Through the Fire (The Native American Warrior Series)

by Beth Trissel

“Damn all French—” a hiccup jarred her incensed outcry, followed by another and another.

  “You will make yourself ill,” he chided.

  “Good. Maybe I’ll die.”

  “Hush. I take you to the water.”

  Despite Shoka’s gruff tone, he gently helped her up and guided her down the ferny bank. The brilliant moon cast a silvery path across the tumbling water, lending a dreamlike quality to an already surreal night. He clasped her shoulder to prevent her from toppling into the stream as she knelt unsteadily to drink. The icy water quieted her hiccups.

  Splashing her tearstained face, she wiped her hands on her gown. “I need a towel.”

  “I have none.”

  The breeze whipped her wet cheeks. “I’ll chap, lessen my beauty,” she said with more than a trace of sarcasm.

  He knelt and smoothed the moisture from her face with his fingers. “So soft your skin is, like the fur of a rabbit.”

  The tenderness in his voice and touch discomforted her, as did the odd fluttering he stirred inside. He was a disturbing blend of man and warrior and unique to his kind. She masked her uneasiness. “Appraising my value?”

  “I know your worth. Come.” He rose, pulling her up.

  “Not yet. Please.”

  “Will you hold to me and plead as you did before?”

  She had a fleeting, inexplicable urge to press back against his hard chest. “Would you like me to?”

  “My brother fears so. Still, we stay a while.”

  He supported her over the short distance to a stand of hemlocks. They sat on the cushion of evergreen needles with a sheltering stone at their backs. The wind didn’t buffet her now and he tucked the blanket around her, but exhaustion and a troubled spirit made her more susceptible to the frigid air. Her teeth chattered, and she shook from head to toe.

  “You grow too cold. I will take you to the fire.”

  “Not yet,” she pleased tremulously.

  “More you weep? You will swell your eyes closed.”

  “I won’t fetch you a good price, then.”

  “Shhhh.”

  Anger flooded her. “Don’t hush me. How dare you sell—”

  Again, he silenced her. Though his palm did not clap over her mouth as forcefully as before. “You wish to stay? Be still.”

  Sliding his hand from her lips, he circled his arms around her. She wanted to rage at him like an angry sea but didn’t have the strength. He should not be holding her like this. He was taking advantage of her vulnerability. Despite her fury, though, he felt so good, the only comforting presence in a grim spiral of pain and confusion. Her trembling diminished as she absorbed his warmth, and her tears subsided into an occasional sniffle.

  Drowsiness washed over her and deepened the sense of unreality. It seemed to her that there was some dire matter she must attend to, but she couldn’t think what it was. Closing her eyes, she drifted with the soothing flow of water.

  A finely furnished bedchamber took shape in her mind, and she was back in her canopied bed in Philadelphia. More contented than she’d been in months, she snuggled under the embroidered coverlet. Her chamber door opened. An elegant young man entered wearing the scarlet uniform and gold braid of a British captain. Hope soared. She held out her arms.

  Chapter Two

  Shoka knew he shouldn’t be off by himself with Rebecca Elliot, let alone holding her. The last thing he wanted was to lose his head and already shredded heart to yet another beautiful woman, this one with blindingly blue eyes. So why was he sitting here cradling her? He knew that too. Even wrapped in the blanket, she was so soft and curved. Sweet perfume clung to her, but she’d given him a blistering taste of her fury. Not only that, she was English. Worse—a lady and totally unsuited to his way of life.

  He’d been in the company of Englishmen long enough to have a fairly good idea of what her world entailed, not remotely like his. And the arrogance of most English infuriated him, typified by her astonishment that he spoke her tongue. He thought of the only Englishman he trusted, Father Andrew. As for his other British allegiances, well, he’d thrown himself into the fray fully allied with the tribe.

  Rebecca stirred sleepily, disrupting his silent tirade. He was acutely aware of her every gesture, each word uttered in her lilting accent. That equally annoyed him.

  A whispery sigh escaped her. “John?”

  An unwanted jab rifled through Shoka. This man, whoever he was, meant a great deal to Rebecca. Yet, somehow, in her drowsy confusion she’d mistaken him for John. If she trusted him, even a little, she might confide more.

  “No, fair one. Who is John?”

  She woke more fully, her reply shaky. “My husband.”

  “Perhaps he will purchase your freedom,” Shoka offered, irritated with how this possibility bit at him.

  “He can’t. Captain Elliot was killed this spring fighting in the north. A French officer shot him.”

  “Many fall. It’s war, Rebecca.”

  Sitting up straighter, she beat clenched fists against his chest in a wave of rage. “Damn this bloody war!”

  Her grief was volatile. Shoka pinned her hands. “Will you battle me now?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “I’ll fight anyone, if I must.”

  “Who taught you to fight? Your English captain?”

  “My father.” Her reply was sharp with bitterness.

  Another confidence shared. “Where is he?”

  “In London.”

  “Too far to aid you.”

  “Aid me?” Rebecca echoed darkly. “Papa would only buy me back to sell me again.”

  “His own daughter?”

  “Papa called it marriage, to a very wealthy man.”

  “You despise wealth?”

  “No. Cruelty. I feared what my life would become at Lord Carlton’s hands.”

  “You were to wed an English lord. What did you do?”

  “Ran away to America with Captain Elliot, a kind man of small fortune. We had so little time together. He was often away with his regiment—” her voice broke.

  “Enough tears. You will love again.”

  “Some Frenchman?” She wrenched her hands against Shoka’s restraint but couldn’t tear free. “I’d sooner die.”

  “You have the temper of peshewa, the devil cat.”

  “No man wants a devil,” she said in a savage whisper.

  “Yet one so beautiful, with hair the color of honey and eyes like the sky.” Releasing her fists, he gave into the temptation to stroke her smooth cheek…the curve of her neck. He fingered her locket and the lace at her bodice. “Like a butterfly in winter. Never have I seen such a woman in the frontier. Why have you come?”

  She trembled at his light touch and pushed his hand away. “My sister Kate and I were going to our uncle—” with a low cry, she collapsed back against him. “Oh Kate. She’s lost and alone.”

  “Warriors will find her. I will tell them to do her no harm.”

  “Thank you—” her voice hitched again. “I’ve looked after Kate since Mama died. She fled England with John and me, to Philadelphia.”

  “You are far from there,” Shoka said, leading her into deeper disclosures.

  Rebecca spoke in a muffled quaver. “I couldn’t stay.”

  “What of this uncle?” he pressed.

  “Henry McCutcheon is Mama’s brother and very fond of us. He wrote over the years, so we decided to come to him.”

  “With the Long Knives.”

  “Who?”

  “The soldiers we killed today.”

  She answered like one in a dream. “They were sent from Fort Loudoun in Winchester to the fort we needed to reach.”

  “Where does this fort lie?” he coaxed.

  “In the—” she halted as if suddenly aware of her indiscretion. “I can’t remember.”

  “You forgot where you’re going?”

  “The knock on my head. I’m befuddled.”

  “What of the fort’s name?”

  “I can’
t recall just now.”

  “You forget much. How do you know your uncle is there?”

  “I don’t for certain. Kate and I hoped someone at the fort would help us find the McCutcheon homestead.”

  “You hoped for this? You are foolish to come, Rebecca Elliot. Many settlers flee these mountains. Others lie dead. Did the Long Knives not tell you war is fierce here?”

  “Yes,” she sniffed. “We thought they could protect us. Besides, we had nowhere else to go.”

  “I do not mind your coming, fair one. Now I have a captive of much value.” And the sooner he sold her, the better. He had a war to win, and she was fast getting under his skin.

  Chapter Three

  Mindful of the lingering ache at the back of her head, Rebecca rolled over drowsily and blinked at the coals still glowing in the blackened campfire. Her first thoughts were of Kate with prayers for her safety; then she turned her mind to Shoka. Vague images returned of him carrying her here in the night. She’d roused once to see him brooding beside the flames before she succumbed again to oblivion.

  Memories of the evening were little more now than faintly recalled sensations. Bit by bit she remembered the infuriating exchange with her captor. Yet, he’d also been gentle at times, even tender. Had that only been a ploy to win her trust, or something more?

  A softer emotion stirred inside her, teasing the corners of her mind. Had grief for John addled her brains? She was allowing herself to be carried away by the exotic. No matter how striking Shoka was, she couldn’t for one moment allow herself to forget he was a warrior and seemed determined to sell her. Suffering another to dictate her fate went against her obstinate independence. But what was she to do?

  First, get her bearings, a difficult thing to do in the woods. Finches chattered overhead, and green gold light filtered through the boughs. Morning, she guessed, though she couldn’t tell how advanced.

  Every muscle ached as she pushed herself up and surveyed the camp. To her relief, most of the warriors gathered here the evening before were gone. Only a small contingent remained; some nursed wounds they’d received. Blankets, pots, and cups strewn about the site suggested the larger party would return, though possibly not for hours.

  The sound of voices drifted to her. After a moment, she detected the low thread that was Shoka’s. Through the leaves, she spotted him at the far end of camp speaking with two men seated at the base of a tree. Neither were warriors. Both were bound at the wrists and ankles. She strained to see.

  “Lieutenant McClure,” she whispered in relief. She hadn’t actually seen him fall in the bloody attack, just assumed he lay among the dead.

  Shoka hadn’t said a word about any soldiers taken captive. The prisoners could do nothing for her, though, or she for them unless she sought help. At least she wasn’t tied up. Would she be bound when she’d regained her strength?

  Quite possibly. An unbearable thought.

  She should get away while there were few to guard her. Still, it only took one. Shoka would foil any attempt she made to flee—

  A hand on her shoulder splintered her scheming thoughts. She flinched and looked up into the friendly face of the young brave who’d brought her meat the evening before.

  Smiling reassuringly, he held out a large piece of bark stacked with venison. “Eat, lady.”

  Cold game was far from her usual breakfast fare, but this might be the last food she’d have for some time. Nodding her appreciation, she lifted a slice from the improvised platter and chewed while the young man watched, his eyes on her every move. The meat was flat and flavorless this morning. Even so, it would strengthen her, and she needed all the vigor she could muster.

  Urging her to take more, he extended the venison again.

  She forced down another piece and stopped. An unsettled stomach could only hold so much. “Thank you, no.”

  He stepped over to what looked like a birch tree and broke off a twig. He darted back to hand it to her. “For your teeth.”

  She nibbled on the unlikely toothbrush then chewed with more relish as it released a minty wintergreen flavor.

  “You like?” He sat beside her.

  “Very much. Meshewa?”

  He nodded, obviously pleased by her mastery of his name. “Rebecca Ell-iot?”

  Shoka must have told him. “Just call me Becca,’” she said. “How old are you?”

  “I see eighteen harvest moons.”

  “Eighteen. The same age as my sister.” And he appeared as completely without guile as Kate.

  “She is woman who stays on the fast horse?” he asked.

  Rebecca winced at the cutting pain of the memory. “Yes.”

  Meshewa crinkled hazel eyes in concern. “You fall hard. Better, now?”

  “A bit,” she said, a plan of escape taking shape in her mind. She’d been praised for her keen wits; now was the time to use them. But she must act quickly before Shoka came.

  “How many harvest moons do you see, Becca?”

  “Twenty.”

  “You look more. Such beauty you have,” he hastened to add, as if fearful of having insulted her.

  He was engagingly sweet, surprising in a warrior. If she weren’t so desperate, she might enjoy sitting here speaking with him. Unlike Shoka, he hadn’t yet schooled himself to guard his emotions.

  “You are kind. Meshewa, may I go to the water?”

  “Alone?” A shade came over his eyes. He shook his head.

  He wasn’t quite as gullible as she’d hoped. Another idea occurred to her that would suit this seemingly naive youth perfectly. It smacked of dishonor, but she was in no position to stand on scruples. She fixed him with a pleading look that had softened far harder hearts than his. “Will you take me?”

  He blinked. “Shoka come soon. He take you.”

  “Must we wait? Please, I’d rather go with you.”

  Meshewa wavered and then stood. He gestured. “We go.”

  She rose stiffly and walked down the bank beside him. Dainty meadow rue and tiny gold daisies no bigger than her thumb bloomed amid the fern. He reached out his hand to steady her when she stumbled on a stone hidden in the green fronds and helped her down to the stream. His sympathy made what she meant to do more difficult, somehow. He stood behind her while she knelt at the edge and cupped palms full of the icy water to her lips. The morning chill hadn’t dissipated, making her sketchy plan even less practicable.

  Plotting this escape was far different than beating a hasty retreat from a ball when hounded by an amorous suitor. Ever the schemer, she took careful note of her surroundings. The stream spilled over steps of rocks as it rushed downhill, then slowed to collect in a deep pool between some large stones before breaking through again on its way east. Scaling the stones would present a challenge with her sore muscles and light-headedness.

  There! She spotted one whose flat surface would provide easy access to the water. To her advantage, the pool wasn’t particularly wide. She could swim, having learned from a childhood friend, which was unusual for a lady. She was by no means a strong swimmer, but this distance was manageable, especially if she lightened her heavy skirts.

  Should she take the risk? This might be her single opportunity to escape. Fear of being caught churned alongside an unreasonable reluctance to go. If that odd sensation had anything to do with Shoka, she’d shake it off.

  Whatever peculiar notion Rebecca had taken in her muddled head over him must stem from the blow she’d suffered. There was nothing for it, but to go. Now.

  Hiding jittery nerves behind what she hoped was a casual facade, she stood. “Meshewa, I would like to bathe.”

  He gave an uncertain nod. His brows arched as she unfastened the embroidered stomacher attached to either side of her bodice with hooks hidden beneath bands of robing covered in ruched lace.

  She had his attention. Next, she’d utterly disarm him. The V-shaped insert undone, she stepped out of the blue linen gown clothed in a tight corset and two petticoats, the outer one embellished in
knots and roses. Beneath these, she wore a shift with sleeves cut just below her elbows. The ruffled hem fell to mid-calf. She untied the drawstrings at her waist and let the petticoats slip to her ankles in a lacy heap.

  Meshewa responded exactly as she’d anticipated he would to this partially clad Englishwoman, with open-mouthed shock, even shying back to give her more room. Perfect. Her plan depended on offending the modesty she thought she’d detected in him by behaving as though she had none.

  Reaching behind her back, she pretended to unlace her corset. He turned his head. Many men she’d known would gladly watch her undress, even lend a hand, but she had guessed rightly about this youth. By the time he looked around, she’d be gone.

  She hurried silently over the stones scattered at water’s edge and climbed over the large flat one. She slipped into the frigid water, stifling a gasp. The cold wasn’t her only hardship. Her leather shoes dragged at her feet, and the shift clung awkwardly, but desperation goaded her swiftly across. The tumble of water helped muffle her stealthy scramble up the bank. Keeping low, she crept through thick fern.

  Still no alarm came from Meshewa. If she followed the stream, it should lead her out of the mountains and back toward the more settled Shenandoah Valley. She didn’t know how long a journey she was undertaking only that she must escape the warrior camp and Shoka. Especially him. Like fire and earth, he was a force of intense presence, his draw on her disquieting.

  He’s your enemy, she reminded herself.

  Once out of earshot, she caught up her binding shift and fled, shaking with cold. The deep woods scent filled her nose as she ran, each breath rasping in and out of her throat, her chest burning, legs aching. Rapid flight gradually warmed her, but briars snagged her hair and tore at her shift. Rocks littered the trail, turning every step into a potential wrenched ankle. Fallen limbs, even entire trunks, blocked her way and had to be scrambled over or gotten around.

  Sucking in ragged gasps of air, she snagged her foot on a root and sprawled onto her knees with a strangled cry. She was only bruised, but tears threatened again and pounding filled her chest. Yesterday’s injury had taken too much from her and she was totally out of her element. None of the strategies from her former life mattered in this wild place. The rules were different here, and she did not know them.