Through the Fire (The Native American Warrior Series)

by Beth Trissel

  Her eyes startled to his. “As what? Daughter or servant? For the love of God, Shoka, help me reach my uncle.”

  He was sorely tempted. “Even if I risk my life guiding you near a settlement, you would not be safe there.”

  “Is anywhere safe on the frontier?”

  “No. Only a strong man with much skill can guard you. Rebecca, there is something you must know.”

  She arched her brows. “What?”

  “Today I saw footprints belonging to a white woman.”

  “Really?” She bent toward him. “How could you tell?”

  “The shape of the sole, depth of the mark. I think your sister made these prints. She is heading west deeper into the mountains.”

  “Toward the fort?” A warm light touched Rebecca’s eyes. “Maybe an angel leads her.”

  “I know nothing of angels. But we will find your sister,” he said with an assurance he could not define.

  Rebecca nodded and seemed to take comfort from him. She glanced up at a boisterous flock of ducks circling in the sky. Feathery plumes of lavender and rose-red shot through with gold streaked the horizon above the ridges. Nighthawks called, too, swooping in the blue twilight.

  “Never have I seen a land more beautiful. Regardless of its perils,” she said softly.

  “Nor I.” He watched with her as the glorious display faded to pale mauve, and the deepening gray consumed all traces of rose until only the silver twilight remained.

  “The colors fade so fast. I wish I could capture the beauty somehow,” she said.

  Cupping his hand to her cheek, he stroked the dewy softness. “The colors of the sky are in your eyes, your cheeks, your lips. The light of the sun falls in your hair.”

  She nuzzled her face against his hand and sent a tingle pulsing through his fingers to his center place, where his innermost being lived, and straight to his groin.

  “If I am day, you are night, and both meet at dusk,” she whispered.

  He edged nearer, his lips a breath away from hers. “Night passes and day comes again. What then?”

  “Keep me with you until the next dusk, and the next…”

  Shoka drew back, his hunger for her at odds with years of hurt. Reason screamed in his mind. “It is not so simple. You are an English lady.”

  Rebecca’s perfect mouth curled. “I do not wish to return to the company of English gentlemen.”

  “I want no wife. Women cannot be trusted. Beautiful women the least.”

  She stiffened like an affronted dog. “Is that so?”

  “Will a man twist a knife into my heart and call this love? Women are slow poison.”

  “Men are despicable. Most anyway. Captain Elliot was perfect.”

  “I cannot find you a saint.”

  “Not among the French. Meshewa will do.”

  “Oh no.” Shoka caught her softness to him in an explosive embrace. “He is not ready for such a woman. I say where you will go.”

  “Shoka!” an adamant voice intruded.

  His annoyance doubled as he recognized Wabete.

  ****

  Rebecca swiveled her head toward the solitary figure striding along the stream in the dusky light. The last man she wanted to see. “No.” She burrowed her face against Shoka’s bare chest.

  “Wabete will do you no harm,” he answered gruffly.

  “I fear him most.”

  “It is not him you need fear.”

  “Who could possibly be worse?”

  Making no reply, Shoka stood and drew her up with him. Despite his obvious exasperation, he kept a secure arm around her shoulders and walked with her back over the rocks to his brother. Wabete’s muscular body gave every promise of strength, his manner of wrath. Despite her fear of him, his ears intrigued her in a morbid way. Silver ball and cone earrings hung from his split, wire-wrapped lobes and shook as he lashed out at his younger brother in Shawnee. “Peh chena yeama tamseh—metchi.”

  She shrank against Shoka. He remained steady under the verbal assault, his tone sharp with dissent as he replied. “Yeama tamsah au paca. Miteakee au sequoy.”

  The older man tore into him with more alien words. After a brief scolding, his demeanor changed. His voice grew grave, as though a more serious matter had displaced his initial rebuke. “Peh chena yeama tamsah majuhn tei Maka Manese.”

  A tension seemed to grip Shoka, far different from the one she’d provoked in him. “NiSawsawh, keteia peh nee adanida?”

  Wabete was silent as he listened to what sounded like an earnest plea from his brother. He nodded and his earrings bobbed. Giving Shoka’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze, he walked away. The fast-falling night swallowed up his retreating back and obscured Shoka’s face, but it couldn’t conceal his rigid posture.

  “What troubles you?” she whispered, fearful of his reply.

  “Wabete says I must take you before Maka Manese. Long Knives call him Black Knife.”

  A shudder ran through her. “Who?”

  “The war chief.”

  She swallowed hard. “What does he want with me?”

  “Answers to questions the soldiers refuse to give. Questions I asked you last night. I know you did not speak the truth. Black Knife will also know.”

  Cold fear knotted her stomach. “He reads faces well?”

  “Also how you move your hands, your body. He is clever. Tell him what he wishes,” Shoka urged.

  “I’ll betray my uncle and his family. They may be sheltering in the fort. Maybe even Kate is there, or will be.”

  Shoka’s demeanor was deadly serious. “If you do not answer him, Black Knife will become angry.”

  Waves of dread engulfed her, and she reached trembling fingers to him. “Don’t make me go before him. Spare me.”

  He enclosed her icy hand in his warm grasp. “I cannot. Yet I will give all my strength to protect you.”

  “Then God help us both.”

  “Pray hard, Rebecca Elliot.”

  God would have to hear a wordless prayer. She was too frightened to manage anything articulate and waited in paralyzing apprehension as Shoka recovered her clothes. Dazed, she stepped into the folds and stood while he tied the petticoats, then pulled on her gown. She took short breaths while he somehow did the hooks of her stomacher in the dark.

  “You could let me escape,” she argued in mounting panic.

  “No. I could not.”

  She threw her arms around his strong neck. “I’ll go where you say. Wait there. Anything. I swear it.”

  He held her tightly then put her from him. “There is no other way.” Gripping her arm, he hurried her back along the water and up the bank.

  Rebecca dug in her heels, churning the leafy earth beneath her feet. “You’re walking me into a snare.”

  “Not one of my making. Have courage, Peshewa.”

  All her courage had fled. Her legs were so weak they scarcely supported her as he compelled her through camp. At first she didn’t see a soul; then the flames of the campfire flickered eerily over warriors clustered at the far side.

  “Why do all gather there?”

  As if in reply, the sharp slap of a cord striking flesh and a man’s deep groan carried above the voices. With sickening dread, she realized. “Dear God. They’re beating the soldiers.”

  “Yes.” Shoka’s manner was grim.

  Her chest pounded like a savage drum. She stumbled through the warriors who admitted them to the inner circle as though they were expected. It struck her horribly that she was. Even more awful was the tortured state of the soldiers.

  Lieutenant McClure reeled from a crack to the jaw. The other man whose name she didn’t recall lay on the ground groaning weakly. Their faces were swollen, bleeding, their clothing torn and stained red.

  “Make them stop, Shoka!”

  “I cannot. Only for you will I fight my own.”

  The warrior brandishing the braided cord lashed out again at Lieutenant McClure’s back. The force of the blow hurled him to his knees then to
ppled him facedown onto the ground.

  Rage coursed alongside her fear. “Leave him alone, you monster!” She pulled to break from Shoka and run to the lieutenant’s defense.

  Shoka held her back. “You think to stop him?”

  “Will no one?” she asked, crushing her face against him.

  “Do not hide, Rebecca. You must speak.”

  “You ask too much.”

  “It’s not I who asks, but Black Knife. Look.”

  Lifting her head, she stared through her tears at the chief. An older warrior still in the vigor of manhood swam in her vision. Gray streaked his scalp lock, but he stood straight and tall. A silver gorget shaped like a half-moon hung at his thick neck, and a calico shirt covered his broad shoulders and long torso. But it was his black eyes that commanded her unwilling attention. These eyes missed nothing. And they were fixed on her.

  At a nod from Black Knife, the beating ceased. The soldiers lay doubled over on the ground, moaning. Blood smeared their bruised faces and ran from split lips. Scarlet stripes crisscrossed their raw backs, a searing pain she understood. She looked from their broken bodies to the chief. This man was without mercy. Suddenly light-headed, she swayed against Shoka.

  His arms enclosed her. “Chwek’queese mi’dologo tamsah, callaweelo, naga ma’chihi melona,” he said firmly, calmly, but she felt how rigid he was.

  Black Knife’s gleaming eyes studied them both. “Peh chee yeama tamsah?”

  Shoka nodded. The crowd murmured as he spoke. “Ilani keteia weshe naga welah ma’chihi atn angehote yeama tamseh. Wabete, Meshewa wa miPaw’wekom.”

  Wabete and Meshewa pushed through the assembly and stood beside him as if to show their support. The murmur grew to a rumble. Some heads nodded while others shook.

  Though frightened and bewildered by the incoherent debate, Rebecca didn’t miss the cunning behind the chief’s ingratiating smile.

  “Shoka, why do you fear I wish to harm your captive?” he asked, reaching out his hand toward her.

  She assumed the English was for her benefit, recoiling from the mature warrior as she might a scaly lizard. She flattened herself against Shoka.

  Black Knife lifted a long strand of her hair and rubbed it between his fingers. “Am I such an old man you think I cannot see how fair she is?” He let her hair fall around her shoulders. “Yet we need the knowledge she possesses.”

  “Speak with her,” Shoka agreed.

  A hush settled over the assembly and Rebecca found herself the chief’s sole focus.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Rebecca Elliot,” she managed between shallow pants.

  “Why such fear, Rebecca Elliot?”

  She looked beyond this circle to the two men lying prostrate on the ground. They were bloody evidence of his cruelty.

  “Are you a Long Knife soldier?” the chief asked. “You are a woman of much beauty. Why would I treat you as a man?”

  His quiet manner was meant to lead her where he wished her to go. She had no doubt he would treat her just as brutishly if she proved uncooperative.

  “What I ask is not difficult. You were in Fort Loudoun?”

  She nodded uneasily.

  “What is Loudoun’s strength? How many men have they?”

  “I am told Loudoun is the strongest fort in the Virginia frontier. Soldiers number close to one hundred.”

  “Have they good supply of powder, lead, muskets?”

  “I didn’t see inside the magazine where supplies are stored, but the men appeared well armed.”

  Plainly, he already knew this and continued to his real question. “Where were you going with the Long Knives?”

  “To the upper South Branch region.” This was more than she’d told Shoka, and she desperately hoped it would satisfy the imposing chief.

  “It is large, this region. Where did you think to go?”

  She inhaled deeply. “To a fort.”

  “I know many forts. Tell me the name.”

  If she told him their destination was Fort Warden, he’d know the soldiers were sorely needed there as reinforcements. The men at the fort numbered as few as eighteen, and not all of these were fit to fire a musket. And she’d heard talk of other weaknesses, the shortage of powder and lead, livestock wandering off or taken, crops difficult to tend when the settlers were forted up.

  “Name of fort,” Black Knife repeated.

  The waiting warriors leaned in closer, intent on her reply.

  She steeled herself. “I can’t tell you.”

  His mouth constricted into a narrow line. “No?”

  God have mercy. “No.”

  A low growl rumbled through their observers.

  “Oh, Rebecca,” Shoka groaned.

  Black Knife pinned her with a displeased glare. He spoke tersely to Shoka in Shawnee. The anger in his words scorched her even though she couldn’t understand a syllable. Listening in dread, she searched the blur of faces around her. Wabete glowered with disapproval. Pity shone from Meshewa’s eyes. Was she about to die? The crush of bodies smothered her.

  “Shoka!” With a strangled cry, she turned to him.

  Black Knife dug his fingers into her shoulders and whirled her back around. “No, Rebecca Elliot. You will watch.”

  At his nod, four warriors fell upon Lieutenant McClure and the second man and dragged them, moaning, to their feet. She’d expected the chief to retaliate against her. Why was he further tormenting the soldiers? Only partially conscious, they couldn’t tell him anything even if they were willing.

  “No! They’ve been punished enough!” She strained toward the men, but Shoka held her from behind and forced her to stand in helpless agony while they were bound to either side of a tree. Sobbing, she struggled to reach to him, to burrow into his strength, but his unyielding arms prevented her. “Shoka! What’s happening?”

  He didn’t answer. The four braves were spreading dry kindling in a circle with practiced speed around the trunk a short distance from the men. “No! You can’t do this!”

  One brave carried a flaming stick from the fire and lit the brush. “ Shoka—stop them!”

  He remained mute with seemingly no intention of doing anything beyond restraining her. Wild to break free, she exerted every sore muscle against him. “Don’t make me watch! I can’t bear it! Let me go, you bastard!”

  Her struggles made not the slightest difference. Weeping, she hung in his grasp. How could she have thought she had tender feelings for this man? He was as hardhearted as Black Knife.

  Through her hot tears and frustration at her impotence, she felt the heat of the chief’s imperturbable gaze. “This is your doing, you devil. May you rot in hell.”

  He stared at her without a twitch. “It is not I who will make them burn, Rebecca Elliot. You can end the torture now.”

  She shut her eyes to the triumph in his. Forgive me, Uncle Henry, dearest Kate. “Put out the fire. I will answer your questions.”

  Chapter Six

  Near to swooning by the end of her grueling trial, Rebecca slumped in Shoka’s arms when he lifted her. He didn’t say a word to the unrelenting chief or any of the onlookers, but bore her back across the darkened camp. His pity for her mixed with exasperation and fury with Black Knife, the long-toothed old boar.

  She scarcely moved and loosed only the barest whimper as Shoka laid her on a blanket at the far side of the campfire nearest the big oak that marked their site. The flames flickered over her pale face, her eyes closed under a fringe of lashes…so fair, so vulnerable, and so maddening.

  Rebecca stirred restlessly, twitching her head from side to side. “No,” she moaned as though in a troubled sleep.

  Shoka knelt beside her and laid a comforting hand on her upper arm. He glanced around at Meshewa’s quiet presence. Concern shadowed his cousin’s face, and he held out a pewter flask.

  Shoka took it with an appreciative nod, knowing how much Meshewa prized his take from the Long Knives. With a long look at her, Meshewa stole
away. No one else came near. Even Shoka’s irate brother had wisely allowed him time to brood.

  Rebecca tossed again. “Don’t,” she pleaded in a low cry.

  Shoka slid his arm under her shoulders and held the flask to her lips. “Drink,” he said, tilting a little brandy into her mouth. Perhaps it would help to settle her and it was all he had at hand.

  She swallowed, coughing, and swallowed again.

  He administered several more sips and took a swig of the warming brew himself before recapping the flask.

  She lay back more heavily on the blanket then rolled onto her side. “John?” she murmured.

  Temptation rose alongside the grinding wrench in Shoka. He stifled his resentment at the unwelcome name and lay down beside her, drawing her into his arms. She nestled against him with a sigh that drove another spasm through his gut.

  “I feared so for you,” she whispered sleepily.

  “I am here.” Shoka slipped his fingers through her loose hair burnished in the fire’s glow.

  “Don’t go, John,” she begged him, as if sensing some reason why he couldn’t stay.

  “No, sweetheart,” he soothed, using the term of endearment so familiar to the English.

  “I was never with child,” she confided tremulously.

  “Do not weep for this. You soon will be.” Shoka circled his arms around her inviting softness.

  “But you’re so often away. Too long, this time.”

  “Shhhh…” He slowly settled his mouth over her drowsy lips. Unlike the vixen he’d battled earlier today, this woman offered no resistance, only melting warmth, yielding all the sweetness he could want, like the first taste of amber honey dripping from a comb.

  Whatever else John Elliot was he’d been the most fortunate man on earth. Shoka had never taken such pleasure in a kiss, but gnawing hunger accompanied the satisfaction surging in him. He groaned under his breath. Now, he’d only crave her more.

  ****

  Seething over last night’s ordeal, Rebecca paced back and forth while sipping the cup of sassafras tea Meshewa had given her. The hot, spicy infusion took the edge off the morning chill, as did the blanket wrapped about her, but nothing eased her black mood. Like a leashed dog, she did not dare stray from the watchful eyes of the few warriors remaining in camp.