Chapter 10
The white wolf struck Hunt full in the chest, and they went down in the midst of broken ice and black rushing water. For long seconds, Elizabeth stood frozen with shock as wolf and man struggled. Huge jaws capable of biting through a man’s thighbone snapped dangerously close to Hunt’s face and throat. Then the wolf’s snarls turned to a high-pitched keening as Hunt buried the blade of his knife deep in the animal’s chest. Dark blood welled up and spilled over the thick fur, covering Hunt’s hands and staining the front of his leather coat. The wolf’s hind legs thrashed wildly, and then the fierce light faded from the creature’s eyes.
Hunt staggered back and threw off the weight of the animal. Dazed, he looked down at the bloodstained knife he still held clenched in his right hand. His left sleeve was torn, and there were several rips down the front of his hunting shirt.
Elizabeth gave a low cry and started toward him. “Hunt, how bad are you hurt?” The current had pulled the wolf partially under the ice, but it lay limp, no longer moving. “Hunt?” Most of the blood belonged to the wolf, but it didn’t seem possible that Hunt could sustain such a savage attack without being bitten.
“Get the rifle,” he shouted.
Two wolves had come out of the trees and were moving down toward the stream. “Oh, my God!” Elizabeth shrugged off her pack and ran to the spot where Hunt had dropped his. She tore Powder Horn’s rifle free and raised it to her shoulder. The hammer was stiff and hard to cock. Her fingers trembled under the strain.
“Shoot!” Hunt commanded.
She pulled the trigger. The force of the explosion sent her reeling back into the snow with the rifle on top of her. She scrambled up, peering through the semidarkness to see if she’d hit her target.
“Remind me to give you some target practice,” Hunt said. He climbed the slippery bank and ran to his belongings. She hurried to his side as he reloaded first his own weapon and then Powder Horn’s.
Elizabeth’s shoulder felt as though she’d been kicked by a horse. “Did I kill the wolf?” she asked. “I don’t see—”
“Not even close.” He put an arm around her shoulder, and she looked down to see more blood seeping from his torn sleeve.
“You are hurt,” she said. “How bad is—”
“Bad enough. Wolf bites are nasty.”
She strained to see in the gathering dusk. “Are there—”
“Your shot went wild, but it scared them off.” He handed her both rifles. “Keep them out of the snow,” he ordered. Then he waded back into the creek and pulled out first the carcass of the deer and then the dead wolf.
“You said the wolves wouldn’t harm us,” she reminded him as he began to skin and butcher the deer.
“I was wrong,” he admitted. “I’ll just take the hindquarters, the liver, and the tenderloin. The pack won’t stay away too long, not with the smell of all this blood.”
“Leave the venison,” she urged him.
“I’m taking enough to feed us for a few days. The wolves can have the rest.”
“You’re hurt. We don’t need the meat. Let’s go while we can.”
“I fought for this venison, and I’m damned well going to eat some of it.” Then his features turned serious, and he uttered something in a language she couldn’t understand.
“What are you saying?” she asked.
“It’s a prayer for the deer, an apology for taking its life.”
“Hunt, it’s getting dark. It’s snowing; you’re soaking wet, and we’re surrounded by a wolf pack. It’s time to go.”
“This is the first time I’ve ever known a wolf that wasn’t starving or sick to attack a man.”
“How do you know it wasn’t hungry?”
“If he’d landed on top of you, you’d know he wasn’t starving. He was in prime condition. It makes no sense.”
“Maybe he just didn’t want you taking his deer.”
“Maybe not,” he conceded.
Elizabeth watched the forest nervously as he cut a few choice parts from the deer, rolled the meat in a section of hide, and slung it over his shoulder.
“Let me take the venison and the extra rifle,” she offered. “It’s too much for you to carry.” The sleet had turned to snow and was coming down in earnest. Already the wolf’s still form was nearly invisible. “This weather is turning bad. Suppose we’re caught without shelter? The wolves—”
“You worry too much,” he said. “It doesn’t matter about the snow. The mission should be less than a mile upstream. A baby could find it with his eyes shut.”
“And if you’ve miscalculated? If Baptiste’s cabin is downstream instead of up?”
He laughed. “You of little faith.”
Elizabeth kept close behind him as they set out. She didn’t see how he could take his close call so lightly. When the wolf had leaped at Hunt, she’d nearly died of terror—fear not just for her own safety, but for him. If he had died ...
He stopped and put a hand on her arm. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I’ll take care of you.”
She shivered. The rising wind and creak of the snowshoes couldn’t cover the fierce growls and crunch of bone behind her as the wolf pack devoured the remains of the deer. And she couldn’t keep herself from looking back over her shoulder to see if any of the animals were stalking them.
They pushed hard, and as the snow fell harder, Hunt began to whistle. Suddenly he stopped short and pointed. “There,” he said. She stared, but saw nothing except swirling white. “It’s the remains of the church,” he explained. “The Indians burned it. The cabin lies beyond. Watch your step. Baptiste is always building something. You don’t want to trip over—” He grunted and swore softly.
“What was it?” she asked.
“A post. God knows what one post is doing here.” He stayed her with a touch. “I don’t smell any wood-smoke, do you? There should be smoke from Baptiste’s chimney. You stay here,” he whispered.
“Not on your life. Where you go, I go.”
He didn’t try to stop her as she followed him across a cleared area, past another ruined building to the door of a small cabin. Hunt removed his snowshoes, and she did the same without being told.
The door was fastened on the outside with a wooden bar. Hunt lifted it, pushed the door open, and stepped inside. “Baptiste?” he called.
The only reply was a low meow. “A cat?” Elizabeth said in surprise. “He has a cat?” She stepped up into the darkened cabin and closed the door against the wind and snow. The meow had become a loud purr. Elizabeth dropped to her knees as the cat rubbed against her. “Nice kitty,” she said.
“Stay put until I make a light,” Hunt ordered. He crossed the room and Elizabeth heard him fumbling against the stone hearth. Something metal fell and clanked against the floor. “I found a fire kit,” he said.
Elizabeth petted the cat and waited until a single spark flashed in the blackness.
“Just a minute,” he said. He struck another spark and she saw a glow. Within minutes they had both fire and light.
Elizabeth looked around the tidy room. The floor was hard-packed clay, swept clean. A wooden shutter covered the single window, securely locked and barred from within. Traps and a fishnet hung on one wall; baskets and herbs and dried meat dangled from the rafters. There was a wide plank table, scarred from long use, three straight-back chairs with rush seats and a real four-poster bed. A covered crockery jar stood on the window shelf, and an unfinished pine-needle basket sat on a smaller worktable beside a woman’s sewing bag. The table was set for two with blue-and-white porcelain plates and bowls, and two pewter goblets.
She could not resist touching a silver fork. How long had it been since she’d seen a proper table setting? Her lips curved upward in a smile. Her mother would think this cabin fit only for the lowest of her servants; even Ruth, the cook, lived better.
For a few seconds, Elizabeth allowed herself to think of her mother’s dining room, set, as it often was, for thirty guests. Samuel, the butler, would stand near the hall door, directing a steady flow of maids in starched white caps and spotless aprons and footmen in red vests and breeches. The floor-to-ceiling windows facing the street would be open to catch the breeze off the water, and fan boys in feathered turbans would stand on either side of the heavily laden table pulling the cords connected to the curtain of sea grass matting overhead.
She could almost hear the clink of wineglasses, the murmur of voices ... almost smell the delicious odors of fresh-baked biscuits hot from Ruth’s kitchen: spicy shrimp, she-crab soup, and roast leg of lamb with mint. If she closed her eyes, she knew she’d be able to see her father at the head of the table, rising to offer a toast. And if she looked directly across from her chair, she would meet her brother Avery’s mischievous grin. Avery, who—
“Elizabeth? Aren’t you going to warm yourself—”
“Yes,” she answered, startled from the hot autumn afternoon in Charles Town to the reality of this isolated cabin locked in the grip of another snowstorm. “Yes, I will.” The English came easier to her lips now; she took pleasure in pronouncing the words correctly and hearing her own voice say them aloud. Yellow Drum had forbidden her to speak English. She had defied him by whispering to her children, but she had begun to forget her native tongue. A few more years in captivity and—
“Are you frozen solid, woman?” Hunt asked as he awkwardly pulled his hunting shirt over his head. “Get out of those wet moccasins and—”
“Oh,” she cried. “I’m sorry, I forgot. You’re hurt.” She shrugged off her heavy outer garments and went to him. “Let me see your arm.”
“One bite is deep. The others aren’t worth mentioning.”
“Let me bind it to stop the bleeding,” she offered. She glanced around the cabin, looking for a bit of cloth to use as a bandage.
“Not yet. The more it bleeds, the less likely the wound will sicken.”
She shook her head. “Not for someone who lost so much blood back in the cave. I’ll wash it thoroughly and ...” She noticed a spiderweb in the corner, high up on the logs. “My mother’s cook, Ruth, always said that spiderwebs will stop bleeding.”
Hunt grimaced. “My father, Wolf Robe, used spiderwebs for bleeding too, but not for a puncture wound.” He knelt on the edge of the hearth and picked up a burning stick.
Elizabeth blanched. “What are you doing?”
He blew out the flame, gritted his teeth, and pressed the glowing end of the branch into the deepest tooth mark. Elizabeth’s stomach turned over as she heard the sizzle of human flesh. Hunt’s face turned the color of tallow, and sweat beaded on his forehead.
She turned with a cry, ran to the door, and flung it open. Scooping up a handful of snow, she slammed the door and ran back to Hunt. He was still kneeling upright, but his eyes were glazed and he swayed a little. When he saw her coming with the snow, he nodded and held out his arm. Elizabeth clamped the snow over the burn and held it tight.
Hunt rose unsteadily and walked the few steps to a chair. Still sweating profusely, he pointed to a jug on a sideboard. “Get me that, will you,” he asked hoarsely.
She brought the container and poured amber liquid into a pewter goblet. Hunt lifted the cup and drank the rum in one long swallow. “Thanks,” he gasped. “I’m not normally a man for spirits, but some things deserve a toast.”
“You’re crazy,” she said, but she knew he was right. A puncture wound could bring lockjaw or turn gangrenous. Better a little agony now than to die horribly later. She poured a second goblet of rum. “Drink it,” she advised. “It will help the pain.”
“You’re still in those wet moccasins,” he said.
Sitting on the rug in front of the fire, she unlaced her high leather moccasins and slipped them off. For a few minutes, she allowed herself the luxury of toasting her bare feet, then she stood and lifted a large copper kettle from the iron crane. “I’ll heat some water and start supper,” she said.
Hunt tapped the crockery jug. “Will you have a glass? It will warm your insides.”
She shook her head. “No, Father says I’m too young for—” She laughed. “I guess I’m not too young anymore, am I?” Shyly, she took the goblet he offered her. The rum burned her throat as it went down, but she forced herself to finish it all. “Thank you.”
Hunt pushed the cork back into the opening of the jug. “All things in moderation, my father always said. I believe it to be wise judgment. Indians and Irishmen have a poor tolerance to alcohol.”
“As do properly-brought-up girls from Charles Town,” she replied. The rum had warmed her belly, but it made her a little giddy as well. She wasn’t sure she liked the feeling. “I’ll melt snow for—”
“Baptiste has a cistern, there.” He pointed to the back of the room. “Beneath that wooden seat. The Jesuits are learned men. They devised all sorts of labor-saving inventions. I’m certain the water is full of spiders, but it should do for bathing and cooking.”
“You expect me to cook with water full of bugs?” She made a face. “I’ll start with snow, as I said before. That, at least, is clean and free of vermin.” She relented a little. “But it takes a lot of snow to make water. I don’t suppose it would hurt to heat the cistern water for bathing. A hot bath sounds like heaven.”
He offered a wan smile. “It does, doesn’t it. But grill a little venison first. My belly feels as empty as a dried gourd.”
She nodded. “Mine too.” The cat rubbed against her bare ankle and purred hopefully. “And I doubt if puss would turn down a hot meal either,” Elizabeth said. “Where do you suppose the priest is?”
“He and his woman may have gone to trade for salt and tea. Baptiste has a passion for good English tea. Or they might be visiting some of her relatives.”
“With Baptiste?”
Hunt shrugged. “Why not? He’s safe enough. I told you, no Indian will harm a madman. They believe they’d lose their immortal soul if they did.”
“Wherever they went, I’m grateful for the use of their cabin. I hope they don’t mind.”
“They’re good people. They won’t care. If they were here, they’d be honored to have us as guests.”
“So long as we don’t bring the wrath of the Iroquois down on them.”
“Our scalps are the ones in danger. Baptiste’s wife is under his protection. They have nothing to fear but the weather, sickness, and old age.”
She looked around her at the stout log walls, the simple furnishings, and the stone fireplace. “Once I would have thought this a hovel; now it looks like a mansion to me.”
“Your father is one of the wealthy few; he spends more on a suit of clothing than most settlers own in a year. My sister’s cabin was poor compared to this. She said we were born in a manor in Ireland, but I couldn’t say for sure. Maybe we were hard-pressed to make a living. Lots of the Irish are starving; that’s why so many cross the sea.”
“All this talk has done nothing to keep us from starving. You sit, or better yet, lie down. I’ll prepare the meal.”
Hunt uncorked the bottle and poured himself another two fingers of rum. He took a sip, then held his aching arm out over the stone hearth and slowly poured the remainder of the liquor in his goblet over the burn. It smarted like hell, but that was all right. At least he had an arm to hurt. It worried him that he’d not seen the wolf until the last possible moment. If he’d been killed, Elizabeth would have died as well. And she had suddenly become very, very important to him ... maybe more important than he wanted to admit to himself. He let her wash his wounds and the single gash along his neck. The rum had gone to his head, and her hands were as gentle as her eyes. He wasn’t drunk, but he’d had enough to dull the pain and set him to thinking along dangerous lines where Elizabeth was concerned.
He spoke little as she prepared the venison and a hot mush of cornmeal. Watching Elizabeth was restful. She worked swiftly with a natural grace, and she didn’t chatter aimlessly. When she brought the food to the table, he surprised her by lifting the lid of the crockery jar and dipping thick maple syrup and ladling it over her mush.
“It’s wonderful,” she said, putting a finger in the sweet and licking it off. “Raven and I made maple syrup every spring, but she wouldn’t let me eat it.”
He smiled at her. “My Delaware Indian mother dribbled hot syrup in the snow to make candy. I never waited for it to cool and usually burned my mouth gobbling it down.”
“The Iroquois women do the same. Rachel ... Jamie,” she corrected herself, “loved it. At home, Mother’s cook used to make marzipan and taffy at Christmas, but I’m certain it never tasted this good.” She chuckled. “I know the sugared rose petals didn’t.” She took another bite of the sweetened mush, then closed her eyes and sighed. “I’m warm and dry, and the wolves didn’t get us. I think I’m in heaven.”
“You’re easily pleased, Elizabeth. More than most.”
Her brilliant eyes fixed him with a penetrating green stare. “Perhaps,” she answered softly. “Perhaps not.”
The playful mood shattered, they finished their meal in near silence. Elizabeth cleared away the dishes, washed and dried them, and returned them to their places on the table. Then she looked into his face again. “I’d like to bathe in private,” she said.
“Do you expect me to stand out in the snow?”
She laughed. “I do not, sir. The poster bed has draperies. If you’d lie down and pull them closed, then—”
He’d been waiting for her to bathe ... to take down her hair and wash it. He always found something sensual about a woman washing her hair. “Why the sudden modesty?” he asked huskily. “It’s not as though we haven’t been sharing a camp.” Or that I haven’t touched you, he thought. And kissed your breasts ...
Damn, but the room was growing overwarm. He’d been looking forward to a hot bath himself, but not nearly as much as he’d wanted to watch her bathe.
“I know it sounds foolish,” she murmured, “but I haven’t had privacy in a long time.”
Her voice was as deep and rich as the golden aged rum. He swallowed, trying to dissolve the sudden constriction in his throat. What had they agreed on? He’d keep his hands off her if she’d keep hers off him? It seemed a stupid contract, one that hurt more than it helped.
Her eyes were as green as new mountain grass . . . as green and clear as Rocky Mountain jade, and they were framed by thick, dark lashes that fluttered like the wings of a dove. He’d always been a man to fancy a woman’s eyes. Many a plain face held eyes full of fire or the promise of shared laughter and freely given love. Elizabeth’s eyes drew him. When he stared into them, he felt every ounce of common sense draining away.
“You should lie down,” she said. She touched his cheek, and tremors of yearning splintered through him. He nodded, not trusting his voice. He crossed to the bed and stretched out on it without removing his breeches. She drew the thin draperies closed around him and he lay in semidarkness, smelling the woman scent of her and wishing things were different between them.
He closed his eyes and listened as she dipped out the water into a tin basin and stepped out of her clothing. He heard her faint sigh as she sluiced the warm liquid over her bare skin. He heard the thud and crackle of wood as she stoked the fire, and when he could stand it no longer, he opened his eyes and looked through the worn bed curtain at her silhouette backlit by the roaring hearth.
His mouth was dry as his fingers tightened on the Hudson’s Bay blanket. “Sweet Lord,” he murmured. Elizabeth ... Beth was on her knees, hair unbound and hanging over the basin as she poured water over her tresses. The bright glow of firelight behind her left nothing to his imagination. Her small breasts were high and firm; her nipples formed perfect buds. Her waist was narrow above a flat belly and curving feminine hips. Her bare feet were tucked behind her, her arms lifted over her head.
He pushed back the drapery. “Can I help?” he called. “Scrub your back?”
Startled, she looked at him. For an instant he didn’t know if she would turn angry or begin to cry. Instead, she remained motionless, gazing at him. Then, she smiled and extended a hand. “I’d like that ... very much,” she answered, and her husky voice made him feel as if he’d just stepped off a precipice into thin air.
Their fingers brushed as he took the dipper from her hand, and a massive jolt of electricity shot through his body.
“Have you had much practice?” she asked him.
He let the water run slowly down her wet back. “Not enough.” God, but she was beautiful.
She pushed a soapy cloth into his hand. “The center,” she urged. “I can’t reach the center.”
He knelt beside her on the stones and began to rub slow, sensual circles along her spine. She sighed with pleasure, and he lowered his head and kissed the silken nape of her neck. It was damp and smelled like wildflowers.
“Lower.”
He swallowed. He dipped the washrag in the basin, then squeezed it over the small of her back. The water ran down and collected in pools between her feet.
“Umm,” she murmured.
He dropped the cloth and used his thumbs to massage her shoulders and the back of her neck. She turned to him and he lifted the dripping hair away from her face. “You’re all wet,” he said.
Her lips trembled and she looked at him with huge green eyes. “Yes, I am.” She paused for a heartbeat. “And your breeches are getting wet as well.”
“I’ll have to do something about that.”
“I suppose so,” she answered.
“Close your eyes, Beth.”
She obeyed him without question, and he shed his breeches so quickly that he snapped a leather tie. “Keep them shut,” he reminded her.
She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Hurry, or I’ll catch cold,” she warned.
“I’ll not let you be cold.” The lid of the white crockery jar clattered to the table as he spooned out maple syrup and dribbled it onto a plate. Then he dipped his forefinger and anointed various parts of his own body.
“Hunt?”
He chuckled. “Keep your eyes closed.” He carried the plate to the hearth, dipped his finger again and let two drops of syrup fall onto her left nipple.
She gasped. “What are you doing?”
“Dessert,” he answered. “You’ll like it, I promise.”