The Captured Bride

by Griep, Michelle;

  The rank tang of bear grease.

  She whirled, knife raised.

  And two eyes—darker than her own—stared into her soul.

  Elias glanced over his shoulder from his perch on the wagon seat, studying the trees yet again. No buff-colored skirts broke the green monotony—and that rankled him. It had been too long since Mercy had hied herself into the woods to take care of her morning business. The grind and suck of Matthew’s wagon wheels were nothing but a memory by now. Maybe that stew from last night hadn’t set well in the woman’s belly.

  Or maybe she had met with trouble.

  He swung down to the ground, heels sinking into the soft earth. Thunderation! What he wouldn’t give for a gun to grip.

  Following the route of flattened greenery, he worked his way into the woods. Every so often he spotted a small footprint pressed into the mud. Only one set of prints though. No other humans or animals. He thought about calling softly for her, so as not to startle her if she really were just doubled over with cramps or such. The ways of women were and always would be a mystery.

  But he changed his mind as he scented a faint whiff of bear grease. Alert to the slightest sounds, he crept onward, bent low, one thought burning white hot: Kill or be killed.

  Oh God, for Mercy’s sake, let me find her before it is too late.

  Twenty yards farther he stopped and molded his body against a black-trunked hemlock. Ten paces to his left, Mercy stared wide-eyed at a mountain of an Indian, her face stricken. One swipe of the man’s massive hand could split her skull. Yet she stood still and straight, God bless her, neither wilting nor swooning.

  Elias’s blood ran colder than the rain trickling in between collar and skin. He’d have to move fast and quiet, a panther on the prowl.

  Step by step, drawing on all his experience of shadow walking, he advanced, edging in behind the warrior. Two paces more and he’d snap the man’s neck—a sorry sight for Mercy to have to witness, but better the man’s life than hers.

  Her eyes widened, as did her mouth. “No!”

  Elias lunged. Too late. The man had turned. Elias’s grip slid into a mere chokehold. Blast! The man’s feet scrabbled for purchase on the slick ground as he clawed at Elias’s arm.

  Elias choked all the tighter—until his own feet slipped.

  They whumped to mud and rock, tumbling in a death roll. Whoever landed on top would hold the advantage. If he died here, what would become of Mercy?

  Lord, give me strength.

  With a feral growl, he tore into the Indian, riding atop him. His fist crunched into the man’s nose and sank into cartilage, splitting his knuckles.

  “Enough!” Mercy screamed. “I know this man!”

  The words stung, making no more sense than the drone of hornets, nor did the following guttural language she spewed. For a single startled moment, he pulled back, hand still clenched and ready to strike. Was this some kind of foul trick?

  The big man shoved him off and stood. Turning aside, he spit out a mouthful of blood.

  Elias rose on jittery legs, the drive to fight still flexing each of his muscles. Keeping one eye on the Indian, he spoke to Mercy. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course I’m all right.” She threw out her hands. “Onontio is my brother.”

  Brother? He eyed her warily. “You are not in danger?”

  She frowned. “I am not some fair maiden in need of saving, especially not from that one.” She tipped her chin at the big man.

  Words flew between Mercy and her supposed brother, and Elias tried to read their body language, so foreign were the words. Of only two things he was certain—they definitely knew one another, and the man was a Mohawk.

  As if reading Elias’s mind, the brute turned a savage glower toward him.

  Mercy laughed.

  Elias shot his gaze to her. “What did he say?”

  “He says for one so small, you hit like a fallen boulder.”

  “Small!” His hands clenched once again.

  Mercy shrugged. “To Onontio everyone is small.”

  The man’s eyes flashed back to hers. Despite her claim of kinship, there was nothing alike about them. He was night to her day, beast to her feline sleekness. More words passed between them until each held up a hand.

  “Ó:nen ki› wáhi, Onontio.” Her farewell was plain enough to understand.

  “Ó:nen ki› wáhi, Kahente.” The big man gave the slightest of nods, then stalked off into the woods.

  Kahente? Was that her native name?

  Mercy turned on her heel and strode back toward the wagon, not pausing a step as she called over her shoulder, “We should make haste.”

  Elias caught up to her and grabbed her arm, pulling her back. “Hold on. You cannot expect me to let this pass without first telling me what is going on.”

  A crescent dimple curved like a small frown on her chin. “Onontio”—she glanced at the man’s retreating form—“is my half brother. He came to warn me—us—there are signs the Wyandot are on the move. The sooner we make Fort Edward, the better…unless you prefer to meet up with your French allies?”

  Elias huffed out a low breath, spent and weary. He’d been at this duplicitous game far too long. He could more than hold his own with the Wyandot, but the woman in front of him and the ranger he was coming to respect wouldn’t stand a chance. As for Rufus, well…better not to wish so horrific an end even to such a slackard.

  He pulled back his hand and flexed his sore fingers. “You are right—it is best we move on.”

  Her brow raised with a flicker of skepticism, but she turned and trod through the wet woods on feet as silent as his.

  He guarded her back the whole way, but each empty-handed step was a grim reminder that should a war party cross their path, he was no match unarmed. “I would be a lot more help to you and everyone if you would just give me a gun,” he muttered.

  “You could be a lot more dangerous too.” She reached for the wagon seat and hefted herself up.

  He snorted. “As dangerous as a Wyandot bent on a killing rage? You have no idea.”

  The woman blinked down at him. “And you do?”

  He shook his head, fighting back memories of slaughter and carnage. He’d seen things, done things, no woman or man should ever have to witness, all for the call of duty. Sickened, he felt his gut twist. Save for God’s grace, he’d still be such a monster.

  Mercy bent down toward him. “I’m not afraid of Wyandots, Mr. Dubois. Nor am I afraid of you.”

  “Maybe you should be.” He lowered his voice. “Because if killing any of you were what I was about, I would have done it by now.”

  He stomped to the other side of the wagon. If what her half brother had warned was true, they had best get a move on, for the Wyandots were ruthless killers.

  A fact he knew far better than most, for he’d learned his skills from them.

  Five days of solid rain—and as many wet nights—yet still no sign of the danger Onontio had warned about. Mercy tugged the brim of her old felt hat lower, glad she’d brought it along. Though they had not run into any Wyandot thus far, she’d rest easier once they made Fort Edward.

  “Cursed weather,” she mumbled.

  On the wagon seat next to her, Elias angled his head, moisture collecting like tiny diamonds on the ends of his beard. “There is no shame riding inside, especially after scouting in the rain. Go dry off.”

  She shook her head. “’Tisn’t that. It’s just such blessed slow going. We won’t reach the fort in two weeks. We’ve traveled six days already and aren’t near to a third of the way there.”

  “You tired of my company?” He flashed an easy grin.

  Too easy. Must the man be as bountiful in his humor as he was in good looks? And therein lay the problem—she wasn’t tired of his presence, and in fact was beginning to develop an unhealthy appetite for it. She turned her face before he could read the truth warming her cheeks. Despite his claim of latent violence, Elias Dubois was far too good-nat
ured.

  “So tell me.” His voice rumbled along with the wagon wheels. “What does it mean? Your name, that is.”

  The query tangled into snarls as thick as those she brushed from her hair each night. “You bow your head over meals and betimes steal off to bend your knee, and yet you ask me such a question? Clearly you know the meaning of mercy and believe in a God who grants it, elsewise you’d not go to so much trouble.”

  “Trouble?” His brows shot high. “Nay. ’Tis a privilege. An honor. Why is it you sound as if belief in such a God is a struggle?”

  “I never said that.” She tucked her chin, shrinking from the uncomfortable turn of conversation. It wasn’t that she did not believe a merciful God existed, for truly, was not the first cry of a newborn babe or the way the mists rose on a summer morn proof enough? No, indeed. God was real, as close as the breath filling her lungs.

  She just wasn’t sure she could trust Him. Her mother’s faith in a merciful God surely hadn’t protected her. Absently, she reached up and fingered the locket through the fabric of her gown.

  Elias clicked his tongue and slapped the reins, urging the horses through a slick of mud. “What I meant was your people’s name—Kahente. I have been thinking on all the Mohawk words I know, which admittedly are few, and I cannot square it.”

  She clenched her jaw to keep from dropping her mouth. No sense letting the man know how often he surprised her, for that would only encourage him. “You speak Kanien’keha?”

  “Just enough to get me killed.” His white teeth flashed in the gloom of the day.

  A smirk twisted her lips. That he knew any of the people’s language warmed her heart in a strange way—though she’d not admit it aloud. “Kahente means ‘before her time.’”

  Rows of furrows marred his brow, but he did not prod her any further. Obviously the man’s curiosity was as insatiable as her own, yet he shied away from forcing the matter.

  She hid a smile, her esteem for him growing. “There’s not much to it, really. I merely did not wait the nine moons to leave my mother’s womb, but came at seven.”

  “A credible explanation.” He flicked the reins, snapping the horses into a faster pace. “But I think whoever gave you that name had much more in mind.”

  How could he know what thoughts Black-Fox-Running had pieced together those many years ago? She studied Elias’s profile as he drove, looking for some hint of what he meant. His strong-cut jaw did not so much as twitch, nor did he look at her. Was he baiting her for the sheer sport of it, or did he truly have another thought on the matter?

  “What do you mean?”

  “You speak your mind without pausing to listen to reason. You don’t wait for danger to pass but run headlong after it. So in those respects, I would say you are before your time, for there’s nothing patient about you.” He slipped his gaze her way. “Kahente.”

  The anger that had been building from his stinging assessment melted away with the heat of his gaze. Her native name flowed so easily from his lips, she couldn’t help but stare. His was a fine mouth. Wide and strong. Thick and full. What would it feel like to—

  She jerked her face forward. So many queer feelings churned inside her belly that she had to be some kind of sick. What was wrong with her? Maybe a visit to a healer ought to be her first order of business when they did make the fort. Likely she had tick fever or some other such ailment.

  “Who gave you the name?” he asked.

  She frowned. Maybe she should have taken his suggestion and crawled back beneath the canvas, for he was getting far too comfortable with conversation.

  “My father.” She pressed her mouth shut. That was all she’d offer, no matter what inquiries followed.

  But no more questions came. The wagon rattled along on slickened weeds. Rain fell slow and steady.

  And blending with it all came the bass murmur of Elias’s voice. “So your mother must be white…which explains a lot.”

  She cocked her head. What did this stranger think he knew of her? “Such as?”

  “Your ability to speak two languages. Your ease among the British and their acceptance of you. Your uncommon knowledge of this land.” He faced her head-on. “Your beauty.”

  “Beauty?” She flung the word back at him as a surge of anger shot through her. She’d heard that before, usually followed by an unsolicited touch. Why was it that once a man discovered her mixed heritage, he suddenly thought her easy prey?

  She narrowed her eyes. “Better men than you have mocked me, Elias Dubois, only to find themselves flat on the ground.”

  “Oh, I assure you, Miss Lytton, I meant every word.”

  She went back to scanning the road. Better that than natter nonsense with a man who had an answer for everything.

  Far in the distance, shapes thickened on the road. Scooting to the edge of her seat, she grabbed the wagon’s side for balance and peered ahead through the wet veil. One by one she shut down all other senses save for sight. The slog of the wheels faded. The creak of leather and jingling tack disappeared. The jarring ride on the hard seat vanished as she focused far down the trail, beyond what should be seen.

  Breathe. Breathe.

  And there…rocks. Lots of them. A pile of stones had slid onto the road, blocking the route.

  “There’s a problem ahead.” Her own voice pulled her from the trance.

  Elias frowned at her, then narrowed his eyes into the distance. “I see nothing.”

  “You will.”

  With his free hand, he rubbed his eyes, then leaned forward and rescanned the trail. “No, nothing…or maybe…”

  The wagon rolled along until the undeniable shape of a mound of jagged rocks came into view. It appeared to be a rockslide, the rubble having fallen from a steep bank on one side of the road. With so much rain, it was no wonder. But even so, she snatched up her gun and loaded the pan.

  Elias pulled back on the reins and set the brake. He scanned the area as well, but breathed out in a whisper, “How did you see that?”

  Was that awe or accusation roughening his voice? Not that she could answer, for she’d never come up with a suitable way to explain her keen sight even to herself. So she didn’t bother. Her gift was as much a part of her as her hands or arms—and she never had to explain those away.

  Hefting her leg over the side of the wagon, she scrambled down to the wet earth and probed the immediate area. On the other side, Elias did the same.

  In time, Matthew’s low, “Whoa,” and the snort of his horses caught up. By now, both she and Elias had met and stopped at the edge of a four-foot-high pile of rocks, wide enough to lay five bodies head to toe across. She could feel the gaze of Elias’s blue eyes hitting between her shoulder blades, but she did not turn, not even when he joined her side and asked her again how she’d seen the rockslide from so far back.

  Matthew’s footsteps tromped up to settle on the other side of her. A low whistle passed his lips. “This journey is cursed.”

  Rufus skittered up next to Elias, then bent and hefted one of the fallen rocks with his own curse. He lobbed the chunk of granite with another profanity.

  In spite of the rain, Elias yanked off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “It appears Rufus has the right idea.”

  Mercy gawked at him. “We’re to stand here and curse the rocks away?”

  “No.” He reset his hat and turned to her. “We will heft them out one by one.”

  Matthew hissed through his teeth. “There goes the rest of the day.”

  Mercy frowned. The thought of wasting more time pinched tighter than the stays digging into her ribs. If they backtracked to Megrith Crossing and headed west, they would meet up with a passage just wide enough to accommodate their wagons, a trail riding on higher ground—ground not littered with a ton of rock.

  She peered at Elias from beneath her hat brim. Would he listen this time? “I know another way. ’Tis a little narrow, but it’ll do.” She swung about to face Matthew. “What say you?”

>   Matthew looked past her to Elias. Some kind of manly conversation took place, but hard to tell what with naught but a grunt and a half shrug from either of them.

  Rufus hefted another rock. “Listen to the half-breed, she oughta know—”

  Elias moved so fast, air rushed past Mercy’s cheek. He grabbed Rufus by the collar and hoisted him up, letting his gawky body dangle like a shirt pegged on a line. Rufus’s face purpled to an ugly shade of dark, his feet kicking and his hands clawing at Elias’s arm.

  “Her name is Mercy—and I will have none of the sort for you the next time you call her otherwise.” Elias’s tone was deadly flat. For a breathless eternity, he held Rufus aloft; then his fingers splayed.

  Rufus dropped. Gasping and rasping, he staggered like a soldier on leave.

  Mercy glanced at Matthew to gauge his reaction, for she wasn’t sure what to make of it. He said nothing, but his lips twisted into a wry smile.

  Bypassing Rufus, Elias strode toward the wagon and called over his shoulder, “Remount. This time we will try Mercy’s way.”

  It took all of Elias’s resolve not to gape at the woman next to him as he urged the horses back to plod through the same mud slick they had slogged across before. He often marveled at God’s great wonders. The pounding rush of spray at the bottom of a waterfall. A spiderweb dazzling silver in dawn’s breaking light. The sacrifice of a mother’s heart. But Mercy Lytton took his astonishment to a whole new level. His eyesight was keen—enough to shoot a lead ball through the eye of a raven in full flight at five rods off. Yet he hadn’t seen that rockslide until a fair sight after Mercy spied it, and he couldn’t fathom how she did.

  Nor did he like it.

  “There.” She lifted a slim finger and pointed. “Just past that stand of sugar maples.”

  He slowed the horses as they neared the spot. Green growth, thick and wild from the rain, tangled as high as the horses’ shoulders, in some places near to touching their withers. Easing back on the reins, he quirked a brow at her. “That is a road?”