to Montreal to study painting.”
“That is the story people tell, yes.” He studied her as though she were some odd insect, and Lily did not like it.
She said, “I am not a spy, I never have been.” She thought to say that she had not seen her uncle Spencer in two years. Then she remembered that she was not to volunteer anything.
It struck her suddenly as almost funny, that this man should really believe she might be a spy. She might have laughed, but for the way he was contemplating her; but for her brother and Blue-Jay.
“And your brother?”
She started to have her thoughts plucked from her head and presented in words, but the major didn't notice. He was gesturing to the ensign who stood at attention at the door. He was so young that Lily doubted he had to worry about a beard. The boy was well trained, at any rate; he brought the major the papers he wanted without even glancing at Lily.
What Wyndham held in his hand, Lily saw now, were her own papers. The letters from home in her mother's handwriting, her sister's, Curiosity's. She closed her eyes and fought her temper, concentrating on the throb in her head and ankle, on the vision of her brother in chains.
“Your brother serves in the American militia.” It was not a question, and so she did not answer it. He did not seem to know that Daniel had been taken prisoner, and she couldn't think what that might mean: was it good news, or bad?
After a while he said, “You have nothing more to say in your own defense?”
“If you are accusing me of spying, then I say very firmly that I am not, and have never been, a spy.”
“You speak Mohawk,” he said.
Lily pulled up in surprise. “I do, yes.”
“Fluently.”
“I learned it as a child.”
“And the Mohawk seem to consider you family.”
“We are family, by marriage.”
His gaze narrowed. “I should not pronounce such a thing so proudly, if I were you.”
“But of course,” Lily said, her anger pushing up again, harder to govern with every passing moment. “You would not. But I am proud of all my family.”
That earned her a sharp look. “Even the ones who fight for England?”
She said, “Even them. They have their own reasons.”
“You would be an asset to Montgomery's efforts here, Miss Bonner. I am tempted to take you with me.”
Her mouth snapped shut with a sound. She started to speak and then stopped herself. After a moment, during which he waited with something like curiosity in his expression, she said, “You would interfere with the business of a private citizen?”
He inclined his head, as if he might actually consider this line of reasoning. “In time of war, yes. Of course. Does that surprise you?”
“Si
r, you are a stranger to me. How could anything you do surprise me?”
At that he laughed. A sharp, barking sound but a laugh nonetheless. Turning back to the window he rocked on his heels, his chin bedded on his chest while he thought.
“It is tempting,” he said finally. “But no. I don't care to bring the wrath of Carryck down on my head. There are more important things to attend to just now.”
Lily forced herself to take a deep breath, once and then again. She felt his eyes on her.
“You may go,” he said. “You and Mr. Ballentyne.”
She said, “I want my things returned to me. My letters, and whatever else you have taken from the sleigh.”
He tilted his head at her. “But of course, Miss Bonner. I am at your command.”
She saw him hesitate. A little color had come into his face now, and Lily realized that they were not done, after all.
He said, “I wish you a safe journey, Miss Bonner. It is a dangerous one, certainly.”
“I grew up in these forests,” Lily told him. “They do not frighten me.”
“It is not trees that you need fear,” said Major Wyndham. “But men.”
Once Simon had assured himself that Lily was well, and she had done the same, they set out. Neither of them was in the mood for talk, once the basic information had been exchanged, and so they traveled in silence. Lily, so agitated that she could have run the rest of the way to Lake in the Clouds, found herself pushing with her feet against the floorboards.
Mile by mile, Simon retreated behind a mask she could not quite read: fury, certainly, but also something of damaged pride. There was nothing to say to that; no matter how undeserved the guilt he was feeling—and Lily was not sure, to be honest, that he hadn't misjudged—anything she might say would only make it worse. Men did not like to be comforted in times like this, even if she had had any comfort to offer.
In the first fading light of the afternoon Lily looked up and saw that they had ended where they began, at Sorry Tom's cabin. The King's Rangers were gone; if not for the trampled snow and the leavings of the officers' horses, Lily thought, there would be no sign of them having been here at all.