Queen of Swords
Page 66
Hannah felt herself flush. She turned her face away and then back again. “I would be glad to have you assist at any time.”
He studied her for a moment, and nodded. Then Hannah stood in the doorway and watched the mule cart go. When the sound of its wheels on the gravel path had faded away, she found the fur-lined cape that she had cast aside when she had been hard at work and hot, and pulled it around herself. She thought of Ben’s mother, who had worn these clothes. Spattered with dirt and blood, the fine beadwork on the moccasins obscured by mud. She would scrape the fine doeskin clean, dry and brush the moccasins, and then she would fold all of it neatly and return everything to Ben Savard.
Unless he didn’t come. In that case she could sleep right here on the pallet, if the slaves had no objection to her staying the rest of the night. She wondered where Mose had gone, if he was asleep somewhere.
Hannah went to the door and then out into the night, still heavy with fog.
She walked first down the slave row to the point where the fields started. The lantern that hung from a nail on the wall of the last cabin still burned, casting a solid oval of light sharply defined at its edges by the fog. The fields rolled away from where she stood, like waves from a ship. Hannah turned and walked in the other direction until she came to the levee, where she stood in the shadows and watched the troops withdrawing.
These men were quieter, and moved with a certain weariness that made little sense until Hannah realized that these were prisoners being marched back to the city under guard. The guard that walked with them held weapons at the ready, and more soldiers on horseback before and after. A half dozen men carried torches to light the way. In that flickering light she caught a flash of color now and then, a faded red coat or an epaulette that sparked in the firelight, half torn from a shoulder. A bloody cloth pressed to a cheek, muddy boots, forage caps. She stood and watched for a quarter hour until the last of the men had disappeared from sight, and caught not one glimpse of a blond head.
When she turned, Ben Savard and her brother were coming toward her, moving out of the fog into the feeble light of the lantern she had left outside the cabin as a guide. They moved easily, long strides, heads swiveling as they went, still alert and aware and, above all, alive.
Ben was looking at her, his eyes tracing her shape as if she were the one who had just fought a battle and might be injured. As if she were his to worry about. The way she was looking at him, taking his measure: no obvious wounds, his face and hands blackened by gunpowder, his smile all the brighter by contrast.
No blood shed. A man back from battle full of life.
They stopped in front of her.
“I see you managed to keep out of trouble,” she said. Her voice trembled a little.
Luke said, “I’m off away home, or Jennet will have my skin for letting her worry. Do you have your things?”
Hannah glanced at the cabin. “Not quite—”
“I’ll go ahead, then,” Luke said, casting a quick sidelong glance at Ben. “You two take your time.”
And he disappeared into the fog and dark at a trot. Hannah had the sense he would run all the way back to the city and Jennet.
To Ben she said, “How—” and stopped, because he caught her up against him with one strong movement, his arm curling around her waist as hard and certain as a grappling hook. She was pressed against his chest and Ben had lowered his head to hers, his mouth so close to her own that when he spoke she felt the shape of the words on her lips.
“I was hoping you’d wait.”
He kissed her then, both arms closing around her, pulling her up against his chest, lifting her off the ground. Hannah kissed him back, drawing in his smells, gunpowder and grease and ciprière, a faint tinge of blood, and the oils on his skin. She had forgot how it was, how a man came off the battlefield smelling like this, as if in the rush and tumult he must sweat out his very essence. I am alive.
In the cabin, with the door closed, she said, “Let me see your shoulder,” and he laughed at her. There was some blood and a tear in his shirt, but he laughed like a boy without worries or responsibilities. What he wanted from her had nothing to do with medicine.
She could stop him with a word, but could not think of what that word might be. Hannah let herself be drawn down to the pallet, where she might have been frightened or anxious, but she could only laugh herself, caught up in this surplus of energy, the promise of relief.
He was so alive, so full of motion, so intent, as if she were a lesson he had set himself to learn. The texture of the skin below her ear, the taste of her sweat. Her blood ran cold and hot and cold again, fear getting the upper hand.
Ben took her head between his palms and pressed his forehead to hers and whispered.
“We’re here together, Hannah. Walks-Ahead. You and me and nobody else. You,” his mouth moved against her skin. “You and me and nobody else. You take what you want, and leave the rest.”
That made her laugh out loud. “And if I want nothing at all?” He was hugely aroused, as hard as hickory, bursting with need.
“Then we sleep,” he said. He kissed her on the cheek, the kiss of a solicitous friend, a proper older brother. But he was not her brother, and Hannah could not pretend he was, had no wish to force that role on him or on herself. She turned her head so that their mouths met, and she kissed him the way she wanted to be kissed. He was a man who could take direction and turn it to his advantage.
Her body responded, and her mind followed along. Ben Savard had come from a battle where he had fought for his life, where he had killed in order to come back to her. And hadn’t she done the same, the very same thing, come back from a place where she might have died, from that night when a different man had tried to break her.
He studied her for a moment, and nodded. Then Hannah stood in the doorway and watched the mule cart go. When the sound of its wheels on the gravel path had faded away, she found the fur-lined cape that she had cast aside when she had been hard at work and hot, and pulled it around herself. She thought of Ben’s mother, who had worn these clothes. Spattered with dirt and blood, the fine beadwork on the moccasins obscured by mud. She would scrape the fine doeskin clean, dry and brush the moccasins, and then she would fold all of it neatly and return everything to Ben Savard.
Unless he didn’t come. In that case she could sleep right here on the pallet, if the slaves had no objection to her staying the rest of the night. She wondered where Mose had gone, if he was asleep somewhere.
Hannah went to the door and then out into the night, still heavy with fog.
She walked first down the slave row to the point where the fields started. The lantern that hung from a nail on the wall of the last cabin still burned, casting a solid oval of light sharply defined at its edges by the fog. The fields rolled away from where she stood, like waves from a ship. Hannah turned and walked in the other direction until she came to the levee, where she stood in the shadows and watched the troops withdrawing.
These men were quieter, and moved with a certain weariness that made little sense until Hannah realized that these were prisoners being marched back to the city under guard. The guard that walked with them held weapons at the ready, and more soldiers on horseback before and after. A half dozen men carried torches to light the way. In that flickering light she caught a flash of color now and then, a faded red coat or an epaulette that sparked in the firelight, half torn from a shoulder. A bloody cloth pressed to a cheek, muddy boots, forage caps. She stood and watched for a quarter hour until the last of the men had disappeared from sight, and caught not one glimpse of a blond head.
When she turned, Ben Savard and her brother were coming toward her, moving out of the fog into the feeble light of the lantern she had left outside the cabin as a guide. They moved easily, long strides, heads swiveling as they went, still alert and aware and, above all, alive.
Ben was looking at her, his eyes tracing her shape as if she were the one who had just fought a battle and might be injured. As if she were his to worry about. The way she was looking at him, taking his measure: no obvious wounds, his face and hands blackened by gunpowder, his smile all the brighter by contrast.
No blood shed. A man back from battle full of life.
They stopped in front of her.
“I see you managed to keep out of trouble,” she said. Her voice trembled a little.
Luke said, “I’m off away home, or Jennet will have my skin for letting her worry. Do you have your things?”
Hannah glanced at the cabin. “Not quite—”
“I’ll go ahead, then,” Luke said, casting a quick sidelong glance at Ben. “You two take your time.”
And he disappeared into the fog and dark at a trot. Hannah had the sense he would run all the way back to the city and Jennet.
To Ben she said, “How—” and stopped, because he caught her up against him with one strong movement, his arm curling around her waist as hard and certain as a grappling hook. She was pressed against his chest and Ben had lowered his head to hers, his mouth so close to her own that when he spoke she felt the shape of the words on her lips.
“I was hoping you’d wait.”
He kissed her then, both arms closing around her, pulling her up against his chest, lifting her off the ground. Hannah kissed him back, drawing in his smells, gunpowder and grease and ciprière, a faint tinge of blood, and the oils on his skin. She had forgot how it was, how a man came off the battlefield smelling like this, as if in the rush and tumult he must sweat out his very essence. I am alive.
In the cabin, with the door closed, she said, “Let me see your shoulder,” and he laughed at her. There was some blood and a tear in his shirt, but he laughed like a boy without worries or responsibilities. What he wanted from her had nothing to do with medicine.
She could stop him with a word, but could not think of what that word might be. Hannah let herself be drawn down to the pallet, where she might have been frightened or anxious, but she could only laugh herself, caught up in this surplus of energy, the promise of relief.
He was so alive, so full of motion, so intent, as if she were a lesson he had set himself to learn. The texture of the skin below her ear, the taste of her sweat. Her blood ran cold and hot and cold again, fear getting the upper hand.
Ben took her head between his palms and pressed his forehead to hers and whispered.
“We’re here together, Hannah. Walks-Ahead. You and me and nobody else. You,” his mouth moved against her skin. “You and me and nobody else. You take what you want, and leave the rest.”
That made her laugh out loud. “And if I want nothing at all?” He was hugely aroused, as hard as hickory, bursting with need.
“Then we sleep,” he said. He kissed her on the cheek, the kiss of a solicitous friend, a proper older brother. But he was not her brother, and Hannah could not pretend he was, had no wish to force that role on him or on herself. She turned her head so that their mouths met, and she kissed him the way she wanted to be kissed. He was a man who could take direction and turn it to his advantage.
Her body responded, and her mind followed along. Ben Savard had come from a battle where he had fought for his life, where he had killed in order to come back to her. And hadn’t she done the same, the very same thing, come back from a place where she might have died, from that night when a different man had tried to break her.
