Chapter Eleven

 

Black Creek Market. Dingy blonde hair. Could dingy blonde be white blonde? Black Creek. Vonn?

Her heart beat loud in her chest as Lake lay still in her bed. It had been two weeks since that night she'd snuck into camp and followed the boy she was sure now had been Vonn.

Two weeks of agony. Of questioning herself. Was that Vonn? Where was Hudson? Was he alive? Had he really abandoned her? Lake shook her head. She couldn't get her hopes up that Hudson was really alive. If he couldn’t have helped her escape, he would've moved heaven and earth to at least make contact with her, of that she was sure. Except there was a small doubt that rubbed like the stiff leather of a new shoe. Had Hudson thought she wasn’t worth coming for? Had he decided she wasn’t worth it?

No, Lake shook her head. There was no way he would've left her, not Hudson. But if Black Creek wasn't Hudson than whom could it be?

She rolled on her back and watched the morning filter through her window. Syon had left early this morning, before the dawn had even been glimpsed. He’d be gone for a week. A week of freedom if she could keep from being suspect. The servants were still loyal to Syon. Loyalty or fear? Didn’t matter, both worked the same.

She had waited long enough. She threw off her covers and started to dress. Today, she’d make her way to the market and find out once and for all if Hudson was alive or not.

 

Even though the early morning sun still bathed the market stalls and make-shift tents in the soft colors of rose and pinks, the market was busy and open for business. Shop owners hailed the affluent customers in wagons as little boys ran dirty in the street looking for an easy mark. Goats bayed and a few wild dogs fought over scraps of entails before a burley shop owner kicked one and broke up the pack.

The smells of working bodies and wet, matted livestock mixed with the fragrance of potent herbs and cooking food. The smoky scent of fried apio chips sprinkled with salt and a fretwork of exotic spices hung low in the air. Colorful scarfs floated on top of a few tents indicating where the fabric merchants had set up shop. Only one tent floated a purple scarf. The deep mulberry dye used to color the silk was costly and could only be derived from the Erasthai flower that grew high in the mountainous regions. Only the very rich, basically the highest ranking Elders or black market criminals, could afford to wear the costly silk. Lake pulled the fragrant Erasthai scarf across her mouth and nose to filter out the mix of overwhelming scents.

Lake told her driver to slow down as she scoured the crowd for signs of the Black Market tent. The horses stopped in the middle of the road blocking traffic, but Lake didn't care. Others could go around. There had to be some benefit from marrying an Elder.

She was so intent at looking in the distance that she failed to see the shop tent right in front of her. Colorful displays of rare dandelion weed that made an excellent tea for edema and water retention sat on a table at the front. Baskets of the elongated, apio root vegetable with the distinct flavor that fell somewhere between a carrot and celery. Multiple shades of legumes, each one Lake knew by name.

All of her knowledge, she’d learned at Hudson's side as they took their nightly walks through the fields. She remembered the passion that warmed his dark gaze as he became excited telling her what grew where and when. And how he would reward her with a kiss every time she’d answer correctly his questions of the best time to plant, fertilize, and harvest.

She’d taken it all in. Not because she was interested. Far from it, but because it mattered to Hudson, and she so desperately wanted to be a part of what mattered to him. So she listened and learned, and fell in love with him over the deep connection he had to the land and the quiet fortitude of a man who waited on the seasons for his livelihood.

As if the memory of rich, autumn eyes conjured them up in real life, Lake found herself captivated by a haunting gaze, she’d never been able to forget. A familiar face, slightly lined, but with the same strong angles and wide mouth. Same dark hair, but longer as it blew in the wind and brushed at the tips of his shoulders like some flirty lover. His body was bigger, no, not bigger, more defined as if the elements had whittled his form down to only the most essential.

The biggest difference from her imaginings, of course, was that the bastard was alive and well.