The Fur Trader’s Lady (Ladies of the Wilderness #1)

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Montreal, May 1803

R ain blew against Charlotte’s face and made her bonnet limp, but she hardly noticed as she stepped off the ship, soiled and painfully thin from weeks of seasickness. The ground dipped and swayed beneath her, making her stomach roll like the endless ocean she’d just crossed.

Somewhere in the middle of that ocean, she had turned eighteen.

Montreal spread out before her much like London had with its wharf full of peddlers and laborers and its streets muddy and narrow. Cargo filled the wooden docks, while men and women hawked their wares to those stepping off the boats.

“ Poisson à vendre .” A stout French woman pushed a fish into Charlotte’s face, touting its freshness, though the stench suggested otherwise.

The smell combined with Charlotte’s dizziness, and she lost her meager lunch on the dock.

“ Je suis désolé .” Charlotte apologized, turning her face away from the fish, trying to get a breath of fresh air. But no matter where she turned, the smells of the wharf assailed her.

The French woman scowled and stepped away from Charlotte, spouting profanity from her thin lips.

Charlotte wiped her mouth, desperation filling her gut. She didn’t have time to be humiliated. She needed to locate Reid McCoy before it grew too late. With nowhere to stay and no money to rent a room, she would have to rely upon his kindness—if he was still in Montreal and not headed back to Grand Portage already. The only vessel leaving London the morning Charlotte had booked passage had stopped in New York before coming to Montreal and had taken longer than she had hoped.

But she was here now, and she would not waste another moment.

“ Excusez-moi .” Charlotte raced after the fish woman, speaking in French. “I beg your pardon. Do you know where Mr. Reid McCoy lives?”

The woman turned back to Charlotte, also speaking in French. “Do you plan to buy a fish?”

Charlotte lifted her filthy hands and shook her head. “I have no money.”

“Then I have no information.” The woman pushed through the crowd away from Charlotte.

“Please,” Charlotte begged, following her. “I would pay if I had the money, but I am destitute. I must find Mr. McCoy this evening.”

The French woman did not wait for Charlotte, disappearing into the crowd. Charlotte pulled her shawl closer, a shiver making her body tremble. She longed for a bath and a comfortable bed but feared she would be denied both. It had been weeks since she’d had a good night’s sleep, constantly on guard, listening for the sound of a sailor who might stumble into her berth. Thank God for Mr. and Mrs. Ames who had traveled across the ocean with her. But once they had disembarked in New York, Charlotte had been by herself. She’d sold her only other dress and the bag she had carried for a bit of food.

Leaving her with nothing but the worn clothes on her back.

A man stopped her. “Did you need information about Mr. McCoy?” he asked in French. His dark brown hair curled under his red cap, and he wore clothing similar to many of the other men on the wharf. An oversized white shirt tucked into short, dark trousers, with a red sash tied around his waist. The cares of the world had not yet wrinkled his face or hardened his gaze.

“Do you know where I might find him?”

“He lives up there.” The man pointed toward a street that ran up a steep hill. “It is a stone house with a red door and a fence and a matching red gate.” He frowned. “It is a long way. Would you like me to take you?”

She shook her head quickly, not wanting any help or any more attention than she absolutely needed. “No, thank you.”

Charlotte started walking toward the street he indicated, bumping into a stack of wicker baskets near a bread stand. She grabbed them to keep them from falling, apologizing to a large man who yelled at her in French. As she backed away, her gaze landed on a man near the ship she had just left and she stopped short.

Roger.

He stood speaking to a sailor who nodded and pointed in her direction.

Charlotte spun on her heels and lifted her shawl over her bonnet and auburn hair. Her heart pounded so hard, she feared it might stop. Questions swirled through her mind, casting confusion on her surroundings. She tried to avoid a puddle but splashed into it instead.

The delay in New York had probably given Roger’s ship just enough time to get to Montreal ahead of her, just as she’d feared. Had he been to Mr. McCoy’s already?

She had no choice but to continue toward her destination and pray that Roger hadn’t already turned Mr. McCoy against her.

Lowering her head, she moved around a stack of salt barrels, making her way from the dock to the thoroughfare, fear nipping at her heels. The steady rain soaked her tattered dress and heightened the smell of sewage emptying into the St. Lawrence River. Mud sucked her feet to the earth, slowing her escape.

She had prayed all the way into London and across the Atlantic that God would guide her steps and lead her to freedom. Now she added another prayer, that Roger hadn’t seen her on the wharf. She couldn’t imagine it was God’s will for her to marry Roger. She couldn’t bear a life as his wife. Surely, God understood.

Without stopping, she continued up the street, trying to blend into the commotion of the riverfront.

The streets grew quieter the farther she moved from the wharf. As the sun began to set, the rain continued to pour from the thick clouds above. Candlelight flickered in the windows as she passed buildings packed tight along the banks of the river. The smell of roasted meat mingled with the stench of the riverfront, threatening to upset her stomach again.

Turning, she made her way up the hill, casting glances over her shoulder. Her lungs ached and her feet throbbed. Her muscles, weak from lack of use these many weeks on the ship, burned with exertion. Growing lightheaded, she stopped and leaned against a home built close to the street. How much farther must she climb this hill before locating Mr. McCoy’s home?

A party of men exited a pub, merriment spilling forth from the establishment. Shrinking back as far as she could into the shadows, she silently watched them pass, the smell of alcohol lingering in their wake. Living with Roger for two years had made her distrust a man when he drank. The voyage over had made her distrust a group of drunken men even more.

Once the merrymakers were out of sight, she hurried up the street again.

The rain turned to sleet. Charlotte coughed as she trudged along. And when the mud started to freeze and bite into the soft soles of her worn shoes, she was certain she would either die on this Montreal street or Roger would find her. She wasn’t sure which outcome would be worse.

Just as she was about to give up hope, she saw it. A house that matched the description she was given.

“Dear Lord,” she whispered as she crossed the street, her body shaking uncontrollably from the cold, “may this be the refuge I seek.”

After opening the gate, she entered the yard, glancing once more behind her to see if she had been followed. Everything was silent as the sleet turned to shards of ice, pelting her exposed face and hands. She closed the gate and hurried up the path to the front door, where she knocked.

Light shone from within the home, spilling out one of the paned windows onto the frozen ground outside. Tantalizing smoke blew from a chimney, promising heat within, as the tree in the front bent from the wind.

The door opened, and an older man stood there, looking down his nose at her. “Yes?”

“Is Mr. McCoy at home?” Her voice quivered from cold and fear.

He pursed his lips and ran his disapproving gaze up and down the length of her body. She must look dreadful. Gone were the elegant gowns, elaborate coiffures, and soft slippers of her past. In their place, she wore the tattered and soiled gown she had not washed since escaping Blissfield Manor six weeks previous, the grimy strands of her auburn hair, and the thin-soled shoes she had not stepped out of since slipping them on her feet in her bedroom. She had wanted to be ready to escape any situation at a moment’s notice.

Charlotte had left England as a lady and arrived in the New World as a common beggar. Yet—if she could find her way to Grand Portage and into the safety of Stephen’s arms, it would be worth all her suffering.

“Who may I say is calling?” The man’s long face drooped in wrinkled flesh.

She had not given her real name since leaving Blissfield Manor, and she was loath to give it now in case Roger inquired after her. Besides, Mr. McCoy would have no idea who she was. But he would know one name. “Please tell him I am a friend of Mr. Stephen Corning.”

The butler studied Charlotte for another moment. “You may go to the servants’ entrance and wait there.”

Without further warning, he closed the door and left her alone in the bitter cold once again.

The lure of a warm kitchen took all indignity away from being sent to the servants’ entrance. Charlotte had faced far greater pains in the past six weeks, and she was certain she would encounter many more in the coming months if Mr. McCoy agreed to her request.

Another light greeted her at the back of the house, where she found a window next to a simple door. After knocking lightly, it was opened by a woman who looked as unwelcoming as the man at the front.

“Well, come in then,” she said briskly. “Don’t stand there lettin’ the heat out.”

Charlotte obeyed and nearly fell into the kitchen from exhaustion. She rested her hand against the back of a chair while the older woman closed the door.

“The master is being summoned,” the woman said with impatience. “Though why he should be bothered by the likes o’ you is a wonder. Him seeing to his mother and already so late in the evening.”

“Mr. McCoy is home?” The relief was almost more than Charlotte could bear. Without being asked, she sank into the chair, soaking up the heat from the large hearth.

“He is, indeed.” The woman went about her work, placing a log on the fire and stirring a pot hanging on a hook over the flames. The smell of stew wafted out to tickle Charlotte’s nose and made her stomach growl. A loaf of bread sat on a cutting board within reach, and it took all her self-control to keep her hands to herself. Without the dip and rolling of a ship, for the first time in six weeks, her appetite returned.

The woman did not offer food to Charlotte. Instead, she eyed her from time to time, no doubt to ensure Charlotte did not steal. Never in her life had people looked upon Charlotte with such mistrust. It was a shameful feeling—one she did not like—and made her wonder how many times she had looked down upon someone of a lower class simply because they were hungry or destitute.

Lord, forgive me was her constant prayer.

Charlotte removed her damp bonnet and set it on her lap.

Each minute that passed increased Charlotte’s unease. Every creak, bump, or groan outside the kitchen made her heart leap. How long did she have until Roger found her?

When the interior door finally opened, Charlotte jumped at the sound and tried to stand, but lost her balance as the room began to spin.

“Whoa there, lass.” A giant of a man crossed the room and took hold of her by the waist, settling her onto the chair again. Even in her state of distress, she was aware of his handsome features and kind brown eyes. “Mrs. Mallarme,” he said evenly in a deep Scottish brogue, “why haven’t you given the lass something to eat and drink?”

“And have every beggar at our back door?” the woman asked with a raised brow. “They’re no better than stray cats, they are.”

He tossed Mrs. Mallarme a disapproving look and then reached for a clay pitcher to fill a glass with milk. “I dinna have time for the lass to faint in my kitchen. Please get her something to eat.”

Charlotte tried not to cower before the man. Had Roger already spoken to him? It didn’t matter now. She had come this far and would not shy away from him. She was too weak and too tired to go on. He was dressed well, though he was not wearing a jacket, and the top button of his white shirt was undone. His tight trousers were tucked into the tops of his tall boots and displayed thick, muscular legs. His dark hair looked like it had recently been trimmed, though he wore it a little longer than most men. It waved in an unruly manner, forcing him to impatiently tuck it behind his ears. He was clean-shaven with long dark sideburns, the same dark brown as his hair. They gave his face a lean, powerful look.

She took the glass he offered and tried to drink like a lady, but her hands shook, and she spilled the milk on her bodice. Mortification heated her cheeks, but he didn’t seem to notice.

He crossed his arms and stared down at her. “Why have you asked for me?”

“A-are you Mr. McCoy?”

“Aye.”

“Mr. Reid McCoy?”

He nodded. “Aye.”

Desperation poured from her with the last shred of energy she possessed. “And do you know Mr. Stephen Corning?”

Mr. McCoy studied her for a moment, curiosity and caution warring within his expressive brown eyes. “Aye,” he said slowly.

The glass of milk continued to shake in her hand, so she set it on the table. She wanted to be as far from Roger as possible and did not wish to linger here any longer than necessary, but there were things Mr. McCoy needed to know. “And do you remember a debt you owe to Stephen?”

Mr. McCoy towered over her, his eyes dark pools of warning. “He saved my life. I couldna forget that.”

Charlotte closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip in an effort not to cry. She had found Reid McCoy, and just as Stephen had promised in his letter, he owed him a debt—one that would hopefully allow her to travel with him to Grand Portage.

She opened her eyes and rose on shaking legs. “I have come from England to claim the debt, in Stephen’s name.”

“What gives you the right to claim such a thing?”

“I am his fiancée.”

Mr. McCoy’s gaze was first disbelieving, then wary, and finally annoyed. “You’ve come for money, then?”

“I-I do not want your money.” She took a step toward him, her vision spinning. “I must get to Stephen—at Grand Portage.”

Charlotte did not hear his reply.

Before Reid could answer, the lass’s eyes rolled back, and she fell forward into his chest.

“Good heavens!” Mrs. Mallarme cried out.

Reid lifted the young lady into his arms, alarm tensing his muscles. He didn’t have time to deal with this—he’d already had enough trouble with his mother, who was still weeping in her bedchamber. His plans to leave Montreal earlier that day had been canceled when he’d been forced to send for the doctor to ease his mother’s hysterics. He’d spent his day dividing his time between the wharf, where his canoes were being readied for travel, and his mother’s bedside, as she begged him not to go.

The lass weighed hardly a thing. Her dirty gown hung on her emaciated body—but her speech and the way she had carried herself left him certain she was high-born. The idea that a woman as young and educated as this could be the fiancée of Stephen Corning was too fanciful to believe. But how did she know about the debt, and why had she ended up begging on his doorstep if it were not true?

He turned to the housekeeper. “I suppose she’ll have to stay the night.”

Mrs. Mallarme’s eyes grew wide. “You won’t take her in, will you?”

He started toward the door to the front hall. “I owe her friend my life.” Even if she wasn’t Stephen’s fiancée, she knew about the debt, and that was enough for him to honor his promise.

Hurrying ahead of Reid, Mrs. Mallarme opened the door, though she clucked her tongue.

The lass began to stir in Reid’s arms as he walked up the stairs. When her eyes finally opened, panic filled the brown orbs, and she pushed against Reid’s chest, though her strength was no match for his.

“There, now.” Reid spoke in a low, calm voice. “I’ll not harm you.”

A fit of coughs overtook her, and when they finally subsided, she became limp. “Please,” she begged, “where are you taking me?”

“I won’t turn you out in this weather. Mrs. Mallarme is preparing a room.”

Closing her eyes, she leaned into Reid’s chest, breathing heavily. “And you’re certain you know Stephen?”

“Aye.” He tried not to smile. She sounded like a wee bairn looking for reassurance.

She clutched his shirt, her eyes still closed, as if she didn’t have the strength to lift her lids. “And you’ll take me to him?”

His humor disappeared. The thought of taking her into the wilderness was preposterous. Even if it was allowed, he doubted she’d survive a week. “That I canna do.”

Panic returned to her large eyes. “But I must get to him. He’s the only one who can protect me from Roger.”

He had no wish to encourage her dramatics, but he didn’t want to aggravate her either. “Things will look better in the morn.”

She shook her head with more strength than he would have thought possible. “My guardian has followed me across the ocean. If he finds me, he’ll force me to marry him—I have nowhere else to turn.”

Mrs. Mallarme opened a door at the top of the stairs and carried a candle into the cool room.

“Light a fire, if you will,” he said to the housekeeper, wanting to be done with this task. He had a dozen other things needing his attention on the eve of his departure. His men were just as anxious to leave and were already frustrated at the delay.

“I can’t go back,” the lady continued. “He’ll force me to marry him so he has control of my inheritance. He’s evil and will stop at nothing to get what he wants.”

“She’s delirious with fever, mark my words,” Mrs. Mallarme said as she knelt near the hearthstones.

The stranger clutched Reid’s shirt again. “I’m not delirious. He’s kept me a prisoner in my own home since my parents died two years ago, anticipating the day I would come of age.”

Reid set her on her feet and waited until she was steady, then he pulled the covers back from the bed. “Try to get some rest. I’ll send for a doctor.”

She reached for him as he turned to go. “Has Roger been here already?”

The desperation in her eyes and in her voice finally made him pause. “No.”

“Please,” she begged. “If he comes looking for me, do not tell him I’m here. He will lie to you and get you to believe what he wants.”

Mrs. Mallarme glanced at Reid from her place near the fire, clearly annoyed and not convinced.

The girl clutched his arm. “I beg you, please give me sanctuary. Do not tell anyone I am in your home. If not for me, then do it for Stephen.”

She was clearly distraught and afraid. He would give her his reassurance, if for no other reason than to calm her. “You are safe here. I will tell no one.”

His promise seemed to drain her of her remaining strength, and she crumpled onto the bed. “Thank you. Stephen said I could trust you.”

Reid had worked with Stephen Corning for two seasons, when Stephen had first joined the North West Company as an assistant clerk. The memory of the day Reid had almost died, when his fully loaded canoe had capsized and he had been knocked unconscious from hitting his head against a rock, returned in fuzzy details. When he had not surfaced, Stephen had dived beneath the icy waters and drawn Reid to safety. After regaining consciousness, Reid had sworn an oath to Stephen that he would repay the debt in whatever way Stephen required.

And now here the lass was, three years later, claiming the debt be paid in Stephen’s name—at the most inconvenient time she could have chosen.

“I dinna get your name,” he said.

Lifting her chin, the first glimpse of confidence shone from her brown eyes. “Lady Charlotte Fairfax, the daughter of the late Right Honorable Thomas Fairfax, the Earl of Warwick.”

Mrs. Mallarme rose from her spot and rolled her eyes. “And I’m Lady Edith Mallarme.” She snorted.

Reid had had enough of the servant. “Bring the lass some food and be quick.”

With pursed lips, the housekeeper left the room—keeping the door wide open.

“My father was Lord Thomas Fairfax, the Earl of Warwick,” Lady Charlotte said earnestly, her English impeccable. “His earldom was inherited by his distant cousin, but my mother’s cousin, Roger Rutherford, was named my guardian until I’m eighteen.” She could hardly speak through fits of coughing. “He wants the home and the money and cannot have them unless he marries me.”

A knot of compassion twisted in Reid’s gut, but it warred with his impatience. If her tale was true and she was in grave danger, Reid was honor bound to help her. The least he could do was show a little empathy. “There, now.” He squatted before her. She was so young and so frail that he feared she would not live long enough to tell her tale. But for now, she needed to sleep. “Try to rest.”

“I must get to Stephen,” Charlotte said. “He told me that you could take me.”

“’Tis impossible. European women are not allowed in the fur trade.” And even if they were, she was in no condition to make the journey.

“I need to get to Stephen.”

“It canna be done.”

“Could you sneak me in?”

“’Tis over a thousand-mile journey, through lakes, rivers, and over miles of portages,” he said with as much patience as he could muster. “’Tis no place for a lady.”

Tears filled her eyes, and she looked away from him. Taking a deep breath, she wiped her face. “If you cannot help me, I will find a way to go on my own.”

He hated tears—especially when they were shed by a bonnie lass who had more than her fair share of heartache. “There has not been a European woman in the fur trade for over a hundred and fifty years,” he said gruffly, trying not to let her tears soften his resolve. “It proved too dangerous and taxing.”

“But Stephen told me you could take me.” She met his gaze again, desperation in her eyes. “It is the only hope that has sustained me through the difficult voyage to get here. He said if I ever needed help, you’d find a way to get me to him.”

Her words were raw and troubling. “What can Stephen do for you?”

“Once Stephen and I marry, Roger will no longer have control over me.”

“I will get word to Stephen, and he can return to you here in Montreal.”

“No.” Her eyes filled with alarm. “It would take months. Before his return, Roger would find me. I know it. And it would be too late. Besides, I have nowhere to live, nothing to eat, and no real skills to find work.”

Reid would offer to let her live in his home, but his mother would never allow it. And his staff would have no way of protecting Lady Charlotte from her guardian.

“Take me with you,” the lady begged once again, holding onto his sleeve. “I’ll dress as a man and do anything required of me.”

He stood and crossed his arms. It was out of the question. “The life of a fur trader is dangerous, unpredictable, and indecent for a lady. I could never allow it—I’d be putting your life in danger if I took you into the interior—not to mention my job.”

Somehow, she found the strength to stand. “You are putting my life in danger if you don’t. Please, let me go in dressed as a man.”

Reid went to the fire and put another log on the small flames. No one would believe this young woman was a man—though they might believe she was a boy. It wasn’t unusual for a boy of fifteen or sixteen to enter the fur trade as an assistant clerk—especially if he was well educated. Reid had entered as an assistant clerk when he was fifteen and worked his way up to a senior clerk. He was poised to become a partner and own his own share of the North West Company—ensuring an income that would provide for him and his mother for the rest of his life. He couldn’t risk his entire career for Lady Charlotte Fairfax, no matter what he owed to Stephen.

Mrs. Mallarme returned to the room with a steaming bowl of stew on a wooden tray.

“There’s a man to see you, sir.” She set the tray on a table and nodded toward Lady Charlotte. “He said his name is Roger Rutherford.”

Charlotte turned wild eyes to Reid and then scanned the room like a cornered animal with no way to escape.

Reid didn’t know if the lass’s story was true, but he couldn’t hand her over to someone she feared either—at least not until he met Mr. Rutherford and knew the truth of the matter.