And Sarah thought she would be sick.
C
onnor watched as Sarah stepped carefully across the forest floor, her gaze fixed on the ground, her face still pale. He knew that lasses as a rule did not care for snakes, but Sarah seemed terrified of them. “’Tis good to be watchful, but there is no need to fear. ’Tis not often a man comes across a rattlesnake. They fear us more than we fear them.”
The look on Sarah’s face told him that was not true, at least where she was concerned.
“Och, lass, come.” He drew her into his arms and held her, kissed her forehead, his hand cradling the back of her head, her hair like silk against his hand. “I ken you are frightened, but trust that I willna let harm befall you.”
Some of the tension seemed to leave her. “Until today, I’d never seen a snake.”
“Never?” Connor found this hard to believe. “Do they no’ have snakes in England?”
He released her, took her hand, and resumed walking.
“We were never allowed out of doors except to walk within the walls of my mother’s rose gardens.”
Connor tried to imagine living his life walled up in a rose garden and could not. What good could come from sheltering a daughter in such a fashion? She would grow up knowing
nothing about the world. Or perhaps that was the intent. “Tell me about your home.”
She looked up at him, a shy smile on her lips. “My life would not interest you.”
“Oh, but it does, for I’ve ne’er strolled in grand gardens, nor been to court.” It was the truth, though his real reason for asking was to take her mind off snakes.
He listened while she told him about growing up on her father’s estate with her four sisters—Alexandra, Sophia, Janet, and Mary were their names—her days filled needlework, tutors, rigorous Bible study, and prayer. Alexandra had been the most skilled at needlework, while Sophia could remember more Bible verses than the others and was therefore her mother’s favorite. Janet was quiet, knew her Latin, and was her father’s pet, while Mary, just a year younger, helped her mother run the household.
As he listened, Connor couldn’t shake the feeling that Sarah’s life had been a lonely one, for speaking of her family seemed to bring her sadness, not joy. Was that because they’d sent her into exile, or was it because she’d found little love amongst them? Though she spoke of lessons and tasks, she said nothing of playing with dolls or sitting upon her father’s knee or adventures with her sisters. It was clear she’d had nary a moment alone, each day a disciplined affair, every hour spent with her sisters under her mother’s watchful eye, her contact with the world beyond her father’s halls tightly controlled. It seemed her parents had had one objective—to prepare their daughters for the marriage market.
And he wondered how Sarah could possibly have come into scandal with her mother watching over her like a hawk.
“My sisters are all married now and have children, except for Mary.” There was a note of melancholy in her voice that Connor did not miss.
“You’ve told me of your sisters, but where do your talents lie, my lady?”
She seemed to hesitate. “I am told I dance well, and…I am a musician.”
“A musician?”
A distressed expression spread across her face, words spilling from her lips in a rush, as if she felt the need to explain
herself. “I…I play harpsichord…and the flute. I can play violin and cello. And I do like to sing, though perhaps I do not have the voice for it.”
She sounded as if she’d just confessed a sin, her gaze furtively seeking out his as if to gauge his reaction.
“Your parents must be proud to have so accomplished a daughter.”
This brought a sad smile to Sarah’s lips. “My mother believes music is the province of men. She thought I ought to spend more time at prayer and needlework and less time at the harpsichord. She allowed me to play only a half hour a day and never on Sundays, at least until I was sent here. Now she forbids me to play at all.”
So her mother was gospel-greedy and disapproving.
That explained much.
“You are far from home, Sarah, and no longer a child. Your mother and father might rule you in London, but while you are here wi’ me, you are free to do as you choose. When we reach the fort, I should like to hear you play Dougie’s old fiddle.”
Sarah looked up at him, her face alight with surprise and gratitude as if his words were somehow a great gift.
S
arah felt as if she were walking on air, Connor’s easy acceptance of her giving her heart wings. And yet, an ocean away, she’d still been able to hear her mother’s scolding voice.
A musician is it now? Sarah, you are a woman! Your proper calling is to marry well and bear children!
Only Uncle William and Margaret had embraced her love of music. Uncle William had indulged her with books on music theory and stolen hours in concert halls, as much to please her as to vex her mother, while Margaret had given Sarah a sanctuary away from home where she could play to her heart’s content, exploring pages of printed music from Europe’s greatest composers—Lully, Purcell, and His Majesty’s favorite, Handel, who had died last April.
She looked over at Connor, who walked beside her, his gaze searching amongst the trees for hidden dangers. The stubble on his jaw had grown thicker, his long hair and the cut on his forehead giving him a roguish appearance. But he was no rogue.
The intelligence in his eyes and his gentleness toward her were proof of that.
She’d often heard her father say that Britain was well rid of the riffraff who emigrated to the Americas—the poor, convicts, traitors, heretics, zealots. But it seemed to her that this frontier bred men of uncommon strength and courage, men who were every bit as gallant as they were rough.
And something Joseph had said came back to her.
In this land, nobility comes not from one’s fathers or a title or from the land one owns, but from one’s actions. The MacKinnon brothers are the highest nobility to those who live on the frontier—true warriors, men who know how to fight and survive, men who put the lives of others before their own.
Sarah could see that now. Though Connor and Joseph would not have been welcome in her father’s halls, they were noble men, possessed of skills and a kind of raw honor few London gentlemen could match. She tried to imagine her father trekking through this forest, fighting Indians, cooking his own meals over a fire…and could not. Though her father occasionally partook in the hunt, he did not like the out-of-doors. He would be every bit as helpless out here as she was—perhaps more so.
And Sarah felt a sense of pride to think that she had endured what she’d endured and had come this far. True, she would not have escaped captivity nor likely lived through this day without Connor and Joseph to aid her, but they had not carried her this long way. She had walked on her own two blistered feet.
For a time, they moved through the forest without speaking. Birds filled the trees with song, their staccato chirps and trills a merry chorus. The sky was still blue, warm sunlight filtering down through evergreens and budding branches onto thick layers of wet leaves, last summer’s crowning glory now a faded carpet. A warm breeze blew through her hair, carrying the mingled scents of damp earth, fresh air, and sunshine, mountains and valleys stretching out around them as far as the eye could see.
Oh, how Margaret would have loved to paint this for one of her landscapes! Yet, even Margaret with her eye and her skill with the brush would have struggled to capture such beauty on canvas. How could any art depict a wilderness as fierce and vast as this?
The sun climbed higher, the noises of the forest coming
together in a joyful unison of sounds like a symphony. The murmur of the wind. The gurgling of a stream. The deep croak of one bird, the warbling melody of another. Then off to her right, she saw a flash of red feathers.
Purdy-purdy-purdy-purdy! Whoit-whoit! Wheet-wheet-wheet!
Sarah stopped and watched, enchanted, as the bright red bird hopped from branch to branch singing, its bright melody joining the chorus of wild birdsong. There was a merry crest upon its head, its eyes and beak outlined in black. The bird eyed her, turning its head to the left, then to the right, then sang again.
She couldn’t help but laugh.
She turned back to follow Connor, only to find him watching her, the smile on his lips softening the hard masculine lines of his face.
He reached out, cupped her cheek, his voice deep and rich. “You see, Sarah, this land is harsh and filled wi’ danger, but it also holds great beauty.”
Her breath caught, something in his blue eyes telling her that he was speaking not of the bird or the trees or the mountains, but of her.
T
hey traveled until nightfall, making camp in a sheltered spot along a small river at the mouth of a narrow valley. After a supper of cold venison and ash cakes, Connor and Joseph went about building the lean-to, while Sarah, growing accustomed to the routine, refilled their water skins and washed their knives. And then it was time for sleep.
Joseph offered to take first watch—for Sarah’s sake. “I think she will feel safer if she falls asleep with you beside her.”
Connor studied Joseph’s face to see if there was some hidden jest behind his Mahican brother’s words, but saw only sincerity. He laid the bearskin on the pine boughs, set his musket against the lean-to, and thrust his hunting knife into the earth near where his head would rest. By the time Sarah had set the bulging water skins aside, their bed was made.
He crawled beneath the bearskin, turned onto his side, and drew Sarah into his arms, her back turned toward him, her head pillowed on his arm. “A pleasant sleep to you, lass.”
“And to you, Connor.”
But Connor found he could not sleep, not with Sarah, soft
and warm, beside him. Awareness of her burned through him. Her rounded bottom pressed against his thighs, her silky hair tickling his chin, the sweet scent of her skin filling his nostrils.
And his blood grew hot.
Och, how he wanted to put the night to good use and make love to her! He wanted to kiss her, touch her, feel her breasts in his hands. He wanted to part her thighs, taste her nectar, bury his cock inside her. He wanted to give her the pleasure he hadn’t been able to give her that first night, to show her where desire could lead a man and woman.
But that would be madness. In a handful of days, they would reach Fort Edward, and she would once again be Wentworth’s niece, the daughter of a marquess, and he a mere soldier under her uncle’s command. If he should get her with child…
’
Tis better to starve your hunger for her than to feed it, laddie.
He had just closed his eyes when she whispered to him.
“Connor?”
“Aye, Princess?”
She seemed to hesitate. “Given that we are still married, at least in the eyes of some, would it be wrong of me if I asked you…to kiss me again?”
And in a heartbeat, Connor’s wise counsel to himself was forgotten.
With a groan, he turned her to face him, looked into her eyes, then took her mouth with his. The taste of her was like fire on his tongue. How had he thought to keep himself from her when she felt so good in his arms? She whimpered, arched into him, her fingers sliding into his hair, her tongue curling boldly with his. And his very blood seemed to quicken.
Hungry for the feel of her, he reached down, slid his hand up her bare thigh, then cupped her bottom, squeezing gently as he drew her hard against him.
Then he heard it.
War drums
.
S
arah held tightly to Connor, her already pounding heart thrumming faster than the beating of the drums. “Wh-where are they?”
The sound seemed to come from just beyond the trees to the north.
“Easy, lass.” He took her hands, gave them a reassuring squeeze. “They’re no’ so near as they seem. I doubt they ken we’re here. Still, we must be watchful.”
Then Joseph was there beside them. “There are at least a hundred Delaware warriors encamped in that valley.”
Sarah got to her knees and began to roll the bearskin, determined to show no weakness. If they must walk through the night, she would do it without complaint. The men hadn’t slept a night through since they’d started this journey, taking turns keeping watch. Last night, they’d been busy at the oars. They must be much more weary than she, but never once had she heard either of them grumble.
“What are you doin’?”
She looked up at Connor. “Are we not leaving this place?”
Connor squatted down in front of her, his hand resting on her shoulder. “We’ll be leavin’ afore the sun rises, aye, but for now you need to sleep.”
“But what about you?”
“I’m goin’ to be keepin’ watch wi’ Joseph for a time, just to be certain they didna spy us.” He unrolled the bearskin. “Lie back, lass. Take some rest. I’ll no’ go so far from your side that I cannae see you.”
Sarah lay down on the soft boughs, watching Connor as he spread the bearskin over her and tucked it beneath her chin. “I would rather stand the watch with you.”
“I’ll be back soon.” He bent down and kissed her forehead.
Then he took up both his knife and musket, and walked over to where Joseph waited, the two of them speaking softly in Joseph’s mother tongue before disappearing into the forest in opposite directions.
Sarah reached down, drew the knife from her leggings, and held it fast.
S
ometime later, that’s how Connor found her, lost in fitful sleep, the knife grasped firmly in her hand. Not wishing to be gelded in his sleep, he gently pried it from her fingers, thrust it into the soil, then crawled beneath the bearskin and drew her into his arms.
And still the drums beat.
* * *
S
arah was awakened before dawn to find the drums had fallen silent, the stillness somehow unnerving. Feeling she hadn’t slept at all, she trudged numbly after Connor, trying not to stumble on unseen roots and rocks, the darkness all but impenetrable to her sleepy eyes. A light rain fell from the dark sky, the treetops shrouded in mist. How the men moved so swiftly she could not say. They must have learned to see in the dark.