The brave walked out the door into the passageway, which was filling rapidly with smoke.
"Where are you going?" Keely shouted, running after him.
"The fort's burning. I go home now," he answered simply.
Keely stepped out into the hall and began to cough violently. She could see nothing in the billows of black smoke. The Indian had disappeared and she didn't know which way he'd gone. "I can't see you! Wait for me! You're supposed to be protecting me!"
There was no answer but the steady sound of ricocheting bullets and exploding black powder.
Choking, Keely stepped back into the windowless room and slammed the door shut. Is this my fate? she wondered bitterly as she lowered herself onto her hands and knees. Is this to be my tomb? Am I to die here alone with no one to know when I'm gone?
No . . . she told herself. No! Down on the floor the air was much cleaner and her head was functioning again. I've got to get out of here. This is my chance. . .
But she didn't know how to get out. She didn't even know where she was. And who was out there? If she did manage to find her way out of the fort, what if it was a band of wild Indians burning them out? Would she escape only to be captured and carried off by some devils? Brock had told her about the Iroquois . . . the enemy of the Lenni Lenape. The Iroquois were a fierce warring bunch with none of the laws of the Eastern tribes. They hated the white man and took great pride in torturing their captives.
Pushing the self-defeating thoughts aside, Keely crawled on the floor toward the far corner of the room. Feeling with her hands, she located the bucket of water she recalled seeing earlier. With her teeth, she tore at the skirt of the blue cotton chintz gown she'd been wearing for weeks. The worn material tore easily and she soon had a large rectangle to submerge in the bucket. When the material was sufficiently soaked, she wrung it out and threw it over her head. Filled with a new determination, Keely crawled to the door, flung it open, and started down the smoke-filled corridor on her hands and knees. If she was going to die, she'd be damned if she'd die hiding in a corner somewhere.
Although the smoke still stung her eyes and made her cough, the wet material protected Keely from the noxious fumes. Slowly she made her way down one hallway and into the next. Twice she met with burning timbers. The first time, she made her way through them; the second time, she had to turn back. She didn't know where she was going, but she followed her instincts. Brock had always told her to follow her instincts when she was lost or confused.
She moved slowly, circling through the maze of log walls in search of fresher air. Soon, she could hear the loud sound of gunfire and the shouts of men. She bumped into a set of hand-hewn stairs and scurried up them.
Fresh air filled Keely's lungs and she threw off the wet material. Rubbing her eyes, she realized she was on the rampart of the fort walls. Men raced in every direction, shouting and firing their weapons. Occasionally the roar of cannon sounded. The scent of black powder and warm blood filled Keely's nostrils as it had that night on the Tempest.
She grabbed the arm of the next red-coated soldier that passed her. "What's happening?" she demanded.
The bearded man laughed, reloading his flintlock. "The damned rebels are attacking us with a vengeance! Seems they're lookin' for Mr. Lawrence."
Keely's heart skipped a beat. "Where is he?"
"Who, your husband? Don't know, but you'd best find him. A bunch of Iroquois are supposed to be taking him out through the back. He's looking for you."
Keely nodded in disbelief as the man hurried off. Rebels? The rebels were here! They could help her! They would get her out!
She stepped over the prone body of a dead man and ran to the side of the fort to look down through the trees. Hanging over the crudely cut wall, she squinted, trying to make out something. But through the smoke, she could see nothing but a glimpse of men running, and the streaks of fire as guns sounded.
Convinced there was no way down from here, Keely ran for the steps. All she could think of was freedom. She didn't know what had happened to Micah, and she didn't care. All she wanted was to go home. These men would take her . . . they were obviously winning. She would make Brock understand what had happened when she reached home.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?"
A rough hand clasped Keely's shoulder and she gasped. Through the billows of smoke she made out the scarred face of Micah's henchman, Cain. "Let go of me," she insisted wildly.
He leaped to catch her but Keely ducked and ran down along the rampart. Flames shot up through the floor, the heat so intense that she could smell her hair singeing. Behind her she could hear the pounding of Cain's feet. He caught her around the waist and she screamed, turning to pummel his hideous face. Cain stumbled backward and the floor groaned, splintering then giving way. Tangled in Cain's arms, Keely grew light-headed as she felt herself falling. . .
On horseback within the compound of the wilderness fort, Brock raced to and fro, shouting through the smoke. "Find them! Damn you! The place is coming down around us!"
He wheeled his horse around just in time to see an Iroquois take aim at his back. Without a moment's thought, Brock flung himself from the horse and hit the ground running. His rifle fell to the ground, but in his hand he carried a steel-honed knife.
The Iroquois's lead shot bounced recklessly off a burning wall as Brock caught him in the neck with his knife. It was a clean cut and the brave fell to the dirt in an honorable death.
Tucking the knife into the waistband of his breeches, Brock sprinted to catch the reins of his fleeing horse. In confusion the crazed animal ran beneath a burning timber and into a gap in the structured walls of the fort.
Cursing beneath his breath, Brock went after the spooked horse, following him into the burning inner walls of the fort. Coughing and choking, he squinted to see. There, another ten feet beyond stood the horse, blocked by a pile of charred lumber.
"Come on, boy, good boy . . ." Brock soothed, walking forward slowly. "Come on now. That's it." He caught the reins and the horse reared in terror. Pulling off his linen shirt, Brock threw it over the horse's head and immediately the animal calmed down. Murmuring soothing words, he began to lead his mount toward safety. Just as he started to duck beneath the last wall of burning timber, he thought he spied a splash of blue in a pile of splintered wood.
Holding tightly to the reins, Brock pushed a length of timber with the toe of his boot. It fell to the dirt floor. But then, of its own accord, another piece fell.
"Help me!" a muffled voice begged.
Brock dropped the horse's reins, uncovered its head, and gave it a pat on the backside. The horse ran out of the inner wall and into the compound. A minute later Brock was pulling up one piece of charred wood after another. "I'm coming, it's all right." The first body he uncovered was lifeless. He rolled it over and through the smoke he recognized Micah's personal manservant. In a frenzy, Brock began to toss wood in every direction. He could see the blue now. It was a woman's skirt! A woman!
A hand came up from the rubble and Brock grasped it. A brilliant white light filled his head. He knew that hand! It was Keely!
"Keely!" he shouted. "Keely!" Dropping on his hands and knees, Brock pushed aside two more boards and she rose, her face blackened, her auburn hair tangled and singed.
"Brock!" Her sooty face lit up. "Oh God, Brock. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean what I said in that letter." The words tumbled from her mouth in a flurry. "I had to do it. They were going to hang you . . . Micah, he said . . ."
Brock crushed her to his bare chest, brushing his lips over the dirty crown of her head. He was laughing, he was crying. "Keely, it's all right . . ."
"I'm so sorry . . ." she told him, holding on to him with all her might. "I didn't know what to do! I love you so much!"
He lifted her from the rubble. "Come on!" Running through a wall of burning timber, Brock carried her into the compound. Setting her on her feet, he brushed the hair from her face. "Are you all right?"
&n
bsp; She smiled, nodding. "I just look bad. I'm not hurt. Cain must have cushioned my fall."
Brock shook his head in amazement. "Stand here while I get a horse. I want you out of here."
Keely watched him disappear into the smoke and a moment later he was back, leading a horse. "Can you ride?"
She laughed, her heart bursting with joy. "With you, anywhere . . ."
Brock swung onto the mount and put out his hand to help her up behind him. "Hold on," he urged, "and let's see if we can find our way out of here."
Keely clasped her hands around Brock's waist, her fingers resting on the flat muscles of his stomach. She leaned forward, her head against his back. He smelled of black powder and smoke, but beneath those harsh odors was that familiar masculine scent of his that always made her warm in the pit of her stomach.
Brock urged the horse through the smoke toward the entrance to the walls of the fort. They skirted an Iroquois brave and a Pennsylvania rifleman in hand-to-hand combat and pushed forward into the forest. Brock brought the horse to a stop just outside the walls. "Do you see Manessah?" he shouted above the sound of rifle fire.
"No."
Brock led the horse around the side of the fort and toward the back. Tree limbs brushed at Keely's back and she pressed herself against Brock.
"So there you are . . ."
Brock pulled on the reins, halting the horse. Leaning against the crude fort wall stood Micah. His clothes were blackened, his blond hair was pulled from his neat queue, and he was bleeding at his chin, but other than that, he had fared the battle well. In his hands he held a rifle, aimed at Brock's middle.
Brock's voice was frightfully low. "Haven't you done enough, Micah?"
Keely leaned forward, staring at Micah venomously. "He killed Jenna! He shot her on that dock!"
"I know," Brock responded.
"Keely, get down from that horse and come with me," Micah ordered. "We made a deal. You're mine."
She laughed, tightening her arms around her husband's bare midsection. "I was never yours, Micah. Never!"
His lower lip quivered. "Don't say that. You told me you could love me. You said we would go to Europe. I was going to take you to Paris."
"I lied."
Micah dashed at the corners of his eyes as moisture formed in them. "All I wanted was for you to love me, Keely. Like you loved him."
She stared at the pitiful man. "Let us go, Micah."
"No!" He shook his head adamantly and raised the rifle. He pulled back the hammer. "One ball and you're both dead. Clean through the both of you. If I can't have you, he can't . . . no one can."
Brock moved his hands slightly, and Micah waved the rifle. "Don't move! You move and I shoot!"
"You said you were going to shoot anyway," Brock retorted.
Keely watched his tears trickle, making winding paths down Micah's sooty face. Her hand brushed against the pistol in Brock's waistband and he stiffened slightly. She couldn't let this madman ruin her life. He had tried once; he'd not succeed this time. She wasn't certain she could fire the gun. She'd never killed another living thing, but for Brock, for her baby, for their love . . . If someone has to die, she thought, it must be Micah.
Beneath Brock's arm, Keely moved her hand ever so slightly, slipping the pistol from Brock's waistband. "Don't do this, Micah," she begged.
"I have to, Keely. I can't let him take you." Micah's hands shook and the tears flowed down his face, so twisted with pain. "I loved you so much . . ."
Time lost all meaning as Keely saw Micah close his eyes. She pulled back the hammer of Brock's pistol and squeezed the trigger just as Micah pulled the trigger on his rifle. Two shots fired almost simultaneously and she watched in horror as Micah fell back under the impact of the bullet that pierced his chest. In a second it was over and Micah was dead, his lifeless body slumping to the ground.
Brock twisted in the saddle, his bronze face reflecting a mixture of sorrow and relief. "I'm sorry you had to do that." He took the pistol gently from Keely's shaking hand.
"I'm sorry too," she answered, still stunned.
Brock kissed her mouth, brushing her rich red hair from her cheek. "I have a little girl at home looking for her mama."
Keely smiled, her eyes filled with tears. "I love you," she whispered, staring into the depths of his ebony eyes.
"I love you, ki-ti-hi."
Turning, Brock lifted the reins and sank his heels into the steed's sides, and together the two rode off through the forest.
The End
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Want more historical romance?
Here's an excerpt from Judith E. French's
RACHEL'S CHOICE
Prologue
Pea Patch Island, Delaware
April 23, 1864
"You're a dead man, Chancellor!"
A musket ball whined over Chance’s head, and he dropped to his knees in the wet sand and buried his face in his best friend’s chest.
“Put me down,” Travis whispered hoarsely. “It’s no use. I’m done for.”
Chance could hear the baying of the dogs above the guards’ shouting. Another few minutes and the starless night and the waist-high tangle of brush and driftwood wouldn’t hide them from the bullets or the cold steel of a guard’s bayonet. Travis was hurt bad; he’d taken a hit to the side and another through his thigh. Chance could hear the grate of bone against bone as he cradled him in his arms.
“Leave me!” Travis rasped.
Chance’s mouth tasted of ashes; he could feel the strength draining out of Travis’s body. “Can’t do it, buddy. I owe you one. Remember? It’s my turn to play hero.”
“This is . . . different.” A shuddering groan escaped Travis’s throat. “No need . . . for both of us to die.”
Fear twisted in Chance’s gut. He couldn’t see the Delaware River through the swirling fog, but he could smell the salt wind and hear the slap of waves against the beach.
He wanted to live.
Death had come for him at the Second Manassas and later in the reeking mud of a farm lane at Fredericksburg. He’d been afraid of dying before; hell, any soldier who said he wasn’t scared was either a liar or a madman. But in three years of war, he’d never felt the brush of the dark angel’s wings as he did at that instant.
Another musket boomed, lighting tha night with a flash of fire.
“Over here!” a man shouted. “Footprints. They ran through here!”
A lantern bobbed, and Chance caught a glimpse of a barrel-chested man in a blue Union cap. The hounds sprinted closer by the second. The lead dog’s bellow rang out through the clinging mist.
“Leave me, damn it!” Travis insisted. “You can still make it.”
Tears streamed down Chance’s face. “What do I tell Mary?”
“Tell her to name the baby after you.”
“No! It’s both or neither of us.” Chance staggered to his feet with Travis still in his arms and dashed toward the water’s edge. Travis had lost two stone of weight since they were captured at Gettysburg, but he was still almost more than Chance could carry.
“There!” a Yankee screamed.
A volley of musket fire exploded behind Chance. Something slammed into him with the force of a sledgehammer. There was no pain, but he suddenly found himself sprawled on the sand, losing his hold on his wounded friend.
“Travis! Travis!” Chance’s voice croaked like an old man’s, and he felt curiously weak as he tried to rise.
Hot on their scent, the dog pack spilled across the narrow beach. Chance could scarcely make out the guards’ curses for the frenzied barking of the animals.
Chance had trouble telling up from down. Spinning stars whirled in his head, and his legs felt heavy, his muscles too weak to carry him.
“Don’t let him get away! Four days’ pass for any man vat blows his head off!”
That guttural Pennsylvania Dutch accent pierced Chance’s stupor. Sergeant Daniel Coblentz.
The v
enom in Coblentz’s words did what Chance’s will couldn’t. Rising on hands and knees, Chance began to crawl toward the smell of water.
Another bullet struck the sand beside him, driving needles of grit into his face and arms. And then an incoming wave washed over his hands.
“Stop him!”
“Swim, damn you!” Travis yelled. “Swim for—”
A dull thud cut off his friend’s shouts, and then Chance was on his feet and plunging knee-deep into the bay. “I’ll come back for you, Travis!” he swore. “I promise you—I’ll come back!”
When the water reached his waist, Chance took a deep breath and dived under. The frigid tide enveloped him, blunting the force of the spinning musket ball that tore a furrow of fire along his hip.
Chance swam until his lungs screamed for air, then surfaced long enough to gulp a breath and hear the clamor of his pursuers from a patrol boat a dozen yards away.
“Rebel bastard. Hope he freezes to death.”
“ . . . not goin’ anywhere. He left a trail of blood on the beach.”
“Futterin’ waste of our time. Current don’t get him, the sharks will.”
A searchlight skimmed the tops of the choppy waves. As the beam neared Chance’s head, he let himself sink into the black water until his fingers touched the bottom before he began to swim again.
He was past hope, but if the river took him, it didn’t matter anymore. He would die a free man.
Buy RACHEL'S CHOICE
Colleen French is a multiple award-winning and bestselling novelist, daughter of bestselling novelist Judith E. French. Colleen French has written more than 125 novels under several pen names. Colleen's print books have sold more than 1 million copies and been translated into Bulgarian, French, Italian, Mandarin, and Spanish. Colleen's Native American novels are inspired by her English, Scottish, Irish, Welsh, and Lenni-Lenape ancestry and the Del-Mar Peninsula near the Chesapeake Bay, where her family has made its home for more than 300 years. Colleen French was awarded The Diamond Award for Literary Excellence from the State of Delaware. Her books appeal to readers of C. J. Petit, Shirleen Davies, Karen Kay, Madeline Baker, Elle Marlow, Ellen O'Connell, Caroline Fyffe, and Hannah Howell. She can be contacted at [email protected].
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