A Sweet Surrender

by Lena Hart

  James opened his eyes to slits, peering down at her bent head as she lifted the linen from his naked body. She removed the bandage from his thigh, exposing the wound. He gritted his teeth against the pain of the cool air scraping against his fiery flesh. She applied a slippery salve to the injury, which began to numb the area and chase away the pain. Her movements were deft and unhurried. In the soft morning light, he made out her dark, delicate features. Her long, wavy black hair was braided in two large plaits, though the long strands were pulled to one side of her head, exposing the oak-brown skin of her smooth neck. A slender, elegant neck. One made for kissing.

  He wanted to touch her. To pull her over him and nuzzle the tender spot. But he could do neither. His member was willing but his body was beyond weary.

  Her slender frame was hidden by her native overdress and skirt, but her perched position left enough of her leg exposed for him to formulate his own thoughts of their softness. He lowered his gaze until he caught sight of the flint knife tied to the sash at her waist. The blade served as a rude reminder that he was defenseless and completely at her mercy.

  He didn’t like that. In a time of war, that was a dangerous position to be in—something he had learned the hard way and the scar below his ribs was the result of that lesson.

  She redressed his wound then replaced the blanket over his exposed body. With fluid grace, she rose to her feet and left. He waited a few minutes before he opened his eyes fully.

  A quick inspection revealed that he was in a crudely built camp with only a blanket beneath him. He gingerly sat up and shifted his leg to test its strength. The salve had helped, reducing the sharp pain to a dull ache. When he attempted to rise, however, he immediately fell back on the blanket. Growling in frustration, he tried again, only to fall back once more, panting. He was still too weak. He would have to wait.

  Patience wasn’t his strong suit, but he had no choice. He needed to build his strength before he could get the hell out of here.

  Had he exercised patience, perhaps he wouldn’t have found himself in this uncertain position. He could only hope his sixty grenadier soldiers had not been caught by the surprise blast. He’d ridden ahead of his men as they made their way north to join General Burgoyne’s camp, under General Henry Clinton’s command. Burgoyne’s campaign toward Albany was being forestalled and the general had requested immediate assistance in Saratoga to continue on. However, with the majority of the British regiment still in Philadelphia with General Howe, Burgoyne’s plan to take over Albany was ambitious to say the least. James had suggested as much but under General Henry Clinton’s command, he had been ordered to ride to Saratoga with his small cavalry of elite assault troops in aid of Burgoyne. But that had been days, perhaps even weeks, since he and his specialized guards had sortied from New York Island, where last he remembered Clinton had been restricted with his own limited reinforcements. They had been close to their destination north, about two days’ ride to Albany—or four days to Saratoga if they rode directly.

  James needed to know what had happened to his men. His loyalty to them was what kept him fighting in this irrational war. Duty forced him to stay and serve the Crown, but it was his commitment to his troops that demanded he not leave them behind. He’d already failed his brother—he wasn’t prepared to fail them too.

  Unless the path had been compromised, they would have ridden on. If that had not been possible, Thomas, his second-in-command, would have directed the group to rejoin Clinton. Either way, James would soon need to make his move and continue north.

  For now, however, he would wait.

  And so he did.

  For the next three days, he waited and bided his time until he achieved a stronger command over his body.

  The woman continued to tend to him and he learned her schedule. While she was away, he would rise and work on regaining authority over his weak limbs. He was limited in how much he could do, but with each passing moment, he built back the strength in his weak muscles.

  When she came near, he would pretend sleep, though it wouldn’t be something he would be able to continue much longer. With every touch, every caress, he had to fight with his body to keep from responding.

  Her touch was a guilty pleasure he looked forward to each day. And at night…at night, he would lie exhausted on the rough blanket and dream of her.

  Chapter 2

  It was to Siara’s dismay that she learned she was to leave the village in two days’ time.

  Chief Oskanondonha was arranging a relief party to travel further east to aid the Colonists and help tend to the wounded. Each clan was required to provide people and resources and Etu had volunteered her to go.

  “Etu, I can’t leave him,” Siara whispered earnestly, keeping her voice low so others in the longhouse wouldn’t hear. “Not yet. You know that.”

  Etu grabbed her arm and dug her fingers into her. Siara winced.

  “You are becoming foolish with this stranger,” she rasped in frustration. “Others are beginning to notice you missing throughout the day. Do you know Akando came by the longhouse, and I couldn’t account for your whereabouts?”

  Siara groaned inwardly. She hated how he exercised his authority over her when they were not wed yet. However, she couldn’t ignore the fact that they soon would be. She had managed to ward off his advances as long as she could, but Akando had used his favor with the clan mother and sachem to “encourage” their union. Since she was an untied woman in her prime for child bearing, she had no defenses in denying his request for marriage. But while she was still free of him, she refused to have him rule over her as he tended to do.

  “I will deal with Akando,” she said to the older woman.

  Etu shook her head. “I do not like this. The stranger should have risen by now. If he is trapped in the eternal sleep, there is nothing else you can do for him.”

  Initially, Siara had the same concern. She had expected the stranger to come fully awake by now, but it had been days since he’d last opened his eyes and seized her in a fevered dream. His color was improving and it took little prompting for him to swallow the broth she fed him and yet he still remained barely conscious. She’d seen men fall to injury and slowly slip into the eternal slumber. Though they still breathed, they never woke again.

  But his injury was healing properly and she rarely had to change his bandage. He had even stirred yesterday—or rather parts of him had. She blushed, thinking of it now. The image of his male member thickening beneath the linen cloth was vivid in her mind. She’d been cleaning the area around his wound and his body had responded to her touch in a way it hadn’t before, yet when she’d glanced up at his face, he’d showed no signs of awareness.

  “Then please promise me you will tend to him while I’m away,” Siara said adamantly.

  Etu shook her head. “He’s not my concern anymore, Siara, and he is no longer yours. In two days’ time, you will leave with the others.”

  Siara frowned. Etu had the power to send someone else in her place, but the look in the old woman’s dark eyes said she wouldn’t concede in this. Though she understood Etu’s concern for her attachment to the stranger, Siara didn’t understand why the older woman thought sending her away would help matters. She could be gone for weeks. Who would take care of him then?

  As she’d done many times now, she secretly gathered a few provisions and carefully made her way to the hidden campsite. Etu had stopped coming with her, but Siara continued to go and tend to the stranger on her own. She carried a flint knife with her as she ventured into the condemned woods alone, refusing to stay away as Etu had undoubtedly expected her to.

  When she entered the makeshift shelter, it took her a moment to realize the blankets were empty. She froze as panic set in.

  Had someone taken him?

  A shadow fell over her from behind and she sucked in her breath. Before she could spin around, a hard hand clasped over her mouth, smothering her scream. The small bowl of broth she’d carried slipped from her fi
ngers and crashed to the ground.

  “I would hate to have to hurt you, love,” a strong, male voice said close to her ear. “But I will if you provoke me.”

  Siara knew with every fiber in her being that it was the stranger. His nakedness pressed firmly along her backside, though his voice was stronger and clearer than she would have expected it to be. She reached up to peel his hand away from her mouth. She had to let him know that she meant him no harm.

  His hand only tightened, jerking her head back against his bare chest. She reached for the flint knife, but he was quick, grabbing it before she could get to it.

  “Don’t make me hurt you,” he said harshly, tightening his arms around her.

  Panicked from the hard grip he had around her mouth, Siara swung her arm back. Her fist landed on his bandaged thigh and he drew in a sharp breath.

  “Bloody hell.”

  She pulled away from him and he released her, bracing his weight on his other leg. She struggled internally with her concern for him and fear of potential retaliation. Though she hadn’t meant to hurt him, he’d left her no choice.

  She made a move for the knife in his hands, but he tossed it away and tackled her to the ground. Everything moved in a blur as she tried to push past him, but he grabbed her by the waist and forced her to the hard earth. He fell over her with a grunt, gripping her wrists and forcing them over her head.

  He was stronger than she would have expected. Too strong for someone who had just come from a lengthy recovery.

  “Stop fighting me,” he growled, his face just inches from hers.

  Their breathing came out in harsh pants as they glared at each other. He was sweating and looked a bit wan, and she realized he had over exerted himself. She was suddenly angry that he would undo so much of the progress his body had made these past few days.

  “It’s you who asks for fight,” she snapped, tugging at her arms. “I help you. I save you.” She added emphasis to her words, trying to make him understand.

  He stared down at her, saying nothing, though some of the rigidity had left him. It was then she realized how hard and warm his body was as it pressed over her into the ground. Her own body began to soften beneath him, tingling in places it never had before.

  He must have experienced the same charge between them because his gaze lowered to her lips. The part of him nestled between her thighs was insistent as it pushed against her.

  She tugged at her arms again and he released her, his gaze sliding up from her lips to meet hers. His eyes were the brilliant clear blue she remembered, except there was a heat in them that held her mesmerized. His lips were slightly parted and his face was flushed as he continued to stare down at her…as if he wanted to kiss her.

  And she wanted him to.

  She held her breath, wanting desperately to feel his lips against hers. But as much as she wanted it, that was something she could not let happen.

  Just as he began to lower his head, she placed her hand lightly on his cheek.

  “You need rest,” she whispered.

  With those words, she unraveled the erotic knot that bound them. He rolled away from her and fell onto the disheveled blankets.

  She rose to her knees and hovered above him, trying not to stare below his waist as she placed the linen over him. As hard as she tried, it was difficult not to notice his swollen shaft beneath the cloth. She squeezed her thighs together, trying to dull the sudden tingle growing between her legs.

  Remember yourself, Siara, she chided herself. Whether she liked it or not, she was to wed Akando. She should not be having such feelings for another.

  Before she could inch up the cloth to check on his leg, he grabbed her hand to still her movements.

  “Who are you?” he asked, his tone low, but without the sharp bite from earlier.

  “I name Siaragowaeh,” she said lightly, staring into his piercing blue eyes. “My people just say Siara.” Then she repeated his question. “Who are you?”

  He hesitated for a moment. “James,” he finally said, releasing her hand. “James Blake.”

  She smiled down at him, finding humor in their polite exchange when only moments ago, they had been grappling around like two irate children.

  He lay still as she checked his bandage. Luckily, the wound hadn’t opened, but he sucked in his breath at her careful handling.

  She looked up at him. “Does it pain?”

  “I’ll be fine,” he said through clenched teeth.

  She shook her head, exasperated. He was obviously in some pain. “Mule’s head,” she muttered, reaching for the jar of healing salve she kept in the tent.

  His lips curved slightly, and she found herself drawn to the way the small movement softened his hard features.

  “If you mean to call me stubborn,” he drawled through his clenched teeth, “I believe the word you’re looking for is pigheaded.”

  Siara nodded. “Yes, you. Pig’s head.” She focused her attention on his wound, aware of his eyes on her every move. It had been easier to care for him when he had been unconscious, unable to scrutinize her with his penetrating gaze. “I’m sorry I cause you pain,” she said quietly. “But you gave me fear.”

  He jerked slightly as she gently applied the salve. “Then I guess you have nothing to apologize for,” he said gruffly.

  She glanced up at him again. “How many days you aware?” It was obvious to her now that he had been conscious and quite alert before today.

  He was silent for a moment. “A few days now,” he finally admitted. “Where am I? Where are your people?”

  “You are with the Onyota’aka tribe. People of the Standing Stone,” she explained. “We good people.” Or at least they had been before they had joined sides and decided to ally themselves with the settlers. They were one of two among the six nations to do so, which put them at odds with the other nations in the Iroquois Confederacy. But she didn’t explain that all to him.

  “How long have I been here?”

  She paused, mentally counting the days. “One days plus two weeks.”

  Once she finished retying his bandage, she was surprised when he began to sit up. She placed her hand on his shoulders, afraid he planned to over-exert himself again.

  “No, you need rest.” She had touched him countless times during her care of him, but touching him while he was fully conscious was a different experience. His broad, muscular shoulders flexed under her fingers, pulsing with strength.

  “Sorry, love, but it’s not safe for me here.”

  “No, I make here safe,” she argued. “We have distance from village. No one trouble you.”

  He shook his head slowly. “The longer I stay here, the quicker it will be before someone discovers me.” He stared at her for a moment before saying, “I don’t know why you’ve decided to help me, and that puts me forever in your debt. I can only assume, however, if you’ve hidden me out here, that my presence is not welcomed by your people,” he added wryly.

  He wasn’t strong enough to stand long, much less travel on his own, but he was right, of course. He couldn’t stay. Not when she would be forced to join the relief party in two short days and as much as it saddened her, she would have to let him go.

  She nodded slowly. “Tomorrow.”

  He shook his head. “Tonight.”

  “You need clothes, food, and rest.” She pushed down on his shoulders until he fell back on the blanket. “Tomorrow.”

  He looked as if he wanted to argue, but must have realized the wisdom in her words. “Where are my clothes and pistols?”

  With every effort she possessed of his language, she explained to him the condition she had found him in. He had been bloodied and bruised and she had to cut away his singed uniform just to get to his injuries, the most severe of them being the deep laceration on his right leg. His boots had been the only piece of clothing to survive the blast. She had then buried the tattered clothes, along with his weapons, to keep his identity a secret in the event he was discovered.


  When she was done with her recount, he stared at her silently, a small frown marring his face. “Why are you doing this?” he asked quietly. “Why are you risking your hide to help me?”

  She smiled softly. “Because you needed help. You needed kindness.” She rose to her feet, unnerved by his deep, piercing eyes. They bore into her, as if trying to read into her soul. She had tried to use the right words to tell him that helping him had been the humane thing to do. No man or animal deserved to die in a ravaged field, bloodied and alone.

  “Tonight, I bring more food,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “Tomorrow, I find you clothes.”

  And the day after that, he would return to his people.

  It was almost a godsend that she would be among the many preparing for the relief party. No one would suspect her gathering supplies, and she would be able to gather a bit more than usual to give him for his journey back. There was reportedly a British campground west of them, near the Onondaga tribe. Giving him a horse would be too risky, so she would have to break away from the relief party during the expedition, return for him, and take him as close as she dared go.

  After, she would rejoin her party.

  It was a simple plan. She just needed to wait two more days…

  Chapter 3

  You needed kindness.

  James couldn’t shake her words. Kindness was not something he’d had since the start of this damned war. Yet he’d come face to face with it here. With her.

  She was wholesome and good, her beautiful dark, slanted eyes filled with nothing but kindness and compassion. Unlike others from this strange land he’d encountered. Most were hardened and jaded—both natives and Colonists alike. However, she appeared to want nothing from him except to aid in his recovery. Such compassion was foreign to him. Nothing in this world came for free. Not even kindness. He needed to remember that.

  He also needed a shave.