The Bonny Bride Read online

  Between bites, Jenny assured him, “It’s fine.”

  “If ye wanted salt,” Harris continued as if he hadn’t heard her, “we could take the first river we come to and follow it out to the sea. One fine day is all we’d need to draw salt from the water.”

  “I don’t miss it—truly.”

  “Not yet, maybe. But a doctor in Edinburgh once told me it’s bad for a body to go without salt. I’d…I’d hate to see ye get sick.”

  Jenny appeared to give the notion some thought as she chewed on her meat. “Aye,” she agreed at last. “I wouldn’t want to show up at Mr. Douglas’s doorstep ailing.”

  “No, ye wouldn’t.” Harris fought to keep a note of elation from his voice. “Besides, we can’t get lost if we follow the coast. Sooner or later, we’ll strike the Miramichi. Inland like this, it’s a sight easier to lose yer bearings.”

  “There’s sense in that,” conceded Jenny. “Let’s hope we find a river tomorrow. At least if we follow the coast we’ll have clear, flat beach to walk, instead of weaving through these blasted trees.”

  Looking up from his supper, Harris gazed around them. “I like the trees. They’re all so different. The tall pines with their tufts of long needles—they put me in mind of big solid Highland men, with brawny arms and ginger hair. Then there’s the birches. Those are elegant ladies with their fine white bark and slender branches.”

  “Ye’ve quite a poetical streak in ye, Harris.” She made it sound like a compliment, and a rare one at that.

  Feeling a most unmanly heat flicker in his cheeks, he pretended to occupy himself with removing the last shreds of meat from the bones of their supper.

  As they rounded out the meal with a few well-roasted pine seeds and Jenny’s harvest of blueberries, she asked him many questions, drawing him out about his early adventures in the hills with his grandfather.

  “I don’t ever mind him coming into Dalbeattie, Harris. Not even to kirk.”

  “That’s because he was a Papist from the Highlands. My grandmother brought Pa up in the Free Kirk, but she died a good while before I was born.”

  As the day waned, Harris found himself telling Jenny more and more about his grandfather, the young refugee from Culloden Moor who’d found sanctuary and a bride in the Border lands.

  Above them, the narrow strip of visible sky darkened from the pale hue of cornflowers to a deep indigo and gradually to a velvet black. The fire subsided to a bed of glowing embers. When Harris looked over it at Jenny, the flickering shadows and rising heat from the coals gave her face a spectral shimmer.

  He felt an uncanny chill ripple up his spine.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jenny’s eyes flew open. Abruptly she woke to a man’s firm hand pressed over her mouth. When had she gone to sleep?

  “It’s only me, lass,” Harris whispered in her ear.

  Tell that to my heart, she wanted to snap at him. The man did have a nasty habit of making her pulse race.

  Often without even trying.

  “We have to leave here, now.” Though the words were spoken so softly Jenny could scarcely hear them, their note of urgency was unmistakable.

  Pulling his hand from over her mouth, she hissed, “Why? What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

  “Listen.”

  For a moment she wondered what nonsense he was talking. Then she heard it.

  The beat of a drum. Voices in the distance, chanting in a strange minor key.

  “Indians.” Harris confirmed Jenny’s own deduction. “Jardine said we’d do well to avoid them.”

  “For once, I agree with ye, Harris.”

  As soundlessly as possible, they broke camp, first feeling their way to the spring where they drank their fill and topped up Harris’s jug.

  “Take my hand,” he whispered, and they were off.

  They made achingly slow progress through the dark woods, with only the moon’s pale rays to illuminate mysterious shapes in their path. On they stumbled, away from the sound of the drum, holding their breaths each time one of them snapped a dry branch with footfall. They had not gone nearly as far as Jenny would have liked, when the music finally stopped.

  “We’ll have to stay here till it’s light.” Harris pulled her down among some tall ferns. “We wouldn’t want to lose our way and end up stumbling into their camp.”

  Though the night was warm, Jenny began to tremble. Harris wrapped her in a comforting embrace. “It’s all right, lass,” he murmured. “We know they’re around, so we can be on our guard. We’ll have to be careful from now on, though. About shouting and laughing and lighting fires.”

  Despite his reassurance, Jenny slept hardly a wink the rest of the night. Every call of a night bird, every rustle of the underbrush, jolted her to full alert. She tried to calm herself by diverting her thoughts elsewhere.

  That was no better.

  Against her will, she found herself dwelling on the perilous enjoyment of lying in Harris’s arms. His lean strength cradled her. His breath danced a warm whisper in her hair. Deep inside, she ached for him.

  Every time they kissed it had felt different—though always far too pleasant to suit her peace of mind. Some long-suppressed spirit of adventure within her yearned to plumb the experience to its sweetest depths. Her hands trembled to explore the spare, manly contours of his body. Her blood roused with the urge to invite him on a similar expedition. One of intimate discovery. Perhaps even conquest.

  Feeling beads of sweat break out on her hairline, Jenny strove to rein in her wayward inclinations. Whatever would her father say, if he knew? His daughter and Harris Chisholm lying down together on the ground, like a pair of savages. His daughter, entertaining all manner of wanton notions. His daughter, fairly melting with the heat of her own wicked desire? He’d probably thrash her backside raw before exploding in a fit of righteous apoplexy.

  The very thought of it made Jenny smile to herself in the darkness. Perhaps she’d better go back to worrying about an Indian attack.

  She slipped into a brief doze only to waken sharply again when she heard strange sounds close by.

  A high, excited chatter of people talking…or singing. Jenny could not make out any words to tell if it might be French, or the language of the Indians…or even—please God—the King’s English.

  She nudged Harris, but he was too deeply asleep to respond. Jenny didn’t want to say his name aloud and risk being overheard. Gathering her courage, she rolled away from him and crept toward the source of the sound, scarcely daring to breathe. As she peered around the high stump of a fallen tree, her mouth dropped open in a slack gape of amazement.

  Silver moonbeams bathed the tiny clearing before her, and the curious animals that crowded within it. Most were the size of young pigs, but closer to the ground. They were covered in coats of long spiky fur, like giant hedgehogs. What had the Glendenning children called them…porcupines?

  Some walked on four legs, but some pulled themselves erect as they chattered and danced in the moonlight. After watching this extraordinary performance for some time, Jenny shook her head, wondering if she might not be dreaming it. At last, deciding the animals posed no great danger, she slipped back to her bed in the ferns and once again stretched out beside Harris.

  Yawning deeply, she let the uncanny chorus of the animals lull her back to sleep. This new land was far stranger than she’d ever expected. For all that, mused a drowsy Jenny, it was not without its own queer charm.

  “Can we stop and rest a minute, Harris?”

  Without waiting for him to say yes or no, Jenny wilted onto a large moss-covered rock and wiped her face with the corner of her apron.

  Noting the bright flush in her cheeks, Harris reluctantly followed suit. Unstopping the water jug, he passed it to her.

  “Just a wee bit farther, lass, and we’ll be able to ease up. I ken we should be coming to a river soon. Once we put that between us and the Indians, I’ll rest a mite easier.”

  As Jenny took a long swig from the jug, H
arris half wished it contained something more potent than spring water.

  “Aye, I’ll feel better about it, too.” She glanced over her shoulder, as though expecting the forest dwellers to materialize out of the trees.

  “While we’re sitting down anyhow, would ye like an oatcake?” Harris fumbled in his pack for them. He cursed the necessity that had made him leave his second snare behind…along with whatever it might have caught. Having eaten their fill the previous evening, he hadn’t worried about gathering food today. Getting safely away from the Indians was his first priority.

  Unwrapping the small canvas parcel Mrs. Jardine’s hired girl had tied up for him, Harris took out a thick wedge of oatcake and broke it in two. He gave Jenny the larger piece, insisting he was still full from last night’s supper. Now if only his stomach wouldn’t give him away with a hungry growl.

  “How many miles do ye reckon we’ve come today?” asked Jenny, gnawing on the hard, flat biscuit.

  “Four or five, at least.”

  Jenny gave his answer a moment of silent concentration. “Then we can’t have much more than another twenty to go,” she announced brightly.

  Chewing on his oatcake, Harris twisted his mouth into a wan smile. Let Jenny take that for confirmation if she cared to. Privately he doubted they’d gained more than a mile in their journey to Chatham. Most of their walking had moved them south, out of range of the Indians. Once they crossed the river, though, he hoped to strike out on a more direct route.

  They washed the dry stale oatcakes down with the last of the tepid water, then Harris rose from their rocky perch as unwillingly as he’d lighted on it. Flexing his tired limbs, he offered Jenny his hand.

  “I could sit here and chat all day, but we won’t have light too many more hours.” Why must he sound apologetic? This trek through the woods had been her idea. “If we do find a river, I want to cross it while we can still see what we’re about.”

  Hoisting Jenny up, he clung to her hand for an extra heartbeat or two, savoring the feel of it in his. In Dalbeattie they had a complimentary saying for a lass like Jenny. She has hands that make light work of a chore. Apart from everything else, he hoped that marriage to the wealthy Roderick Douglas wouldn’t turn Jenny’s deft, capable hands idle or weak.

  “Poor Harris.” She smiled as she said it, her voice lingering fondly over his name. Though he looked for it, he saw no trace of pity in her eyes. “I don’t suppose ye reckoned what ye were letting yerself in for, that day on the quay at Kirkcudbright.”

  “Aye, that’s a fact,” he replied brusquely, conscious that he wasn’t telling the whole truth.

  Seeing a flicker of hurt shadow her expression, he amended, “Now, now. It hasn’t been as bad as all that. Quite an adventure, in fact. Stories to tell our grandchildren.”

  Her smile twisted into an embarrassed grin and the scarlet flush of her face intensified.

  “I mean…” Harris cursed himself for a dolt. “Ye’ll tell yer grandchildren…and I’ll…tell mine.” Hastily he added, “If I ever have any, that is.”

  “I like the thought of that,” said Jenny, evidently meaning to rescue him from his blunder. “Us still being friends when we’re old and gray. Telling our grandchildren all about how we crossed the ocean and got shipwrecked, then walked all the way to Chatham overland.”

  “Let’s get on the move then.” Harris strode away, muttering under his breath, “Or we’ll be telling them how we wandered in the wilderness for forty years.”

  Jenny must have overheard him, for she chuckled softly as she fell into step behind him.

  They trudged on in silence for some time without coming upon any sign of a stream. Harris was beginning to doubt himself when suddenly a fresh breeze ruffled the leaves overhead. On that wind came the welcome gurgle of flowing water.

  “Did ye hear that, Harris?” Jenny clutched his arm. “There’s a river ahead, just like ye said there’d be.”

  Though his chest swelled at the note of respect in her voice, Harris tried to make light of it. “Robert Jardine told me there were four or five small rivers between the Richibucto and the Miramichi. Unless we were going in the wrong direction entirely, we had to come upon one sooner or later.”

  Picking their way down the wooded slope, they soon reached the shore. One look at the expanse of water before them and Jenny’s bubble of elation promptly burst.

  “How’ll we ever get across it, Harris?” she wailed.

  “Not over a bridge, that’s for certain,” he replied wryly.

  With a groan of dismay, Jenny dropped to the ground. Her eyes stung with tears of fierce anger at herself. “Oh, Harris, I’m worse than daft! Take a notion into my head and I charge on after it without looking to see what’s in the way.”

  Easing to his haunches beside her, Harris slipped an arm around Jenny’s shoulders. “Now, lass, don’t be so hard on yerself. So ye take after what ye want and make light of the obstacles in yer path—what’s so bad about that? It may land ye in hot water now and again, but in the end ye get where ye’re going. It’d be a poor world without folk who pursue their dreams.”

  Her doubts and worries lifted at his words, as though he’d taken a heavy pack from her shoulders. The very blood seemed to pulse in her veins stronger and faster. A tide of confidence and power rose within her. When a furtive voice in the back of her mind whispered that she was not pursuing her dreams but fleeing her nightmares, Jenny ignored it.

  She turned on Harris with a smile that warmed her whole face. “I thought I was only joking about ye being a fairy godfather. Now I’m not so sure. Ye do work magic on me.”

  No lie, that.

  As their gazes locked, Jenny longed to dive into the green-brown velvet of his eyes. That was one enchantment she must resist, no matter how it compelled her.

  “What are we going to do about crossing this river?” She forced herself to look away, warding off his sorcery with practical considerations.

  Harris peeled off his boots and socks. Then he rolled up his trousers to the knees and waded into the river. Shading his eyes from the glare of the bright sun on the water, he took a long look upstream and a longer look down.

  “I ken it gets narrower that way.” He pointed downstream. “Let’s follow the shore and see if we come upon a ford. Either that, or we find a downed tree to float ourselves across.”

  “Let’s look for a ford,” said Jenny. “Only give me a minute first to cool my feet.” Shedding her shoes and stockings, she hitched up her skirts and joined him in the river.

  “Mmm!” She wiggled her toes in the wet sand. “I can tell ye one thing, Harris. After this, I’ll never take water for granted again.”

  He chuckled. “Nor a decent bed.”

  They tarried a few minutes more, enjoying the rest and the soothing cool of the water on their tired feet, until Harris squinted at the position of the sun and said they really should be on their way.

  Once again his prediction proved correct. They had not hiked far when they came to a narrow neck in the river.

  “Look, Harris!” Jenny could scarcely believe the wonder. “And ye said we’d never find a bridge.”

  She ran toward it.

  Behind her, she heard Harris caution. “I don’t ken that’s a bridge, Jenny.”

  Perhaps not, she realized as she drew closer. The strange wooden structure did range from one side of the narrows to the other, but nothing bigger than a squirrel might walk across it. Why on earth would anyone build a fence across a river?

  Jenny gave the notion only passing thought. At least it would provide a handhold for them to wade to the other side.

  “Come back, lass!” She heard Harris call softly but urgently.

  Turn back now, when they were so close? Balancing the awkward bundle on her head, her shoes tied together and slung around her neck, Jenny felt the swift water flow over her knees.

  She gasped as Harris clutched her arm.

  Ragged with muted alarm, his warning exploded in her ear
s. “It’s not a bridge, Jenny. It’s a fishing weir. An Indian fishing weee…” The last word waxed into a cry of alarm.

  Perhaps he lost his footing on the stony riverbed, or perhaps the racing current threw Harris off balance. Jenny turned just in time to see his arms thrashing wildly as he fell. His coat sleeve caught on one of the weir’s pointed stakes.

  Letting the bundle fall from her head, Jenny waded back to help him. At that moment, several large, bronzed men burst from the forest behind them.

  One carried a musket. Two others wielded long forked spears. Spying Harris and Jenny, they moved forward with their weapons raised, shouting words Jenny could not understand.

  “Come on, Harris!” She grasped his left arm, and with a strength born of desperation helped him stagger to his feet.

  Caught on the weir, his coat held him fast.

  “Go, lass! I’ll hold them back for as long as I can!”

  Jenny froze.

  Time froze with her.

  Or so it felt, as scores of sights, sounds and perceptions bombarded her consciousness.

  The terrible beauty of the Indians as they surged toward the river—tall, bare chested, with manes of hair dark as midnight.

  The hoarse urgency of Harris’s voice as he bellowed at her to flee. The desperate courage in his eyes, and the fear—not for himself, but for her.

  The cold, powerful tug of the river on her body.

  Every nerve in her screamed to let herself go—to let the swift current carry her downriver, away from danger.

  Something else, something she could not explain, pushed her forward. Past Harris she struggled, to meet the threat head-on.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Damn ye, lass! Go!”

  With every fiber of his being, Harris willed her to get away. The Indians could only kill him. What they might do to a fetching lass like Jenny didn’t bear thinking about.

  Paying him no more heed than she ever did, she brushed past, putting herself between him and the armed men. Harris nearly wrenched his shoulder from its socket trying to free himself from the shackle of his coat.