by Beth Trissel
She lay on the trail in despair. Her chest and sides heaved against the boned corset with each constricted breath. How long until someone overtook her? Likely Meshewa had feared her drowned and lengthened her lead by taking the time to search the pool. Then he would pursue her or alert Shoka.
At that thought, she forced herself back to her feet and staggered on. Exhaustion soon ate away the edge anxiety had given her, nor was fear sufficient to compel her shaky legs forward. Her body screamed to stop. Thirsty again, she reeled down the bank to the stream, casting about desperately for solutions while gulping down more water.
If she couldn’t go on, she must hide and resume her flight later. But where? A large hollow darkened the base of an oak a few steps up from the water—no, bugs and hairy spiders might lurk there. She spied a flat stone wide enough to huddle on and surrounded on three sides with leafy cover. The branches curving above it formed a sort of tent. Like a child’s secret place, it would conceal her.
She crawled inside, curling miserably into a ball. Sunlight couldn’t penetrate her green enclosure, and she shivered in her damp shift. She’d surely freeze tonight.
The temptation rose in her to give up and sun on a warm stone until her recapture, but she wasn’t one to concede defeat. Nor did she care to discover what grisly punishment was dealt out to runaways.
Would Shoka be brutal? He couldn’t torture or kill her if he hoped to sell her for a goodly sum. But he might be too angry to consider the coins she’d fetch him.
Bleak thoughts make poor bed fellows. Though bone-weary, Rebecca dozed only fitfully, waking to an ominous rattling noise. She sat bolt upright. A great snake lay coiled just outside her shaded enclosure, its body as thick as her arm. Glittering eyes stared into her lair. Or was it his?
Abandoning all hope of remaining undetected, she scrambled shrieking to the back of her hideout.
Chapter Four
A woman’s frantic screams tore through the forest above the swiftly flowing water. Rebecca! Shoka jerked from the footprints he’d bent over. What now?
She’d left a trail of broken twigs, strands of gold hair caught on branches, and indentations in the spongy earth that any fool could follow. She had no more knowledge how to survive in these harsh mountains than a child. Incensed by her outrageous escape and the accompanying stab of dread for her welfare, he sprinted toward her cries, hoping he wasn’t too late and cursing himself for caring.
He spotted her leafy hideout. The source of her terror lay coiled just outside the only entrance, an enormous rattlesnake. A chill seized him. It was uncoiling.
“Rebecca. Be still.”
The tomahawk he threw on the tail of his warning sliced through the air in calculated revolutions and thunked down, severing the snake’s head. He tossed the writhing form aside and kicked the loathsome head out of the way then peered inside her shelter. She crouched in the shadows, awash in streaming hair and seemingly unharmed.
Relief at her narrow escape only heightened his anger. Tight-lipped, he beckoned to her. “Come out.”
She crawled shakily to him and lifted wide eyes fringed with brown lashes. “Is it truly gone?”
Shoka gave a terse nod. Viewing her exquisite face in full daylight set an unwanted drum pounding in his gut. He looked into eyes that weren’t merely one shade of blue, but an intriguing blend of water, sky, and the fairest blossoms. Her smooth brow was finely carved, as were her nose and cheeks, and fit perfectly with her full, but not too full, mouth, blushed like a rosy sunset. Her sweetly curved chin wholly balanced her other features. Even in her fear it had a stubborn tilt and a dimple.
His manhood swelled hotly. He was more undone in that instant than if he’d faced the most cunning warrior. And it occurred to him, rather strongly, that he’d far rather do battle with a stealthy foe than his own heart.
Seemingly unaware of the debilitating effect she had on him, Rebecca stuttered, “What serpent was that?”
“Shebinsee manetoh, rattlesnake,” he said, dragging his stare away from her. Seizing the tomahawk, he wiped the soiled blade on a patch of grass.
He couldn’t keep his eyes from following as she got unsteadily to her feet. The damp shift clung to every curve. She was slender and taller than average for a woman, though still a head, or more, shorter than he and would fit nicely against him, he thought, hating that he did.
She pushed that wealth of hair back over the inviting smoothness of partly bared shoulders. He swept his rapt gaze over the creamy mounds swelling up out of her bodice. A red haze of anger and need clouded his mind.
Her eyes scoured the dense foliage. “Are many of these dreadful creatures about?”
“We must watch.”
“Oh my. What if it had bitten me?”
Were there no venomous snakes in England? He slung the tomahawk at his back beneath his belt and regarded her sternly. “Its fangs have much poison. One bite from a serpent of this size and you would die slowly in great pain. Unless I found you, gave you medicine. Do you wish for this death?”
She shook her head, appearing far more subdued than the woman who had dared to challenge him last evening.
“Other dangers lie in the wilderness, the wolf, bear, devil cat,” he added pointedly. “You cannot be certain what, or who, follows you.”
“What a fearful land.”
“You know nothing of this land. You forget I said not to run from me?”
Eyes downcast, she whispered, “No.”
“Where is your gown? Did thorns tear the cloth from you?” he demanded, wanting to rip off all that remained.
She jerked up her head. “You know very well where my clothes are.”
He raked his gaze over her in disgust, despising how fervently he wanted her. “Cunning fox. You made Meshewa ashamed to look.”
“I could think of no other means to escape.”
“Have you no shame?”
Sparks flared in her vivid gaze, melding fire with the blue. “I’m not proud of what I did.”
“Why do it? Did I threaten you with death?”
She frowned. “Worse. I’ll not be mistress to a Frenchman.”
He scowled back. “You must have been mistress to many Englishmen.”
“How dare you!” She swung her hand and smacked the side of his face so hard it stung.
He caught her arm where the sleeve of her shift had fallen back. “I say it’s the truth.”
“It most certainly is not.”
He liked the feel of her smooth skin but had little time to relish the sensation. She kicked her foot out behind his leg and jerked forward, throwing him slightly off balance. The instant he faltered, she broke free.
What a hellion. The English expression sprang readily to his mind as he slipped the musket and shot pouch from his bare shoulders to the ground. “You wish to fight me?” He beckoned with his fingers. “Come, then.”
She flew at his invitation with the fury of a baited bear, slamming her fists up under his chin. She whirled away.
“Fast,” he conceded. “Yet, not fast enough.”
He lunged at her retreating figure and threw his arms around her from behind. Wrapping her waist with one arm, he circled the other below her delightfully rounded chest. He pinned her arms as she twisted in his grasp and kicked against his legs and ankles, and simply restrained her, enjoying it all the while.
“What if I fight back?” he asked against the nape of her neck.
She stilled, panting. “I’ll lose.”
“Swiftly.” He whipped her around so that he held her just as he wanted, the feel of her maddeningly desirable. “Perhaps I will think of something better. Something you know well.” His voice had gone husky.
“I do not!” She grabbed for the pistol.
He snapped his fingers around her slender wrist. “To regain your pistol you must be as swift as the hawk.”
She stomped on his moccasin. “Was that swift enough?”
He almost laughed as he shoved her foot aside. He he
ld her immobile. “You cannot prevail against me, Peshewa.”
Lifting her chin, she stared up at him with those scorching eyes.
He looked hard into her unbridled defiance then bent his head and took her mouth in a heated kiss so urgent it was nearly fierce. Fire flared in him at the feel of her supple lips. The intensity was almost beyond bearing.
For a searing second her mouth parted under his, and it seemed she just might surrender without a fight. Then she thrust her leg behind his, jerking it forward more forcefully.
Vixen. She’d overshot her mark and unsettled them both.
He lurched toward her, bearing her down to the grass. She crumpled beneath him. Air rushed out from her lungs as he landed atop her enticing curves.
She gasped, “Is it your way to force a helpless woman?”
“Helpless?” he echoed in exasperation, as frenzied with lust as a raging stallion. He lightened his weight to spare her already bruised body and pinned her thrashing arms over her head. “You are like no other woman.”
Fear flickered in her eyes. “Don’t hurt me, Shoka.”
“Stop resisting. I will do nothing you are not used to, Peshewa.”
She glared at him. “How do you know what I’m used to?”
He pressed his lips over the delectable curve of her neck. Men had died for far less than this sweetness. “I have thoughts,” he said, his mouth against her skin. He felt her shiver at his touch, an involuntary response not lost on him.
She fought to tear away. “I am not as you think.”
“No?” Clipping her wrists in one hand, he slid his other up her side over her shift to her breasts—stopping when he encountered the stiffened bodice. “What is this thing?”
“My corset.”
He drew his knife. “I will cut it from you.”
At this threat, she grew frantic. “Undo the laces. ’Tis simply done.”
Sunlight glinted on the blade. Why should he indulge such a shameless woman? “Cutting is simpler.”
Tears sprang into her eyes. “Don’t. Please.”
“You weep for this?”
She blinked moist lashes. “And for my honor.”
Snorting, he sheathed the blade. “Stop fighting me.”
She lay trembling as he rolled her over. Had he fully intimidated her? He’d expected to wrestle a devil cat.
With innate wariness, he brushed aside her wealth of hair and undid the laces. He peeled off the ridiculous garment, finding it heavier than he’d expected. It must be lined with lead, he thought, and pitched the cumbersome thing to the fern.
The sight of Rebecca wearing only that clinging shift sped his already runaway desire. He tugged the drawstring at her neck and slipped the underdress down over her tempting shoulders, kissing her soft skin above the diminishing cloth. His conscience chided him. He shouldn’t take advantage of her this way, but she’d provoked him beyond endurance.
“I will be gentle, beautiful Rebecca,” he whispered, then stopped as though from a forceful punch to the jaw.
Breathing in sharply, he surveyed the ugly scars crisscrossing the milky surface of her back. After a stunned moment, he nudged the shift lower and traced his fingers over the grim handiwork. Who would defile such perfection?
Someone had. More than once. Likely a stout man with a rod.
For a time, he said nothing. Then he found his tongue. “Who gave you this punishment?”
“Papa.”
Shoka listened in outraged disbelief. How dare any man do this to his own flesh and blood? He steadied his voice. “Is there more?”
“On my thighs.”
Clutching the shift to her chest, she turned toward him. And he knew he’d seen exactly what she wanted him to.
“Why such cruelty?” he ground out. “Shawnee do not beat their children.”
Her eyes glinted with the hurt that had marred her back. “Drink made Papa crazy.”
“Warriors, too, sometimes. Still, I would like to give your father back stripe for stripe what he gave you.”
She gaped at him. “I wish you’d give Papa the thrashing of his life. But I don’t expect you will turn up in London.”
Shoka smiled faintly. “The English need no guide there.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
Her stiff posture relaxed a little. He curled his fingers at her chin and tilted her face to inspect every inch. Dropping his eyes, he ran them over her shoulders and the tops of her breasts, hesitant to ask the next question. “Did your father harm you in other ways?”
She shook her head.
Undeniable relief welled in him. “What of your sister?”
“Never.” Clenching her fingers, Rebecca kept the shift in place with fisted hands. “When Papa was in a rage, I told Kate to run and hide. I got between them.”
“You took the beatings for her?” Shoka gave a low whistle. “You have much courage, Rebecca Elliot.”
“No. I was always afraid.”
“Courage is not how you feel. It’s what you do.”
“Then I should get a damn medal,” she muttered. “Like a good soldier.”
“You swear like one.”
“You have my father to thank for that.”
The anger flaring in her eyes dwindled, and then in a more uncertain voice, she asked, “What will you do with me now?”
He trailed his fingers through her hair, pausing at her low neckline. His heart doubled its beat as he slid the tip of his finger over her breasts pushing up above the ruffled linen. “I would very much like to take this from you. Yet, I will not.”
His need, as tangible as pulsing energy, seemed to flow into her. Did he feel her warming to him?
Taking a tremulous breath, she whispered, “Shoka?”
He searched the question in her face, noting the quiver at her lips. Did she want more from him, or far, far less?
Stop! He ordered himself. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, do this.
Drawing on reserves he’d honed from years of rigorous training, he reined himself in. Battle was easier. He tugged the shift up over her shoulders and tied the string at her beguiling neck. “You still have some secrets.”
A pink flush stained her petal soft cheeks. “Fewer and fewer.” She retrieved her corset. “Help me on with it?”
“You can’t even dress unaided?”
“I had a maid for that.” She slipped on the corset and turned her back for him to do the fluttering ties.
Hardly able to believe he was assisting her with this blatantly feminine task, he crisscrossed the laces. “Why do you wear such a foolish garment?”
“All ladies do. You must draw the laces tighter.” She blew out a chuff of air as he tugged them in.
“How do you breathe?”
“I manage. It must be tight to make my waist small.”
He circled his hands at her waist. The corset roped her in so that his long fingers nearly touched. “It is small.”
“You sound like my husband. And he reached his hands around my waist as well.”
“Did he also say you cannot breathe?”
“Yes.” She turned in his light grasp with a smile, her eyes alight.
The transformation was almost painful. Already beautiful before, now she was staggeringly so. “Your smile holds the sun.”
The glow in her eyes faded as if she, too, had been skewered by emotion. “Please don’t sell me.”
What else was he to do? Not what he ardently desired. “I cannot leave you here to find your way.”
“My uncle will take me in. Guide me nearer the fort.”
“Which one, Rebecca?”
“Fort—” she began and bit her lip. “If I tell you, will you promise to guide me there?”
Shoka had very nearly gotten the name from her and answered gruffly. “I make no such promise.”
“Just close enough so I can find my way?”
“I’ll not betray my people.” She’d be a fount of information for frontiersmen eager to hear what she kn
ew of their war party.
“Wait. I’ll pay you,” she bargained.
He stood and hauled her up with him. “All that you possess is mine, if I choose to take it.”
“But you don’t know all that I have.”
“Yet.” Gathering his musket and shot pouch, he slid the straps back over his shoulder. “Come. We must return to camp.”
She caught his arm. The warmth of her hand radiated through his sleeve. “Help me, Shoka.”
He looked down at her, wanting to catch her to him. He didn’t dare. Not after all he’d suffered and particularly not this woman. “You have my protection.”
Her mouth tightened. “Not if you sell me. Oh, damn it all. Keep me with you, then.”
He almost choked. “You would stay with me?”
Eyes on his, she gave a slight nod.
“To do this I must make you my wife.” And that he could not possibly do.
Realization washed into her expressive face. “You already have one, don’t you?”
Bitterness ate at his gut. “No longer.”
“Then why—”
“It is better you go with the French,” he broke in, not inclined to explain.
Brows colored the hue of her brown lashes arched in an incredulous curve. “You are refusing me?”
“I will find a good man for you,” he said flatly.
“There are no good Frenchmen!”
“My father was French.”
She threw her hands up. “That just proves it.”
“Rebecca, with the French you are white among white. Your life will be easier,” he reasoned.
“What do you care? You’ll have your money.”
If she’d lashed her tail, she couldn’t have appeared more on the verge of springing. “Now you are peshewa again.”
“I hate you,” she snarled.
“You just said you wished to stay with me.”
“It seems I’m not good enough. I’ll suit an English lord but not a warrior.”
“I did not say this.”
The infuriating little minx turned her back on him with a withering glare and stalked off. He caught her shoulder and redirected her step. “Camp is this way.”
