The Captured Bride

by Griep, Michelle;

  He skulked to the rear wagon, sitting in the late morning sun like a pile of bleached bones and just as devoid of life. No blood. No sign of struggle. He passed it by and moved on to the next.

  The slashed canvas rippled. A dark patch of bloody grass cried up from the earth where the fallen warrior had lain. Judging by the flattened trail leading off from it, the war party had hauled their fellow fighter away with them. Weaving through a maze of upturned crates, he worked his way to the front…where he nearly dropped to his knees.

  Stretched out like a slit-throated buck, the mighty ranger, Matthew Prinn, lay draped over the driver’s seat, an arrow pierced through his gullet. Elias staggered. That could’ve been him. He’d not been happy about Matthew tying his bonds so tight and cracking him in the head, but the man’s actions had saved his life.

  Stunned, he lifted his face to the impossibly blue sky. “Oh God, bless that man and thank You. Once again You have provided in ways I do not deserve.”

  His gaze snapped back to Matthew. Blackflies flitted near the wound, his glassy eyes, his gaping mouth. Elias swallowed back a burning ember of sorrow and remorse. As gruff as the ranger had been, he’d be sorely missed. The weeks they’d shared had gone a long way toward healing some of the raw wounds left from his grandfather’s death.

  “Receive this man into Your arms, Lord,” he whispered.

  He waved away the flies, wishing he had told Matthew everything, his true mission, and maybe even enlisted Matthew’s help. But too late now. Blowing out a long breath and then filling his lungs, he stared at the dead man’s chest. Matthew would never have such a pleasure again.

  Nor did Elias have the pleasure of loitering.

  He broke into a jog, dashed around to the other side of the wagon, and scrambled up to the seat, expecting to see Rufus’s corpse inside. An empty wagon bed stared back. Pivoting, he shaded his eyes, careful not to jostle Matthew’s repose. He scanned the glade from edge to edge. No more bodies sullied the grass. Apparently they had hauled off Rufus as well.

  He lowered his hand, then bent to pull Matthew inside the wagon. Heaving the stiff body proved a challenge, and he regretted the way the ranger landed inside with a thud. It wasn’t much of a grave, but it was the best he could do for now. At least the man’s body wouldn’t be out in the open. He ran his fingers along Matthew’s shirt and down his legs, hoping to find a knife. Nothing. The Indians must’ve thought of that as well.

  Sitting back on his haunches, Elias quickly rifled through his options. Truly, there were only two. Dig up that crate with the French weapon and hightail it out of here for Boston, saving countless lives in the process—or light out after the woman he loved.

  He gasped. Love? Was that what this burning need firing along every nerve meant?

  A groan rumbled in his throat. How could he risk the lives of an entire fort to go chasing after one woman?

  How could he not?

  Quickly calculating distance, time, and need, he came up with three days. He’d give it three days to find her, then turn around—even if he didn’t locate her.

  Mind set, he scrambled out through the canvas hole. Though it grieved him to leave Matthew’s body, he jumped down to the ground. Time was something he could no longer afford to spend, even on respectful purchases. He trotted off toward the ridgeline and began scouting for telltale signs of passage, one question niggling all the while.

  Who were the pale-faced devils who had bargained with the Indians for the treasure?

  Two days. One nightmare. An ugly, black, never-ending nightmare. Mercy trudged after the Wyandot brute, the back of her neck raw from the leather thong. If she didn’t keep step, the bite of it would gouge a deeper stripe into her flesh—and the skin was already chafed to a pulp from her unrelenting belligerence. Not that it had done her any good. With the big man leading and ten others spread out behind, she did not have a chance. No woman could best eleven warriors. She frowned. The thought should’ve comforted her in some small measure. Should’ve. But it didn’t.

  So with each tread, she stored her anger. Her grief. All the frustration of a world turned upside down and shaken into something she didn’t recognize anymore. When the time was right, she’d open the door to those foul emotions and run away with them, never to return. But for now, she forced one foot in front of the other. There was nothing else to do.

  Yet.

  Behind her, footsteps crushed the forest’s undergrowth, soft but fast. The man holding her tether stopped and turned. For a blessed moment, the pressure at the base of her neck eased.

  Another man sped past her, stopping close to her captor. While they talked, she tried to listen to their tones of voice, hints of emotion, anything that could give her a clue about what they might be discussing, for she didn’t know the language. But sweet heavens, it was hard to hear over the rush of rage pumping in her ears—the scoundrel who’d advanced wore her hat atop his head. Hers!

  She gritted her teeth. She’d have that hat back or die in the trying, for why not? She was a corpse walking anyway. As soon as these men reached their camp, she had no doubt she’d be used in some kind of ritual—the killing kind.

  The bigger warrior unwrapped her tether from where he kept it bound to his wrist, then passed it off to the man in her hat. She tensed. This was new. Until now, she’d remained with her original captor. Why would he turn back from the way they had already trekked?

  Dark eyes slid to hers from beneath her familiar felt brim, a cold gleam in the man’s gaze. Were he not in possession of what belonged to her, she might have given in to fear, but as it was, fury simmered hot in her belly. She’d use this to her advantage. But how?

  Slowly, the man pulled the lead taut, then in increments yanked tighter, until the slicing pain at the base of her neck could not be denied. She had no choice but to take a stilted step forward. Again the slow pull, the incremental yanks, the awful buildup of pain until she took another step. Closer and closer, his dark eyes undressing her as he reeled her in, the rope pooling at his feet with each successive tug.

  Pooling?

  She flicked her gaze to his hands, then away, so he’d not notice her fixation. But one glance was enough. The fool had not wrapped the tether around his wrist like the bigger man, but held it with his fingers, so that the end of it rested on the ground. She flattened her lips lest she smile. This, she could use.

  Maintaining the same amount of resistance, she allowed him to draw her nearer, until the rotted-meat stench of his breath filled her nostrils.

  She reared back her head, then jerked it down. The front of her skull cracked into the man’s nose, breaking it with a sickening crunch. In that split instant of shock and acute pain, she whipped around and tore into the woods.

  The world blurred by. She was wind, blowing past trees, gusting over rocks. A mad, desperate race, for the man would give chase. Her gaze shot wild, searching for a hiding place. Anywhere. Anything. A rotted stump or a hidden cleft of a ravine.

  Footsteps kicked up a frenzy behind her. If she didn’t find something soon, he’d spot her and—

  She whumped to the ground, face first, jerked by a misstep on the rope dangling from her wrists. Sticks and gravel bit into her chin. Lungs heaving, she pushed up, frantic to retrieve the knife in her bodice. Fingers met the bone hilt. The blade slid out.

  And an iron grip yanked her upward from behind, spinning her around. The knife flew from her grasp.

  Blood flowed red from the man’s nose to his neck. White teeth flashed in a macabre grin. He swung back his arm and backhanded her full across the mouth.

  Her head jerked. She reeled. A coppery taste repulsed her—the warm tang of blood draining from her split lip. She turned aside to spit.

  The next strike knocked her flat, turning the world black.

  She lived in that darkness for a very long time, but not long enough to make the pain go away. Hours later, when her eyes did open, it wasn’t much different. Her head throbbed. The wound on her shoulder sti
ll ached deep to the marrow of her bones. So much hurt that she couldn’t see straight—could she?

  She blinked, trying to focus. Some kind of wall was inches from her face. Deerskin? Birch bark? Did it even matter?

  The low drone of voices hummed somewhere overhead. A grating sound, bass and throaty. Her best guess was she’d been hauled into the enemy’s camp and deposited in some kind of hut, likely guarded.

  Unbidden tears slipped from her eyes. There was no getting out of this. Not this time. No Elias or Matthew to help. Had she ever really thanked them for their care? For the times when Matthew had protected her with a backup shot while scouting? For all his fatherly advice and grudging affection?

  Or Elias? The tender touch he’d used in binding up her foot. His thoughtfulness in lending his coat for her warmth—even to his detriment. The way he stood up to Rufus or Logan, defending her honor. She’d never once showed him the kindness of gratitude, had she?

  A sob convulsed her, and she curled into a ball. Regret was a living, breathing demon. Not only had she never shown them gratitude, but she’d never had the chance to say goodbye. And now it was too late. She’d lost them. She’d lost everything. Her loved ones, her dignity, her hope. What a failure. She was nothing but a weak woman.

  Just like her mother.

  Tears flowed freely, choking her, bathing her. Would that she could shove back time, return to her girlhood, and redo how she’d treated the woman who’d birthed her and loved her to her dying day. She reached to clutch the locket.

  “I’d be kinder, Mother,” she whispered. “Less spiteful. More loving.”

  “Don’t cry, lady.”

  She froze.

  “Your mother must know you love her.”

  She rolled over—and stared into blue eyes.

  Elias thanked God for three things. Nay, four. That he yet breathed. That he tracked a large number of Indians, for trailing any less would have been nigh impossible in this wilderness. And though at first horrified, he was thankful for the small, bone-handled knife lying in the dirt. He knew the blade well, for he’d faced it an eternity ago in the dark of night.

  Crouching, he grasped the weapon in a loose-fingered grip, almost reverently. When had it last warmed against Mercy’s skin? The flattened growth around him suggested a struggle, but as he narrowed his eyes and studied the length of the blade, the rest of his fear blew away on a waft of late morning breeze. No remnants of blood darkened the steel. Despite the few droplets he’d spied defiling the trillium, he had no reason to believe a slaughter had happened here.

  He stood and secured the treasure between belt and waist, most of all thankful he’d not yielded to the strong discouragement urging him to turn around and quit this chase.

  With renewed confidence, he strode onward. Having already measured the pace of the warriors, he looked for signs of passage every yard or so. A low-growing branch broken by a careless step. A kicked rock leaving behind a depression not yet eaten up by forest growth. And as he gained on them, now and then he was prized with a slight indentation from the back edge of a moccasin heel.

  Smoke, at first a faint whiff, strengthened in scent. So did the pungent odor of man. Calling upon his shadow-walking skills, Elias crept on silent feet, at one point slipping through the outward ring of scouts protecting the camp he neared.

  He stopped at the edge of a small clearing, sided on the north by a fast-flowing stream. Squatting behind a leafed-out shrub, he took measure of the site. Two makeshift shelters of skins and bark nestled next to a larger lodge. Off to one side sat a smaller hut, guarded by a folded-armed warrior. Near one of the shelters, two men worked on weapon repair or arrowhead construction. Directly in front of him, three stood in discussion, blocking his view of the front of the larger lodge, but near as he could tell, no women or children lived here. It all indicated that this was a temporary encampment, a staging place for summer forays. He tucked away the information, adding to the intelligence he’d hand over once he reached Boston.

  One of the men broke away from the group in front of him—and strode straight for him.

  Elias froze, not daring to so much as breathe.

  But the man shouldered his bow and passed by, likely off to replace one of the scouts.

  Taking care not to snap a twig, Elias eased back, blending with dirt and trees, and waited.

  Steps, while quietly chosen, drew nearer. When they passed, he sprang.

  Elias grabbed the man from behind, the biting edge of Mercy’s knife nicking into the warrior’s throat.

  “Whose camp is this, my brother?” He whispered the Wyandot words into the man’s ear, then lessened his grip just enough to let the man speak.

  “Uwętatsih-anue.”

  Red Bear, here? Immediately Elias released him, smiling wide. “Good. I would speak with Red Bear. Lead on.”

  For a moment, the man stared at him as if he were mad. And he just might be, so giddy with the blessing of having an ally in this place. If Mercy weren’t here, at least his former contact would have plenty of information, especially once a pipe circulated from hand to hand.

  Even so, he kept the knife in his grip as he followed the man out of the trees and into the clearing. The warriors working on weapons looked up at his entrance, wary curiosity shining in their dark eyes and murmurs passing between them. The two men who’d earlier blocked his view fell in behind him, no doubt with hands covering the tomahawks strapped to their sides. While the brave he followed led him toward the largest lodge, Elias’s gaze lingered on the smallest shelter. If Mercy were here, still alive, that was where she’d be.

  They stopped in front of a low-burning fire, more ash than flame, smoldering in front of the council lodge. On the other side of the fire, a man rose, impossibly broad of chest and decorated with three golden gorgets, the ornaments denoting him as the tribe’s sachem. A single turkey feather adorned his scalp lock, the black hair streaked with unnatural red glints in the late morning sun. He flicked a glance at Elias, neither acknowledging nor disowning their friendship, then trained his gaze on the native with the bloody nick-line across his neck.

  Next to Elias, the man who’d led him here stepped forward. “This man would speak with you, Uwętatsih-anue.”

  Red Bear grunted. “Where did you find him?”

  “He found me.”

  “Then this day you have been spared by Shadow Walker.” Red Bear jerked his head once, dismissing the man.

  Without a word, the warrior strode away.

  Finally, Red Bear’s gaze sought his, and a glimmer of amusement sparked in the dark depths. “I did not think the English would hold you for long, Shadow Walker.”

  Elias grinned. “As always, great sachem, you speak truth.”

  Pleasure twitched the man’s lips, not quite a reciprocal grin, but a hint of a smile nonetheless. “You come at a good time. We celebrate tonight when the rest of the men return.”

  It took all his willpower to school his expression into nothing but mild interest. Usually a celebration meant a victory—often one that involved captives. Were both Rufus and Mercy here?

  “That is good,” he lied. “Yet I am not long for this camp. I seek only information and will be on my way.”

  “Then come.” Red Bear drifted a hand toward the council lodge behind him. “Let us smoke. We will trade what our heads and hearts have gathered.”

  Red Bear turned and entered the lodge. Elias followed, as did the two men behind him.

  Crossing from brilliant light into shadows, he blinked, then sucked in a breath. Red Bear sat next to a warrior already cross-legged on the ground—one who wore Mercy’s hat perched at an angle atop his black hair. A sharp-edged anger sliced through him, and his fingers twitched to snatch the hat away and demand to know where Mercy was. But any show of emotion could cause Red Bear to question him, or worse, to demand that he leave.

  So he sat adjacent to Red Bear, keeping an angle to view the door. He’d seen one too many men take a tomahawk to the back for
want of staying vigilant.

  Without looking any man in the eyes, he held out his hands to the small fire. “Tell me of this celebration. Has there been a recent victory?”

  “No.” The man with the hat huffed. “And yes.”

  Red Bear lifted the ceremonial pipe from its stand, pausing before he lit it. “It was not the victory we expected,” he explained.

  “Often those are the most rewarding, Great One.”

  Nodding, Red Bear lifted the pipe, paying homage to earth and air and fire. Elias waited for the ceremony to begin, not speaking and hardly breathing. Every part of him itched to tear out of here and search the few shelters for sight of a dark-haired, wide-eyed woman, but any impatience on his part would be frowned upon.

  Eventually, Red Bear wafted pipe smoke to his nose with one cupped hand, then passed it off to the man in the hat before he spoke. “Long have the Fight-Hard-with-Knives been a burr hooked into our skin. But we have been awarded a vengeance coup. Nadowa believes he has captured the daughter of their dead leader, Black-Fox-Running. I cannot say if she is or not, for my path never crossed with the woman. Only with her father.”

  The fragrant scent of sweet tobacco began to fill the lodge, far more soothing than Red Bear’s words. Could that woman be Mercy? She spoke fluent Mohawk. She bore native features. But was she truly a daughter of a sachem?

  “And if she is not?” he asked.

  Red Bear shrugged. “We will sacrifice her anyway in exchange for not receiving our promised goods.”

  The pipe passed to him, and he sucked in a draught of smoke, held it, then blew it out, letting the tobacco work its wiles with his tense nerves. Whoever the woman was, she needed to be removed before nightfall.

  Cupping his hand, he wafted smoke to his face, then passed the pipe back to Red Bear. “I may be able to help you identify this woman. Bring her here.”

  The sachem’s brow creased. “You know Black-Fox-Running’s daughter?”