Savage Destiny (The Hearts of Liberty Series, Book 1) Read online

  "Elliott and Alanna are very close," Melissa whispered. "When she first came to live with us, she tagged along after him like a duckling trailing its mother. He claimed not to enjoy it, but never complained within her hearing, and I think he was more flattered than annoyed by her devotion."

  While the family resemblance between Elliott and Alanna was not nearly as strong as that between Alanna and Melissa, Hunter could still see it. Their hair was the same honey-blond shade, and Alanna's profile could be interpreted as a feminine version of Elliott's. As they leaned close to talk, their gestures were identical.

  "Do cousins ever marry?" Hunter asked.

  Surprised by his question, Melissa needed a moment to thoughtfully consider a reply. "Yes, they do, but probably not when they've been raised as brother and sister the way Alanna and Elliott have."

  She glanced up at the Indian, but quickly looked away when the intensity of his gaze struck her as being far too familiar. Apparently he spoke his mind regardless of the topic, but she did not think marriage an appropriate subject between them. She knew there were white women who had wed Indian braves, but she believed they had all been taken captive as children and raised to be more Indian than white, rather than young women from fine families with honorable traditions to uphold.

  When Elliott waved for him to come forward, Hunter walked slowly to his side and, following his friend's example, he also knelt in front of Alanna. While he was certain that made him appear far less threatening than if he stood towering above her, the bright glow of panic hadn't left her eyes. Despite Elliott's undoubtedly soothing words, she was still clutching the post tightly, and Hunter believed his offer to leave had been his best idea where Alanna was concerned. He had asked to speak with her, however, and felt compelled to try.

  When he began to talk, his voice was soft and low, barely above a whisper. "There are some who say that Indians and whites are too different to ever be friends, but I disagree. When it is winter, we both shiver with the cold. When there's nothing to eat, we are both gnawed by hunger. When we are happy, we both laugh, and when we lose someone we love, we both feel the pain of a broken heart."

  With immense tenderness, Hunter reached out to pat Alanna's knee lightly. He then offered his hand. "Do you want to touch me? My skin is warm. If you close your eyes, you won't be able to tell which hand is Elliott's and which is mine."

  Alanna had been holding her breath since the Indian's approach and, growing faint, now had to force herself to breathe deeply. She attempted to simply observe dispassionately, rather than react to his presence, but it took all of her courage to remain on the bench rather than again bolt, in spite of the fact he looked nothing like her gruesome mental image of the savages who had butchered her family. Viewed with the detachment Elliott had encouraged, she could even call him handsome.

  His eyes were framed by a thick fringe of black lashes, and were so dark a brown that she could not distinguish between iris and pupil, but his gaze was sympathetic rather than menacing. His nose was straight, his well shaped lips slightly full, and his chin rounded yet firm. Despite the harmonious nature of his features, he was Indian, and that was what she could not forget.

  His deep voice was accented by a language she had never heard spoken, nor did she wish to. She would sooner allow a cottonmouth moccasin to slither over her hand than touch him and, recoiling in dread, she gave her head a violent shake sending her already tilted cap further askew. Her cousins might call him a friend, but she had no wish to associate with an Indian. Rather than respond politely to his friendliness, she stubbornly refused to welcome him.

  "Let's just avoid each other," she suggested and, pretending that he did not exist, she looked away.

  Hunter tried to console himself with the fact that Alanna had not fallen into hysterical fits, nor had she spit on him or lashed out at him with her fists. She had not reviled him with scathing insults he would never forget, but she had dismissed him rudely, and as he rose to his feet, he was sorry he had bothered to speak with her. Obviously she could think as clearly as he, but he could do nothing about the sorry conclusion she had reached. He walked back to where Melissa stood waiting for him.

  "I tried," he told her, "but it was no use. She hates Indians too much to make friends with me."

  "I'm so sorry," Melissa assured him sincerely. "I hope that her fears won't prejudice you against the rest of us."

  "Not if her fears do not prejudice you against me," Hunter countered smoothly. He was uncertain what game this enchanting, blue-eyed young lady was playing, but was sufficiently intrigued to follow it through to its conclusion.

  Struck with embarrassment, Elliott waited until Melissa and Hunter had begun to walk away before he sat down beside Alanna. "We need Hunter," he stated emphatically. "He knows the Ohio Valley as well as we know this yard, and without skilled Indian scouts like him, we'll never succeed in keeping the French off British land. I'd trust him with my life. Can't you at least be civil to him?"

  Alanna adored Elliott, and to deny him anything hurt her badly, but that pain did not even begin to compare to the agony of losing her family to a brutal band of savages. The tragic deaths of her loved ones had created an open wound in her heart that would never heal. Elliott was asking too much, and tears of regret stung her eyes because she could not please him.

  "When are you going out with George Washington?" she asked.

  "We'll be leaving for Alexandria to join him and Colonel Fry at the end of the week. Can't you be polite to Hunter until then? That's all we're asking, I know it's a big favor, but can't you do it for Byron and me?"

  Alanna shuddered. "No. I'll eat my meals in the kitchen and stay out of his way. That's all I can do. Please don't ask more of me."

  Elliott sighed unhappily and rose to his feet. He offered his hand, but Alanna shook her head and remained seated, leaving him to feel torn between his loyalty to her and the common courtesy he had expected his family to show his new friend. It was an uncomfortable sensation, and desperate to win her support, he forgot how stubborn she could be and attempted a new approach.

  "The French constantly encourage their Indian allies to raid British settlements in New England, and they are surely to blame for the Abenaki attack on your parents' farm. With Hunter's help we'll finally be able to avenge such senseless killings. Can't you be grateful to Hunter for making that possible, rather than hate him for being Indian?"

  "I don't hate him," Alanna denied softly. "I just don't want to be anywhere near him."

  Still wishing he possessed the eloquence to make her see things as he did, Elliott finally realized that no amount of logical arguments or politely worded pleas would bridge the moat of sorrow encircling his dear cousin's heart. He leaned down to kiss her cheek, and with his shoulders bowed in a dejected slump, he followed Hunter and Melissa into the house.

  * * *

  Hunter was given a guest bedroom on the third floor. It had been painted with whitewash tinted with verdigris to achieve a pleasant green color. Dormer windows eased the steep slant of the ceiling and provided him with a fine view of the river, but he would have been far more comfortable quartered in the barn. Fearing the elegantly carved cherry wood furnishings would shatter beneath his weight, he sat on the floor until Elliott returned to escort him to supper. He and Byron had changed into clean blue-coated uniforms of the Virginia Militia, while Hunter had seen no point in donning another set of buckskins which would be indistinguishable from the deeply fringed pair he had worn upon his arrival.

  As soon as they entered the parlor, Hunter was introduced to his friends' parents, John and Rachel Barclay. Unlike their fearful niece, they had had the benefit of a warning and had known they would be entertaining him at supper before they had to meet him face-to-face. Still somewhat nervous, their smiles were too quick, but having had no success with Alanna, Hunter made no effort to ease whatever fears about him they might hold.

  A tall man, John Barclay took great pains to maintain his handsome appearance. He
wore the elegantly tailored clothes and expertly styled white wig a man of his wealth would be expected to own. Deeply tanned, his weathered skin made him appear slightly older than his actual fifty-two years, but he was still fit and attractive. His wife was a dozen years his junior, as petite as her daughter, and as beautifully groomed and gowned.

  At a light touch on his arm, Hunter turned to find Melissa with a British officer whom she introduced as Ian Scott. The Indian recognized the name, but when her brothers had teased her about him, Hunter had mistakenly assumed Lieutenant Scott was also a member of the Virginia Militia. Ian's fair complexion was sprinkled with freckles, and the fiery red curls which escaped the confines of his wig at his nape lent him a boyish rather than properly military appearance.

  "I understand you're an expert scout," the lieutenant said.

  The Englishman had a charming smile, and although his hazel eyes danced with a mischievous sparkle, Hunter doubted the good-natured young man had ever made an enemy. He was obviously sincere in his praise, but Hunter was unused to flattery and unable to accept Ian's compliment graciously. "I certainly hope so," he replied, without realizing his response might be interpreted as arrogance.

  Elliott, however, assumed Hunter was joking and laughed. "Don't let him tease you, Ian," he said. "He's known as the best scout in the Ohio Valley."

  Hunter was positive that boast wasn't true, but when Melissa favored him with a delighted smile, he could not bring himself to deny it. Supper was announced then, and he hoped another topic of conversation would begin when they reached the table.

  He and Ian were seated on either side of Melissa, her brothers took their places opposite them, and their parents occupied the ends of the elaborately set table. It wasn't until after John Barclay had intoned a lengthy prayer that Hunter realized Alanna must not have been expected to join them, for there were no empty places at the long table.

  Insulted that she would not share a meal with him, he paid little attention to the conversation, unless it was directed to him. Having been away, Byron and Elliott both had a great deal to discuss, which kept Hunter's inattention from being obvious. He had eaten ham and sweet potatoes, but took note of how Rachel Barclay ate her meal in an attempt to appear to possess the same fine manners. Adept at mimicking the actions of others, he succeeded quite well in his ruse. He never drank wine, but either no one noticed—or if they did—cared enough to comment. The meal was flavorful, the company charming, but Alanna's absence made him fear he might always be viewed as an outsider in the Barclay home.

  After supper, they returned to the parlor. Because the dining room chair had supported Hunter's weight without mishap, he had gained confidence in the strength of the Barclays' furniture, and took the chair Rachel offered. Rachel then played several tunes on the harpsichord, and at her brothers' urging, Melissa added three more. Both women were accomplished musicians, but Hunter's attention frequently strayed to his companions.

  During Melissa's turn at the finely tuned stringed instrument, Ian Scott's expression mirrored his delight, while her parents' faces were aglow with pride. Byron and Elliott were seated in relaxed poses, and appeared to be enjoying themselves, too. Hunter tried to look as comfortable as his friends, but he preferred the lively melodies he had heard fiddlers play at Johnson's trading post. The parlor and furnishings were in soothing shades of blue, and sedated by the ladies' delicate harmonies, he soon began to yawn.

  Equally tired, Elliott and Byron reminded everyone of how fatiguing their day had been, and begged to be excused. Hunter left the parlor with them, but while the brothers went upstairs to their rooms, he went outside to get a drink from the well. He had not really expected to find Alanna still seated there, but the fact she was gone struck him as another insult.

  Melissa had sent him frequent smiles during dinner, and later as she had entertained them with music. Amused by her interest in him, the brave broke into a sly grin. Perhaps it did not matter that Alanna planned to avoid him, when her charming cousin obviously had no such intention. He laughed to himself as he walked back toward the house. It was a shame Alanna was so frightened of him, but far more intriguing that Melissa had not realized just how dangerous he truly was.

  Chapter 2

  Hunter awoke with the dawn. He had tried to sleep on the four-poster bed, but the feather mattress was too soft for his tastes, and he had abandoned it for the floor. He sat up, for a moment disoriented by the strange surroundings, but he swiftly recalled where he was. He stood, and then stretched lazily. The house was quiet, and he thought it might be several hours before Byron and Elliott awakened. He used the pitcher of water on the washstand to clean up, donned his buckskins, carefully refolded the blanket he had used, and placed it on the bed. With his moccasins cushioning his steps, he left the house with the same stealth with which he moved silently through the forest.

  Possessed of a curious nature, he began to investigate the purpose of the buildings located nearby. From their number, it appeared there was work aplenty on the Barclay plantation. Byron had mentioned they employed free men rather than slaves, which was one of the reasons Hunter had mistakenly gathered the impression that they owned a farm rather than a vast plantation. The kitchen staff had yet to report, but Hunter was growing hungry and hoped whoever was responsible for cooking breakfast would soon appear.

  Not wishing to be found lurking outside the kitchen like a ravenous cat, he peered into the scullery next door. A stack of pewter plates sat on the table, along with numerous serving pieces. There were more dishes in the cupboards and large cooking utensils dangled from hooks on the walls. The scullery was as neatly kept as the kitchen, and Hunter wondered if the cook would be a large man who liberally sampled each dish he prepared, or perhaps a tiny woman who was too busy cooking for the Barclays to ever stop and eat. Whoever the cook might be, it was plain they demanded cleanliness and order.

  Hunter went on to the smokehouse, but a quick look at the hams and bacon hanging just inside the door satisfied his curiosity there. He recognized the dairy by the churn standing outside, and long clotheslines decorated the yard by the laundry. A fully equipped blacksmith's forge stood between the carriage house and stable. A cooper's shed where barrels were made to pack tobacco for shipping was the last building to come into view.

  The Indian was impressed to find the plantation a complete miniature city, and continued to explore. Convinced the Barclays would own fine mounts, he entered the stable by the rear door and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. Before that had occurred, someone threw open the tall double doors at the opposite end of the long barn and, fearing he might not be able to explain his presence to a stranger, Hunter shrank back into the shadows and hoped they would soon leave.

  When he heard a sweet, feminine voice calling out greetings to the horses, his initial thought was that it was Melissa. Relaxing slightly, he peered out of his hiding place, but silhouetted against the bright sunlight, the young woman was impossible to recognize. Fearing she might be one of the Barclays' many employees rather than his friends' sister, he dared not call out to her. Instead, he waited quietly as she made her way through the stable.

  Unlike Hunter, the horses recognized their visitor's voice and stretched their necks over the doors of their stalls to nuzzle her apron pockets. For their impertinent antics, they received a gentle scolding delivered between bursts of lilting laughter. None was deprived of the expected treat, however, and each was given an apple before the young woman moved on to the next.

  Framed by the glistening specks of dust dancing in the early morning light, from where Hunter stood she was surrounded by a mist of shimmering gold. It was an enchanted scene, and he held his breath when she reached his end of the barn for fear a sudden glimpse of him would frighten her away. She paused and peered into the darkness, for an instant looked right at him. Perhaps she sensed his presence, but unable to distinguish his features from the deep shadows in which he stood, she moved on.

  She had been close en
ough for Hunter to recognize her though, and since he had not even considered the possibility that the cheerful lass might be Alanna, he was doubly shocked. Unaware that she was being observed, Alanna continued to lavish her affection on the horses, for each was an adored pet. With her tragic background, Hunter wasn't surprised that she would prefer the company of a horse to him, but that rationalization did not ease the lingering humiliation of her rebuff.

  Horribly uncomfortable, Hunter darted out of the stable the instant Alanna exited from the opposite end. Unfortunately, he had no time to savor the relief of having avoided another potentially disastrous confrontation with her before a bearded man in a leather apron called out to him.

  "Hey, you there!" the blacksmith shouted. "Get away from the barn. You've no business being in there. Go on back where you belong, or I'll set the dogs on you. Now go on, git!"

  Hunter hadn't seen any dogs, but knowing many men kept half a dozen or more for hunting, was enough to convince him the blacksmith wasn't making idle threats. He might be an invited guest, but doubted that fact would be believed without confirmation from one of the Barclays. Besides, even if he were a guest, he supposed he ought not to have been in the barn. Undecided about what to say, he remained silent as the blacksmith approached carrying a long pair of iron tongs.

  "Dogs don't scare you?" the hostile man asked in a challenging hiss.

  Alanna rounded the corner of the barn in time to see the blacksmith raise his tongs in a menacing gesture, while Hunter made no move to protect himself. She had no idea what the Indian had done, but knew her cousins wouldn't want him to be mistreated in any way. Hoping to see someone else close enough to intervene, she looked around with an anxious glance, but quickly discovered that if anyone were going to come to the Indian's rescue, it would have to be her. That was the very last thing she wished to do on that day or any other, but since she had no choice, she gathered her courage and called out to the blacksmith.