A/N: I was very torn about the idea of Uncas as a lover the first time I watched the film. His behavior towards Alice under the falls struck me not as a gesture of romance, but a gesture of compassion. Perhaps this interpretation speaks more highly of him. I would like to believe Uncas would feel compassion for someone like Alice whether he was in love with her or not. But if he did develop deeper feelings for her, I think it would take him a long time to acknowledge them and an even longer time to act on them.

Also…not mine, since I keep forgetting to put that in.


Ian and his wife were Scots-Irish settlers, poor even by frontier standards. It showed in the tarnished cookware above the stove and the frayed hem of Johanna MacLaughlin's skirt. For that reason it felt wrong to trespass on their hospitality, even though they had brought a doe Chingachgook shot that afternoon and was now slumped glassy-eyed beside the fireplace. But after a week convalescing in the woods, the sight of the familiar oak-shuttered windows thrown open to catch a late summer breeze released a tension Uncas hadn't realized he had been carrying.

They sat down to a perfunctory supper of leftover venison stew, rye bread and a hasty pudding Johanna ladled out in pewter mugs and wooden bowls. Her lined half-smile had a trace of apology as she glanced at the girls. Uncas felt an almost instinctual anger on her behalf; Johanna should not feel ashamed in her own house simply because her guests were used to richer fare. Though in truth, the Munro sisters were doing nothing to give off that impression. Cora and Alice looked relieved just to eat at a table again, albeit a crude one sawed from cedar with benches instead of chairs. Alice sat with her feet obediently together and her back perpendicular to the floor. In her posture he detected years of etiquette lessons reasserting themselves. It was amusing how diligently she avoided looking at Nathaniel, who slouched unfashionably across the bench with one leg straddled on each side.

Ian slapped three mugs on the table and regarded the girls through stern brows. "Tell me all the news from Edinburgh," he said. Uncas had to hand it to him; Ian knew how to draw someone into conversation. It had been almost four years since either girl had lived in Scotland. But after Cora admitted as much, they talked casually of their cousins in the capital and of harvest festivals outside on the highlands. Even Alice managed a few remarks. It was impossible to miss the enthusiasm in her voice when she spoke of Scotland. It disconcerted him, and he tried to brush it aside. Why should it bother him if she missed her home?

He took a swallow of ale and tore off a chunk of dry bread. The staleness didn't bother him as long as he could scrape it against the bowl, letting it sop up the grease and juices from the venison stew. That was also something neither of the girls had tried. They preferred to pick the bread apart and place each piece delicately in their mouths. An impractical approach, as it inevitably created more crumbs. But it was what they were used to, and he suspected after the events of the last two weeks they derived comfort from the familiar.

Uncas hazarded another glance across the table. Cora so far was taking everything in stride. This was not the first battlefield she had walked through, though it was undoubtedly the worst. As for Alice…Alice was holding herself together, which was in its own way admirable. She had it harder than Cora. Cora's place in their family was all but decided, thanks to Nathaniel. Alice's place was to trail behind, a pale shadow looked back on with affection, but still no more than Cora's sister. It had occurred to him that he could change that. There were nights the possibility kept him awake for longer than he cared to admit. But his cooler self always prevailed before he did something reckless. He was not sure even now what this faltering debutante was to him. It seemed equally unlikely she would know, and it would not be fair to ask her now, after her life had been smashed to pieces and she devoted all her energy to painstakingly gluing it back together. Or perhaps he lacked his brother's conviction to reach out for something he wanted and damn the consequences.

He had lost track of the conversation when Alice burst into a fit of coughing. Cora's arm was instantly across her shoulders, but it was over in a few seconds. The culprit turned out to be the mug of ale in front of her. Ian reached across the table to pull it out of danger. When Alice looked up, her eyes had started to water. "Took a wrong swallow, did you?" Ian said, not unkindly. Alice straightened, one hand still grasping the table while the other massaged her throat.

"It's very strong," she said finally. By strong she probably meant sour, though she was too well-bred to say so. As if to prove her point, she took another sip once she regained her posture. This time the drink made it down her throat, though her eyes remained watery.

Perplexed, Uncas took another swallow. The ale tasted perfectly normal to him, but he was used to it. Most colonial families drank ale, or cider or fresh milk, with their meals. Alice had probably grown up in the tea gardens of socialites. Tea was a luxury the MacLaughlins couldn't afford, and what little sugar they had was too precious to pour away into their drinks. Alice appeared to be aware of this, or she was too polite to ask for something that was not on the table. He wondered a little jealously if she was remembering the sweet biscuits and fruit tarts she and her sister used to enjoy as the rest of them prattled through supper.

Still, he was surprised and mildly impressed that she downed the entire mug before the meal ended. He had a feeling this was more to prove her sincerity than because she actually liked it. But the episode seemed to have chased away her voice. It was a pity, Uncas thought. Her voice had a soothing lilt when she relaxed that he wouldn't have minded hearing again.

At the end of the meal Johanna stood up to collect their trenchers and bowls. Alice and Cora immediately rose as well, ignoring Johanna's efforts to wave off their help. Uncas remained seated. He ate slower than Nathaniel and his father, and it would have been rude not to finish what was in front of him. As he scraped up the last of the cornmeal pudding with a hunk of stale bread, he observed the three women at the window. Johanna and Alice were scrubbing their dishes in a bucket of soapy water by the stove. Cora tied her hair back before picking up a drying rag. After several minutes Johanna tapped Cora on the shoulder and asked her to help collect extra blankets from the barn. Uncas downed the last of his ale and carried his dishes to the stove.

"You don't have to do that," he told her. Alice glanced up from the wooden trencher she was washing. The hot water had turned the skin of her hands and forearms a scalding pink.

"They're kind people. And it was kind of you to bring us here," she said. "It must be difficult. I mean—this place must bring back difficult memories for you." She appeared embarrassed at having said so much. She immediately returned her focus to the trencher in the wash bucket, scrubbing it more attentively than before. It took him a beat to realize she was referring to the Camerons. As she did not look back up at him, he had the distinct impression she was worried her remark had crossed into forbidden territory.

"It's a relief to know this place is still standing," he answered truthfully. Noticing that her brow remained troubled, he added, "Spending time in this house makes me glad, Miss Munro." She still did not look up, but for a moment she appeared glad too. Uncertain what else to do, he picked up the maroon rag Cora had abandoned and started to dry off one of the trenchers set to air dry on the shelf. If she was surprised at his unasked-for help, she did not say so. They worked in companionable silence.

Uncas craned his neck toward the window. Outside it was a clear, moonless night. He flirted with the idea of showing her how to climb the roof. The walls of Ian's house had come from a copse of cedar trees that used to stand where the cabin was now. As a result, the cleared area opened up to a near-perfect circle of night sky above them. He studied the soft droop of her eyelashes and the curve of her jaw, less tense tonight than he could remember seeing them. There was a chance she would agree, this evening.

Another night, he thought, fully aware that in the morning they would strike out from the MacLaughlin cabin with no plans of returning for the foreseeable future. Another night, but not tonight.