Wild legacy (35 page)

Startled that she had left his embrace so soon, Etienne sat up, too. "Dominique? I know I pleased you. What is wrong?"

"Everything," she replied. She stuffed her hair up under her cap, sat up on her knees to secure the bow on her drawers, and then stood. Etienne nearly leapt to his feet, but she would not have left him lying there in the grass. "Turn around," she ordered. "We can't walk in the house with grass all over our backs."

"The last time it was tobacco."

Appalled that he would wish to remind her of that ridiculous encounter, Dominique brushed off his shirt with more force than necessary. He had not asked for any vow of devotion, nor made one of his own, and while her whole body still felt infused with a blissful heat, she could not have said what she thought of him. "Your hair," she suddenly exclaimed. "We've got to find the ribbon."

Etienne knelt and felt around for it but it was black as the night and it took him a moment to find it. He stood to retie his hair. "Are you afraid you will be punished for being with me?"

"I don't even know how to describe what we were doing, but I wasn't actually 'with' you, Etienne. At least, not in the way I think you're afraid my parents might suspect."

"Are you ashamed then?" When Dominique took a moment to consider the question, Etienne had his answer and started off toward her house.

She hurried to catch up with him and took his hand. He tried to pull away, but she was as stubborn as he and tightened her hold. "I'm not ashamed,'' she swore convincingly. "But I'm not sure what that meant."

"What does it usually mean?"

That he thought she had let other men take such shocking liberties wounded Dominique deeply, but she supposed she deserved the insult when she had not uttered even the softest word of protest No, indeed. She had shamelessly encouraged every bit of Etienne's lavish affection. She could not accuse him of taking advantage of her fears for Falcon, but as they entered the house, she went upstairs to her ailing cousin's bedroom without bidding Etienne good night.

Etienne watched her flounce up the stairs, as aloof as he had ever seen her, and was about to go back outside when Jean appeared. "Do you still wish to hear about the Battle of King's Mountain?" Etienne asked him.

"Yes, sir. I most certainly do." Jean looked Etienne up and down. "I forgot to bring shoes for you," he remarked absently. "Why didn't you say something earlier?"

Etienne shrugged. "I will be here only a few days."

"Well, you need shoes for those few days at least. Let's go look and see what Beau left."

Etienne felt as though he had imposed too much already. "His clothes are not too loose for me, but he is heavier than I am, and I do not believe his shoes will fit me."

"Then come up to my room and we'll look through mine."

Jean started up the stairs and Etienne followed. Most men did not own more than a single pair of shoes, but then most were not nearly as wealthy as the Barclays. A bitterness not unlike his father's perpetual ill-humor surged through him, but he struggled to overcome the envy filling his throat rather than give in to such a petty emotion.

Jean's room was painted the same shade of pale green as the guest room, and as beautifully furnished but con-

tained the boyish clutter Jean never found the time to put away. He crossed to the wardrobe, flung open the doors, and bent down to sort through the half-dozen pairs of shoes. Some had silver buckles and others were plain leather. There were two pairs of boots as well. Jean debated a moment, then pulled out all the shoes.

"Try on any you like," he encouraged.

Etienne hung back. "You make me feel like a beggar."

Offended, Jean's eyes narrowed. "You're a hero, Etienne, a guest. I didn't mean to offend you. If you don't like my shoes, we'll find others."

"They are very handsome shoes—magnificent, in fact." Etienne did not know which was worse, to have Jean offer his shoes so easily, or for him to find it so difficult to be gracious about the loan. He did want to wear the suit so he would be as well dressed as the Barclays, but he was sorry he owned no fine clothes of his own. He had given away the old suit he had worn the first time he had been there, and did not miss it.

"I need my socks," he told Jean, and went to fetch them. He quickly washed his feet, then pulled on the stockings and walked back to Jean's room. He hoped the plain shoes would fit, but they were too small. One of the pairs with silver buckles was nearly as comfortable as his moccasins.

Jean saw Etienne's smile and tossed the other shoes back into the wardrobe. "Consider those yours."

"No. I can not keep them."

"Then leave them here for your next visit," Jean urged. He sat down on the side of his bed and gestured toward the chair at his desk. "Sit down and tell me all about the battle. From what we read in the Virginia Gazette, it was completely one-sided."

Etienne turned the chair toward the young man and sat down. "Yes. That is true," he agreed. He did his best to describe the scene as it had actually been rather than to romanticize it, but he saw from the bright glow of interest

in Jean's eyes that the young man's imagination was painting a far more exciting picture in his mind.

"There is always great confusion during a battle, and the noise from the gunfire is so loud there is not a second of quiet in which to think. Shooting men is not like hunting deer. The stench of death fills the air, and at King's Mountain the boulders were splattered with blood. Rivulets of gore trickled through the pine needles and dripped all the way down the hill," Etienne emphasized with appropriate disgust.

"A battle is not an adventure that ends in a celebration. It ends instead in a silence broken by screams. Only the lucky ones are killed instantly, Jean. Some wounds are terrible, leaving torn stumps of limbs or wide gashes across faces and chests. The worst are those that rip the belly and spill a man's guts into the dirt. Look at the men who have come here with me. They suffered over every mile, and poor Falcon—his leg has caused him unbearable pain."

The luster had left Jean's eyes, but he was still optimistic about his cousin. "Falcon will be all right."

Etienne admired Jean's confidence, but after hearing Falcon cry out as though the Devil had sunk his claws in him, he could not share it. "I hope you are right, but how can you be so certain?"

Jean shrugged. "My mother can cure anything, even gunshot wounds."

Etienne nodded and sincerely hoped Jean was right. Finally recalling his promise, he rose to his feet. "You must excuse me," he said. "I want to be alone now to pray."

"For Falcon?"

u OuiT Etienne replied, but as he left the room, he thought he ought to say a prayer for himself as well. He was going to need a few angels on his side if he were ever going to touch Dominique's heart. Knowing she would be plunged into despair should they lose Falcon, he went to his room and got down on his knees to pray for his friend. Falcon

would have to survive, or Etienne would have no hope of love. Then thinking such reasoning too selfish, he concentrated upon Falcon alone. Falcon was a good man and a fine friend, and Etienne's prayers flowed easily from his heart.

When Dominique entered Falcon's room, she found her mother pacing nervously. Alanna was seated in the rocking chair she had brought over from her room, while Belle sat at the brave's bedside. "Why don't you get into bed with him, Belle?" Dominique suggested. "Your closeness will be a comfort to Falcon, won't it, Mother?"

Arielle was surprised by her daughter's idea, as she had always felt people preferred to be alone when they were gravely ill. She studied Dominique's expression and was pleased by a newfound maturity. Like Falcon, Belle was a creature of the river and forest, and more at home outside than in, but Dominique was very different. She had always had great charm, and a gift for touching people. Arielle saw it now for the rare talent it might become.

"You are right," she agreed softly. "Belle, you can snuggle up closely without touching Falcon's leg, and I do believe your presence will be a comfort to him."

Falcon had been sleeping soundly, perhaps too soundly, since Arielle had reopened his wound, and she did not want his spirit to slip away in his dreams. The comfrey poultice would draw out the poisons making him so sick, but the herb required more time than he might have. "You do not mind, do you, Alanna?"

"No. Not at all." Alanna continued to rock slowly in the chair where she had once rocked her babies. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap. She looked up as Johanna joined them, but her smile was faint. "Are the soldiers comfortable?"

"They'll not wake before morning. What can I do here?"

"Will you bring us a kettle of water and we'll set it on the fire to make some tea for ourselves," Arielle said.

"Then we'll need five cups." Johanna left to see to the errand, and Belle, having been given permission to join Falcon on the bed, went around to the other side to climb up. She had never expected her mother and aunt to allow her to sleep with him, but being closer to him was a comfort to her as well. She plumped the pillow and curled up on her side next to him.

She closed her eyes and sent him a loving prayer, but as she took his hand, he seemed to be even more feverish than he had been after his bath. She sat up again. "Mother, come touch him. He's awfully warm."

Arielle crossed to the bed in an instant and placed her palm on Falcon's forehead. "Yes. His fever has worsened." She peeled back the sheet covering him. "Bring the pitcher and we will take turns bathing his skin with cool water. That will help to break the fever."

"We ought to try and wake him," Dominique added. "He needs to drink more comfrey, or white willow tea."

Belle called Falcon's name in an urgent plea, but the brave failed to respond. She slapped his face lightly, but he gave no sign he felt her touch. "Mother?" she asked fearfully.

Alanna had come to the bed, and along with Arielle, Belle, and Dominique, gazed lovingly at her son. "If we can keep him cool until Hunter and Christian return, then perhaps—"

She did not need to finish the sentence. The women joined hands for a moment and prayed that if Arielle's medicine failed to save Falcon, the Seneca's magic could.

sadly. "I hope the False Face Society does not sound foolish to you."

Hunter was not glancing his way, but Christian knew his answer was important to him. "Nothing about the Seneca has ever sounded foolish to me, Father, except, of course, for their stubborn loyalty to King George III. That was a grave error. I will take very good care of this mask, and some day teach my children about it. They are all too young now, but—"

"No. They're not," Hunter cautioned. "When the False Face Society visits a longhouse to cure someone, the whole family is present. When we get home, we'll gather everyone who wants to watch. They all love Falcon, and want him well. We needn't give lessons on how to make the masks, but we can show everyone how they are used."

Christian heard the pride in his father's voice and nodded. "I'm glad you already had a turtle shell rattle as I'd not have wanted to make one of those, too."

Hunter sighed softly. "I have not taught you nearly enough."

Christian could not agree. "You have taught me far more than most men teach their sons, and all of it valuable. I hope that I can teach my boys half as much. As for Liberty, she already knows more than a little girl should."

"Just like her mother."

"Yes. She favors Liana in all ways." Christian held his mask up and peered through it. It had taken a long while to bore out the holes for the eyes, but he could see well through them. "Are you ready to cut the horses' tails?" he asked.

"Almost." Hunter rubbed stain down into the deep creases at the corners of the mouth, and then was ready. His stallion's white tail would make good hair, and after carefully laying the mask aside, he rose and drew his knife. "It will grow back, so hack off as much as you want," he advised his son.

Christian's mount was a spirited black stallion that did not take kindly to his master's need for part of his tail. He danced sideways and kicked, and it wasn't until Hunter spoke to the horse sternly that he finally stood still for such an indignity. Hunter had no problems with his sorrel mount, and with a good-sized hank of white hair, he sat down to gouge tiny holes around the top half of his mask with the tip of his knife.

"Let's hurry," he urged. "Arielle asked us to be home by sundown, but I'm anxious to get back before then. We'll need to cut two slender limbs for staves—then we'll be ready to go."

Christian felt equally uneasy about being away too long and worked with renewed zeal to attach the hair quickly. "The war is coming back to Virginia, and it won't be confined to Portsmouth this time. I'll fight again, and willingly, but if I'm wounded, I want you and Falcon to wear these masks for me."

"I'll help Falcon make his own," Hunter promised, "but I hope it will never be used." He threaded several strands of horsehair through the first hole, knotted it, and went on to the next. He refused to reflect upon the possibility that Falcon might not live to perform the curing ritual for another man. "I will fight again, too," he swore. "Virginia has given me too much for me to stay in the fields."

"Good," Christian said, for he did not know a finer man to be by his side in battle. "The British will have no chance against us. They'll be cut to pieces as they were at King's Mountain."

"And fed to the crows," Hunter added.

Christian chuckled at that grisly image and began to thread the gleaming black horsehair onto his mask. He was pleased with it, despite the hasty carving. From what his father had said, they had strayed from two important traditions. They had not been inspired by dreams, nor taken three days to burn an offering of tobacco to ask the trees' for-

giveness before taking a piece of its wood. He hoped those omissions did not doom their effort, and got up to toss a pinch of tobacco on the fire to appease the spirits of the trees as best he could. Then, as Alanna had taught him, he also asked for God's blessing.