by A. W. Exley
Loki narrowed his gaze and huffed. The lad really did have a knack for ruining his fun. But he reluctantly admitted that there was a good chance the trigger-happy soldiers would shoot Marika. “Very well, the forest route.”
Marika walked between them, her slim body pressed against Miguel and his arm around her waist. Her eyes were wide with worry. Soldiers marched back and forth yelling commands and ordering the few people they saw back inside their homes. Of more concern to Loki were the men clutching rifles who swelled their ranks. Austin had drawn on a militia force to increase his numbers. Just how long had he been planning his little coup?
They skirted the edge of the bright marker that ringed the town and now cut the village green in half. There was only a small expanse of grass to cross before they would be under the shelter of the forest. A soldier patrolled one spot of lawn, pacing back and forth. His head swung as he focused his gaze on them.
“Oi! Maori aren’t allowed in town,” he called out.
“Marika’s not in town. We’re escorting her back to the pa,” Loki replied.
“She could be a spy. The colonel has instructed us to bring any Maori found close to town to the barracks for further questioning.” He unshouldered his rifle, wound the strap around one hand, and pointed the barrel in their direction.
This was why Loki didn’t like rules and orders; people followed them too zealously and caused problems. “Bollocks. She’s not a spy. Marika is our translator and has been helping with local relations.”
Miguel pushed the young woman behind him and drew his knife. Loki stepped into the soldier’s space before his first mate made a rash move. He pointed a finger at the soldier’s nose, forcing the man cross-eyed. “You leave her alone or you won’t be walking away from here. Make your choice.”
“You are harbouring the enemy.” The man gestured with his rifle to the young woman sheltering behind Miguel.
“And you’re following the orders of a jumped-up buffoon. We’re not bothering you or crossing your line—unless you want to step out here and talk to us about it? My young friend here is quite skilled with a knife,” Loki offered.
The man paused, looking down at the smear of paint and then up at the determined glint in Miguel’s gaze. The youth held his blade lightly, ready to throw it as soon as the soldier crossed the line.
The soldier shook his head and declined Loki’s offer. “Get her out of here.”
Loki muttered under his breath. Scared men were unpredictable and this lot had twitchy trigger fingers. They entered the cool embrace of the trees and breathed a sigh of relief. Birds called from above and flightless creatures snuffled among the damp leaves underfoot.
They hadn’t walked too far when a familiar shape appeared before them: Hone. He walked toward Loki and stopped directly in front of him. Then the warrior reached out a large hand and wrapped it around the back of Loki’s neck. He pulled him forward—not for a kiss, which was what Loki expected. Instead he rested his forehead to the pirate’s, and nose to nose. They stood silent, in an act more intimate than a kiss, for it didn’t involve doing anything except being aware of the other person. Their breath mingled in what Marika had called the merging of their essence.
When Hone let Loki go, a wave of loss rolled over him. Attraction to the warrior sizzled under Loki’s skin and the ache in his chest moved lower down. His body ached for alone time with the chief. Blasted Austin was the fly in Loki’s soup, ruining everything.
“Paniha told us there was trouble when she brought the children back,” Hone said. Behind him two more men materialised. “We came to ensure Marika returned to us safely.”
“I pass her from my hands to yours,” Loki said.
Hone squeezed Loki’s shoulder and let him go. “My thanks. We did not want her to miss the celebration tonight.”
The chief’s protection extended to every person in his tribe. Loki wondered if it was exhausting, worrying about everyone else all the time. Then his mind locked on one particular word. “Celebration?”
“Tonight Paniha and I will be married. There will be a great feast.” Hone’s gaze darkened and his nostrils flared.
“So soon?” The burst of heat in the warrior’s gaze made Loki’s ache worse. Thinking of weddings turned his thoughts to the wedding night. That was one private celebration he would love to crawl up the middle of, but now he would be left out in the cold.
“It has been planned for some time, but we had hoped to include the entire town. Now, it will not be safe for the feast to be held here in the clearing like last time. But the actions of one small man will not stop us,” Hone said.
“Austin is drunk on power already with his stupid line. That soldier out there tried to call Marika an enemy.” Loki waved at the bright red uniform just visible through the dense foliage.
“I’m glad you came to fetch Marika, but I assure you I wouldn’t let any harm befall her,” Miguel said, still clutching her hand.
The maiden smiled at Miguel and then stood on her toes to place a soft kiss on his lips. Miguel wrapped his arms around her and drew her to him in a tight embrace.
Loki nearly cheered—at last the couple had progressed past hand-holding. He had begun to worry. Miguel could be a little too proper at times but Marika was pulling him out of his shell. What else was she tugging on?
Having thoroughly kissed the young woman, Miguel let her go and she went to Hone’s side.
“Another man has been killed, which allows him to declare the town English territory,” Miguel said, shooting down Loki’s sexy thoughts about what he might be getting up to with the nubile maiden.
Conversation returned to the more pressing topic. While speculating about his first mate’s love life was diverting, it would have to wait for another time. Loki glanced at Hone. “Colonel Austin is setting up his own little empire.”
“He has already sent a red-clad soldier to the pa to tell us we are to stay out.” Hone huffed a quiet laugh. “He does not seem to understand this is our land. No white line can make it his. Next rainfall will wash it away.”
“Don’t underestimate a small man wielding a little power.” Loki rubbed his chin. Trouble was brewing, and it would soon erupt.
16
The rest of the late afternoon passed without incident, if you overlooked Austin mobilising his scant forces to march back and forth. Loki compared him to a child playing with tin soldiers, setting them up and moving them around a playing field—albeit a very petulant child, one who would throw a tantrum if things didn’t go his way.
After dinner, Loki and Miguel sat on the verandah staring into the dark. Frustration bubbled under Loki’s skin and he fidgeted on the chair. Up on the pa, the Maori were celebrating the marriage of Hone and Paniha. Meanwhile Loki—the best party guest anyone could hope for—was shut out because some jumped-up bureaucrat had said he couldn’t cross a painted line.
“You’re sulking, aren’t you?” Miguel asked.
“Damn right.” He took a swig from his beer.
Given Hone's status as chief, under normal circumstances his marriage would be celebrated by the entire community, much like the feast to welcome the new immigrants. Now, due to Austin’s paranoia and stupid rules, it wasn’t safe to venture out in the dark lest you get shot as an enemy collaborator. It was far more than simply missing out on a party; the couple had wormed their way inside him and Loki wanted to bask in their happiness. If he couldn’t have either one, at least he could see them bound to each other.
“Why don’t you just go?” Miguel finally said. “It’s not like you to worry about stepping over the line—literally, for change.”
Why was he sitting here, obeying Austin’s command? Damned emerging conscience wanted him to do the right thing, so he sat in the dark obeying a stupid rule. Except in this circumstance, doing the wrong thing was the right thing to do. In a short period of time he had come to think of both Hone and Paniha as friends. More than friends, if only he could wrangle things his way. There was an aur
a around the large warrior that drew Loki in. They had an undeniable attraction to each other, and even Paniha had warmed to him. She had kissed him, after all. Not as fiercely as Hone had, but flames were building between the three of them. And Loki was the freezing cold man who desperately wanted a spot in front of that fire.
He jumped to his feet. “Damn it. You’re right. Austin’s not going to stop me from joining the party if I can sneak past his men. But I can’t arrive empty handed.”
What did you give as a wedding present for a couple who had nothing material, but everything they could desire? An idea slammed into him. Well, two ideas. The first one was to present himself, but his newly emerging conscience seemed to be dampening his ego. If he offered himself and was rebuffed he might burst into tears or beg for a scrap of affection like a mangy dog. His next-best idea was quality alcohol.
He had a remarkably fine bottle of brandy on the Jenny Elle that he had been saving for a special occasion—like Cara Devon appearing naked in his cabin. The liquor would be the perfect thing to share with the happy couple. Maybe if he got the two of them drunk, he could lead them toward his idea of the perfect end to their evening.
“I would say ‘stay out of trouble,’ but we both know that would be pointless.” Miguel saluted him with his ale.
“Don’t wait up.” Loki winked and then headed for his cabin on the airship. First he tidied up his appearance, brushed his teeth and found the bottle of brandy. Then he headed out into the night. In London, smog from coal fires often obscured the sky above, here he could appreciate the moon and stars. A silvery light washed the landscape and illuminated the white line. Technically he crossed it twice, since he had to traverse the town to reach the pa. Once in, once out—did that cancel itself out?
Loki didn’t want to risk circling around through the forest—it would be so dark he might end up wandering lost until morning. That would never do, to miss the party completely. The main street was deserted. Slivers of light escaped around shutters and the odd burst of laughter or voices came from behind shut doors.
The patrolling soldiers were easy to avoid, as they carried lanterns to light their way. No wonder the British had lost the war out here: They made themselves beacons in the dark, and easy targets. Loki ducked between buildings to wait until they passed. Soon he stepped over the line again and headed up the gentle incline.
An orange glow sat above the pa. They must have lit multiple fires for it to shine up at the night sky. Snatches of music and laughter drifted down the slope. The celebration must be in full swing, the perfect time for him to arrive. He should have gone with Hone when they’d handed over Marika; he could have spent the afternoon basking in the sun and watching preparations for the festivities.
As Loki reached the terrace with the mounded potatoes, he encountered one tiny nagging detail that derailed his plans. He hadn’t anticipated that the Maori would patrol to keep the English out, just as the English were walking their line to keep the natives away. A half dozen Maori warriors emerged from the dark and encircled Loki, their taiaha pointed at his chest.
Austin’s decree had made the Maori more protective of their own—or were they guarding the wedding party in case Austin launched an attack? Smart move, really—no man wanted to be ambushed and slaughtered while celebrating his wedding. He wouldn’t put it past Austin, except for the fact the British army kept gentlemen’s hours. Battles weren’t allowed to start before 9am.
Loki peered into the dark, confident this lot would recognise him even though he had difficulty placing their obscured faces. In the dim light of the moon, the men blended in with the shadows, and he couldn’t identify Hone’s warriors amongst them. Surely everyone knew Captain Hawke, didn’t they? He had been at the pa often enough; these fellows should all know his face and form.
Loki held up his hands and pointed to the bottle he carried. “I have something for Hone and Paniha.”
The men spoke to one another, then flung more questions in Maori at him. Loki finally admitted Miguel was right. He should have made more effort to learn the local language. He seemed to be in a tight spot and, oddly, these men didn’t seem to respond to his English answers. He thought most of the men would possess at least a passing understanding of his tongue. Then he remembered the wide-eyed children and how Paniha had interpreted his tale of the shark encounter. Maybe they truly didn’t understand a word he said? But his intent was clear and he was unarmed. Well, apart from a couple of knives, but they didn’t really count.
“Look, I’ll just head up to the pa and Hone can deal with me. Preferably in a very rough fashion,” he added under his breath.
He tapped a spear end out of the way and took a step forward, only to be thrust back. Voices raised in pitch with an angry edge. This lot didn’t look familiar. If Hone had people visiting from other tribes, they might not know him. Even worse, the chief might have declared the pa a European-free zone. Austin was zealous enough to snatch any passing Maori as an enemy spy; what if this lot likewise thought he was a danger to them?
One of the men grabbed the bottle of brandy from his grasp and held it up, his gaze narrowed as though he suspected it of being a weapon. The only way the aged liquor would be dangerous was if you thrust a lit rag in the top. And no one was doing that to his expensive brandy.
“Careful, that’s going to be difficult to replace.” Loki racked his brain for the few Maori phrases he had learned, but none seemed appropriate to the circumstance.
“Come on. Take me to your leader.” He held his wrists together as if bound and gestured up the hill, hoping they took his meaning.
Apparently not. The warrior on his left drew back his arm and punched him. The blow rocked him back on his feet and Loki staggered. One hand shot to his face.
Loki swore under his breath. He didn’t want to fight these people; he had ventured out in the dark after curfew to celebrate with them. He thought they were his friends, but he wasn’t going to let them pummel him. No one did that without providing dinner first.
He shook his head to clear the ringing and held up his hands. “Friends?”
The man who threw the jab looked to the man next to him and asked a question. Loki seized on the distraction and threw his own punch. His right hook connected with the man’s jaw and pain shot up his knuckles. The man must have a granite jaw. He rubbed his hand and considered his next move.
The blanket of night masked the next strike, which came from a different direction. Another warrior joined the fray and smacked Loki in the right temple with such force he suspected the man carried a brick. Light flickered through his vision as though he were running through a dense forest filtered by sunlight. Then his knees buckled. In slow motion, Loki dropped to the ground.
One part of his brain toyed with unconsciousness, but he held on desperately. Once he closed his eyes he would lose all control, and he needed to know what they planned to do with him. He’d intended to join the party, but not a war party. These men needed to understand he was friend and not foe. What would they do with a suspected enemy warrior? He could find himself strung up and eviscerated before he could explain his presence. It was possible that picking a fight wasn’t his smartest move.
Loki swayed again as his ears rang with a high-pitched vibration. Shaking his head only drove the noise deeper into his head, like a tuning fork thrust through his ear. The light dimmed further and he slumped to his hands. This was going badly.
Two men picked him up, one taking each arm as they half carried and half dragged him up the hill. One of the warriors shouted out commands in their lyrical tongue and was answered by the two men supporting Loki. His eyes rolled up into his head as he drifted in and out of awareness. Damn, these Maori had a punch on them.
It was hard enough to make out what was happening in the dark, but with the dusk that fell over his brain Loki may as well have been blind. The men were indistinct shapes, blurring and merging with their surroundings. They half pulled and half dragged him through the terraced ga
rdens. Loki tried to dig his toes in, to pull away and break free, but it was a futile effort. His brain was still reeling, leaving his body a limp, stuffed scarecrow.
A dim awareness told him when the ground levelled out under his feet and flares of light surrounded him. Then darkness fell again and his feet stopped moving as he was either pushed or fell to his knees. The supporting hands let him go, but for some reason he didn’t fall over. The squeal echoing in his head continued to block out all noise, but no one touched or moved him anymore.
He was alone.
Loki allowed himself a moment to drop his head, close his eyes, and force his rattled brain to co-operate. After several deep breaths (or did he nod off?) he opened his eyes and tried again. A lantern threw out a soft flickering light, and the scene emerged before him as though a mist evaporated.
He was being held in a Maori hut, probably within the pa. Beneath his feet were soft woven-flax mats; overhead was a thick thatched roof. The walls were made of timbers. To one side, a large stuffed mattress sat on the floor. Atop it was another mat and then a pile of furs and blankets for colder nights. A plain chair sat by the lantern, as though someone used the light to read. A chest was pushed up against another side, its sides worn and scratched. Another wall held a taller cabinet and a small table.
Loki reached out a hand, but it didn’t obey his command. That was when he turned his head.
“Well, fuck.” He was tied between the two strong posts that supported the roof.
The ringing in his ears diminished and the music and laughter from outside filtered into the hut, along with the delicious aroma of what he hoped was roasting pork. But was it wild boar or long pork?
Rumours of cannibalism swirled about many different cultures that the British viewed as savage. The Maori were no exception, and he had heard the stories of early European explorers who ended up in a pot. He had dismissed such tales as mere fancy—but then he remembered what he had seen inside the marae. The shrunken heads hanging from small alcoves had to come from somewhere, but were they the heads of Maori ancestors, or of pakeha who picked a fight with a war party?