He checked his weapons while Joseph motioned Lady Sarah over to the lean-to with its soft pallet of pine boughs.
“We sleep here? Like this?”
’Tis no’ the feather bed to which you’re accustomed, is it, Princess?
“Lie beside me and share the bearskin for warmth. You’ve nothing to fear. I won’t hurt you.” There came a quiet rustling of boughs as Sarah settled at Joseph’s side. “Now sleep.”
And Connor felt his teeth grind.
What the devil is wrong wi’ you, laddie?
With only starlight to guide him, he strode away from the camp uphill toward a rock outcropping that would give him a view of the landscape, enabling him to see anyone or anything that might approach. He climbed to the top of the outcropping and settled in, musket loaded and ready to fire, his bearskin coat tucked beneath him to keep the cold stone from freezing his arse.
He drew one deep breath, another, his gaze roving over the forest. Thick fog blanketed the hilltops. In the distance, a wolf howled. An owl sought its prey on silent wings, a black shadow against the darkened sky. But nothing and no one approached the camp.
And slowly Connor felt his jaw unclench.
An ill temper had smoldered inside him all day. By the time they’d turned northward, he’d felt like a lit fuse—dangerously close to exploding. As much as he’d like to blame their current peril, he knew his bad humor had less to do with the pursuing Shawnee and more to do with Lady Sarah.
She shrank from his touch, but not from Joseph’s. She could barely meet his gaze when she spoke with him, but she conversed easily with Joseph. And now when it might have been Connor lying beside her and sharing the warmth of that bearskin, she lay curled against Joseph. He could see them in his mind’s eye, Joseph holding her against his chest, his arms around her, her head pillowed on his shoulder.
Are you envious, laddie?
Aye, by God, he was! It was he who’d fought for her, he who’d bled for her, he who’d claimed her, not Joseph. If any man was going to talk with her, guide her, or lie beside her, it ought well to be him!
Whose thinkin’ was it to have Joseph bide wi’ her?
That had been his idea, of course—and a bloody grand idea it was.
But he’d kept himself away from her for her sake. Or perhaps he’d done it for the sake of his own conscience. For try though he might, he hadn’t been able to shake thoughts of her from his mind—her scent, the taste of her skin, the sweet feel of her beneath him. He could not remember last night without feeling desire for her.
Aye, he’d had a taste of her, and he wanted more.
Along with desire came the sharp edge of guilt—guilt for failing to win her freedom by fairer means, for hurting her, for finding pleasure in her body when she’d found none in his. For wanting her still.
He’d watched her struggle up the mountainside, her honey-gold hair in a long braid down her back, her cheeks pink from the cold, her gaze searching the hillside as if she feared that Katakwa’s men lurked behind each and every tree. And he’d felt drawn to her even across the distance.
What the bloody hell was wrong with him? Had he gone without the pleasures of a woman’s company for so long that—
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flicker. He peered southward through the darkness, but saw nothing. He’d begun to think he’d imagined it, when it came again, and this time he saw it clearly—the flames of a distant campfire.
Chapter 11
“Wake, my lady.”
It seemed to Sarah that she had just closed her eyes when a voice interrupted her dreamless sleep. Her mind dulled by weariness, she did not heed the voice at first, but snuggled deeper into the reassuring warmth beside her.
A callused hand stroked her cheek, and the voice—Connor’s voice—grew more insistent. “Lady Sarah, you must wake. Katakwa’s men are nearby.”
Katakwa.
Katakwa’s men are nearby.
Katakwa’s men.
Sarah’s heart gave a thud, and she came fully awake only to find herself pressed against a man’s chest, her fingers clasping the green-checked homespun of his shirt. “Connor?”
“Aye, lass.” He drew away from her, his voice a whisper. “I took Joseph’s place two hours ago to catch a bit of sleep, but now it’s time for us to be goin’.”
And she remembered.
She’d had to share a bearskin with Joseph for warmth, lying with her body pressed against his. She’d lain down to sleep with Joseph—and had awoken with Connor. The thought left her feeling unsettled, heat rising in her cheeks. Yet it was nothing compared to the indignity of having been forced to sleep beside Katakwa on that first terrible night of her captivity. And at least she’d been warm.
Connor thrust aside the bearskin and rose, then reached down and helped her to her feet, his hand warm, awareness skittering up her arm.
It was still dark, not even a glow on the horizon to mark the approach of dawn. A light rain fell from the darkened sky, the air cold compared to the warmth beneath the bearskin. She glanced about and spotted Joseph standing amongst the trees behind them, his gaze fixed southward. “Katakwa’s men are here?”
“They’re encamped less than a mile to the south of us.” Even in the dark she could tell from Connor’s face that their plight was grave.
“I’m sorry. I held you back. I wasn’t fast—”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “Dinnae be blamin’ yourself, lass. The Shawnee ken this land far better than Joseph or I. If we kent its secrets as they do, we might have been better able to evade them. Go and see swiftly to your needs, for they will set after us when the sun rises. We must be far from here ere they awaken.”
Stiff, her muscles sore, Sarah did as he’d bidden her and returned to find both men with their packs upon their backs. As he’d done yesterday, Connor struck out at a faster pace and was quickly swallowed by the forest, while Joseph remained beside her, guiding her through the darkness. There were so many things she wanted to ask him, but she didn’t dare utter a sound. If he’d felt it was safe to speak, he would already have told her everything she needed to know.
Silently, he urged her on, helping her when her footing slipped on the cold, damp leaves, lifting her over fallen logs, reaching back and taking her hand when she began to fall behind, their pace far swifter than it had been yesterday. And she knew they were running for their lives.
She ignored the burning in her lungs, the stitch in her side, the ache in her thighs. She would not see Connor and Joseph suffer for her sake, nor would she let the Shawnee catch her. She would not go back to that village to be ravished and slain. If the Shawnee tried to take her again, she would fight.
She glanced over at the knife sheathed at Joseph’s hip. “A knife.”
He met her gaze, a questioning look on his face.
“I want a knife.”
He grinned, stopping only long enough to draw something out of his leggings—a small, shining dagger. He handed it to her, then motioned to her leggings.
It was the first weapon she’d ever held and was heavier than she’d imagined it would be. She had no doubt that the blade had seen blood, and yet knowing Joseph had used it to kill did not distress her. She slipped it carefully inside her leggings, the steel warm from Joseph’s body heat. And a new sense of determination came over her. She had never so much as struck anyone before, but if it became necessary to save her life or those of her two protectors, she would fight. She would even kill.
Onward they went, dawn a faint glow on the eastern horizon as they crested one mountain and started down the other side. And although going downhill was easier, Sarah quickly discovered it was also trickier, the footing more treacherous, the ground slick and wet. She held fast to Joseph’s hand, doing her best not to slip.
There was no sign of Connor.
They reached the foot of the mountain to find a river, a narrow ribbon of water trickling over half-melted ice down its center. The riverbed was made of bare rock worn smooth. Joseph helped h
er down the steep embankment, and they began to follow the river as it wound its way between two steep mountains. Sarah didn’t need to ask Joseph why he’d chosen this path, for it was clear. Not only were they able to move quickly, but as long as they avoided stepping in the water, they left no trail.
As the sun rose, birdsong began to fill the air, just a few chirps at first, then a choir, the sweet notes chasing away the shadows as darkness slowly gave way to a gray and misty morning. The happy chorus gave Sarah hope.
Ahead of them, the creek veered sharply to the left, fallen logs and dead branches piled up against the far bank where the water had abandoned them after last year’s freshet, pools of rainwater reflecting the branches of an evergreen above.
A birdcall Sarah hadn’t heard before echoed from high above on the mountainside. The bird’s song had not yet ended when Joseph’s hand closed over her mouth, his arm encircling her waist, as he lifted her almost off her feet and drew her toward the embankment and the cover of the trees. But it was too late.
From around the river bend came Katakwa’s men.
Watching from high on the mountainside, Connor muttered a string of curses as Joseph led Lady Sarah into the jaws of a neatly sprung trap, his whistle of warning too late to save them. Katakwa’s men had lit that campfire, knowing Connor and Joseph would see it and hurry northward into this valley.
Aye, they’d been herded like cattle.
The Shawnee warriors wasted no time, but rushed in on Joseph from all sides, aiming their muskets at his head and wrenching Sarah from his arms. But though Joseph knew to yield, Sarah did not. She fought them, kicking and clawing as they tried to bind her wrists, her desperate cries making Connor’s chest ache.
Dinnae fight them, lass! Stop!
The men laughed at her struggles—until her foot caught one of them in the cods and dropped him to his knees.
Och, nay!
Retribution was swift. Connor watched in mute helplessness, his hands clenching into fists as a man he recognized as Chilosee struck her hard upon the cheek. She fell to the riverbed and lay still, the last cry from her lips still echoing through the trees.
“Connor!”
Sarah’s head and cheek throbbed, something hard pressing against her back, cords biting into her wrists. She heard a woman moan and realized it was she. And then it came back to her—the river bend, the birdcall, Katakwa’s men.
“Sarah?” Joseph whispered to her from somewhere nearby.
Her mind strangely muddled, she opened her eyes to find herself sitting on the edge of what looked like an encampment. She was tied to a tree, her arms wrenched painfully behind her, the tree’s bark rough against her inner wrists, her hands almost numb from lack of blood. Joseph stood nearby, bound to a rough-hewn stake, watching her, his gaze sharp. He’d been stripped down to his breechclout and leggings, his shirt and the feather he’d worn in his hair torn from his body.
But the two of them weren’t alone.
In the center of the encampment beside the fire sat four men. One, an older warrior with paint on his face, squatted on his heels, sorting through Joseph’s belongings. She recognized him as the man who’d struck her—and who’d taken young Thomas captive and killed him. Clearly the leader, the older warrior examined each thing he drew from Joseph’s pack before handing it to the younger men to see. Needle and thread. A tin cup and spoon. A powder horn. A pouch of dried venison. A tin flask.
One of the younger men opened the flask and sniffed, a smile spreading on his face. And an argument broke out.
“How do you feel?” Joseph spoke quietly, clearly taking advantage of the distraction.
“I am well.” Her head ached, but she didn’t think it worthy of mention. “Where is Connor?”
“Connor is out there, somewhere.” Joseph glanced toward the forest. “They have not found him—not yet.”
Relief washed through her, warming her. As long as Connor was free and unhurt, there was still hope. “What do they mean to do with us?”
“They are taking you back to Katakwa to do with as he pleases.”
She swallowed the fear she felt for herself. “What will they do with you?”
“They mean to burn me.”
Her heart gave a hard knock of dread, forcing the breath from her lungs. It was then she noticed the wood piled at his feet. “No!”
At her exclamation, the older warrior looked up, and, seeing that she was conscious once more, stood and walked toward her, saying something to Joseph, a knife in his hand.
“Chilosee wishes me to translate his talk into your tongue,” Joseph told her. “But his words do not matter, so listen to mine.”
Chilosee squatted down beside her and began to speak, a grin on his face.
Joseph spoke quickly. “If they burn me before Connor frees us, close your eyes and do not watch. Think only of your own survival. Do not let them see your fear, and do nothing to provoke them. Connor will free you before you reach the village if he can. But if I am burned and he is slain, you will have no choice but to live amongst the Shawnee. Where before you would have been Katakwa’s wife, I fear you will now be his slave. Do your best to please him in all things. He may spare you. Your uncle will know after a time that we have failed, and he will send others. But when they will find you, if they find you, I cannot say.”
Chilosee’s smile widened as he spoke, his words meaning nothing to her, his eyes cold as he ran the tip of his cold blade over her cheek. He did not press hard enough to cut her, but the gesture was so filled with menace that chills skittered down her spine. Mindful of what Joseph had just said, she lifted her chin and willed herself to meet the warrior’s gaze unflinching.
Connor, where are you?
Chilosee stood and walked back to the fire, where the three younger men were taking turns drinking from the flask, their argument resolved. He yanked the flask away from them, capped it, and tucked it in the band that held up his breechclout. Either he was displeased with them for drinking spirits, or he wanted the contents of the flask for himself.
She glanced up at Joseph and was astonished to see how untroubled he appeared. “You believe Connor will soon free us.”
“Yes.” Joseph’s mouth curved in a slight smile. “The two men sent to gather kindling for my pyre have not returned. I doubt they ever will. Nor will the five men sent to catch Connor. That leaves only three sentries, and these men here. Do you see that flask?”
She nodded.
“The rum is poisoned.” He glanced toward the three younger warriors. “All who’ve drunk of it will soon be dead.”
Connor grabbed the sentry from behind and slit his throat in one swift stroke, rendering him mute and ending his life in a single motion. He dragged the body away from the edge of the rocky perch deeper into the shadows where it would not easily be found, wiping the blade on the man’s leggings. Then he crept back to the edge, lay on his belly, and took out his spying glass.
A light rain fell from the leaden sky, droplets of water fogging the lens. Connor wiped it dry, cupped his hand over the end of the glass to shield it, and looked through it once more. And down in the valley almost directly ahead of him sat the Shawnee camp.
He quickly found Joseph. Stripped to his breechclout and leggings, he stood bound to a stake, firewood piled at his feet. So they planned to burn him, did they?
Not while there’s breath left in my body.
He searched for Lady Sarah and found her sitting not far from Joseph, her arms bent behind a tree, her wrists tied together. She seemed to be asleep, her eyes closed, her face turned to the side. Had that whoreson hit her so hard that she had yet to awaken?
Och, lass!
Connor shifted the glass, hoping to count the number of men in camp so that he could determine the number of sentries that stood between him and them. Counting the man he’d just killed, the five men who’d been sent after him, and the two he’d found gathering kindling—intended, no doubt, to burn Joseph—he’d slain eight so far. But he’d s
een four-and-ten in that riverbed. That meant at least six were still alive.
There, in the center of the camp near the fire, three men lay on the ground, writhing about, Chilosee bending over them. Were they sick or…
The poison.
They’d drunk from Joseph’s flask of hemlock-tainted rum and would soon be dead. Poor bastards! It would have been far swifter and less painful for them to die upon his blade. Had Chilosee drunk from it as well? It seemed not, for he did not collapse like the others.
Eight slain. Three dying. One—Chilosee—alive in the encampment. That left two men unaccounted for. They were out there somewhere, waiting, watching, hoping to kill Connor before he could kill them.
He could fire at Chilosee, kill him now, and perhaps draw the sentries out of hiding. But at this range, he might miss or merely maim Chilosee, giving him a chance to kill his captives. Yet every moment that passed left Joseph in danger of being set aflame—and Connor in danger of being found and slain. And if he were killed, there would be no hope for his Mahican brother or for Lady Sarah.
Connor put away his spying glass, grasped his musket, his gaze fixed on Chilosee. Then from behind him he heard it—the soft tread of moccasins on wet leaves.
Sarah kept her eyes squeezed shut, her face turned away from the dying men, their piteous groans and whimpers turning her stomach. She could hear the urgency in Chilosee’s voice as he walked amongst them, knowing something was terribly wrong with his men but not certain what it was.
“Do not pity them, Sarah.” Joseph’s voice betrayed no emotion. “They would have killed you and never thought of you again.”
Sarah knew he spoke the truth, and yet she was unable to watch men in the throes of death, even if that death seemed deserved. Nor was it a simple thing to listen to the sound of their suffering. She turned her mind toward music, conjuring notes from memory, the air to Master Handel’s Water Music Suite no. 1 in E filling her mind, slow and melodic, drowning out the dissonant wail of death.
Chilosee’s angry shouts cut across her thoughts, silencing the music. She opened her eyes and saw him stalking angrily toward Joseph, the flask of rum in his hand. Though she couldn’t understand his words, she knew he’d realized the rum was somehow to blame for his men’s sudden illness. He shook the flask in Joseph’s face.