by Beth Trissel
Her head ached. Groaning softly, she opened her eyes. Why was she lying sore and bruised on the forest floor? Perplexed, she stared at the branches of a great oak silhouetted against the saffron glow of the setting sun.
Men’s voices drew her. When had they made camp? She strained to understand their words. Why were they speaking in a foreign tongue?
Bewildered and frightened, she shifted gingerly onto her side, peering through smoky shadows at a series of campfires. Dear God. Warriors encircled each blaze. Memories of the ambush rushed back as she covered her mouth in a futile effort to stifle a cry.
All heads turned, and a host of dark eyes glinted in the firelight at her. So many, and they’d heard her now. She went rigid with dread, her heart pounding wildly.
After an agonizing moment, the men resumed their genial banter, some smoking pipes. Only one warrior stood. His tall figure bent to dip a cupful of liquid from the kettle near the fire. Cup in hand, he walked toward her.
His muscular body was clad only in an elkskin breechclout, blue cloth leggings, and buckskin moccasins that reached well up his calves, a far more primitive use of the same skins fashionable men wore. A sheathed knife hung from the navy and red woven belt knotted at his waist. He’d slung a tomahawk at his other side. The blade protruded above his belt and the carved handle below, ready to grasp in an instant. But he didn’t reach for either weapon.
She scarcely dared to breathe. With dry mouthed fear, she fastened her eyes on this formidable male, like some New World god sprung from this wild land. A shudder coursed through as he knelt beside her, but she did not look away. Hiding her face would not secure her life.
“I’ll not harm you,” he said.
His quiet assurance in clear English took her by surprise. Not only that, but there was a familiar quality about his face, his voice. Striving to remember, she searched every contour: eyes as black as a night without stars, high cheekbones, sculpted nose, strong chin. His lightly tanned skin was unstreaked by red and black paint. No silver cones hung from his ears. No ornament pierced his nose. Instead of the scalp lock worn by most braves, his black hair hung loose around his shoulders.
She shifted her gaze to the muscled planes of his bare chest, an eye-opening sight for a woman accustomed to long-sleeved shirts, waistcoats, and cravats. She let her eyes drop lower. His narrow breechclout revealed a great deal more of masculine thighs than she’d ever been confronted with, and she hurriedly returned her widened stare to his dark scrutiny. Gaping at a man, even a potentially deadly warrior, wasn’t her nature.
For a moment, he simply looked at her. What lay behind those penetrating eyes?
He held out the cup. “Drink this.”
Did he mean to help her? She’d heard hideous stories of warriors’ brutality, but also occasionally of their mercy. She tried to sit, moaning at the effect this movement had on her aching body. She sank back down.
He slid a corded arm beneath her shoulders and gently raised her head. “Now try.”
Encouraged by his aid, she sipped from the wooden vessel, grimacing at the bitterness. The vile taste permeated her mouth. Weren’t deadly herbs acrid? Was he feigning assistance to trick her into downing a fatal brew?
She eyed him accusingly. “’Tis poison.”
He arched one black brow. “No. It’s good medicine. Will make your pain less.”
Unconvinced, she clamped her mouth together. She couldn’t prevent him from forcing it down her throat, but she refused to participate in her own demise.
“I will drink. See?” Raising the cup, he took a swallow.
She parted her lips just wide enough to argue. “It may take more than a mouthful to kill.”
His narrowing eyes regarded her in disbelief. “You dare much.”
Though she knew he felt her tremble, she met his piercing gaze. If he were testing her, she wouldn’t waver.
His sharp expression softened. “Yet, you have courage.” Setting the cup aside, he lifted his hand to her head.
Her life hung on his every move.
He loosened the remains of her knot and spilled her hair over her shoulders and down her back. Gold streaks shone in the firelight as he wound the abundant lengths around his fingers. “If I wished your death, fair one, you would already lie dead. Your scalp mine. I wish you to live. Drink now.”
The firmness in his tone told her he would not tolerate further refusal. She drained the vile brew, wrinkling her nose. “What is this?”
“Tea from the bark of the tree you call willow. We give this to our injured.” He wrapped the navy blue blanket snugly around her. “You fell hard from the horse.”
Only a dim recollection of those final moments surfaced, but he stood out with growing clarity. “You brought me here?”
He gave a nod and stood.
She followed him with her eyes. “What is your name?”
“Shoka.” It rolled out in his quiet baritone.
Metal glinted at his hip as he turned. A brass stock stuck out above his belt. “Hey. That’s my pistol.”
He glanced at her with the ghost of a smile. “Mine now. I left your necklace.”
She patted at her throat for the locket, reassured to find the precious keepsake hanging just inside her bodice beneath the ivory kerchief tucked around her lacy neckline.
He scrutinized her with the barest hint of amusement in his dark eyes. “I could have taken it, your earrings, all.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Shoka made no reply, just left her to wonder, as he strode back to his companions and the haunch of venison roasting over their fire. An older man, scarred and fierce, his braided scalp lock heavy with silver brooches, greeted him with disapproval. The scowl he fired at Rebecca made her cringe. If it were up to this warrior, she had no doubt she’d already lie dead, her bloody scalp in his possession.
A younger brave, however, regarded her with friendly curiosity. He rested his hand on Shoka’s broad shoulder and spoke to him, eliciting a smile and a response too soft to hear. The youth smiled in return. His face bore an appealing resemblance to Shoka’s. Were they brothers? Clearly, the younger man admired the warrior. He also wore his hair long, and his lean body was free of piercings and paint.
Laughter erupted from the larger gathering, the high spirits an evident result of their success against the militia. The war party’s injuries had been minimal, unlike the soldiers they’d left in the clearing, eyes unseeing, bloody bodies still. A pang of regret cut through Rebecca as she thought of Lieutenant McClure.
And dearest Kate, what had become of her? How could Rebecca bear not knowing?
At least, Kate had gotten away, but to what fate? Somehow, she must find her sister.
Unwilling to look any longer upon the warriors’ revelry, she rolled onto her side facing the stream. Gradually, her inner turmoil diminished a little as the willow infusion eased her physical pain, and woodland beauty soothed her wounded spirit.
Hues of green cloaked the trees like the softest mantle. Hay-scented fern carpeted the ground, drifting down the bank to the stream. Only a small part of the stream was visible from where she lay, spilling over stones as it rushed along. Little shrubs grew in the narrow crevices between the moss covered rocks and tiny ferns sprouted in the green cushion. If she blocked out the strange voices and listened only to the wind and water, to the call of the nighthawks and whippoorwills, she could almost pretend the attack hadn’t happened. Almost.
Pearly flowers glowed in the dusk. White, queen of the night, was the last color to fade as darkness enveloped the ridges. “God keep you, Kate. Forgive me,” she whispered.
The first stars somehow seemed closer here, peeking out from between the tossing branches. The cold settled in with the breezy night, and the blanket wasn’t enough to stop her from shivering. If only she had the cloak left in her saddlebag. At least Kate should still have provisions.
Rebecca startled at the touch of a hand on her shoulder.
“I’ll carry you n
earer the fire,” Shoka said quietly.
She twisted to look at him. The flames at his back flickered over a tan hunting shirt overlapped in the middle and held together with his blue woven belt. Was the shirt his or torn from one of the militia? She saw no fresh bloodstains. “I didn’t hear you come.”
“Why should I wish you to hear?”
Panic fluttered in her chest as he slid his arms beneath her. She wanted to be no nearer the others, particularly that scarred warrior. “Wait. I’m not cold.”
“Your body agrees not with your words.”
“Even so. Leave me here.”
“Warriors will not harm you.”
She pointed shakily at the scratched features of the brave who’d tried to yank her from the horse. “He would.”
Shoka snorted. “Amaghqua will trouble you no more.” He lifted her, blanket and all.
“Put me down! The others—”
“Will do you no evil.”
“No. Don’t take me any closer.”
“Do you think they do not see you? Not hear you?”
She struggled against his raw strength, like trying to uproot the oak towering above her. “Please. I beg you.”
“You are foolish.” He carried her out from beneath the tree.
“Leave me here, Shoka.”
He paused and pursed his lips as if considering her plea. Surrounding warriors regarded them with the intensity of a wolf pack. The fierce warrior shot her a scorching look.
Throwing her arms around Shoka’s neck, she shrank against her new protector. He smelled of wind, sun, and a masculine scent she found both attracting and oddly comforting.
He pivoted and stepped back under the tree. “Eat first,” he relented and set her down against the trunk. Raising his arm, he beckoned to the young warrior she’d seen him with earlier. “Weothe.”
The brave drew his knife and sawed off a hunk of venison. He skewered it on a sharpened stick and walked over to them. Smiling shyly, he offered it to her. “Take, lady.”
Despite his apparent good will, she did not reach for the offering he extended.
“Are you hungry?” Shoka asked.
“A little.”
He took the stick, waving the youth off. He trailed reluctantly back to the others.
“Who is that brave?”
“Meshewa, the son of my uncle. Why did you not take the meat?”
“What am I to do, gnaw at it like a dog?”
“If you were hungry, you would gnaw like a rat. Eat rats.”
“Never.”
“Fine ladies never know hunger?”
She shook her head.
Shoka drew his knife and knelt beside her, slicing a manageable portion. He speared it on his blade and held it out to her, but kept a firm grip on the deerskin-wrapped handle. “We have no forks. Still, I think you can eat what I give.”
Ignoring his sarcasm, she bit into the warm venison. The smoky meat tasted good, and she was emptier than she’d realized. She chewed, swallowed, and took another bite, all the while slanting glances at his dimly lit face. He’d saved her life and was her best hope of staying alive.
“Thank you. Also, for the willow. I am improved.”
Though he made no reply, she sensed her gratitude pleased him. “How is it that you speak English so well?”
“Not all warriors are ignorant of your tongue. I also speak Mohawk, Cherokee, Ojibwa, and French.” Scorn underlay his tone.
She refused to be put off. “Even so, there’s something highly unusual about you.”
“Ah. You know much of me?”
“You stand apart from the others.”
He swept his hand at the men. “I stand with my people.”
She pushed back the hair blowing across her eyes. “You have not always been with them.”
“No, clever one. Before we went to war, I was a guide for the English. They taught me much of English ways. A priest taught me the most.”
“You spent all that time with a priest, and you’re still doing these dreadful things? How can you fight your friends?”
He tensed beside her. “I have killed no friends.”
“Perhaps not, but you’ve battled many of their comrades. This war—” she shuddered, “—is terrible.”
“Have your eyes ever looked on battle?”
“Not like this.”
“This war is like others,” he said.
“It’s far worse. Your warriors kill women and children.”
“Not all. Many are taken captive and adopted. Do you even know who we are?”
“Indians.”
“Shawnee.”
The name held an ominous ring. “I’ve heard of this tribe. Your warriors are said to be fierce. You are certainly living up to your reputation.”
“Your people have killed no one?” he countered.
“Not women and children.”
“You are certain?”
She faltered as images of the British Legion charged through her mind. “If they have, it’s wrong. Don’t you see?”
“Wrong is easier for you to determine.”
“What do you mean, easier for me?”
Shoka sat back against the oak. “You come from much. If all is taken from you, will you still speak this way?”
“I don’t understand.”
The honking of wild geese cut in as a wedge flew overhead, their shadowed wings beating across the full moon. “More and more settlers come, like birds covering the sky. If Shawnee do not fight, no land will remain. Where will we go then to hunt, to live?”
“I never thought—I know nothing. I’m a newcomer.”
“I see this.”
She chafed at his disdain. “I’m also English. If you’re so bent on killing us, why did you save my life?”
“I do not like to see a woman struck down. To make you my captive is better.” He took a smooth stone from the fringed beaded pouch at his waist and slid his knife across it to sharpen the blade. “Tell me your name.”
“Rebecca Elliot.”
He seemed pensive for a moment. “I like this name.”
Twisting the gold and onyx ring on her middle finger, she asked, “What will you do with me?”
He sliced another piece of venison and handed it to her. “Feed you. Keep you safe.”
She relaxed a little, a very little. “Is that all?”
“Is that not enough?”
“I mean—” she hesitated, “men usually require something more for their protection.”
“Ah.” He wiped his blade on a leaf and sheathed his knife. She bit into the meat as he said, “I will not keep you with me. You will go to the French.”
She stopped chewing. “Why?”
“Would you rather stay with the Shawnee?”
“No. But the French—I couldn’t possibly.”
“This is not for you to say. You have much beauty. A French officer or trader will pay me well for you.”
She sucked in her breath, nearly inhaling the unchewed bite of venison still in her mouth, and lapsed into a violent fit of coughing. He tilted her forward and whacked her on the back.
“Don’t—I’m so sore,” she gasped.
“You prefer to choke to death?”
Recovering her voice and crushing the remaining venison in her first, she blurted, “I prefer not to be sold like a slave to some stinking Frenchman. I hate the French!” She scrambled achingly to her feet. “Oh—I should have perished with the men.”
Shoka grabbed her arm and forced her back to the ground. Though he wasn’t harsh, she winced.
“Do not run from me, Rebecca Elliot.” Her name rolled off his tongue in a foreign accent with a hint of French.
Molten rage bubbled up inside, and she fired back. “Why don’t you just shoot me?”
“You do not wish for death. You feared poison.”
“That was before. Now I wish it had been poison.”
“Be glad I spared your life.”
“Glad? Have you no
honor that you would make me mistress to a Frenchman?” She rushed on furiously. “If your knowledge of English doesn’t include mistress, try whore!”
Laughter and unintelligible exclamations broke out behind him. He clapped his right hand over her mouth, wrapping his left arm tightly around her. “I know these words. Many do. Guard your tongue,” he growled.
She wrenched to escape him, moaning at the effect on her bruised body. But she’d be damned if she’d go passively to this unthinkable fate.
“Stop. You pain yourself,” he warned.
Pain was no stranger, and she fought to tear away from him. If she could just get an elbow free, Shoka would find it thrust in his gut.
“I will bind you.”
She ceased her struggles at his threat, knowing what it was to be bound. A harsh father had toughened her. “I hate being bound.”
Sobs rose up from her chest and tears blurred her eyes, spilling down her cheeks and over his hand. She battled to stem the torrent, despising her helplessness and hating for him to see her weakness.
Still gripping her, he freed her mouth. “If I were a man I’d fight the French!”
“You would fight as a woman.”
Heads turned, and her captor was assailed with incomprehensible comments.
“Peh wa naga ma’chihi yeama tamseh!” Meshewa called.
Shoka groaned under his breath. “My cousin fears for you. Tamseh au weshelashamamo!”
Whatever he answered seemed to satisfy most of the men, who returned to their meal, although Meshewa kept an eye on her.
“I said you are well,” Shoka explained.
“I am not.” She tugged the lace-edged kerchief from around her bodice to blot her eyes and wipe her nose.
“Enough. Wabete cannot abide a woman’s weeping.”
“Which one is he?”
“My brother. The warrior with many scars.”
That brave’s fierce expression did nothing to ease her distress. “He’ll just have to kill me, then.”
“I will not let him take your life.”
“No. You won’t get much for a dead mistress.”
“Must you speak this? I will find a Frenchman who will treat you well.”