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possible befall him?

8

BREAKFAST THAT MORNING WAS A hurried affair and consumed in silence. Raven ate her portion and was satisfied to keep the space of the small clearing between them. She tried to ignore Eben’s presence, but it was difficult with him watching her so closely, and though she wondered what he was thinking, she knew she dared not ask. And so, she finished eating and rose to tend her immediate needs.

When she returned, he was saddling the mare. “Do you think it wise to ride like that?” Raven asked, indicating the bloodstained wrap. “Perhaps you should rest.”

“Rest?” He stepped close before she realized his intention and traced a finger down the long column of her throat. “But I’m not tired, Raven. So, unless you’ve some suggestion as to how to occupy this proposed leisure time that will make it worth my while, I suggest we be on our way.”

Raven flinched away from him. “I thought not,” he said.

The sun was going down when he finally drew rein and made camp for the night. There was enough venison left over to last for several meals, and with the tension between them leveling off, Raven began building the evening’s fire.

Eben sat a few feet away, rooting through his small store of possessions. His lean face looked tense, but once he found what he was looking for, he seemed to relax. It was a silver flask, and he saluted her with a flourish of his good hand. “Mademoiselle of the sore backside,” he said mockingly, “a tribute to the softness of your ass! Tipping the flask, he drank deeply. Beyond the fire Raven sniffed her disdain. “The liquor would serve you better to cleanse that cut than to warm your gullet.” It was good advice, but she knew that he would ignore it.

“Your concern fairly warms my heart,” he said. “Where was your worry for my welfare when you tried to cut my arm off?”

“I did not—” Raven began, then gave it up as futile. “You are being quite ridiculous, and if you lose your arm, it will be due to your foolish insistence on not taking the time to cleanse it properly. Not because of anything I have done!”

She’d had her say, but it didn’t make her feel any better, or ease her growing concern for him. Even from a distance she could see that it was oozing and red—not a good sign. Not a good sign, at all.

She turned away, and he nursed his flask, and soon a stilted silence settled between them, broken only by the sizzle of the meat juices dripping into the flames. When the dripping slowed, Raven took her share. The meat inside was pink and tender. She ate with relish, but noticed however, that her companion abstained. “You are not eating,” she said.

“This evening I prefer to drink.”

“You are hurting no one but yourself. Meat will give you strength—”

“Raven, are you never quiet?” Eben questioned wearily. He felt like shit, and she wasn’t helping. His arm throbbed, from shoulder to fingertips, and alternately felt blazing hot and icy cold. She was probably right. His stubbornness would kill him. She’d given him an impromptu icy bath, and he’d lost his temper. If he hadn’t applied the palm of his hand to her sweet little backside, this never would have happened. He wouldn’t be wracked with chills one moment and fever the next, and he wouldn’t be worried about what might happen to her if he were not here to protect her.

She was young and inexperienced, and he’d been very hard on her. If he lived through the illness and got to keep both arms, he would make an effort to be more a little more understanding, though in his deepening befuddlement, he wasn’t exactly certain how to accomplish such a feat. “I’m sorry, lass,” he heard himself saying. “I should not have turned you over my knee. You’re not a child. I suppose I understand that, now.”

“If I forgive you, will you allow me to look after your arm?”

Eben laughed at that. She would not give in, he was beginning to understand that as well. And damned if he didn’t respect it—even if it made her hell to deal with. “Aye. You can look after it. It’s smarting something dreadful.”

Eben leaned back against a tree and watched her, his eyes reflecting the firelight, but revealing none of the conflicting emotions she caused within him. Sleeping or waking, she was with him. Tantalizing visions of her looking like some water sprite, floated in his brain. He could see her rising naked from the river as she had that very morning. The gay, tinkling sound of her laughter as she ran from him echoed crazily in his mind. Her softness, her beauty, even the swiftness of her anger tempted him almost beyond bearing.

She sat beside him and unwrapped the cloth with which he’d wrapped his arm, wrinkling her pretty nose at the sight of it. Eben glanced down at the gash, and then away. It still lay wide open, though the wound itself had clotted over and was black with blood. She brought some water, and cleaned the dried blood off his uninjured skin, but when she started to wash the gash itself it began to bleed heavily again. “Might be best to leave it alone for a day. I’m already feelin’ a mite puckish. Don’t want to weaken myself too much.”

“Tough as whalebone,” Raven said, repeating something he’d said days ago. It covered her uneasiness of the moment, until she could wrap the arm again and contemplate what action to take.

“Aye,” Eben said, his eyes going to feverish slits. “Most of the time, I am that. But I am still mortal, and unfortunately, I can bleed, just like other men.”

And he could die, Raven thought, a chill rippling over her.

Prudently, she kept that unwelcome thought to herself.

THE SECOND DAY OF TRAVEL was much like the first. With a hard hand Eben shook Raven awake at first light, and after a hurried breakfast they set off again.

For an hour or two, Raven held herself erect before him on the saddle, trying to keep from touching him. But as the morning advanced and the day turned steamy the effort proved

too much. She was forced to wage a constant battle with the buzzing horde of deer flies that swarmed around the horse. Wherever one chanced to bite, a red welt was raised, and after an hour of swatting at the elusive pests, Raven began to envy her guardian the sturdy protection of his leather garb. For what seemed the thousandth time that day, she slapped and cursed at the persistent pests, and finally it yielded results and her guardian stopped the mare.

“Get down,” Eben ordered. His head was aching and his voice sounded slightly slurred.

Raven gaped at him in horror. “You wouldn’t leave me here? I’ll be eaten alive!”

“That’s what I’m trying to prevent,” he said, “Take the leather satchel from behind the saddle. You’ll find a pair of leggings and a shirt in there that you can wear. They’ve never been worn and the leather might chafe, but it will be a damn sight better than this flimsy thing you’re wearing now.”

Raven felt a surge of relief that threatened to overwhelm her. Impulsively, she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him before sliding to the ground. She completed a hurried search for the garments, then tossing her delighted thanks back over her shoulder, ran into the woods.

“And throw that pitiful rag of yours in the bushes!” Eben called out after her.

For once Raven heeded his orders, and was soon divested of her tattered dress. Smiling, she tossed the worn gown into the brush and donned the leggings. Their previous owner, Eben, was long and lean and so the lower garment fit her closely. She was glad that he was tall, because they left her buttocks bare, as well as her pelvic area. No loincloth had been provided, but Raven had no need for one. Eben’s hunting shirt was long and hung nearly to her knees, providing her with more than modest coverage. Indeed, she had to fold the sleeves back twice, and the leggings as well. She looked down at herself and laughed. This rough frontier garb was a far cry from a satin gown, but she was glad to have it.

Emerging from the woods, Raven went directly to where Eben waited. In giving her his clothing he had done her a service, and so for now she would try not to vex him. She found him oddly hunched in the saddle, and when he looked at her his eyes were glassy. “You’re feverish,” she said. “You should have let me tend your arm yesterday, you know.”

“I know,” he said. “But yesterday I didn’t trust you.” “And what about today?”

He sighed. “Today I may not have a choice.”

“We could camp here,” Raven suggested. But she saw him shake his head. When he spoke it was with effort, and she noticed how his breathing seemed slow and labored.

“As long as I can sit a horse, we’ll go a little farther.” He offered her his left arm to help her mount but she declined, taking Cadence’s bridle instead and guided her to a nearby stump which she used as a mounting block. She settled herself before him and he clucked to the mare, who ambled slowly off.

Eben leaned heavily against her. Raven felt his breath stir in the soft tendrils at her cheek. His chest was pressed against her back and his thighs molded tightly to hers, their fevered length searing her skin through her leather clothes. His uninjured arm rode at her hip and draped over her leg to rest on the pommel. The familiarity made her cheeks grow red, but in light of his illness, she could not find it within her to rebuke him.

IT WAS NEARING TWILIGHT WHEN they finally made camp for the night. Raven was the first to dismount, deftly bringing her right leg over the pommel, then sliding to the ground. Eben’s descent was slower and far less graceful. He seemed to have lost all coordination and had great difficulty extracting his left boot from the stirrup. He cursed softly in his effort to free it and bumped against Cadence, who nervously shied away. He might have been dragged to the ground or trampled had Raven not intervened.

With a hand on the bridle she held the mare steady and helped to free his boot, for which she received an evasive

shrug. “I’m tired, is all,” he insisted.

“Indeed,” Raven said, tying Cadence’s reins to a low- hanging branch. “You are also more than a little sick.”

Eben found a tree against which he might lean, and sat down. His skin felt hot and dry as parchment, and his vision was blurred. A nap would help refresh him, he thought, and replenish the strength he seemed to have lost. But first he had to reassure himself that the girl would not run off the moment he closed his eyes.

With burning gaze, he watched her move about the camp, preparing a fire for their usual nightly fare of venison steak. The fringed leather clothing fit her sweet curves like a second skin, and gazing at her he felt his body react. The firelight gilded her skin and coaxed the blue highlights from her shimmering tresses. It seemed to accentuate her soft feminine charms, while concealing her bent to violence, much like a velvet cat’s paw, which sheathed the feline’s razor-sharp claws. He saw her look his way, a troubled glance that was far removed from the hate-filled looks she usually reserved for him. As if on cue, he spoke.

“Raven, lass, will you leave that alone for a moment and come over here?”

Raven positioned the improvised spits fashioned from supple birch rods over the fire before fulfilling his request. “What is it you want of me?’ she asked looking down at him from where she stood.

“Sit here by me. There is something we must discuss, and much I need to say, and I want you to listen carefully.” He patted the ground beside him with his left hand. The right, Raven saw, was positioned across his midriff, the bandage stained with dried blood.

“You make it sound very serious,” she said, taking a seat a few feet away instead of the one he offered. It was bad enough to be pressed so intimately against his work-hardened length throughout the day’s ride, and she had no intention of sidling up to him now.

He glanced ruefully at the bandaged arm. “I’m afraid it may well be,” he admitted. “Did Henry ever teach you to use a rifle?”

“He did,” she admitted. “And I can bark a squirrel as well as any man—even you.”

Eben caught the impish gleam in her dark eyes and knew that she was teasing. “Be a good lass and fetch the rifle and shot, will you?” In a moment she had lain the things before him. “The piece is loaded, so take care how you handle it,” he said.

“The knife was sharp as well, but I was not the one who got cut.”

“Your tongue, mademoiselle, cuts and slashes more deeply than the keenest rapier,” he said with a grin. “Pick a target and aim. I need to see your reloading procedure.” He watched as she picked up the rifle and sighted it at a tree where a fat gray squirrel scampered. The weight of the piece made her hand unsteady. “You need a rest unless you’ve a mind to waste a shot. Use this tree and make the first shot count. Remember, you may not get another.”

Without replying Raven rose and leaned against the same tree her companion used as a backrest. The squirrel scurried back across the limb toward his hole, anxious to be away from the intruders. Raven took a deep breath and held it to steady her aim, then slowly squeezed the trigger. The gun went off with a roar and a small sulfurous cloud rose from the frizzen pan. At the same instant, bark flew from the limb and the squirrel tumbled to the ground and lay still. She looked at Eben with all the hauteur she could muster. “Are you satisfied?”

He pinned her with his feverish gaze. “You’ve shown me that you can hit a squirrel. Do you have it in you to kill a man?”

Raven turned pale. “You are jesting. Your injury is not that bad.”

Eben snorted. “No, not me. If someone threatens you, can you bring yourself to kill him?”

“Yes,” she said, “if it is necessary, but it surely won’t come to that. You are strong—”

“I’m none so strong today, I’m afraid,” Eben said slowly. “Perhaps… tomorrow I’ll feel better, but if I don’t… .”

If he didn’t… .

The uncompleted statement sent a shock of fear running through her. No matter how he sometimes vexed her, she was loathe to lose him—to be left utterly alone in the wilderness. Like it or not, she had become dependent on him. “Let me see to your arm,” she said. “I can gather some plants and make a poultice.”

He held up his good hand to stay her. “Another minute or two will make no difference, Raven. The arm bothers me, it’s true, but not half so much as my worries concerning you.”

“You have seen that I can protect myself,” Raven said. “You needn’t worry about me. Now, seek your rest while I get the herbs. The wound in your arm has waited long enough, and there is the squirrel to clean.”

“Bother the damned squirrel,” he said. “I need you to promise me something. Stay as long as it’s prudent—but if you see I am not going to recover, then you take Cadence, and the rifle, and leave. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“And leave you to die?” Raven was appalled by his suggestion. “It will not come to that!”

“But if it does—”

“Save your breath, m’sieur. I will not leave you when you are helpless. I am not without scruples.”

“You tried to kill me, twice, but balk at the notion of leaving a dying man alone? Woman, you befuddle me.” He grumbled to himself for a moment, his voice so low Raven couldn’t understand what he said. Finally, he drew a halting breath. “Promise me,” he said through clenched teeth.

“I will promise, if you let me see to the wound.”

“After we talk, lass. Swear it on Henry’s grave.”

“Mon Dieu, you are such a trial! All right, all right! I swear it on my papa’s grave.”

He relaxed after that, and she could see he was very tired. He spoke in a low-voiced monotone, and the lines around his eyes seemed more deeply etched into his tanned skin. “I’ve been seeing sign for a few days now—unshod ponies, crossing the trail we’ve been following, and I’m afraid we may be getting uninvited guests. You need to be prepared, Raven.

Keep the rifle loaded and within easy reach. In fact, you would be wise to sleep with it.”

“Don’t you think that’s rather extreme?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t suggest it. You’ll need the rifle, Raven.

It remains your best defense against all threats. The only protection I can provide you with is a nominal one. What you said the other day about the woods being full of wolves is more true than you know. There are many who would take advantage of a woman alone, and someone as sweet and lovely as you, does not stand a chance without something or someone to balance the scales in your favor.”

He reached out now, and grasped her wrist with his uninjured hand, an attempt to get and keep her attention. It worked.

His hand wasn’t just warm, it was hot.

This new revelation alarmed Raven more than anything he’d said. “Eben, you must let me see to that wound. You’re already fevered. This discussion can wait.”

“I haven’t finished. There’s something else. Try to rouse me if someone comes, red man or white, but if you can’t, then tell them you’re my wife. My reputation is widespread, and it may afford you a measure of protection, as long as I’m alive. If the worst happens, you must be strong and vigilant, and trust no one. Do you understand?”

“I understand that you are mad,” Raven said, as much to hide her concern as anything. “No one with any sense would believe that I would marry you.”

“Just do it, and do not argue. I’m trying to help you.” He suppressed a groan and a violent shudder ran through his muscular frame. “Now, reload the piece. I need to see for myself that you can do it.”

Raven reloaded his rifle and propped it against a tree at her back. It seemed to satisfy him, and he raised no further objections to her looking at his arm. She carefully unwrapped the makeshift bandage and found his arm was swollen to almost twice its normal size, the gash an angry red. “Eben, keep the insects away until I get back. I need some fresh water and whatever herbs I can find.”

“Do not go far,” he warned.

“It will only take a moment.” She took the soiled rag to the stream by which they’d camped and rinsed the cloth and wrung it almost dry. Then, she searched the banks of the rill for the plants she needed. Wild comfrey grew in abundance near the water’s edge, its long, spear-shaped leaves reaching toward the setting sun. Raven grabbed a handful and took them back to where Eben sat, shivering violently. “This is comfrey. It’s very useful for situations like this. I’ll mash it up to bring out the juices and use it like a poultice. My mother always said it could grow a new tail on a cat.”

Eben’s fevered gaze roamed over her and a pained smile creased his mouth. “My little cat, I find I like the tail you have.”

“A little too much, as I recall. Which is what got you into this predicament in the first place.” And yet, his comment warmed her. “What did you do with the whiskey?”

“It’s in the saddlebags.”

She retrieved the alcohol and cleaned the gash and the area around it. The cut itself was heavily scabbed, and would leave an ugly scar, a grim reminder of their time together. She used the blade of his knife to mash the large leaves against a smooth stone, then adding some water to moisten it even further, she plastered it on the wound and wrapped the bandage around it, tying it loosely. “How are you feeling?”

“Warm, then deuced cold, and warm again. Though watching you seems to have lent me as much heat as this blasted fever. Come over here and sit beside me.” He shifted positions and winced.

“Your head aches, too?”

“Aye, lass, and other places ache as well.”

Raven caught his meaning, and smiled to herself. Did his lusting never stop? She roasted the squirrel and took him a portion, but he refused to eat. “Remember what I said, sweetheart, and keep the rifle handy.”

“Try to sleep,” Raven said. “I will keep watch.” She saw him nod, and his eyes closed. In sleep, his face lost some of its wariness, and he seemed almost boyish, a world away from the determined man she knew. She could look at him now— since he did not see—and she did so at her leisure. He was quite handsome, in a hard-bitten sort of way. Fair of hair and with that frosty glance. A look from him would make the ladies swoon, though thinking back on their clashes Raven wondered if he acted so boorishly with every woman he met? If he did, then it was no mystery why he remained unmarried. What woman in her right mind would put up with a man like him?

Yet, he was strong, and vigilant, and sometimes even charming, in a somewhat ribald fashion. And though he was feeling ill, his very last impulse had been to protect her.

He’d offered her the shelter of his name, which even in pretense, made Raven uncomfortable. She suddenly wished they could go back in time to yesterday, before he had spanked her, before she had retaliated by taking his knife. Before then, he had been someone to tolerate, a trial to be borne, a hardship to endure. Now, he had suddenly become someone to worry about, and as she took note of the ashen cast of his normally weathered skin, that worry deepened. It was all this talk about dying and about unscrupulous men lurking in the woods that triggered this vast discomfort, she told herself steadfastly. It had nothing at all to do with her feelings for Eben, whatever they happened to be.

Close to the fire, the young frontiersman stirred. He rolled onto his side and shivered, complaining, “Ivory, lass, I’m cold. Come back to bed and warm me.”

Raven’s eyes widened. “Well, it appears I was mistaken.

There’s at least one woman who finds him appealing, despite his sometimes overbearing tendencies.” She wondered who this Ivory was, and what she meant to Eben? Could she have been the woman he’d spoken of as having been unfaithful? It roused Raven’s curiosity.

As she lay down to sleep, she tried to picture this mystery woman. In her mind’s eye, she pictured some pale and wistful creature, a woman too weak to defy his bullheadedness. When at last she slept, her dreams were filled with images of Eben, but disturbingly, the woman in his arms looked a lot like her.