Defiant

by Pamela Clare

  The bastard sons of whores!

  She stumbled forward, holding her arms up to her head to ward off their blows, buffeted back and forth as the men struck her. But it was clear she understood now that her suffering would end once she reached the end of the line. Her gaze fixed on that spot, and she tried to run, struggling to stay on her feet as she was struck again and again, until at last she pitched forward and broke free, landing on her hands and knees in the mud.

  It was over.

  Connor let out a breath, willing himself to stand rooted where he was.

  Breathing hard, her body trembling, she slowly lifted her gaze, looking about as if to see what lay in store for her next, fear, shock, and pain mingled on her face, tears sliding down her cheeks. It was then she saw him, her gaze locking with his. And the plea in her eyes was as clear as if she’d cried the words aloud.

  Help me!

  Chapter 3

  Her back and arms still stinging from the sharp blows, Sarah stared up at the man, her gaze taking in the sight of him all at once. Though his skin was brown from the sun, his features were clearly European. His eyes were a deep shade of blue, his hair long and dark, braids at each temple. Unlike the Indian men who had no beards, his jaw was dark with stubble. He wore leather leggings and moccasins like an Indian, but his shirt was of blue-checked homespun, the cloth of it all but concealed beneath a shaggy bearskin coat.

  Was he French? He must be. Who else would live amongst Indians hostile to the Crown?

  She met his gaze, saw an emotion in his eyes she could not read. “Aidez-moi, monsieur! Je vous en supplie, aidez-moi!” Help me, sir! I beg you—help me!

  Whether he’d understood her, she couldn’t tell, for in that moment her view of him was blocked by beaded skirts and leggings. Gentle hands drew her to her feet, and two gray-haired women guided her away from the crowd, one at each arm, speaking to her softly, like a mother speaking to a frightened child, their words foreign.

  When Sarah looked over her shoulder, the man was gone.

  As the women led her though the village, it seemed to Sarah that she had passed into another world. Small, round lodges clustered together looking rather like a village of large gray beehives. Men and women went about their work, the men dressed like Katakwa, the women wearing shirts with leggings and beaded skirts, their hair braided. A butchered deer hung from a wooden frame, its head sitting on a bed of dried reeds. Children ran through the maze of lodges, shouting and laughing, dogs nosing for scraps in the mud.

  But, although people stared at her as she passed, there were no more shouts, and no one hit her, pinched her, or pulled her hair. Had the beating she’d just endured been some kind of initiation rite? If so, perhaps the worst of it was over.

  She prayed with all her heart it was.

  They came to a small lodge, its walls made like the others—great mats of tree bark held in place by twined ropes and rocks. The women pushed aside a door cover of woven grasses and went inside, motioning for Sarah to follow. She ducked down and entered, the door falling into place behind her.

  The lodge was dimly lit but warm, a fire burning in its center, smoke curling out through a small flap in the roof that was propped open by a long stick. Mats of woven grasses covered the earthen floor and adorned the walls like tapestries, designs painted on them in shades of red, yellow, and blue. Dried herbs, antlers, feathers, and what looked like the talons of a large bird of prey hung from the poles that made up the lodge’s frame, empty wooden bowls stacked along the wall beside woven baskets filled with acorns, seeds, strips of dried meat. Raised platforms stood against the other walls. Covered with furs and blankets, they must have been beds.

  Two other women sat inside tending a kettle on the fire. Both were older than Sarah, one heavy with child, her big belly protruding above her skirt, her breasts bare. And though Sarah knew she should avert her gaze, she’d never before seen the bare belly of a woman who was increasing, nor had she ever seen another woman’s naked breasts. She could not help but notice how full and dark the woman’s nipples were compared to her own.

  The women who’d brought her here sat on mats and motioned for her to do the same. Feeling sorely unnerved to be near a woman who was all but naked, she settled her skirts around her and was made to listen while each of them took turns speaking to her with foreign words, smiles on their faces. Unable to understand them, and keen to avoid seeing things she should not see, she focused instead on their faces.

  Like Katakwa, they had lines and dots etched into their skin, but none of them were pierced through the nose. Strings of beads and polished shell were tied around their braids and hung through loops in their earlobes, bands of purple and white shell at their throats. One reached out, tenderly touching the bruise on Sarah’s cheek, another stroking her hair, as if they regretted her suffering.

  And her hope rekindled.

  “Parlez-vous français?” Sarah asked, eager to understand them—and to make herself understood. Perhaps they might be persuaded to let her go. “Do you speak English? Loquerisne linguam latinam?”

  But they looked at her with blank faces, clearly not comprehending what she’d said.

  They stood as one and drew her to her feet. Then the one who was with child took up a small knife Sarah had not noticed before and moved toward her.

  Sarah’s heart gave a hard thud. She backed away. “N-no! Don’t!”

  But the other women held her.

  “No! Please!” She squeezed her eyes shut as the blade arced through the air toward her chest, the strength all but leaving her legs as she whispered what she thought would be her last words. “Lord have mercy upon—”

  Then she felt a tug and heard a tearing sound.

  She opened her eyes to find her clothes being cut from her body, the knife slicing cleanly through her gown, her stays, her chemise. Fear became rage, and she fought to free herself. “Stop! Why are you doing this?”

  But they were stronger than they seemed, their hold on her like iron.

  Someone patted her on the arm, the women speaking in soothing tones as the blade cut through her petticoats and skirts, and her clothes fell to the floor, leaving her completely naked. The garments were tossed aside, and the women moved around in front of her, their gazes passing over her body as if they were examining a mare.

  Sarah covered herself and looked away, her face burning. No one had seen her naked since she was a very little girl, not even her mother. To be exposed like this…

  Then hands guided her nearer to the fire, and the women sat on their heels, motioning once more for her to do the same. One arm across her breasts, the other covering her most private flesh, she sat, unable to meet the women’s gazes. She heard water being ladled from the kettle, heard something splash, and then felt the press of a warm wet cloth against tender new bruises on her back as they began to bathe her.

  Was this their intent? Did they simply mean to bathe her? What did they mean for her to wear afterward? Did they hope to dress her as they dressed?

  Sarah had so many questions, but no one to answer them.

  Gently, they washed her back, her face, her neck and throat, her shoulders and her arms, spreading some kind of soap across her skin, then rinsing it away, the warm water and the fine leather cloth soothing her sore muscles and bruised flesh. Wherever they washed her, they also applied a honey-scented oil, kneading it into her skin. And as they cared for her, their hands gentle, their voices calming, Sarah felt herself begin to quieten, some of her fear edging away. Being attended to in this manner was not altogether unfamiliar to her, though her lady’s maids never bathed her, nor did they see her naked. They brushed her hair and…

  Jane.

  Sarah felt a stab of pain behind her breastbone, tears blurring her vision. Only yesterday morning Jane had helped her with her toilette, brushing and styling her hair, helping her with her petticoats and stays. And now sweet Jane was—

  One of the Indian women began to wash Sarah’s breasts, the startling s
ensation drawing her back to the moment, making her gasp.

  “No, please don’t!” She tried to push the woman’s hands away, but the other women restrained her, speaking soothingly to her. She was given no choice but to endure it—the touch of a woman’s hands, the rasp of the cloth across her nipples, the slickness of the soap, the heat of the water, the silky warmth of the oil. It felt so strange and unsettling, her face hot with shame.

  If Mother could see this…If Mother should learn of this…

  And Sarah feared she might be sick.

  They washed and oiled her breasts, her belly, her hips, her legs, and her feet, which they gave extra care, clucking and frowning over the blisters as if truly distressed to see that she’d been hurt. When this was done, they bent her over a deep bowl of heated water and washed her hair, then brushed away the tangles with a bundle of stiff grasses, smiling and speaking in approving tones about her locks. And as they brushed her hair with gentle strokes, the sensation familiar and pleasing, Sarah began to feel unbearably sleepy, exhaustion taking hold at last.

  Then the one who was with child draped a fur around Sarah’s shoulders and motioned her toward the bed. Thinking they wanted her to sleep, she gratefully crossed the lodge and lay down, but when she made to cover herself with the fur, they stopped her, one of the women approaching the foot of the bed with what looked like small clamshells in her hands.

  With no warning, three of the women pinned Sarah to the bed, spreading her legs far apart and holding them there, pinning her with their weight.

  “What are you doing? No! Stop!” She tried to twist away, but the three of them together were far stronger than she alone.

  Then the one with the clamshells settled herself between Sarah’s thighs and, using the edge of the shells, began to pluck away the hair that covered Sarah in that place.

  “Oh!” It was terrible and indecent, and it hurt more than Sarah expected.

  But far worse than the physical pain—or the deep humiliation of knowing that they were looking at that most secret part of her—was the shock that came when she realized why they were doing this. They hadn’t simply bathed her so that she could feel clean again. They were preparing her body for a man’s use.

  Sarah squeezed her eyes shut, turned her face away, and prayed.

  Connor was standing near the door of the council house when she entered. In the middle of saying something to Joseph about their plan for the council meeting, he forgot he was speaking—and stared.

  They’d taken away her clothes, bathed her, and dressed her as a Shawnee bride in a skirt and leggings of fine white doeskin decorated with quills and beads. Her long hair hung in gleaming braids, a band of purple wampum encircling her throat. A wrap of white doeskin rested on her shoulders to keep her warm, its ends clutched in her hands as she fought to conceal her bare breasts, their curved, creamy undersides still visible.

  The sight of her stole Connor’s breath, heat lancing through his gut. But then his mind took hold, and cold fury doused the heat in his blood. The lass wasn’t Shawnee, but by dressing her thus, they were claiming her, clearly intending to marry her to Katakwa tonight.

  She looked shaken, her cheeks flushed with shame. She saw him and her eyes went wide. She called out to him in perfect French. “M-monsieur! Ayez pitié de moi et—” Sir! Take pity on me and—

  Before she could finish or he could answer, the women of Katakwa’s family led her away, Connor’s gaze following her as she was led to the back and made to sit behind Grannie Clear Water, who would decide her fate tonight—if she hadn’t already done so.

  Joseph pressed closer, speaking for Connor’s ears alone. “There can be no doubt what they plan to do with her. Katakwa will claim her as his wife.”

  “We cannae let that happen. It would take us weeks to muster the men and return for her. The old woman is no fool. She’ll move the village the moment we depart, perhaps even send Katakwa away wi’ his bride, thinkin’ to keep the soldiers from attackin’ the village. By the time we find the lass again—if we find her—her own mother wouldna ken her.”

  “There are worse fates to suffer. The people of his village say he is a good man according to their customs—a brave warrior and skilled hunter.”

  Connor knew Joseph didn’t mean what he’d just said. “She is an English noblewoman. Do you expect her to be content livin’ here in a wikkum wearing animal hides and bearin’ the children of a man who doesna ken where England lies? Besides, he cares naugh’ for her. You saw how he treated her.”

  Joseph nodded. “And yet it might be better for her to accept this fate than for all three of us to be killed in a vain to free her.”

  “I vowed to Wentworth that I would do all I could to return her safely.”

  Joseph raised an eyebrow. “You made no such vow. I was there. He commanded you to do anything you must to retrieve her. Since when do you obey Wentworth?”

  “Look at her. She’s terrified. I cannae turn my back on her and leave her here.”

  “Nor can I.” Then Joseph turned away, ending the conversation, leaving Connor to wonder when the lady’s plight had come to matter so much to him.

  Elders drifted through the doorway, took their places around the fire. Katakwa entered, a dozen of his warriors behind him in a show of strength. He spared not a glance for Connor and Joseph, but strode through the council house in his finest attire, his shirt decorated with quills, a bearskin draped over one shoulder, wampum around his throat, his face washed clean of paint.

  Then one of the old woman’s daughters guided Connor and Joseph to places across the fire from Katakwa. Connor sat cross-legged on a soft layer of mats, glad to find he had an unbroken view of Lady Sarah—and she of him. He reached inside his shirt and drew out the strip of MacKinnon plaid he’d taken from the hilt of his claidheamh mòr, binding it around his right wrist where she was sure to see it. Even if she didn’t know clan colors well enough to recognize him for a MacKinnon, she would see that he was no Frenchman.

  As of yet, she had not spotted him. She sat, flanked by Katakwa’s sisters, her gaze darting anxiously around the council house, her arms crossed demurely over her breasts, her defenselessness striking him hard. How confusing and terrible it must be for her not to understand a word that was spoken about her, to be a captive and know nothing of her own fate, to find herself half naked and alone amongst strangers.

  You’re no’ so alone as you think, my lady.

  Then she spied him and the plaid at his wrist, and her gaze met his once more, a questioning look in her eyes.

  “My lady.” He mouthed the words, gave a slight bow of his head, and felt a sense of satisfaction at her surprise. He warned her with a subtle shake of his head not to say a word, then looked away.

  Grannie Clear Water began to speak, explaining to her people that Katakwa had returned with a captive whom Joseph and Connor had come to claim. She spoke of Joseph at length, honoring his father and people, then looked over at Connor. “The name of Mack-inn-on is known to us, too, as one who fights for the English. But Mack-inn-on tells us that he comes in peace. He brought gifts of wampum and tobacco and smoked the pipe with us today, and he is blood brother to the Muhheconneok, and so we make him welcome at our fire.”

  Then Joseph raised his hand, silently asking permission to speak, which Grannie Clear Water granted. “We thank you, Grandmother, for your kind welcome and for the food you shared with us today. We await your wisdom in the matter of this woman. We humbly ask that someone who speaks her tongue be given the task of sharing with her all that is spoken so that she might not sit in darkness. If a daughter of the Shawnee sat at my father’s fire, he would do no less for her.”

  There was a murmur as Grannie Clear Water considered Joseph’s request.

  Katakwa stood, not waiting for Grannie to call upon him. “The tongue of her fathers is dead to her now. Let the woman learn Shawnee if she wishes to understand and be heard.”

  Grannie Clear Water held up her hand to silence him.
“You are right to ask this, Joseph Aupauteunk. Who here knows the talk of the English?”

  Heads turned, the council house silent.

  As Connor and Joseph had suspected, there was no one else who spoke English.

  Connor raised his hand and answered in Shawnee. “I am able to make their talk, Grandmother. I learned their words as a child before they drove my father, the chieftain, from our lands and forced us to come across the sea.”

  Joseph had told Grannie Clear Water how Connor’s family had fought the English and been exiled to these shores in hopes that the story would soften her dislike of him. Connor reminded her of that story now.

  Her gaze bored into his. She gave Connor a single nod of her head, which he returned.

  Then he met Lady Sarah’s gaze, speaking calmly but quickly. “My lady, I am Major Connor MacKinnon. I was sent by your uncle to retrieve you.”

  At the mention of her uncle, a look of astonishment came over her bruised face. Then she opened her mouth as if to speak.

  “Dinnae speak, my lady. You must listen and do as I bid you. There is much at stake. I’m to be actin’ as your interpreter so that you might understand what is bein’ said here tonight. But ken ere we begin that I shall do all I can to free you. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, watching him through eyes filled with desperate hope.

  Katakwa was invited to speak first. He was a tall man, strong and well formed, his body that of a warrior. No doubt many a Shawnee woman dreamed of lying beneath him at night. For a moment, he stood in silence, but when he spoke his voice filled the council house.

  He reminded the people of his deeds and that he was war chief from a long line of war chiefs. Then he told them all how his wife had been ravished and killed by English trappers last summer and that his grief at her death was still great. He spoke of her virtues and her skill as wife and mother, drawing shouts of agreement from the others of his village, who clearly sorrowed for her, too. The emotion in Katakwa’s voice left no doubt in Connor’s mind that Katakwa had cherished her.