Still, he didn’t move. His face revealed nothing. Did he doubt her feelings for him? Her face grew hot, and she was glad of the gathering darkness. She sat down atop the closed trunk, her hands turned up entreatingly.
“’Tis you, Ian . . . and only you whom I love . . . and no other.” When the heartfelt words left her lips, she realized what she’d done. Not once had he ever said he loved her. Her voice fell to a whisper. “I’ve never before spoken such things.” Not to Simon. Nor Captain Jack. “But I mean them—every word—and I will not take them back.”
Before she’d even finished, he was pulling her into his hard embrace. The sudden movement snuffed out the candle, but the darkness couldn’t hide the sheen in his eyes, or her own. For long minutes she stood locked in his arms, unable to speak, her heart hammering wildly.
“Lael, I want you tae be sure of me. I dinna want you tae ever think I took you away from this place, or these people, or coerced you tae marry me—”
She shook her head, stilling his words with her fingers. “Nay— don’t.”
He framed her face with his callused hands, concern shadowing his features. But she only pressed his fingers more firmly in place, her voice almost pleading, “Oh Ian—please—just love me.”
He began kissing her just like she remembered, his mouth soft yet insistent against her own. He smelled of fresh linen and tasted like raw honey. Wild. Pungent. Tantalizing.
When they drew apart, he took her hand and moved to the open door, snatching up her shawl as they exited. At the river’s edge beneath a full moon, the water was black and silver. He tied her shawl in place, then picked her up and waded into the water. The boat rocked and settled as she sat. Across from her, he took up the oars.
She was glad for the chance to catch her breath. She still felt the tick of her pulse in her wrist and was glad to be shed of the closed cabin. Out here she was free to breathe, to think. Surely he felt the same.
He moved into the gentle current, the oars splashing water. “I wanted tae talk tae you aboot that piece of land atop the knob by Will and Susanna’s.”
Her heart fairly stopped at the question. “Pa used to say there’ll never be any more land made so buy a piece and hold on to it,” she replied evenly. “It’s a pretty piece, if ever there was one.”
He let the oars rest. “I want tae buy it, Lael, and give it tae you as a wedding gift.”
Her mouth formed a perfect O in surprise.
He smiled. “But you’ll have tae marry me first.”
Leaning forward a bit, her voice came out a whisper. “Are you asking me, then?”
His eyes were as earnest as she’d ever seen them. “Och, that I am, but if I get on bended knee I’ll turn the boat over.”
She grew hushed. There was teasing in his tone, but it in no way brooked the seriousness of the moment. He got on one knee anyway, his arms encircling her waist and pulling her against him. Before he even touched her she felt woozy at his very nearness. His hands were in her hair pulling it free of its pins. She could hear them fall like pebbles to the boat’s bottom. He kissed her again, and she almost melted into him.
“Lael, I’ve loved you and wanted tae marry you almost since I first saw you.”
“Almost?” she whispered.
“Since our picnic on the porch.”
“Truly?” Even though she’d sassed him and he’d stared at her in a most ungentlemanly fashion? She grew quiet, her mouth near the curve of his ear. “There’s something I need to know—why you came back to my cabin the night of the barn raising.”
He smiled and wrapped a strand of her hair around his finger. “You were so wranglesome when we parted, I had tae come back. I returned with a ring in my pocket tae ask you tae be my bride.”
She well remembered how he’d taken her hands and turned them over, caressing them by the hearth. Had he meant to slip a ring on her finger then? She said softly, “Why didn’t you ask?”
“I didna have tae. Your answer was already in your eyes, telling me you’d gladly give your heart and soul and body as my bride—”
“Oh Ian, I—” she began, the memory still shameful. “I behaved badly but I—I’ve never before been with a m—”
He placed his fingers lightly on her lips, stilling speech. “I ken, Lael. I’ve only tae look at you. I was wrong tae return to your cabin. ’Twas a lover’s moon that led me. We needed the Almighty’s blessing on our union, and that we did no’ have.”
“Marriage, you mean.”
“Aye.” Relaxing his arms from around her, he withdrew something from his coat pocket. So fine a ring she’d never seen. Small and elegant, the Scottish gold gleamed in the dark, the engraving of a swan reflecting the light of the full moon.
He took her hand again, whispering words both foreign and familiar. “With this ring I thee wed . . . with my body I thee worship . . . with all my worldly goods I thee endow. Soon, Lael, soon.”
What might have been a perfect fit was not perfect any longer. The ring was loose upon her finger. Indeed, all her lissome curves were gone, taken by the pox. She felt as though a puff of wind would scatter her like so many dandelion seeds.
As if reading her thoughts he said, “You are still a very loosome lass, Lael Click.”
“Loosome?”
“Lovely. But you need tae regain your strength. I canna wed and bed so wee a fairy.”
She flushed crimson, his roguish tone reminding her of unknown intimacies to come.
Taking her left hand, he kissed her palm and then her ring finger. “So you promise tae make me a fine wife?”
“With God’s help, I will, though we’ll be hard pressed to find a preacher to marry us.”
“Colonel Barr will suffice for now as justice of the peace. Later, we can be married in Scotlain by a true preacher.”
They’d drifted far downriver to a small cove overhung with rambling vines and branches. His voice was low against her loosened hair. “So we’ll row back and be married. Tonight.”
“Tonight? Nay. Day after tomorrow,” she decided, thinking of all she must do.
“Then the day after that we leave for Scotlain.”
In confirmation, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.
He groaned. “’Twill be a very long two days, tae be sure.”
Laughing, she kissed him again.
Epilogue
Lael held the piece of paper in her hands, studying the deed to the knob, granted by the newly formed Kentucke Land Company. Ian had given it to her the day before, the promised wedding present, and it was then she’d seen his signature for the very first time, her eyes lingering on the heavy elegant hand.
Ian Alexander Justus, Fifth Earl Roslyn.
She’d never really thought of his title. What then would that make her?
Just yesterday he’d taken her by the shoulders, his eyes a dazzling azure blue. “Are you timorsome aboot anything, Lael? Anything at all?”
She was, but only in regards to his happiness, not her own. “I’m just plain and simple, Ian. But you . . . you’re fancy in a way I’ll never be. You’re a nobleman, Ian. A Scottish earl.”
“Nae, Lael. I’m just a mon, a simple Scot, graced with a title. It means but little, truly.”
Taking out Neddy’s Bible, she wrote inside its cover, Today, 29 March 1784, is the day I am to wed. At three o’clock she was to be a bride. She placed the deed to the knob within its pages and packed it in her trunk. Whatever she might forget to take to Scotland, it must not be her Bible.
Her eyes made a clean sweep of the tidy cabin, almost ready for her leaving. Ma’s Sunday-best quilt lay across the bed. On a whim she’d scattered dried rose petals upon the faded, clean coverlet. Their sweetness was faint but still telling. A bridal bed, truly, if only for one night. After that their courtship could continue on the trail to Virginia, beneath the same blanket and a million stars.
Oh Pa, I wish you were here today to see me wed. I think you’d be proud.
She’
d wanted a quiet wedding with little fuss. The settlement was still too sore for any festivities, their grief compounded by two dozen lonesome graves. Before they departed, they would announce what they’d done in the stillness of this spring afternoon with no witnesses save Colonel Barr.
She hardly knew who stared back at her in the looking glass. Pink and white dogwood blossoms held in place a whisper-thin veil of lace. Around her neck was the strand of pink pearls. She felt weighted down in the heavy silk of her dress despite its beauty.
She passed onto the porch and stood, the lushness of spring snatching speech, and tried to impress all of the wilderness sights and sounds upon her heart. Everything was just as it had been all those years before when the Shawnee came. The dogwood was blooming in the side yard and the porch still sagged, weighted down by time and roses.
A sudden movement—a bird?—caught her eye. The wind shifted the shadows in the clearing, but she saw past them nevertheless. There, against the lush woods, stood a man. A flicker of familiarity coursed through her. For just a moment she fell back in time. It seemed she was a girl again, standing on the porch, her hair falling to her feet. Could it be?
Bewildered, she stepped into the sunlight, her silk skirts rustling. She was afraid . . . afraid if she didn’t run to him he’d disappear. Across the clearing she could hear a horse and rider coming—and Ian calling her name. Torn, she paused and looked over her shoulder, then back to the woods.
Behind her, Ian had dismounted in the clearing and stood watching.
She made it to the dogwood tree, her breath coming in short bursts. Aye, she had seen more than a shadow . . . sensed she wasn’t alone. Her heart hurt. But there was nothing there, after all. The wind in the trees—the shifting shadows—were merely playing a wild game.
She turned around slowly, keeping her eyes fixed on the Scotsman before her. Arms open wide, she began to run toward him, away from the dark woods. There was no need to look back now . . . perhaps never again. For as long as she lived, Lord willing, she could look forward. The past no longer had a hold on her.
No more secrets.
No more shadows.
Acknowledgments
I am deeply grateful to the people God has placed in my path. To my very gracious editor, Andrea Doering, for opening the door. To the editorial staff and the entire team at Revell. What a joy!
I am blessed with a wonderful brother, Chris Irwin, who gave me all manner of support—technical and otherwise—and parents who prayed for me.
To my dear friends and mentors Grace Huckleberry, Cindy Reynolds, and Kathy Vogel. Only heaven knows what your prayers and godly examples have meant to me.
To Darlene Putnam, my first reader and fellow artist. Bless you.
To Nicia, my sister-in-love and second reader. Your encouragement kept me going.
To my husband, Randy, and my sons Wyatt and Paul, for riding the writing roller coaster with me. You give me daily inspiration.
To the Kentucky Historical Society and Fort Boonesborough, for untold treasures.
My story is about history, which I love, but more importantly, my story is “His story.” It began many years ago when God planted a dream to write books in the heart of a little Kentucky girl, and when she’d grown up and almost given up, He began fulfilling that dream. He really is the Father who never fails. “The Lord will accomplish what concerns me; Your lovingkindness, O Lord, is everlasting; do not forsake the works of Your hands” (Ps. 138:8).
Laura Frantz credits her one-hundred-year-old grandmother, who passed away during the publication of this book, as being the catalyst for her fascination with Kentucky history. Frantz’s ancestors followed Daniel Boone into Kentucky in 1792 and settled in Madison County, where her family still resides. Frantz is a former schoolteacher and social worker who currently lives in the misty woods of Port Angeles, Washington, with her husband and two sons, whom she homeschools. Contact her at www.laurafrantz.blogspot.com or LauraFrantz.net.
When tragedy strikes, how will
Molly McGarvie survive?
Experience the wonder and hardship of life on the prairie with Molly McGarvie as she fights to survive loss and keep her young family together.
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Laura Frantz, The Frontiersman’s Daughter
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