by Beth Trissel
Again he was the man in the night, only more so. The man in her dream had spoken tenderly to her, though she couldn't recall his exact words, only the feel of them. Dazed, she held herself still, her breath in her throat.
Wicomechee pressed his lips to the side of her face. “For you, I would risk much."
She listened in deepening uncertainty. Was he simply telling her how he felt, or did something else, something unsavory, lie behind his sweet words and gentleness? Doubt thickened. Did he want what Chaka wanted?
"No—” she whimpered. “Not again."
Wicomechee stiffened and pulled back to look at her. “Why such fear? I said I will not harm you."
"Chaka said the same at first, too. Before he—” she faltered, and then blurted out the rest. “I thought I could trust you, Mechee. But you're like Chaka. Let me go,” she pleaded, struggling to escape his arms. “Let me go."
He restrained her so that she couldn't move. “Go where?"
"Where you will not molest me."
"Calm down, Charity. You make no sense. What troubles you?"
"Don't you know? I was afraid you would—” she stopped, unsure how to explain.
Wicomechee's eyes were like a darkening sky. “Force you? No warrior will—should. Did Chaka do this?"
"I'm not certain what you mean."
He arched one black brow, a raven's wing circling the tempest. “What do you not understand?"
"Exactly what happens when I'm forced. No one ever said."
He exhaled slowly. “If Chaka did this to you, you would know. I need not say."
"Then I wasn't. But it was bad enough."
"Tell me."
She recoiled from describing such an unspeakable act. “He pulled me away from the others, tore my bodice, and pawed my—” she faltered, and finished in a gulp. “Breasts. And kissed me hard—with his tongue."
Wicomechee drove his fist against his knee. “Bastard! I'll—” he caught himself, hissing his unintelligible threat.
She jerked at his vehemence. “Chaka was rather drunk."
"This I also believe.” He glared past her as if at the unseen transgressor. “How did you escape him?"
"The dog barked. Muga and Posetha took me to Waupee."
Wicomechee raked his fingers through loose black hair. “I never should have left you alone in the cave."
"When Chaka seized me, I hoped you would come. He says I will not escape him,” she confided tremulously.
"It is he who will not escape my wrath."
"Don't get yourself into any more trouble on my account."
"I am already. Outhowwa has little liking for me."
Charity had assumed the warriors were as thick as thieves. “Why?"
"Before my birth he very much wished to wed my mother."
She had difficulty imagining Outhowwa as a love-struck youth. “Outhowwa holds her refusal against you?"
"That, and Chaka is his son."
She gaped at him. “Is this why Chaka went after Emma, to punish Colin for leading the war party into the Valley?"
"Chaka was angry Outhowwa did not choose him. He hates that I am a scout.” With that, Wicomechee broke off. Apparently he felt he'd divulged enough. “Come to the stream."
He rose, lifting her with him, and stood her on her feet almost with reluctance. Circling his arm around her shoulder, he guided her past wine-red dogwood, to the stream. She knelt awkwardly to splash her face and drink.
When she glanced around, he was gone. “Mechee?"
Nothing.
Rising a little giddily, she limped over the mossy stones. A bend in the stream revealed him prying a root from a tall leafy plant. He beckoned her near. “This is good medicine.” He mashed the tuber against a stone and licorice scented the air. “Lie down. Rest."
She sank onto the carpet of leaves beneath a golden sassafras tree. He squatted beside her and reached to her rebound knee then stopped. “Who tended this injury?"
"Posetha. Earlier today. He was very kind.” A wave of fatigue engulfed her as the severe tension of the day faded and she felt herself collapsing under its weight. Her eyes would not stay open. “He was bringing me to you. I need—your help.” A huge yawn interrupted her.
"My aid you have. I will care for you."
Reassured, she began to drift. “Like a brother?"
"No. Not like a brother."
Wicomechee's throaty chuckle followed her down into the blessed oblivion of sleep.
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Chapter Five
Charity pushed up on her palms on a bed of evergreen needles and gazed around at the boughs tossing overhead and on every side of her. Hadn't she fallen asleep beneath a bower of yellow leaves with the stream gurgling close by? The spill of water reached her from a distance now and an orange sun hung low over the trees.
Not a soul was in sight; she had no idea where Emma and Colin were, or even where she was...only that she was alone, and it would soon be dark. Did she dare call out to Wicomechee? What if Chaka lurked close by? Her chest tightened.
"Mechee,” she called softly, unable to keep the quaver from her voice.
"You fear I am gone?"
Sucking in her breath, she twisted toward his voice.
With a slight smile, he stepped out from behind a heavily branched spruce. She hated to admit the depth of her relief at his coming. Not only that, but for some reason, he looked different now, and it took her a moment to reply.
"How did I get here?"
He knelt beside her. “I brought you."
She vaguely remembered the comforting sensation of being in his arms. “I thought that was a dream."
His undeniably handsome face creased in a grimace. “You are too heavy for a dream, like carrying a bear."
She sat up straighter. “A bear? Never."
He leaned in closer until the tip of his nose nearly touched hers. “You are certain?"
She detected a teasing spark in the depths of his eyes, and smiled hesitantly.
He lightly touched her lips with the tip of his index finger. “I like this mouth."
"Is that why you teased, to make me smile?"
"How do you know I tease?"
"I am not that heavy."
He slid his arms beneath her, scooped her up, and sprang to his feet. “You will break my back,” he said, staggering as though he could barely support her.
"Mechee—” Giggling, she threw her arms around his neck.
"I even made you laugh. I like this sound."
He stood still, and she broke the circle of her arms to tilt back and look at him again. The fierce stripes of red and black paint were gone, fully revealing his smooth light brown skin. “You washed your face."
His small smile faded, and he cocked his head a little. “The paint frightened you."
"Yes.” How could she begin to understand this warrior who'd helped attack the McLeod's homestead and carried her away? He could be stern and harsh, yet also gentle, even funny. And now, he was trying to ease her fear of him.
He remained as he was and made no move to return her to her feet. “There is much you do not know of me, Charity."
"How do you guess my thoughts? You've done this before."
"A warrior must see in the face what lies in the heart. This is why we are careful to guard our thoughts."
"Why don't you want others to know?"
A hawk shrilled overhead as he answered. “Much danger lies in this."
"I don't know how to hide mine."
"No. Like clouds making shadows over the earth, your face changes to show what you think."
"It's just as well I haven't any secrets, then."
His eyes looked deeply into hers. “None?"
"Perhaps I've a few.” Suddenly self-conscious, she squirmed under his forceful gaze. “Would you put me down?"
"One moment.” He drew her into a more intimate embrace, and nuzzled her hair. “So soft you are."
His tenderness took her comp
letely by surprise. She hardly knew what to say. “How do you mean?"
"Your face, your hair, your body...everywhere you are soft.” His lips drifted over her cheek toward her mouth.
She tensed. Was Wicomechee about to kiss her?
"Posetha,” he groaned, and nodded toward the spruce.
The young brave was just visible among the evergreens with a bedroll tucked under one arm. He stepped into their sheltered space and considered them, dark brows arched.
What must he think, catching them like this? It was pure madness. “Mechee's just seeing how heavy I am,” she blurted out, immediately wishing she'd bitten her tongue.
He surveyed them with a skeptical air. “She is heavy?"
Wicomechee lowered her to her feet. “Like the bear."
Posetha's lips twitched. “Waupee told me to seek you out. He wants to know how I find Charity."
She smoothed stray needles from her skirts self-consciously. “Please, just tell him I do not suffer."
"I say you suffer little in Wicomechee's arms."
Charity felt herself flush.
Posetha touched her shoulder. “I will not speak this. I have gift for you.” He held out a wooden comb and pointed to the maple leaves he'd carved along the side. “Red leaves, for your hair. See?"
She smiled. “Megwich. It's a good gift. Gitchee."
Wicomechee considered his friend with narrowing eyes. “How much were you with her today?"
Posetha lifted both hands as if to show his innocence. “Little. She learns Shawnee fast."
"She also runs fast. Why did you not keep her from the Long Knife?"
Posetha glanced away from him. “I did not know she would run to this captive."
"I have known Rob Buchanan since childhood. Was I to stand by and watch him beaten to death?” Charity reasoned.
Wicomechee shifted his disapproval to her. “You must not go to him again. Not go to any captive."
"But what if I can help someone?"
"No. Do you learn nothing?"
She lifted her chin and angled her head at Posetha. “Does Rob Buchanan, the Long Knife, still live?"
"Yes. Outhowwa says he will adopt this captive."
She glowed with vindication. “See, Mechee, I saved him."
He grasped her shoulders and swiveled her to face him. “You did not save him. I persuaded Outhowwa."
"If I hadn't gone to Rob, he would have been dead before you got there."
Wicomechee tightened his grip on her upper arms. “If I had come any later, you also would be dead. Never interfere again. Give me your word you will not."
"How can I promise never?"
His demeanor was severe. “You must. I will not lose you to Outhowwa's anger. If you do not obey me, I will bind you."
"No. Please. I hated that, and the awful way Rob's neck was tied."
"I would never rope your fair neck,” he promised. “But I will do what I must to keep you safe. Will you heed me?"
She nodded, unwilling to test her boundaries any farther.
"Charity has courage,” Posetha said. His youthful features drew together in an expression of self-disgust. “I left her to Outhowwa's anger."
"You did all you could for me. I am grateful."
"I failed you.” He kicked at the thick carpet of needles. “Outhowwa called me a boy before all."
"You must prove yourself to him,” Wicomechee said.
Posetha lifted his shoulders. “I will find a way.” Laying his bundle down on the forest floor, he added, “I brought a blanket, food. Waupee speaks with Outhowwa for you, says you must stay far from Outhowwa tonight. Perhaps tomorrow his anger will cool."
A fresh tide of dread flooded Charity. “Why is he still so angry with me?"
Wicomechee slid his hands over her cloak, down her arms. “Because of you, three warriors challenged Outhowwa. He cannot do as he likes. You must not increase his anger."
"Colin isn't a real warrior, is he?"
"You think not? He fought with us at Bushy Run against British forces led by Colonel Henry Bouquet."
She'd heard of this battle in western Pennsylvania and tried to imagine Colin firing from the trees, fighting alongside Wicomechee. Beyond shocked, she sputtered, “Colin—Waupee—is kind to us."
"You have not seen him in battle,” Wicomechee snorted. “He is not kind then."
Posetha gave a nod. “I have no wish to fight him."
"But to war against Englishmen? How could he do this?"
"They are our bitter enemy,” Wicomechee said bluntly.
She sighed, wearied to death of the endless hostilities. “Will Shawnee and the English never be friends?"
Wicomechee looked at her as though she'd suggested they make a pact with the devil. “How are we to befriend men who do not speak the truth? Foxes have more honor."
"Not all English are bad, Mechee."
The hard edges at his mouth softened like the earth after a rain. “Not all. The one who calls me by this name is not."
She faltered in the face of his sudden tenderness. “I'm not entirely English. Papa was, but Mama was Scottish. The Scots have fought many bloody wars with England."
"Virginia Long Knives fight for the English,” he pointed out.
"Even so, we are not content under British rule."
He shrugged. “English, Scot, all are glad to kill us."
A pang of sorrow knifed through her. “I wish it were otherwise. What's the use in all of this death?"
Wonder diminished the skepticism in his eyes. “You have much mercy. You would be a good Quaker woman."
"I could never be that forgiving."
His lips curved in a wider smile that flowed into his eyes and made him, in that moment, the most amazingly attractive man she'd ever seen. She realized, just as quickly, that her traitorous heart was in grave danger.
"Only for you am I forgiving,” he said.
Posetha smiled. “Wicomechee is not kind in battle."
"Nor you, niNeeakah, my friend."
She could well imagine. Though not as tall or broad as Wicomechee, Posetha was muscular and agile. She'd felt his strength when he wrenched her from Rob. And Wicomechee was like a sleek, swift panther with head-snapping power.
Teasing touched his eyes. “Will you teach us to be gentle in battle?"
She answered in a somber tone. “I've never seen a battle. Nor do I wish to."
The hint of mischief faded from his expression. “It is not for your fair eyes to see."
With appalling fury, a dark dread seized her with the violence of a sudden storm. And like the memory of a vile scent never forgotten, she knew this dire sense of foreboding. She'd sensed her father's passing on that distant battlefield and felt the approach of something terrible just days before her brother Craig had died. Her thoughts swirled back to his final moments as he lay tossing with fever.
Craig's pale face disappeared and the rapport of musket fire resounded in her mind. The smoky gunpowder clouded warriors, their upraised hands wielding bloody knives and tomahawks. Agonizing screams tore from the frontiersmen twisting in the grass. Too shaken to speak, she sucked in shallow pants of air.
"Charity?” Wicomechee's voice came to her as if from a distance.
Weak-kneed, she instinctively reached out and closed her arms around his chest. Rather than trying to escape him as she'd done hours ago, she clung to him like a drowning woman.
He enfolded her in turn. “Are you taken ill?"
As swiftly as the horrific images had come, they departed. She shook her head and pressed her face against his shirt, stained with her blood. She felt his warmth, heard the steady beat of his heart.
"I go now, tell Waupee two trees could not grow more close than Charity stands to Wicomechee,” Posetha said.
She no longer cared what tale he carried to the others, and sensed the puzzled warrior departing.
"Why do you hold to me in fear?” Wicomechee asked.
"I had the strongest feeling, like a
warning, come over me when we spoke of battle. Then I saw men fighting, dying."
"Never will I take you to war, sweet one. Our women and little ones remain in the village."
She fought to steady herself. “This battle may come upon us suddenly."
"Long Knives?"
"Perhaps. I saw militia and warriors fighting."
"Have you the sight?” he asked.
"What is this?"
"The knowing of what will be. Of what is to come."
She lifted her eyes to his perceptive gaze. “Sometimes."
"Only evil things?"
She started to nod and hesitated, flushing at the memory of her dream. “Not only bad. Good, also."
He searched her face. “What else did you see?"
"Just a dream...of a man."
"You know him?"
Her cheeks grew increasingly heated. “I might."
Amusement crept into Wicomechee's expression. “What did he do?"
"Nothing—much."
A slow smile turned up the corners of his mouth. “You are a bad liar."
She fervently wished she were better and looked away.
"Do not fear battle. I will keep you safe. Come with me now.” Wicomechee's arms slacked and he eased his support.
Weighted with conflicting emotions, she lowered her arms with a little reluctance, also unsettling. “Where?"
"Not far.” He grabbed up his musket, slipped its woven strap over his shoulder, and stepped ahead.
She limped behind him through the evergreens, emerging from their shelter to the full force of the wind. Stiff breezes tore at her cloak and petticoats, billowing the cloth around her. She beat at her skirts, but the wind exposed her thighs with every gust.
Wicomechee turned, and grinned.
"You brought me here on purpose!"
He chuckled. “Not for this, though I like it much."
"Don't look at me,” she protested, and spun away.
"Stay.” He caught her around the waist and swept her up off the ground, keeping one arm over the flapping cloth. “Why such shame? You are paca, beautiful."
Mortified at what he'd seen, she said, “Not there."
A smile spread over his face. “You know little of men."