Unwilling to break the magic, the boy sucked in a deep gulp of air. He was trembling now, and his eyes clouded with moisture. He swallowed and turned to see what had frightened the marvelous animal.
Plunging over a dune from his left came his Powhatan uncle, Iron Snake, his cousin Gar, and three tall Cherokee warriors, all armed with bows and arrows, spears, and knives.
"I'm all right!" the child shouted. He turned once more to stare at the meadow where the horses had grazed. No trace of the marvelous creatures remained . . . nothing but crushed grass and the lingering scent of the stallion in his head.
Then the men were all around him. His uncle grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Didn't I warn you to stay away from the Spanish horses? You could have been killed."
He tried to speak, but his throat constricted and no words would come. Shamed, he hung his head. And then a curious thing happened.
Gnarled fingers touched his chin and lifted it until he stared into the fierce eyes of the visiting Cherokee holy man, Painted Stick.
"We have waited for you for a long time," Painted Stick said. "You are the Chosen One of the Cherokee, the one our people have watched for."
"Impossible," his uncle scoffed. "The boy is not right in the head. He barely speaks."
"He didn't have the sense to be afraid of the stallion," Gar cried.
Painted Stick shook his head. "He belongs to us," he intoned. "His future has been determined for twice ten years. It only remained for the spirits to identify him."
"Surely this half-wit child cannot be..." Iron Snake began.
"Your eyes saw the Spanish horse as mine did," Painted Stick reminded him gently. "The animal could have killed him, but it did not. It is a sign, one we cannot—will not—ignore. His is a special path and a mission such as has been demanded from no Cherokee before him." He looked down. "Well, child? It will take a brave warrior to walk such a trail. Have you the courage?"
The boy nodded solemnly, and for once the thoughts that filled his head became words. "On my honor," he promised clearly, "whatever you ask, I will do, or I will die trying."
Chapter One
Two Worlds Collide
County Kent, England
March 1620
A raw wind from the coast numbed Kate's hands and feet as she urged her hunter to jump the low thorn hedge. Her nose and cheeks were bright with cold, and her mare's breath came in great frosty clouds as they landed safely on the far side and galloped across the meadow.
Kate reined the horse to a canter and finally to a trot, circling a herd of sheep guarded by two black-and-white dogs. From the crest of a gently rolling hill, a shepherd boy waved and she waved back. It was the Sabbath day and few people were on the roads. Kate had neglected church at St. Anne's this morning to ride to Dobbin's Cross, twelve miles across the Downs.
Old Dame Agnes, her childhood nurse, was suffering a complaint of the joints and a recurring dropsy. The medicine, food, and coin Kate had taken to her would not hold back death, but they might ease the elderly woman's passing.
Kate had not been completely honest with her mother. She'd pleaded a headache—which indeed she'd had, since it was near the onset of her menses. But had Kate mentioned either her condition or her plans to go to Dobbin's Cross, her mother would have forbidden the grooms to allow her access to the stables. Now that the deed was done, she'd confess her adventure and take whatever punishment Mother dealt out.
Kate hoped it would not mean another week in the sewing room. Squire's daughter or not, Kate had no hand for fine stitchery and never would. Had she been the son her father wished for, she could have been deliriously happy spending her life in the fields, the stables, and the sheepfolds. Instead, she was a twenty-two-year-old spinster, still and perhaps forever under her mother's watchful eye.
Kate glanced up at the cloudy sky. It was too gray to see the sun, but she guessed that the hour was later than she'd intended. If she were not home for afternoon tea, there would be hell to pay. The road was the safest way, but that led through the village and past St. Anne's. The town gossips would be certain to spy her riding boldly through the streets when she'd been too ill to attend services. They would tell the vicar, and there would be a second tizzy when he complained to her father.
So, she decided, it was best not to go by the road.
In that case, she could either ride around the village and cross the open fields and hedges as she had done this morning, or she could take the shortcut through Sir William's lands, a narrow, twisting track through Bramble Wood.
Touching her quirt lightly to her mare's rump, Kate reined the horse about and started for the forest route at a sharp trot. She didn't believe any of the nonsense about the forest being haunted or the tales of the murders and robberies that had supposedly occurred within the shadows of the ancient chestnut, oak, and beech trees. Kate prided herself on being a practical woman, one who didn't flinch at every owl's hoot or rustle of underbrush. Yet Bramble Wood had a fey quality about it, a sense of timeless foreboding that never failed to raise the hairs on the back of her neck.
The wood was not so large as it had been in her childhood. Sir William's father had put his tenants to slashing and burning timber, extending his grazing land by at least a hundred acres. Even so, the trace through Bramble was a formidable one: the trees grew so thickly that branches intertwined overhead, shutting out the sun; the path was rutted, blocked by fallen logs and invaded by green briers and blackthorn. Deer, fox, and weasel roamed the tangle, and birds of prey nested in the thick canopy.
Kate's mare showed her displeasure by laying back her ears and dancing sideways as they entered the forest. "I don't like it any better than you do," Kate murmured to the skittish animal, "but the quicker through, the quicker you'll be snug in the stable with a scoop of heated oats to warm your belly."
The cold was intense in Bramble Wood. The trees blocked the wind, but the constant rattle of dry branches and the creak of limbs increased Kate’s chill. She drew her cloak tighter around her and clicked to the horse, urging her forward. The air here seemed musty, heavy with the scents of mold and decaying logs.
The silence was unnerving. No birdcall broke the rustle of the leaves, no comforting sheep’s baa or cow’s lowing. An old ballad came to Kate’s mind, and she found herself humming the tune, and finally singing the words to give herself courage.
Sisters dear, oh, there were three,
Each one fair as ever could be,
When they stepped from their mother’s bower,
Each to pick a bonny flower.
They picked nay bloom but only one,
When up leaped an outlawed man,
He’d taken the eldest by the hand,
Turned her round and made her stand.
It’s will ye be a robber’s wife?
Or meet your end by this cruel knife?
Oh, strike me swift and strike me clean,
For never will I be an outlaw’s queen.
He’d stabbed the eldest through the heart,
And laid her down where the roses part,
He'd seized the youngest by her sweet hand,
And turned her—
Kate's song died on her lips. She'd heard something, no, not heard—felt something, someone, watching her. Her mare pricked up her ears and lunged forward. The way ahead looked clear, so Kate loosened the rein and let the horse quicken her stride.
Gooseflesh rose on Kate's arms and her mouth felt suddenly dry. When she looked back, she saw nothing but shadowy tree trunks, heaps of dry leaves, and tangled undergrowth. I'm being foolish, she thought. The lane was empty before and behind her; the woods were too thick to hide any highwayman.
"A brigand would catch his waistcoat on a thorn tree and hang there until the crows finished him off," she told herself. But the uneasy feeling did not pass, and Kate leaned low over the mare's neck and pushed her into a loping canter. They'd not gone a hundred yards when Kate heard the long, drawn out baying of a hound.
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p; The eerie howl echoed through the trees before a second dog's hunting cry joined the first. Sweat broke out on the horse's neck as she plunged down the forest trail; her long, slender legs pounded the damp earth, and her mane and tail streamed out behind her as she ran.
Suddenly, staying in the saddle became a feat for Kate. Low-hanging branches clawed at her face and cloak. Her hat caught on a snag and went flying, and her hair came all undone and tumbled around her shoulders.
Kate sucked in a deep breath and glanced back. Two gray shapes separated from the shadows and raced after her. "Go! Go!" she urged the mare. She'd heard tales of a roaming dog pack in the area; one of her father's tenant farmers had lost three sheep in a vicious attack only a week past. But her mare was fleet-footed. Kate was sure that they could outrun the dogs; and if they couldn't, she'd beat off the animals with her riding quirt until they turned to other game. Wild dogs were a menace, but not nearly as frightening as the unknown. Dogs, at least, were flesh and blood.
"Hiy!" she cried, and the mare responded with a burst of speed that made Kate seize a handful of the animal's mane.
Suddenly a fallen log loomed before them. Standing in front of the barrier were two more dogs; one was black, his head as massive as an oaken bucket, his back as high as a yearling calf. The second was a spotted hound, his teeth bared in a hungry snarl.
The mare caught sight of the beasts. She fought the bit and would have shied if Kate had not slashed down with her riding quirt. The horse took flight, soaring over dogs and barrier. Kate felt the shock as one of her mare's hooves struck something soft. A dog yipped, then let out a ferocious growl. Kate didn't twist around to see if she was being pursued; instead, she hung on tighter and laid the whip on in earnest.
The mare stumbled, regained her balance, and leaped ahead. The ground was swampy; puddles of standing water and mud made the way slick and treacherous. Another log lay half across the track. Her horse took that with room to spare. They splashed through a low spot and followed the hard right curve of the trail that doubled back beside a stagnant pond.
The hounds were still hot on her scent when two more crashed through the underbrush from the left. There was no more need to use the whip; her mare was running flat out, bit in her teeth, foam flying from her lips. Kate spied an overhanging limb ahead; clenching her eyes shut, she leaned low to avoid being knocked from the saddle.
Abruptly, hands closed around her and snatched her upward. She opened her eyes and screamed as she caught a glimpse of a man's copper-skinned face and two great, slanting black eyes. "No! No!" she cried, striking out with both hands. Her legs tangled in her riding skirts, and she nearly toppled from the tree to the path below.
For an instant, the world turned upside down, and then a muscular arm locked around her waist, knocking the wind out of her. Before she could catch her breath to scream again, a sinewy giant in Lincoln green breeches tossed her over his shoulder, ran the length of the limb, and dropped her upright into the crotch of a tree.
Instinctively Kate wrapped her arms around the nearest secure branch. Her head spun, and the ground seemed a long way off. "Let me go!" she gasped. "Oh, please, let me go. Whatever you want, you can have. Just don't hurt—"
"Shhh!" the stranger ordered. "Be still. I will not hurt you." His words were faintly accented but clear, and she had no trouble understanding him. "Look below!" he said.
Kate groaned as a lean, red-eyed hound launched himself against the base of the tree. Another snarling cur joined him. The rest of the pack was closing in fast; their savage belling rang in Kate's ears.
Her heart hammered against her chest. She couldn't take her eyes off the vicious animal. "My—my mare," she stammered.
The black mastiff stood on his hind legs and flung himself against the tree trunk, jaws gnashing. Bloody claws raked the bark of the beech, and he flung his head from side to side, terrible in his rage.
"My horse! What happened to my horse?" Kate demanded.
"Fled from the forest by now. Without your weight, she flies like arrow from Welshman's bow." He admonished the dogs sharply in a language Kate had never heard.
"Are you a gypsy?" she asked. "Poacher or highwayman?" She was quite light-headed. Her palms were sweating, and she was terrified that she'd faint and fall from her perch into the pack below. "I warn you, this is Sir William's land," she cried with more pluck than she felt. "He's the local magistrate. Any robbery here will land you in a hangman's tree."
The rogue's sloe eyes narrowed beneath granite brows as his gaze burned through her skin. His prominent cheekbones were as high and fierce as a Cossack's; his nose jutted as boldly as any Roman centurion's. And his hair . . . Kate swallowed the lump in her throat. His long glossy hair—gleaming black as a raven's wing—fell loose around shoulders that seemed too wide for any mortal to possess.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
Sensual lips softened in a face too exotic to be English.
"Are you . . ." Her mouth went dry as tingling sensations rippled through her body. "Are you an infidel?" she questioned breathlessly. "A Turk?"
He chuckled, revealing even, white teeth. "Infidel I am guilty of." His eyes glowed with an inner flame. "This brave is no Turk. I am Cherokee!"
"I don't know that word." She tore her eyes from him to glance down at the snapping dogs. "My father is a squire," she managed in a voice too throaty to be her own. "If you harm me—"
"Peace, little medicine woman. Fire Hawk does not make war on women. He saves your pale skin from the wild dogs."
"Medicine woman? What do you mean? I'm no midwife. You're mistaken. I'm the squire's daughter."
With the ease of a wild animal, the man crossed his legs and settled on the limb, giving no heed to his precarious position or the frenzied dogs still ringing the tree trunk. "Do not deny truth. Your eyes show the mark of spirits, of a powerful medicine woman. A shaman."
Kate averted her gaze as a hot flush crept up her face. "It's not my fault that I was born with one blue eye and one green," she protested. "But I'm not a witch. It's an affliction."
"Fire Hawk does not accuse you of black arts. He says only what is plain for all to see. He gives you the respect that those blessed by the Creator deserve."
"You must be crazy." She forced herself to meet those bottomless black eyes. "You must be a mad Russian or a Pole. The Polish are—"
"The English call me John Fire Hawk. Hawk is not Ruskie, not Pole. White men say that my people are Indian. My home is there." He pointed to the west. "Across the great salt sea."
She blinked and shook her head in disbelief. "A red man? From America?" True, his face and skin were darker than the sun could make them, and he did have a copper red sheen to his skin, but he looked nothing like the sketches of wild Indians she'd seen in her father's broadsheets.
"If you're an Indian, where are your feathers?" she demanded. "And why aren't you over there?" She waved vaguely toward the west.
"Hmmph." His sensual lips curved into a sardonic smile. "Fire Hawk often wonders the same question."
His blatant arrogance made her angry. "I don't believe you," she flung back. "I think you're a thieving gypsy. Gypsies are all terrible liars."
The amusement faded from his fierce eyes, which grew as cold as frost. "Fire Hawk is a Cherokee. The Cherokee do not lie."
Fear made her giddy, but she wouldn't back down to this half-naked poacher. "You wouldn't admit it if you were a gypsy," she cried. "The last ones caught in Kent were tarred and feathered. Why should I believe you?"
"Fire Hawk has never spoken with a gypsy. Is it true they lie?"
Kate looked down at the snarling dogs again, not sure if she would be safer in their midst. "My father says they are born liars," she answered, not willing to be bested.
"I am sure that the English medicine woman knows many gypsy people."
"None," she admitted.
"Lenni-Lenape are an Indian nation to the north of Cherokee land. For as long as the elders can remember, the Ch
erokee and the Lenape make war against each other. Many Cherokee say that the Lenape are cowards, but if so, why do the Lenape face us in battle like brave warriors? This man believes the Lenape must be brave. This man believes it is easy to say untrue words about a tribe who is different."
"Gypsies do steal," she protested. "Clothing, sheep—even horses. They poach game in forests that do not belong to them, and they're dirty. I've not spoken to any gypsies, but I've smelled them."
His forehead creased as he appeared to consider her statement. "A man who does not wash each day is proved a liar?"
"Don't be ridiculous. No men wash daily—nor women, either." She couldn't believe she was sitting in a tree with a supposed wild Indian, discussing bathing of all things. Her mother would think it a scandal. Kate's fear was beginning to recede. This wild man was certainly touched in the head, but he seemed to be harmless. And he had saved her from the dogs. Almost.
A knot under her leg pressed into her flesh, and she squirmed to find a more comfortable spot without losing her balance. She looked at him sideways from under her lashes. He was most curious, this green-clad stranger. She was certain she'd never seen his like before.
He was not handsome. He was too exotic . . . too rough-hewn to be called handsome, wasn't he? But . . . She struggled to find the right word. Striking? Magnificent? It was impossible to think so long because he kept staring at her. His gaze was so intense that she imagined he could see through her clothing. Her breasts tingled as they swelled against the tight confines of her stays. "You must let me go," she whispered.
He glanced down at the milling dogs and shrugged. "We wait."
"My father will be looking for me. When my mare comes home without me, he'll become alarmed."
He placed a powerful hand on her shoulder, and she flinched as she felt the heat of his fingers burn through her clothing. "What is your name?"
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