Warrior's Moon A Love Story (6 page)

Isabella looked at her for a second in surprise and then her forehead creased as she tried to understand and then, inexplicably, she laughed.  “Is that what this is about?  Is that what happened to your nose?”

Looking sheepish, Chantaya nodded.  “Yes.  And Peyton has decreed I am no longer to sword fight because I am now a grown up girl.”  She rolled her eyes.  “Blast him!  I almost feel like I have to obey him because he’s infinitely wise and adores me and is always right. Blast, blast, blast him!”

Isabella laughed again as she put her hand over her mouth and struggled to contain a veritable fountain of laughter.  Chantaya frowned and then smiled hesitantly with her as she said, “Blast you too, Mama.  You’re not supposed to agree with him.  I’m only thirteen.  He’s such an old frump.  If he wasn’t so blasted handsome and usually right, I’d want to trounce him.”

Still laughing, Isabella said, “He is always right.  Remember?  And you’re almost fourteen and look seventeen.”

“That’s exactly what Peyton said.  Blast him.”

“Stop cursing.  He truly said that?  What did he say?”

Chantaya picked up a hair brush, pulled the remnants of her braid out and began to brush out her hair.  “He said that now that I’m uhm mmm grown up, I need to act more ladylike or the boys are going to think I’m wild and will expect something.  He never would say exactly what.  And then he said I look seventeen and had to behave respectably and he said . . .  ”  She paused and then turned toward Isabella and asked, “Mother?  Why do you insist I wear my hooded cloak into the village?  Are you ashamed of the way I look?”

                                                      
 
SSSS

After the long talk with her mother the evening of the sword fighting nose bleed, Chantaya truly did try to begin to get more serious about acting like a young woman instead of a little girl, but she was determined that didn’t have to mean she couldn’t continue to play with Peyton at all the things she loved.  She just made sure her hair was more neatly done and that she’d worn a more flattering dress that made her look more feminine as she did it.  She wasn’t sure if her reasoning was correct, but Mordecai said she looked lovely and Peyton was positively tongue tied that whole first afternoon, so it worked.

She was careful to behave absolutely above reproach in the village and worked twice as hard at gathering the herbs and mushrooms, which was good because her mother tired so
quickly in the woods sometimes.  Chantaya was literally blooming and her more mature wardrobe required more money than they’d been making.  Moreover, even though she went barefoot a good portion of the time, winter was coming on and she’d have to have new shoes.

She did wear the cloak into the village and the hood hid her magnificent hair while at the same time the cape somewhat hid her figure that was becoming increasingly harder to hide.  Still, even with the cloak, her face wasn’t hidden and now that she was aware of her mother and Peyton’s concern, she did notice that more and more of the village boys and men took the time to speak to her.  To Chantaya, the whole issue was a bit perplexing and she wasn’t sure whether to be complimented and excited, or be frightened and simply try to stay away from the others who began to pay more attention to her.

In a way, it made more sense to just have Peyton or Tristan transact all of their business in the village, but then the idea of becoming near hermits and never going out seemed wrong somehow.  It went directly against Chantaya’s outgoing nature to want to stay away from all of their neighbors and friends. 

In speaking with her mother,
it was finally Isabella who made the final decision not to accept living in fear as she said, “Our Father in Heaven has blessed each with their own talents Chantaya, and He was so generous with you.  ‘Twould be a shame to bury your sweet, happy nature just because of those few who would harm you.  Especially when those who you truly need to be concerned with are seldom here in our village.  'Tisn’t the villagers, but the gentry who think they’re above behaving.  No.  Better to just be careful and stay with the boys where you can be yourself and still be safe.”  So Chantaya typically went into the village with the boys who would see her to the shops she needed to frequent before going to run their own errands.

Not long before Chantaya’s fifteenth birthday, she took a gift of a mutton pie to a new mother nearby.  That became a turning point in her life.  The new mother was the daughter of the couple named Bealle who ran the small tavern in town and the next day the Bealles showed up at the Kincraig’s cottage.  When Isabella opened the door, she smiled and invited them in, then was surprised when the husband asked her to come and work for them at their tavern.  Perplexed, she said, “That is gracious of you, but pray, why do you need another cook?  Has business picked up so that you need extra help suddenly?”

The wife shook her head and the husband answered, “Nay, but we’ve never in our lives tasted any mutton pie the likes of yours.  Business would boom were we to have dishes that good to offer.  Pray say you’ll come and work of a supper time.”

Unsure of whether to be glad or sad that her daughter was growing up, Isabella answered, “‘Twas not me who baked your pie, friend.  ‘Twas Chantaya.  She’s ever a better cook than I these months and more. 
‘Twould be her you be hoping to hire.  She’s out in the woods gathering herbs just now, but I’ll send her into the village upon her return to visit with you.  It will have to be up to her to decide.”

When she came in with her basket, Chantaya noticed her mother had been weeping and it struck fear into her heart the likes she hadn’t felt in years, until her mother told her about the Bealles.  She and her mother discussed the offer at length and finally decided it might be a good idea for Chantaya to try it if it would indeed be only for the dinner hour.  It would
possibly mean a more steady income during the long winter months when it was much more difficult to gather the fresh herbs and mushrooms in the woods.  And after all, the Bealles were friends and neighbors of theirs.  Surely Chantaya would be safe under their watchful care.  So, Chantaya went in search of one of the boys and they went to town.  As simply as that, she began to cook in the Bealle’s tavern kitchen.
 

             
                                         
Chapter 4

They had been right.  Business picked up considerably when word got round about how gifted the new cook was.  Business picked up even more when word got round about how beautiful the new girl at the tavern was.  Diners more than doubled and travelers began to come from near and far to eat there. 

At first Chantaya was anxious.  Ever since her talks with Peyton and her mother she had become wary of males in general and strangers in particular, but it wasn’t long before she got used to the attention and learned to just ignore the flirting and comments that were directed toward her as she worked.  More talks with her mother and Peyton and even Peyton’s father had prepared her for how to parry the innuendos and it was actually quite nice to be able to cook and have so many people enjoy it. 
‘Twas much more fun to cook for a crowd than for just two.  Soon Chantaya found herself looking forward to going in for those few hours at supper.

She’d been there for a few months and was completely comfortable with both her duties and the patrons when, for the first time, she questioned working away from home and her mother.  A new young man had come in with some of the locals and he began to pay attention to her.  She ignored him or brushed his comments off in jest, just as she always did,
but then she could hear some comments that were mildly troubling.

As she served another table, she heard the fellows at the newcomer’s table say, “Leave her alone, Hershey.  I’m telling you, she’s Peyton Wolfgar’s girl.  Leave her be.  He’s the size of a mountain.” 

Chantaya went on back into the kitchen, but she worried at the comments like a dog at a bone as she continued to prepare things.  Who were they talking about?  It had to be her.  There wasn’t any other her except Mrs. Bealle and she certainly wasn’t Peyton’s girl.  Was someone out there going to truly bother her?  And what was that about her being Peyton’s girl, anyway?  Chantaya wasn’t Peyton’s girl.  More like a little sister.  That’s what they must have meant.  She wished she
was
Peyton Wolfgar’s girl.  He was the most handsome, entertaining man she’d ever known. 

She wasn’t anyone’s girl.  Not yet.  She’d hardly even spoken to anyone unless it was someone at church or here at the tavern.  Not that she wouldn’t like to be someone’s girl.  She just hadn’t had the chance yet.  She’d thought about it.  But there wasn’t anyone
who intrigued her in the slightest.  Well, the middle Bertram boy was adorably cute in a puppy kind of way, but he was really the only one.  And Chantaya wouldn’t have truly wanted to get very close to him, but he was handsome. 

She worked about, thinking all of these thoughts and being perplexed about why someone would think she was Peyton’s girl.  Just because they were the best of friends and spent untold hours together didn’t mean they were romantically involved, much as she would have loved it if they could have been.  

As she rolled out pastry, the more she thought about it, the more the whole idea troubled her.  Certainly, she wanted to settle down someday with that elusive image in her head of the strong and gentle man who would be her true love some day.  The one she and her mother had often spoken of, but the village boys just weren’t terribly tempting.  At least not tempting enough to make her want to stop tromping around and pretending to sword fight with the Wolfgar boys.  They were far more fun than the other young men around.  Especially Peyton.  Peyton kept her laughing every day of her life, it seemed. 

She pulled another pot of roasted meat out of the oven.  Maybe that was a problem.  Maybe she should already be someone’s girl.  After all, she was fifteen.  Some girls were married by fifteen.  Not many, but a lot were by sixteen or seventeen.  Her own mother had married at sixteen.  That wasn’t very far away.  Still, she didn’t feel anywhere near old enough to marry.  That was actually kind of repulsive.  What with the things married people did that her mother had spoken to her about. 

Well, some of it wasn’t repulsive.  Some of it sounded kind of wonderful.  Kissing for instance.  Kissing would be nice and she loved affection.  Just that casual skin on skin touch that made you feel loved, except that she wouldn’t be the slightest bit comfortable with some stranger being that close to her.  She actually had an issue with people being too close to her.  When people got within a foot or two of her she wanted to reach out and push them back.  Except for her mother or the Wolfgars or Mordecai.  She loved having them close.  Their casual affection was very nice.  But anyone else.  Not so much.

The whole of the evening as she worked around, she sputtered mentally over the stranger in the dining room and whether she needed to get started on being someone’s girl.  By the end of the night, she was tired and even a little irritable.  Maybe no one wanted her to be their girl.  Maybe that was the problem.  Maybe that was why she was late in
getting this whole romance ball rolling.  Oh, well.  She angrily scrubbed at the last pot that needed cleaning.  What did she care anyway?  She was perfectly happy just as she was, being a good daughter and a strange kind of little sister and now a cook.  Being someone’s girl would come soon enough or not.  If all it did was make you grouchy like this, what did she need romance for after all?

She finished the last pot and put it away and wiped down the cook table and then shrugged into her cloak.  It had been a long night.  All that thinking was exhausting.  At least it made her finish cleaning up faster.  She was ready nearly a quarter hour before she usually was.  She glanced out the tavern kitchen door into the darkness and realized Peyton wouldn’t be here yet to walk her home.  For a moment she wondered if she should wait for him and then decided against it.  She’d stop there and let him know she was early on her way instead.

She pulled her hood up onto her head and stepped out the door and then pulled up short when a strange male voice spoke to her out of the darkness, “I’m told you’re called Chantaya.  Be that true?”

Looking up, she made out the shape of a man standing near the back wall of the tavern in the dark and she stepped quickly away from him as she answered, “It is.  Good even to you, sir.” 

She ducked her head and hurried, but a strong hand snaked out and caught her arm before she could pass him.  “Hold up there, lass.  There’s no hurry this even.  I saw you inside and couldn’t stop from coming here tonight to see you.  I’m called Hershey.  Ian Hershey.  From down at the Forks.”

Without raising her head, Chantaya said, “Yes, well, ‘twas good to meet you, Master Hershey, but I must be going.”  She went to pull her arm away, wishing she hadn’t served his table quite so much brown ale tonight.  It tended to
make perfectly decent men into rascals at times.  She desperately hoped this wasn’t one of them.

As she pulled away, he roughly grabbed her arm again and said harshly, “Not so fast, young Chantaya.  Did you not just hear me say I couldn’t help needing to see you?”

His roughness and tone made her instantly angry and this time she did raise her head, pushed her hood back and said brusquely, “Indeed, I did hear you sir!  Did you not hear me say I must be going?  Now, I beg of you.  Nay, I demand you leave me be this moment and let me be on my way!  I must be going!  Now!”  She’d raised her voice and jerked her arm away, but to no avail.  The inebriated man only grabbed her again even more roughly and pushed her back up against the wall.  As her back hit, she screamed for all she was worth.  There was the possibility Peyton had left his house a few minutes early and would hear her even from a distance or maybe the Bealles would hear her inside their house behind her.

Before she could stop him, this Hershey took her shoulder with one hand and silenced her scream with his other.  She bit him and then tried to bring her knee up to kick him but she couldn’t do more than nudge him as close as he was.  He only grunted and cursed, then moved his hand and brought his face down to kiss her.  She closed her eyes tightly and jerked her face to the side, dreading the touch of his mouth with its stench of brown ale. 
Oh, why hadn’t she waited a few minutes for Peyton?

That moment before his head descended seemed to last an eternity and then, before his mouth made contact, just as roughly as he had shoved her against the wall, he jerked away.  There in the darkness, Chantaya caught a glimpse of Peyton’s furious profile just as he stepped back and viciously slugged the man.  The stranger crashed back against the wall
of the tavern and then slowly sank down it to land in a heap at Chantaya’s feet with a barely audible moan. 

She nearly tripped over him as she turned and buried herself against Peyton’s chest where he caught and held her.  He wrapped both of his arms
round her so tightly she could hardly breathe and didn’t even care because she was safe.  ‘Twas the most comforting feeling she had ever dreamed she could feel.

The anger that had kept her from completely panicking moments before dissolved into near hysteria as she burst into sobbing against his woolen shirt and fisted handfuls of the cloth at his belly desperately tightly.  She was safe. 
‘Twas going to be all right.  Peyton had come.  The relief was nearly overwhelming.  Peyton had come.

For a moment, she wasn’t even thinking, just hanging onto him and letting his deep gentle voice find its way through the fear that had flooded over her at being attacked.  As she finally began to gain some control, she let herself be drawn into Peyton’s voice and his touch where he gently stroked her back and told her over and over again that she was all right.

On some level, she became aware Peyton was speaking to someone else as well over her head.  She heard Mr. Bealle and some of the other village men.  Then Peyton was gently pulling her aside, still stroking her and talking to her as she struggled to get control of herself.  At length, the tears slowed and she literally had to will herself to loosen her hold on Peyton as she wiped her face against his shirt and finally looked up at him. 

For a long moment, he simply looked down at her, searching her eyes and then, wrapped her back into his embrace as he whispered, “Are you all right?”

She nodded against his chest and whispered back, “I am.”  She struggled for another second to stop her tears again and whispered further, “Thank you.  I was afraid, Pey.  I was so scared.  Thank you.”

He rubbed her back one more time and said, “You’re welcome, Chani.  I just wish I’d been a few moments earlier.  I’m sorry.”

“I should have waited.”  She shook her head.  “This wasn’t your fault.  I should have waited.  I never dreamed he’d be out here waiting for me.”

“He was inside earlier?”  She nodded again and he sighed and held her even tighter for a moment and then said, “Come.  Let’s get you safely home.  Shall I carry you?”

“No.  I’m well.  I’ll walk.  Just . . .  Please.  Stay close.  You have no notion of how comforting you are right now.  Your touch.  Your strength.  It helps me.”

He tucked her securely under his arm with his cloak all the way over her and pulled her snugly against him as he turned and headed toward their homes.  “If I get any closer we’ll trip.  Come, your mother will be worried.  She’ll be aghast at what happened here tonight.”

Chantaya shook her head against him.  “No.  I’ll not tell her.  She’ll only insist I stop cooking there and it has been good for us.  It has helped her to be able to cut back on her own foraging for herbs and that’s as it should be.  Her body is still so weakened from the cart crash.  She tires easily and fair limps home.  I should cook.  It helps her.”

“She’ll hear about it anyway, Chani.  The Bealles will tell her.  Someone will.  You need to tell her.”

She nodded, knowing he was right.  “Then I will.  I’ll tell her ‘twas a small thing and that you came and I was fine.”

“You don’t lie, Chani.  You’re the most honest person I know.”

“No, I won’t lie.  That’s not a lie.  It can’t be.  This has to be a small thing.  I can’t let it be a large thing.”

Peyton was silent for a moment or two.  Finally he pulled her even more snugly against him.  “You’re right.  And you’re wonderful.  I’m proud of you, Chani.  You’re a magnificent girl.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks again and she hoped he didn’t see them in the darkness as she struggled for composure.  At length she softly said, “Thank you, Peyton.  I appreciate you saying that, but I was ridiculously scared.  Too scared then to be magnificent.”

“’Tis why you’re magnificent.  Because you were scared and still stood up to him.  And now you’re still being strong for your mother.  That’s what
is
magnificent.  You were the same that very first night in the storm.  You’re the strongest girl I know and I’m incredibly proud of you.”  At that, he leaned and kissed her head where it lay against his shoulder and she stumbled as he echoed, “Incredibly proud.  Always.”

When she was able to breathe after the surprise of that kiss, she finally said hesitantly, “I thought I drove you mad a good portion of the time.”

She could hear his smile as he said, “That too.  But you’re still magnificent.”

She hugged him more closely.  “May I remind you of that the next time you want to swear at me?”

“An excellent idea.”  They stepped up onto the Kincraig cottage porch and he turned to look into her eyes again without letting go of her.  He studied her there in the dark for several long moments and then again asked quietly, “You’re all right?”