By Love Alone

by Judith E. French

  "Please, Andre." Kate raised her hands; the nails were snapped off, her fingers bleeding. "Anything."

  He laughed. "Perhaps." He slashed the leather cords and shoved her in the direction of the stockade. "We'll see how truthful you are."

  The four-poster bed dominated the bedroom. There was a straight-backed chair, a small desk, and a finely crafted walnut armoire. "One does not have to live like a savage, even in the wilderness," DeSalle bragged, unfastening the buttons of his shirt. "We will play a little game," DeSalle proposed. "Undress. Quickly!"

  Kate's hands trembled as she obeyed. In a daze, she laid the blue gown over the back of the chair and reached for the wine goblet the Frenchman offered. It isn't real, she told herself. She felt numb all over. She'd rather die than give herself to this man, but that wasn't the issue. It was Pride who would die—and die horribly. The numbness spread down her arms to her hands and fingers. She felt like a wooden puppet. Perhaps she was already dead and didn't know it.

  "A toast to us, madam," DeSalle offered smoothly. He hung the shirt on a hook behind the door. A fresh uniform waited on a similar hook. "Don't look so frightened, ma chère, I'm not going to devour you. Well," he laughed, "perhaps not all at once."

  "You must promise me his life." Kate was startled to hear her own voice. It sounded strained and far away. If the dead could talk, they must sound like that.

  "I promise nothing," he snapped. "Let loose your hair. I like my women with loose hair." He sat down on a chair and held out a booted foot. "Take it off." Biting her lip, she knelt to remove the black leather boots. "Merci," he said. "And now the chemise."

  She shook her head. "No. I can't. I can't do it."

  He laughed again. "I told you, madam. It is only a little game. You are useless to me as you are. I told you, I like my women willing and eager. You do not have to submit to my attentions, you have only to pretend to do so. We will put on a small performance for your lover."

  Disbelief clouded her eyes as she stared at him. "Why?"

  "For a man of my education and tastes, there is little in the wilderness to stimulate my intellect. I have learned to take pleasure where I find it, in the small things. It amuses me to cause Ashton to suffer the mental anguish of believing you have betrayed him." He dropped his breeches and climbed into bed. "Come. I'm waiting. If you are a good enough actress, I will spare him."

  Kate shook her head again. "I don't believe you." She measured the distance to DeSalle's rifle. He saw her glance. She knew it was too far.

  "I tire of this. Come to the bed, woman."

  "Not until I know you mean to keep your word."

  "Your own actions will determine his fate." He patted the bed beside him. "Come, my pretty. I give my word, as a DeSalle and a gentleman. I will spare him the stake and death by torture if you play your part well enough. Make up your mind. What shall it be?"

  Kate climbed into the bed beside him and slipped between the sheets. She clenched her eyes shut and lay un-moving. "If you are lying to me, I'll kill you," she promised. Tears forced their way past the closed lids.

  DeSalle grasped her arm and squeezed it hard. "Don't lie there like a lamb waiting to be slaughtered! Wipe away those stupid tears. It will be no good if he thinks you're being raped." He ran his hand through her hair and her fists tightened under the sheets until the jagged nails cut into her flesh. His fingers trailed down her bare shoulder and arm. Kate gave no reaction. "For shame, ma petite. If you would fight, at least there would be some sport." He sat up and threw back the sheet. "Look at me."

  Kate opened her eyes. DeSalle gestured. "Satisfy your curiosity, madam. You called me inhuman! That breed Ashton did this to me. Look at it, damn you!"

  Kate's eyes dropped to the twisted scar.

  "He butchered me... and for a dirty squaw." He laughed, an ugly demented sound. "But half a man is better than none, n'est-ce pas?" DeSalle's mouth descended on Kate's and his hands pinned her to the bed. She twisted her face away, striking at him with her fists.

  "Remember the game," he panted, pulling her on top of him and trapping her with his legs.

  The wooden door slammed back. Two Hurons entered the room with Pride suspended between them. His pain had dulled to a red haze. Pride shook his head to clear his vision and stood unsteadily. The Frenchman. DeSalle. "Why did you..." Pride's voice trailed off, and he drew a shaking hand across his face. Why had DeSalle stopped the torture? He took a deep breath. His hand dropped to his thigh and tightened around the arrow shaft that protruded from his flesh. "Kate?" He shook his head. "What are you..."

  DeSalle pinched Kate's thigh under the sheets. "What does it look like, Ashton?"

  Kate forced herself to lay a hand on DeSalle's cheek. "I've found a way to get home to England," she said softly. "I've changed protectors."

  Pride blinked stupidly. "You what?"

  She swallowed hard and dropped her eyes. If he looked into them, he would never believe she was betraying him. "DeSalle promised to take me home," she repeated. "For a price."

  With a cry, Pride drove the arrow through the muscle of his wounded leg and out the back. The wound gushed blood, and he fought to keep his consciousness as he snapped off the arrowhead and withdrew the shaft.

  Kate screamed as he tossed the Huron guards aside like broken kindling.

  The red haze deepened in Pride's brain. Kate's screams... her near-naked body intertwined with DeSalle's... the Frenchman's sneering face... the crimson shaft... The images twisted and turned before his glazed eyes. Pride fought for sanity and lost.

  "Pride! No!" Kate screamed.

  Pride's lips drew back in a feral snarl, and a Shawnee war cry rent the room. He lunged toward DeSalle, the arrow clenched in his bloody fist. Kate screamed again, and an explosion dissolved his world into a gray haze. There was no pain, no pain, only the curious sound of a woman weeping... and then blessed nothingness.

  Kate threw herself on Pride's fallen body, futilely attempting to halt the terrible bleeding from his chest. DeSalle's pistol lay on the floor, useless now that its single load was fired. DeSalle moaned and tried to pull the arrow shaft from his side where Pride's fury had driven it.

  "You half-breed bastard!" DeSalle howled.

  "You lied to me," Kate screamed. "You lied! You said you'd save his life." She cradled the ashen face against her breasts and kissed his hair and slack lips. Her tears ran down and washed away the blood. "You shot him," she murmured. "You told me you'd spare his life. You let him think I... He thought I betrayed him with you. And then you killed him. Damn you to hell, Andre DeSalle!"

  "You stupid bitch," he hissed. "I told you I'd save him from the torture stake. I kept my promise." He worked the arrow shaft free and held the sheet against his side to stem the bleeding. "Cover yourself," he ordered.

  Sobbing, Kate laid Pride's head on the bunched-up chemise, then pulled on the dress and pantaloons. She thought she saw a movement and ran to Pride, pressing her cheek against his chest. Nothing. He lay as still and unyielding as stone. She put her fingertips to his nostrils. There was no hint of breath.

  Kate curled into a ball beside the fireplace, her arms wrapped about her knees, and watched, dry-eyed, as the Hurons dragged his lifeless body from the room. She did not move when DeSalle called her to bring water and bandages for his wound. She shut him out and retreated to a cavern of grief, deep within the recesses of her tortured soul.

  He's dead. He's dead. The words fell like drops of rain. But he can't be dead. The rain fell harder, drumming out the finality of the truth. DeSalle shot him through the heart. No one can live without a heart. That's a lie! I can.

  Kate rocked and hummed a wordless lament. DeSalle's threats held no power to frighten her. If he killed her, she would be with the man she loved. His curses and orders bounced off like hailstones. She watched with unseeing eyes as the little squaw bound cloth strips about DeSalle. Without emotion, she saw the blood seep through the bandages. What was DeSalle's blood? She wished it was her own.


  Vaguely, Kate was aware of DeSalle screaming about a physician. She made no protest when a Huron carried her over his shoulder and threw her onto a horse. They could do with her as they liked. Pride was dead. Dead. Dead. Her body sat upright on the animal, her knees gripped the bare sides of the horse. How did they know to do that? She wondered. Her fingers held the reins as though she were alive.

  Only one incident pierced the invisible barrier she wrapped about herself. One image was etched in her brain, an image that would destroy her sanity if she dwelt on it.

  DeSalle was on a horse beside her; his face was like tallow. His hands were stained with blood. He shouted an order; he was demanding something. "Bring it here!" he screamed. "Now. I want it!"

  A runner had come with a small object; he handed it to the Frenchman. DeSalle held it up triumphantly. Kate's eyes fastened on it. DeSalle leaned from the saddle and slapped her across the face with it.

  "Look at it! It's Ashton's scalp!" he cried.

  Kate's hand went to her cheek. She drew it away and stared at the damp stickiness.

  "It's his scalplock, you stupid English bitch!" DeSalle laughed.

  Kate pitched forward over the horse's neck in a dead faint.

  The days that followed would always be a blur. There were memories of green trees, of someone lifting her from the horse and pouring liquids in her mouth. She could remember the camp fires and DeSalle's moans. Little else.

  And then there was a log fort; there were white men, men who spoke French. A man in black led her to a room. She slept; she woke and swallowed soup. She slept again.

  "You are feeling better today, my child?" A white face hovered over hers. The words were English, heavily accented.

  "I think... I think so." She tried to sit up. The man pushed her back. "Where am I?"

  "There now, no questions today. You have been very sick. Lie back. Rest. There will be much time for questions."

  Kate realized the man wore the robes of a priest. He was right. She was tired, so tired. "DeSalle?" she asked.

  "Tomorrow. Tomorrow we will talk. I brought you some soup. Eat this and then sleep some more."

  "Who are you?"

  "I am Father Sebastian. You are Catholic, my child?"

  She shook her head. "No."

  "Are you a Christian?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Good. Now have some of this soup. It's fresh today, a good soup with beef and turnips."

  "DeSalle. I must know about DeSalle."

  "He has been very sick. His wound had to be cauterized. You must pray for him." The dark eyes were gentle as he spooned soup to her mouth.

  "I will," Kate agreed softly. "I'll pray for his death."

  As the days passed and she grew stronger, Kate realized that she was still a prisoner. From the bars at the tiny window, she saw French troops, Indians, and bearded men in buckskins. The fort was much larger than DeSalle's. Guards stood on the walls with rifles. A French flag flew overhead. There were even a few Indian women.

  The priest came daily. He was a break in the monotonous days, even if he did try to convert her to Catholicism. DeSalle had evidently told him that she was a whore and that he had rescued her from a savage half breed.

  "God will forgive you your sins, if you will confess them and make a resolution to live a better life," he explained. "You must cleanse your heart of hate. How can you desire the death of the man who saved you?"

  "Andre DeSalle is a friend," Kate answered quietly. "If he goes to heaven, I'll rather spend eternity in hell."

  "Captain DeSalle is a gentleman, a Christian, and an honorable man. He has sworn on the Holy Bible that he has not committed fornication with you." The old man sighed. Perhaps the poor girl was touched in the head as Captain DeSalle had said.

  "Not from lack of trying. He's a murderer." Kate walked to the window. "I want to get out of here. I want to go home."

  "Eventually, my child. You are a prisoner of war. You will be sent to Quebec and held with other prisoners. Many are traded for French citizens held by the British. With God's help you may be one of them."

  "I want to go home to Maryland now!"

  "That's not possible."

  * * *

  Kate turned from the window, expecting Father Sebastian, when the door to her cell was unlocked that afternoon. Instead, she faced a white-faced and thin Andre DeSalle.

  "Bon jour, madam," he said evenly.

  Kate stiffened. He looked ten years older. Bones stood out in the once handsome face; his blond hair hung lifeless. Dark circles under his eyes emphasized his wraithlike appearance. "I had hoped you were dead," she answered bitterly. DeSalle had lost his ability to frighten her. When the worst has happened, all else pales. She could hate this human devil, but never fear him again. "If you value your life, Frenchman, you will walk from this room and never let me set eyes on you again."

  "Riposte!" He smiled, and an unholy light glinted from the dull gray eyes. "You too have recovered, ma petite Kathryn. I prefer you sharp and prickly." DeSalle leaned on a polished walking stick. "We will have time to mend your shrewish disposition, a great deal of time." He took a step toward her and she stood her ground, her eyes blue flames of hate. "Due to my—" DeSalle cleared his throat. "Due to my indisposition, I am being transferred back to my home province. With a promotion and medals of honor, I might add. I'm not without influence. You are coming with me, madam."

  "I won't! You can't make me! I'm a British citizen," Kate declared. "I demand to be returned to my own people."

  "As I told you before, a whore has no nationality. I want you; therefore, I will have you." He laughed. "It is really quite simple. What you wish is of no consequence. A woman of your sort is no more than goods to be disposed of. N'est-ce pas?"

  Kate threw herself across the room toward him. The walking stick cracked her sharply across the arm and head, and she stumbled back. "Desist!" he spat. "There will be no more attacks, or I will have you beaten as you deserve."

  Kate wiped at the blood that trickled down her face. Silent curses spilled from her lips. "I will kill you," she whispered. "Some night when you least expect it, I'll slip a blade between your ribs."

  "I think not." His fingers tightened in her hair. "Others have tried to kill me. Your precious Ashton tried, and where did it get him? I will never let you go, madam, be certain of it, not until it pleases me. It is fitting that I should have the use of Ashton's woman while his body rots, unburied and unchurched." He laughed. "Besides, in time, you will come to my bed willingly enough. You desire me, whether you are honest enough to admit it or not."

  "Desire you?" Kate spun away, impervious to the pain of her yanked hair. "If you believe that, you're insane. You murdered the only man I ever loved. I carry his child. He died believing I betrayed him. There is nothing more you can do to me. And if you ever come near me..." Her voice dropped to a husky cadence. "I will finish what Pride started."

  Rage turned the pale face to burgundy. "You common bitch," he sputtered. "You dare... you dare to..." A spasm of coughing caught him and his face twisted in pain as he gripped his side. He backed away. "You dare to threaten... You'll learn. You'll learn," he promised. "Oh, how I'll enjoy the lessons." DeSalle paused with his hand on the door, gasping for breath. "You carry the bastard seed, do you? Perhaps we can plan some future for Ashton's child? Think on it, madam." He slammed the door and locked it.

  Kate flung herself on the bed and cursed herself for being seven kinds of fool! Why had she told DeSalle of her pregnancy? It only gave him another weapon to use against her. Then she'd threatened him. If her father were alive, he would never forgive her if he knew. He'd taught her never to reveal her plans before they were executed. Keeping your opponent in the dark was vital in chess or in fencing.

  She lay back and stroked the rounded mound of her belly. Her womb was swelling with Pride's child, all that was left of him on this earth. She would need all her wits and strength to protect him. The time for childish tantrums had passed. DeSalle was in
sane, but his insanity did not preclude shrewd reasoning powers. He was as dangerous as Pride had warned.

  The Frenchman had been right. Public opinion would brand her child a bastard. He must carry the name of Ashton. She must return to Ashton Hall and to Rebecca. Despite all that had happened, Kate knew that Pride's mother would welcome the child. She would acknowledge the baby as Pride's, perhaps even make him her legal heir. If she could give birth to the baby there, Rebecca would see that it was given the upbringing Pride's son deserved.

  She must escape from DeSalle before they boarded a ship for France. She would kill him if she could. But escape was primary. Revenge could be set aside if it meant the life of Pride's child. If DeSalle got her to France, it would be much more difficult. She could never let him get his hands on the baby.

  Suppose the baby was a girl? All the more reason for her to have the protection of a name and family. All the more reason to have it safe from DeSalle's hands. But it was not a girl; Kate knew in her inner heart she carried Pride's son.

  She curled into a tight ball on the mattress, eyes shut. She must find a way to escape, she must! Exhausted, she slept.

  * * *

  "Ki-te-hi." The soft voice wrenched at her heart. Pride's familiar face loomed above her.

  "Pride," she whispered. "You're not dead. I thought you were dead."

  He laughed huskily; his mouth captured hers. She inhaled the sweetness of his breath; her hands stroked his neck, his shoulders, the bulging muscles of his arms. She let herself be swept up in the utter joy of his embrace.

  "Darling, darling," she murmured. "How did you...?"

  He kissed her again; he pulled her tight against his warm, hard body. "I've missed you," he groaned, "God, how I've missed you, woman." His fingers found her breast beneath the fabric of her gown; he teased the nipple to rigid passion. The dress parted; his mouth closed on the eagerness of her straining breast. The delicious chills washed through her trembling body, setting her secret places aflame with moist desire.

  "It's not safe for you here," she whimpered. "Darling... darling. They'll find you." His hand slipped down to stroke her belly; it slid lower to caress the tangled curls.