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THE MAN’S WARM BREATH tickled her neck. A shiver shot down her spine. It was not unpleasant.
Her knees weakened.
That was not unpleasant either. What was wrong with her?
She had never known a ruder more overbearing man than Thomas McQueen. Nor one with more secrets.
So why did she wish for his breath to wash over her again?
And if ‘twas so easy to stay the anger from his hands, why had he not done so before now? What did he fear in himself?
Surely, he did not fear her. She was hardly a match for anyone’s wiles.
After only a few miles they left the Patapsco Road for a narrow trail to the north. She was certain this was not a path she had come down with Josué. Walled in on both sides by listless, bare-knuckled trees and carpeted with a dizzying array of dead leaves, every cold, shivering mile looked the same as the others. A few hardy birds awaking after a long winter sleep could be heard, but no buds of green or otherwise heralded the advent of spring.
They crossed a myriad number of streams, some lesser and others greater. At times, Dominic neared a gallop. At other times he picked his way carefully through the thickened brush. At no time did Thomas come near to touching her without a warning.
And Elizabeth was not about to touch him.
I will fall off first.
Or jump, whichever was more convenient and less likely to do her harm.
Deep in the afternoon, they rested beside a larger creek than those they had passed. They partook of the rabbit and drank the apple cider. Elizabeth offered to sling his arm, but he refused. She lamented he could not have some warm tea to quell his cough. He grabbed a crock of honey, fingered a large dollop from the jar to his mouth, and declared that would have to do.
She lifted her gaze upward in exasperation but said nothing more.
Afterwards, she lay to the plaid and must have fallen asleep, for the next thing she knew Fingal was licking her face and Thomas was telling her to awaken.
“We are going farther into the trees.”
“Why?”
“Just need to.” He grabbed the plaid and tossed it about her shoulders. “Now I will put ye on Dominic.”
His hands settled into her waist. He hoisted her into the saddle. He pulled himself up and behind her.
Something long and cold now lay between them. She twisted.
The rifle? And why was it now between them instead of over his back?
“What is wrong?” she asked.
A stress line quivered his brow. “Nothing. I just like to be careful.”
“You were not so earlier?”
“We are in a deeper part of the trees now. ‘Tis all.”
“Why do you not speak of your secrets?”
“If I have secrets, they are me ain, so dinna speak to me of them again.”
Their restings became shorter. Thomas’ nerves tighter. He cradled the rifle in his arms, and he never let Elizabeth step too far away. Even Fingal seemed wary, his nose in the air and on the ground, his body taut and ready to spring.
She was not certain which path Josué had taken west of the Patapsco Valley, but ‘twas not this deep, old one that wound around stodgy hills and wove between trunks wide enough to hide a small building. Fattened mounds of snow lingered in the deepest shade, while more dripped around them like soft rain. All the while she fought against the sleep that threatened to take her mind and body. At times, the only thing keeping her awake was the thought that if she gave into a slumber she would collapse into Thomas’ arms.
Touching her was bad enough.
Holding her was out of the question. He could well hurt her again.
Or, good heavens, she would like being there?
She would take no chance on either account.
Late in the afternoon, the trail thinned of trees and fell away. Below them, the last of the day’s sun bathed the Patapsco Valley in a warm glow.
“We will need to walk down,” Thomas said.
“’Twill be dark soon.” Not only was she barely awake, but her body ached all over from the hard saddle.
At least she hoped that was why she hurt so.
“Nae matter.” His jaw knitted tight. He dismounted, turned, and lifted his arms.
She swung her leg over but stopped. “Are we in danger?”
“Ye prattle too much.”
“What are you afraid of?”
He grabbed her thighs. He yanked her forward. A small cry burst from her throat. He caught her waist and set her to the ground.
She opened her mouth to remind him of their agreement.
“I dinna hurt ye.” He firmed the rifle up in his right hand. He grabbed the reins with his left hand and faced the valley. “And we are at war, Elizabeth. Anything can happen.”
Her head exploded. She could now add arrogant to his list of faults. “You need not remind me of this war, Your Lordship.”
His back stiffened. His jaw locked to the front.
She cared not.
“After all, I am a thousand miles from home and all alone because of it.”
She stalked past him and toward the valley.
––––––––
HIS LORDSHIP?
Thomas very nearly yanked his fathe’s plaid from her shoulders. ‘Twas better than yanking her, which he was in sore need of doing.
And by God’s teeth, if the lass asked one more question, Thomas might well hasten his ain end. After all, he had promised not to let his hands anger. ‘Twas a promise he intended to keep, but doing so was taking a toll on him.
He followed her. It had nae helped that the moment he had reached the Patapsco Road and had grabbed her without warning, he had a cold, dreadful feeling of being watched. The sane part of him wanted to blame it on being near her, but the woodsman part of him knew otherwise. His instincts had been finely honed over the years. He knew when he was being watched and followed. Today, not even turning onto several lesser trails had eased his angst.
He twisted and turned his way down past trees and rocks, choosing a path that would be easy on Dominic. Fingal rove this way and that, sometimes sliding on purpose, other times picking his way.
Her feet slipped. A small cry frayed from her throat.
Thomas’ heart crashed into his.
Fingal barked and jumped in front of her. Her arms flailed outward for balance.
Thomas slid along the ground. He stretched his arm. He seized her elbow. She scrambled, then found her footing in the leaves and mushy snow. Her chest heaved with the fear and the strain.
Her eyes locked on his fingers wrapped around her arm.
He let go. “I am sorry, Lass.”
“You did so to keep me from falling. Merci.” Her lashes fluttered.
His gut somersaulted back and around. He heaved in a quick, burning breath.
If the lass was just not so perceptive. If she just would nae see and say so much with her eyes.
If she would nae feel so much with her heart, nor pry into his.
He swung his gaze to the slope.
They were only halfway down. Having her fall to the bottom was not in his plan that day. Already, the valley shaded as the sun prepared its rest.
He had only one choice if they were to settle for the night and quickly. Would she agree?
“I think you should hold my hand.” He turned his palm upward. “I can at least keep you from tumbling to the bottom.”
She pulled the plaid tighter. She looked down the slope.
“We have little daylight left to reach the bottom and make camp.” He forced a quiet tone to his voice. “I will nae hurt ye, Lass. Now please, take my hand.”
She scowled but slipped her fingers atop his.
A gentle fire tore up his arm and struck his chest.
He slipped the rifle around his back, grabbed Dominic’s reins with his free hand, and started down. The few times her steps faltered he gripped tighter till she got her footing. Each time she gave him a quick smile and a whispered merci, and his stomach tightened and his fingers fired with a need he had long thought dead.
They reached the valley floor. Thomas slipped his hand from hers. “Come. Let me put ye back on Dominic.” He lifted her to the saddle.
“Do you hear that?” she asked.
“’Tis the river.”
“I know what a river sounds like. This was more like a child coughing.”
“Ye are hearing the wind in the treetops.” He beaded a stare right at her. “Or mayhap a cougar.”
She scanned the trees, the bank, the ridges above. “’Tis not wind, Tomas.” She looked down at him. “And a cougar sounds like a baby crying, not a baby coughing.”
He pointed his finger at her. “Ye need to be quiet.” He grabbed the reins and stepped in front of Dominic.
“Are you not going to ride?” she asked.
“I need to stretch my legs.” The lie stuck in his throat.
While the Patapsco was given to fits of rapids and middling waterfalls farther north, here it straightened into a calm stream with little flow. He had been hoping to make it across that day, but his shoulder ached and his body was worn, not to mention the tickle in his throat that, while readily enough contained for the moment, had threatened several times to erupt.
A quarter of an hour later, at the bend in the river, he pulled Dominic to a halt. To their right, an uneven beach of pebbles and gravel sloped upward to an outcropping of rock. Gnarly tree roots, as thick and discolored as aging teeth, curtained the entrance. There was plenty of room beneath the rock, and the height was high enough for a small fire. They were not likely to be seen owing to the roots, and if they were he could easily defend them against a brave or two.
If there were more, he was nae certain what they would do.
“There it is again,” she gasped. “It sounded like a cough.” She twisted to look behind her.
“Ye have simply gotten used to me coughing and ye likely miss it.”
She frowned.
He could nae help but laugh. He lifted his arms. She slid into his hands. He set her to the ground.
“Ye set to gathering some large stones to ring the fire. I will unload Dominic.”
He pulled the horse just inside the entrance and behind the roots. He set the bags against the cave wall.
Outside, Elizabeth laughed.
Thomas peered through the roots. Fingal eyed the water, then reared on his hind legs and pounced. Droplets sprayed upward. She brushed her face free and laughed again.
The sound was mesmerizing.
Then, she lifted her head. “Tomas?” She turned to the root curtain and shifted left and right to find him. “Did you hear it?”
He pressed the roots aside. “Nae.” Nor the other two times ye mentioned it. He opened his mouth to say so.
Fingal froze. He stared at the bank above them. His tail stiffened like a flag post.
He set to baying. He raced in the direction they had come.
Thomas yanked the rifle from his back.
“Elizabeth, come here!” He fought his way through the roots. He charged toward her. He yanked the small yellow rag from between the rifle’s frizzen and flint. He pitched it aside.
A war cry shot into the air. An Indian on a horse breached a small ridge to his left.
Shawanese.
Thomas’ blood chilled.
The horse thundered down the embankment. Another war cry ripped from the brave’s lungs. A tomahawk slashed the air.
Elizabeth’s face flooded with the fear. She picked up speed. The plaid slipped from her shoulders and to the ground.
The brave was gaining on her. A sickening wave of terror pitched into Thomas’ gut.
I have only one shot.
He swung the rifle to his shoulder. He planted his feet apart.
A Dhia! She was in his line of sight. “To your knees, Elizabeth!”
She threw herself to the ground. Gravel ricocheted upward. Her face ground tight against the pain.
Thomas sighted down the barrel. He squeezed the trigger.
Blood and matter burst from the Indian’s chest. The shot pounded back and forth between the valley walls. The brave’s arms lifted outward against the agony and surprise. The tomahawk slipped from his hand and dropped to the ground.
The brave slid from the horse. The black mare, her eyes filling with unspent fear, picked up speed. Fingal bayed and scrambled toward the frightened beast. The horse veered away from Elizabeth and toward the river.
Thomas knelt to one knee. He slammed the rifle butt to the rocks. He yanked the powder horn from around his shoulder, opened the cap, and poured gunpowder into the barrel. He peered through the drifting smoke to the upper bank.
No sign of others, but he could nae risk it, especially with the rifle’s echo.
With lightning speed and steadier hands than he deserved, he loaded the rifle with shot and powder. He secured the trigger at half-cock. The click echoed between the valley walls.
Still no sign of others. ‘Twas hard to believe.
He sprinted forward and dove to the ground beside Elizabeth.
Ach! He had nae time for warning her of his touch. He held the cocked rifle outward with his right hand. With his left, he grabbed her arm.
The lass struggled to her knees. She threw her arms around him. Her breath burst in short gasps against his neck.
“Ye are alright.” He eased the rifle to the ground. He yanked her against his chest. Her shaking rattled his gut.
“I . . . I could not outrun him.”
“Wheest, Lass. ‘Tis over.” For the moment.
He pushed her back. He grabbed her hands and upended her palms. Scratches and dents crisscrossed her palms like worn, wind-tossed thatch.
“They are not too bad,” he said. “Did ye bring something to doctor them with?”
“No.” She winced. “Just ginger for your cough.”
“Then a good wash will have to do, and they need to be bandaged.” He lifted his face again to the ridge.
Fingal, just the other side of Elizabeth, stared at the bank. Something still captured his attention, but Thomas could not determine what.
“I hear it again.” Elizabeth pulled her hands free. She stood, then swayed.
Thomas reared to his feet and grabbed her arm. “Lass, ye took a bad tumble. Go easy.”
“But Tomas . . .” She pointed.
A young Indian maiden stumbled from the shadows. She set a child to the ground, then staggered across the rocky shore.
Tan fringe along the worn moccasins swung aside of her shins. The faded black skirt rumpled across her walking knees.
Was it her? His breath snagged tight.
Quick angry words in Shawanese fell from her lips. She kicked the dead brave in his side. Another rush of fresh blood poured from his chest.
The child coughed.
Elizabeth raced across the beach.
“No!” Thomas sprang after her.
She lifted the child upward.
The young squaw shouted. She burst past Thomas. She yanked the child from Elizabeth. Her hand shot forward.
Thomas lunged between the women.
“You will not hurt her,” he said in Shawanese.
The squaw looked not at him but pointed around him and at the wooden crucifix hanging from Elizabeth’s neck. Then, her head jerked around. “P’cataweh Wawakotichethe?”
Thomas’ heart fell to his feet.
So it was her.
Elizabeth crossed her arms. “Well, Black Fox, how many secrets do you have?”