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Authors: Parris Afton Bonds
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prow of the birch bark canoe.
Mad Dog grunted. "They have been returned to their rightful owners."
"Yew had no right—”
“You truly art a scurvy wench."
“Yew are a lump of foul deformity."
"Thou art married to me now."
"A calamity it is!" She squinted suspiciously at him. "Wot be yewr real name?"
"You may call me master."
"I call no one me master."
"Egad. What happened to the willing hands and faithful heart you pledged unto me?"
"Yew got yewr fifty acres headright."
A wry smile curved his lips. "And I am out of pocket for your transportation costs. For which you shall serve me faithfully and willingly, I promise thee, wench."
“Me name’s Modesty. How did yew know that Radcliff had lain with Palantochas?”
“I didn't."
"But I heard her tell the burgesses—”
"How thy tongue doth wag."
She waved away a haze of gnats and said indifferently, "Yew are an unkempt churl.”
"You were the one who bargained for marriage."
For the first time since they had set out in the canoe from Jamestown, he looked at her. Before, he had kept a hawklike gaze swinging in a steady arc from one side of the bank and its dark, impenetrable forest to the other. "Why me? Why didst thou bargain marriage with me, wench?”
“Modesty. Who else would be mad enough to marry me than a man called Mad Dog?”
Indeed, she thought ruefully, who would be mad enough to marry a woman accused of witchcraft, a fugitive felon? "Besides, Jack— yewr bondservant—told me how yewr fine words saved him from being broken on the wheel."
"You have heard of the saw 'jumping from the frying pan into the fire’?”
She figured she may have well done just that. The man’s feral gaze seemed to pierce into the secret recesses of her mind. "For the cost of me transportation, yew could have almost bought a headright of fifty acres or bought an indentured servant—or yew could have taken yewrself a wife of yewr own choosing. Why me?"
"Do not flatter thyself.” His searching glance swung to the somber glades of forest and back to settle on her. "In the bargain I sought satisfaction, small though it was, of an old score."
She was already humiliated, and his words wounded her. "Yew took me because no other woman would have yew. Look at yewrself."
The wintery gleam in his gray eyes halted any further words she had been about to utter. Still, with an inward shudder, she inventoried her new husband.
Like the Indians, he wore moccasins that folded up below his knees. This time, however, deer hide trousers encased his thighs. The trouser leggings were tucked into the moccasins, and a leather jerkin was belted at the waist.
His thick dark brown hair, streaked by tropical sunlight and the seasoning of years, flowed like a lion’s mane to fall heavy upon his shoulders. His skin was the color of burnt crumpets, his broad mouth as unpredictable as a river. At one moment she thought it scorned her, at another it took her by surprise with its deep, wry twist of a smile.
Indeed, there were many twists and unexpected bends to the man. Grudging admiration crept into her voice. "Yew played those web-toed burgesses like a fiddle. Plucking a string here and there, then yew leaned back, watching them."
His smile was just a quiver away from being a grimace. "Aye. I am a turkey buzzard. An avaricious creature, by my troth. I wait until a prey is helpless, then I strike. Dost not put thy trust in me. I use people, as thou dost, wench."
“Modesty." She should have been affronted by his poor opinion of her, but she was more intrigued by the incongruity of his character. A London barrister living like an animal at the edge of the world. A wild animal with the voice of a god.
He had a tall and powerful frame that held a leashed strength. His shoulders were strong and broad, and his arm muscles flexed from the unceasing thrust of paddle against water.
Her view, looking upriver from the canoe, was like gazing on an eternity of rushing water. The more she gazed,
Mad Dog grunted. "They have been returned to their rightful owners."
"Yew had no right—”
“You truly art a scurvy wench."
“Yew are a lump of foul deformity."
"Thou art married to me now."
"A calamity it is!" She squinted suspiciously at him. "Wot be yewr real name?"
"You may call me master."
"I call no one me master."
"Egad. What happened to the willing hands and faithful heart you pledged unto me?"
"Yew got yewr fifty acres headright."
A wry smile curved his lips. "And I am out of pocket for your transportation costs. For which you shall serve me faithfully and willingly, I promise thee, wench."
“Me name’s Modesty. How did yew know that Radcliff had lain with Palantochas?”
“I didn't."
"But I heard her tell the burgesses—”
"How thy tongue doth wag."
She waved away a haze of gnats and said indifferently, "Yew are an unkempt churl.”
"You were the one who bargained for marriage."
For the first time since they had set out in the canoe from Jamestown, he looked at her. Before, he had kept a hawklike gaze swinging in a steady arc from one side of the bank and its dark, impenetrable forest to the other. "Why me? Why didst thou bargain marriage with me, wench?”
“Modesty. Who else would be mad enough to marry me than a man called Mad Dog?”
Indeed, she thought ruefully, who would be mad enough to marry a woman accused of witchcraft, a fugitive felon? "Besides, Jack— yewr bondservant—told me how yewr fine words saved him from being broken on the wheel."
"You have heard of the saw 'jumping from the frying pan into the fire’?”
She figured she may have well done just that. The man’s feral gaze seemed to pierce into the secret recesses of her mind. "For the cost of me transportation, yew could have almost bought a headright of fifty acres or bought an indentured servant—or yew could have taken yewrself a wife of yewr own choosing. Why me?"
"Do not flatter thyself.” His searching glance swung to the somber glades of forest and back to settle on her. "In the bargain I sought satisfaction, small though it was, of an old score."
She was already humiliated, and his words wounded her. "Yew took me because no other woman would have yew. Look at yewrself."
The wintery gleam in his gray eyes halted any further words she had been about to utter. Still, with an inward shudder, she inventoried her new husband.
Like the Indians, he wore moccasins that folded up below his knees. This time, however, deer hide trousers encased his thighs. The trouser leggings were tucked into the moccasins, and a leather jerkin was belted at the waist.
His thick dark brown hair, streaked by tropical sunlight and the seasoning of years, flowed like a lion’s mane to fall heavy upon his shoulders. His skin was the color of burnt crumpets, his broad mouth as unpredictable as a river. At one moment she thought it scorned her, at another it took her by surprise with its deep, wry twist of a smile.
Indeed, there were many twists and unexpected bends to the man. Grudging admiration crept into her voice. "Yew played those web-toed burgesses like a fiddle. Plucking a string here and there, then yew leaned back, watching them."
His smile was just a quiver away from being a grimace. "Aye. I am a turkey buzzard. An avaricious creature, by my troth. I wait until a prey is helpless, then I strike. Dost not put thy trust in me. I use people, as thou dost, wench."
“Modesty." She should have been affronted by his poor opinion of her, but she was more intrigued by the incongruity of his character. A London barrister living like an animal at the edge of the world. A wild animal with the voice of a god.
He had a tall and powerful frame that held a leashed strength. His shoulders were strong and broad, and his arm muscles flexed from the unceasing thrust of paddle against water.
Her view, looking upriver from the canoe, was like gazing on an eternity of rushing water. The more she gazed,
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