Jillian Hart: Jonah's Bride

Movement caught his eye. A trickle of leaves. A sway of a bough in the nighttime forest. Jonah Hunter gripped his musket by the wooden stock, his senses alert. Perhaps it was his years serving in the militia, fighting Indians, fighting the French, that made his blood turn to ice and awareness prickle down the back of his neck even here in these peaceful Connecticut woods. He was battle weary, and yet the soldier within him still lived.

Danger . He sensed it as surely as a wolf scenting prey. Snow shifted through the reaching limbs overhead, blotting out the half moon's light. A chill raced through him. He stepped forward, following instinct and the soft, barely audible pad of footsteps.

"State your business, man." Jonah braced his feet, musket already loaded, his hand steady.

No answer. No sound other than the wind through the trees and the snow tapping to the frozen ground. This was Puritan land, bound by a nine o'clock curfew. No decent man would have midnight business to conduct on these roads-but he did.

Jonah Hunter was no decent man.

"I have little patience. Show your face, coward."

Still no answer.

The wind stilled. The night silenced. Tiny hairs on his forearms and the back of his neck stood. Something felt wrong. Deadly wrong. And it wasn't the soft pad of timid footsteps trailing through the forest, one step at a time away from him. Jonah hefted his musket and followed the coward's path.

A damned clever coward, winding through the trees with hardly a sound and a lightness of step. It was the whisper of fabric that took him a moment to place-then he recognized the rustle of a woman's skirt. He could feel her presence like the shadows of the trees crowding him. Not so far away she stood, there by the old alder, fear drawing her breath shallow.

"What foul business are you about tonight, mistress?" he asked, highly amused he was chasing nothing more than a woman through the forest.

A twig cracked. Her footsteps stormed nearer. She rose like a shadow from the ink-black night. "Jonah Hunter. I recognize your voice, you scoundrel in a gentleman's cloak."

He chuckled and lowered his musket. Lord, had it been a lifetime since he last laughed? Jonah shook his head and stepped back lest she stormed right over him. "Tessa Bradford. Only you would be so bold as to call me scoundrel."

" 'Tis only the truth." She stormed to a stop before him, chin high, yet her voice wobbled when she spoke. There was no hiding some fear. "I am quite capable of spotting a devil when I see one."

"A devil?" Intrigued now, Jonah reached out and snared the angled shadow of her elbow. Beneath woolen cloak damp with snow, he felt the flesh and bone of a woman. Solid. Intoxicating.

Hell's hounds! If he thought this female attractive, he'd been traveling too bloody long without food. Hunger was sure to be affecting his reasoning.

"Jonah, get your hands off me." She fought, trying to twist her arm from his grip with a surprising amount of strength. "I will not have you compromising my reputation."

"Yes, after all, we must protect your pristine reputation." He tightened his hold. He would not release her. Danger still pricked his spine. The night was as silent as death and that worried him. "Tell me, what is such a proper woman doing alone and unescorted at this time of night? Up to mischief, no doubt, and I-"

Something hard struck him above his left temple. That hard something splintered, and he recognized the scent of rotting wood as pain ricocheted through his skull. She'd hit him. And damned hard. Jonah's knees wobbled. His grip eased. And she fled, crackling through the forest with the speed of a bird.

What the devil was the woman about? He'd been gone from this backwoods village for over ten years-hadn't thought of her for more years than that and wouldn't have wanted to. Now, his first night back to the township he called home, he had to endure-

A swish of a shadow caught his eye, hugging the ground, moving fast and low, trailing after her.

Tessa Bradford, the most sharp-tongued, stubborn woman in all of Connecticut Colony could rain down more trouble on a man than she was worth. Jonah snatched up his musket and bounded after her, reaching for his horn of gunpowder, cursing her with each step.

Harebrained. Infuriating. Troublemaking.

He fell to his knees, straining to see through the sting of heavily falling snow. The woods had given way to meadowland-and he easily spotted Tessa's dark figure silhouetted against the snow-laden ground. Without doubt, he aimed his musket and squeezed. A flash of fire, a roar of thunder, and the wooden stock kicked hard into his shoulder.

In the deafening silence, the snow clouds overhead broke apart, unveiling the half moon. Light washed across her back as she turned to face him. Her mouth opened, her mittened hands balled into outraged fists.

That was a gunshot. Tessa's gaze froze on the sight of broad-shouldered Jonah Hunter kneeling in the snow, reloading his musket.

Panic froze her up like an icicle. The man was daft. Much worse now than he was before he left the village. What sort of man shot at a woman? Surely he didn't-

Across the meadow Jonah Hunter lifted his musket and aimed it. Directly at her. For the second time.

"Jonah!" She opened her mouth, but her throat tightened. She could not scream, could only whisper as the eye of his musket found her. Sensation crawled across her skull. Time froze as she felt the shadow rise up behind her. Fire and thunder flashed through the night and a heavy weight struck her between the shoulders. Air rattled from her lungs. Pain slammed down her spine. She fell face first into the snow, driven there by the dead weight on her back.

Big black boots thudded closer. Tessa concentrated on Jonah's approach, her chest convulsing, tears rolling down her face. She couldn't breathe. Air knotted in her throat. She could not draw it deeper. She coughed and sputtered, certain she'd drawn her last breath. Had this madman shot her? Pain cracked like thunder through her chest and up her windpipe with each coughing gasp.

Tessa lashed out when his big hand touched her forehead. She didn't want his help. Not now. Not ever. God, she was going to die, an unremorseful spinster, right here at the feet of wicked Jonah Hunter, without family or friends who would mourn her. Somehow a sob wedged itself in her broken chest. How could he do this to her? How could he-

The weight lifted from her back. Tessa raised her chin from the snow and eyed the dark shape lifeless on the earth beside her.

"Be grateful I am a damn good shot, Tessa Bradford," Jonah's rumbling voice filled the silence of the night. "Or you would be supper for a pack of hungry wolves. And what a poor supper you would make, you are such a tough, skinny little thing."

Oh, she would set him straight with a few choice words if she could catch her breath. Eyeing the dead wolf, her panic eased. He hadn't shot her after all. He hadn't-

Relief slipped through her, cold and sustaining. The spasm in her chest eased some. She felt the damp night cold penetrate her woolen cloak, and the smell of winter earth filled her nostrils. Thankfully, she drew a single shaky breath.

"Of all the damn fool things to do," she sputtered, hoisting herself up on both elbows. "You could have missed and shot me instead."

" Tis a comfort to know you can use your tongue as a weapon even with the wind knocked out of you." Jonah's big fingers curled around her upper arm.

Tessa tilted her head back. Filtered moonlight silvered the black length of his hair and shadowed his strong-planed face. Oh, how he'd changed over the years. Grown wider of shoulder and girth, become more handsome. It was his eyes she remembered, brown like the earth and more elemental.