Savage Destiny (The Hearts of Liberty Series, Book 1) (57 page)

Randolph had never spoken to an Indian, and although Hunter was a polite and soft-spoken individual, to have to converse with him while he held Alanna draped across his lap, made concentration extremely difficult. He had to swallow hard before he answered. "I'm a silversmith by trade, but I also sell a variety of fine goods, crystal, jewelry, a few exquisite timepieces."

The elegance of the man's attire made it plain his business was a successful one, but Hunter's curiosity extended to a more personal area. "What is Alanna to you?"

Randolph had carried their luggage to the carriage, and it had not included firearms or even a bow and arrows. As far as he could tell, the brave had no weapons except for the knife at his belt, but that fact failed to still his fears. Hunter not only appeared to be strong, but fiercely protective of the young woman Randolph had hoped would one day come to love him. Again, he had to pause to clear his throat.

"I really don't know how to answer you," he began. "I've known the Barclays for many years. I would have liked to have called on Alanna, but she discouraged the idea. I hoped it was due to the considerable age difference between us, rather than because she didn't like me. Then, when she began coming into town every day to visit Melissa's son, she sometimes came by my shop as well. I suppose you could say we've become good friends. That's all, just good friends."

It was painfully obvious that Randolph had wanted more, but Hunter wasn't jealous. "Thank you for your kindness. I hope you won't shun Alanna because of me."

Relieved not to have been threatened, Randolph broke into a nervous grin. "My goodness, what a thing to say. I treasure Alanna's friendship, and I hope that she values mine. I'd not shun her for any reason."

Hunter nodded. He debated with himself the wisdom of confiding in Randolph, but since the merchant would probably hear the truth later at the Barclays, he saw no reason to hide it now. "What do you know about Melissa's babe?"

"Nothing actually. His grandparents don't allow him to have visitors, or I'd have visited him with Alanna. I can understand his father's heartbreak. I'm a widower myself, but grief doesn't give a man an excuse to abandon his child. I raised my daughter alone, and while it wasn't easy, I could never have turned my back on her the way Ian has."

"The babe isn't Ian's."

Fighting the rocking motion of the carriage, Randolph leaned forward slightly. "That can't possibly be true! Melissa was a popular young woman, but there was never a hint of scandal attached to her name."

"Believe me, it's true."

"But who?" Randolph's dismay increased the longer he stared at Hunter. The Indian's eyes were so dark he could not discern pupil from iris, but there was no trace of duplicity in his gaze. He shook his head. "My god. Who?"

"The boy is mine."

Stunned, Randolph gaped for a long moment, and then withdrew an ornately engraved silver flask from his coat pocket. He offered it first to Hunter, but when the Indian declined, he unscrewed the cap and took a long swallow of brandy. "Does Alanna know?"

"Yes."

"And the Barclays?"

Hunter nodded. "That Alanna has wed a man they all despise won't please them."

"That, sir, is a very great understatement. My god." Randolph fortified himself with another swig of brandy, before recapping the flask and slipping it back into his pocket. "You'll be lucky if John doesn't shoot you on sight."

"I was the one who was wronged, not Melissa."

"While that may be the truth, a gentleman doesn't make that kind of accusation about a dead woman."

Hunter responded with a rueful laugh. "I'm never mistaken for a gentleman."

Randolph gestured to concede that fact, but argued just the same. "That really doesn't matter. Anything you say against Melissa, will be called malicious lies."

"Alanna believes me."

Randolph glanced toward the sleeping young woman. Her youth should have made her easy to deceive, but surviving the tragic loss of her family had given her a wisdom well beyond her years. "Yes, she must, or she would not have married you. Well, that's good enough for me," Randolph insisted. "Perhaps you ought to reconsider visiting the Barclays this evening. I'd like for you to stay at my home tonight. Tomorrow I can ask the priest to go with me to tell John and Rachel about Elliott. Then, after the funeral, Alanna could tell them about her marriage. Otherwise—"

Hunter shook his head. "I won't involve you in our problems."

Randolph was far more concerned about Alanna's feelings than Hunter's, but despite nearly a half-hour of persuasive argument, he was unable to sway the Indian to his point of view. "You are either the bravest man ever born, or a damn fool. I don't know which."

"It may take years to answer that question, but I won't run from the truth and neither will my wife."

As they had talked, Randolph had been watching Alanna sleep in her husband's arms, and he knew Hunter was wrong: Alanna was already running.

* * *

Rachel and John Barclay were seated in the parlor, waiting for supper to be announced, when Randolph O'Neil's carriage drew up outside. She was working on a piece of embroidery, while he was reading aloud to her from that week's edition of the
Virginia Gazette.
Curious as to who had chosen to pay them a visit at such an inconvenient hour, John lay the paper aside and moved to the window, while Rachel remained on the settee. The light was fading, but he needed no more than a fleeting glimpse of the buckskin-clad man leaving the carriage to recognize him. Without a word to his wife, he ran from the parlor to his study to fetch his pistol.

"John?" Understandably perplexed, Rachel rose and went to the window, but she saw only Randolph and Alanna, rather than Hunter. Assuming Elliott was with them, she was delighted, and reached the front door just as her husband arrived with his pistol in hand.

"Get out of my way!" he shouted.

"Dear god, John, have you taken leave of your senses? Alanna and Elliott are home!"

"Yes, and they've brought that Indian devil with them!" Under normal circumstances the most considerate of men, John shoved his wife aside and flung open the front door. Hunter was nearing the bottom of the steps, but accurately assessing her uncle's mood, Alanna had moved in front of him, and with Randolph O'Neil at her side, John was unable to get a clear shot at the Indian.

His murderous intentions plain, he used the pistol to wave Alanna and Randolph out of his way. "How dare you bring that heathen here?" he bellowed.

All their carefully rehearsed speeches forgotten, Alanna's attention was riveted on the pistol in her uncle's hand. Since leaving home she had seen the damage a musket ball could do to human flesh, and she knew a pistol shot to be equally deadly. She could only imagine the pain it would cause, but continued to shield Hunter's body with her own.

"He's my husband," she informed John calmly.

"No!" Rachel shrieked. "We raised you as one of our own! Have you no more loyalty to us than that?"

Randolph O'Neil had feared John would greet Hunter with a gun, but to actually be a witness to such violence unnerved him completely. He wanted to get right back into his carriage and flee the unfortunate scene with all possible haste, but his love for Alanna wouldn't allow him to behave in such a cowardly fashion in front of her. He remained at her side, while Rachel continued to wail in a high-pitched whine that brought Catherine and Rosemary McBride from the dining room out into the hall. Horrified by the sight of the master waving a pistol at his niece, they ran from the house to the kitchen to beg their mother to protect them.

"Stand aside, Alanna!" John ordered. "That snake can be expected to hide behind a woman's skirts, but it won't save him." Intent upon killing the man responsible for his darling Melissa's death, he took careful aim.

Rather than brush Alanna out of the way, Hunter stepped back and moved to the side to present John with a clear target. "You are no more civilized than your daughter," he taunted.

"You don't deserve to live when she's dead!" John screamed right back at him.

John might have killed Hunter then, had Rachel not flung herself at her husband with a force that knocked him off balance and sent his shot wide. "Get away from me!" John yelled.

"Do you want to hang for murder?" Rachel cried. "Hasn't he caused us enough grief?"

His feet becoming entangled in his wife's skirts, John had to struggle to remain upright, presenting Hunter with an opportunity to wrench the pistol from his hand. The Indian hurled the now unloaded weapon toward the river. He then gestured for John to come to the bottom of the steps.

"Come," he called, "fight me here."

John was furious enough to think he could actually beat a man half his age, and he ripped off his coat as he came toward him. "Gladly," he replied.

"No!" Alanna's voice rang out clearly. "There's been too much bloodshed already."

"Stay out of this," John hissed.

"No, this has to end," Alanna beseeched him. "Haven't you even missed Elliott? He's dead."

Stunned, John halted in midstride. He looked around, half-expecting to see his younger son standing in the shadows, but Elliott was nowhere to be found. His expression filling with horror, he turned toward his niece. "How?" he rasped.

"Abenaki braves he fought last summer ambushed us in the forest. He had no chance," Alanna explained.

Screaming out her pain, Rachel clutched at her husband's shirtsleeve, distracting his attention from Hunter. Having been summoned by Polly, Jacob McBride came running around the corner of the house, brandishing the hammer he used in his forge. Seeing him, John nodded toward Hunter. "Kill him," he ordered coolly.

Jacob did not even inquire as to why John wished the Indian dead, before he assumed a menacing pose and advanced slowly. He grasped the hammer with both hands, ready to swing it at Hunter's head. His beard hid the width of his gruesome grin, but the twinkle in his eyes readily conveyed his lust for blood.

Randolph grabbed Alanna's hand to pull her back. "You dare not rush into the middle. One blow from that hammer would surely crush your skull!"

"You're making a terrible mistake," Alanna called to Jacob. "He can kill you in a dozen different ways."

Jacob responded with a rude laugh. "He'll never touch me," he boasted.

Hunter drew his knife. The blacksmith had no idea how close they had come to fighting on his first visit to the plantation, and Hunter did not waste his breath revealing that secret now. The blacksmith was strong, but so was the Indian, and he had the further advantage of being younger and far more agile. Within five minutes he had proven to everyone watching that he could cut Jacob at will.

Bleeding from a dozen minor cuts, Jacob continued to slowly circle Hunter. His strategy was simple: to lure the Indian in close, trip him, and then with one swing of the hammer, split his head open like a melon. The Indian was fast and cunning, but Jacob was so confident he would eventually win their contest to the death, that he scarcely felt the numerous scratches Hunter had inflicted.

Polly and her daughters were huddled together at the end of the porch, a fearful trio watching a fight they assumed could have only one ghastly end. Rachel, sobbing hysterically, had slumped to her knees, while John stood with his arms crossed over his chest, silently praying that Jacob would kill Hunter as slowly and painfully as possible.

Terrified, Randolph again attempted to draw Alanna away. "You mustn't watch this," he insisted.

"I can't not watch," Alanna replied. "I've already seen too much."

Randolph kept her hand in his, but that she could be so calm in the face of what appeared to be overwhelming odds against her husband, amazed him. She had always projected a ladylike reserve, but it was totally inappropriate now, and he was positive something was very wrong. "We ought to go," he pleaded again, but Alanna gave no sign of having heard him.

His attention focused solely on his bearded opponent, Hunter ceased to be aware of the comments passing between the spectators. It was now dark, but the lamps glowing in the mansion's windows cast enough light for them to watch each other's moves. A stocky man, Jacob's rolling gait reminded Hunter of a bear, but he cautiously kept well out of the blacksmith's reach, until he again wished to strike out with his knife.

This time, rather than a quick jab, he went for a long slash down Jacob's right forearm, and was rewarded with the first bellow of pain the man had uttered. The blood running down Jacob's arm made his grip slippery, and he had to switch the hammer to his left hand for a moment, to wipe his palm on his pant leg. Hunter tossed his knife back and forth between his hands, and catching the blacksmith off guard by using his left hand, he ripped the flesh down the entire length of Jacob's left arm.

His grip now slick with blood no matter what he did, Jacob let out a hoarse growl and raised his hammer high to strike Hunter a bone-breaking blow. Hunter, however, waited until the last second to step aside, and then brought his knife down with a savage thrust that pierced Jacob's right hand. He yanked out the blade while Jacob was still howling, and his taunting grin made it plain he would hurt him far worse on his next lunge.

"My god," Randolph whispered. "You were right. Hunter is going to kill the blacksmith, and you and I can both swear it was in self-defense."