The Captured Bride

by Griep, Michelle;

  “Perhaps.”

  And if he did, then God help them both.

  Wrists yet bound, Mercy shoved her hands onto the ground and pushed up to sit. Pale blue eyes watched her every move. In front of her, a girl—not long before the bloom of maidenhood—sat with her back against a strip-barked wall, knees drawn up in front of her. By Mercy’s best calculation, she could be no more than ten or eleven summers, but stillness radiated out from her, like that of a sage old woman. The girl’s blond hair tangled past her shoulders, draped over a wrinkled and dirty gown, yet she bore no scrapes or bruises. Apparently their captives were treating her well—which meant the girl would be either adopted or given in trade.

  “Who are you?” Mercy asked.

  “Deliverance, but call me Livvy, like my mother did.” The girl’s voice cracked, and she sniffed. Pain creased her brow, and Mercy knew better than to ask. Lord knew what the girl had suffered before landing here.

  Livvy’s brow dipped lower, concern thickening her young voice. “They did not treat you very nicely, did they, ma’am?”

  “No, they did not.” The throbbing in her skull and festering ache on her shoulder screamed in agreement. And judging by the way her hands were still bound, she could expect more cruelty to follow.

  Even so, she forced a small smile. “I am Mercy, and you are very kind. How long have you been here, Livvy?”

  The girl’s comely shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Long enough that the days and nights are not so cold anymore.” Sunlight slanted through a gap in the wall, illuminating crystalline seas, brilliant and without shores, in Livvy’s eyes. “I am certain my papa will arrive soon.”

  Mercy frowned. That wasn’t a likely outcome, especially since the girl had already been here for a month or maybe two. Still, loath to snuff out the girl’s hope, Mercy lightened her tone. “How do you know this?”

  “Well, besides what God has promised me, there is a man here who speaks some English. He told me I am to be traded.”

  Mercy shifted on the damp dirt, unsure what disturbed her most—that the girl expected to be traded back to her father, or that she apparently knew God as well as Elias and Matthew had. A fresh wave of sorrow nearly drowned her, and she sucked in a shaky breath. Oh, how she missed those men.

  “So,” she drawled, desperate to put her mind on something other than loss, “God speaks to you, does He?”

  “Of course.” Livvy unfolded her legs and angled her head. “Do you not hear Him?”

  A bitter laugh begged release. She swallowed it down. Must everyone around her perceive the Almighty’s voice while the only whisper in her ears was that of doubt? How could she be so blessed with keen eyesight yet lack so woefully in hearing? What was wrong with her? This turn of conversation was no better than dwelling on the gaping loss of Matthew and Elias.

  She hung her head. “No.” Misery seeped out with the word. “I do not.”

  Livvy pushed off from the wall and scooted next to her, wrapping her arm about Mercy’s shoulders like an old soul comforting a child. “Don’t be sad, Miss Mercy. I can tell you what God says. He says to trust. Always. Trust and believe, for He is your only hope.”

  The urge to shrug off the girl’s hold and scamper to the far end of the hut was so strong she trembled. The words were those of her mother, Matthew, and Elias blended into the unwavering voice of a young girl. Could God have been speaking to her all these years, and she’d just not heard it?

  “It can’t be that simple,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone.

  “It is.” Livvy squeezed her shoulder.

  They both turned when the door flap opened.

  A warrior entered, just barely, so small was the space. Crouching, he held a bowl in one hand and a water skin in the other. The savory scent of roasted meat filled the hut like a sweet dream. Mercy’s stomach cramped as he handed the food to Livvy. To her, he gave nothing but a dark glower.

  “Thank you, Ekentee.” Livvy nodded at the man, then held out her bowl to Mercy. “Would you like—”

  “No!” The man’s voice cut sharp, and the girl flinched. “No food for that one, Liv-ee.”

  “But she is hurt!”

  Dark eyes shot to her, piercing as an arrow. “She is dead.”

  He reached out and grabbed Mercy’s arm, yanking her toward the door. Was this it? Were hot coals even now readied to burn the life from her in front of the men who’d killed Matthew and Rufus? And then what? What waited on the other side of a horrendous death?

  She dragged her feet. The man yanked harder. A sour taste filled her mouth. She wasn’t ready to die. Not now. Not like this. A hot, ragged sob welled in her throat.

  God, please, I will trust You. I will! I am nothing. You are all. Oh, that You would save me.

  The ragged prayer, desperate and terrible in intensity, raged inside her as the warrior dragged her out the door.

  “Where are you taking her?” Livvy’s question was muffled into oblivion by the dropping of the door flap.

  Mercy blinked, blinded in the brilliance of daylight. The man jerked her to her feet, and she staggered. No men gathered about. No fire blazed either. But if they weren’t going to burn the life from her, then…Oh God. Did they have something worse planned?

  Grabbing hold of the rope at her wrists, the man tugged her toward the largest shelter. The tension cut a fresh stripe into her raw flesh.

  She stumbled after him. “If I am to be killed, why do we go to the council lodge?”

  The man didn’t so much as look over his shoulder. His big strides just kept eating up the ground. But he did answer. “Shadow Walker would see you. His eyes will read your manner of death.”

  Her shoulders sagged. Whoever this Shadow Walker was, if he recognized her as Black-Fox-Running’s daughter, then the torture would be horrendous indeed.

  A blue haze hovered just above the circle of the five men seated cross-legged around the council fire. Elias blew out one more mouthful of smoke, adding to the ghostly cloud, then passed the pipe to Red Bear. Did the man notice the slight tremor in his fingers?

  He forced his mouth to remain pressed shut, a monumental task when everything in him wished to rage against these killers and then tear out and grab Mercy. But rushing anything—the conversation, the smoking, the vengeance kindling inside—could get both him and Mercy killed.

  Red Bear’s dark eyes shifted to his. For a while he said nothing, just stared, the etched lines in his weathered face neither lifting nor falling. The man wearing Mercy’s hat darted his gaze between them both, a purple swell to his nose, mid-bridge. He’d taken a strike recently, a hard one. The other two warriors merely sat like old women content to perch on a front porch and while away the long day—yet there was nothing frail or feeble about the size of their biceps or the breadth of their chests.

  “Know you a General Hunter?” The sachem’s question floated as ethereally as the suspended smoke.

  Mentally, Elias matched the name from face to face in a collection of British officers he stored in his memory for just such a purpose. None corresponded. “No. Why?”

  “We have held his daughter long, hoping to earn Six Fingers back in a trade. Still no word.”

  Elias hid a frown. If that trade happened, a vicious warrior would once again be on the loose.

  The pipe passed into Red Bear’s hands. Taking a last draw, the sachem held the smoke in his mouth, then set the pipe on the two rocks in front of him. Straightening, he blew out a white cloud, wafting the smoke back to his nostrils with repeated sweeps of his hands.

  Beside the occasional pop and crackle of the fire, quiet enveloped them. It was always like this, the interminable breaches in conversation, the placid pace of information exchange, so unlike the clipped and hurried debriefings of the British.

  Red Bear lifted his chin, and Elias leaned closer. “The girl will bring a good price elsewhere, or maybe make peace with Dark Thunder.”

  Elias tensed. Dark Thunder was as notorious as Six Fingers. A brut
e of a man. A disease amongst humans. The protective side of Elias would have grabbed a tomahawk and raced out to rescue the girl, no matter who she was. But the prudent side of him held every muscle in check. He counted ten slow breaths in and ten out before he spoke again. “Where did you take this girl?”

  Only Red Bear’s eyes moved, his gaze slipping as gracefully as the passing of a pipe to the man seated at Elias’s right hand.

  Next to him, the warrior answered Red Bear’s silent command. “The girl was taken en route to Fort Bedford. A small party, two women, the girl, and four soldiers. Hunter is a stupid man to let his women traverse these woods.”

  Two more women? He chewed on that thought like a gristly piece of meat, not able to spit it out but not wanting to swallow it either. This time he counted twenty breaths. “You hold one girl but not the women?”

  “They were of weak blood,” the man next to him rumbled, disdain darkening his tone.

  Elias’s brow twitched as he held his expression in check. The girl must be something special, indeed, to have escaped the blade of the warrior who clearly harbored a sizable abhorrence toward white females.

  Outside the lodge, footsteps neared, one set strong and determined, the other with a drag-slide cadence. Drawing in a deep breath of the sweet, leftover tobacco scent, he forced his face to remain blank—which took every bit of his will when Mercy was pulled stoop-shouldered into the shelter like a dog on a leash.

  Her captor released his hold of her bound hands, then thrust her forward with a shove between the shoulder blades. Elias bit down hard, tongue caught between his back teeth, and savored the slow leak of blood in his mouth. Any outward show of hostility would be a death warrant—and he’d had his fill of those.

  Mercy, God bless her, lifted her nose in the air, refusing to look at any of them. Purple bruised one of her eyes. A cut marred her cheek, and her bottom lip swelled at one end. Her gown was torn, and on her left shoulder, the fabric was matted with dried blood. More blood stained her bodice and sullied her neck, but near as he could tell, not hers. She looked nearly as awful as he had that first day she’d lain eyes on him—but this was entirely different. Not only was she a woman, but the one he’d lay down his life for…and just might have to in the end.

  For the briefest of moments, her gaze slipped, and she glanced around the circle of men, then froze on him before resetting her proud stance. It hadn’t been for long, but in that eternity, the awful questions in her eyes branded him a traitor all over again. But worse was the disappointment haunting those brown pools. Roiling, gut-wrenching disappointment shone deep and dark. The frail bridge of trust they had constructed during the past weeks collapsed to a thousand jagged-edged pieces—and he gasped from the loss, desperate for air.

  Red Bear swept his hand toward her. “This is the woman Nadowa believes to be Kahente. You know her?”

  A burning ember stuck in his throat. What he said from now on would mean either life or death for Mercy. He swallowed. “Yes.”

  Red Bear leaned forward, not much, but the movement signaled intense interest. “So this is the daughter of Black-Fox-Running?”

  Was Mercy the daughter of a chieftain? He could believe it simply by the way valor straightened her shoulders and courage shone in her eyes.

  But thank the sweet Lord she’d never told him her true lineage, for he could honestly say, “I can tell you exactly who she is…. she is my wife.”

  Red Bear leaned back, clearly disappointed.

  Shadow Walker has taken a wife?” The question traveled on a ring of whispers, repeated by each man seated at the fire. Disbelief hung heavy in the smoke-thickened air.

  Elias slipped a glance toward Mercy, who yet stood willow straight, brown eyes unblinking. Thank God she did not understand the Wyandot language, for if she did, she’d no doubt pounce like a wildcat and scratch his face off for claiming her as his wife. It may not have been the only way to protect her—but it was the best he could think of at the moment. If he’d merely denied her kinship to Black-Fox-Running, at best she’d still have been sold. At worst, they would continue with their plans to burn her come evening.

  He turned his face to Red Bear. “We were wed back at Fort Wilderness.”

  “He is a traitor!” Across from him, the sinewy native wearing Mercy’s hat yanked out his tomahawk, until a halting shift of Red Bear’s eyes forced the man to lay it on his lap.

  Even so, murder darkened the voice of the sachem, lowering it to a growl. “How is it enemy gates open to you?”

  Panic spread like a swarm of biting ants over his body. What to say? This whole situation was a tinderbox. The wrong words would spark an explosion.

  Give me wisdom, Lord, for I am at a loss. Spare us, leastwise Mercy.

  While his mind scrambled to hunt down a plausible answer, he sat motionless, this time thankful for the tradition of unhurried speech. Time stretched like a taut bowstring about to snap. If he remained silent much longer, Red Bear would see him tortured next to Mercy.

  God, please…

  And then it came to him, a gentle sigh of a thought. He tucked his chin, a bull about to charge. He didn’t have to answer, not if he parried with another question.

  “Tell me, Red Bear, how is it your men knew the wagons’ whereabouts?” He narrowed his eyes. “You and I both know that was no chance meeting.”

  Red Bear’s eyes widened to dark caverns. “You? You are the one behind this?”

  Elias clenched his jaw. Behind what? Was there a spy inside the fort feeding information to the French and their allies?

  Once again, he scrambled for an answer. If he said yes, they would pry for more information. And if no, then he was back to being a traitor in their eyes. What to do?

  He met the sachem’s stare and said nothing.

  Each pop of the fire was a gunshot. The breath of every man a dragon’s. So much tension filled the lodge that even Mercy shifted her stance.

  A quiver wavered on Red Bear’s lips, and Elias watched the movement with a wary eye. Would a shout issue forth and a knife slit his throat?

  But then the man’s lips parted, his teeth bared—and a great laugh ripped out of the sachem, so hearty that the feather decorating his forelock shook and moisture leaked from the corners of his eyes. All joined in, even the villain in Mercy’s hat. The warrior next to Elias jabbed him with a playful nudge of his elbow.

  In the merriment, Elias once again slipped a covert glance at Mercy. She stared straight ahead, face unreadable, a stubborn set to her jaw. And he didn’t blame her. Not one bit. Oh, what torturous thoughts she must be thinking.

  He turned back to the sachem. Through it all, he remained stoic. Emotion shown too soon was like a ripple on a pond; he could never know on which banks the gesture may land him.

  Finally, Red Bear’s laughter faded. “Once again, your mysterious ways serve you well, Shadow Walker. But tell me, my brother”—the sachem’s smile vanished, the lines of his face sharpening into a fierce snarl—“if this woman is your wife, why does she not look upon you?”

  His chest seized. She truly would be the death of him. She’d shown no sign, not one acknowledgment that she even knew him. A proper wife would’ve flung herself into his arms by now. He breathed in a measured rhythm, fighting for yet another answer.

  “She is overcome,” he said at length.

  “That one knows no fear!” The man with the hat half-rose from his seat. “Two-Pace’s blood cries out from the ground because of her.”

  Elias’s brow twitched from want of raising his eyebrows. She took down one of their warriors? Lord, have mercy indeed.

  Ignoring the hotheaded warrior, Elias kept his gaze on Red Bear and tried another trail. “I did not say it was fear that overcomes her. The truth is, great sachem, that the woman is angry with me. We exchanged hot words, and I left her behind. Likely, she thinks I abandoned her.”

  Elias held his breath. Would the man believe such a tale?

  Lifting his face, Red Bear studied
Mercy as he might scour a fort’s walls for the best place to breach. She stood the assault without a flinch—and the admiration in Elias’s heart grew tenfold. What other woman could withstand such a hard-edged stare and not swoon?

  A small chuckle rumbled in Red Bear’s throat. “Who can know the mind of a woman?”

  Elias planted his hands on the fur-lined floor and pushed up before the man could probe any further. “You have given the information I came seeking, great sachem, namely my wife’s whereabouts. I will take her and leave in peace. May the sun rise, the rains fall, and the moon shine from a cloudless sky until we meet again.”

  The sachem lifted his hand, but not in a return blessing. It was a command. A warning. “Take the woman out.”

  Elias dropped back to the ground, a spectacular feat, since everything in him strained to run after her.

  Black gazes darted between the men. Silence crept back in like an unwelcome guest. Everyone, it seemed, held their breath.

  “You are free to go, Shadow Walker.” Red Bear swept his hand toward the open door. “Yet the woman stays. She is not mine to give.”

  “But she is mine!” Elias pressed his lips flat. Too late.

  The warrior in Mercy’s hat slid his hand to his tomahawk, his fingers curling like a threat around the handle. Red Bear shook his head at him. The man did not loosen his hold, but neither did he raise it. Would the sachem let such defiance stand?

  Red Bear merely angled his head back at Elias. “Nadowa brought the woman in. It is your word against his.”

  “I tell you true, Red Bear.” He swallowed, desperately trying to temper his tone. Making the same mistake twice could send that tomahawk sailing across the fire and into his skull. “The woman belongs to me.”

  Mercy’s hat sank lower on the warrior’s brow, shadowing a gaze already black as a new moon night. “You should not have lost her in the first place.”

  A mighty roar welled in his throat, but he clamped down on it and all the outrage begging to let loose. If he let one word slip, too many would charge out along with it. Though it galled hotter than a branding iron to offer no defense, he couldn’t very well admit he’d been bound and knocked out, for that would make him weak in their eyes—and strength was what he needed now.