by Karen Kay
She was not left long to wonder who had stolen her. After running only a short distance, the man entered a camp of soldiers. But they weren’t British soldiers. They were the American militia.
The burly brute who had flung her over his shoulder dumped her on the ground not so gently, and getting up to her knees, she held her hands out in front of her. She was at once released. First things first, she smoothed her hands over her skirts, hiding her undergarments. Next to her was the man who must have been the “in-charge” of this group.
“Please excuse the roughness of the rescue, Lady Marisa,” he said, “but we had no choice. We had to steal you fast and leave with you fast. Name’s Brent. Cohn Brent. Our orders are to get you and return to Albany with you as quickly as possible.”
With her hands freed, she took the grimy handkerchief out of her mouth. “You didn’t have to hit Laughing Maid. I have no idea if she’s alive or not. Why did you do that?”
“Sorry, ma’am, but we have to work fast.”
“Well, I’m sorry to inform you of this, but I don’t wish to leave, thank you very much. So if it’s all the same to you, I’ll be leaving you now to go back to the Iroquois village. Goodness knows if you hurt my sister.”
“Your sister?”
“Yes, my Iroquois sister.”
“Don’t know nothing about no sister, but I can’t be letting you go, ma’am. There’s a reward on your head, and the next man might not be so polite. Can’t stay here either. We gotta be moving. I have my orders.” He nodded to the bully who had carried her here. “Get the lady, Coleman. We gotta get out. Fast. We’re leaving now.”
“I’m not going.”
“Sorry, ma’am, but you are. If I have to, I’ll bind and gag you again.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “I’m not going.”
“Coleman, get moving, over here. Now, I’ll need you to bind the lady, put her on the horse and tie her on. We’re leaving.”
Of course she didn’t have any chance of escape, but she wouldn’t have thought much of herself if she hadn’t tried. Without giving warning, she started running, back in the direction from which they had come.
But she was no physical match for these men, and she was unarmed. The bully named Coleman caught her easily, tied her up and set her on the horse. Thankfully, he didn’t stuff her mouth again with that horrible hanky.
And she really didn’t need him telling her, “It’s for your own good, miss,” to anger her.
Her reply was, “I am married. You remember that.”
And then they were away, moving quickly, heading in a direction toward Albany. When she screamed, they gagged her. When she pummeled her hands on the horse, they tied them onto her mount.
Her heart was breaking, her emotions were shattered and her will was frustrated. Looking back in the direction of the village, she made a vow. Somehow, in some way, she would go back there.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Black Eagle leapt and sprinted over the pathway so quickly, he might have been a deer in flight. The flintlock in his hand and another strapped over his shoulder did not slow him down. Indeed, their weight served as a reminder of why he required them and spurred him onward.
They had taken his wife. They had knocked Laughing Maid unconscious, and according to the last report he’d received from runners, she had only just revived.
His powder horn was full, and there was a multitude of lead balls in his pouches. Thrown over his shoulder was a bow, and a quiver full of arrows was strapped across his back. His tomahawk was fixed securely in his belt. He was ready to fight. He wanted to fight.
The path over which he ran was clear, purposely kept that way by the Six Nations. Sometimes the trail was called the corridor that linked the eastern door of the Mohawk country to the western door of the Seneca, the comparison being that of the corridor of the longhouse. Ahead of him, a branch had fallen in his way, but he flew over it easily, not stopping to go back and remove it from the pathway. His mission was too important to slow down or stop.
The woods around him reflected the anger in his heart. The leaves had fallen, the trees were stripped of their dignity, the grass was dry and brown and the coldness of winter was soon to come. The forest echoed with shouts of injustice. No one had come to the village to negotiate. No one had spoken a word. She had been kidnapped, and it had been cruelly done.
Could there have been less dignity in the act?
He would speak to Sir William. Such outrages must cease.
Darting quickly through a stream, Black Eagle set his pace again to a furious sprint, ignoring the sounds and scents of the forest that usually held much interest to him. But not now.
He would recover her, he would discover the truth behind the attacks on her person and he would see to justice. Indian justice. Indian revenge.
Whoever had done this, whoever was doing this, was a person of evil. And whoever this was, they had now insulted him. But they would be no more soon.
“Ye must eat something, Miss Marisa.” Cook had brought a tray up to Marisa’s rooms.
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Stanton. But please, cease calling me Miss Marisa. I am married now.”
“Beg pardon, miss…ah, Lady Marisa.”
Marisa exhaled on a sigh. “Thank you, Mrs. Stanton, and forgive me if I seem uncaring. I am not. I appreciate all that you have done for me in these difficult weeks. But I have changed. My maid, my best friend, is gone. My husband is lost to me. All I have ever cared about is gone. Worse, my step-uncle is seeking to rush me into marriage, which I will never consent to. He would have me become a bigamist, I think.”
Mrs. Stanton tut-tutted. “Forgive me for asking, but couldn’t ye pretend to go along with yer uncle? At least so as to secure yer freedom. ’Tis not right to keep ye locked in yer room. All the servants think so.”
“But to leave the room, I have to agree to the marriage, and I cannot. I will not. I am already married, whether my step-uncle acknowledges it or not. Besides, the man my uncle has picked for me is three times my age, he speaks with a lisp and he is so skinny, he would fit into the head of a needle. No. I have never thought well of the institution of marriage, and I shall not be rushed or bullied into something so terrible. Especially when my uncle would benefit financially from such a union. I will not relent.”
“’Tis a bad lot ye have. Forgive me for saying this, but…” She hesitated.
“Yes? Please go on.”
“If ye are to change yer lot, ye will need yer strength. After all, what is a locked door, when a body is healthy and has an open window?”
“I have thought of that. But there are guards posted around the house, as well as at the bottom of my window. I have seen them there.”
“Aye, and they are bought with the finest gold in all the land. But gold doesn’t make a man loyal, forgive my forthrightness.”
“Be at your ease, Mrs. Stanton. I enjoy your frankness and your company.”
Mrs. Stanton placed her hands on her hips. “I should know about the guards. I feed ’em.”
“Truly?”
“But your uncle doesn’t. He thinks men can be bought. Maybe some can, like that colonial militia that came and took ye from the Indians. They were happy to be bought. But there were some that thought they be doin’ ye a favor. They had goodness in their hearts.”
“I disagree, Mrs. Stanton. They tied me to a horse, they gagged me and not one of them came to my rescue.”
“’Cause they thought ye would leave.”
“I would have.”
“But don’t ye see, some thought they were doin’ good. Them’s the ones I can help ye with.”
Marisa slanted Mrs. Stanton a respectful look. “You would help me?”
Mrs. Stanton nodded. “’Tisn’t right what yer uncle be doin’ to ye, child. Now, I may not be the smartest woman in all of Alb
any, but I have a scheme I think might work.”
Marisa gazed at Mrs. Stanton with newfound respect. “You have a plan?”
Mrs. Stanton nodded. “Now, come here, child, and I’ll tell ye what I think. But if I do this, ye must promise me that ye’ll eat.”
“I promise.”
Marisa and Mrs. Stanton had set their arrangements well.
According to Mrs. Stanton, the best time to sneak away using the window was late at night, after the evening meal. The guard on duty at that time was a young man who appeared to be sympathetic to Marisa’s plight. Plus, he was always hungry.
Their plans were simple. Mrs. Stanton was to lure him to the kitchen on the pretext of a meal. Marisa was then to climb down from three flights up, using the rope she had been carefully making from her good, strong hemp sheets.
Marisa had already donned her best riding habit in preparation for her escape. It was a dark blue material that would also act as camouflage. She had also caught up her hair in a dark blue, silk and lace kerchief.
She had thought out her strategy well. She would go directly to the woods, bypassing the livery, which would be the first place they might look for her.
Besides, after being so long on the trail with Black Eagle, she felt more than able to traverse the distance on foot. Taking a cue from Black Eagle, she had attached an extra pair of slippers to a strap that hung from around her shoulders, and in one of her bags she had placed a knife, carefully sheathed, that had been donated by Cook.
Three weeks. For three weeks, she’d been back in Albany. And for almost as long she’d been locked in her rooms.
At first her guardian had seemed happy at her return, but this had quickly faded when she had adamantly refused his attempts to force her into marriage. Indeed, the several times she had attempted to escape the Rathburn estate, her step-uncle had locked her in her quarters. Amidst threats, he had posted a guard below her window and had demanded her utter agreement to marry, or she would never leave her rooms.
Thus, two strong wills came into conflict.
But John Rathburn was not to be crossed so easily. With or without her agreement, he had arranged the marriage to take place in their home, complete with groom and preacher and guests. He had arranged it thinking that Marisa would be so cowed that she would fall in with his plans.
How wrong he’d been. Marisa had refused to say the necessary words to seal the arrangement. And luckily, the preacher could not be bought.
Only these last few days had been good. For the first time in weeks, she was eating, she was well nourished and she was excited. She knew exactly what she would do to escape.
Stepping to her window, she looked up at the night sky. This, too, was good. It was a cloudless night, although there was no moon. The stars would be her guide.
Her tactics were thus: First she would enter the forest and find the tree where she and Black Eagle had first experienced their love. There she would hide until her uncle’s bullies had either gone or had stopped looking for her. Then when it was safe, perhaps tomorrow evening, she would be away.
She was frightened, it was true, but anything was better than being held prisoner.
Taking a deep breath and saying a prayer, she lowered the rope made of sheets, securing it to the foot of her bed. Standing on a chair, she scrambled over the windowsill, hauling herself down slowly.
There was a second-floor window directly below hers, and she prayed there would be no one there to see her. Her luck held. The window was pitch-black.
Downward she climbed until at last her feet hit the ground. She was so frightened, she was shaking. But taking courage, she turned swiftly around and ran toward the woods.
She had taken no more than a few steps, however, when a dark shadow stepped out from the bushes in front of her. Immediately her stomach turned, and fear washed through her. She knew at once who it was. She recognized that stench.
So Thompson was alive. And she was in trouble.
“Goin’ somewhere, miss?”
“Yes. Home.”
“Aren’t ye there, lass?”
“Hardly. Step out of my way, or I will kill you. Lord knows I want to kill you. My maid is gone because of you.”
“Good. Good. I be glad to hear that one of ye is gone. Now for the other one.”
“That will be a little hard for you. I have a gun pointed directly at your chest.” She didn’t, of course. All her firearms had been taken from her. But under the cover of darkness and with her hand in her purse, perhaps Thompson might never suspect. “If you want to live, I suggest you get out of my way.”
Unfortunately for Marisa, Thompson was far more experienced, he was much larger than she was and he was an assassin. When he made a move toward her, he overpowered her with ease, taking away the only weapon she had, the knife given to her by Mrs. Stanton.
“Now, miss, we’ll be seeing what’s what. Come along.”
Marisa tried to extricate herself from Thompson’s grip, but it was useless. No matter how much she fought him, she was helpless to get away from him, and he dragged her toward the house.
Marisa sighed. Her escape was foiled. She might never have another chance.
Albany. At last Black Eagle had arrived. Immediately he sought out others from the Six Nations who made Albany their home. From them he learned much.
She was here. She was kept prisoner in her room. It was enlightening. Quickly, he laid his plans and set out to put these matters in order. The tree would be their hideaway. There they would stay until it was safe to leave.
He sprinted to that place now. Moving silently and swiftly, he stocked the tree with pouches of water, and also bags full of dried meat and corn. Over the floor, to cushion her, he left his blanket.
And now for the most important element of his plan: his wife.
It was evening. The shadows would hide him well enough so that if he were careful, he could steal onto the grounds of the Rathburn estate. He had learned where her window was. He would go there now.
Curiously, he found the place unguarded. But there was a rope of sorts hanging from her window. Had she already escaped? Was he too late?
Looking around the grounds for telltale tracks, he saw that she had left here, perhaps only minutes ago. He wasn’t too late.
He followed her trail, observing when she was joined by another set of prints. He recognized these too. Thompson. He was back. He was alive.
Crouching down low, Black Eagle followed their path, which led directly to the mansion. Still amused that he had not encountered any guards, for it was said that the house was well protected, he stole up to a window and looked in. But he could see nothing.
The window, however, was not locked. He let himself in and crept forward. Where were they?
If Thompson was with her, and it appeared that he was, her life was in danger. He must move like the wind, but he must make no mistakes.
He listened, and at last he heard them. Voices. Down a dark corridor, behind a door. Slowly, slowly, he inched toward it. Carefully, noiselessly, he turned the doorknob and cracked the door. He listened.
John Rathburn was laughing. “Arrest him?” he was saying, humor tingeing his voice. “Arrest him, when ’twas I who hired him to kill ye and yer maid in the first place?”
“You? But step-uncle, you’re my guardian. You have cared for me all my life.”
“Cared for ye? As long as ye had worth for me, I cared for ye. But ye abused it. Ye brought this on yourself. Ye threatened me. Me. Because of that Pennsylvania deal, which has, by the way, been quite lucrative. And ye told yer maid. Yer maid. Unforgivable. Well, what was I to do? Submit to yer blackmail? When ’twas pure treason ye offered me?
“But I had one better for ye. While appearing to submit to yer request, I hired Thompson here to do away with ye and yer maid. I am only disgusted with Thompson that he has left
the job undone. But he shall not fail now. Indeed not. I’m afraid I will require ye to write a note, dear niece. One stating that ye could not envision life without yer dearly beloved Indians. Therefore, ye have had no choice but to take yer own life. Here is pen and paper. Write it.”
Outrage filled Black Eagle’s soul, and it was all he could do to hold himself back from acting. His fingers itched to shoot his musket, but he knew the time was not right. There was no advantage here yet. If he made a mistake now, his attempt would fail, and he would fail her. No, he had to wait, to position himself for a blow that could not be stopped.
Marisa laughed, but it was not a happy sound. “I will not write anything, dear step-uncle.”
“If ye won’t do it, then I’ll see that Cook is quietly done away with in as terrible a way as possible. Do ye think I was not aware of your schemes?”
Marisa remained silent.
“Now write it.”
“No.” She paused significantly.
“I will do it,” said Rathburn. “I will kill her.”
Reluctantly Marisa stepped to the writing desk and picked up a pen.
“That’s a fine lass. There ye go, now. Let me read it. Good. Good. Thompson, shoot her in the head. Now.”
But Thompson never had a chance. Black Eagle’s knife whizzed through the air, hitting Thompson’s shooting hand square. The gun fell to the floor.
With a loud war whoop, Black Eagle shot into the room, and taking his tomahawk in hand, he hurled himself at Thompson, making a swipe at him. But Thompson ducked, and the offense did no greater damage than tear his clothes at the waist.
But wait, what was that? Blood oozed through his clothes. As though only now aware of what had happened, Thompson glanced down, gazing back up at Black Eagle in disbelief.
The two men stared at each other, challenging one another, then Black Eagle executed a full turn and shoved his tomahawk into Thompson’s shoulder blade. Thompson went down, dead.
Black Eagle turned to John Rathburn. “I’ll take that note.”
“I think not.” Rathburn made a dash for the gun that Thompson had dropped, but he was too late. Perhaps it was being on the trail with Black Eagle that had done it, or maybe it was something else, but Marisa’s instincts were swifter than her guardian’s, and she beat him to it. She held the gun in her hand, steady. Black Eagle was proud of her. Very proud.