The Captured Bride

by Griep, Michelle;

  He threw back his shoulders and faced Red Bear, charging ahead before he changed his mind. “Then I challenge Nadowa.”

  Audible gasps swept around the lodge like an unholy wind.

  Red Bear gave a sharp nod. “So be it.”

  A smile slashed across the face of the man in the hat. “Shadow Walker is not as wise as the legends say. This day you will die, for Nadowa is unbeaten.”

  Mercy tromped after the warrior leading her, heedless of the way each stamp of her feet juddered clear up to her skull. Plenty of slack hung in the lead between her and the man. And why not? She’d rather hole up with Livvy and wait to die than spend one more breath in the presence of Elias Dubois, the scoundrel. The betrayer. Had he planned the whole ambush? Was he the reason Matthew and Rufus were dead?

  She kicked a rock, and it skittered into the ankle of the man leading her. The warrior pierced her with a scowl over his shoulder, as black as her raging thoughts. Not only had Elias spoken the enemy language like a native, he’d sat as a tribal member, completely at home with the band of killers. With her own nostrils she’d breathed in the smoky-sweet scent of a passed pipe, a lingering indictment that justified her charge. The man was a traitor. A filthy, lying-tongued conspirator.

  But why did that accusation crawl in and unearth such bitter ground in her heart? She’d known all along Elias would be imprisoned as a defector upon reaching Fort Edward. Charges like that wouldn’t just disappear, no matter what she desired.

  Her step faltered. Oh no. A hundred times no. That was exactly what she’d hoped for. His freedom. His loyalty. His love. She scowled. When had she become such a moon-eyed ridiculous woman?

  She dug her feet in harder. No more. Not one second more would she yield to base emotions. Ramping up her pace, she drew near the warrior and nudged him in the back. “You. A word.”

  The man swung around, black eyes smoldering, arm raised to strike.

  She flinched but held her ground.

  In an astonishing move, the warrior’s rock-hard bicep relaxed, and he lowered his hand. “I spare you for the sake of Shadow Walker, but do not push me.”

  All those times Elias had snuck up on her suddenly made sense as she connected the Indian name to the man. But no matter. Whatever he was called, he clearly wielded some kind of power. What had he possibly said that might stay the hand of the warrior in front of her?

  She lifted her chin, a poor attempt at dignity with the blood and bruises on her face, but she’d not cower. “Tell me what is to come.”

  Hatred glimmered in his eyes, yet his mouth leveled to a straight line. Nothing but the caw of some ravens and sounds of the camp answered her request. If the man had no intention of answering her, why did he not turn away? Yank on her leash? Backhand her as roughly as the brute who’d stolen her hat?

  Finally, he sniffed, as if she were the stench of all that rotted in the world. “This night’s challenge determines your fate, woman.”

  “A challenge.” She drew out the word, mind awhir. “Who fights?”

  “Nadowa.” The warrior looked down his nose at her and narrowed his eyes. “And your husband.”

  “But I have no—” Husband? She shut her mouth. What on earth had Elias told them?

  A deep voice cut in behind her—Elias’s—speaking guttural words she couldn’t understand. The warrior holding her tether dropped the lead and retreated to the small shelter holding Livvy. Widening his stance, the Indian stood in front of the door and folded his arms, face entirely unreadable.

  “Are you well?”

  Elias’s question turned her around, and she stared up into blue eyes. Furrows lined his brow as if he were concerned. Hah! Why the show? She barely contained a snort. “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it does. Why do you think I came?” He grabbed her by the arms and leaned in close, staring deep. “What has gotten into you?”

  “Truth, Shadow Walker.” She shot the name like the firing of a musket.

  He winced. Good. May he feel the pain for such duplicity as sharply as the arrow through Matthew’s neck.

  “Mercy, I—” His voice was thick and torn at the edges. A small triumph, that. Perhaps he had a seed of humanity left somewhere inside him.

  He cleared his throat. “I admit there is much you do not know, but trust me, my silence on matters is necessary.”

  “Trust you?” She gaped, hating his demand, hating even more the way his smell of smoke and danger tingled along every nerve. “That is a very pretty sentiment coming from your lips.”

  “There is no time to explain, but I vow that I shall get you out of here. I promise.”

  For a single, horrifying moment, she believed the passion sparking in his gaze. And more, she wanted him to make everything right. To not be a traitor. To just be a man—one she could love.

  Sickened, she jerked up her bound hands and shoved him in the chest. “I don’t need your help.”

  Her voice thundered down on him—and the entire camp. Without turning his head, Elias slipped his gaze side to side, then landed back on her.

  “Forgive me, Mercy,” he whispered.

  “For what? For making me believe you cared—?”

  His mouth crushed against hers, stopping her words. Warm. Firm. Neither devouring nor gentle in intensity. It was the kind of kiss that broke her wide open and held her up all in the same embrace, and she leaned into it, her own body a traitor of the worst degree. She was a desert, and he the only water she’d ever wanted to drink.

  A low drone of laughter slapped her back to reality. What was she doing? She jerked away, pulse beating out of control, and wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

  “What was that for?” she hissed.

  “Your life.” Once again he grabbed her arms and pulled her close, and before she could wrench from his hold, he bent and spoke for her ears alone. “These people think you are my wife. Play the part well or we both die.”

  You scared, Miss Mercy?”

  Was she? She should be. Sitting in the dark of a guarded hut. A harsh language in harsher voices leaching in like a disease from outside the bark walls. And soon she’d belong to either a broad-faced Wyandot or a sweet-talking traitor. But wonder of all wonders, the peace that had crawled into her soul earlier in the day when she’d cried out to God had unpacked and set up house in her soul.

  She reached for Livvy’s hand with both of hers, still bound, and squeezed the girl’s fingers. “No, I am not frightened, leastwise not overmuch.”

  Livvy squeezed back. “I surely do wish they would have cut that rope from your hands.”

  “No doubt they soon—”

  She jerked her face toward the removal of the framed bark door. Torchlight outside painted a black silhouette of a man…and outlined the shape of a floppy felt hat atop his head. She released Livvy’s fingers and clenched her hands together so that her knuckles cracked. Surely this thief hadn’t been part of the bargain, had he?

  She launched toward him. He flinched. And a smile ghosted her lips. Did he yet feel the pain of her earlier head butt?

  Grabbing hold of her arm, he dug his fingers into her flesh and yanked her into the night. He hauled her to a ring of men assembled in a loose circle near a large fire. Spectral light flicked over their bodies, painting a nightmarish scene of fiendish ghouls. Two parted, making room for her and her captor. The thrill of a fight brightened the eyes of every man there.

  Directly across the flattened patch of ground stood the sachem. Golden gorgets hung from his neck, reflecting flickers of firelight. He stood like a god, arm raised, ready to call into action a battle to the death.

  At center, two bare-chested men faced off, ten paces apart, but only one of them commanded her attention. Elias stood with his chin high and shoulders relaxed, at attention but not. A strange mix of nonchalance and wolf about to spring. Though she’d thought on it the better part of the day, she still had no answer as to why he was about to risk his life for her. He could have run free, escaping the locked cell
that awaited him at Fort Edward. Why had he bothered coming after her? That question, and a host of others, crowded uninvited and unanswered inside her head, making it ache all the way to her jaws.

  Without warning, the sachem dropped his arm.

  And the big man charged.

  Elias feinted right, then immediately swung back and struck. His first punch glanced off the big man’s chin. Mercy did not know much about hand-to-hand battle, but if that was the best Elias could offer, he’d be dead within—

  His second fist flew like a musket shot, catching her and the big man off guard. Elias’s blow sank deep into the man’s stomach, punching him back and doubling him over. Before he regained balance, Elias was on him, knuckles flying, blood splattering, driving him back.

  Mercy gasped. She’d always sensed an underlying danger about Elias Dubois. Now she understood why. He struck so hard and fast, he beat the man toward her side of the circle.

  Three paces from her, the big man teetered off balance, tipping her way. She retreated, only to be stopped by the chest of the man behind her. But at the last moment, Elias’s attacker used his momentum to reach down and swipe up a handful of dirt on his upswing.

  “Elias! Duck!”

  Too late. The man whipped around and flung the dirt in Elias’s eyes. He staggered back, blinded, and furiously rubbed away the grit.

  Next to her, a warrior rumbled something low, then held out a hunting knife. Elias’s attacker grabbed it and charged.

  “No!” she shouted. “Elias, he has a—”

  A hand covered her mouth, jamming her head backward against muscle and bone. If Elias’s blood was spilled here and now, she’d belong to a killer with no honor.

  Elias blinked, the whites of his eyes stark against the dirt on his face. He crouched low, hands out, with nothing to parry but the flesh of his bare arms.

  The man advanced, slashing the knife downward. Elias twisted and reached for the man’s knife arm with both hands—but the move left his belly open. The big man kneed him in the gut, and as Elias loosed his hold, the man sliced the blade in an arc.

  A red line split open on Elias’s chest, and she could do nothing but watch as his lifeblood began to ooze out and run down to his breeches in long drips. Elias reeled, and her heart broke. Traitor or not, she did not want him to die.

  The men around her howled their approval, and the big man advanced.

  Mercy blinked away tears. Elias didn’t stand a chance, not against a man a head taller and hornet mad, gripping a deadly stinger.

  With each thrust of the knife, Elias backed away, until he crashed into the line of warriors behind him. The men shoved him forward.

  A slow smile spread like a stain across the big man’s face, the kind of grin only a nightmare such as this could produce. A slow chant began quietly then gained in strength as each warrior in the circle joined in.

  Elias’s attacker took another swipe, this time kicking his leg forward to tangle with Elias’s and knock him off balance.

  But on the downswing, Elias spun around to the man’s back, seized the arm without a knife, and elbowed the beast at the base of the neck. The big man dropped to one knee—and Elias made a grab for the weapon.

  This time the blade came away in his hand. With a mighty roar, Elias slashed a gaping cut across the top of the big man’s thigh, then jabbed a kick to his chest.

  The man landed on his back, air whumping out of his lungs.

  Elias pounced, pinning one of the man’s arms with his knee, his free hand pinioning the other arm, and raised the blade high.

  The chanting stopped. So did time.

  Mercy froze. The muscles of the man holding her tensed. What was Elias waiting for?

  Then he struck hard, hitting the warrior in the head with the hilt of the knife. Lightning fast, he raised the blade again and stabbed it into the ground next to the man’s ear.

  Panting, Elias stood. He flicked blood and sweat from his face and staggered a moment, then faced the sachem. Deadly silence filled the night. Mercy held her breath.

  Elias’s ragged voice cut the air in words she couldn’t understand. The sachem glowered. Warriors to her left and right all grumbled and growled. What on earth had Elias said?

  With a wild glance, she looked for the native who spoke English and spied him two men away from her. She wrenched her head free from the brute’s hand on her mouth and called out, “What does he say?”

  “He tells Red Bear he gives back Nadowa and asks for you in return.”

  Her blood drained to her feet, and the world started to spin. This was not to be borne, leaving a warrior down but not dead. Surely Elias knew the rules when he’d asked for the challenge. The rules demanded blood.

  But if not Nadowa’s or Elias’s, then whose?

  Fire burned a swath across Elias’s chest. Thank God the slice wasn’t deep, or he’d be the one stretched out on the dirt. Every muscle quivered. Every bone screamed. He wore each of his twenty-seven years like chains too heavy to lift. But if that was what it took to free Mercy, then so be it.

  He met and matched Red Bear’s stare. How generous was the sachem feeling? For it was no small thing that he’d left the knife blade sunk into the ground next to Nadowa’s ear instead of in the warrior’s chest.

  Firelight glinted in Red Bear’s eyes, fearsome as the flames of hell. “There is no honor in this. You shame Nadowa by letting him live. If I let the woman go while there is still breath in his body, it shames us all.”

  Armed with nothing but an arsenal of words, Elias loaded and shot, praying for a direct hit. “Yet the blood price has been paid, Great One. I wear Nadowa’s. He wears mine.” He lifted his hands, knuckles split, the splatter of the warrior’s blood mingled with his own. “And if you let my wife and me go free, I offer a payment that will benefit all, granting you far more victory and glory than the taking of your finest warrior’s life.”

  A rush of whispers blew behind him, some laced with interest, others scoffing, and a few rumbling with restrained rage.

  Red Bear folded his arms, chin held high. “Speak.”

  “I offer you the very riches your men were looking for when they found my wife.”

  The sachem’s eyes widened. Indians weren’t usually greedy for gold, but not so with Red Bear. This shrewd old rascal knew when an opportunity wafted beneath his nose. “How do you know this?”

  “Why do you think your men found nothing in those wagons they ransacked? I was the one who hid the cargo out of necessity. I will lead you there come morning.”

  A slow smile curved the sides of Red Bear’s mouth. “Shadow Walker is a man of many surprises. The trade is good. The woman is yours. Come and let us feast.”

  “Your offer, Great One, is well met.” He stepped closer, speaking for only the sachem’s ears. “But I have been without my woman for a long time. Grant us shelter alone for the night.”

  The implication drew a chuckle from the older man.

  God, forgive me, Elias prayed silently, for the insinuation and the lie. But had not Abraham done the same when he alluded to his wife as his sister in order to save both their lives? Granted, this was the reverse and he was no Abraham, but even so, far more lives than his or Mercy’s depended upon this. Please, God.

  Red Bear tipped his chin toward the farthest hut. “It is yours.”

  Elias pivoted and walked tall, hiding a wince with every step. He crossed back to where two men helped Nadowa to stand. The warrior’s head lolled, still groggy from the bite of the knife hilt. Some men might gloat over such a triumph, but he found no pleasure in seeing a beaten man. Ah, but he was weary to death of fighting and blood. He crouched and worked the knife free from the dirt.

  Mercy stood unattended now, like a lost little girl abandoned at the side of a road. He strode toward her, her luminous eyes watching his approach. Warriors filtered past him, drawn by the fire and the savory tang of roasted venison.

  On the way, he stopped and lurched sideways, snatching Mercy’s ha
t off the head of the man who’d stolen it. The man whirled, murder glinting off the silver of his drawn blade.

  Again? He’d not yet bandaged the slash on his chest. Even so, he hunkered into a fighting stance, hat in one hand, knife in the other.

  Red Bear’s voice thundered in the dark. “Shadow Walker reclaims his wife’s hat and will pay for it come sunrise. Let it go, Standing Fist.”

  Working his lips, the man spat at Elias’s feet, then stalked off to the fire.

  Elias breathed in relief and blew out a prayer. Thank You, God. Then he turned and closed the distance between him and Mercy. Reaching out, he placed her hat atop hair so loosened and wild, it spread down to her waist like a mantle. Despite the affront of her capture, the cut on her cheek and the bruise near her eye, the woman was a beauty.

  But best of all, and wonder of wonders, the disappointment in her eyes had vanished, replaced by a sheen of awe.

  “Hold out your hands,” he said gently.

  She lifted her wrists. The leather thong cut into her skin, and for a moment he regretted not having killed Nadowa for such a violation.

  “I don’t know how you managed all that, but”—a gasp cut off her words as he worked the knife between her wrists—“I thank you…Shadow Walker.”

  He flashed a grin as her bindings fell to the ground. “I would say it was my pleasure, but in all honesty, I can think of far more pleasurable things than grappling with an angry Wyandot.”

  “Seems they are not angry anymore.” Mercy rubbed the tender skin at the base of her sleeves. “What did you say to turn away the sachem’s wrath?”

  “Come, and I will tell you.” He led her past the warriors already tearing great bites of venison from two does brought in earlier. Lewd comments followed him all the way to the makeshift longhouse, most about his manliness, some about her curves. All about what they expected would be going on once he was alone with Mercy. Sweet heavens, but he was glad she did not understand the language. It was humiliating enough that he did.