Fraser’s Ridge 15 April, 1771
ROGER LAY IN BED, listening for the intermittent whine of an invisible mosquito that had squeezed past the hide covering the cabin window. Jem’s cradle was covered by gauze netting, but he and Brianna had no such shielding. If the damn thing would just light on him, he’d get it—but it seemed to circle tirelessly above their bed, occasionally swooping down to sing taunting little neeeee songs into his ear, before zooming off again into the dark.
He should have been tired enough to fall asleep in the face of an assault by airborne squadrons of mosquitoes, after the last few days of frantic activity. Two days of fast riding through the mountain coves and ridges, spreading the word to the nearer settlements, whose inhabitants would in turn alert those militia members farther away. The spring planting had been accomplished in record time, all the available men spending the hours from dawn to dusk in the fields. His system was still charged with adrenaline, and little jolts of it zapped through mind and muscle, as though he’d been taking coffee intravenously.
He’d spent all day today helping to ready the farm for their departure, and fragmented images of the round of chores scrolled behind his closed lids whenever he shut his eyes. Fence repair, hay hauling, a hasty excursion to the mill for the bags of flour needed to feed the regiment on the march. Fixing a split rim on the wagon’s wheel, splicing a broken harness trace, helping to catch the white sow, who had made an abortive escape attempt from the stable, wood-chopping, and finally, a brisk hour’s digging just before supper so Claire could plant her wee patch of yams and peanuts before they left.
In spite of the hurry and labor, that dusk-lit digging had been a welcome respite in the organized frenzy of the day; the thought of it made him pause now, reliving it in hopes of slowing his mind and calming himself enough to sleep.
It was April, warm for the season, and Claire’s garden was rampant with growth: green spikes and sprouting leaves and small brilliant flowers, climbing vines that twisted up the palisades and opened silent white trumpets slowly above him as he worked in the gathering twilight.
The smells of the plants and the fresh-turned earth rose round him as the air cooled, strong as incense. The moths came to the trumpet flowers, soft things drifting out of the wood in mottled shades of white and gray and black. Clouds of midges and mosquitoes came too, drawn to his sweat, and after them, the mosquito-hawks, dark fierce creatures with narrow wings and furry bodies, who whirred through the hollyhocks with the aggressive attitude of football hooligans.
He stretched long toes out against the weight of the quilts, his leg just touching his wife’s, and felt in memory the chunk of the spade, hard edge beneath his foot, and the satisfying feeling of cracking earth and snapping roots as another spadeful yielded, the black earth moist and veined with the blind white rhizomes of wild grass and the fugitive gleam of earthworms writhing frantically out of sight.
A huge cecropia moth had flown past his head, lured by the garden scents. Its pale brown wings were the size of his hand, and marked with staring eye-spots, unearthly in their silent beauty.
Who makes a garden works with God. That had been written on the edge of the old copper sundial in the garden of the manse in Inverness where he had grown up. Ironic, in view of the fact that the Reverend had neither time nor talent for gardening, and the place was a jungle of unmown grass and ancient rosebushes run wild and leggy with neglect. He smiled at the thought, and made his mental good-night to the Reverend’s shade.
Good-night, Dad. God bless you.
It had been a long time since he’d lost the habit of bidding good-night in this fashion to a brief list of family and friends; the hangover of a childhood of nightly prayers that ended with the usual list of, “God bless Nana, and Grandpa Guy in heaven, and my best friend Peter, and Lillian the dog, and the grocer’s cat . . .”
He hadn’t done it in years, but a memory of the peace of that small ritual made him draw up a new list, now. Better than counting sheep, he supposed—and he wanted the sense of peace he remembered, more than he wanted sleep.
Good-night, Mrs. Graham, he thought, and smiled to himself, summoning a brief, vivid image of the Reverend’s old housekeeper, dipping her hand in a bowl and flicking water onto a hot griddle, to see if the drops would dance. God bless.
The Reverend, Mrs. Graham, her granddaughter Fiona and Fiona’s husband Ernie . . . his parents, though that was a pro forma nod toward two faceless shapes. Claire, up at the big house, and, with a slight hesitation, Jamie. Then his own small family. He warmed at the thought of them.
Good night, wee lad, he thought, turning his head in the direction of the cradle where Jemmy slept. God bless. And Brianna.
He turned his head the other way, and opened his eyes, seeing the dark oval of her sleeping face turned toward his, no more than a foot away on the pillow. He eased himself as quietly as possible onto his side, and lay watching her. They had let the fire go out, since they would be leaving early in the morning; it was so dark in the room he could make out no more of her features than the faint markings of brows and lips.
Brianna never lay wakeful. She rolled onto her back, stretched and settled with a sigh of content, took three deep breaths and was out like a light. Maybe exhaustion, maybe just the blessings of good health and a clear conscience—but he sometimes thought it was eagerness to escape into that private dreamscape of hers, that place where she roamed free at the wheel of her car, hair snapping in the wind.
What was she dreaming now? he wondered. He could feel the faint warmth of her breath on his face.
Last night, I dreamed I made love with Roger. The memory of that particular entry still rankled, hard as he’d tried to dismiss it. He had been drifting toward sleep, lulled by his litany, but the memory of her dreambook pulled him back to wakefulness. She had damn well better not be dreaming such a thing now! Not after the time he’d just given her.
He closed his eyes again, concentrating on the regular pulse of her breathing. His forehead was mere inches from hers. Perhaps he could catch the echo of her dream, through the bones of her skull? What he felt, though, was the echo of her flesh, and the reverberations of their farewell, with all its doubts and pleasures.
She and the lad would leave in the morning, too; their things were packed and stood with his own bundle beside the door. Mr. Wemyss would drive them to Hillsborough, where she would presumably be safely—and gainfully—employed in painting Mrs. Sherston’s portrait.
“You be bloody careful,” he’d said to her, for the third time in an evening. Hillsborough was smack in the center of the Regulators’ territory, and he had considerable reservations about her going at all. She had dismissed his concern, though, scoffing at the notion that she or Jem might be in any danger. She was likely right—and yet he wasn’t so sure that she would act differently if there was danger. She was so excited at the prospect of her damn commission, he thought, she’d walk straight through armed mobs to get to Hillsborough.
She was singing softly to herself—“Loch Lomond,” of all bloody things. “Oh, you’ll take the high road, and I’ll take the low road, and I’ll be in Scotland aforrrrrrre ye . . .”
“Did ye hear me?” he’d asked, catching hold of her arm as she folded the last of Jemmy’s dresses.
“Yes, dear,” Bree had murmured, lashes fluttering in mocking submission. That had irritated him into grabbing her wrist and pulling her round to face him.
“I mean it,” he said. He stared into her eyes, wide open now, but with a hint of mockery still glinting in dark blue triangles. He tightened his grip on her wrist; tall and well-built as she was, her bones felt delicate, almost frail in his grasp. He had a sudden vision of the bones beneath Brianna’s skin—high, wide cheekbones, domed skull, and long white teeth; all too easy to imagine those teeth exposed to the root in a permanent rictus of bone.
He had pulled her to him then with sudden violence, kissed her hard enough to feel her teeth against his own, not caring if he bruised either of them.
She wore only a shift and he hadn’t bothered to take it off, merely shoving her backward onto the bed and pushing it above her thighs. She’d lifted her hands toward him, but he hadn’t let her touch him; he’d pinned her arms at first, then later, borne her into the hollow of the mattress with the weight of his body, grinding, grasping, seeking reassurance in the thin padding of flesh that kept her bones from his.
They had done it in silence, half-aware of the sleeping child nearby. And yet somewhere in the midst of it, her body had answered him, in some deep and startling way that went beyond words.
“I mean it,” he’d repeated, moments later, speaking softly into the tangle of her hair. He lay on her, enclosing her with his arms, keeping her from moving. She twitched, and he tightened his grasp, holding her still. She sighed, and he felt her mouth move, her teeth sink gently into the flesh below his collarbone. She bit him. Not abruptly, but in a slow, sucking bite that made him gasp and lift up to break away.
“I know,” she said, and wriggled her arms free, to come round his back and hold him close to her damp, warm softness. “I mean it, too.”
“THAT WHAT YOU WANTED?” He whispered the words now, but softly, not to awaken her. The warmth of her body radiated through the bedclothes; she was deep asleep.
If it was what she’d wanted—what, exactly, was it? Was it the brutal nature of his lovemaking that she’d responded to? Or had she sensed the strength of what lay behind it, and acknowledged that—the desperation of his need to keep her safe?
And if it was the roughness . . . he swallowed, clenching a fist against the thought of Stephen Bonnet. She’d never told him what had passed between them, her and Bonnet—and it was unthinkable that he should ask. More unthinkable that he should suspect anything in that encounter might have shamefully stirred her. And yet she did stir visibly on those rare occasions when something led him to take her abruptly, without his usual gentleness.
He was a long way from praying now.
He felt as he had once before, trapped in a rhododendron hell, with the same maze of damp roots and hanging leaves always before him, no matter in which direction he turned. Dim tunnels seemed to offer hope of escape, and yet led only to further tangles.
For me and my true love will never meet again, on the bonnie banks and braes of Loch Lomond . . .
He was wound tight again, skin prickling and his legs twitching with restlessness. The mosquito whined by and he slapped at it—too late, of course. Unable to keep still, he slid quietly out of bed, and did a quick series of deep knee-bends to loosen the cramped muscles.
That brought some relief, and he dropped to the floor to do push-ups, counting silently as he dipped toward the floorboards. One. Two. Three. Four. Concentrating only on the increasing burn in chest and arms and shoulders, the soothing monotony of the count. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight . . .
At last, muscles quivering with temporary exhaustion, he stood up, untacked the hide from the window, and stood naked, letting the damp night air flood in upon him. He might let in more mosquitoes—but the one might go out, too.
The wood was silvered with moonlight, and a faint fire-glow in the darkened heart of it spoke of the militia encamped there. They had been coming in all day, on mules or ragged horses, muskets laid across the bundles of their blankets. He caught the sound of voices and casual laughter, a fragment borne on the breeze. At least he wasn’t the only one wakeful; the notion comforted him.
A brighter light glowed at the side of the big house, at the farther side of the clearing. A lantern; two figures walking close together, one tall, one smaller.
The man said something, an interrogative rumble; he recognized Jamie’s voice, but couldn’t make out the words.
“No,” Claire’s voice answered, lighter, clear as they came closer. He saw her hands flutter, silhouetted in the lantern’s glow. “I’m filthy from the planting. I’m going to wash before I come in. You go up to bed.”
The larger figure hesitated, then handed her the lantern. Roger saw Claire’s face in the light for a moment, turned upward, smiling. Jamie bent and kissed her briefly, then stepped back.
“Hurry, then,” he said, and Roger could hear the answering smile in his voice. “I dinna sleep well without ye beside me, Sassenach.”
“You’re going to sleep right away, are you?” She paused, a bantering note in her voice.
“Not right away, no.” Jamie’s figure had melted into the darkness, but the breeze was toward the cabin, and his voice came out of the shadows, part of the night. “But I canna very well do the other unless ye’re beside me, either, now can I?”
Claire laughed, though softly.
“Start without me,” she said, turning away toward the well. “I’ll catch you up.”
Roger waited by the window until he saw her come back, the lantern swinging with the haste of her step, and go inside. The breeze had turned, and he heard no more of the men in the wood, though their fire still burned.
“You’re early, mate,” he said, and eased a finger toward the firefly, gently nudging. “Think there’s anyone else out there yet?” The insect moved a few inches, then stopped, abdomen stubbornly blinking.
He looked toward the wood, his skin cool now, and gooseflesh rose on his chest. He rubbed absently at it, and felt the tender spot where she had bitten him. It was dark in the moonlight, a faint blotch on his skin; would it still be there come morning? he wondered.
Reaching up to pull the hide back into place, he caught the gleam of moonlight on glass. Brianna’s small collection of personal items lay on the shelf by the window: the pair of tortoiseshell combs Jocasta had given her, her silver bracelet. The small glass jar of tansy oil, two or three discreet slips of sponge beside it. And the larger gleam of the jarful of Dauco seeds. She hadn’t had time for the tansy oil tonight, but he’d bet his life she’d taken the seeds sometime today.
He tacked down the hide, and made his way back to bed, pausing by the cradle to put down a hand and feel the baby’s breath through the mosquito-netting, warm and reassuring on his skin.
Jem had kicked his covers off; Roger lifted the netting and pulled them up by feel, tucking them firmly in. There was something soft . . . oh, Jemmy’s rag-doll; the baby was clutching it to his chest. Roger stood for a moment, hand on Jemmy’s back, feeling the soothing rise and fall of his breathing.
“Good-night, laddie,” he whispered at last, and touched the soft padded round of the little boy’s bottom. “God bless you and keep you safe.”
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU