Free Soul of a Crow by Abbie Williams

truly. A gentleman,” he repeated firmly, as though I’d contradicted him.
    My hand still burning, I murmured, “I know, I do. I’m sorry.”
    â€œNever be sorry for touching me,” he said passionately, kissing the neckline of my shift, where my skin was bared, and I shivered. He said, “Never be sorry for that. I would beg you to touch me, all the time. But you are not fully healed, and I would despise myself for making love to you at present. I will wait.”
    I pressed even closer to him.
    â€œI love taking down your hair,” he whispered, stroking its length. “And letting it fall all along your shoulders. You are so very soft. And so lovely I can hardly breathe for wanting you.” He drew slightly away and ran his fingertips slowly between my breasts, my nipples round and swollen against my shift, craving his mouth; his touch moved to my belly, over which he spread his hand in a wide, warm length. His eyes were ember-dark with desire as they moved slowly back to my face.
    I told him, “As soon as we are wed, you will have to fight me away from you.”
    He laughed, low, and said, “Now that’s a fight I will gladly lose.”
    * * *
    It seemed as though I had scarcely closed my eyes when Sawyer said in my ear, “Lorie, stay here and don’t make a sound.”
    Mired in the deep black bowels of night, our tent was encased in smothering darkness. His words conveyed such seriousness that I did not dare ask what was the matter, though clearly something was—having delivered this order, he moved swiftly, and I sensed more than saw him crouching at the entrance to our tent. I lifted to one elbow, unable to continue lying flat, and as my eyes adjusted, I saw that Sawyer held his pistol at the ready; my heart seized and began thrashing, but I remained obediently silent. Sawyer bent his head, as one listening fixedly, and I threw my senses immediately outward, hearing nothing at first other than the ferocity of my blood.
    What is it? I begged him.
    Someone’s out there , he responded. The horses are restless .
    And then I could hear exactly what he meant—from the direction of their tethers came the agitated rustlings of our animals, whickers and whooshes, a stomping of hooves, quiet sounds that would go unnoticed by day’s light, but nonetheless those indicating that someone approached their position. Sawyer whistled two quiet notes, those of a bobwhite quail, which was his and Boyd’s customary call for each other’s attention when words could not be used. Seconds later, to my relief, I heard Boyd stir within his tent.
    Sawyer told me, I will return shortly .
    I knew it was useless to beg him to be careful; he was cautious and well-trained, a former soldier whose Company had engaged in countless brutal conflicts during the War, but it stabbed at me to remain behind as he silently undid two of the entrance ties, taking a moment to retie each behind him before slipping into the night. I rolled immediately to all fours, crawling to the edge of the canvas nearest the horses, and listened with all of my effort, hearing little but the continual flow of the river, just to the east. Time inched rather than passed. I heard Boyd emerge, his footfalls barely perceptible; I imagined him joining Sawyer, the two communicating with gestures as they determined their next move. Malcolm was also awake in the adjacent tent, and though the boy did not share the ability to hear my thoughts, I sent a message his way, Be still, please, dear one. Be silent.
    I waited, finding it nearly unbearable, more excruciating as seconds ticked by with no indication of what was occurring outside. My eyes roved over the canvas mere inches from my nose as I crouched, pale even in the pitch-dark night.
    Malcolm whispered fervently, “ Lorie .”
    I jerked in fright at the sudden sound, and could tell he was right outside; my lips compressed into a tight, angry line at