Lord of the Wilderness Page 2

  He smeared a poultice and wrapped her finger with a dried leaf. His face was caught in the gloom. Was he an Indian? He stood again, towered over her. She was tall for a woman and annoyingly she had to tilt her head back. The sun coming through the slats illuminated his face. Her breath caught in her throat.

  He was devilishly handsome, with dark brown hair falling just beneath his broad snow-covered shoulders. His visage of classic Greek perfection possessed a distinct patrician nose, a wide full-lipped mouth, and a face, stark with chiseled angles that spoke strength—and intimidating power. My God, if he wasn’t dressed in a deerskin shirt and leggings, he might pass for an English lord!

  “You must bandage your injury with a fresh cloth.” He smiled broadly, his clean white teeth lighting up his smile.

  Her blood rushed. “The eggs,” she said, heat rising to her cheeks as she kneeled to pick up the ones that were not broken. “Mistress will be angry.” She cast her gaze to the whipping post.

  He frowned. “Don’t worry about Orpha. I’ll tell her the chickens don’t lay well in the shorter days. She believes everything I tell her.”

  He took her hand, lifted her to her feet and wiped the blood from her cheek with his forefinger. Like two souls caught in an artist’s frieze they studied one another. His eyes were blue, dark as lapis, like the pools among the marshes, drawing the beholder down into their depths.

  He removed her cap and she gasped. Her abominable hair fell down her back. He reached out and took one of her curls in his hand, holding it as if it were a precious ruby.

  “From watching you, I never would have guessed.”

  “You’ve been watching me?”

  “I’m careful before stepping from the woods. I’m fierce to keep my scalp.”

  She remembered herself, swatted his hand away and reached for her cap. No doubt he thought her the spawn of Satan with such red hair, and an easy conquest. “Tis improper to touch my hair.”

  “Tis beautiful.” The deep resonance of his firm rough-hewn voice reverberated through her like a lingering caress.

  “Beautiful?”

  He pulled a knife from his belt. Juliet froze. Was he going to kill her for her red hair?

  The knife whizzed past her ear, sailing end over end and pitched into the darkness behind. She spun around just as a dark striped-headed creature squealed its last breath.

  “A badger. Cornered like that, the animal would tear apart your leg or worse. A badger will kill all the chickens, merely for the fun of killing.”

  His wide shoulders brushed past her. He yanked up his knife and threw the carcass outside. Then, knife still in his hand, he turned to look at her. “Sometimes there are men like that. You must constantly be aware.”

  Juliet did a quick intake of breath. Was he talking of himself?

  Chapter Two

  Lord Joshua Rutland, third inheritor of the fourth Duke of Rutland, had long divested his title, emerging as Joshua Hansford, fur trader on the frontier; a convenient front to fool the masses. He whistled, slowing his stride through Horace Hayes’ home.

  He couldn’t get the stunning girl out of his mind and hoped to catch another glimpse of her. Her tattered clothing did not diminish her serene loveliness, and her face, delicate of feature, owned a sweetness to which he was powerfully drawn.

  It was a safe bet he’d frightened her by admitting he’d observed her. Why had he disclosed that truth? When mending her hand, she had trembled, and he’d resisted the urge to let her go.

  His whistle collapsed in rapid decrescendo. It wasn’t the color of her eyes that were so breathtaking. It was how bright they were, like a meadow of cornflowers, or a perfect spring sky, swirling in a whirlpool of apprehension.

  Joshua scrubbed a hand over his jaw and the two-day growth of wiry beard. With certainty, she was dangerous. She possessed the kind of beauty that paralyzed a man, edged under his muscles and made his blood surge. That lush waterfall of red hair tumbling down her back had been made for a man’s hands to explore.

  He’d been in the wilderness too long.

  Yet, so taken with her, he’d not asked her name. It made no difference. There was no time for a woman in his life. He had a mission to keep.

  He dug down deep in his pocket, fingered the lace-edged handkerchief and the note that authored a senseless act of violence. A familiar shiver crawled down his spine. How much Sarah must have suffered.

  He didn’t know her killer or the motive. Not yet. Revenge rioted through his veins and he wouldn’t rest until he identified the murderer and killed him.

  After a year of agony and heartache, one thing was clear. It was better not to love anyone than to have them taken from you.

  Outside Horace Hayes’ study, Joshua raised his hand to knock on the door and heard a female gasp from the other side. Regardless of Orpha’s vigilant eye, Horace was known for tupping his servant girls.

  Horace, a prominent King’s man and Loyalist in the Colonies remained unsuspecting of Joshua’s intrigues. He massaged his trades with Horace, tantalizing him with a fine array of furs, to tease out a transaction that preyed upon the merchant’s tight dealing. Allowing a parsimoniousness man to make a big profit tended to loosen his lips and unwittingly, Horace had provided a font of information, unknowingly aiding the Patriot cause over the course of the war. No need to disturb or anger him.

  Joshua had used the ruse as a trapper to keep his spying activities covert. He worked hard cultivating Indians and colonials to gain seeds of information under the alias of Joshua Hansford. The fervor of the Patriot cause had caught fire in him, and he fought for the idea of a free country, a place where he could build upon his own lands.

  He turned to leave.

  “No. Please don’t.” The woman’s voice rang out from behind the door.

  The pleading in the woman’s voice stopped him. Vulnerable. No one to protect her. No one to thwart Horace’s unwanted advances. There was a difference between willing and unwilling.

  Raised in a household where a hands-off rule applied to female servants, Joshua possessed a deep sense of honor and fiercely protected those who were unable to protect themselves.

  If he intruded, the consequences of alienating Horace could be disastrous, losing a valuable source of information for General Washington. Yet, wasn’t silence the true crime against humanity?

  Damn!

  Joshua knocked once, then swept open the door. He ducked just in time as a pewter candlestick sailed over his head, banged against a wall and thumped to the floor. “Have the Patriot’s set their cannons to fire?”

  Horace crouched behind his desk. Above the man stood a beautifully enraged she-dragon goddess, with her glorious red hair falling over her shoulders, her mob cap flung on the floor. She lifted her chin and narrowed a cold, hard look at Joshua, daring him to speak against her. No need for him to worry about the unwilling maid. She had everything under control.

  Joshua swaggered into the room, folded his arms and let the scene play out. She was no more than a slave. Many indentured servants were cruelly treated by their masters especially young girls as beautiful as she and who were helpless against the assault. When they became pregnant, the sin of adultery lay at their feet and added years of indenture as punishment.

  Red-faced, Horace fixed his gaze on the red-haired warrior who raised another candlestick high over her head. “Not only an instrument of the devil but a lunatic, too.”

  She lowered the candlestick, seemed to collect her words in her hand, gnash them together and hurl them over the desk. “Not only a libertine, but a braying ass, too,” she spat out.

  “What is all the noise?” Orpha screeched from upstairs.

  The she-dragon paled.

  Fire hardened Joshua’s muscles and licked through his veins. The hairless Orpha would accuse and punish the innocent girl for enticing her lecherous husband. Joshua strode into the hall. “Your husband spanned his hands to emphasize a point and knocked over a candlestick,” Joshua answered, his voice
raised so she could hear him.

  “Tell Horace to be more careful,” Orpha snapped, and then in a gentler tone, said, “Cook is preparing you a wonderful dinner, Mr. Hansford.”

  Joshua angled his head. “Thank you, Mistress Orpha. I look forward to it and to your charming company.”

  He stepped back in the room and kicked the door shut. Through clenched teeth, he said, “I would think, Horace, it would be incumbent upon you to treat all the ladies in your employ with respect.”

  The strip of white hair across the center of Horace’s head bounced sunbeams in the light. A half-tankard full of rum fortified his mettle. “Juliet’s my property and will do what I bid.”

  Juliet. Melodic and lovely. Appropriate.

  “Get the girl,” Horace gruffed out. The trader moved his head from side to side anticipating when the girl would launch her missile.

  Joshua’s hands fisted. Oh, what he would like to do to…could do…

  At the age of seven, Joshua always tagged along with his older brothers, Nicholas and Anthony, who had developed a taste for boxing. Early on, Joshua had acquired the same lust for the sport, sparring with the tenants on his father’s estate, enormous farm boys molded from hard-bitten work, excited to take on the duke’s son with no concern for his station. The fighting was dirty, and he liked it that way.

  Horace stooped and pressed his palms against the scalloped carved molding, bordering his desk. “Help me and when I’m done with the girl, you can have her.”

  Within seconds, Joshua shot across the room, grabbed Horace up by his frock coat and bent the smaller man over the desk. “You owe Miss Juliet an apology.” A chill hung on the edge of his threat.

  “I-I apologize,” Horace choked out, appealing to Juliet who he’d a moment ago attempted to molest, then glanced at the rough frontiersman.

  She snatched up her mob cap and tucked her hair beneath. Juliet moved beside Joshua and put her hand on his sleeve. “I can take care of myself.”

  Not good enough. Not when he was gone and she couldn’t guard against Horace.

  “I could give you the whipping of your life, Horace. As a consequence, I wouldn’t have a trading partner to trade my excellent furs.”

  Horace flinched, but with his usual aplomb said, “The furs you carry are superior and of good price?”

  Joshua’s message apparently didn’t turn the wheels in Horace’s brain, and it was conceivable he didn’t possess the mechanism. He tightened his grip on the Loyalist’s lapels. “We could encourage Orpha’s attendance on this conversation. I’m sure she’d have an opinion.”

  Horace’s eyes widened in horror. Joshua tamped down a grin.

  “No, no. It is not necessary to inform my wife of anything. If it makes you feel better, I’ll offer you a bonus for your furs.”

  The swine thought to buy him off?

  “You look deadly,” hiccupped Horace.

  “This is my nice face. You haven’t seen deadly.”

  Joshua shoved Horace away in disgust. The man tumbled head over heels, struggled to finally stand, and then hitched up his pants over his hefty girth.

  Horace cleared his throat. “At dinner tonight, you won’t mention—”

  Blood shot to Joshua’s brain. Men like Horace ranked the lowest part of humanity. “You realize my reputation with the long rifle and my lethal aim. In the future, if I hear of anything happening to the ladies in your household…I promise, I won’t miss.”

  Chapter Three

  Juliet put the final touches on the place settings for dinner while Mary freshened the guest room for the buckskinned frontiersman. Strangely warm and energized, thoughts of the man ran through Juliet’s mind and her eyes fixed on the tapestry. Oh, how he was like her Achilles. Who was he? Where was he from?

  To think he had championed her. Master Hayes was an important man in the Colonies and with all the ferocity of a winter squall, Joshua had dared to quarrel with him and—at risk to his trade.

  Juliet laughed. How easily he had tossed Horace over his desk. No need to worry with regard to Horace’s advances in the future. She’d threaten the scoundrel with the frontiersman.

  He was so sure of himself, he even charmed Orpha. No one performed that manipulation. And then she remembered the hard flex of muscle beneath the buttery soft hide when she had placed her hand on his arm.

  Eldon brushed past her, his arms loaded with firewood for the fireplace. She hauled him back by the collar and kept a watchful eye on anyone who might enter the dining room, stuffing the food she had pilfered into his pocket. He nodded his head in gratitude and hurried on his way.

  She dusted the spindles on the chairs to a new sheen and sighed. From beneath her mob cap, she pulled out a lock of hair and examined it. Had he truly called her hair beautiful?

  When he’d bandaged her injury, the strength of his hands and the gentleness of his touch had surprised her. A complex man under the rough exterior, a man who had the strength of character to stand up for the lowly household servants.

  She was being fanciful and pushed her hair back in the mob cap. With certainty, he’d said she was beautiful to keep her talking and to distract her from the dangerous badger.

  With a rag in hand, she picked up a pewter tankard and buffed. No amount of rubbing removed a spot of tarnish. She swallowed feelings of unworthiness and forced herself not to yearn for what she could never have. Locked into indenture, no man of any value would want her.

  Mary screamed. Juliet dropped the mug. Wasn’t Mary upstairs? Mary’s cries came from outside. Juliet tore out the front door and plunged through the snow, her heart rushing to her throat. If anything happened to Mary she’d by no means forgive herself.

  Juliet burst through the dark mouth of the barn. On the hay-strewn floor, Mary lay motionless, her bucket overturned and milk pooled to the side. A large Indian stood with a razor-sharp knife in his hand, Mary’s silky hair in his palm.

  Juliet picked up a pitchfork and rammed it at the Indian. He dodged, a cat’s whisker away from the spiky tines piercing his abdomen. He prowled, his muscled frame moving soundlessly, a dance of sorts around Mary’s unconscious body.

  Juliet circled her friend, holding tight to her weapon, drew back and shoved. Again, and again she thrust the pointed tines. Still the Indian came at her, dodging each lunge, his eyes as hard as agates, and his arrogance, with a confidence bred on past victories, crushed the assumption of her defense.

  The fork lay heavy and Juliet’s arms trembled. Horses in their stalls reared their heads, blowing loudly into the chill air. Sheep bleated their cries.

  In one sudden move, the Indian leapt over Mary. Juliet backed away, thrusting the sharp tines at him again and again. He dodged the tines, then spun around, ripped her weapon from her hands and tossed it high into the loft. Juliet screamed.

  He glared at her.

  “Be damned to hell!” Joshua’s voice rang out.

  Juliet glanced to the door where he stood. Her body trembling, she wanted to fall to her knees and shout to the Catholic saints her deliverance. Joshua would take care of the savage.

  But he didn’t move. Instead he spoke in a guttural tongue she didn’t understand.

  There was the flash of a blade as the savage bent over Mary.

  Juliet screamed, took a step toward the savage. Joshua yanked her back, held her against his chest. She kicked and clawed to get free. Was he going to allow the Indian to kill Mary?

  Juliet’s heart pummeled against her ribs as she watched the Indian cut a lock of Mary’s hair, then slip it in his deerskin pouch.

  Laughter rumbled through Joshua’s chest, and he released her. “He would never hurt your friend.”

  Juliet kept her eyes glued to the savage as she rushed to Mary’s side. What lunacy was Joshua speaking? She sank to the uneven plank floor, patted her friend’s hand She scowled at the Indian, then back to Joshua. “Would you mind telling me the meaning of this?”

  “This is my friend, Two Eagles.”

 
“Friend?” She sent them both a withering glare.

  “He meant no harm. He has never seen hair the color of corn tassel and wanted a good luck charm to protect him.”

  Like the bitter wind, comprehension swept over Juliet. Savages held peculiar habits and traditions far from her realm of experience. “He could have asked.”

  Joshua laughed and her esteem for him slipped a notch. “He probably did and she didn’t understand him. He does not like English nor speak it.”

  Mary woke. Eyes wide, she stared at the Indian. He proudly wore a fine doeskin blouse, and breeches, and calf-high moccasins, and covering his wide shoulders was a broadcloth blanket distinctive with deep red borders. His black hair was shoulder length, not the adopted style of a Mohawk warrior Juliet had seen once who had shaved his head except for a brush-like tuft of hair from pate to nape.

  Two Eagles gave an impatient grunt from their rude inspection.

  “He scared the death out of me,” said Mary, rising to her feet and bringing Juliet up with her. “He is the biggest savage I’ve ever seen.”

  Juliet forced her limbs to relax, saying a brief frantic prayer of thanks for her friend’s safety, and then elbowed Mary to quit gawking. “You’ve barely seen a handful of Indians.”

  “Two Eagles has just arrived. He accompanies me on my trapping business and is harmless,” said Joshua.

  Harmless? Juliet had seen a bear less fearsome.

  The cook yelled from the back porch. “Mary, Juliet what is all the commotion?”

  Joshua chuckled and waved to the cook from the door. “The girls have been introduced to Two Eagles.”

  “Tell those worthless twits to get inside. They’ve work to do, not spending their time cultivating savages.”