My Savage Heart (The MacQuaid Brothers) (6 page)

No, he hadn’t heard them. He’d been too busy thinking about his father’s betrothed. And he was lucky it had only been Dayunisi’s presence he missed. Wolf stared off into the woods. “What word do you bring?”

“Creek are traveling the valley.”

Wolf shrugged. “That is hardly news.” The Creek from the south often traveled Cherokee land. They weren’t allies, but most of the time there was an uneasy truce between the two nations.

“But this time, Wa`ya, they go north to fight the English. And they speak to our warriors about joining them.”

“Do any of them listen?”

“Tal-tsuska.”

Wolf would expect nothing else from his cousin, son of his mother’s brother. Tal-tsuska’s hatred of the white man ran deep. But Dayunisi’s next words were more disturbing. Wolf listened, his expression grim.

“There have been raids upon settlers in Virginia... by Cherokee warriors.”

“W
hat is it? What’s wrong?” Caroline’s skirt swished in the dusty road as she followed Raff around the horses. The red man had disappeared into the woods as quietly as he appeared.

“Step up.” Wolf bent over, cupping his hands beside the mare’s stirrup. He glanced up, annoyed when Caroline didn’t comply.

“What did he say?” Standing her ground was not something Caroline did as a rule; and after studying Raft’s dark countenance, she understood why.

“I’m taking you back to Charles Town.”

He said the words so matter of factly that Caroline could only stare. It wasn’t until he leaned over again to help her mount that she found her tongue. “I told you before, I’m going to Seven Pines.”

He said nothing at first, only straightened to tower over her, his dark eyes intense. “Cherokee warriors have raided settlers in Virginia. Taken scalps.”

Caroline’s gasp was involuntary. “But why?” She looked away only to be drawn back by his gaze. “Mr. Chipford assured me there was peace between the Cherokee and the English. He’s the factor who arranged the betrothal between your father and me,” she answered his unspoken question.

“Well, Mr. Chipford obviously doesn’t know the situation.”

“But ’tis the same thing your father reported in his post.”

“Listen Caroline.” Raff took a deep breath. Dayunisi’s news had disturbed him. It also made him all the more anxious to reach the Cherokee Lower Towns and report Lyttleton’s request for a talk. He didn’t have time for Lady Caroline Simmons, or her obstinance. “Believe whom you will, but I’m returning you to Charles Town. And I’m doing it now.”

“Then you’ll have to take me by force.” The mare pranced nervously behind her, and Caroline stepped well out of the way. “I’ve come too far to turn back.” She bit her bottom lip to keep it from quivering and stuck out her chin.

“Damnit, Caroline, there is more at stake here than your desire to marry my father.”

“I’m not going back.” Once, when she was a child, her father told her she was stubborn. The years had nearly erased that trait, but for some reason Raff MacQuaid revived it.

“You’re not?” Wolf glowered down at her. “Well, what if I do? What if I just leave you right here and return to Charles Town myself.”

Caroline’s gaze darted about quickly. To the thick, nearly impenetrable forest, dark and teeming with animal sounds. She swallowed. “Then I shall go on by myself.”

If she thought his expression dark before, now it was positively thunderous. He took a step toward her, then another, until she was forced to back away or be overrun by him. Her back pressed against the mare’s warm side, but she refused to look away even when his hands reached out to cup her shoulders.

“What is it about my father that draws you so?”

“I... I’m not drawn to him.” To his son perhaps. Caroline ruthlessly shoved that thought aside. She had no right thinking of the man before her in any way other than a stepson. Then why did she notice the way he smelled, like musky leather and unbearable heat? And why did she tremble whenever he touched her, nay whenever he even looked at her?

“He will not make you a good husband.”

His voice was low, and he left the meaning of his words unsaid. But a thousand vivid pictures came to Caroline’s mind... and none of them centered upon her betrothed. It was the man before her, touching her, who dominated her thoughts. A husband whose hands were large and firm, whose lips were sensual. What that mouth could do to her, Caroline could only guess. But for one insane moment she wanted to know, wanted to know so badly she could almost feel him, taste him...

“I’m going to Seven Pines!” Caroline twisted away from his grip on her shoulders and pressed her fist to her mouth. She sounded breathless and frightened, and she was both. But not of Indian raids, or even Raff MacQuaid’s disapproval.

“Very well. But do not say you weren’t warned.” With that he quirked his brow and curved his hands around her waist. Hoisting her up, he settled her into the saddle. Then he lifted her knee over the pummel—it was only her imagination that his fingers lingered overlong—and handed her the reins. She watched as he mounted, then urged his horse along the path... westward bound.

Their pace was even faster than before. By the time they stopped for the night, Caroline was bone tired. Unlike the Walkers’ sprawling house, their lodging this night was a cabin made of rough-hewn wood and a shake roof. But the food was good, and the bed in the loft that the mistress of the house showed her to was clean and welcome. Even exhaustion, however, couldn’t keep away the troubling dreams that haunted Caroline’s sleep... erotic dreams.

With the dawn they started down the path again, horses fresh, pace swift. By now Caroline knew the trip to Seven Pines would take a fortnight if all went well. That much she learned from Mistress Campbell who, along with her husband and five children, lived on the homestead where they spent the night.

A fortnight of such traveling loomed ahead as an eternity, but then compared to her sea voyage it didn’t seem so long. At least now she had solid ground beneath her, even if a horse carried her plodding along on it. Actually, despite her near tumble, Caroline had lost her fear of the gentle chestnut mare. Or perhaps her mind was too preoccupied to worry about the horse.

“’Tis it your intention to hold your tongue until we reach Seven Pines?” Caroline prodded her mount forward till she was abreast of Raff. He had spoken no more than was necessary to her since her refusal to return to Charles Town. But he had plenty to say. Last night she’d heard the muffled rumble of voices, his and his host’s, long after she’d climbed the ladder to the loft.

His stare made Caroline wish she’d kept silent. If he knew how he made her feel, like he could see through her clothing to the woman beneath, surely he would cease.

“I wasn’t aware you wished conversation, Your Ladyship.”

He was back to making her feel like unwanted royalty. Caroline ignored his sarcasm. “Oh, I should think anyone would appreciate a bit of company in this wilderness.”

“Some find the forest companion enough.”

“Do you?”

Today there was no ribbon or leather thong holding back his hair. It hung wild and free. A lock of his midnight black hair blew across his cheek as he turned back toward her. His eyes were no less intense, but the ghost of a smile altered the effect on her. Caroline felt as if her bones had turned to water.

“At times,” he admitted, “I enjoy the solitude of the trees and mountains. The song of the wind and screech of the raven.” He shrugged as if embarrassed by his own thoughts. “But then, there is much to be said for the company of a beautiful woman as well.”

Caroline felt heated color blossom on her cheeks. She turned her head, pretending to assess the dense underbrush that lined the path, hoping he wouldn’t notice her unsophisticated blush. He wasn’t speaking of her, of course. No one ever implied she was beautiful. Nothing like her vibrant mother. Caroline was simply Caroline. Dutiful, dependable Caroline.

Several minutes passed before she glanced back at him. He didn’t appear to have looked away, and Caroline nervously pulled her straw bonnet lower to shade her face. “You speak often of the mountains, but I profess, sir, to see none. The land is as smooth and flat as the water upon a lake.”

“Here, perhaps. But to the west there are hills and valleys as far as the eye can see.”

“It sounds breathtaking.”

“Breathtaking, yes. But the frontier is an unforgiving place. Not for the likes of some.”

Caroline straightened her shoulders. “You mean me. Not for the likes of me, don’t you?”

“Had I meant you, I would have said it.” With that he urged his horse forward, leading the way as the path narrowed. To the right the thick stand of trees gave way to the murky waters of a swamp.

There were alligators in the swamps they’d passed near Charles Town, hiding amid the cordgrass, and Caroline wondered if the same strange creatures inhabited this area. She was both repulsed and intrigued by the long, scaled animals Raff described to her. Though she’d yet to spot one, she’d heard its low bellow.

She saw movement and almost called out to her companion. His words about Indian raids were still fresh in her mind. But when she shaded her eyes and looked more carefully, she discovered only a large turtle sunning on an up-jutting tree trunk.

As the horses plodded along, Caroline was left to ponder her feelings. She was frightened, of course. But not as deeply as she would have thought given the talk of Indian savagery. She watched a redtailed hawk circle overhead. Could it be that she was equal to this strange but beautiful land?

They stopped that night in the small hamlet of Congreve. Mistress Flannery was a much friendlier sort than Mistress Campbell was the previous night. She immediately took Caroline, who Raff introduced simply as Caroline Simmons, under her wing.

“The Flannerys are good people who come from Ireland by way of Pennsylvania,” he’d explained. “They have an Irishman’s inborn distrust of the gentry.”

So Caroline dropped her title, which wasn’t difficult. She rarely thought of herself as anything other than Caroline Simmons. It was only knowing that her title was what Robert MacQuaid was after, or when his son sarcastically called her “Your Ladyship” that she remembered it at all.

The eight families living in the settlement decided that the arrival of Raff and Caroline was reason enough for celebration. Mistress Flannery—Jane, as she insisted Caroline call her—spread the word among the women that tonight they would eat a communal meal beneath the large sycamore that served as the village green.

Caroline snapped beans with the other women as the men built a large fire. She turned her stool toward Jane to keep herself from watching Raff. They chatted mostly of the children that ran about the area, and of Mistress Dabney’s impending confinement.

“Third babe in as many years,” Jane chided gently. And from the smile and blush that colored Betsy Dabney’s cheeks Caroline guessed this was a frequent refrain.

Betsy leaned forward awkwardly over her rounded stomach to pull a fussing baby onto her nearly nonexistent lap. She handed him a bean which he immediately began to gum. “Sam and I like children,” she said in a soft Irish brogue.

“If you be asking me, both of you are too fond of what it takes to
make
babies,” Jane retorted. This brought a deeper shade of pink to Betsy’s apple-round cheeks. But she didn’t deny the allegation even when the other women, laughing, took up the refrain.

“Aye, and you have to say no every now and again to that brawny husband of yours.”

“And who says ’tis Sam doing the persuin’? I’ve seen the two ’a them when they thought no one was about,” Mistress Andrews, the oldest of the women said. “Betsy here cannot keep her eyes nor her hands off him.”

This brought a fresh burst of laughter from the group as Betsy sat her now-content child back on a small patch of grass at her feet. Caroline assumed the woman was embarrassed; but when she looked up, there was a smile on her pretty face. “I do believe ’tis jealous you are, Mistress Andrews.”

“Jealous?” The older woman seemed genuinely amazed. “I’m through with rollin’ about in the bedstead and glad of it. I wager the rest ’a you feel the same if truth be known.”

“I wouldn’t be sayin’ that.” This from a redheaded woman with more sunspots than fair skin on her face. “There be times when Jacob and I have a fair to decent time ‘rolling about in the bedstead.’”

This statement brought such laughter that Sam, the tall, brawny husband of Betsy, called over, “What’s so funny over there?”

None of the women answered, but his wife made a shooing motion with her hand, and he went back to carrying benches from their cabin.

“Now that’s what you need, Mistress Andrews,” the redhead whispered with a nod of her curls. “That one would make anyone eager for the sun to set.”

The other women, except for Mistress Andrews, readily agreed, and Caroline didn’t need to look up to know whom they were talking about. But she did anyway, and followed their collective gaze to where Raff chopped wood. The ax lifted and the muscles in his arms glistened. The buckskin shirt stretched taut across his powerful back as the blade bit into the log, cleaving it. Caroline’s mouth went dry.