Randolph hastened to lead the Way. "Poor dear, it's no wonder she's unwell. Come, let's take her to my carriage."
Hunter had seen the admiration glowing in Randolph's eyes when he looked at Alanna, but he appreciated the man's help and accepted it gladly. Randolph owned a fancy carriage with wide, leather seats, but Hunter chose to keep Alanna on his lap rather than at his side. While Randolph saw to the loading of the wagon, he attempted to restore his bride's courage.
"I won't leave you," he promised.
"Thank you, but perhaps you ought to stay outside."
"You don't want me there?"
Alanna gripped his hand tightly. "Of course, I want you there. I'm just trying to think of a way to make things easier for my aunt and uncle."
"We already know they despise me, nothing you can say or do will change their minds. I'm staying with you."
When Randolph joined them, he was shocked by the intimacy of their pose, but Hunter's forbidding gaze discouraged any mention of impropriety, and as they got under way, he focused his attention on the passing scene. "Byron's left again for the Ohio Valley with General Braddock's forces, so if you have need of someone to help with the funeral arrangements, I'll be happy to perform whatever service I can."
"Thank you," Alanna replied. "You're very kind." Worn out from worry, she rested her head on her husband's shoulder and soon fell into a troubled asleep.
Hunter, however, remained keenly alert. Randolph O'Neil struck him as a sincere individual, but he still had questions. They rode a long way in silence before he decided that if Alanna considered him a good friend, he would trust him, too. "You mentioned merchandise," he remarked. "What do you sell?"
Randolph had never spoken to an Indian, and although Hunter was a polite and soft-spoken individual, to have to converse with him while he held Alanna draped across his lap, made concentration extremely difficult. He had to swallow hard before he answered. "I'm a silversmith by trade, but I also sell a variety of fine goods, crystal, jewelry, a few exquisite timepieces."
The elegance of the man's attire made it plain his business was a successful one, but Hunter's curiosity extended to a more personal area. "What is Alanna to you?"
Randolph had carried their luggage to the carriage, and it had not included firearms or even a bow and arrows. As far as he could tell, the brave had no weapons except for the knife at his belt, but that fact failed to still his fears. Hunter not only appeared to be strong, but fiercely protective of the young woman Randolph had hoped would one day come to love him. Again, he had to pause to clear his throat.
"I really don't know how to answer you," he began. "I've known the Barclays for many years. I would have liked to have called on Alanna, but she discouraged the idea. I hoped it was due to the considerable age difference between us, rather than because she didn't like me. Then, when she began coming into town every day to visit Melissa's son, she sometimes came by my shop as well. I suppose you could say we've become good friends. That's all, just good friends."
It was painfully obvious that Randolph had wanted more, but Hunter wasn't jealous. "Thank you for your kindness. I hope you won't shun Alanna because of me."
Relieved not to have been threatened, Randolph broke into a nervous grin. "My goodness, what a thing to say. I treasure Alanna's friendship, and I hope that she values mine. I'd not shun her for any reason."
Hunter nodded. He debated with himself the wisdom of confiding in Randolph, but since the merchant would probably hear the truth later at the Barclays, he saw no reason to hide it now. "What do you know about Melissa's babe?"
"Nothing actually. His grandparents don't allow him to have visitors, or I'd have visited him with Alanna. I can understand his father's heartbreak. I'm a widower myself, but grief doesn't give a man an excuse to abandon his child. I raised my daughter alone, and while it wasn't easy, I could never have turned my back on her the way Ian has."
"The babe isn't Ian's."
Fighting the rocking motion of the carriage, Randolph leaned forward slightly. "That can't possibly be true! Melissa was a popular young woman, but there was never a hint of scandal attached to her name."
"Believe me, it's true."
"But who?" Randolph's dismay increased the longer he stared at Hunter. The Indian's eyes were so dark he could not discern pupil from iris, but there was no trace of duplicity in his gaze. He shook his head. "My god. Who?"
"The boy is mine."
Stunned, Randolph gaped for a long moment, and then withdrew an ornately engraved silver flask from his coat pocket. He offered it first to Hunter, but when the Indian declined, he unscrewed the cap and took a long swallow of brandy. "Does Alanna know?"
"Yes."
"And the Barclays?"
Hunter nodded. "That Alanna has wed a man they all despise won't please them."
"That, sir, is a very great understatement. My god." Randolph fortified himself with another swig of brandy, before recapping the flask and slipping it back into his pocket. "You'll be lucky if John doesn't shoot you on sight."
"I was the one who was wronged, not Melissa."
"While that may be the truth, a gentleman doesn't make that kind of accusation about a dead woman."