Judith E. French Page 2

  Sterling mumbled an incoherent reply and drained the last of the whiskey from his pewter cup. Someone opened the outer door, and a blast of cold guttered the candle on the table in front of him. A scowling tavern girl relit the taper as Whithall stiffened in his chair and demanded another drink.

  The air in the room was thick with the stench of too many unwashed men, spilled ale, and wet wool uniforms. A leg of stringy mutton sizzled on the spit in the open hearth, and the smell made Sterling’s stomach turn over. He’d never acquired a taste for mutton. Absently, he broke an oatcake in two as he stared at Whithall. From where he sat, it seemed as though there were two Georges. Either that or Whithall had a twin brother. “Have you a brother?” he asked, his sentence broken crudely by a loud hiccup.

  Whithall laughed in reply and pinched the maid’s bottom. “Drink up, Sterlin’,” he urged. “Tomorrow we’ll be back in the saddle.”

  They would that, Sterling mused. And he’d do his duty for king and country as befitted a son of Lord Oxley—even a half-breed son born on the wrong side of the blanket. For a few more days or weeks, he’d do his duty ... Sterling signaled for another cup of whiskey. There’d be hell to pay when Baron Oxley learned what he’d done. Sterling smiled for the first time in over a week. His father would fly into a rage when he found out he had resigned his commission in the dragoons, the honor that had cost the old man two years’ income from his estates.

  There’d be few men who’d not think Sterling a fool. Even Whithall would roast him royally.

  The thought that he might be making the biggest mistake of his life crossed Sterling’s mind, but he shrugged it off. A man had to do what it took to maintain his self-respect ... and he couldn’t live with himself if he continued to follow commanders like Butcher Cumberland.

  He was as drunk as a dragoon could be and still stand on two feet, but he hadn’t lost all sense of reason. He’d made his decision regarding the army, and he’d stick to it. What troubled him beyond the breaking point was the vision of the woman he’d seen in the heat of battle on Culloden Moor.

  Sterling prided himself on his intelligence, on his ability to overcome the obstacles of his unorthodox birth and carve a place for himself among gentlemen. He had been decorated for bravery on the field of battle, and he’d earned the respect of his fellow soldiers as well as his superiors.

  But tonight he was afraid.

  He’d not been able to get her out of his mind since she’d vanished into the mist. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—as real as if she sat in Whithall’s chair across from him. More real than Whithall—he’d sprung a second head. The red-haired woman was flesh and blood.

  She was also a ghost from his past ... A past he’d believed he’d put behind him twenty-two years ago.

  A pistol went off and Sterling stiffened, his hand on his own flintlock. When the loud crack was followed by a chorus of ribald laughter, he allowed himself the indulgence of sinking back into his own reverie.

  No matter how many times he mentally attacked the problem of the woman’s appearance, he came to the same conclusion. She could only be a figment of his imagination, an illusion.

  But she had been there. And she’d been as solid as the Scotsman’s broadsword that had nearly cleaved him from neck to cod.

  His head ceased to spin, and the dizziness was gradually replaced by a deep, throbbing ache.

  Maybe he’d been injured worse than he’d thought at Culloden, he reasoned. Or perhaps some tumor was growing in his head. A few more months and they could carry him home to Oxley Hall and lock him in the tower room until his beard hung to his knees and the village children shrieked taunts at the wild-eyed madman.

  Except that he’d never been able to summon much of a beard, and his esteemed father would be as likely to have him committed to Bedlam as to trouble his nightly sleep or to.bring shame on his true-born brothers by sheltering a madman. His light-skinned brothers. Henry and Hugh would be delighted if he went crazy. They’d made his home life a mockery, and if he obliged them by going quietly out of his mind, they’d whoop for joy.

  Or give their version of Indian war whoops.

  Sterling folded his hands, closed his eyes against the dancing candlelight, and leaned forward on the scarred table. Whithall seemed not to have noticed that anything was amiss. He was still trying to remember his story about Nora, the willing dairymaid they had both tumbled one night in Yorkshire, the girl with a nose the size and shape of his horse’s saddle.

  Whithall was as drunk as a sow, but he was a stout comrade, as good a man as any dragoon needed at his back. Born illegitimate himself, Whithall had never held Sterling’s Indian blood against him. In fact, he’d shown little curiosity about his captain’s former life as a savage running half-naked in the forests of the American Colonies.

  Few people had asked questions, and those who had were usually seeking to make Sterling the butt of their jokes. It was not a mistake often repeated by the same man.

  Sterling himself had pushed that part of his existence so far back in memory that at times it seemed like a dream. Tonight, his former life returned to sit on his shoulders with a heavy weight.

  She had brought back his past.

  So strong were his recollections that the man he’d once been threatened to suck the soul from the British Sterling Gray he was now. He’d fought the tide for days and nights.

  With a groan of relief, he surrendered to his fears and let the familiar scents and sights of the wilderness sweep over him.

  He was no longer Captain Sterling Gray, son of Lord Oxley and an officer in his Majesty’s dragoons. That man no longer existed.

  He was Snow Ghost, a son of the Shawnee, born to the Wolf Clan, and about to endure his last trial of manhood—his vision quest.

  For a Shawnee male, this ordeal was the most important spiritual search of his life. He was fourteen, and he had already proved his courage six months earlier by facing a Mohawk in full war paint in the midst of an attack on the Shawnee village. He’d killed the enemy brave in hand-to-hand combat and earned the right to wear a single eagle feather. But none of that mattered if he did not survive his vision quest or if Wishemenetoo showed His disapproval by failing to grant him a spirit guide.

  Snow Ghost didn’t feel especially courageous as he began the ritual. For days, he had fasted and prayed; he’d endured the sweat lodge and danced for the brotherhood of warriors along with the two other boys who were candidates for manhood. He had chanted the poems that told of the creation of the world by the Creator, and he’d sung the sacred songs of his people. Now he was alone and must find his spiritual awakening or perish in the attempt.

  The shaman had instructed him to go naked into the forest and seek a high place. There he must wait and search his heart until a vision came or he died of hunger and thirst. He was forbidden to run from danger or to cry for help. He was forbidden to utter a sound that was not a prayer or a hymn. The holy man told him to think of himself as an empty vessel and wait patiently for the spirit of the Almighty to fill it.

  Snow Ghost had been determined to return to his village under the protection of a powerful guide. Since he had been a small child, he had waited for this time. He’d wondered if his personal guardian would be the spirit of the wolf, or a great humpbacked bear, or perhaps a soaring eagle.

  Men rarely talked about their own experience, but when they did, it was to relate tales of fiery beasts or wise owls. Black Otter’s totem was a river catfish; Morning Sky looked to the Elk Spirit for wisdom. Old Two Toes claimed that his guide was a spotted frog. Snow Ghost had spent many nights lying awake and hoping that the Frog Spirit would pass him by. Two Toes was a poor hunter and as lazy as his slovenly wife. Morning Sky said that Two Toes wasn’t to blame, because a man protected by a lowly frog had poor luck to begin with and little hope that his life would ever improve.

  Worse than having a frog or an insect for a spirit guide would be to have no vision at all. A man without a visitation by a protector wa
s doomed to be a luckless outcast. No woman would choose to become his wife, and few war chiefs would ever include such a worthless individual in a scouting party or raid.

  And so Snow Ghost had waited and prayed, watching the sun rise over the trees, cross the sky, and fade slowly into orange and purple before vanishing at twilight. Two days passed without the slightest sign, the longest days of Snow Ghost’s life. On the third day, he doubled his efforts, using every ounce of his strength to dance and chant, hoping to attract some passing spirit. At this point, he would have joyfully welcomed Rabbit ... even Anequoi the silly squirrel.

  The thought that he might lie and make up a story never crossed his mind. Such action would be unthinkable. The punishment for such treachery was swift and terrible—banishment from family and tribe. A boy without morals was not fit to call himself a Shawnee.

  In the soft light of that third day, Snow Ghost’s vision came. So clear, so real, was the sight that he could hardly believe his eyes. One moment he was alone on the rocky hilltop, and the next—his greatest wish was fulfilled.

  Except that nothing was as he had expected. There was no snarling wolf, no noble eagle landing gracefully at his feet. Instead, he saw a white woman, fair of skin and freckled, with hair as red as an English fox.

  This was no heavenly angel such as the French priests spoke of—this was a living, breathing woman. She was not tall, and not nearly as plump as the white women Snow Ghost had seen at the Dutch trader’s post. Her mouth was wide and full, her chin too firm for a sweet disposition, her eyes large ... not deep brown as those of his people, but golden-brown.

  She wore a long skirt and leather shoes. Her upper body and part of her hair were covered by a single gray hooded garment. And she was staring at him as though she was every bit as astonished as he was.

  He was so shocked that he forgot he wasn’t supposed to speak. “Who are you?” he demanded in Algonquian, then immediately repeated his question in English. “What are you doing here? Don’t you know that this is a sacred place?”

  Her lips parted, and her eyes narrowed. For a second, he thought she was going to give him a piece of her mind. Mentally, he winced, preparing for the flood of abuse he knew she was going to heap on him. Then, suddenly, her mood changed. A look of comprehension came over her face, and she broke into a smile so intense, so endearing, that his heart began to pound and his breath caught in his throat.

  “Who are you?” he repeated.

  Her smile became teasing laughter.

  Incensed, he rushed toward her and threw out his arms to capture her. He had no plan; he didn’t have the slightest idea what he would do once he had her, but he had to make certain she was solid and not a dream woman. She didn’t move. His hands closed around her, and he felt the warmth of her living body. He smelled the scent of a strange herb in her hair and felt the silken springiness as a lock brushed against his cheek.

  She looked directly into his eyes, and the shock of recognition gladdened his heart.

  Then she vanished.

  Sterling Gray had carried the image, the scent, the memory of her warm body with him ever since. He kept it close to his heart when his mother died and his white father came to claim him. He held the memory of his vision when Oxley took him across the ocean and placed him in an English boarding school. He remembered her the day he’d received his commission in the dragoons, and he remembered her now.

  All those years had not dimmed her image, and he’d never ceased to search for her. He’d looked into a thousand women’s faces without seeing the one face that haunted him. Until the Battle of Culloden ...

  Until he’d found her again, and once more she had disappeared as quickly and as mysteriously as she had on that long ago forest mountaintop.

  And that enigma was why he was drunk tonight. That was what troubled his heart and soul until he could think of nothing else. Cumberland and the dragoons be damned. He had to find that woman again.

  Whether she was real or a delusion, he had to know the truth.

  Sixty miles to the north, Cailin stood by the bed and looked down at the sleeping faces of her sister Jeanne and Jeanne’s infant son. Firelight played across their features, hiding Jeanne’s pallor and the babe’s exhaustion. Offering a silent prayer for their continued recovery, she pulled another coverlet over them and backed slowly out of the master bedchamber.

  Jeanne had protested weakly when Cailin directed the servants to carry her to the great carved bed, but Cailin had insisted. “Our father will need it no longer, and his room has the largest fireplace of any sleeping chamber in the house. He would want you to lie there.”

  “Our stepfather,” Jeanne had corrected her.

  “Our father,” Cailin insisted. It cut her sore that she’d been unable to recover his body from Culloden field. She had returned the following day, but English soldiers had turned her away, saying that the traitors were being buried in mass graves.

  Jeanne and the baby were both alive, and that was something to be thankful for. When Cailin had reached Inverness, she’d found that the ten-pound boy had righted himself and popped out into the midwife’s hands, seemingly none the worse for his mother’s long, difficult labor.

  As soon as Cailin heard that Cumberland’s men were murdering the wounded Jacobites, she’d known that she had to get Jeanne and young Jamie away from Inverness and safely home to Glen Garth. It had taken five cold, wet days of traveling, and Jeanne had wept most of the way. She cried for their father and for Alasdair, but most of all, she wept for her husband, Duncan. He was either fleeing for his life, dead on the field, or a prisoner. No one could tell them.

  Cailin hoped that Duncan MacKinnon was still alive. With Johnnie and Alasdair dead, they needed him desperately. She had opposed her sister’s marriage on the grounds that both Jeanne and Duncan were too young, but no one had listened to her. Not counting their grandsire, Duncan MacKinnon was their closest living male kin.

  Cailin walked down the dark corridor of the old house without a candle. She didn’t need one. This had been her home since she was six and her mother had wed Johnnie MacLeod. Many called the old house at Glen Garth haunted, but if it was, Cailin believed the ghosts must be happy ones. She had loved this rambling gray pile of stone since she’d first laid eyes on it.

  From somewhere, perhaps the kitchens, she could hear a woman keening. If Cailin let herself think too long on Johnnie, she’d be bawling as well. It would be hard to imagine Glen Garth without her stepfather’s booming laughter. She folded her arms over her chest and hugged herself hard to ease the pain. Johnnie and Alasdair both lost on the same day. It was enough to shatter her if she didn’t steel herself against the hurt.

  She couldn’t afford the luxury of mourning her men; too many in the household depended on her. She swallowed the lump in her throat. In the morning, she’d have to take her little brother, Corey, aside and tell him that his daddy wouldn’t be coming home.

  Cailin entered the shadowy great hall. Beside the hearth, an old hound raised its head and thumped a greeting against the stone floor with its tail. Cailin scanned the room, half-expecting to see British troops charging through the far door, but all was still except for the dog’s whining. Antlers of long-dead stags, faded tapestries, and ancient weapons lined the walls. The ridgepole was lost in darkness overhead. Nothing seemed the least bit out of place.

  Then she stopped short, and goose bumps rose on her arms. She smelled tobacco . . . her stepfather’s special blend. She stiffened as she became aware of the hunched figure sitting in the high-backed chair near the fireplace. Cailin’s mouth went dry. “Johnnie?” she called.

  “Hist, lass. ’Tis only me.” Her grandfather’s deep voice rumbled through the chamber.

  “Grandda.” Relieved, she hurried to him.

  As she drew near, he raised his wrinkled face and smiled at her. His sightless eyes shone white in the firelight. “Cailin.”

  She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. “Ye gave me such a start,”
she confided. “I thought—”

  “Ye thought I was a ghost,” he finished. “Nay, hinney.” He squeezed her hand as she sat on the arm of his chair. “Nay. I wish I was. Even a ghost would be more help to ye than a sightless old man.”

  Tears rose in Cailin’s eyes. Never once before had she ever heard Grandda mention his affliction. Even now, there was no self-pity in his tone. “You’re of more use to me than a dozen young men,” she insisted. “You’re the only one left with any sense around here. Glynis told me you’d already ordered the servants to bury the silver plate and drive the cows into the hills.”

  “Aye, that I did. We’ll have Sassenach crawling over this house as thick as fleas on a dog’s back.”

  “Most of the MacLeods didn’t rise for Prince Charlie. I hoped the British would pass us—”

  “Johnnie’s kin will tell them soon enough. We Scots have a weakness for English gold. We’d nay be where we are today with our necks in George’s yoke if our own people hadn’t sold us out.”

  “I hope not.” She patted her grandfather’s bald head affectionately. “I thought you were abed and sleepin’. I saw no need to wake ye for bad news.”

  “How is Jeanne?”

  “Weak but not feverish. And the babe is strong. With a warm bed and something to eat, I’m sure they’ll be all right.” Her hand tightened on his again. “Have you heard that Alasdair ...”

  “Aye. Glynis told me. God takes the good ones early.”

  “That says a lot for what you think of me,” she teased with black humor.

  He tapped the thornwood cane that leaned against his knee. “You’re strong, lass, as strong as this old cane I had from my da. And you’ve lived long enough to know that good men and bad die in war.”

  “I was there. I saw Johnnie fall. I saw the dragoon put a sword through his chest.”

  “Ach. I dinna ken that, sweeting. ’Tis sorry I be for ye. You’ve had a broth of sorrow in your years. First your father—dead afore you saw the light of day—and then your mother, my own girl Elspeth, and then your husband. ’Tis a wonder you’re not as mad as Angus’s cow.”