"Come," she said, when Robbie was gone. "There's food. You must be hungry."

She turned back toward the fire, but he caught her wrist, drew her up and back to him.

"I'm not hungry," he said. "At least, I don't want to eat right now."

There was a glitter in her eyes, not of tears, not this time. She had wept the last time he held her, but he was determined that she would not weep today.

"It's raining," she said softly. "Perhaps we should go inside."

"Where's Runs-from-Bears?" Nathaniel asked.

"He went out this morning, hunting. Why?" she asked, and then she looked away, knowing why. "It's full light," she said.

Nathaniel caught her waist between his hands. "We've had this discussion before," he said. "But the last time we were very rudely interrupted."

"So we were," she agreed. And then, with a frank gaze which pleased him inordinately: "I wondered if you'd remember."

He laughed then, and buried his face in her neck. "I couldn't forget if I wanted to," he said against her ear. "Will you have me in the daylight, Boots?"

She nodded; it was all she could do, he could see that. And this pleased him, too. Everything about her pleased him. Outwardly, she was hardly the same woman, wearing buckskins with her hair plaited. Her eyes were all the grayer for the browning of her skin in the sun. But when he touched her, when she spoke to him, she was still there, the woman he had married. Elizabeth, with her warmth and her smile, her intelligence and curiosity and bravery. Robbie had seen those things in her, although she could not see them in herself.

With a little shrug and a smile she had left him to take the cook pot off the fire and cover it, and then scatter the coals. She would not look at him, although he kept his gaze on her.

Elizabeth went to the cabin and glanced over her shoulder at him, and Nathaniel followed her into the dark, warm caverns inside the mountain.

* * *

They were completely and utterly alone. Outside there might be winter, or a hailstorm, or a world on fire, and they would not know, here in the middle chamber, the one where Elizabeth slept. Nathaniel piled the packets and sacks from the canoe in the space already crowded with the odds and ends of Robbie's life. The torch in the corridor smoked a bit, but here the air was clear and warm and flickering with the light of beeswax, for Robbie had left a brace of candles, clearly his best and most precious supply. Elizabeth had hesitated about lighting them, but Nathaniel had not, pointing out what she knew to be true: that Robbie had wanted them to use the candles; this was his wedding gift to them. They burned bright and they smelled sweet, and Elizabeth was glad of them, here in the heart of the mountain.

"What are you thinking?" Nathaniel asked, and she realized he had been watching her face. He was crouched down, rummaging through the plunder from the canoe.

She drew in a breath. "That we are more alone here than we were . under the waterfalls." She looked down the corridor, and thought of something she could offer him. "Would you like to bathe?"

"Later," he said, grinning up at her. "I brought you something."

"I don't have anything for you.

"Ah," he said. "But you do." And he hooked her leg out from under her so that she sat down hard next to him, her breath bursting from her with a surprised whoosh.

"Oooh." She laughed, rubbing her backside. "You might simply have asked, Nathaniel."

He put a small packet in her lap. She opened it carefully, feeling his eyes on her. Inside the paper there was a handkerchief, a beautiful piece of the finest linen embroidered white on white, edged all around with exquisite lace. Elizabeth looked up at him, surprised.

"You never got to use the wedding hankie you bought from Anna," he said.

"Did you know about that episode with Anna?"

"Curiosity told me."

"Curiosity." She smiled. "We owe her a great deal."

"Aye," Nathaniel agreed. "We do. But she's pleased with herself and with you. She said to tell you that you did good."

It was Elizabeth's turn to laugh. "I doubt that my father agrees with her. Her part in our getting away isn't known?"

"Seems she managed that pretty well. You don't need to worry about Curiosity," Nathaniel noted. "And your father looks none the worse for wear, although I didn't talk to him."

Elizabeth didn't want to talk about her father just now. "How are things at Lake in the Clouds?"

He ran a knuckle down her arm. "You worried about Hannah?"

"You are reading my mind again. I'm not so sure that is a desirable trait in a husband," she teased. "But yes, I have been wondering how she feels about all of this."

He smiled. "She's taking full credit for the whole plan. You don't need to worry about her, Boots. You'll be a good mother to her."

Elizabeth looked down at her hand in his. She saw how rough her skin had become in such a short time. It was sun—browned, the beginnings of calluses on the pads of her thumbs. But these were stronger hands, and she was not ashamed of them.

Nathaniel had seen her hands, too, and his face was suddenly drawn.

"You weren't born to this life," he said, all of his playfulness and teasing gone.

"Then I'm very fortunate, aren't I?" she said softly. "To have come to it the way I did."