By Love Alone

by Judith E. French

  "Love!" Andre scoffed. "You are too old for such foolishness. I tire of brown-skinned maidens. You interest me. I prefer my women willing, but I am not a man of great patience." His gloved hands stroked the leather reins. "I won't be in these godforsaken woods forever. Eventually, I will return to France. It is not beyond possibility that I might take you with me, if I was pleased with you."

  "I am English. I have no wish to see France," she dared.

  "A whore has no nationality."

  "This one does." Kate kicked the horse's side and the animal leaped ahead. She glanced back at Pride. He staggered, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out.

  The Huron brave who held the lead line to Kate's horse glared at her and shouted a threat. She returned his arrogance with a haughtiness of her own. His gaze turned to one of careful appraisal. Kate lowered her eyes. All she needed was an amorous Huron on her hands.

  Pride dragged his feet as he walked. He noticed a Huron watching him from the comer of his eye. The bastards were sharp. It wasn't easy to outfox a fox, but he was trying. He must give the impression of being weak. He'd have a better chance of jumping one of them if they believed he was helpless.

  From under hooded lashes, he scrutinized Kate. She'd been talking to that pig DeSalle again. He wished for the thousandth time he'd killed the Frenchman when he had the chance. He'd give half of Ashton Hall for the opportunity to sink his fingers into DeSalle's throat. Kate had no idea how much danger she was in. Pride was certain she hadn't believed him.

  He leaned against a tree and breathed hard. The horseman jerked the rope around his neck, and he stumbled and let out a little moan. He'd have to take a chance soon. If they got him back to DeSalle's main camp, he'd be so much chopped meat. Or fried... The Huron were big on burnings.

  Pride was no stranger to Iroquois torture. He'd run the gauntlet when he was no more than fifteen. They'd clubbed and knifed him nearly to death. The women were more vicious than the men. He'd seen... Pride closed his mind against the chilling memories, shutting them away in the shadowy recesses of his brain. He'd escaped that time by the grace of God. A man couldn't expect two miracles in a lifetime. If he and Kate were to make it, it would have to be by their own efforts.

  DeSalle wanted Kate; Pride could see that clearly. But the Frenchman was still unsure of what she meant to Pride. If he had any conception... Don't think about it! He won't find out. Kate wouldn't die that way... Damn! The bastards were getting to him. He wasn't thinking straight. His head ached, but it was an ache he could deal with. Damn Tschi to hell! If he ever got him in his rifle sights...

  Kate was so vulnerable. He'd told her why he had to pretend. Told her that it was to save her life! Why did she have to get that hurt-puppy look in her eyes when he'd called her a whore? Of all the women he could have had, he had to set his sights on her. She was as prickly as green-briar! A proper woman... Pride tried to keep from smiling; his eyes were fixed on the doeskin dress in front of him. Damn, but she was tough! Her back was as straight as hickory! She would probably lift the scalp off Captain Andre DeSalle if he came too close. Pride would have to watch his own. God! What sons a woman like that could give a man!

  Children had always been something he knew he'd want someday. He had none living that he knew of; there might be a few in Indian camps, but no woman had claimed him as father to her babe. Just that one, and she was gone... they were both gone, long before their time. Now, he wanted a child of Kate. No, not a child, children. He wanted sons and daughters, a full dozen of them. They'd fill the rooms of Ashton Hall with their laughter and deviling. They'd till the land and hold it against all odds when he and Kate were dust.

  Pride's eyes softened as he pictured a tiny Kate toddling across the lawn, blue eyes large with wonder. He'd teach his daughters to ride, and hunt, and shoot. On second thought, their mother could teach them to ride. Kate was second to none on a horse! He'd give his girls an education; he'd give them land of their own. They could marry or not, suit themselves. Or, if they wanted, they could go back to England. There were titles and gold aplenty for those who carried the Ashton name.

  And for his sons... he'd give them all he could. A boy needed love, and discipline, and responsibility to grow into a man. He'd try to listen when they spoke. God willing, he'd be better at it than his own father! But they would find their own paths when they were grown. A father had no right to choose for his son.

  Step by step, Pride spun a shining future in his mind, knowing full well that he might not live to see tomorrow's sunrise. Knowing that the woman he cherished above all else on the face of this earth might well meet the same fate, and there was precious little he could do about it.

  Kate's mind was on DeSalle. Was he really the madman Pride had insinuated? What was a gentleman, a man of breeding, doing in this wilderness? He was obviously educated, cultured, a man who would have been at ease in the courts of Europe. Duty could not explain this assignment. What secrets did the charming smile hide? He had made terrible threats. Were they real? Or was he just trying to frighten her?

  Her nipples brushed against the buckskin with the movement of the horse. She was sore and aching. Her breasts felt full and tight; she must have been battered more than she realized in the attempted rape. She pushed the heavy braid aside and rubbed at her neck. What she needed was a bath and a bed to sleep in, a bed with real feather mattresses. She looked back with longing on the quiet days at Ashton Hall. She must be getting old. All her life she had longed for excitement, for adventure. Now, all she wanted was—

  A Huron whooped and Kate's horse reared, tangling one front leg in the lead line as he dropped to ground. Kate caught at the mane, cursing DeSalle for the ties at her ankles. If the animal fell, she'd be caught beneath it. Eyes rolling, the gelding threw himself back, one leg sliding on the damp leaves. The horse snorted, throwing his head. Kate fought to control him, unable to jump free.

  Pride threw the neck rope over one shoulder and darted forward to catch her horse's head. "Whoa! Whoa, boy," he commanded. He wrestled the tossing head down and slipped the lead line off his foreleg. Trembling, the animal stood still. "Are you all right?" Pride demanded of Kate.

  Two Indians leaped from their horses and closed in on him. Pride kicked one in the groin and whirled, charging into the other's mid-section with his head, knocking the brave flat. With furious cries, they poured over him, pinning his arms and striking him with fists and gun butts. Kate screamed as he fell, his face covered in blood.

  DeSalle reined his horse in close. His gray eyes narrowed. "A good recovery, Ashton." He motioned, and they dragged Pride upright. "I'm glad to see it. It would be a shame to make a poor showing after they've waited so long."

  "Damn you!" Kate cried. "Leave him be!"

  The Frenchman rode close to her and put a hand on her knee. "He's not quite as indifferent to your welfare as he pretends, is he, madam?" DeSalle's smile left his eyes cold.

  Kate felt as though she were staring into the depths of a frozen sea. She shivered and caught a whiff of pure evil. "I hate blood," she stated flatly. "It sickens me."

  "Then we'll have to be certain you're otherwise occupied when Ashton goes to the stake." He inclined his head slightly in salute and took his position at the front of the warriors.

  Invisible insects crawled beneath Kate's skin. For an instant, she had glimpsed something in DeSalle that was unclean, satanic. Was she losing her mind? She glanced back over her shoulder at Pride. He was on his feet and walking, a glazed look on his face. He'd been beaten for coming to her aid. He'd thrown away his pretense of weakness, and of not caring, to save her from being hurt. She must find a way to help him, regardless of the cost.

  A bitter bile rose in her throat as she glanced sideways at DeSalle. Could one deal with a madman? A devil? She'd seen desire in his face. Would it lie enough?

  Suddenly, she noticed a change in the Huron braves. They were more alert. They called to one another and laughed; one warrior applied fresh paint to his face.
>
  The horses broke into a trot. A Huron on foot ran past her, shouting. Another fired his rifle in the air. Ahead, Kate saw the log walls of a stockade. The remainder of the Huron braves galloped into the clearing. Pride was dragged behind a horse, struggling to hold on to the rope.

  DeSalle turned to Kate and smiled. "You'll want a bath and decent clothing. It should be a big improvement."

  "I want nothing from you but freedom."

  "And you will have nothing, ma chère, but what I choose to grant you." He spurred his bay down the hill toward the stockade.

  It was a structure built for defense rather than comfort. The enclosed area was small, surrounding a log building, animal sheds, and a well. The Huron camp lay outside the high walls. Pride was tied to a post on the lean-to porch of the cabin. Kate was escorted inside. She tried to speak to Pride as she was hurried past, but he hung against the ropes in a stupor.

  The main room of the log building seemed to be a store. A rough counter ran along one end. Barrels and bales of furs were stacked against the walls. Blankets and trade items lined the crude shelves. A fireplace of reddish stone filled one wall; the floor was plank.

  To the left of the main room was a kitchen. DeSalle poked his head through the doorway and barked an order. A thin Indian girl, wearing only a greasy skirt, crept into the room. DeSalle motioned to Kate and repeated the command. The girl nodded. "The squaw will see to your comfort," he said to Kate. "Don't leave the cabin." He went into the room on the right and closed the door behind him.

  The girl glared at Kate with red-rimmed eyes. She was hardly more than a child; her half-formed breasts bore dark bruises. One eye was puffed and swollen; green discoloration spread down a pockmarked cheek. Her hair hung in dirty strings about her narrow shoulders. She pushed Kate toward the kitchen.

  "What's your name?" Kate asked in Shawnee. The girl made a garbled sound; Kate tried again in English, and then in French. "What tribe are you?" No answer. Kate shook off her hand and stepped into the low-ceilinged room.

  There was a trestle table and benches, one chair, and a three-cornered stool. A fire burned on the hearth; the kitchen smelled of baking bread. The room was bare but clean. The girl dragged a half barrel from the corner of the room and picked up a bucket. She waved Kate to sit, then ducked out the low door.

  Kate made a quick inspection of the room. She found a small knife and slipped it under her skirt. A sound alerted her to the returning girl, and she jumped back to the bench.

  The girl staggered under the weight of two full buckets of water. She poured them into the barrel, then added water from a copper kettle on the hearth. She looked at Kate expectantly.

  "I'm Kate Storm," she said, slowly and distinctly in English. "Who are you?"

  The girl dropped her eyes.

  "No use to look for talk from that one," DeSalle said from the doorway. "She's a mute. She has no tongue."

  Kate looked at him in disbelief.

  "Show her, Janine."

  Obediently, the girl opened her mouth and poked out the stub of a mutilated tongue.

  Kate's vision blurred. Black spots spun before her eyes and she gripped the edge of the table. She knew she was going to be sick. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes as she fought the nausea. "Damn you, DeSalle," she whispered. A whirling blackness threatened to drown her; she smacked her fist against the table. The pain gave her something solid to hang on to. "You're no man... you're a monster."

  Peals of laughter assaulted her brain; the girl had joined her master. "Enjoy your bath," DeSalle chuckled. He handed the Indian a blue gown. "See she puts this on. That barbarian attire disgusts me." He turned and left the room as quietly as he had come.

  Kate leaned over the barrel and splashed water on her face. DeSalle's taunts were nothing. A greater fear had risen, one that drowned everything else in comparison. One that she must come to terms with before anything else.

  For days she had denied the signals her body was sending. She had found excuses for the weariness, the sore breasts, the weak stomach. She had pushed aside the questions she hadn't wanted to ask. She had deliberately let the days pass without acknowledging the unimaginable. She was pregnant. For the first time in her life, her monthly time had passed without a showing of blood. She carried Pride's child. She, Kate Storm, was going to be a mother.

  Kate slid to the floor, leaning against the damp barrel, and began to laugh silently. Well, old girl, you picked a hell of a time! And a hell of a place!

  The mute stared at her as though she were crazy, then dropped the dress over the bench and returned to her cooking. She squatted beside the coals and began to roll out corncakes.

  Kate dried her eyes and got up feeling foolish. Going to pieces wouldn't help her, or Pride. If she was pregnant, she was pregnant. And any baby that had held on through rain and beatings and bucking horses wasn't about to be dislodged by hysterics. Like it or not, she was going to produce an heir for Ashton Hall.

  She frowned as she stripped off the deerskin and climbed into the water. She and Pride might be wed by Indian custom, but to English society she was no more than his whore. Her child would be a bastard if they weren't legally wed. If DeSalle killed him... With a sigh, she sank into the cool water. Her hand went to her taut belly. It wasn't possible. They had been together on the ship without his seed taking root. She had begun to believe that perhaps she was barren.

  Kate took the lye soap the girl handed her and scrubbed at her hair. All her life she had sworn she would never marry, never, never have a child. She liked children well enough—other people's. They were cunning little creatures, cute and amusing. But... She had vowed never to tie herself down with a squawling brat! And now... now... She caressed the soft skin below her navel. If it were a boy, she would call him Geoffrey. Her eyes misted and she smiled. Pride's son... Geoffrey Storm Ashton. Her jaw tightened. DeSalle be damned! No Frenchman would keep her son from being legitimate! Geoffrey would carry on the Storm name. Somehow she would find a way to save them all.

  Chapter 16

  Kate slipped from the cabin in the semidarkness. Pride hung from the post, eyes closed. "Pride," she whispered. "It's me. Are you all right?" She took his face in her hands. "Pride?"

  "Kate?" His eyelids flickered. "Water. I need water."

  "I brought some." She held a dipper to his lips. "Drink slow," she cautioned.

  He looked at her, noting the blue gown that had replaced the buckskin. "More." He sipped at the water, then shook his head and she took it away. "You've got to get free, Kate," he warned. "Any way you can. Don't trust him. Not for a second. Don't..."

  Kate closed his lips with a tender kiss. Her arms slipped around his neck, and she pressed against him. "Oh, darling, I love you so much," she murmured.

  "Don't," he said hoarsely. "There's not much time. You've got to get away from DeSalle."

  The warm autumn night was filled with the cadence of Iroquois drums from the encampment. Kate looked quickly about and pulled the knife from the folds of her dress. "I'll cut you lose."

  "No. It's too late for me. Steal a horse if you can, and ride." His face was hawk-like in the shadows. "Get back to Ashton Hall if you can. Mother will look after you. Tell her everything, especially that we were married."

  "I can't go and leave you."

  "You can't go." A soft voice came from the darkness. "You disappoint me, madam. Have I not shown you every courtesy?" DeSalle shouted and two Hurons stepped into the light. "Take him. I promised him to you. Now he is yours."

  The Frenchman held her as they dragged Pride away. "You said you were afraid of blood," he murmured. "Let us go and see." Holding her wrist, he pulled her toward the gate. "It is really quite interesting. You of all people should appreciate primitive rituals."

  High chilling shrieks of glee pierced Pride's brain as the Huron squaws saw him being led across the compound to the torture stake. Rocks and sticks struck his face and shoulders. A half-grown girl ran forward to spit in his face. A pole tripped him
and he stumbled, to the delight of the onlookers. A woman jabbed at him with a burning stick.

  "May the night devils fly down your throat," Pride cursed her in Iroquois. She paled and back away, making a sign against evil.

  From somewhere off, he heard Kate's cry and steeled himself against it. The time for miracles had passed. It was a time to die. Not a good day, as the Shawnee war parties dared, but the allotted day. He must wipe his mind clean of all passion. There were a hundred ways to cause pain; the Huron were master of them all. His woman must tell his mother he went to the stake like a man. Pride threw back his head and began to sing the Shawnee death chant.

  DeSalle bound Kate's hands at the wrists and tied the thong to a stake. "Watch closely," he commanded. "And see the wolf turn to a whining cur."

  The Huron called out words of praise for the bravery of their victim. He stood erect, chest out, shoulders back, as they tied him to the bloody post. His eyes were obsidian orbs reflecting the flickering fires; his bronzed and scarred body loomed godlike with defiance. He took their threats of pain and death and threw them back in their teeth. This was a mighty enemy, and the Huron loved him for it.

  Kate fought the bonds like a wild thing, unable to watch, and unable to look away as knives sliced at Pride's body. He only laughed and sang that blood-curdling chant, that chant that rose above the cries of his tormentors.

  "Stop it! Stop it," she begged DeSalle. "I'll do anything you ask. For the love of God, don't let them kill him."

  An arrow sank into Pride's upper thigh. Blood poured from the wound. He didn't pause in his song, or seem to notice. Kate covered her face and wept. The leaping fires, the inhuman cries, seemed a nightmare, a scene from hell. It could not be real.

  "Surely you don't think they'd let me interfere with their entertainment," DeSalle said. "The Huron are Indians, not men. Animals can be led, but not commanded. You think too highly of me." He regarded her pleading with obvious amusement.