In the bright and spring cool morning, she brushed the chaff from his hair, her hands lingering on the bare skin of his neck and caressing the stubble of three-day whiskers on his jaw. The farmwife gave them bread in exchange for drawing water for the cattle. The woman - his woman - emptied the buckets into the trough as he lifted them from the rope, sharing his task. He watched her bend and straighten. Not farm-bred. No calluses. She would pay dearly for helping him earn a loaf.

    The lane, once smooth and maintained, deteriorated. Ruts, from wagon wheels, caught at their ankles and after a while they walked beside the track, fighting brambles and slipping into foliage-filled ditches. Once common wayfarers' wells dwindled in number, appearing few and far between and, at the one he knew for last, Trevor filled both his carry-with bladders. He drank his fill and then some and dippered more for his companion, insisting that she drink until she gagged.

    The trees, groomed and harvested like a crop closer to town, closed in on and finally squeezed the track into a narrow trail that wound under the tightly knit branches. Trevor watched the woman, wondering if she would succumb to the claustrophobia common to travelers who dared the forest road and was pleasantly surprised when she, repeatedly, reached out to caress a rough old elm's tortuous bark, or sleek leaf.

    Finally, he turned from the trail and started on a path that was more imagination than reality. Their clothing swished against the ferns, the only rhythmic noise in the random symphony of forest birds and animals. She walked where he did, not disturbing the twigs or undergrowth that defined the edges of his way. His way. His road - such as it was. They'd be home before the sunset and he mentioned it aloud.

    She jumped at the sound of his voice, and her startled eyes met his. It was the first time since the blue moon ceremony. Up until then, he had let the familiar trip lull him into pretending that Dest followed, not that Dest was ever as quiet as this stranger. The deep color of her irises reminded him how foreign, how bizarre she was. How could he justify bringing such an outlander to the home of his father? Even though dead, his disapproval would haunt her - and his son.

    He thought his thoughts, aware of her scrutiny, stepping from one impossibility to the next like a child crossing a river on slippery stones. Suddenly, a forest cat screamed. Sounding above them, behind them, on all sides at once. Sounding like a woman's soul was being parted from her body. He knew the trick of its shriek. The catamount was in the trees but not nearby. But the woman, breathing hard and with tears of fright filling her eyes, burrowed against him. By instinct, he wrapped his arms and cloak around her as his mother had done to comfort him as a child.

    "Shhh. It's a lion and not too close. They'll hunt a child or a bleeding adult, but we're not wounded or helpless." He moved her fear-frosted hand to the hilt of his knife. "See?" She gripped the dagger, a solid answer to the question of her life. He continued to murmur comfort and nonsense. Gradually, his words insinuated into her terror and her gasps deepened into something else. Her heart still pounded against his chest, not racing like a rabbit's fleeing from a fox but beating strong. The swell of her breast lay heavy on his arm and the other at his fingertips. The artery in her neck pulsed and he pressed his lips to it. Her hair smelled not of the city but of hay and something fresher.

    Instead of his knife, she grasped the hilt of him, stroking him to hardness through the rough fabric of his trousers. She slid through his hands, his fingers burrowing into her cascade of thick hair, nearly black in the forest shadows, as she went to her knees for him. He leaned against a nearby tree - thanking providence that in the forest one always was - and gasped as the cool air licked his cock as she unlaced him. A moment later, punctuated with grunts of her impatience, the chestnut-eyed woman stroked his bare flesh, her palm warming with the friction.

    Trevor cradled her head in his hands and, marveling at the glossy abundance of her hair and the delicate curves of her ears and jaw, set the sensitive tip of his eager hard against the soft 'O' of her lips. Anticipating the rough of her tongue and the silky depth of her throat, he thrust forward once, probing until he determined how much she could hold before choking on his length, and then settled back for her to find his tempo. He'd surrendered all he'd possessed to discover this feeling. He hoped he'd still want her when she finished.

    Trevor laughed aloud as he came back to himself. He didn't look down, knowing that her dark eyes watched him like a mouser at a rat-hole. The usual forest sounds, having died as his panted groans of pleasure then ecstasy heightened, resumed. He wondered what, if anything, the woodland creatures felt when they mated. Did they enjoy it or was it no more delightful than finding a fresh berry or a juicy grub.

    He tied his trouser laces, pushing aside her fumbling attempts that elicited no more than a ghostly response in his now limp flesh. Grabbing her wrists, Trevor helped her up. Her chin was shiny from her spit and his jism. Tempted to lick her lips clean and wondering if he tasted any different than any other man, he simply wiped her face with his sleeve.

    "As far as I'm concerned, you've paid whatever debt you owe me. Go home if you wish," he said, breathing the fern-scent of her hair. "Do you know the way?"

    He felt the slight jerk of her chin in a 'no'. It would be easier if she could talk. "Do you have someplace to go?" A small nod. "Then go." He stepped off the path to allow her to pass back the way they came.

    The chestnut-eyed woman ducked her chin and continued deeper into Campbell land, following the nearly invisible path. Ah! The someplace she had to go was the place he'd been taking her.

    After a long while, though enjoying the sway of her hips and the swing of her hair, Trevor passed around her. The path turned more arcane through the swamp and misstep could land her shapely bottom in a trap of shifting mire.

    "Well, if you are to stay and it seems you are determined thusly, " he said, tossing a comment over his shoulder, "you need a name. I have known only a few women and most of those are trollops so I will choose the name of virtuous one. Anna. You will bear my mother's name until you can tell me your own." He hadn't before noticed how white her teeth were but did then, when she smiled.

    At the top of one the ridges, he smelled wood smoke and stopped to look in the direction from which it came. Over there, if things had been different, was the girl who, when grown another year or so, would have been the logical choice to be his wife. Faith MacLeod. A wisp of a girl, she had a boyish figure, pale hair, and bright green eyes like her brother's.

    Last year he'd cornered her in the kitchen but had let her go when she grabbed up a butchering knife. The year before that, he'd moved her clothes farther from the river bank so he could see her without. She blushed every time he looked at her after that, not knowing he hadn't seen anything but the flash of her legs.

    Three years past his father had died. She'd helped the women lay out the body, sew the shroud, and had left biscuits and a tin of jam on the table for him. He'd never be able to eat biscuits with jam again without thinking about how lonely the house was in those days following the burial.

    Four years ago, he'd skinny-dipped with her brother, knowing that Faith was watching from the banks. She'd caught them later with Dest on his knees and Trevor bare-assed. She hadn't tattled. Two years before that she'd been too young to bother with but that was the summer he and Dest had first noticed each other.

    His father would have approved and would have negotiated the contract. Now, though the alliance was still an understanding, the bargaining would be uncomfortable and, because the specter of misfortune had visited the Campbell lands too often, the terms would come dearer to his pocket. But a man needed a wife and Faith suited him in age and countenance.

    Maybe Faith wouldn't care that he'd taken Anna as dessert before proposing marriage. He didn't know that much about women, but supposed she probably would.

    Thinking of Faith, confusing her with her brother in his imagination, Trevor waited for Anna to catch up. She stumbled up the last rise, out of breath and with bright pink cheeks. The sunlight dappled her face and crowned her hair with fiery brightness. Her eyes, in the shadow cast by her lashes, were unreadable.

    "Come here," Trevor said, feeling angry with her, though she couldn't possibly know what plans she'd undone. He didn't want to touch her; afraid he'd be too rough in his resentfulness, so he simply unlaced his trousers. "On your knees. Do it again."

    He expected the same but got novelty. She used her hands as well her mouth, licking and stroking, spreading slickness with both. She tickled his scrotum, kneading the orbs gently and rubbing the skin behind them with a moist finger. She slathered and lapped, and made maddening vibrations in the back of her throat.

    Trevor sought some place to rest his hands, needing to restore equilibrium rather than to exert dominance, and once more tunneled his fingers into her lush tresses. All of him seemed to gather at the base of his spine, and then race forward to the root of his cock before bursting into orgasm. Spent fully, his legs trembled and his knees joined hers on the rocky, pine needle covered soil. He reached toward her and Anna leaned in, enveloping him.

    This time he didn't fight the temptation to lick the flavor of his cum from her mouth and chin. She cupped his face and kissed him. Her tongue traced his lips and darted between. She teased his tongue and sucked it. She tugged at his fuller bottom lip and nibbled with sharply enticing nips. Finally, with amazing slowness, she released him but their lips clung as if the extended contact had forged a bond that resisted parting.

    Odd that his first taste of a woman was flavored of manhood. Next time, they would kiss first and that notion almost inspired the next time but thoughts of home intruded before the desire blossomed too fully to be ignored. Not ignored, Trevor promised his libido, just postponed a few hours.

    "Smell that?" He'd intended to tell her about Faith and explain his fury. She stopped brushing away pine needles, sniffed and nodded. Her chestnut eyes had little crinkles at the corners. At some time in her life, Anna had smiled a lot. Someone had made sure that she had been mostly happy and Trevor discovered a growing reluctance to make her tentative but increasingly recurrent smile fade.

    "If you're ever lost in the forest, follow the scent of wood smoke. Brush fires don't smell the same."

    His dogs, Blue and Tucker, met him at the valley's rim. Anna stood her ground as they sniffed her and growled until he said to hush. Blue, pot-bellied with her next litter, grunted her continued displeasure and kept her hackles raised. Trevor grabbed her muzzle and gestured Anna closer. He whispered reassurances to the hound while the woman rubbed the velvet soft ears. Finally, a truce was established and Blue bounded away, following Tucker back to the cool shade under the porch where they usually spent the afternoon.

    The trees, kept at bay by constant vigilance, surrounded the clearing forbidding and impenetrable. The low cottage snuggled tight against the valley wall, leaving the precious arable flatland for the garden, the plot of corn, and the barley field. Trevor bypassed the house, dropping his empty haversack and emptier water-bladders on a stump, and went straight to the out buildings that nestled in niches and clung to the stone even more closely. The animals had been well fed and given water before he'd left but since he was back - prematurely - checking them was his first priority.

    Within the standards of the forest people, he was a wealthy man with a mare and a young cow, a rooster and a flock of chickens, and a pair of fierce dogs. His land was fertile and he had always managed to grow enough to feed himself and his livestock through the winters. His river teemed with fish and, each spring and autumn, flocks of geese alighted by the hundreds. The forest abounded with deer and squirrels. Their meat filled his smokehouse and their hides, if not traded, covered his walls and held the cold winds at bay.

    He lived alone, though Dest visited regularly. His mother had passed away giving birth to his younger brother, who had succumbed to the coughing sickness as a toddler. His father's second wife, a robust river woman, had wasted away in the seclusion of Campbell land. She died moaning about the trees strangling the breath from her soul.

    At her funeral and forevermore, the other forest folk whispered about the Campbell curse or, when someone experienced strange twists of fate, Campbell luck. If something good happened, something else would be stripped away. If a flashflood swept away all the chickens but extinguished the brushfire that was threatening the house, Campbell luck was responsible. If a child died falling into a cavern, but semi-precious fox-opals or a pile of old-time tin sheets were discovered in the cave while retrieving the body, Campbell luck had struck another forest clan.

    Though well off, his proximity to Campbell luck and the remoteness of his land kept him alone after his father's death.

    Later, Trevor would wonder if giving the chestnut-eyed woman the name of his ill-fated mother had been a good idea but, as she dribbled a handful of cracked corn through her fingers for the chickens to scratch, his thoughts whirled around fucking her and whether it would be as good as having her on her knees.

Go to: Chapter 3