The Legend of the Bloodstone

by E.B. Brown

  “It’s beautiful,” she replied.

  “It is yours now as well. This land is part of you.”

  She bit her lip and tried to soften the blow of her answer.

  “I—I can’t stay here. I need to go back to my own time, Winn,” she said softly.

  She felt his chest brush against her back as he let his breath out in a sigh.

  “You have no choice. You are here, and it is done.” The quiet urgency in his voice left little room for compromise. “I give you this…I give you time to forget your sadness. There is no more time.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Many summers ago a Pale Witch arrived by magic and became one with our people. She had knowledge of the future, and guided our tribe. On the moon of my birth, she saw a Red Woman arrive with a Bloodstone. She foretold that I would fight the bear to save you, a maiden Time Walker.” His voice lowered, and she felt his head rest against her hair for a moment. “She said the Red Woman was no sacrifice, and she was banished for her disloyalty to the Weroance. When time came near for the prophecy to fulfill, I took all the Bloodstones of my tribe and buried them. I thought the Legend could be broken.”

  His hands slid down on her arms as his lips pressed close to her flushed cheek over her shoulder.

  “My uncle is Opechancanough, Great Leader of our tribes, our Weroance. Long ago my uncle ordered the death of all Time Walkers...it is a great honor for a warrior to bring our Weroance the head of a Time Walker.”

  She shook her head at the truth, the meaning of his words sinking in. A sacrifice? Bound by a Legend, forced to obey by his tribe and his honor, would he follow through by ending her life? For all she knew of him, she believed he felt some care for her, but was it enough to risk the wrath of his uncle? Even if he knew how to return her to her time, she was certain he would never agree to do so now.

  “Did you bring me here to—to kill me?” she whispered.

  “No. Only to make you see. There is only one way I know to keep you safe, and that is to keep you with me. I will not let you go.”

  Maggie closed her eyes, relief washing through her at the revelation he did not drag her up the mountain as a sacrifice, but by no means comfortable with the rest of his intentions.

  “Winn,” she said softly.

  “Can you learn to love this land, Tentay teh?” he asked. His warm breath caressed her ear as he spoke, sending a shiver down her spine. “I feel sorrow for your pain. I wish you to love my time like your own. Is there nothing here you could stay for?”

  She did not expect the surge of confusion his words brought forth, nor the heat that spread through her body when his hands circled her waist. Her fist that clenched her hair in a knot fell slowly to her side, and her treacherous body melted back into his embrace.

  “There are things I love about…your land,” she whispered. His lips nuzzled her ear, sending her heart into a frantic dance inside her chest. She knew she was losing herself to his flame, but any notion of resistance was pointless. “Your uncle wants me dead… is that the only reason you’re doing this?”

  He gently tilted her head to the side and closed his warm mouth over hers. She turned into his arms to meet his kiss, welcoming his tongue as it tasted of cider and smoke, returning his passion with her own. Her hands found his neck, and his fingers twisted in her loose hair.

  “No. I would keep you even so.”

  She told herself it was only an act, a way to gain his trust. A means to an end. Yet in that moment, her traitorous heart knew she would give it all to him if he asked, and even as he untied the laces of her dress and it fluttered open over her breasts, she wanted more of him. His mouth dipped down, and she sighed as his lips connected, simple need replacing the confusion that held her captive for so many long weeks in his time.

  As her eyes fluttered open she glanced over his shoulder, and her body stiffened as she uttered a scream.

  Standing behind them was another Indian male, his body littered with scars, hands perched on his hips as he watched them. Tall and lean, with a long narrow face and a sneer across his lips, his dark eyes met hers, betraying no hint of embarrassment but rather disappointment the show had ended.

  At the sound of her scream, Winn pivoted fast and grabbed his knife, as she scrambled backward. She could only see his back as he stood between her and the stranger, but she saw the way he straightened as he spoke to the man.

  The way the stranger continued to stare at her as he spoke to Winn made her blood run cold. She recognized little of the exchange as they spoke in their native language, but she heard the restrained anger in the words Winn spoke. Her breath caught in her throat as Winn suddenly breached the space between himself and the intruder, his knife gripped in his white-knuckled fist, and the other man raised his spear to his hip in reply.

  Winn spoke to the man, his voice low yet even she could hear the threat. Silent for a moment in consideration, the intruder glared at Winn. The man then slowly lowered the spear.

  “Shewanakuxkwe!” Winn snapped, turning slightly to face her. She did not recognize the word, so she simply ignored it. She backed away a few paces, waiting until she was sure Winn spoke to her. When she did not answer, he swung around in a fury and snatched her wrist, his handsome face contorted in a scowl. “Keptchat! Come here, now!”

  Maggie recognized the word Keptchat immediately. Foolish woman, huh? How dare he speak to her like that after what they had shared moments before? The memory of the first insults between them sharpened her anger, and before she could stem her temper, she turned on her heel and stalked away from him. She wasn’t going to stick around while he insulted her in front of another man.

  The next thing she knew, she was yanked roughly into his arms, his fingers gripping the base of her neck in warning. More from the shame of his sudden degradation than from pain, she cried out and fought his hold. The gentle touch of his hands only minutes before scored her memory as his fingers dug into her flesh.

  “Let go of me!” she shouted, swinging around. When her open palm connected with his cheek, more of an accident than an assault, she heard the other Indian gasp. Winn’s fist tightened on her shoulder when she tried to pull away and she gritted her teeth, vowing she would not let him see how much he hurt her pride. His eyes flashed like glowing coals when she met his stare, and she thought she could feel his body quiver against hers as he spoke.

  “Quiet your foul tongue, woman,” he warned, his words spoke low as she remained captured by his gaze. She started to open her mouth, but the scowl clouded his face and he shook her hard, as if to retain her attention. “Get on the horse,” he growled, and then added as an afterthought, “or I will drag you back to the village.”

  With his last word he released her toward the horse, loosening his hold with more sharp uttered words she did not understand. She stumbled and nearly fell to her knees, but stubborn resolve to defy him gave strength to her shaking legs and she managed to get back to the horse. Thoughts of escaping him with his own horse were not realized quickly enough, and before she could gather her wits, he leapt behind her on the beast and urged it back toward the village.

  CHAPTER 13

  Nemattanew kept silent as they returned to the village, and Winn was glad. The woman stiffened and squirmed in his lap, causing him to groan and clasp her to his chest. He made little effort to curb the anger that seared his veins, for he knew if he did then fear would take over, and he was no man to lose himself in such a lowly emotion. If the other man saw weakness in him, Winn knew it would be reported to his uncle. Nemattanew was his uncle’s most trusted advisor, and if he exposed Winn’s weakness, the decision of Maggie’s punishment could be turned over to the Council.

  Nemattanew would never let Maggie get away with her attack on the favorite nephew of the Weroance. It was bad enough that she tried to walk away from him when he gave her a direct command, but the blasted woman sealed her fate when she raised a hand to him. Yet she still sat in his lap, shaki
ng in rage, and he knew she would attack him again should she have the chance. He regretted the harsh words he spoke to her, but he knew no other way to subdue her when the other warrior challenged him, for as much good it had done. Nemattanew chided him, declaring Winn was no master to the woman, rather he was a slave to her pleasure. He challenged how a warrior such as Winn could lead their people, if a dirty white woman held so much power over him.

  Winn clenched his fists and thighs, and the horse took it as a signal to move faster, jerking Maggie back against his chest once again. He had no choice but to prove Nemattanew wrong. He swore as his lips buried in her soft red hair and she stiffened, but he was glad she chose to cease her struggles. He had no idea how to make her understand how tenuous a situation her actions sparked. By the way she described a woman’s place in her time, he knew there was little chance she could see how her actions put her life in danger. What had men become in the future that they let women act so brazen? They must all be weak fools, he sighed.

  When they arrived in the village, he ignored the cries of welcome and rode directly to his yehakin. He leapt deftly off the horse and jerked Maggie off as well, thrusting her into the house before she could add any more creedence to the charges against her. Once inside, he let her go, unwilling to let her be the one to shove him away. Her quick-tempered refusal of his attention bothered him more than he cared to dwell on.

  “Leave me alone!” she snapped.

  “You give no orders here!” he sniped back.

  She retreated to the furs, where she stood with fists clutched to her sides, her chest heaving in her rage. He tried to ignore the surge of arousal she ignited as she stood glaring at him like a flaming goddess of fury, his body nearly consumed by the need to finish what they started. By all that was sacred, she was a beauty! Even with her eyes glazed in anger, he still desired her.

  He shook his head against the urges. He needed to break the hold this woman held him trapped in, by bedding her or killing her. Perhaps then this wicked spell would collapse, along with the confusing need to protect her from the ways of his world. He moved to step toward her, but balked when she stepped back. His insides clenched at her response, and he could find no words to explain the foreign feeling. He did not care for her outspoken defiance, but he liked even less the way she shrunk away from him with fear in her eyes.

  Winn scowled. She should be afraid. He was the War Chief, and he cowered before no woman. He would not—could not— continue to let her defy him at every turn.

  “Take your rest now, woman. I will think on your punishment.”

  Her face twisted with a retort, but she wrapped her arms around herself instead before she whispered her defiant answer.

  “You treat me like dirt in front of that— that pervert, but I get punished? You’ll drag me back to the village, will you? Drag yourself back to the village!”

  He covered the distance between them as the black haze of rage clouded his vision. He understood few of her words, but her intent was clear and he would stand no more defiance from her. Still driven mad with wanting her, his skin on fire where it touched her own, he grabbed her by her upper arms and lifted her off the ground.

  “I will! I must!” he shouted, shaking her as if the action could force her to understand. “I am nephew to the Weroance, War Chief to my people! You, woman, cannot strike me!”

  He groaned a curse when she did just that, hitting him repeatedly with closed fists as she channeled her anger on him. He did nothing to deflect her blows, letting them fall upon his heaving chest until she tired of her assault and let him hold her in his embrace. He promised her she could rage as she liked in his house, and he would keep that promise. His first thought was to soothe her with an age-old method, his blood screaming to ravish her until she fought no more. But he realized immediately he knew nothing of how to calm this frustrating woman, the product of some bizarre future time.

  “You cannot – you cannot raise your hand to me. Nemattanew will not let this go,” he said, his voice strained hoarse, her body like a hummingbird in his arms as he struggled to keep her in his embrace.

  “Let me go. Just let me go home. Give me the rock, I will leave,” she whispered, her lips sending flames across his skin as she spoke, damp as she pressed against his chest. His hand slid up behind her head, holding her close to prevent her from stealing his resolve with her glimmering jade eyes.

  “I cannot let you leave.” I will never let you go. Anything but that.

  “You can let me get away – you can pretend I escaped!”

  “It would not be believed, Tentay teh.” He inhaled the sweetness of meadow flowers as he stroked her neck, keeping his lips pressed into her hair. He sighed when her body relaxed and she leaned into him.

  “What is Tentay teh?” she asked.

  He grimaced at her question, not certain if his name for her would break their fragile truce. “I call you my Fire Heart, little one,” he murmured.

  “Oh.” She fell silent.

  “Ktaholich kweti kishku, Tentay teh.” He whispered against her hair, holding her gently as he pledged a promise in words she could not understand. You will love me one day, Fire Heart.

  She did not ask the meaning and he was glad. He could only whisper such promises in his own tongue, leaving it lashed to his pounding heart where it belonged. Her silence bought them a measure of peace, and when he lowered her to the furs she did not protest his motives. With the woman curled in his embrace, her back nestled against him, she finally submitted to sleep.

  Winn lay awake as he enjoyed the thud of her heartbeat against his arm and the warmth of her shallow breathing on his skin. He knew he would face questions in the morning and be forced to act on her crime, and he wondered if he was a fool to keep her, but the alternative of letting her go caused his pulse to quicken and a piercing pain in his chest. He should take her life and be glad for it, but he knew from the moment he first laid eyes to her that the path was set. There would be no Red Woman sacrifice to please his uncle.

  No, he would not let her go.

  *****

  He woke later when his arms felt empty and he heard the shuffle of her feet across the room. Without shifting position, his eyes opened in narrow slits to see what the woman was up to. He suppressed a laugh when he spotted her rifling through one of the baskets where he kept his garments. She must still be searching for the Bloodstone, not knowing he hid it far away from her devious prying little fingers. Did she think he would not hear her leave his furs in the darkness? He hid a grin when she turned back toward him, and quickly closed his eyes.

  She was a small thing, but not very lithe on her feet, and her feet scraped with each step she took closer to his furs. Her breath came in warm, short breaths and it singed his skin when she leaned closer, placing a hand in the furs on each side of his head. He longed to reach up and touch her, but the urge lay stifled as his curiosity burned stronger. What was she doing?

  “Open your eyes!” she hissed. He felt the prick of a cold blade against his neck and readily obeyed.

  The crazed woman held her knife to his throat.

  By the Gods, the woman surely had no sense! First she dared strike him in front of another warrior, now she threatened him with a weapon? Torn between amusement and anger, his face remained impassioned as he raised one eyebrow and glanced down at the blade. His eyes quickly dipped to her breasts, nearly tumbling over the gap in the shift she insisted on wearing to sleep, plump and daring, tempting him to madness. He clenched his jaw when she swung one leg across his belly and straddled him, then pressed the knife harder to his throat.

  Was she trying to kill him, or tease him to death?

  “Looking for something, Maggie?” he asked softly.

  “Yes!” she hissed. “You know what I want! Give me that Bloodstone now, and I won’t kill you!”

  He felt a pinch and a trickle of blood when she flinched, her hand unsteady and shaking although fury twisted her face and her eyes
stayed firmly latched on his. He raised his brows and ran his tongue across his lips, then slowly placed his hands on her knees. Tracing lightly with his palms as she trembled harder, his fingers came to rest on her hips.

  “Stop that! I will stab you, Winn! I just want the stone!”

  She dug the blade in and he flinched, but it was only a scratch and worth the risk. He grasped her hips and lowered them down against his own, smirking when she let out a gasp. She set her jaw and tried to pull back, but could not keep the knife in an effective position while she squirmed, and he took advantage of her imbalance by pushing her dress slowly up her thighs so she sat naked against him.

  “Cut me now, woman, and I die a happy man,” he grinned.

  She let out a furious screech, and he decided he had been tortured enough. He made no move to take her weapon, but swiftly lifted her and rolled until she lay beneath him. She grabbed the hair at his nape with one shaking fist and kept the knife firmly planted on his neck with the other.

  “I have a knife, you idiot!” she shrieked.

  “So you do. I don’t have the stone, nor will I give it to you.”

  He settled his hips deeply against her, one hand sliding down, his fingers slipping beneath her buttocks. Sweat glistened on her skin in the glimmer of moonlight through the smoke hole, the salty slickness making a low sucking sound as their skin collided in her struggle. He groaned when she bucked against him and cursed.

  “Let go of me!”

  “You have the knife. Let me go,” he countered.

  “No. You—you’ll punish me,” she whispered.

  “That is the last thing I will do to you right now.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “No, I do not lie!” he growled, his patience wearing at her game and tired of fighting the urge to ravish her into silence. No other woman could have driven him so mad with need, nor escaped death after holding a knife to his throat. But for some reason he felt his power drain with her, as if it mattered not that he was the Great War Chief of his people, nor even a man larger and stronger than she was. She battered him to the ground with her fire, and he could not lift a finger to punish her for it.