"I want you, Kate. I want you."
"Yes, yes," she pleaded, rising to meet the hard length of his body, opening her legs to receive his throbbing manhood. She cried aloud as he thrust into her core; she met passion with equal passion, wanting to be one with him, wanting to hold him and never let him go.
Caught in a tempest of spiraling emotion, Kate clung to him, rising with the flames, welcoming the fires in her blood that threatened to consume her in a holocaust of longing. Together, they reached the peak and dropped into the nothingness beyond.
"Pride... Pride..." she murmured. She reached to pull him against her damp breast. "Pride?" Her hands clasped empty space. She opened her eyes to the barren room. "Pride?" Salt tears scalded her cheeks. A dream... he was no more than a dream. Alone, she wept for tonight and all the nights to come.
Two days later, they came for her. Father Sebastion gave her his blessing and told her that DeSalle would be taking her to Canada.
"He isn't! He's lying!" she protested. "He's taking me to France, with him. I don't want to go. Please help me!" Kate clung to the black robe. "You must help me!"
"I will pray for you, my child. You'll see that all your fears are groundless. Captain DeSalle has given me his word that he will care for you as though you were his own sister." He pulled free of her grasp. "Bless you."
Two white men blindfolded her and led her out of the building. They didn't speak to her. Kate knew it was useless to struggle.
The wood walk gave way to stone. She heard voices and the sounds of animals as they crossed the compound. A horse whinnied, and Kate though of Meshewa. Would her son live to ride him? She held her head high, walking proudly. The catcalls and whistles were as nothing. She could not waste her anger on them.
She smelled the river before they reached it. Strong arms picked her up and waded with her to a fragile boat. Kate clutched the sides to keep her balance. Her fingers explored the smooth surface of the birch-bark canoe. She dipped her hand in the water, then raised it abruptly to rip away the blindfold. She blinked. DeSalle stood on the bank, watching her.
In the bright sunlight, it was even more evident that the arrow wound had taken a great toll on DeSalle's muscular body. His uniform hung on him; he seemed shorter. Streaks of gray marred the blond hair. He leaned on the silver-headed walking stick. "What, madam? No curses? No threats?" He waded through the water to climb into the canoe in front of her.
Kate didn't bother to answer his taunts. She watched as the other two canoes were loaded. One Huron crouched behind her, another in front of DeSalle. A dark-skinned colonial was in the prow. He raised a paddle in salute to a comrade on the shore and pushed off from the beach. The other canoes each carried six; all the men but one were Indian.
"What fort was that?" Kate asked. She had asked the priest and gotten silence for a reply.
DeSalle laughed. "If we had wanted you to know, we wouldn't have bothered with the blindfold, would we?"
"You're a pig, DeSalle." Kate withdrew within herself and watched the shoreline pass. The current was swift; the canoes skimmed along the surface of the sparkling blue-green water. Trees crowded the riverbanks, hanging low to touch the water. The air smelled of pine and mossy stones. Kate felt more alive than she had in a long time.
They rounded a bend in the river and Kate gasped. Two black-and-white hooded mergansers challenged each other with a great bobbing of iridescent green heads and flapping of wings. They rose from the surface of the water, splashing and striking at each other with their bills, sending spurts of foam into the air with the kick of their powerful red feet. They took flight as the canoes approached, joined by a lone female, drab in her muted colors and modest size.
Kate watched them disappear above the treetops, wishing she could open her wings and fly as easily.
The hours slipped by. The Huron struck up a chant; the colonial joined in the song. Bronzed arms moved rhythmically; paddles dug into the water. The three canoes moved as silently as shadows on the water. Once a doe and two half-grown fawns plunged into the forest a canoe's length away, startled by the invasion of humans into their wilderness home.
At dusk, they beached the canoes and built a campfire. Kate feared that DeSalle would molest her, but as she scrambled up the bank she saw the lines of pain and weariness on his face. The wound was troubling him. Good! With luck, the infection would return and kill him.
Two braves left the camp and returned a short time later with two turkeys and a beaver. They cut up the game and roasted it over the fire. DeSalle unwrapped bread and cheese. Kate ate what he gave her, then boldly snatched a turkey wing. It burned her fingers, but the taste was smoky and delicious. She slept undisturbed beside the fire.
The second day was much like the first. Kate had no idea how many miles they had come. The canoes seemed to cover ground much quicker than a horse. She marveled at the paddlers; they never seemed to tire.
In the afternoon, they passed an Indian village. The people waved and called greetings in French. It was a small town with not more than a dozen houses. The women looked much like the Shawnee women, although they wore shapeless dresses of skin that covered them from neck to ankle.
"This river feeds into a great lake," DeSalle had said. "There we board an oceangoing vessel. It will take us to France."
Kate refused to give him the satisfaction of a reply. She might be forced to kill herself, but she would not allow them to put her on that ship. With every passing day, her body adjusted to the burden within it. Each day made her a little less able to defend herself. If she'd had a knife, she would have plunged it into DeSalle's back, and the devil take the consequences.
Dusk was beginning to settle over the river when gunshots rang out from the forest. The Huron behind Kate screamed and slumped forward in the canoe; his paddle fell across her leg.
A hail of arrows fell about them; one pierced the bark by Kate's hand. An Indian war cry rent the air. DeSalle raised his rifle to fire, then let out a groan as a feathered shaft was buried deep in his knee. Puffs of smoke rose from the trees on their left. The men in the canoes were returning fire but the attackers were ghosts.
Kate screamed and slammed DeSalle alongside the head with the paddle, then let herself topple over the right side of the canoe. She took a deep breath and let herself sink to the bottom of the river, praying she had killed him, and cursing the dress that weighed her down. Letting the current carry her, she swam downriver and to the right.
The confusion and fading light were to Kate's advantage. One of the attackers who had seen her strike DeSalle before she went overboard dove into the river after her. A musket ball caught him in the neck, and he died instantly.
DeSalle fell sideways; the canoe overturned, and he slipped into the river.
Kate surfaced only long enough to gulp a mouthful of precious air, then swam under water again. If she could just reach the far shore, she might come up under overhanging trees and not be seen. Cries and wails of the wounded and dying filled her ears. She reached a tangle of logs and branches, and her skirt caught on it. Panic-stricken, she clawed her way to the top. One canoe was only yards away; the four remaining Hurons were paddling furiously.
Her hand struck something soft. The form moaned and grabbed at her. Kate struck out at the wounded Huron and ducked under. She opened her eyes; she could see only a few feet in the murky water. An opening in the logjam loomed an arm's length away. She pushed herself into it and upward. There was a crisscross of sticks and branches overhead. She pushed her hand into the tangle, gulping in the air trapped in the pocket.
A feeling of terror pressed against her chest until she could hardly breathe. The logs were slimy with mud and rotted debris. Something crawled across her arm; in the semidarkness she saw the outline of a snake. It reared its head and struck at her. Kate fainted.
Chapter 17
The world was dark and wet when Kate opened her eyes. At first, she struck out wildly at the branches around her, not remembering where she was. Then
it all came pouring back over her. She was in a logjam. She had swum in through a hole; she would have to swim out. Her heart was pounding. Why was it so dark? She listened. There were night sounds on the river; an owl hooted in the forest. It had been dusk when the shooting started. Now, it was night.
Taking a deep breath, she wriggled down, feeling her way with her bare feet. She forced herself down, holding back the terror with all her might, inching out of the logjam. Then, she was in the river proper. She felt the swift current; she swam away from the logs and surfaced.
The full moon made the night like day. The water was suddenly cold. She shivered, her teeth chattering. A few sure strokes and her feet touched the sandy bottom. Staggering up into the shallows, she pulled herself up the bank. She wanted to lie there, but instinct forced her into the woods away from the river. If anyone was searching for her, they would look near the river.
The branches were sharp under her feet; she bruised her arch on a pointed rock. The underbrush tangled in her hair and scratched her face and arms. Kate kept walking.
Something crashed through the brush; Kate thought of bears. Then there was the sound of an animal running. Only a deer. It must be a deer. The owl hooted again, directly overhead. The forest had never seemed frightening when Pride was with her. Alone, she was terrified. She kept putting one foot in front of another. She must get farther from the river. She had come ashore on the right side; the right side was south, at least she thought so. Maryland was south. She'd just keep putting one foot in front of the other until she reached home.
After what seemed hours, her body would no longer obey. She sank down, too tired to care if they caught her, too tired to do anything but sleep. She wrapped her arms around her knees to try and keep warm. When she opened her eyes again, it was full light.
She was ravenous. Images of the juicy turkey wing teased her brain. If there was anything to eat in the woods, she didn't see it. She was thirsty, too. How could she possibly be thirsty after the river? She'd swallowed half of it. She began to walk again, in what she hoped was a straight line.
She pushed through a thick clump of bushes and nearly toppled into the river a dozen feet below. The river! Was it the same one, or another? Had she been walking in circles all this time?
Carefully, she made her way down the bank and drank. She put her sore feet into the running water and let it wash away the dirt and blood. Face it, Kate, you 're lost! Some Indian she was! She lowered her body into the clean water and swam a few strokes. Maybe she could catch a fish or something. Although what she'd do with a raw fish, she couldn't imagine.
A canoe bobbed across the surface of the water. Kate panicked and splashed toward the shore.
"Hey!" a voice called. "Bon jour, demoiselle!"
She scrambled up the bank and ran into the woods. A quick glance over her shoulder showed the canoe moving swiftly toward shore with two paddlers.
Kate dashed through the trees, dove under a lightning-felled pine, and hid beneath the dry boughs. Her heart was pounding, and her breath came in gasps. She tried to slow her breathing, certain her pursuers would find her by the sound. She clenched her eyes shut and waited, trying not to move a muscle as twigs snapped and leaves rustled.
The leaves parted over her head. "What have we here? Come out, little chicken. Etienne will not harm a hair of your head."
Kate looked up into the grinning face of a bearded woodsman. His voice was heavily accented. He was French. She forced back bitter tears. "I'm not afraid of you," she bluffed.
He took her hand and lifted her up. "Then why do you hide under zee tree like frightened quail?" He looked her up and down with amused brown eyes. He stood not much taller than she, but the long rifle cradled easily in his muscular arm lent authority to his stance.
"I'm unarmed, that's why I ran," she said, brushing the pine needles off the ragged remains of her dress. "Why did you chase me?"
"Ah, you are Englesh. I thought so. I say to Marie, that is my little woman, the startled doe is Englesh. This is no place for you, petite. Only yesterday a Seneca war party ambush a French officer and his Huron allies on thees very river. Many men killed. You would not be the Englesh prisoner, would you?"
Kate nodded. Her lower lip quivered. "Do you have anything to eat? Even the condemned get a last meal."
"Bel esprit!" He laughed, showing even, white teeth. "You must not be afraid of me. I am no enemy of yours, petite. I am only a poor voyager going downriver for winter supplies. My woman is with me. Come, you will see. We cannot remain here. There may be Seneca scouts in the woods." He motioned toward the river. "Back to the canoe. Quickly, petite." Kate did as she was told.
"How did you find out about the attack?"
"On the river, nothing be secret long. Seneca big news. When Iroquois fight Iroquois, smart man keep head low." He waved to the Indian woman as she paddled the canoe close to shore. "I was right, Marie," he called. "This is lost quail from yesterday. He helped Kate into the canoe."
The woman stared at her. She was young and plump, and carried a baby on her back. "Hello," Kate ventured.
"This is my woman, Marie."
"Wife," the girl corrected.
"Ah, yes. Marie is good Christian Menominee girl. We are legal by priest. What is your name, petite?"
"Kate Storm. Kate Storm Ashton," she amended.
"Little one is my son, Louis." Etienne positioned his rifle carefully and took up the paddle. "Safer in center of river." Together, he and Marie guided the canoe into the current.
"Please," Kate urged. "Don't turn me back over to Captain DeSalle. Let me go. All I want to do is to get home. I'm no enemy of yours, either. DeSalle captured my husband and me. I want to go back to our farm in Maryland. I could pay you."
"You do not look as though you could pay for a tankard of beer, madame." Etienne said lightly. "As I say, I am voyager, not soldier." He spat into the water. "I would not turn goat over to that pig DeSalle. He is one bad man, I think." He turned and grinned at her. "I must take you to authorities. But I do not give you to DeSalle." He shrugged. "No one knows where DeSalle may be. Maybe he dances at Seneca stake. Maybe river take him. We can always hope."
"But if you just let me go..."
"You starve to death in woods or zee bear eat you. Woods no place for petite. You will be traded soon for French prisoners. You have word of Etienne."
Etienne's word was as good as his rifle. At the settlement, Kate received clean clothing and food; she was treated kindly and sent on with another woman prisoner to Quebec City.
* * *
Within a month, she found herself in a boat, in the middle of a large river, with a half-dozen sniveling women and children and one gray-haired grandfather. The French soldiers were gentle and efficient as they conducted the prisoner exchange. Kate climbed the ladder to an English boat and was herded below as the boat headed for the south shore.
The rescued captives were transported to Albany and turned over to civilian authorities. The weather had turned bitter, and they arrived in the midst of a snowstorm. Kate was furious at the lack of sympathy the captives received from their own people.
"We'll do the best we can by you," a harried magistrate promised. "But we've exhausted all the funds provided for your care. You must contact relatives to pay for your transportation. We've indigents enough in Albany without you squatters to worry about."
"I'm no squatter!" Kate snapped. "I'm Lady Ashton of Ashton Hall in Maryland colony."
"Sure ya are, sweets. And I'm the Prince o' Wales. I've no time fer yer lies. Ya claim to lie a married woman, an' I see no ring on yer finger, nor no mark o' one. Ya look like a common slut to me."
Kate answered him with a sound cursing. Here, with her own kind, she was as much a prisoner as with the French. They were even being held in the local almshouse.
"Shut yer foul mouth, woman, or I'll shut it fer ya. Ya may be a runaway bond servant fer all I know. Fer certain yer no lady! "
After two days of poor food, t
hin blankets, and biting fleas, Kate was given over to a fanner and his wife. "This is Amos Tinley. Yer to go with him."
"I'd not be having trash at my house, but I'm ailin'," the woman whined. She stood just under six feet, with shoulders like a dockhand. "We'll keep her jest till spring. I'll not have her laying round when she drops her bastard, eatin' an' not doin' a lick. Our hired girl jest ran off to get married an' I've got sixteen young'ns to fend fer."
Tinley was a red-faced, dull-eyed farmer. "You'll work fer yer keep at our place," he stammered. "No slackers under my roof."
"Go along, woman! What are you staring at?" the attendant snapped. "Go with the Tinleys."
"In a pig's eye! I'm no servant!"
"You said she'd be biddable," the wife protested. "My back's got the misery. I can't be puttin' up with lip from a uppity wench."
The attendant gave Kate a shove. "No nonsense from you, girl. You'll get plenty to eat, and anyplace'd be warmer than here. Yer in the family way. You don't want to stay round the almshouse in winter. Too many dyin' of the consumption! Use yer head. You'll end up in a pine box here, if they spare one to put you under in."
Knowing common sense when she heard it, Kate reluctantly got into the open wagon behind the farmer and his wife. It was still snowing, and the wind was sharp. She wrapped a dirty blanket around herself and rolled herself into a ball. She'd have to make the best of the situation until she figured out what to do. It was plain she could go nowhere in this weather.
The Tinley farmhouse was a two-story rambling dwelling of stone and wood. The children ranged from four months to sixteen years. Mistress Tinley was given to producing twins; she was also given to producing the ugliest children Kate had ever laid eyes on.
From before daylight until long after dark, Kate labored to satisfy Mistress Tinley. There were cows to be milked, butter to be churned, chickens to be fed, eggs to be gathered, floors to be scrubbed, and endless piles of dishes to be washed. The woman was too lazy to be cruel. As long as Kate kept busy, she could eat as much as she liked. There were threats, but no physical abuse.
By Love Alone Page 29