Judith E. French (10 page)

Water dripped down the hull wall, making Cailin’s blankets damp and giving the Trumby twins a cold. When the serving girl began to sneeze, Cailin could stand it no longer. She left the cabin and went topside.

Disregarding the stares of crewmen, she found a secluded spot near the stern of the vessel and let the sun and sea wash away the sights and odors of sickness. She’d not been there an hour when Sterling approached her.

She turned her head away, trying to ignore the thrill of excitement that rippled through her at the sight of his sun-bronzed features and piercing dark eyes.

He draped an arm carelessly around her shoulders. “Not planning on going for a swim, are you?” he asked sarcastically.

“Not this morning,” she replied, shaking off his arm. She refused to be drawn into another argument with him. If they fought, she knew he’d send her below again. One more day of Mistress Stark’s wailing and Cailin knew she’d lose her mind.

“You’re not ill, are you?”

She shook her head. “Nay.”

Why did looking at Sterling always make her heart race? Memories of their time together in the widow’s lodgings flashed across her mind, and she felt her cheeks grow warm as she pictured him standing before the fireplace stripped to the waist. The broad expanse of his smooth chest, the swelling muscles of his upper arms, and the way his unbound hair fell over his shoulders were enough to make a holy nun forsake her vows.

And she had never been a nun.

He brushed a wayward curl away from her eyes, and she flinched at the heat of his touch.

His black gaze twinkled with mischief. “Easy,” he soothed, as though she were a flighty mare. A slow grin revealed his even white teeth. “Peace, little wife. I’ve brought you a gift.”

“I need nothing from you,” she replied sharply. But she did. Heaven help her, she did.

“Trust me. You’ll like this.” He dug into a pocket and produced a fat green summer apple. “Eat this,” he said, offering it to her.

“Is it poisoned?” The words were out before she could guard her acid tongue, but she snatched the fruit before he could take back his offer.

He moved closer, watching her with those devil eyes that seemed to burn into her skin. “You needn’t worry about that. If you drive me to murder, you’ll know it. You are an exasperating woman, Cailin Gray.”

Cailin Gray.
Was that her name now? Not MacGreggor, but Gray. How strange it sounded. She shook her head. It wouldn’t do to think too much about that. Next, she’d be wondering why, if she was a wife, she wasn’t fulfilling a wife’s duties to her husband. “Some men have called me difficult before, but I dinna believe them,” she replied.

He pushed her hooded cloak back, and his fingers brushed her temple. She shivered, but not from the cold wind off the water. Then, a sudden gust caught her linen cap, sending it flying across the waves.

“Sorry,” he said huskily. “I didn’t mean for you to lose your cap.”

He was staring at her hair. She’d braided it into two plaits and curled them around her head like a crown. The cap had held them firmly in place, but now the wind played havoc with the wayward strands.

“’Tis just a cap,” she said. “I have another.” It wasn’t the hat he was talking about and they both knew it. “Ye provided me with a generous wardrobe, and I am grateful.”

“The other women—are they kind to you?”

She laughed. “Kind? To a Scot?” Little chance of that. Granny Williams made rude remarks when she was awake, and Mistress Trumby had forbidden her daughters to speak to Cailin. Instead, they simply stared at her with stupid, sullen faces. “We have not exchanged blows yet.” She smiled up at him. “As ye bid me, I am on my very best behavior.”

“See that you remain that way.”

She polished the apple on her sleeve and bit into it. The fruit was sour but juicy, and she relished the sharp bite on her tongue. He stood beside her in silence as she finished the apple, and she found his company strangely comforting.

“Save the seeds, and we’ll plant them on our land,” he said.

“Do apples grow in America?”
Our land,
he had said.
Our land.
The notion thrilled her. “What is it like—the Maryland Colony? I’ve heard of the redmen and the great trees, but I ken little else. Will ye have sheep and cows? I’m a good milker, and I churn the sweetest butter you’ve ever tasted.”

“There are mighty stretches of virgin forest,” he said, “with trees as high and wide as London towers. And there are clear, fast rivers, and a bay the likes of which you’ve never seen. Wheat grows from the rich earth, and corn, and tobacco. It’s been a long time since I’ve been there myself, but I remember heavens dark with flocks of geese and...”

Cailin found herself listening eagerly to his stories of the wilderness. For minutes that stretched into hours, she stood next to the man who was her greatest enemy and shared his dream of an untamed land to the west... a place where the waters teemed with fish and the hungry soil waited for apple seeds. And for a little while, both of them forgot their grievances, and they laughed together and talked like any newlywed couple bound for a new life and a bright future.

 

Far to the north of Dover, in Scotland, on the outskirts of the settlement of Fort William, a small boy watched the road and wiped tears from his grimy face with the back of his hand. “Cailin said she’d come for us. She promised.”

Big Fergus stopped and mopped the sweat from his broad face. The rock balanced precariously on his shoulder weighed more than a six-month calf, but that worried him not nearly as much as the child’s anguish. Thinking came hard to him. He was slow; he knew it. He’d always known it. And he’d long ago given up trying to figure things out for himself and just concentrated on following orders.

The Lady Cailin had entrusted the little chief to his care. “Go with him and protect him,” she’d said. “More than God, I count on you.” Those were her very words. Fergus had repeated them over and over in his mind. He didn’t like to remember the rest of what she’d said... the part about the ghost hounds eating him skin and bones. Fergus didn’t like scary stuff like silkies and haunts.

Just plain dead people didn’t bother him. He’d seen a lot of dead men and women in his life—more this past year than ever. But he’d found good work in digging graves since they came to Fort William. No, dead folk didn’t bother anyone. But ghosts... A shiver came over him just thinking about them.

“Fergus! Get to work! Do ye think this wall will build itself?” Artair Cameron shouted.

He shouted more too, bad stuff about Fergus being as stupid as a rock, but Fergus didn’t listen to that. He just dropped the stone into place and went to pick up another. He liked building stone fences. All he had to do was lift and carry. Somebody smarter would tell him where to put the rocks.

Fergus glanced back at Corey. He was a wee mite to be the MacLeod of Glen Garth, but Fergus guessed he’d grow in time. Corey was smart. Thinking never bothered him, and he never called Fergus names either. He’d make a laird a man could be proud to serve.

“You boy!” Artair yelled. “Stop sniveling and tote that water bag over here.”

Fergus frowned. Artair was mean to Corey too. He didn’t care that Corey was heir to Glen Garth or that his father had died at Culloden Moor. He’d paid Lady Cailin’s kin, the Stewarts, for the boy’s indenture, and now he was working the lad hard. Corey had cried a lot when Artair had sold his pony. And Artair kept threatening to get rid of Corey’s sheepdog. Corey thought a lot of that dog. Fergus didn’t think the boy could stand it if Artair killed his dog.

“Big Fergus. Big Fergus!”

Fergus looked down. Corey was tugging at his arm. Fergus smiled at him and bent down to look the lad square in the eye. “Aye, little laird, what is it?”

“Something’s happened to Cailin,” the bairn replied.

“What?” Fergus’s mouth dropped open. He straightened up and stared around him. “What’s happened to Lady Cailin?” he asked in astonishment. He didn’t see anything amiss. The only thing moving along the road was a flock of sheep.

“She said she’d come,” Corey insisted. “She promised. If she didn’t come, it’s because something’s wrong. She needs our help, Fergus.”

Fergus blinked. Artair was yelling again, but he didn’t pay any mind to him. Corey had said that the lady needed his help.

“We’re going home,” Corey declared. “Home to Glen Garth.”

Fergus chewed at his lower lip, trying to remember if the lady had said anything about
not
going home. While he was studying on it, Artair ran over and backhanded Corey. A black wave of anger swept over Fergus. “No!” he cried. “Dinna hit the bairn!”

Corey got to his feet. Blood was running down his chin, and his lip was swelling up like a pig’s bladder. “I’m going home!” he cried defiantly.

“You’ll do as I say, you little bastard,” Artair said. He swung his clenched fist at Corey’s head.

Fergus’s arm blocked the blow.

Artair turned on him. His hand went to the dirk at his waist. The knife slipped out of the leather sheath with a hiss, and the steel blade winked in the hot sun.

“Big Fergus!” Corey screamed.

Fergus meant to knock the weapon out of Artair’s hand. But the knife sliced a gash in his forearm, and the pain made him react without thinking. When the black fog receded from his head, Corey was pulling on his leg and Artair lay against the stone wall.

Artair wasn’t moving.

Something told Fergus that Artair wouldn’t get up—not then or later.

He looked down at the boy. “I hurt him, Corey. I hurt him bad. What do I do now?”

Corey’s small fingers entwined with his. “We’re going to Glen Garth to find Cailin and Grandda James.”

Fergus glanced at Artair’s sprawled form again. “I hurt him bad.”

“He was a bad man.”

Fergus’s throat felt funny. “You’re not mad?”

Corey shook his head. “You did right.”

“The lady won’t set the ghost hounds on me?”

“No, she won’t. I promise you.” He whistled to the black and white sheepdog. “Come on, Big Fergus. We’re going home.”

 

H
uge white snowflakes drifted lazily down to dust the ship’s yards, frost the rails and bowsprit, and lay in frothy heaps amid the stacked bales and barrels that crowded the deck. Cailin stood amidships, wrapped in her woolen cloak, oblivious to the salt-raw air and the raucous cries of seagulls that swooped overhead.

Passengers and crew crowded the railing, staring and pointing at the cluster of buildings just beyond the market square, and waving at people on shore. In the midst of all the excitement, Cailin felt as alone and confused as she had ever been in prison.

We’re finally here, she thought. So this is the Maryland Colony we’ve come so far to reach. Months had passed since the
Galway Maid
had sailed from Dover. Since then, the crew and passengers had weathered storms and becalmings, cholera, measles, and smallpox. A French pirate schooner had fired on them off the coast of the Canaries, and two Spanish sloops had chased them for days in the warm Caribbean waters.

Illness and bad luck had taken a toll on Cailin’s cabin mates. Old Mistress Williams had given up the ghost halfway across the Atlantic; one of the Trumby twins had died of fever, and Reverend Stark’s maid had fallen overboard and been eaten by sharks one day out of Jamaica.

Cailin had remained remarkably strong. When she’d discovered that Agnes Williams had brought two cows aboard the
Galway Maid,
she’d volunteered to care for the animals and milk them morning and night. The milk was supposed to supply the captain’s table, but Cailin made certain that she drank her share. The sea air had stimulated her appetite, and she was constantly hungry. Most of the women would leave the ship pale and wan-looking; she had regained muscle and curves that she’d lost in the dungeons of Edinburgh castle.

Scotland and the tragedy at Culloden seemed almost a lifetime ago. In so much time, her grandfather might have passed on. Her sister, or even Corey, might be dead. She turned her hand palm up and watched as snowflakes lit and melted there. Were the graves of her loved ones white with snow as well? she wondered. Or had they found a way to survive under Butcher Cumberland’s fist?

She glanced around the deck but didn’t see Sterling. He was probably still with that deckhand, she decided. In the Canaries, the
Galway Maid
had taken on a new crewman, Beck Erikson, a native of Lewes on the Delaware Bay. The sailor had been a farmer before going to sea and was able to answer many of Sterling’s questions about planting seasons and crops in the mid-Atlantic Colonies.

Sterling had written down all that Beck had told him in detail in a journal. “I lived in America as a child,” Sterling had explained to her on one of the occasions when they had shared a few hours together, “but I don’t know much about agriculture other than what I’ve read in books. My mother’s people raise corn and beans, but the fields are considered women’s work. Shawnee men are hunters and fishermen. I’ve a lot to learn if I want to become a successful planter.”

Other than short periods on deck, and once when they’d gone ashore in Jamaica, Cailin had seen little of Sterling. They were not important enough to be asked to the captain’s table for dinner, and Sterling could hardly come to the crowded women passengers’ cabin to talk with her. Since he slept in the fo’-c’s le with the crew, she could not venture there if she’d wanted to—which she hadn’t. At least, that’s what she’d convinced herself.

Although she and Sterling had had little opportunity to be together on the voyage, she felt that she knew him much better than she had when they’d set sail from England. He had a quick mind, a good sense of humor, and an obvious passion to learn whatever would aid him in his new life. Despite their differences, she’d found much to admire in his self-control and strength.

He desired her. She saw it in his face; she heard it in his husky voice. She read it in his dark, piercing gaze that seemed to sear her skin more than the relentless sun overhead.

He wanted her, but he had not forced himself on her sexually. He was her lawful husband, but he’d not used his right to her body as a weapon against her. If he had, she could have summoned all her will to fight him. As it was, she thought about him day and night.

He haunted her dreams.

She found herself unconsciously spinning fantasies that made her blush crimson in the light of day. They were lewd, blatantly sexual flights of fancy that no decent woman could ever admit to conceiving, even with her husband.

And they had become worse since the day the ship had anchored in Kingston, Jamaica, to take on fresh food and water. Most of the passangers and crew had gone ashore, and she’d accepted Sterling’s invitation to spend the afternoon on dry land. It had begun innocently enough.

But she’d allowed herself to be caught up in the excitement of seeing the island town, and she’d behaved foolishly. Even now, bird wings fluttered in the pit of her stomach when she thought of the delicious meal and the bottle of wine she and Sterling had shared at a tiny inn overlooking the harbor.

Vivid colors and exotic smells swirled in her head as she remembered the hot sun, the swaying palms, and the throb of African drums and Spanish guitars. She’d devoured the fresh fruit, crusty bread, and hot roasted pork that a dusky-skinned serving wench had brought them, then watched scandalized as the same girl had shed her blouse and skirt and danced barefoot in a scarlet-flowered petticoat and bodice that barely covered her from nipple to mid-thigh.

The woman—hardly more than a child—had tossed her long dark hair and moved her body in ways that Cailin would not have believed were physically possible. Huge gold rings dangled from the dancer’s ears; her brown feet were long and narrow, her toenails painted a garish red. Her eyes were languid slits, as black as sin, and when her gaze met Sterling’s, the trollop’s lips shaped an unspoken promise of wicked delights.

Cailin’s appetite had suddenly vanished. The heated rhythm of strings and drums sounded harsh in her ears. Green peppers and onion that had seemed so spicy and delicious turned to clay in her mouth. Sterling didn’t shout or tuck coins between the dancer’s high, upthrust breasts as some of the other customers did, but Cailin noted the quickening of his breath and the predatory gleam that had filled his eyes as he watched.

“Take me back to the ship,” Cailin demanded.

“So soon? We don’t sail until the evening tide,” he replied.

“No doubt ye will find something or someone to fill the time,” she spat back at him. “I’m sure ye can have her for the price of a new dress—or perhaps ye’d nay have to pay her at all. The two of ye seemed to—”

He laughed at her. “You’re jealous.”

“Of what, may I ask?” Her voice was louder than she’d intended. The couple at the next table were staring. Embarrassed, she rose and fled the inn by way of open French doors that led to a garden.

Sterling followed her, moving more swiftly than she’d anticipated. He caught her when she’d gone only a few steps down the twisting red-tiled walk. Caught her and spun her around, then yanked her against him and covered her mouth with his own and kissed her with all the unleashed passion aroused by the Jamaican woman’s dance.

Cailin was too stunned to struggle. With one hand, Sterling fumbled with her cap and set free her heavy hair. With the other, he pressed the center of her spine, holding her tightly as his kiss scorched her with the burning intensity of the island sun.

He tasted of wine and hot peppers, and he smelled of tobacco and leather and clean, virile man. And there was a scent of something more ... something that she could only vaguely define as the scent of carnal heat. “Cailin,” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s you I want.”

Desire lanced through her.

She knew she should rebuff his rude assault. Cry out for help ... strike him ... But the heady scent of the orchids was overpowering ... the cadence of the drums too compelling ... and his embrace too sweet.

The wine, she thought, the unwatered wine was Spanish and stronger than she was used to. But the palpitation of her heart was not caused by the wine. And neither was the trembling in her limbs.

He broke off the kiss and stared full into her eyes. And when he leaned toward her again, she parted her lips to receive the heated thrust of his seeking tongue.

He ran his fingers through her hair, and each touch sent a new river of emotion racing though her veins. And when he cupped her breast in his strong fingers, she felt herself grow hot with wanting.

“Cailin ... Cailin,” he murmured.

She reached up and stroked his tanned jaw. Strange, she thought, how smooth it was for a man long past his third decade. But Sterling’s lack of beard did not detract from his appeal; instead, she found his difference oddly compelling.

Somehow, they had covered the few steps to a brick-walled fountain. Sterling sank down on the wide ledge, pulling her with him. Ivy grew over the mossy bricks, and the drops of water spraying from a marble dolphin’s mouth splashed over Cailin’s gown. He was kissing her again. She leaned against him with her head thrown back wantonly and her arms around his neck.

He’s so beautiful, she thought. Black English devil that he is, he has the face and form of a fallen angel.

“You are my wife,” he was saying. “My wife.”

He’d slipped a hand under her skirts. His hot, lean fingers caressed her bare leg. “How long must I wait?” he asked her. “How long, Cailin?”

She felt his fingers brush her inner thigh. She groaned and tried to pull away, but her body betrayed her. Instead, she shifted her weight so that his seeking fingers could touch her most intimately.

He kissed her again, and she closed her eyes, caught in a languid web of erotic pleasure as he thrust two fingers into her and gently stroked her. She sighed, and tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.

“You want me as much as I want you,” he whispered. “Cailin, I can’t—”

And then she heard a woman’s throaty laughter. Stiffening, she looked back at the inn and saw the dancer coming down the walk arm in arm with a sailor.

“Oh,” Cailin cried. Mortified, she twisted away from Sterling and turned her back on the couple while she tried to bind up her hair and make herself presentable. Sterling put an arm around her, but she threw it off.

“Don’t,” she pleaded with him. “Don’t make it worse than it is.”

The black girl’s laughter turned to shrill giggles, then faded as the sailor’s footsteps grew fainter.

“Cailin, you are my wife. There’s no sin in kissing your husband,” Sterling argued.

She whirled around and blamed him for her own confusion and wanton behavior. “Think ye that I’m a common lightskirt—to dally with a man in broad daylight in the courtyard of a public house?”

He chuckled. “Not common. Never common. But you cannot claim you were forced.”

“The wine went to my head,” she lied, snatching up her linen cap and tying it over her hair. “It won’t happen again, I assure ye.”

“Oh, but it will, my little Scottish hellcat. You’ve too much loving inside you to keep it—”

“Never!” she’d insisted. “’Twas a mistake. I’ll nay lie with ye. Not now and not ever! Not with you, Sassenach. And the sooner ye realize that, the better for us both.”

She’d run from the garden back to the safety of the ship, and for weeks afterward she’d kept her distance from him. But she’d not forgotten. Nay ... The memory of that heated encounter with Sterling remained as hot as butter in a flame-licked skillet.

She had dreamed of that courtyard a dozen times. Dreamed of the sun-warmed tiles and the scent of tropical blossoms ... Dreamed of Sterling’s embrace and the feel of his hard body locked with hers ... And she’d imagined herself dancing half-naked as that native girl had danced, not for a room full of people but for Sterling alone ... dancing in the steamy tropical sun to the beat of a primitive drum, and then allowing him to bend her back against the stone fountain and fill her with his hard, thrusting love. As long as they were aboard the
Galway Maid,
she had been able to hide from him, but now that they had reached Maryland the rules would all change. She would be alone with him for months to come. And she didn’t know how she would avoid his demand that she come to his bed, or even if she still wanted to ...

Taking a deep breath of the cold air, she pushed back her hood and looked around her. Annapolis Harbor was a busy spot, despite the fact that it was the day before Christmas. Men, women, and children bustled along, shouting, swearing, and laughing. Dogs and boys scampered along the wooden dock, defying gravity and straining the patience of their elders. A team of oxen strained under the weight of a high-wheeled cart while two black men struggled to load a barrel into a dinghy that was already riding low in the water. A pot-bellied donkey wandered loose, nibbling at whatever took its fancy and adding its loud braying to the din of creaking wheels and groaning timbers.

Cailin counted eleven other vessels of all sizes and types in the harbor, some riding at anchor, others sailing to and from the small port. As she watched, a crude boat cut from a single hollowed log and boasting one patched sail drifted into the path of the
Galway Maid.
Cailin was certain that wind and tide would sweep the merchant ship over the log boat, crushing the farmer’s cargo of children, squealing hogs, and chickens. The
Galway Maid’s
first officer bellowed an order; sailors heaved at the ropes, and the officer spun the great wheel to starboard.

To Cailin’s great relief, the
Galway Maid
missed the smaller craft by an oar’s length. The farmer shook his fist and cursed, the sailors cursed back, and the small boat slid into open water.

“That was close,” Sterling said.

Startled, Cailin saw that he’d come up on her left side without her noticing. “Ye sneak up on a body like a cattle reiver,” she said, trying to hide her inner trembling.