by Fireheart
“How?” she’d gasped.
“He saw a deer, got excited, tripped, and fell, landing on his gun that was primed and ready. He died instantly.”
“But how will we get home?” she cried.
“I’ll lead the way, Gillian,” he said calmly. “You do trust me, don’t you?”
She nodded. “Yes, I trust you.” She touched his shoulder, and smiled when he placed his hands at her waist.
Foolish girl, Joanna thought, as she studied her friend for some time afterward. If she had asked to see the body, Gillian would have known that someone wasn’t killed by accident with a gunshot between the eyes.
How could she fight a woman whose only loyalty was to the madman she loved?
How could Gillian have forgotten their friendship, the good times they’d had together as children?
If she reminded Gillian of what they’d shared perhaps she could convince Gillian to help her. But how to do that without Gillian feeling like she was betraying John?
“Gillian,” Joanna called softly as she stopped for the midday meal.
John glanced their way briefly, then turned his attention to finding food. “Watch her,” he told Gillian before he slipped from camp with Thomas Brown’s rifle.
“Gillian!” Joanna called again.
“I’m not going to listen to you talk ill of John, Joanna,” she said.
“I’m not going to speak badly of him. I needed to talk with someone. Remember when we went to see your Aunt Martha together?” Joanna asked as if she were just reminiscing. “She was such a nice old lady. Whatever happened to her?” It had been a lovely afternoon, Joanna recalled. They had drunk tea with Aunt Martha, listened to her stories. It had been a time away from Uncle Roderick, an escape from the dark manor that held only unhappiness for her.
Gillian’s expression softened slightly. “Aunt Martha was well the last time I saw her.”
“It was a wonderful day,” Joanna said softly.
“Yes,” Gillian murmured with a reminiscent smile. “She is a special lady.”
Joanna nodded. She began to remind Gillian of other times, of their friendship, the shared tears and laughter. She knew Gillian was beginning to remember the fond memories as tears sparkled on her dark lashes. Tears of guilt, Joanna hoped.
“Gillian, I think you should marry John. I told him he could have Neville Manor, if only he’d let me go. I want to go back to—”
“Fireheart,” Gillian said.
“Yes. I told you how I felt about him so I understand how you feel about John. Fireheart is expected to marry Moon Dove.”
“Oh, Joanna . . .”
“Please, Gillian, help me leave. I need to go.”
“I can’t betray John.” She looked as if she were weakening.
“You won’t be betraying him,” Joanna said. “You’ll be righting a wrong before it happens. I’ll write you a letter giving John ownership of Neville Manor.”
Gillian’s eyes widened. “You will?”
“Yes.”
She blinked, shook her head. She closed off her expression. “No, I can’t.”
“John, no,” Gillian said when John came up from behind her and slipped one hand around her waist, the other over her breast. “Joanna—”
John smiled when he saw that Joanna was watching them. It didn’t dampen his desire; it enhanced it. “Don’t look at her. I want you, not her. You’re the one I love.”
Gillian sighed. “You do love me,” she murmured, pleased.
“Of course, I do,” he said, palming her breast, and he kissed her until she could only think of the pleasure he gave her.
“Joanna?” Gillian whispered, sounding scared. “John is sleeping. You need to escape now!’
Night had fallen and John was asleep. He hadn’t bothered to tie Joanna up, believing her too frightened of his threats to disobey him.
Heart racing, Joanna gazed at her with gratitude. “Gillian—”
“No, don’t,” she said with tears glistening in her lovely gaze. “Please believe me when I say I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. You will write that letter, though? The one that gives John Neville Manor?”
Disappointment burned in her breast as Joanna nodded. “I promise I’ll send it.”
Gillian looked relieved. “Go,” she said. She cast a fearful glance over her shoulder. When she looked back, she appeared terrified. “Hurry! Before he awakens!” She handed Joanna John’s flintlock pistol and some ammunition she must have found. “He has Brown’s gun.”
Thanking her, Joanna took the pistol and extra shot, saw that the gun was loaded, and left without looking back.
Joanna ran and ran, her thoughts with Gillian, the woman she’d left behind. Gillian had proven to be her friend after all. She had defied, John, taken his weapon, and freed her friend.
Joanna hoped that Gillian wouldn’t suffer too gravely for the deed.
John woke up, stretching. He smelled something cooking on the campfire. He smiled when Gillian handed him a clay bowl of rabbit stew. “Thank you, love,” he said. The rabbit he had shot the night before. Gillian had prepared the leftover meat well.
She beamed. “Did you sleep well?”
He nodded. “Like a babe.”
“John—” Gillian got a worried look on her face. “Joanna is missing,” she said. “Gone!”
He threw the bowl of stew to the ground, and came up off his sleeping pallet with a roar. “Gone! Where? How could she escape?”
“Well, you did not bind her,” she said. “I woke up and she was missing. I was going to wake you immediately, but you looked so peaceful....”
He lowered his eyelids as he studied her. “Where is Joanna, Gillian? Did you help her escape?” A muscle ticked along his jaw.
Seeing it, Gillian tensed. “I don’t know where she is.”
He grabbed her arms hard. “You helped her escape!”
“No, John,” she protested, trembling.
“Then why are you so afraid?”
“You’re hurting me!”
John released her, and scrambled among his belongings. Gillian’s heart tripped. Was he searching for his pistol?
“Where is it?” he bellowed. His eyes burned with anger as he rose to glare at her. “Did you give her my gun?” He stalked her. Gillian was afraid.
“No,” she whispered, backing away. “Why would you think that, John? I love you. You know I do.”
“But Joanna is your friend.”
“I betrayed her, though, didn’t I? I slept with the man she was going to marry.”
“Is going to marry!” he raged.
He caught her again, squeezing her arms hard, making her wince, then pressing her harder so that she cried out with pain.
“Let go of me!” she cried.
“Tell me the truth,” he shouted. “Did you help her escape? Did you give her my pistol?”
She shook her head. Dear God, don’t let him believe that I am lying!
He stared at her hard, then his features softened. “Forgive me, love. I didn’t mean to become angry with you. It’s she who deserves my fury, not you, the woman I love.”
She eyed him warily as she felt herself slowly relax. “Yes,” she murmured.
“But you know I wouldn’t hurt you, Gillian.” She didn’t know that—not now. He was a different man than the lover she’d known.
What had happened to make him change? She rubbed her arms where he’d squeezed tightly. She knew she would have dark bruises there later that day. Would he be sorry when he saw them? Or would he not bother to see if she was all right?
“I should have awakened you,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
He nodded, still watching her closely. “Let me see your arm,” he said, causing her heart to melt.
She went to him, a rush of love replacing her fear. This kind caring man who wanted to ensure that she was all right was the man she’d fallen in love with . . . not the raging man who’d grabbed and shook her and threatened to kill.
> He tenderly pushed up the sleeve of her gown, and exclaimed softly over the red marks his finger had left on her upper arms. “I’m sorry, Gillian.” He breathed, then he kissed each reddening spot.
“ ’Tis all right,” she said, enjoying his gentle touch.
“I wouldn’t have gotten so angry, if I was not worried about the financial security of Burton Estates.”
His family property again, she thought bitterly. Didn’t he realize that the land belonged to Michael, that if their positions were reversed, his brother Michael wouldn’t think twice about helping him out in his hour of need?
She did not like Michael Burton. He was John’s twin, and although they looked like siblings, the resemblance ended there. Michael was selfish, greedy, and a rogue. John was the more handsome and gentlest of the two. Michael expected John to dance attendance on him, and unfortunately, John gave him the time and the attention.
John began to kiss his way up to Gillian’s shoulder, past fabric to her neck where he nibbled at the sensitive area below ear and chin. Gillian became caught up in the pleasure of his touch, and sagged against him.
“Oh, John . . .”
“We’ve got time,” he rasped, surprising her with his desire.
She nodded, relieved that he didn’t mention trailing Joanna. Perhaps he’d realized that he didn’t need or want her.
“She doesn’t want Neville Manor, John. When we return to England, you can lay claim to the house and land.”
She thought he tensed, but she couldn’t be sure for the next moment he was relaxed again, kissing her ear, her throat, tugging down her gown bodice, and burying his lips in the cleavage between her breasts.
She cupped his head, anxious for him to love her. He had frightened her; she wanted to be reassured that this man was her John . . . the tender considerate man whom she loved.
He began to show her what it was to be loved, kissing her, touching her, making her cry out with need. After fumbling out of their clothes, somehow they both became joined, and John was plunging inside of her, rocking her, until she screamed her release.
Gasping, reeling in the aftermath of ecstasy, Gillian stroked his back, and lay with her eyes closed, content. He shifted slightly, and she opened her eyes to smile at him. It took her a few seconds to realize that he wasn’t gazing at her with tenderness and love but with suspicion and anger.
“You helped her escape.”
She shook her head.
He placed his hands about her throat. “You helped her. Tell me, Gillian. There shouldn’t be any secrets between us.”
“I ...” She hugged herself with her arms. “All right, so I told her you were asleep—”
He gazed at her, stroking her throat before releasing her, and nodded. Encouraged, she went on, “And she needed a weapon to protect herself. As you said yourself, the forest is a dangerous place.”
“Gillian—”
“She promised to sign Neville Manor over to you, John. She doesn’t want the property. She wants to stay here in this savage place with her Indian friends.”
John rose, and began to quietly dress. His silence disturbed Gillian who had half expected him to rant and rage, and tell her how foolish she’d been.
Perhaps he had seen the error of his ways? Perhaps he realized that he would get the land without marrying Joanna.
“John?”
He looked at her then, and smiled with regret. Relieved, she smiled back, glad that he finally understood.
“We’d better get moving,” he said as he stooped to roll up his sleeping pallet.
“All right.” She bent and began to fold up her blanket.
Happy for the first time, she began to plan her life with John. Since Neville Manor would belong to him, they could live there happily. Her father would have to accept John as her husband then . . . a gentleman with property.
“Gillian?” John’s voice came softly, loving.
She stood and faced him. She had barely a second’s time to become alarmed as John pulled the trigger on Brown’s rifle, hitting her in the heart and killing her instantly.
John studied Gillian’s bleeding body, and shook his head. “Such a waste, dear Gilly. We could have been happy, you and I, but you ruined everything. You had to betray me. Well, I cannot live with a traitor. And I need Joanna to get Neville Manor.”
He picked up her blanket, and unfolded it to cover her prone body.
“Sorry, love. You weren’t so good a lover that I’d forgive your betrayal and live with your deceit.”
Chapter 21
Joanna curled her body into a ball as she lay on the ground in a hidden hollow, hoping for a short sleep. She was exhausted. When she’d left the campsite, she’d run without stopping, fearful that John would wake up and discover her disappearance too soon for her to make a successful escape.
She was going to get farther this time, she’d decided. He would never catch her. And so she went on until her legs felt like jelly, and she was ready to drop.
As she struggled to get into a more comfortable position, Joanna thought about continuing. She hadn’t wanted to rest, but was forced to. She prayed that after a short nap she’d have the energy to race on.
She wasn’t sure where she was going, and for now she didn’t care. The only thing on her mind was being free. If she could be sure that John Burton had given up the chase and gone home, she would breathe easier. She knew she should be afraid. There were wild animals about, Indians who were not Lenni Lenape, and the danger of exposure should the air temperature turn cold or the weather nasty. But it wasn’t the forest that frightened her; she was afraid of the cold hard murderer who pursued her.
Joanna shivered. She was feeling chilled in only her shift despite the warmth of the late summer sun, but she thought the cold in her bones would pass once she was rested.
A wind kicked up, rustling the trees overhead and the brush around her. Her body trembling, Joanna huddled into a tighter ball, and tried to sleep. Her eyes closed, then flashed open when she heard a sound, but it was nothing . . . a squirrel or some other animal scurrying through the woods.
It happened several times that she heard something, thought it was John, and became alert just as she was about to doze off, only to discover that it was the wind or an animal.
Finally, she ignored the noise, shut her eyes and kept them closed, and felt the weightlessness of drifting. Vulnerable, exposed, yet exhausted beyond measure, Joanna finally slept.
“Bloody woman!” John raged and fumed as he crashed through the forest in his search for Joanna Neville. He had to find her! Marriage was the only way to save his home in England . . . to save his own neck now that he’d stolen money from her. If she got back to England, and learned that he’d taken some of the Manor’s funds, he would be arrested. And he could easily hang for his crimes.
“Joanna!” he called. “Joanna.”
He stood listening to the silence. The only sound was the increasing wind and the foliage it shook. There wasn’t a man or woman or beast in sight.
“Joanna! Love, don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you!”
But the silence after the sound of his voice lengthened.
Where the devil was she? he wondered. She shouldn’t have run away! He thought of all the precious time that was being wasted because the woman had chosen to escape him.
His arms were aching. Brown’s rifle was weightier than his own gun. The pistol would be ideal for the chase, but Joanna had it, not he!
He snarled as he eyed the gun. Furious, he aimed his rifle at a bird and fired off a shot, but missed it.
Enraged, he hefted the unloaded rifle, and slammed the butt of the handle against the tree, cursing. “I want my pistol!” he growled. “Bloody rifle is heavy and clumsy!”
With jerky movements, he reloaded the gun, pouring in black powder and dropping in shot, reminding himself that he’d best not waste any more ammunition.
He hated the rifle, but he couldn’t let it go. It was his only weapon in a w
ilderness fraught with danger.
“Cursed woman has caused me nothing but grief!” He glanced down at his ruined garments, and cursed again.
She was shocked when she saw him. He looked magnificent in his breechclout and leggings. He wore a deerskin vest and a copper band that encircled his upper muscular arm. A bead- and bear-claw necklace hung about his neck, and his earrings were strips of sinew with tiny beads threaded through small holes in each ear. Joanna stared, and her mouth went dry with longing. His muscled arms and chest gleaming beneath the summer sun had drawn her attention, but it was the look in his eyes that made her heart begin to race.
“Fireheart,” she gasped. She wanted him. Every inch of her stirred to life as she studied him.
“Autumn Wind.” He smiled at her tenderly, and she caught her breath with anticipation at the burning look in his eyes. She had always wanted him to look at her that way . . . as if he desired her and more. As if he loved her.
“I have been searching for you a long time, ” he told her.
“You have?” Her heart began to pound harder. “You found me. I’m glad you did. ”
His smile widened into a grin. “I am glad, too. Come here. ”He held out his arms to her. With a soft cry, she ran to him willingly, hugging him about the waist, dressing her face against his muscled hardness. When he encircled her with his strong arms, she sighed with contentment.
He shifted. She looked up, and felt the heated passion of his kiss. Her knees weakened, but he held her up with his strong arms. She murmured his name when he raised his head, and he laughed softly and held her close.
“Fireheart,” she whispered joyfully.
“I love you, Autumn Wind. ”
She was home where she wanted to be. Home . . .
Joanna sat up with a jerk, her pulse racing wildly. The smile on her face died as she realized that it had only been a dream. She was still in the forest. Fireheart wasn’t there. He hadn’t come for her, or searched for her for a long time.