Elizabeth tried to control her shivering. The robe was heavy and thick. She realized that the dark curly hair on the outside of the skin must have been what she’d felt earlier, when she’d thought she’d run into the claws of a bear. She forced herself to ignore the cold and try to follow what was happening.
“You’ve bought a slave,” Raven said sarcastically, “nothing more.” She laughed and others joined in when they saw the trick she’d played on the stranger. “Take her naked or not at all,” Yellow Drum’s senior wife continued. “Her clothing is mine.”
“I’ve nothing more to offer you,” Sinew argued. “Without clothing, she’ll die of cold.”
“Give me your rifle,” Raven said. “I might part with a few—”
“No,” Elizabeth protested. “You can’t sell me away. I’ll do whatever you ask.”
The Delaware ignored her. “I have nothing more to trade,” he repeated to Raven. “My rifle and my knife are not part of our agreement.”
Raven scoffed. “Neither are the Ugly Woman’s garments. Take her or not, as you please, Delaware. If you don’t want her—”
“I’ll give her clothing,” a faint voice offered.
Elizabeth was struck speechless as Yellow Drum’s newest bride came toward her with a bundle in her arms.
“These are mine and I give them to you, sister,” the young woman said. “May they bring you good fortune in your life to come.”
Tears gathered in the corners of Elizabeth’s eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured, still not able to accept the fact that this half-breed stranger would be taking her away from Jamie and Rachel.
She looked into the Delaware’s strong face, silently pleading for mercy. He was a stranger, but he’d shown her kindness before. Perhaps he would do so again. “You don’t understand,” she began. “My son ... my—”
“We go,” he said grimly. His grip on her arm tightened. “Must I bind and gag you?”
“I can’t,” she stammered. “I can’t leave.”
Yellow Drum made a crude remark, and Sinew stiffened. “Not another word,” he commanded in Iroquoian. “My rifle and hunting bag are in the guests’ longhouse. You can change into these things there.”
Stunned, frightened, and half frozen, she allowed herself to be led to the dwelling in the center of the village. There she crouched by the fire trying to warm herself as Sinew handed over his trade goods to Raven.
“Hurry,” Many Blushes whispered as she pulled Elizabeth behind a storage wall. “Put on my things. Quickly, before Raven forbids it. Put these high moccasins over your own.”
“This is your best wrap,” Elizabeth protested. “Your otter-skin mittens . . .” In the midst of heartbreak, Elizabeth was deeply touched by the young woman’s generosity. The beautiful garments Many Blushes offered were her parents’ bridal gifts, meant to be her finest dress for many years to come.
“Yellow Drum will bring me more furs,” Many Blushes said.
“My children,” Elizabeth whispered. “What will happen to my babies?” Images of Jamie and Rachel’s innocent faces flashed across her mind. How could she leave them? Rachel still woke in the night crying out for her mother. What would she do when Elizabeth was no longer there to hold her tightly in her arms, rock her against her breast, and sing the old English nursery songs until she fell asleep again? Who would wipe away her tears? And who would hold Jamie close when thunderstorms rolled overhead and he forgot that he was a Seneca warrior and became a frightened six-year-old?
“I will love your little ones as my own,” Many Blushes promised.
“I can’t do this,” Elizabeth cried.
“You must. Go, before Yellow Drum kills the Delaware and you as well. I heard Raven bid him do it.”
“Better if he did kill me.” Dying could be no harder than this, she thought.
“No!” Many Blushes cried. “Death is never better. Live, Ugly Woman. The Delaware may be a good man. Go with him. It has to be easier than the life you have here.”
Those words echoed in Elizabeth’s ears as the village gate slammed shut behind them, and Sinew took her arm. Sheltering her as much as he could with his body, he led her across the wind-scoured meadow and into the depths of the black forest. When they had gone a few hundred yards, he released her and leaned near.
“Stay close behind me,” he shouted above the howl of the wind. “If we’re separated, you could freeze to death in minutes.”
“I can’t go with you,” she yelled back. “I’ll be of no use to you. I don’t—”
“There’s no time to argue now. Walk, or I’ll carry you.”
Confusion swirled in her mind as she did as he bid her. She didn’t know how long she could walk in this weather or where he was taking her. So far, he’d not misused her, but how could she trust him? Discouraged and sick at heart, she plodded after him.
There was no light in the woods, and he was only a huge, solid shape, wrapped neck to ankles in the odd, curly-haired skin robe. On his head, he wore a close-fitting beaver hood that left nothing exposed but his eyes. She’d spent years learning how to read the eyes of other people. Many times, the ability to guess what another was thinking had saved her from harsh treatment. But tonight, even that ability would do her little good. It was too dark to see his eyes. She had nothing to rely on but instinct. And if she made a mistake in reading this Delaware, it could mean her life.
The earth was hard and cold under her feet. Ice-covered branches scratched her face, and the raw teeth of the gale cut through Many Blushes’s thick clothing to chill her body. She had no strength to fight him; it was all she could do to force one foot in front of the other and remain upright.
They walked swiftly for what seemed like hours, changing directions so many times that they might have returned to the center of the Seneca village or wandered onto the surface of the frozen lake for all she knew. Finally, her muscles would no longer obey. She stumbled and fell. The shock jolted her so that she bit through the edge of her torn lip, but she was too weary to care. She lay there, suspended between consciousness and unconsciousness, a curious, dispassionate contentment seeping through her body.
Then pain stabbed through her as the Delaware shook her roughly and shouted into her ear.
“Get up!”
His words were nonsense . . . gibberish.
“Get up! Elizabeth. Elizabeth Fleming. You must get up!”
Elizabeth? Was he mad? She wasn’t Elizabeth. No one had called her Elizabeth in many years....
“Damn you, Elizabeth! You’ll not die on me now.”
English. He was speaking English. The sounds were strange to her ears, but she understood most of what he said. “You ... not die.” Of course, she wasn’t dying. She was just resting here, wasn’t she? But why was a Delaware speaking English? If she wasn’t so sleepy ... maybe ...
The warm contentment was overpowering ... and the leaves on the ground were so soft. She’d sleep just a little while ... just a little while ...
Hunt swore through his teeth, shifted his rifle to the other shoulder, and dropped to his knees beside her. He’d realized that he was driving her beyond the breaking point. She’d lasted longer than he’d had any right to expect under these conditions. Elizabeth Fleming was as tough as any Cheyenne woman, and his heart went out to her display of courage.
It tore at him to drive her on mile after mile when he knew how much she must be suffering. She needed warmth, rest, and food. She really shouldn’t sleep now. She’d have a better chance of surviving if she was awake and fighting the cold, but if she had reached the point of total exhaustion, it would require too much of his own energy to try to wake her.
He picked her up. Carrying her the rest of the way would be difficult, but at least he could slip her under his buffalo robe and keep her from freezing. He didn’t think the spot where he’d cached his belongings was very far. It would be foolhardy to stop and try to build a fire here in this wind, so it was tote her or leave her to perish of exposure. And he’d
invested too much time and effort to find the wench to let her die now.
Mistress Fleming was no slip of a girl, Hunt mused as he cradled her tightly against his chest and climbed a rocky incline in pitch darkness. There was little fat on her, from what he’d seen, but she was tall for a woman and well muscled.
He paused to catch his breath and peered around at the trees, trying to make out exactly where he was.
He was worried about Elizabeth. Cold like this could kill a man; he’d seen many a good one die in such weather. Elizabeth had proved her grit by keeping on her feet so long. If she hadn’t been so strong both physically and emotionally, chances were she wouldn’t have survived nine years of captivity. The Iroquois didn’t cater to weaklings.
So why couldn’t I have been paid to rescue a child instead of a full-grown woman? She’d sure as hell have been easier to haul.
White flakes swirled through the air, landing on his eyelashes and brows. It was beginning to snow, and from the smell in the air, Hunt was afraid they were in for a real blizzard. The weather would keep the Seneca off his tail for a few days, but would make it a might unpleasant for them both if he couldn’t find the hidey-hole he had picked out.
Gut instinct told him to bear left on the far side of the ridge. He hoped he was right, but it was just too damned black to see more than a few yards ahead. Taking a firmer grip on his burden, he topped the rise and started downhill. Snow was falling faster, turning the leaves underfoot slick and making every step precarious.
Something moved directly ahead of them. Before Hunt could reach his rifle, a deer exploded into motion. Legs scrambling, hindquarters thrashing, the big doe skidded into a stump and sprawled at his feet before regaining her balance and leaping away into the thick cover.
“Glory be.” Hunt chuckled as the acrid taste of fear in his mouth slowly dissipated and his frantic heartbeat slowed to near normal. “Who do you suppose was scared worse, me or that white-tail?” he murmured to an unconscious Elizabeth.
The tendons in his knees felt as weak as those of a newborn fawn. For a split second, Hunt pictured himself spread-eagled over a Seneca fire pit being daintily sliced to fish bait—all for the misguided actions of a panicked deer.
“You’re getting too old for this stuff,” he muttered softly. “Too old and too cautious to call yourself a Cheyenne sun dancer.” The irony of that tickled his funny bone and he shook his head in mock despair. “Or even to claim to be a transplanted Irishman,” he concluded. When a woodsman couldn’t tell the difference between an Iroquois and a doe, it was time he found another occupation.
Another ten minutes of hard walking took him to the bank of an ice-encrusted stream. After that, finding the larger creek and the waterfall was child’s play. Keeping from slipping on the rocks was a bit more difficult, but once he’d worked his way behind the first cataract, he found dry footing. He crossed another chancy stretch, and then plunged into the narrow cavern entrance.
The steep decline was littered with chunks of gravel, and Hunt placed each moccasined foot with care. One misstep and he could break an ankle. He didn’t want to think about the consequences.
It was downhill all the way, fifteen yards straight, round the boulder left, then take the right split. Surprisingly, it was already getting warmer as he went deeper into the cave. When he reached the underground spring, he shrugged off his buffalo coat and lowered the woman gently to a flat table of rock. Squatting on his heels, Hunt felt around for the fire makings he’d left there two weeks ago.
His fingers brushed against the heap of dry tinder and then the tin box containing flint and steel. In seconds, he had a spark; in three minutes, a tiny flame began to devour the cedar shavings and dry twigs. Hunt used the small fire to light a torch.
Elizabeth began to choke. Her eyelids fluttered, and she groaned.
“Shh,” Hunt soothed. “It’s all right. You’re safe.” It was a bald-faced lie. Neither of them was safe, but it had been Hunt’s experience that most women—red or white—would rather hear a sugar-coated hope than the plain truth.
It had been his good fortune to know a lot of women, few of them—he had to admit—as strikingly handsome as this redheaded lady he’d come so far to rescue. He lifted the torch high and studied her finely drawn features. Even with the swollen lip and wind-burned face, she was still stunning. If she was a mare, she’d be a thoroughbred, he reckoned, fancy-bred and too expensive for a woodsman like him to do anything more than admire from a distance.
It would be easier to leave her here and carry the torch and the rest of his gear farther back in the cave where he’d pitched camp, then come back for her. But that would mean leaving her in darkness. He couldn’t do that; she’d had enough grief in her life and didn’t need more from him. If she came to, alone, she’d be scared out of her wits and might wander off or hurt herself before he could return. So instead, he did it the hard way; he propped the torch against the wall, heaved her up and over one shoulder, then picked up his light again.
It was another ten minutes to the spot where the cave opened up to a good-sized room. The temperature at this level was warm enough to bring out a sweat on him. He was dressed for the cold and had been carrying a heavy load for several miles in the teeth of a storm. Once he got the fire going, it was a relief to strip off his buckskin hunting shirt and the wool tunic under it.
He’d laid Elizabeth on a blanket beside the crude hearth, covered her with his tunic and another blanket. He knelt beside her, peeled off her damp leggings and moccasins and began to rub her bare feet briskly.
Her toes were deathly cold, but bore none of the waxen color of frostbite. The fur-lined moccasins had kept her from freezing after he’d begun to carry her. He’d need to get some hot liquid into her body, but not until she was fully conscious.
He worked his way steadily over her feet, massaging each toe in turn, her high insteps and her callused heels. Strange how a foot that must have felt only silk and suede when she was a child could come to walk barefoot over stony cornfields and through brier-strewn woods, he thought, skimming the tops of her feet with light fingertips.
Her ankles were trim, her calves sleek and muscular. Her long shapely legs were those of an athlete. He kneaded her muscles with firm, sure strokes, taking pleasure in the surge of color that flowed under her skin. She was warming up nicely, he thought as he rubbed her knees and lower thighs.
The fact that she smelled like wildflowers hadn’t escaped his notice. A man would have to be dead to ignore the texture of her smooth skin or the effect of all that tousled red-gold hair spread across his blanket. And a man would have to be a snake to take advantage of a helpless woman....
Sweat beaded on his lower lip as a log sparked and flared up. It was getting hot in there, Hunt told himself. He shifted his weight to take the pressure off the growing tightness in his groin.
“Elizabeth,” he said. “Wake up, Elizabeth.” He removed his hands from her bare flesh and pulled her deerskin dress down to her knees. “Elizabeth,” he repeated.
There was no reason why she wouldn’t come to. Her pulse felt strong enough, and her face was taking on a healthy peach hue. He pulled back the coverings and laid his ear against her chest to listen to her heart.
With a shriek, she came fully awake, rolled away from him, and grabbed a fist-sized rock. “Don’t touch me!” she warned in Iroquoian. Bright spots of crimson flushed her cheekbones, making the rest of her face look as pale as mare’s milk, and her heavily lashed green eyes dilated in fear.
Hunt raised a flattened palm. “Peace,” he said. “I mean you no harm.” He couldn’t stop looking at her eyes. He’d never seen a woman’s eyes that green ... clear and deep ... bottomless. He gazed a mite too long, and nearly missed getting slammed with the rock. It whizzed past his ear and bounced off the wall behind him.
“Damn, woman,” he swore. “I ...” He threw up both hands to protect his head when she reached for another rock. Realizing that his words weren’t making sense
to her, he switched to Iroquoian. “I’m not your enemy,” he said. “And I’m not Indian. My name is Hunt Campbell, and your father sent me to bring you home.”
Chapter 4
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. The last thing she remembered, they’d been walking through the woods and she’d been cold ... so cold. She was still cold; her head hurt, and she couldn’t figure out where she was. Nothing made sense—especially this bare-chested stranger who said he wasn’t Indian but a white man sent to rescue her.
Her knees felt wobbly and she was shivering so hard that she could hardly speak. The fire called to her. She wanted to creep close to it and soak up the heat, but she was afraid. Her leggings and moccasins were lying in a heap on the floor, and she hadn’t taken them off. “Why ... why did you undress me?” she demanded.
“My name is Hunt Campbell,” he repeated, first in the Seneca tongue and then again in English. “I’m a white man. I took off your things because they were wet.”
“English?” she asked hesitantly. The sound echoed oddly through the cave. “You’re English?” He didn’t look English at all. He looked like the devil’s own son with great, snapping black eyes backlit with blazing hellfire, and a sensual mouth that could lead a woman to damnation.
A crooked grin spread across his face, and he hesitated an instant too long before he answered in a lazy drawl that made prickles rise on the back of her neck. “Aye, after a fashion. I’m Irish by birth, but I reckon English is close enough. Your father paid me to fetch you home.”
Elizabeth lowered the rock but kept close watch on him. If he moved one inch, she’d let him have it square in the center of his forehead. She’d had lots of practice driving crows from the Seneca cornfields. If he thought she was helpless, he’d have to think a second time. “Why . . . what ...” She struggled to find the right English words. “Where are we?” she demanded, slipping back into Iroquoian. “And why are you half clothed when we’re nigh freezing to death?”
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