Cameron Unbound, page 7
They lay spent in each other’s arms. “I should not have done that,” he murmured.
“I did not give you a choice.”
I am in awe of your faith in me.
It helps that I can read your intentions. You are the most honorable man I have ever known, and I have dipped into the minds of many.
He laughed. “Many? You live in a small village with a limited supply of males.”
She punched her fist lightly against his shoulder. “Do not make light of my experience. It is multiplied by my talent.”
His tone turned serious. “I never make light of you.”
She relaxed against him again but caught intention in his mind. We must find a priest quickly.
But not in Ten Oaks, she said again. The priest here has the same opinion of me as the other people do. I would like to be married by someone who has not built up prejudice against me.
“I understand. And we will leave soon. But I want to make a trip to the market first -- to see if you can block out most of the noise around you, and to see if I can find some men who might help me with the wild horses when I return.”
“Aye.”
“Stoke up the fire, and I will fetch water from the stream.”
He spoke casually but mention of the stream sent a small shiver down her spine. She had spotted someone spying on them -- more than once. Was the watcher still out there?
Cameron left, toting two buckets -- for more water than she would ever have attempted to carry herself.
When he was gone, she moved restlessly around the cottage, tending the fire and folding the blankets, which she left on the bed. The work finished, she paced back and forth, waiting for Cameron to return and report.
Chapter Seven
Cameron was back quickly, easily carrying the two full buckets.
When he had set them down by the fire to warm, Bronwin cleared her throat. Her heart was pounding, but she strove to speak casually. “Did you see anyone lurking around out there?”
“Aye.”
“I wish you had not. I can’t help feeling as though something strange has taken hold.”
He kept his gaze steady. “Have you ever thought people were keeping track of you?”
“Not before this.”
“Mayhap they have noticed you have a visitor and want to know who it is.”
“That could be the reason,” Bronwin conceded as she turned back to her meal preparations. But the explanation did ease her feeling of unease.
As they ate, he asked, “Where do you usually wash yourself?”
“Sometimes down by the stream. Sometimes outside the cottage.
But you have not wanted to undress outside since you spotted that first watcher.
She nodded. “Sometimes it is convenient that you read my thoughts.”
“I had said it would be good for you to practice blocking the voices of others from your mind. Now I am thinking you might probe to find out who is coming around your cottage.”
“I can’t read the mind of a flitting shadow.”
“But in town you are assaulted by silent noise.”
“That’s different. There is a babble of thoughts that swirl around me. They are disjointed, and I can’t sort them out. It’s confusing and… disorienting. But here I can focus on one -- yours. I can’t do that unless I can see the person I am trying to reach.”
He nodded.
They used some of the water he had brought to wash their bowls and mugs outside the cottage. As they did, she caught a wicked thought in his mind and said, “You want to wash together beside the fire. And you are not thinking strictly of cleanliness.”
He grinned at her.
As soon as they were back inside, he shut and barred the door before turning toward her and pulling her night rail over her head and tossing it onto a chair back. Then he swiftly removed his clothing and they stood naked before each other.
Because she could not hide her embarrassment from him, she wet a cloth, rubbed on some soap, and began to wash herself. Still, it was hard for her to focus on the ablutions.
“Have you ever been to a bathhouse?” he asked.
“No. What is it?”
“A building with a large tub of warm water where you can immerse yourself.”
“That sounds heavenly.”
“When we are out of Ten Oaks, I will be able to show you.”
She caught a mischievous thought in his mind and did not jump when he ran his soapy cloth over her body.
Always before, washing had simply been routine. With a grin flickering over his lips, he showed her that a soapy cloth could be arousing as well as cleansing.
She gasped as he worked on her breasts, soaping them and using the cloth to raise her nipples to tight peaks.
Her own devilish thoughts were already circling in her mind. Looking down, she saw that his attentions to her had made his cock rise and stand out from his body like a flagpole. With a grin, she wrapped her soapy hand around the shaft and slid it up and down, the soap aiding her play.
She heard his breathing accelerate, felt his body vibrate.
“I had better get the soap off this thing before I put it inside you,” he gasped out, dipping his cloth into the bucket and rinsing his cock.
The bedding is in the other room.
We don’t need it, he answered.
He caressed her breasts before sliding his fingers into her cunny to judge her readiness. Then to her surprise, he pulled the closest chair out of the way and leaned her over the table with her bottom facing him. Standing behind her, he caressed her butt cheeks, before turning his attention back to her cunny. From behind he slipped his erection inside her, waiting for her to adjust to the new feeling.
“You like that,” she managed to say.
And you do, too. He began to move with slow strokes that excited both of them. Play with your nipples.
Is it all right for me to do that?
If it feels good.
She did as he asked, imitating the ways he had caressed her. She found it added to her pleasure as he stroked in and out of her. They rose quickly to a peak of need and came in a burst of ecstasy that would have knocked her off her feet if she had not been leaning on the table.
He pulled his cock out of her before turning her in his arms and kissing her. “Sorry to have undone all your efforts to make yourself ready for a trip to town.” As he spoke, he reached for a cloth and washed between her legs again.
“We will never get out of the house if you keep doing this sort of thing,” she scolded.
“I will try to behave myself.”
In truth, she hardly cared if they got to the market. Her life had changed so abruptly that she wanted to get away from Ten Oaks as quickly as she could. But he was right. She should practice blocking the swirl of thoughts around her when she was in a crowd.
Dutifully she brushed her hair and arranged it in a knot at the top of her head before taking her good dress from a wall hook.
Cameron nodded his approval, yet she caught the thought in his mind that when they got to Glencarn, he would buy her better clothing.
When she was ready, he said, Your excuse for going to town can be that you need some vegetables. Or some dried fruit.
Reaching for his purse, he added, “Since I am sending you, let me pay.”
She might have brushed aside the gesture, but she could tell he was adjusting his thinking to that of a husband. The shift warmed her. She had been on her own for so long that it was a luxury to let herself depend on him.
“We should be ready to leave when we come back,” he said.
Bronwin nodded. “Then I should take my own stash.” Going to the loose board in one corner of the room, she pulled it up and brought out a small bag of coins. “Can you put them in your saddlebag? I don’t want to carry my entire fortune with me.” She laughed as she said the last part, because her fortune was pitifully small.
He took the coins and stowed them at the bottom of a saddlebag before repacking his own blankets.
“Can we take some of yours?” he asked. “I would like to show my friends what excellent work you do.”
She nodded, pleased, and they added some of her weavings.
He filled a leather canteen from the water bucket, and she grabbed a carry sack to hold her purchases and the coins he had given her. She supposed they could eat what she bought on the way to Glencarn.
The day was bright as they set out, both riding Storm Chaser again. But while they were still outside of the village, Cameron said, “Perhaps we should go separately.”
After dismounting, he helped her down, then climbed back onto the saddle. I will follow soon.
She nodded and started off for the market, walking at a brisk pace. But as the first cottages came into view, she slowed. Since her childhood, she had never been comfortable in this place, and the feeling was worse today. She glanced back, momentarily reassured by the sight of Storm Chaser with Cameron astride just visible in the distance.
What’s wrong? he asked, and she was startled to hear his silent voice in her head. They had always been in close proximity when they had spoken thus. How far could they stretch the connection?
Now she tried to answer his question about her state of mind. I don’t know. Something seems forbidding.
Do you want to go back?
That was exactly what she was thinking, but she answered, I want to accomplish my mission.
She saw no one as she passed the first cottages. Then she came to a woman working with a hoe in her garden, rooting out weeds. When she spotted Bronwin, a garbled burst of fear shot from her. As soon as she disappeared inside her house, the connection snapped off. The contact had been brief, and all Bronwin could pick up was that the woman was afraid of her.
The strange reaction did not bolster her confidence, but she plodded on. As she drew near to the market, she was swept up in the usual mental babble, and she instinctively pressed her hands over her ears. The gesture did no good, of course, because she was hearing thoughts, not voices.
With a grimace, she lowered her arms again and kept walking.
Coming to town was always unsettling. But today seemed worse. Was it because she had avoided this trip for so long? Or was something else going on?
She tried to focus on the loudest voices and caught words. They were thinking about a girl whose battered body had been found at the bottom of a cliff.
A girl named Elfreda. And the whole village was upset about it. Bronwin took in their sorrow and grieved with them -- until another word leaped into her consciousness.
Witch.
The thoughts expanded. What was she doing near the cliff? She knew not to go there. There is only one explanation. She must have been led there by a witch -- as part of a ceremony.
The supposition came from many quarters. And as Bronwin listened to the grief and the fear, her steps faltered. With a gasp of panic, she realized that the people she passed were staring at her. And that awful word was in their minds. Witch. Here is the witch. She dares to come among us.
All at once she understood the dark mood of the men and women. They grieved, but they were also frightened of the unknown. As they contemplated witchcraft, the tight-knit community had focused on the one person who lived nearby but had never been part of the group. An outsider.
Bronwin Weaver.
When she caught her name on lips and in minds, she wanted to turn and run. But wouldn’t that make her look guilty of what they suspected?
She wanted to shout, “No,” but she knew it would do no good. How would she know what they were thinking unless she read their minds? Fighting to keep her own thoughts rational, Bronwin came to understand what had happened. Someone had accused her of causing this girl’s death.
Someone.
No, not a random person. The real killer, and he was desperate to deflect the blame from himself. It was a man, but in the babble of voices, she could not tell which one.
As the horrible images leaped into her mind, she formed a better understanding of the situation. The man had watched the girl grow up and had lusted after her. He had always curbed that impulse, until he came upon her one day in the forest. As he saw her alone and unprotected, his good sense fled him. All he could think was that this was his opportunity to have his way with her.
As she concentrated on the man’s thoughts, his scheme became clearer. The night when Elfreda failed to come home, search parties were sent out. The killer joined them, careful not to be the one who found his victim. And when she was found, he was ready with an explanation for her death. It was witchcraft. And he knew the witch who had killed her.
Good fortune had played into his hands. After he began to whisper about supernatural deeds, men went to spy on the witch. They had found her cavorting with a man -- a stranger. Mayhap he was a warlock come to join her in evil deeds.
Because Bronwin had been listening to the man’s thoughts, she was not aware of the danger closing in around her.
Some people began to keep pace with her. Others ran ahead and blocked her path. As she tried to push through them, hands grabbed her.
She struggled and managed to wrench herself away. At the same time, she gave a desperate mental shout to Cameron. Gods, they think I am a witch.
How? Why?
No time to explain now. A man convinced them of it.
If the voices of the villagers had assaulted her earlier, now they were a thousand times worse. Before, she had picked up random thoughts about a witch. Now she had unknowingly walked into the midst of a storm of words.
“There she is. The witch. Don’t let her get away -- avenge Elfreda’s death!”
When she tried to dodge around the line of villagers, several grabbed her and held her in place. Others moved in, surrounding her with a wall of screaming maniacs.
“Hold her! Kill her!”
“Let me go! It wasn’t me. I have done nothing!” she shouted.
“Liar. You have never been right. And now we know why. Who else did you kill? Was it you who gave the pox to Good Wife Simmons? Did you sicken Farmer Ellis’s cows? What about the crops that were blighted last season? Did you poison the Waverly’s well?”
The questions came thick and fast. Even though she knew no one would believe her, she shouted. “I have killed no one. I have sickened no livestock.” In desperation, she flung the words at them. But it was no use. They had turned from reasonable people into a mob bent on revenge, and every bad thing that had happened in the vicinity was now her fault.
“Bring straw and wood. Burn her.”
The horror of the suggestion burned itself into her mind, and her skin prickled in anticipation.
Yet she would not give up hope. She was still holding her carry bag, and she used it as a weapon, swung it like a lash, striking several men and women in the face or on the shoulder.
Taking them by surprise, she sent several tumbling back and she kept swinging, trying to fight them off, unwilling to surrender and yet knowing it was a losing battle. But above the din of the voices and the terrible calls for her execution, she heard hoofbeats.
Storm Chaser came charging into the midst of the crowd. She couldn’t see Cameron, but she saw the horse rearing up and coming down so that his hooves rained blows on the people who held her captive.
The ones that were struck by the warhorse called out in pain and fell back, but others stood their ground, dodging the attack.
Cameron leaped off his mount, wading into the maddened crowd, his sword drawn.
“Get your dirty hands off of her, you swine,” he shouted.
“You defend a witch?” a man shouted.
“She is no witch. She has lived peacefully among you for years.”
But they were too far into the mob madness to listen to reason.
When his words had no effect, he began to swing his sword, the blade biting into flesh as he waded into the fray. From his thoughts, Bronwin knew he was not trying to kill, but only to wound.
Those who had been struck cried out in anguish.
“Take your hands off of her, I say, or I will cut you all to shreds,” Cameron shouted, his commanding voice ringing out over the scene.
Others feared to suffer the fate of the wounded and jumped back, scrambling away from the man with the sword.
Yet still others were not content to flee.
“Get him,” a bearded man shouted. “Don’t let him snatch the witch from you.”
But most of the villagers had moved back, giving Bronwin the opportunity to clamber up.
As she stood, she realized that her skirt had been ripped and hung in tatters around her legs, exposing her pantaloons for all to see.
She had not brought a knife with her into the village, but as the crowd fell back, she saw that someone had dropped one. Swaying on her feet, she stooped to pick it up, and held it in a menacing grip before her. When a beefy man tried to snatch it back, she slashed at him, cutting through his sleeve to his arm. That was enough to send him and others scurrying out of reach.
But no one had fled the scene. It was a stalemate, with Cameron barely holding them off.
“Don’t let him snatch her from you,” the same hateful voice that had called out before now urged again.
As that cry filled the air, Bronwin knew who it was. Hugh Cartwright. And she knew more -- from the dark thoughts and the desperation circling in his mind. He was the man who had raped and killed the girl. He was the one who had gone around the village, whispering lies about Bronwin Weaver, working long and hard to convince the people that a witch had killed the girl -- and who that witch was.
In that instant of recognition, her eyes found him among the crowd. He was a stocky man, balding, with a bushy beard to prove that he could still grow hair, and he was dressed in clothing better than most of the other villagers possessed because he made a good living as wagonwright.
But she had no more time to focus on the killer because Cameron was shouting to her in her mind, his inner voice urgent.
Come to my side. This is my only chance to get you out of here.
Still dazed, she asked, How?
