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THE SMALL FIRE THAT SHE had built earlier in the day for her papa’s comfort was now all but dead, with only a few live coals glowing red beneath the soft gray ash. Raven was judiciously adding a handful of twigs and bark she’d gathered from the forest to rekindle the blaze. Bending close, she blew gently on the embers, and before long a thin yellow tongue of flame shot up to curl around the dry wood. Then, almost as quickly, it died back a bit, and Raven bent very close to try again.

“Persistence does pay off, mademoiselle, but do take care. It would be a terrible shame to spoil those pretty, dark locks.”

She managed somehow not to start at the voice sounding directly behind her, and turned to shoot him an evil glare, at the same time catching a whiff of burning hair. Jerking back in alarm, she banged her head on the chimney ledge, sat down abruptly, and rubbed the injured spot. “You clumsy, bumbling hulk of a man. What are you doing, sneaking up on me like that?”

He snorted, half-laughter, half-derision. “Call me bumbling if you will, I am not the one who banged my noggin. Have you always been a clumsy little wench, or is it my nearness that makes you nervous?” Bending slightly, he touched the knot which had raised on her scalp. “It’s a wonder you’ve survived out here so long. Lucky for you that I came along when I did. Otherwise you’d likely manage to maim yourself for life.”

He was damp from being out in the inclement weather, and the fragrance of the rain and the forest clung to him. Raven caught herself leaning close, the better to drink him in, and suddenly batted his hand away, hoping he’d take the hint and back off.

He didn’t. Instead, he caught her hand and held it in both of his. Before she could snatch it away, he ran a fingertip over the ridge of calluses marring her palm. “These are small hands to bear such a heavy burden,” he said, and his voice was not only

softer, but more sympathetic. “It’s okay to lay it down, you know. There is help available for the asking.”

“Help?” she said, a little caustically. “And who, m’sieur, will help me? You?” She wanted to spit in his face, but he was a guest in her home, so she held tight to her manners, such as they were. “At what cost does this help you offer come?

Another bit of fondling against my will? Another show of submission? Or do you want more gold?”

“Gold is always welcome,” he said with a tight smile. “And I’d be more than happy to do some fondling, but not against your will. In fact, I’ve never been that desperate. As for you submitting to any man, even one so obviously your superior, I truly doubt you have it in you.”

For the first time in her life, Raven was reduced to sputtering in French. She searched for something bad enough, vile enough to call him, but nothing suitable came to mind.

Her sassy tongue ached to dress him down, but all she could do was narrow her eyes and watch as he turned his back on her, taking a seat at the table where he proceeded to whet the blade of his skinning knife on a small sliver of whetstone.

That’s something you need to work on,” he said without looking up. “Where we are headed, most people speak English, after a fashion. And although I can understand that with Henry being from Quebec you may not have been taught to speak properly, I am sure you can learn if you make an effort.”

Insults and boorish behavior aside, this was too much. “There is nothing wrong with my English!”

His finger shot out, his face suddenly stern. “Then, there is no excuse not to use it! I won’t have you babbling at me in a tongue I can’t comprehend. It’s rude and distracting.”

“Rude?” she fairly spat back. “You, m’sieur, have not seen the beginning of rudeness! And, as for my speaking French, you cannot stop me! I shall speak it all I want, whether you like it or not! I shall hurl it in your face! Mutter it behind your back! I shall sing songs in it when you are asleep, if I wish, and you cannot stop me!”

His head lowered, and the look he bent upon her chilled her to the bone. The tone of his voice had gone silky and soft, which in some ways was almost worse than his usual matter- of-factness. “Raven, you are trying my patience, and I have little to spare. It’s been one hell of a day, gone ten times worse since I walked through your door. I am hot, and hungry, and my horse came up lame. Since I came in here, you have beaten me, bitten me, and verbally shredded my admittedly tough hide. Now, a mean-spirited individual would have backhanded you by now and been done with it, but I’ll simply tell you directly: don’t push me too far.”

One look at that hard, handsome face told her he meant every word. Raven wisely backed off, content to send a glare his way now and again as she rekindled the hearth fire. He hadn’t said what he would do, if indeed, she pushed him beyond the dictates of wisdom, but she remembered the feel of his arms around her, and the hunger in his eyes as he’d stared down at her. Now, as her gaze fell on his broad shoulders, ran down the length of his strong arms, she wondered if he would try to subdue her woman’s body? To her utter horror, she found the idea was not totally distasteful.

It was enough to make her back down—for now.

THEIR EVENING MEAL CONSISTED OF a roast hare

that Raven had caught in a snare, and the last of the potatoes from the root cellar dug into the hillside. The pot-drippings, choicest pieces of meat shredded finely, and some smashed potatoes were set aside for Henri when he awakened. To that, Eben added some stale cornpone, carefully preserved in an oilskin pouch, and coffee.

Raven was glad to see that her guardian at least possessed some table manners. He ate sparingly and methodically, and did not waste a scrap, stripping every last morsel of meat from the plump hind leg until the bones were cleaned, then he cracked them and sucked out the marrow. He must have been accustomed to dining alone, because he ate silently, and there was none of the normal genial conversation at table that Raven and her papa had always shared at mealtime, even if the topic was something as mundane as the weather.

Henri, however, was still asleep, and Raven suspected that his earlier attempt to control her reaction to her new situation had cost him dearly. That thought brought a dreadful wave of guilt. In an attempt to stave it off, she tried gingerly to open a dialogue with the man who lounged across from her.

He was human after all. Just a man, and surely reachable on some level. “You said your horse is lame.” Softly. Hesitantly. “If you like, I can take a look at it.”

He glanced up, his pale gaze assessing. He was weighing her sincerity, Raven was sure. After a moment, he seemed satisfied. “So, it’s true what Henry said? You have knowledge of herbs and the like?”

“My mother and I used to walk in the fields and forest. She would show me the plants which were useful, and those that were a danger and needed to be used with caution, if at all.”

“Poisons?”

“Some things are more beneficial than others, yet everything has a purpose, m’sieur. Even poisons.”

“I’ll sleep much better knowing you have one more weapon in your considerable arsenal,” he said sarcastically. “How do I know I can trust you not to harm my mount?”

“I am not cruel, nor am I heartless,” Raven replied, “no matter what you think.” She stacked the tin plates and cutlery neatly and stood. “Shall we?”

He bowed slightly and held out a hand. “After you, mademoiselle.”

Raven preceded him, but with a certain amount of wariness. Outside, a hard rain battered the walls of the cabin. She would have gone into the deluge if Eben hadn’t stopped her. She looked down at that hand, so large and brown and capable, resting unselfconsciously on her bare arm, and was struck anew by the incredible warmth of his touch. Suddenly and inexplicably vulnerable, hungry for human contact, she had to suppress the urge to melt against him.

There was something about Eben St. Claire that was vibrantly alive and excruciatingly male, and Raven wondered

how she would react if he slid his hand up her arm, down to cup her breast?

Would she allow it? Would she enjoy it?

Would he read her thoughts and act on them?

Slowly, Raven raised her gaze to confront his, but he seemed not to notice the pulse that jumped in her throat or the hesitancy in her glance.

“It’s a deluge out there, Raven. “If you’ve a wrap, then you had better make use of it. I’d make a damn poor nurse if you take ill.”

“What about you?” she found herself asking. Where had that come from? She’d sounded genuinely concerned, and hastily added, “If you take ill and die here, I will have to burn my home down around you. I fear you are too big for me to drag out and bury.”

His lips curled in a slight smile. “Have no fear for my health, little one. I’m accustomed to being out in all sorts of weather. I’m as tough as whalebone.”

Raven took a light cloak made of plain black broadcloth down from the peg by the door. It had belonged to her mother and was quite worn. It surprised her when he took it from her and placed it gently around her shoulders. In that moment, she understood why her papa had insisted there was gentleness in him, though it was too often hidden by heaps of stubbornness and rough talk.

She mumbled her thanks and hurried out into the night before her confusion became even greater than it already was.

Night had fallen prematurely and though there was no lightning or thunder, rain poured down and the wind was gusting hard. It drove her breath back down her throat, and whipped the cloak around her, sending it flying back around her companion’s long, booted legs.

Raven stole a glance at him over her shoulder. He was observing the treetops dance, and the dark clouds scudding

across a darker sky with a welcoming expression on his face. “You are enjoying this?” Raven said. “You mystify me.”

“Do I? And why is that?”

“Only the gods laugh at foul weather, m’sieur,” she told him. “Mortals understand how dangerous it can be. Flash flood, fire, lightning, deep and killing snows, deadly cold. These things are to be survived, not laughed at. It makes me wonder just who and what you are.”

“That’s true enough, but I have always liked the wind and rain. The morning after a good heavy downpour is so much fresher, cleaner. And we’ve needed rain to tamp down the dust. It’s been a long, hot summer.”

He sighed as they came to the barn where the horses were stabled. “As for what and who I am, it’s simple. I’m just a man who comes from simple stock. My ancestors swore fealty to the Stuarts until the English squelched the uprisings and drove them from the Highlands. They ended up in Northern Ireland. My granddad landed here in America and eventually found a hangman’s noose. My father did not fare a great deal better, nor did my brother. My father and stepmother were killed in an Indian raid before the treaty of ‘95’, and my brother was taken. I’m lucky to have lived so long. Most in my family did not fare as well.”

“Did your grandfather kill someone?”

“He stole a horse from a British dragoon.” He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. “My father was fourteen, and swore he’d do better for himself. He fought in the war for independence, then, got himself a piece of land where he could work and prosper.”

“And he was killed, too?”

“Aye, that he was. At the age of thirty-two. He was one year younger than I am now.”

“Thirty-three is quite old,” Raven said. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be out in the rain, after all? Wet weather is hard on the rheumatism.”

“Said by someone barely out of the cradle.”

“Nineteen is not so young,” she insisted.

Eben snorted. It wasn’t just young. It was very young. And very sweet. And altogether tempting. He would have liked to touch her soft peach bloom skin, to test its pliancy. He would have liked very much to taste those sweet red lips of hers, to determine if he could coax them to open to him or find out if she would shut him out completely. He would have liked very, very much to breathe in her fragrance, to urge her body against his, to find a soft pile of hay and press her back into it and love her till she was quite breathless. He would have dearly loved to do all of that, but the number nineteen flashed in his brain, and he just couldn’t quite find a way around it.

They entered the barn, and he hung the lantern he’d been carrying high on a nail. “The mare is invaluable to me. It would break my heart to lose her.”

“Really?” she said with a laugh. “I wasn’t aware you had one.”

“I’ve got one, though admittedly, it hasn’t seen much use in a very long while.” He refrained from admitting that at times his heart behaved queerly, as if to remind him it was still there, still functioning, still a little vulnerable to the same maladies that befell lesser men. Now seemed to be one of those times.

In fact, his heart had been acting very strangely indeed since he’d first laid eyes on the sultry beauty, and he wasn’t entirely sure what to do about it.

He dropped to a crouch beside the mare, reexamining the injury. “Well? What do you think?”

She knelt next to him and gingerly ran her hands over the knee and down. “I think it is swollen and very tender, but it should be fine in a day or two. She found a tin of salve and opened it, smearing a fingerful over the scraped skin. “This has comfrey and lavender. It will soothe the tissue, draw out the soreness, and speed healing. Your heart, it seems, is in no danger, m’sieur. You’re not going to lose her.”

“Eben,” he found himself saying. “My name is Eben, and I like it much better than monsieur.”

“You and your aversion to French.”

“Ah, but I don’t dislike it at all, lass. In fact, it sounds so soft and fluid, like a lover’s lament, even when you are cursing me.” Eben was amazed that he’d said such a thing. Yet, somehow, when this slight, slip of a girl was near, his body, and worst of all, his tongue, seemed to act on their own. He was astounded and annoyed to hear himself sounding like a lovesick suitor instead of her guardian.

“A lament? What is that?” “A sad song, actually.”

“When I curse you, it makes you sad?” She laughed at that, a delightful sound. “You are very strange.”

“Oh, hell. Never mind. It was a bad comparison. Suffice to say that, no matter my preference, you should attempt to speak English. You will be better accepted where we are going if you do. There are folks there who still remember the old conflict between the colonies and France, so this is important.”

The mare nickered softly and nudged Raven’s head. Raven reached up and patted her shoulder. “There, there, ma cherie. It’s all right now.” Then, to Eben. “Back to that again. Well, if these people remember that they are very old and decrepit indeed, and they don’t frighten me.”

She stood up and went to a shelf which held various tins and bottles. She craned up on her toes, as far as she could, but the bottle she sought remained just beyond her grasp.

Eben got to his feet and went to stand behind her. His shoulder was close to the center of her back, his left hand merely an inch from the soft curves of her bottom. The haunting perfume of wild woods violets teased his senses, her gentle warmth called to every cell in his body, and for an instant he fought the ungovernable urge to take her in his arms, to kiss her, to love her. Never had he known his desire to mount so swiftly, to be so unbearable, so difficult to contain.

Never had a woman been this unreachable—his ward, his youthful, innocent, untried responsibility.

Dear Mother-loving Christ, he had given Henry his word. He had pledged to protect her, and now it seemed that he was the one she most needed protecting against.

What in hell was wrong with him?

When had he become so debauched as to think of seducing an almost-child?

Of course, Eben’s horror was totally unfounded. At nineteen, Raven was hardly a child, and though untried, and virginal, she still had the dreams and desires of a woman.

Coupled with an unbridled curiosity, it made for a very volatile combination. Aside from the wish to own a satin gown, she sometimes wondered what it would be like to lie with a man.

She’d seen a man take a woman once. A trapper had stopped by the post with his Indian wife to trade some skins for brandy. Raven, hearing strange noises coming from inside the barn had pressed her eye to a crack between the boards.

Mating between a man and a woman was not vastly different from mating that took place in nature, except that it seemed to take place face to face, so there was an opportunity for kissing, and looking deeply into one another’s eyes.

Of course, none of that had occurred between the trapper and his bride. From an educational viewpoint, what she had witnessed had been singularly disappointing. The woman had groaned a great deal, and rolled under him as if trying to escape. The man had heaved and grunted for a minute or more before pushing off of her inert form. He’d readjusted his trousers and left his lover discarded on the ground like so much refuse.

To Raven, it all seemed very fast, and rather unglamorous. She could not imagine wearing a satin gown and doing such things. Indeed, if there was no more to it than she had witnessed, she was not sure why people kept doing it. Unless, of course, those two had not been instructed in how to do it properly.

“I can’t reach it,” she said, dropping on her heels and turning around abruptly. Eben St. Claire was standing so close that the fringe that decorated his breast teased the bare,

uppermost curve of her breasts. He stared down at her with the strangest expression. “Eben, are you all right?”

“What?”

“Did I step on your foot?” she wondered aloud. “You looked pained, just now.”

“No, I’m—here, wait a moment. I’ll get it.” He reached around her, and for the barest moment, held her in the circle of his arm. His face was close to hers. It would have been easy to steal a kiss, yet Eben held back.

She took the bottle he held, smiling up at him. The expression in her huge dark eyes for once was soft and melting. Her lips parted and he could see her small pink tongue pressed against white teeth. She spoke again, but his heart thudded so heavily, he barely heard her.

“This is the wrong bottle,” she told him. “See?” She shook it, and he heard it rattle.

Eben reached up again and took down the bottle just beside it. Then, he stepped quickly back and made an excuse to go outside, where the pelting rain quickly cooled his raging ardor. “Five hundred miles,” he groaned to the night. “And it may as well be five-thousand.”

This journey was going to be pure hell.

4

WITH THE MARE’S INJURY SALVED and wrapped,

Raven returned to the cabin, and began setting things right. The plates and cutlery had been washed and dried and put neatly away on a shelf, the table wiped clean, and the wash water discarded. There was little left for her to do except to sit and read by the light of a tallow candle, a single volume of poetry, the origin of which, was now unknown. Raven sat at the table with the volume open, yet she could not seem to concentrate. She read the first line, then, read it again, and still it refused to penetrate her brain.

If her companion noticed her restlessness, he gave no outward indication. Sitting by the fire, he methodically

cleaned his rifle, running an oily rag over the stock and down the long barrel. The weapon was almost as lethal looking as its owner—and very well cared for. It hadn’t a speck of dust on it anywhere, but the brass was dull and discolored from use and the elements.

He seemed quite content to be busy and Raven thought it might be good to emulate him. She stood and paced a little, glancing at him now and then. Each retracing of her path brought her a step closer to where he sat, until she was but a pace away. “If you wish, I could show you how to polish the brass,” she finally offered. “In no time, it will shine as brightly as the sun.”

The rag stopped its ceaseless motion. He glanced up, his brow furrowed. “Do you like to eat, my dear?”

She blinked. “That’s a silly question. Of course, I like to eat. What has the one thing to do with the other?”

“Only everything,” he said, his tone implying it was the dumbest of questions. “Have you ever noticed how alert the forest creatures are to every sound and movement? Let’s say that we have been traveling and haven’t seen any game in several days. Supplies are running low, and your belly is empty. Then, I come upon a nice, fat buck. I pull up my piece.” He easily brought the rifle to bear upon the door, closed one eye and sighted along the barrel. “Draw a bead and squeeze the trigger—but the sun winks on the bright brass you have polished, and the buck runs away—and your belly stays empty.” He dropped the brass butt plate to rest on the floorboards and went back to his task with a single- mindedness she found maddening.

“There’s no need to treat me like a child,” she said, a little stung by his condescending attitude. “Besides, your deer may run away, but there are always things to eat in the forest, if you know what to look for. I can forage for my dinner, if I must.” She put her nose in the air and returned to the table and her book.

Eben just grunted, concentrating on his work, pretending not to notice her. His curt reply had served its purpose, and she

had retreated to a little distance. It was safer that way. He gave the appearance of ignoring her presence, yet the irritating truth was that he’d been unable to think of anything else since they’d returned from the barn. And he was thinking of her in ways that might not have pleased poor old Henry.

“Your weapon means a lot to you?” she finally asked from the relative safety of the table.

“Aye, that it does. It’s saved my ass a number of times, and kept me from starvation. I owe my life to this rifle and would not part with it for five times its worth.”

“Did your father give it to you?”

“No, not him. But someone I respect a great deal.” He seemed to consider that comment, then added. “Zeb took me in when my folks were murdered. He gave me a rooftree over my head, food to fill me up, and clothing to cover my nakedness. Best of all, he saw that I was educated—at least to the point I would allow it. I owe him for that.”

“You? Educated?”

Eben laughed. “Don’t sound so surprised. Just because you have a habit of making judgments on sight, does not mean your conclusions are accurate.” His lids lowered, and he softened his tone. “I suppose it has much to do with your tender age and vast lack of experience. You’ll learn fast enough that looks are often deceiving.”

“So, this Zeb awaits your return? He’s your foster father?

Your family?”

Eben frowned. “I doubt that he cares, one way or the other.

And no, he was in no way a father to me. He was my benefactor. Feelings of fondness never entered into it.”

She scoffed at that. “But why would an uncaring man gift you with so fine a weapon?”

“Because he wanted me to survive.” Eben sighed under the weight of his cares and proceeded with less enthusiasm. He really didn’t feel like relating his life history to the chit, but sensing she needed the distraction, he went on. “Zeb was a friend of my father’s. I suppose he hoped I would live to

perpetuate my line, as I’m the last of the St. Claires still living.”

“And did you? Have little ones?” And he caught a note of melancholy in her voice that mystified him.

He watched her for a moment before replying. “You’ve your old man’s curiosity, that much is certain. No, I don’t have any children, nor do I want any. Babies are responsibilities better left to other men. The only thing worse than screaming, snot-nosed children is a harping, nagging wife from which a man cannot escape. I’m my own man, and I like it that way.

My freedom is precious to me.”

“Not all women nag, nor children cry,” Raven countered. “Unlike you, I can’t imagine my world without loved ones in it.” She cast an anxious glance at the old man asleep on the cot, and Eben knew her period of distraction had ended. Poor sick devil Henry clung tenaciously to the life he had left. His chest rose slightly at intervals, then, fell again. Each breath with a further prolonged space between. Soon, it might cease altogether, and then what?

“You won’t be alone when it happens, Raven. You’ll have me until we reach Pittsburgh, and then, we will find you a suitable husband. Someone to look after you, and provide for you. Maybe, if you are lucky he will give you those snot-nosed babes you were mooning over a minute ago.”

Raven bristled. If he had meant to soften the blow of losing her father, he’d done so ham-handedly, and she wondered how he’d managed to get by thus far without having his ass handed to him for making some fool comment to the wrong individual. “I was not mooning over anything!” she assured him. “And the thought of having you all to myself isn’t at all comforting.”

She retreated into herself, turning the pages of the book until she found a likely passage that had better hopes of distracting her. It didn’t work, and she kept coming back to this husband he kept prattling about. “You are very anxious to be on your way, and rid of me, and I am just as anxious to see the last of you. Perhaps there is a way that we can both have

what we want without having to suffer the other’s unwanted company for days and days. Give me half the gold Papa gave you, and at the appropriate hour, I will go my own way and settle where I please. You can continue where you are going, and be five-hundred dollars richer than you are now, without a ward with which to concern yourself. It is fair, I think.”

“And abandon you to your ineptitude?” The wretch actually guffawed at that. “Ha! Not a chance. I gave my word to that man over there that I would hand you into another’s keeping, and I intend to follow through on that promise, no matter how it pains me.”