She jerked her face aside.
He grasped her chin and drew it back, resistance warm against his fingers. “I asked you a question.”
The blue of her eyes changed to purple-black—the threat before a storm. “How can you be so taken in by her? She is a fake! A sham. I do not know why Miss Browndell wants passage to Keowee, but I doubt very much it has anything to do with God.”
Blast it all! Did she not credit him with any sense whatsoever? He counted to ten before answering. “You think I don’t know that?”
“Then why are you guiding her?” She blinked up at him, her brow a confusing mix of lines—lines that straightened as her eyes narrowed. “Oh. I see.”
Those three words changed everything. The freckles on the bridge of her nose darkened—no. Her entire countenance blackened to a sharp piece of obsidian. She twisted from his hold and sidestepped him.
He caught her arm and pulled her back. Staring hard into her eyes, he read her soul, and the jealousy he saw there sank to his gut, as satisfying as a bowl of bison stew on a winter’s day. His mouth curved into a smile. “Go on. You might as well admit it, for you’re doing a poor job of hiding your feelings.”
Fire flamed on Red Bird’s cheeks, matching the color of her hair. “What are you accusing me of, Mr. Heath?”
“You know….” He reached out slowly, provocatively, and ran his fingertips soft up the curve of her neck, brushed a whisper over her earlobe, and nestled a wayward curl up with the rest.
Her nostrils flared. So did her blush.
His grin grew, and he tapped her on the nose. “You’re mighty pretty when those cheeks turn all pink like.”
She whirled and marched off.
He chuckled. It was entirely too much fun to tease her. But as he followed and they drew near to camp, his smile faded. If Red Bird was this vexed by the slight flirtations of Miss Browndell, the attentions of Running Doe might kill her—leastwise her spirit.
Miss Browndell glanced up at their approach. “Sort everything out?”
Behind her, Mingo stood like a dark sentinel. The whites of his eyes gleamed in the firelight, but he said nothing. He couldn’t. His tongue had been cut out long ago. Samuel doubted Red Bird had figured that out—nor would he tell her unless she asked.
Dropping to the blanket, Red Bird pulled another cover atop her and turned her back to them all. For a moment, nothing but the click and whir of insects broke the silence.
Miss Browndell tipped her face to his. The campfire cast shadows on the boulder wall to the north. An eerie sight. Like bats swooping out of a cave.
“Bed down.” His gaze slipped from Miss Browndell to Mingo. “Both of you. I’ll see to the horses and take first watch. You can take second.”
He turned—and footsteps crackled the forest floor behind.
Miss Browndell caught up to him by the time he reached for Wohali’s tether. “I do hope I’ve not caused any strife between you and your wife. Lord knows there’s enough discontent in this land.” Her small hand rested on his sleeve. “I wonder, Mr. Heath … are you discontent?”
He met her bold stare. “Not anymore.”
Her mouth twisted. “What a curious answer. You are a puzzle, sir.” Then she lowered her voice, quiet enough that only he could hear. “One I intend to figure out.”
Chapter 29
Green. Brown. Up. Down. Horse and leather and Samuel’s back. The days wore into a routine on the trail, one that Eleanor might almost embrace if not for the continual burr of Miss Browndell’s company. God could not possibly have found a better way to test her charity, for the woman pushed her to the limits of civility—and beyond.
On the fourth day, early afternoon, they crested a wooded bluff, and Samuel reined Wohali to a halt. “We walk the rest of the way.”
He helped Eleanor dismount with a strong arm. Mingo slid from his seat, but Miss Browndell remained astride.
The woman quirked a brow. “Would it not be faster to ride?”
Lifting his hands to his mouth, Samuel cupped them and blew out a bird sound. Eleanor couldn’t guess what kind—but the ethereal call would haunt her dreams, so unearthly did it float through the woods.
Then he pierced Miss Browndell with a dark-eyed gaze. “We enter as one of the people, not as conquerors.”
Three brown-skinned men, clad only in breechclouts and deerskin leggings, materialized from the woods, as solid as the tree trunks from which they emerged. Only a leather strap crossed their bare chests, bows and arrows slung across their backs. Each wore a tomahawk on one hip and a knife on the other—just like her husband. But unlike Samuel, their hair draped down their back in long tails, black as pitch.
The largest of the three strode over to Samuel and they clasped forearms, speaking some kind of greeting. The warrior cut a dark glance at Mingo, uttering foreign words, then flashed a smile at Samuel, who threw back his head, laughing.
Miss Browndell slipped from her horse and drew near. “Apparently your husband doesn’t know only these woods—he knows the people.”
They followed two of the men down the trail, Samuel leading Wohali with Eleanor at his side, and Miss Browndell and Mingo guiding their respective mounts behind them. The other native stayed behind on the crest.
Through the trees, Eleanor spied a vast settlement down in a valley, stretched along a wide river. Squares of tilled land dotted the outer edges. Cone-shaped huts squatted next to rectangular dwellings, smoke curling out the tops. At the center was a large open space, grass brown and flattened. People scattered like bunches of sheep—leastwise that was the nearest image Eleanor could pull from her experience. It was hard to make sense of this settlement. The closer they drew, the more her heart pounded. The people were fearsome, night to day compared to those in an English village—especially the bare-chested men.
The path opened into the clearing, and she huddled closer to Samuel. “How long will we stay here?”
“A few days.” He glanced down at her, and a deliberate smile stretched across his face—the kind that sifted and measured and stirred up more feelings than she wanted to admit.
Mouth suddenly dry, she licked her lips. “Why do you look at me that way?”
“You’re as twitchy as a wren.” Though his hair covered one eye, no doubt both glimmered. “What are you nervous about?”
How could he do that? Dive right into her thoughts uninvited? She scowled. “Noth—”
“Don’t tell me nothing, Tatsu’hwa.”
She sighed. Sometimes he was as insufferable as Miss Browndell. “It is all so … foreign. I hardly know what to expect.”
“Do you think I would lead you into danger? There’s nothing to fear here.”
The tightness in her stomach lessened. Of course not. This man had stood in harm’s way on her behalf time and time again. What had she been thinking? She offered a small smile. “No, you would not.”
He winked. “Then don’t fret.”
The man ahead of them stopped. Samuel handed him Wohali’s lead and with a nod of his head indicated Miss Browndell should hand hers over to Mingo. “Your man and Rides Like Wind will see to the horses. You come with us.”
Eleanor huddled closer to Samuel, thankful he knew exactly what to do and say. Without him, she’d be at a loss—and they both knew it. She peeked up at him. “What will become of Miss Browndell now that she is here?”
“I suppose that’s up to her.”
“What do you mean?”
He peered over the top of her head, to Miss Browndell, then wheeled about and strode toward the center of the village. Children trotted toward him. So did others nearby.
She dashed after him, gaining his side before private conversation would be impossible. “Samuel? Will she be in danger?”
“No.” A glower darkened his face. “She is the danger.”
Eleanor blinked, astounded, as much from Samuel’s blunt statement as from the foreign sights and smells. Though she desired to press Samuel further on the subject, n
ow was not the time. Their threesome was quickly becoming the center of attention. She’d read of curious natives surrounding whites, pawing at their garments, touching their faces. Sucking in a breath, she steeled herself for the violation.
But oddly, the people gathered around Samuel, not her or Miss Browndell. In fact, the only ones who showed any interest in her were a few children.
Samuel chatted easily with all—and everyone seemed to have something to tell him, though she couldn’t understand a word anyone said. This went on for quite some time until a tall man, all sinews and brawn, cut a path straight to Samuel. A silver gorget gleamed on his chest, and engraved armbands adorned each brawny bicep. He laid a hand on Samuel’s shoulder, and Samuel returned the gesture, connecting them in a way that Eleanor suspected went further than touch.
Afternoon sunlight glinted almost bluish streaks in the native’s black braids. After more words, he released Samuel, and his dark gaze shot to her. A line of blue dots ran over his nose, extending from cheek to cheek. Near his temple, a black feather dangled at one side—and she gasped. This is what Inoli would look like in twenty years. Was this man his father?
Miss Browndell leaned toward her. “I didn’t realize your husband spoke Cherokee so fluently.”
She nibbled her lip. She knew he spoke the language, but so well? And how would Miss Browndell fare when Samuel left for home? “Miss Browndell, are you sure you want to—”
“Excuse me.” Miss Browndell darted around a few women who’d approached, blocking their line of sight to Samuel.
Eleanor was about to follow when something tugged her skirt. She looked down, into eyes the deep hue of drinking chocolate, black hair running free and wild around a child’s smudged face. Her heart lurched. Lighten the coloring, and she might almost be gazing at Grace. Oh, how she missed that little sprite.
Stooping, she smiled at the girl. “Hello.”
Tiny white teeth flashed. The girl reached out and yanked Eleanor’s hair, then giggled and ran off.
Eleanor rubbed the sting with her fingertips. Sprite indeed. That one and Grace would be a force to be reckoned with should they ever meet.
She straightened—then froze.
Eyes much darker, set deep into a face weathered to leather, stared at her the same unsettling way Samuel did. Lines at the corners of the woman’s mouth puckered like fabric bunched too tightly, as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether Eleanor were friend or foe. The top of her head barely reached Eleanor’s chin, but with the way her shoulders pinned back and her jaw jutted to a regal tilt, she might be royalty.
“Umm, hello,” Eleanor murmured. What else could she do? Samuel should have at least taught her a greeting, for the woman stared at her expectantly.
But it worked. The woman smiled, looking like a jack-o-lantern, so few were her teeth. When she spoke, her words whistled, a musical accompaniment to the singsong language.
With surprising speed, the woman shot out her hand and grabbed Eleanor’s, then pressed Eleanor’s fingers against her bony chest and bowed her head over it.
Eleanor fought the urge to jerk away. What kind of custom was this? She didn’t want to offend, but neither did she want to touch the woman in such an intimate fashion. Beneath the woman’s soft buckskin, her chest rose and fell. Eleanor stared at the zigzaggy part in her hair, unsure what to do or think.
An eternity later, Samuel’s deep voice rumbled next to her, and the woman released her hand.
Eleanor grabbed handfuls of her skirts, unwilling to let anyone else repeat the procedure.
The woman grinned up at Samuel, eyes bright and watery. Some kind of emotion thickened her voice, and so many words flew between them Eleanor wondered if they even took time to listen to each other.
Eventually, Samuel burst out laughing. He’d laughed more here in the past half hour than in all the months she’d lived with him.
Eleanor frowned. “What is she saying?”
Samuel cocked a brow at her. “She asks if I am your warrior.”
Her breath caught in her throat. If these people thought that she and him were … that they belonged together as man and wife … what other kind of customs would be expected? “What did you tell her?”
He brushed his thumb along her cheek and smirked. “Maybe you ought to learn the language.”
Usually she liked it when he winked at her. This time she did not.
The woman garbled out more words, all the while lifting a rawhide thong from around her neck. A single claw was tethered to it. She approached Eleanor and settled the necklace over her head, straightening it at her collarbone, then retreated and beamed at Samuel.
Eleanor fingered the black claw. It curved smooth against her touch, the point long since worn down. The woman nodded at her, clearly expecting some kind of reply.
Samuel bent and whispered in her ear. “Say wado. It means thank you.”
“Wah-doh.” Her tongue ran over her teeth, tangling on the word, and she tried once more a bit louder. “Wado.”
The woman bowed, then turned and disappeared into the remaining onlookers.
Eleanor peered up at Samuel. “Why did she give me a gift?”
A huge grin split his face. “It’s not for you. Come.”
He strode past a gaggle of children, and Eleanor stifled a growl. Judging by his tone and determined step, she’d get no more information from him.
Miss Browndell linked arms with her, propelling her forward. “I can tell you what the woman said.”
Eleanor cut her a sideways glance. “You speak Cherokee?”
“Of course, dearest.” Miss Browndell’s fingers patted her arm. “How else would I impart the Word of God, hmm?”
Eleanor’s earlier meal of blackened fish turned over in her stomach. She hadn’t quite yet figured out what exactly Miss Browndell was up to, but she’d wager high stakes it didn’t have anything to do with spreading the Gospel. Any apprehension she’d entertained for the woman’s safety here at Keowee disappeared.
Ahead, Samuel stopped near one of the cone-shaped dwellings.
“It seems odd that I was singled out with this.” She lifted the bear claw, hating to ask Miss Browndell but hating even more not to. “Why did I get a necklace?”
“As your husband said, it is not for you.” The woman flashed a wicked smile at her. “The old lady said it is for your son.”
Eleanor shook her head, doubting very much whether Miss Browndell spoke Cherokee as she claimed. “But I do not have a son.”
The woman’s grin grew. “Apparently you will.”
Samuel tugged the brim of his hat, shadowing his eyes to watch the approach of his wife. The bear claw bounced against her bodice as she walked. Grandmother’s prophecy burned a trail to his gut—and lower. If Red Bird knew the significance of the bauble, her prim senses would be mortified enough to swim all the way back to England.
He folded his arms and leaned against the side of the lodge where he waited, toying with the idea of telling her. Such sparks, such an explosion that would be—and God help him, he’d rather that passion be spent in fulfilling Grandmother’s prediction instead of rousing his wife to anger.
Though the smaller of the two, Miss Browndell pulled Red Bird along, their arms linked. Whatever she said caused his wife’s head to shake with a violent dismissal. His former warmth chilled. Miss Browndell’s smirk and the arrogant lift of her shoulder set his teeth on edge. The sooner they shed this snakeskin, the better.
Red Bird disentangled herself from the woman.
He stepped from the wall and faced Miss Browndell. “This is the guest lodge. I suggest you rest, for you’ve been granted privilege to speak at the council this evening. I suspect it will run late. No doubt you’ll have a lot to say … and I’m guessing you won’t need a translator.”
“I daresay you could provide the service though, hmm?” She lifted her face to his. The sun had pinked Red Bird’s cheeks, but not this woman’s. Her skin remained porcelain, as icy and cool as
her stare. “You are much more than a guide, are you not?”
He bent and spoke for her ear alone. “I think we’re both more than what we admit to.”
Then he grabbed his wife’s hand and stalked off before the woman could say anything further.
Red Bird’s feet skipped double time to his. “Should I not accompany her?”
“No, you don’t stay there.” He nodded a greeting to old White Owl as they passed. The elder sat on a woven mat near his lodge. His eyes, milky with age, followed their movement.
“Did you not say that was the guest lodge?” Red Bird’s step hitched as she looked over her shoulder, back to where Miss Browndell had hopefully taken his advice and rested—instead of stirring up trouble, as she no doubt would.
“You are not a guest.” He squeezed Red Bird’s fingers. “You are my wife.”
“But where are we going?”
“To my family’s lodge.”
Her fingers wrenched from his, and she stopped smack center of the village. “You may play word games with Miss Browndell all you like, but I will not have it. Who are you? Really?”
Nearby, the steady grind of corn being pounded for bread and the shushing noise of arrowheads being sharpened stopped. Two boys ran past, giggling, but the laughter of three women quieted, their gazes questioning Red Bird’s display. If he didn’t get her moving, soon and quietly, all the aunts would pour from their lodges and circle them like vultures.
He reached for his wife’s hand, a trickle of sweat inching between his shoulder blades. He must maneuver her to move along willingly or more tongues would be wagging tonight than Miss Browndell’s. “Do not shame me. Come. I will tell you all you want to know.”
Her blue eyes narrowed, but she wrapped her fingers in his. “Very well.”
He blew out a long, low breath. Relating his past wouldn’t be easy—but at least since she followed him, it wouldn’t be public. He steered her toward his grandmother’s lodge. How to recount years of loss and confusion in such a short distance?
“Samuel?” she prodded.
If nothing else, he’d married a persistent woman. He peered at her from the corner of his eye. “I may be wealthy now, but I didn’t grow up that way. My father worked the shipyards in Charles Towne, scrapping for every bit of coin he could. And he was a scrapper—Scots-Irish blood in his veins. Thankfully, though, my mother and I were the only mouths he had to feed.”
The Captive Heart Page 24