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THE FOLLOWING WEEK, a load of supplies was delivered to the house. Noah oversaw the unloading of the crates and told the men where to put them. Most of the heavy crates were stored in the shed; a few were hauled to the loft. Noah told Catherine the supplies had been sent from England for trading with the Indians. Sure enough, the very next day he set out on another expedition. Only this time, Catherine noted, he went alone, and said he wouldn’t be gone long.
However short his time away, Catherine felt she’d been granted a respite from her husband’s increasingly foul temper. That afternoon she put Lydia to work washing soiled linens, making sure the girl understood that all the wet things had to be spread out over the bushes to dry, otherwise, in the humid clime, their clothing and bed sheets would soon become moldy.
Looking forward to her plans for the afternoon, Catherine snatched up two fair-sized baskets and headed for the woods. The last time she was there, she’d been excited to stumble upon a patch of wild strawberries all but hidden from view in a pretty clearing amongst a stand of tall trees. The luscious berries should be ripe for plucking now.
Easily finding the strawberry patch, she quickly filled one basket and was starting on the second when she was startled out of her wits by something zinging past her left shoulder. Her head whirled that direction but when she saw what lay only a few feet from her, she sprang to her feet with a cry of alarm.
Inches from where she’d been kneeling on the ground was a large coiled-up snake, now dead, its head pinned back against its body by an arrow still shuddering where it struck.
Catherine flung a wild gaze about, searching for the Indian whose sharp eyes and swift action had saved her life. From out of nowhere, Phyrahawque stepped into the clearing, a longbow in his hand.
“Sassacomuwah.”
Gasping, Catherine nodded assent. “Yes, the snake is dead.” She relaxed the veriest mite. “Thank you.”
She relaxed a bit more when she saw the granite-hard angles of his handsome face soften. The Indian walked toward her, his piercing black eyes never leaving hers. “Wel-come,” he replied haltingly.
Catherine managed another smile, one hand still pressed to her heart as she gasped for breath. “You gave me quite a fright.”
“No mean fright you.”
“I am very grateful you were nearby.”
Standing before her, Catherine could see tiny flecks of light glittering like diamonds in the depths of his black eyes. When he took yet another step closer to her, she instinctively drew back with fresh alarm. But he was only reaching past her to lean his longbow up against a tree. Without speaking, he bent down and began to scoop up the berries she’d scattered when she sprang to her feet and knocked over both baskets.
When she saw what he was doing, she knelt to help. At one time they both reached at the same instant to drop handfuls of bright red berries into the basket. Feeling his hand brush against hers, a tremor shot up Catherine’s arm. His tawny skin felt smooth and warm to her touch.
Kneeling so closely beside him she became aware of his scent, musk mingled with the wild, clean smell of the forest. His aroma so delighted her, she found herself drawing long deep breaths of it as she and the mighty Indian warrior worked silently beside one another picking berries.
Catherine couldn’t help stealing shy glances at his nearly naked body, noting the outline of his bulging thigh muscles and the sinews of his long tapered legs. Her gaze lingered on the sculptured perfection of his shoulders and bare chest. Draped around his neck today was a cord of leather strung with some type of beads. Gaining a closer look, she realized they were not beads at all, but the pointed teeth of wild animals. Moving his head as he reached here and there for berries, she became enthralled by the graceful flow of his long, silky black hair. She felt an almost compelling urge to touch it but of course, she didn’t dare.
When they completed their task, both stood up. The Indian was so tall that the top of Catherine’s head just barely reached the middle of his chest. She lifted a guarded gaze to meet his, but relaxed anew when she saw no menace in his pitch-black eyes. Instead, she thought she detected a curious wistfulness there. Smiling tentatively, she reached to take the basket, knowing full well that in so doing her fingers would again brush against his. When the expected contact came, she saw a flicker of something cloud his dark eyes. He allowed their touch to linger a moment longer than necessary before he withdrew his hand and turned to quickly snatch up his bow.
“Thank you for helping me, Phyrahawque.”
He gave a nod as if to say, “Of course.” Then he bent down and carefully picked up the dead snake by the arrow still impaling its body. Carrying his prize over one shoulder, he disappeared into the dense woods surrounding the clearing.
* * * *
WHEN NOAH HAD NOT RETURNED by nightfall, Catherine knew she’d be sleeping alone that night and that her husband probably wouldn’t be. But she didn’t care. Noah’s touch no longer excited her. In the three months they’d been married, he’d never once made love to her as he had that first night he’d lured her into bed, the night she’d burned for his caresses, only to have him cruelly pull away and leave her wild with yearning. Since then, his lovemaking had been quick, rough, and selfish. A fleeting thought about the Indian warrior Phyrahawque came to mind. How would he make love to a woman, she wondered.
She pushed the wayward thought aside and again turned to ruminating on her marriage. Her dream of a happy life with Noah seemed to be dying for a second timethe first time when she saw that he’d married another and now, as she was fast realizing that being married to him was not the life of unfettered bliss she’d always dreamed of. The bitterness growing between them disheartened her, but she felt powerless to quell it. She did not know how to reach him anymore, and every time she tried, it seemed only to anger him further and to widen the gulf between them. More often than not, when he was home, he was sullen and moody. He had a way of turning the smallest disagreements into insurmountable obstacles, almost as if he had no desire for peace or harmony between them.
It frustrated her that he seemed to have no idea what it took to live day-to-day in this wild new land; that one’s food must be grown and that hard work was not a choice, but a way of life. She had purposely not mentioned the fifty pounds of oats she’d purchased, for she knew he would ask how she managed to cart such a heavy bundle home, and she didn’t want to anger him by confessing she’d allowed her brother to help.
It amused her now to recall how surprised she’d been when Noah actually asked about the chickens in the coop, but she’d adroitly avoided an argument by telling him, and not untruthfully, that “chickens were in that coop when Adam lived here.”
Wondering what they would eat this winter was a constant source of worry. Every night she prayed that Adam would make good on his word and again provide the bounty he’d promised for yet another winter, most especially this one, since by then, she’d be huge with child.
The babe growing in her belly was the only thing that made her marriage to Noah Colton worth the trials and upsets she was enduring. She prayed that nothing would take that happiness from her.
Noah did not return for the next two days, but because both were rainy, she suspected he was snug somewhere in an Indian maiden’s hut with agreeable company and plenty to eat.
When the rain let up, Catherine knew she’d best tend to the weeds in her corn patch, which would have grown a foot or more the past few days. She knew better than to allow Lydia anywhere near either her herb garden or the cornfield, so she put the girl to work indoors. It had pleased Catherine to at last find something at which Lydia seemed adept. Sewing. During the rainy days, the pair had cut out garments for themselves from the lengths of new fabric Catherine had bought from the ship’s merchant. She felt confident that Lydia would soon turn the vast array of cut-out pieces into finely stitched garments.
Rummaging around now in the shed for her hoe, something glinting in the ray of sunlight that spilled through the open doorway caught Catherine’s eye. Curious, she moved past a dozen or more of Noah’s crates to reach those in the back. When she saw that the lid on one had been pried up, she peeked inside but at once drew back with alarm. Muskets. But the top layer of firearms was clearly missing. That there were several more crates of the exact same size told her this was not the only one containing muskets. Glancing about, she wondered what might be inside some of the other boxes. Spotting another crate with the lid also slightly ajar, she climbed over the boxes of muskets to look inside. It was full of bags marked “Gunpowder”. An empty place in that crate told her some of the gunpowder bags were also missing.
Her heart pounding, she sank down onto one of the sturdy crates. Surely Noah had not taken muskets and gunpowder to trade with the Indians! So far as Catherine knew, the governor’s strict mandate against giving the Indians anything that might be used as a weapon had not yet been lifted. She clearly remembered Argall saying at the meeting that night that the men shouldn’t even take hatchets or ax blades to the Indians anymore. It was still far too soon after Powhatan’s death to be certain what the Indians might do. Giving them firearms at this juncture was not only foolhardy, it was dangerous. Not even Noah would be that thoughtless.
Sighing wearily, she pulled herself to her feet. Once again she was faced with a dilemma. Should she question Noah about her discovery or let it lay? To even mention that she knew what was in some of the boxes would invite an argument.
Making her way around the obstructions, she picked up the hoe and headed to the corn patch.
Apparently whilst she was weeding, Noah returned, for when she entered the house later, she found him there.
“I did not see you return,” she said swiping a hand across her brow, now damp with perspiration. The heat mingled with the wet earth had caused the humidity to rise, making the day far warmer than it might otherwise have been.
Seated at the board table, Noah was enjoying a mug of cool ale, apparently talking idly to Lydia, who sat with her back to the door at one of the other tables, industriously stitching away.
“Was your . . . expedition satisfactory?”
“Fair.” Noah drained his cup and without another word, rose and exited the house.
Catherine watched him leave. “Well, then, I shall wash up and see if I can’t find something for us to eat,” she said to his disappearing backside.
After washing her hands and splashing cool water on her face, she put on a fresh bodice and returned to the common room. “Lydia, I need you to help me make dinner. Will you go to the loft, please, and bring down a trencher full of cornmeal?”
When Lydia seemed not to hear, Catherine repeated the summons, speaking a bit louder this time. Lately, she’d begun to wonder if the girl was hard of hearing rather than obstinate. Perhaps the child’s ears had been boxed one too many times. Either way, she definitely lacked manners. Catherine had never once heard her say “please” or “thank you.”
But a few minutes later, after Lydia had climbed the ladder to the loft, Catherine clearly heard the girl scream. Still screaming at the top of her lungs, she scampered back to the ground. Her pale blue eyes were round with fright as she pointed toward the loft.
“They’s wild animals up there! Don’t make me go back, mum, don’t make me!” To Catherine’s astonishment, the girl burst into tears.
“Lydia, dear, calm yourself. Sit on the stoop where there’s a nice breeze.” She urged the trembling girl forward and, after settling her in the opened doorway, turned to ascend the ladder to the loft herself.
Emerging onto the planked floor, she gazed about and finally saw what had so frightened the impressionable servant girl. Pelts. Apparently Noah had brought them up when he returned, and Lydia, sitting with her back to the door, had not seen, or perhaps even heard him enter the house and climb the steps to the loft.
Catherine walked toward the slanted end of the low-ceilinged room where Noah had piled the stack of animal skins. The manner in which the setting sun shone through the loft window must have lit up the eyes of one of the pelts, which Catherine noted was a beautiful silver fox complete with head and tail. It, she assumed, was the “wild animal” that had so frightened Lydia. She bent to stroke the soft fur. No doubt it would fetch a handsome price. What, she wondered, had Noah traded for the skins? And how could she persuade him to tell her?
Because Lydia rarely said much of anything . . . at all, ever . . . Catherine didn’t expect her to bring up the matter of the “wild animals” in the loft at dinner, and Catherine didn’t either.
But when she and Noah were alone in their bedchamber that night, she did bring it up.
“Tell me about your expedition, Noah. Was this trip on behalf of Jamestown, or on your own . . . behalf?”
His gaze cut ’round. “My purpose was to establish myself as a fur trapper with the Indians, that is, as a . . . fur trader.”
“Ah, and were you able to trade for any furs?”
“A few.”
She removed her bodice and hung it on a peg. “Tell me a bit more about how your fur-trading business works.”
He whirled around. “Why are you asking so many questions?”
She stepped from her skirt and turned to hang it on a peg. “I am merely showing an interest in my husband’s new business venture.”
“I fail to see where the details of my transactions concern you.”
“On the contrary, Noah.” She moved toward the bed. “Everything you do concerns me.” Drawing on her night rail, she sat down on the bed. “Let me see if I have it straight. You trade something with the Indians for the furs, which they trap, and they cure, then you sell the furs at a premium, which becomes the profit you receive for your efforts. Is that how it works?”
He eyed her suspiciously but said nothing as he unbuttoned his jerkin, shrugged out of it, and hung it up.
“The beaver pelts you stored in the loft this afternoon are beautiful. The silver fox is especially stunning.”
His eyes narrowed. “Meddling again, I see!”
Reining in her temper, Catherine schooled her features to remain calm. “I am often in the loft, Noah. I was there only this evening as I prepared our dinner. I am also often in the shed.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means, husband, that I am curious to know what you traded for the pelts in the loft.”
“That is also none of your concern.”
She could see that he was growing angry, and, because she didn’t really want to provoke him, she decided to change her approach before their argument got out of hand. “Noah . . . ” she began in a less challenging tone, “I know exactly what you traded for the pelts.”
“You know nothing,” he muttered, sitting on the one chair in the room to remove his boots and stockings.
“The muskets and bags of gunpowder in the shed are not yours to trade.”
“Who says I traded muskets and gunpowder?”
“Noah, I saw the opened boxes and noted that items from each were missing. Despite your claim to the contrary, I know the weapons were shipped here to be distributed amongst the settlers, not the Indians.”
Exhaling a sigh, he looked like a child who had been caught misbehaving. “We traders are not properly compensated for the risks we take. The few shillings we’re given for our efforts aren’t nearly enough to . . .”
“You agreed to the compensation when you became a trader. You must have thought the payment worth the risk.”
“Didn’t think much about it then.” He leaned back in the chair. “I agreed to trade for a lark. I had nothing else to do.”
“I understand how you feel, Noah. Which is one reason I hoped you would give up trading. Although, even if you feel you are not being properly compensated, you must agree that what you are doing now is wrong.” She felt she was making headway. He actually appeared to be listening. She waited for his reply. When he said nothing, she continued. “Noah, none of the supplies in the shed belong to you. True, most were sent from England for the purpose of trading with the Indians. But not the muskets, or the gunpowder.”
“All of us do a bit of . . . trading on the side.”
“Ah. The packages you used to conceal here with me?”
He nodded.
She paused, considering how best to drive home her point without angering him. She’d never quite seen this side of Noah. He was behaving like one of the small boys in her school who, when caught doing something wrong, would hang his head until she began to gently explain that he’d misbehaved. When he understood, she’d wrap her arms around him just to let him know she still thought him a good boy.
“You have other options, Noah. We have plenty of land.” Noting his brows pull together, she knew she was treading on thin ice. “I realize you have changed face on that head and no longer wish to be a planter, but there are other things you could do with the land. Victor drew up extensive plans for a mill.” She hurried on. “I have the diagram and all his calculations. The land fronts the water, which is perfect for the waterwheel to fuel the . . .”
“I have no intention of becoming a miller!” he exploded. “I like what I’m doing! Despite the risks.” He rose and began to pace. “The Indians trust me!”
Catherine also stood. “The good people of Jamestown also trust you.”
He shot her a wicked grin. “Which works quite well to my advantage, doesn’t it?”
She was losing ground, and patience. “But you are stealing from them! What you stand to gain from selling those pelts does not belong to you!”
“Well, I don’t see it that way! You are faulting me for finding an easy way to turn a profit and make a decent living for you . . . and . . . and our child!”
“Do not bring our unborn child into this!”
“Keep your voice down! We are no longer alone in the house.”
Catherine’s nostrils flared as she felt her anger rise. “Lydia is sound asleep. She snores as loudly as you do, and it begins the minute her head hits the pillow. Besides, even if she heard us talking, it would mean nothing to her. She doesn’t hear half what I tell her, and the half she does hear, she doesn’t understand. Although I am beginning to think she is not as dim-witted as she lets on.”
“You’ve developed a sharp tongue, Catherine, and I do not find that quality the least bit attractive. I much preferred the other Catherine, the one who . . .”
“Never said boo to a goose? I admit I have changed, Noah, but so have you. And I much prefer the old Noah. You are being dishonest and deceitful and what you are doing is wrong!”
“What I am doing is my own business!”
“Well, do not ask me to support it.”
He snickered. “I will not ask it, my dear, since as your husband, I am in a position to demand it. Since you stand to benefit from the fruits of my trading, that makes you as guilty as I.” He took a step closer to her, his blue gaze ominous. “You will say nothing to anyone about this, do you understand?”
“I understand only one thing, Noah Colton. You have deceived every citizen in the New World. You are a thief and a traitor to Virginia and to the king of England. You are a traitor, Noah . . . a traitor to the Crown!”
His face contorted with rage as he lunged toward her, throwing her backward onto the bed, his body on top of her, both hands pinning her down. “How dare you accuse me of . . . ”
“I am accusing you of nothing,” she ground out, struggling to free herself. His weight felt especially heavy on her belly. “I am speaking the truth!”
He grinned wickedly. “I like it when you struggle, my love.” He bent to cover her mouth savagely with his own.
Not returning the kiss, Catherine managed to free one hand and pushed against his shoulder. “Noah, stop!”
“Stop?” He raised himself off her a few inches. “I am your husband! You do not tell me to stop!”
“You will hurt the baby!”
He snatched her wrist and held her down. “Then we will make another one.”
Her nostrils flared. To fight him was useless. “Then take me.” She ceased to struggle. “Get it over with so I may go to sleep and forget that I . . . ”
A split second later, he rolled off her.
Casting a puzzled gaze at him, she sat up. “I said I’ll not fight you. Do what you must.”
“I find I no longer want you.” He stood up to remove his breeches. “I am like any man. I want what I cannot have. When it is so freely given, I find I do not want it.”
Still sitting on the edge of the bed, she straightened her clothing. “You have taken me before when I was not struggling.”
“I took you because you were here,” he spat out, moving to hang his breeches on a peg. He blew the candle out, returned to the bed and crawled in. “Move over so I may go to sleep.”
“I do not like being told what to do,” she replied petulantly, stung by his admission that he took her merely because she was there.
“Move away. You are on my side of the bed!” He straightened his long leg out and gave her a swift kick on the rear. The unexpected blow sent her flying to the floor. She landed with a hard thud and for a moment lay crumpled on the rushes, too stunned to speak.
“Get up,” he ordered. “And come to bed.”
Catherine slowly began to rise, using the shaft of moonlight shining through the opened window as a guide to tell her where in the room she was and where the bed and chest were located. Suddenly a large dark object obscured the light. The object sprang at her and yanked her to her feet.
“I said get up!” He flung her from him again, only instead of landing on the floor, her upper body and midsection slammed into the wall, knocking the breath from her. Gasping for air, Catherine sank onto the straw-covered floor of the darkened room.
“Fine. Sleep on the floor.”
Panting for breath, Catherine waited until she heard Noah’s even breathing before she pulled herself to her feet and crawled into bed beside him. In the darkness, the words of the London minister whose teachings were meant to prepare her and Lucinda for marriage sprang to mind. The clergyman had said that when a man beat his wife, it was likely due to her evil disposition and shrewish temperament.
Dear God, was she being a shrew tonight by confronting Noah? She didn’t think so. Just this past Sunday, Reverend Buck had said that according to the Church, women were forbidden to discuss religion or anything of a serious nature with their menfolk, as such topics would tax their delicate brains and overset their emotions. Rubbish! thought Catherine. True, she had become emotional discussing Noah’s misdeeds, but it had not taxed her brain!
Suddenly a small voice inside her head reminded her that one clergyman, she could not recall which, had said it was the husband’s unkind and churlish speeches and his rash furiousness that caused most domestic discord! Which clearly said that not all the fault for their marital discord lay at her feet!
Still, the Church did uphold a man’s right to strike his wife, and Noah was certainly within his rights to demand her obedience. For all she knew her brother Adam also raised a hand to Abby. Catherine had seen him every bit as sullen and moody as her own volatile husband. If her mother were alive today, Catherine knew she would instruct her daughter to meekly submit to her husband in all things. But . . . a silent sob rose within her . . . Noah’s churlish speech tonight had hurt her deeply. Yet she had vowed to love, honor, and obey him. She clearly knew now that to not do so only invited his wrath.
Dear Lord, she prayed, please help me curb my temper and be meek and mild when addressing Noah. And dear God, please, please do not let my baby be dead.