They stopped just after dawn to break their fast. Joseph started a small fire and placed upon it a pot into which he poured water and what looked like black grains or meal.
“Are you certain?” Connor asked him. “We haven’t much left.”
Joseph pointed toward Sarah with a nod of his head. “Aye. She has need of it.”
What did he mean by that?
They sat and shared the last of yesterday’s ash cakes, the yellow cakes hard and dry but enough to blunt Sarah’s hunger. Then Joseph took the pot off the fire and poured a thin black liquid into two cups, one of which he handed to Sarah.
She took the cup, sniffed, found the scent strange. Oh, how she longed for a good strong cup of tea!
Connor watched her, looking puzzled. “Have you ne’er tasted coffee afore?”
So this was coffee.
Sarah shook her head and made to hand the cup to him. “My mother doesn’t permit it in the house. She says it renders women barren.”
Connor chuckled, shared a glance with Joseph, who grinned.
“My sisters drink it every day.” Joseph took a sip. “Together, the four of them have nineteen children.”
But Sarah was still unsure.
Connor pressed the cup back into her hands, his gaze soft. “Drink, lass. It will give you strength and ease your hunger. I wouldna offer it to you if I thought it would harm you.”
Sarah sipped, shuddering at the bitter taste. But it was warm, and she was cold and still hungry. So she drank, sipping it as quickly as she could. Then she handed the cup to Connor, who refilled it and drank his portion in gulps. By the time they were finished, the fire was put out, all sign of it buried beneath damp moss.
On they walked. Soon the rain stopped. The mist thinned. And birds, roused by sunlight, began to sing.
And as the forest came awake, so did Sarah, the coffee seeming to chase the sluggishness from her mind and banish her hunger. She kept up easily now, blood pumping through her veins, her heartbeat steady. When Connor reached back to help her up a steep embankment, she scrambled past him, reaching the top without his aid. She was not entirely helpless, after all.
As he passed her, once again resuming the lead, his lips curved in a grin, the warmth in his eyes making her pulse skip.
All at once, memories of the kiss they’d shared last night filled her mind. His groan as he’d taken her lips with his. The scorching heat in his gaze. The feel of his hand cupping her bottom. His touch had been both fierce and gentle, awakening something reckless and wild inside her. And once again she found herself wondering what it would be like to lie alone with him as his wife, to know the full force of his passion—and her own.
Her belly gave a flutter at the thought. But surely such a thing would be a sin. Then again, he’d said they
were
still married in the eyes of some.
How can you even think of such a thing, Sarah?
And yet even as she admonished herself, she found she couldn’t
stop
thinking about it, her gaze drawn to Connor again and again. Everything about him—his scent, his strength, the timbre of his voice—was stirring to her. When next he reached to help her, she slipped her hand into his, reveling in his strength, in the warmth of his touch, in the way his hands made hers seem so small.
And his words from yesterday came back to her.
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.
As if part of some spell, the words seemed to awaken in her a defiant spirit, a voice inside her mind urging her to seize what freedom she now had before her parents consigned her to a life of barrenness or gave her in marriage to a man who wanted her only for the heavy purse her father offered to be rid of her.
Free to do as she chose.
And what if she
chose
to lie with the man the Shawnee had forced her to marry? Would Connor claim her as his wife, even for one night?
T
hey came across an abandoned farmstead late in the afternoon. Connor waited with Sarah in the shelter of the forest while Joseph scouted first the land around the farm, then the barns and outbuildings, and finally the cabin itself.
“Why do you think they left?” Sarah whispered, peering through the trees.
Connor shrugged. “There could be many reasons. Some who settle here find they cannae bear the isolation, others the hard work or the uncertainty of a life on the frontier. They pack their wagons, turn round, and head back to the towns and cities where they feel safer. This is a beautiful land, but it is also harsh and unforgiving.”
Joseph returned quickly. “There are signs that someone has used the place since it was abandoned, but none of the tracks are recent. And there are graves.”
“Graves?” Sarah asked.
And Connor knew they would be safe here, at least for a time. Most Indians, wary of spirits, feared burial sites and went out of their way to avoid them. That explained, perhaps, why the farmstead hadn’t been burnt.
Sarah insisted on paying her respects before entering the cabin, stopping to stand at the head of three burials, her hand
lingering on the wooden cross that marked the smallest burial. “A child’s grave. How very sad. There are no names inscribed.”
“I doubt the people who lived here could read or write.”
Connor led her inside the cold, dark cabin. Daylight spilled through the door to reveal a heavy rope bedstead standing in one corner, its mattress still stuffed with straw. A table and four chairs sat before the hearth, a big copper washtub leaning against the wall. Though no food stores had been left behind, Joseph discovered spring greens growing beneath a layer of leaves in the kitchen garden outside, along with some old onions, carrots, and shriveled potatoes.
“’Tis a feast.” Connor grinned, amused by the look on Sarah’s face when Joseph piled these humble, muddy delicacies on the table. “Have you ever peeled a tattie, Sarah?”
The startled look on her face answered his question—and made him laugh.
Her chin went up. “Nay, Major, I have not, but I assure you I can learn.”
So it was back to “major” again.
Connor grinned and handed her his tin bucket. “First, fetch water.”
While Joseph went in search of a rabbit or pheasant for the stew pot and Sarah set out to get water from a nearby stream, Connor carried in firewood. Then he washed his penknife and showed Sarah how to peel the coat off a tattie without removing its flesh. He set her to the task, then went about building a fire. He’d just laid the last logs in place, when he heard the sweet sound of her voice.
She was humming.
He stood, looked over at her, and felt a hitch in his chest.
Firelight bathed her in gold, making her skin glow, striking sparks from her hair, which she’d braided to keep it out of the food. There was a look of contentment on her face, her fingers moving slowly but surely, her head bobbing slightly in rhythm with her song. He didn’t know the tune, but it was lovely. Lovelier still was her voice, honeyed and pure.
‘Twas such a homey scene—a woman scraping tatties, preparing a meal. And something stirred inside him, a longing he couldn’t name.
Connor had never wasted much time thinking of the future.
Unlike Iain, who’d longed to return to the farm and start a family, Connor had never thought beyond the next meal, the next scout, the next battle. As long as his brothers and their families were safe, he’d asked nothing more from life than a full belly, a gill of rum—aye, and a lass now and again to warm his bed.
But watching Sarah, he felt an aching emptiness inside.
She glanced over and saw him watching her. Abruptly she fell silent, the ease that had been on her face a moment ago turning to distress. “I’ve been humming, haven’t I? I’m sorry. It is a terrible habit. My mother tried to break me of it, but…”
Her words trailed off, her gaze dropping to the table. She had that look on her face—the same crestfallen look she’d had when she’d told him she was a musician.
“Why do you apologize, lass?” Connor crossed the room, took the knife from her hand, and drew her to her feet. “There’s naugh’ amiss wi’ hummin’ a tune.”
She avoided his gaze. “M-my mother says it is a sign of an idle mind.”
The more Connor heard about Sarah’s mother, the more he despised the woman. “Your mother also told you coffee makes women barren.”
This brought a slight smile to Sarah’s lips, but still she did not look at him. “She believes it unseemly for women to sing except in church.”
Connor caught Sarah’s chin, forced her to meet his gaze, his thumb seeking the plump curve of her lower lip. “If you’ve a song in your heart, then share it. Even the angels sing.”
She looked up at him, a light of hope in her eyes. “You do not think less of me?”
“For hummin’ a wee tune?” He cupped her cheek, her skin like silk against his hand. “Och, nay, lass. ’Tis clear you’ve a talent for music—and a God-given one, I’d warrant.”
She smiled, looking so sweetly feminine that Connor had to fight not to kiss her right then and there. He released her, stepped back.
She sat, picked up the knife, and resumed her chore, leaving him to retreat to a safe distance. “Do you play any instruments—fiddle or perhaps Scottish pipes?”
“Nay.” He picked up a small log and poked at the fire. “I tried the learn the pipes once back in Scotland, but the wailin’
set my grandfather to shoutin’. The old man threatened to throw the pipes in the sea, so he did. I’m just a soldier.”
“Could soldiery not also be a God-given talent? Some call warfare an art.”
He couldn’t help but laugh, the very idea absurd. “Killin’? An art? There is little beauty in carvin’ men open and spillin’ their blood and entrails upon the ground.”
“I was thinking of your courage, your woodcraft, your skill with weapons.” The tone of her voice told him she thought he was deliberately missing her meaning. “Can such skills not serve a noble purpose? I am alive and free today only because of you.”
Connor shook his head, needing her to see the ugliness inside him, needing her to see the truth about him. He faced her. “You dinnae understand. The oath Joseph told you about—I broke it, Sarah. Last year, Morgan was shot and taken prisoner by the French. Their lyin’ commander wrote to us, sayin’ that Morgan had died of his wounds. I blamed myself, and I felt such grief that I became a monster. I killed every Frenchman I could—not just soldiers, but wagoners, farmers, merchants, aye, and their young lads, too, boys no’ much older than young Thomas. I saw the fear on their faces, listened to them plead for their lives—and I cut them down wi’out mercy. Had it no’ been for my men, who did their best to rein in my rage, I might have slain the women, too. I am damned.”
Connor turned away, his jaw clenched, his breathing heavy, his stomach in knots, images of frightened faces, blood, and the corpses of the innocent filling his head. His heart beat so hard he did not hear Sarah stand and walk up behind him, and tensed when her slender arms wrapped around his middle, her cheek pressed against his back.
“Have you not read the Bible, Connor? Even angels kill.”
S
arah was bent over the hearth, stirring the rabbit stew, her mind on Connor and what he had revealed to her, her heart aching for him. She could not begin to understand what it was to carry such a burden, innocent blood on one’s hands. And yet she could not believe that the man who had risked his life to save hers could possibly be damned. God could see into each
man’s heart and surely knew that Connor had been mad with grief. It wasn’t that God wouldn’t forgive Connor, but rather that Connor could not forgive himself.
She was lost in these thoughts when he and Joseph came in, dug through their gear, drew out their tin cups and tin pails, and bade her to follow them. “Where are we going?”
They grinned at each other, but did not answer her.
They’d walked a short distance away from the house, crossing the little stream, when the two men motioned for her to stop, Connor raising a finger to his lips. “Shhh.”
Joseph pointed.
And through the trees Sarah saw a great black bear.
She gasped, took an involuntary step backward.
Connor leaned down, whispered in her ear. “It willna hurt you. Watch.”
Taller than a man, the bear stood on its hind legs and scratched at the tree with long claws, stopping to lick the bark, then scratching again. It seemed not to notice them.
“Whatever is it doing?”
“Have you ever tasted maple sugar candy, Sarah?”
Sarah had never so much as heard of it. “No.”
“Come.” Joseph shouted and banged his cup and pail together, creating a din that made the bear jump, turn, and run away, bawling, the sight of so large a beast running from a single man almost making her laugh.
“The bear had its share.” Connor grinned down at her. “Now let’s get ours.”
Sarah followed them over the to tree and watched as Joseph drew his hunting knife and drove it deep into the tree’s bark, carving a long gash in its flesh. A clear liquid oozed forth, then began to drip.
Joseph dabbed the liquid with his fingertips, tasted it, then grinned.
“Taste.” Connor took Sarah’s hand, let some of the liquid drip onto one finger, then motioned for her to do as Joseph had done. “The sap is sweet.”
It
was
sweet. “It doesn’t taste at all like a tree.”
Joseph grinned. “And how many trees have you eaten, little sister?”
She found herself laughing with them as they caught drop after precious drop in their cups, sharing sips of the
sweet bounty with her, then filling their pails, until each held a few inches of the precious sap. And as she stood there, dressed in strange garments, hungry and chilled, her body bruised and battered, it came to her that she had never felt so free or so alive as she had these past two days.
“Time to get inside.” Connor wrapped his arm around her shoulder, turning her back toward the cabin.
It was only then she noticed that the sun had all but set, fingers of pink stretching across the sky, a few eager stars already glimmering overhead.