Adam saw her and smiled, waving her to his side. If he was still angry at her behavior the night before, he gave no indication of it. Together they welcomed the guests and accepted congratulations and gifts. Because the wedding had been so hasty, there were more promises than actual presents. Still, the genuine expressions of good will touched Rebecca, and she felt more at ease with these planters and their families than she ever had before.

  Adam's gift to her was a trained sparrow hawk complete with tiny leather hood, jess—the short leather strap attached to the bird's leg—and gauntlet for her hand. "The glove will be too big," he said apologetically, "but I can have Jenkins make another for you. I thought you might like the hawk. Her name is Reine; it means queen in French."

  "She is beautiful, Adam. But I have nothing for you in return." Gently, Rebecca stroked the hawk's wing. "I like this gift very much. I have never had a hawk for a pet. I had a crow once when I was a child, but it flew away. Thank you." Reluctantly, she allowed a manservant to carry the bird away. "Take good care of him," she called. Excitement stained her cheeks red and brought a sparkle to her eyes. "I will hunt with her tomorrow," she said to Adam. "Or..." Rebecca moistened her upper lip with the tip of her tongue. "Or am I still not allowed to leave the house?"

  "Hush," he warned, smiling at a neighbor. "Someone will hear you. Of course you're allowed to go out. You're not a prisoner; you are my wife."

  "It is difficult to know the difference," she replied smoothly as she turned to accept a kiss on the cheek from a stout matron and give a polite answer to the woman's question. She permitted Adam to take her arm and escort her from room to room; later she allowed him to fill a plate of food for her from the groaning tables.

  "So much food," she murmured. "The servants must have been busy all night preparing it." There were hams and rounds of beef, oysters on the half shell, crab cakes, and fried fish as well as eggs and biscuits and all manner of pies and sweets. Women who Rebecca knew usually worked in the washhouse or weaving sheds were dressed in starched white aprons and caps and had been pressed into service as maids.

  "Yes, Miss Rebecca," the manservant John agreed. "Not only here but at Cedar Grove, too. The master said we were to see that no one had cause to complain of a lack of hospitality at Sheffield fer your and Master's Adam's wedding."

  "Thank you, John. And tell them in the kitchen how nice everything looks," Adam said. "We couldn't be more pleased."

  Couldn't we? Rebecca thought. Wondering if Adam would be hurt when she left Sheffield, Rebecca looked sideways at him from under her lashes. He was playing the part of a happy bridegroom better than she would have believed. She sighed and nibbled at a biscuit. She didn't feel married, and she certainly didn't feel married to Adam. Someone had called her Mistress Rourke. English women changed their names when they took a husband; she knew that, but no one had told her why. It seemed a foolish custom. Why did a woman give up her own name? Nothing the English did made any sense.

  Her grandfather called out to her, and she forced a smile. It would not do to let him know how she really felt. She must play out the game for as long as he lived. There was no need to let him know what went on in private between her and Adam, no need to hurt him at all. She had followed his wishes in the matter of the marriage. Now she must live with it gracefully. She would wait and bide her time until the gods willed otherwise.

  Then she remembered the hawk, and her smile became genuine. The hawk would help to pass the days. If she was truly free to come and go as she liked, it might not be so bad. At least she could put an end to the tiresome lessons with Master Byrd. As a married woman, she had no need to go to school like a child. The tutor could make someone else's life miserable.

  * * *

  Except that she and Adam now shared a bedroom, life was little different at Sheffield after Rebecca's marriage. Isabel continued to act as mistress of the house, and Adam was still busy from early morning until dark with plantation matters. Released from the hated schoolroom, Rebecca spent her days on horseback, exploring the fields and woods and waterways with the little hawk firmly ensconced on her wrist.

  As the days passed, the weather gradually grew cooler, but it was still warm enough for Rebecca to ride out in her deerskin dress without a cape. If the air was nippy in the early morning, it would soon become more comfortable with the full rising of the sun. The grass was still thick and green, and many birds, which had usually traveled south by this time, still chirped and squabbled and filled the trees of the plantation. Even the ducks and geese, coming down from the north to winter along Chesapeake Bay, had not reached their normal numbers. Instead, the flocks of migrating waterfowl were thin and scattered.

  Rebecca wondered if the warm autumn had affected the Ohio River country. Usually, the fur-bearing animals such as beaver, fox, and bear would have grown thick coats by now. Her people trapped them, both for trade and to use the warm skins for winter clothing and blankets. It was a good time to hunt bear; they were fat from a summer and fall of stuffing themselves and had not yet found caves in which to hibernate for the winter.

  The Shawnee would be hunting ducks and geese and smoking and salting them for the winter. If she were home, Rebecca would be hunting a bee tree or running rabbit snares. She had hunted deer, but the creatures were so lovely that she had often let them live once she had found them. It was better to let her father bring home a prime doe. Once an animal was killed, it didn't bother her to help with the skinning and preparation of the meat: without such food stores, her people could not live through the long, hard winters.

  In the Shawnee villages there would be pumpkins and squash to dry, fish to salt, and cornmeal to grind and mix with berries and dried meat. Often, her people would trade with Indians to the north for wild rice and maple sugar. Such treats were especially appreciated when a blanket of white covered the land and the north wind howled around the wigwams.

  She would not miss the cold if she stayed the winter on the Chesapeake. Getting used to the bitter winters was one of the hardest things she'd had to do as a child. Often her fingers and toes had been stiff with cold, and she and her family had shivered beside a wavering fire. Rebecca smiled, remembering those frigid winter nights.

  Her father had told wonderful stories around those fires. She would be wrapped in a blanket and pressed close to her Shawnee mother's side while she listened to tales of magic, demons, ghosts, and heroes. Sometimes she would fall asleep before the end of a story, and the next day she would have to ask Otter what had happened. Otter knew all the stories by heart, even the magic ones that were not usually told to children. Rebecca always asked how he knew them, but he would only laugh and look mysterious.

  Now, as she rode through a patch of woods she had never explored before, she thought she would like to share some of those stories with Adam, but she was afraid he would laugh—not with her but at her. It was strange to think of Adam as her husband when he wasn't even her friend. The thought of him sobered her, and Rebecca reined in her horse and dismounted, carefully transferring the sparrow hawk to a nearby tree branch. The bird fussed and she laughed, adjusting the tiny leather hood to make it more comfortable on the bird's neck. "Be patient, Reine. I will find you game to hunt in a little while."

  She had to be careful with the creature. Once, the little hawk had tried to take a duck much larger than she was. The duck had escaped, but the hawk had lost several feathers and had just missed being badly hurt. "You know you have more courage than brains," she added in a soothing voice. "Like Adam."

  Why did everything always come back to Adam? Thinking of him made her feel empty inside. Night after night, he lay beside her and made no move to take her in his arms or make love to her. It was what she wanted, and yet... She didn't know what she wanted.

  Loving Adam was painful. He was so different from the men she had known. He expected her to be someone she wasn't, someone English. Once she left Sheffield, she would never lay eyes on him again. In time, he would find an English woman and bring her here to Sheffield. They would make strong sons and daughters to hold this Chesapeake land. She was not part of it. Her destiny lay elsewhere.

  So why did it hurt that he did not seek her out? The physical pleasure they could give each other would be nice. Pleasure always brought joy and then sound sleep. She had certainly enjoyed the lovemaking they had shared before they were married. But the hurt went deeper than the lack of pleasure. She had a feeling that Adam would rise in her thoughts for the rest of her days. And every man she looked at she would silently measure against the big Englishman.

  "Damn!" She cursed him with a strong English oath and felt better. Even when she escaped from Adam, she would not really escape. She would remember his touch and the sound of his voice when he was angry, or the contented moan he gave when she was pleasing him.

  Rebecca tied the horse to a tree and walked down a deer path to the bank of the creek. Tall river reeds grew close to shore, and she was glad it was too late in the year for mosquitoes. She found a dry spot where a deer had slept the night and sat down in the flattened circle of grass. The reeds and cattails formed a thick barrier around her, and she lay on her back and stared up at the blue sky.

  The sounds of the living creek drifted on the breeze—a red-winged blackbird's call, the croak of a frog, and the occasional splash of a fish. It was a good place to think; she might have been the first woman ever to set foot on this spot. It was a place to ease her wounded spirit and regain her will.

  To her surprise, she yawned. Her eyelids were heavy and her breathing slow and regular. She drifted into sleep, unconscious of the time or place.

  The sound of gunfire brought her upright. Her heart beat fast, and her mouth turned dry. It took a moment to realize the gun was not close and she was not in danger. She rubbed her eyes, stretched, and sat up. From the position of the sun she determined it was late afternoon—a strange time to be hunting. How long had she slept? It must have been several hours.

  Her first thoughts were for the hawk and her horse; she hurried back to where she had left them. To her relief, both were still there, seemingly unruffled by the long wait. A shot came again, and curiosity tugged at Rebecca. Who was hunting on Sheffield land in the afternoon? It was a workday, and the bondservants should have been at their chores.

  Leaving the horse and hawk, Rebecca crossed a short section of woods, then a meadow, and circled beyond the section of creek from which the shots seemed to be coming. Cautiously, she made her way down to the water's edge, pushing through the reeds as silently as a shadow and then dropping to her stomach.

  At the bend of the creek lay a fallen cedar tree. Cornstalks and branches had been used to form a crude blind, and just beyond it, swimming in the water, were several live decoys. A few moments' scrutiny assured Rebecca they were semitame mallards that were used to lure wild birds close enough to shoot. The decoys were secured by a cord around their legs, which was in turn attached to a weight on the creek bottom.

  Seeing the ducks answered all her questions but one. Who was hunting? She waited, not letting her steady gaze falter. Minutes passed. She knew someone was in the blind; she could hear the rustle of leaves and see an occasional faint movement of branches.

  Then a pair of black ducks circled the area, warily eyeing the decoys. They dipped low to investigate, and Rebecca recognized Adam as he stood to get off a shot. He fired before the ducks were close enough and missed. The pair soared upward and winged their way to safety. Rebecca chuckled at the easy escape, and a gleam of mischief sparkled in her eyes.

  Chapter 18

  Adam cursed his impatience and began to reload his musket. All he'd done so far was waste powder and shot; he'd never had such a rotten day of shooting. Early morning or dusk was best for shooting waterfowl, and a clear afternoon was probably the worst. But Thomas had asked him to try and get a few ducks for the evening meal, and he'd willingly left the dry account books for a few hours' sport.

  Even the decoys seemed to be working against him. They'd gotten their lines tangled twice, and one had bitten him when he'd taken it out of the bag. In a few minutes, he'd give up on the ducks and tell the cook to chop the heads off a few chickens instead.

  Thomas had asked him how he and Rebecca had been getting on, which had given him even more reason to get out of the house quickly. He didn't want to lie to his stepfather, and the truth would only hurt the old man. It was certainly hurting Adam enough—physically as well as mentally.

  Lying beside Rebecca night after night without touching her was pure agony. Every nerve in his body, every muscle, screamed to take her into his arms and make passionate love to her.

  The scent of her was maddening... the sweet, clean woman smell that clung to the sheets and covers and filled the bedchamber. If he accidently brushed against her skin, he felt as if he'd been scalded. It amazed him that the sound of his pounding blood didn't wake her out of a sound sleep.

  He thought about her day and night; he dreamed about her in his sleep. Last night, he had lain awake for hours, afraid to close his eyes lest he seize her in his sleep and ravage her body. His head hurt, and his nerves were ragged. That morning, he'd shouted at one of the maids for no good reason and had sent two of his best workers to clean out the stables when he'd caught them ogling one of the bondwomen.

  He'd been married only two weeks, but if something didn't happen soon between him and that hellcat he now called a wife, he knew he'd have to visit the Merry Widow for some relief. The thought of betraying his marriage vows shocked him, but the thought of begging Rebecca for what should have been his by right was even more unthinkable.

  Was he a fool for not taking her by force? If he grabbed her and threw her across the bed, would she fight him? A man had a right to make love with his lawful wife, when and where he wished, didn't he? Did she think him weak for not pressing that right? She'd been raised among the savages. Would a Shawnee brave allow her to indulge in such intolerable behavior?

  He knew that she was angry, and with good reason. She felt betrayed, and she probably believed he had married her to get his hands on Sheffield. And who was to say that hadn't been part of it? He didn't know... he didn't know anything anymore.

  Adam rubbed the calf of his left leg; it had gone to sleep on him. Wincing, he wiggled it, resting the stock of the musket against the ground. One of the female mallards began to quack, and he peered cautiously through the cornstalks at the front of the blind. Instantly he was alert. Several wild ducks were swimming downstream toward the decoys. He hadn't seen them light; they must have just come around the bend. Moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue, he rose to his feet and eased the musket up. This time he would wait until he couldn't miss. It was his last chance to have duck for supper.

  Slowly, tantalizingly, the wild mallards swam toward the tame decoys, pausing now and then to bob in the water for food or to fluff up their feathers. There were two males and three females in the flock, all close enough now for Adam to see the males' iridescent green heads. Ordinarily, he wouldn't shoot birds on the water, but when he was hunting for food, anything was permissible.

  He had only one shot, and the surviving ducks would be up and gone before he could load a second time. He had to line up the birds by eye so that he could kill two or three with the single shot and still not ruin the meat. It meant he couldn't let them get too close to him. The first duck he had ever shot had produced only a handful of feathers and mangled bones. How Thomas had laughed over that.

  "You can't call yourself a gentleman if you can't hunt," his stepfather had said. Except that Thomas Bradford hadn't been his stepfather then; he'd been his master. "And you can't call yourself a gentleman if you kill for the sake of killing. Every bird, fish, and animal on the tidewater has a better right to be here than we do. If you kill for food, that's one thing. But if I ever see you shoot something and waste it, I'll stripe your back with a horse whip."

  It had been good advice, and Adam had never forgotten it. He'd learned more about being a gentleman from Thomas Bradford than he had in his father's house or from the titled "gentlemen" he'd known in English society. He'd carry on Thomas's beliefs; it was part of the responsibility that went along with possessing Sheffield.

  The decoys had seen the other ducks now and were becoming excited, swimming in circles and calling to them. Adam steadied the musket. Just a few more feet and he'd have them in range. If they stayed bunched up like that, he was sure of getting two. His finger tightened on the trigger, and he held his breath. "Closer, just a little closer," he whispered. "Come on..." He sighted down the barrel at the green, shining head of the lead male. "Now."

  Adam gasped. Before he could get off the shot, the duck vanished. It hadn't dived; something had pulled it underwater so smoothly the other ducks weren't even alarmed. "What the hell?" Shaken, he moved the barrel to aim at a large female. To his utter astonishment, that duck, too, went under. The single flap of its wing and the jerk of its foot frightened the rest, and they rose in a flurry. Adam fired and missed by an arm's length. Cursing, he slammed the gun down and burst out of the blind to untangle the agitated decoys before they injured themselves.

  He waded into the water, trying not to let it rise over the tops of his old boots, and reached down to catch the nearest drake. "I ought to ring your neck and let Cook serve you up for supper," he threatened, half seriously. He still couldn't believe something had snatched those ducks right out from under his eyes. Snapping turtles took ducklings all the time, but what was big enough to pull a grown mallard under without a fight?