Through the Fire (The Native American Warrior Series)

by Beth Trissel

  “Bloody awful ordeal,” she fumed, dwelling on Black Knife’s interrogation the night before.

  No doubt he’d dragged it out to punish her. And when she’d broken down into sobs, the impassive chief had simply waited until she grew articulate enough to speak, seeing through her every attempt at evasion.

  Throughout it all, Shoka had remained silent and forced her to face her antagonist. She might as well have been bound to the tree along with the soldiers for all the comfort he’d given her. Blast him.

  She must have fainted by the end of her trial. Vague memories of Shoka carrying her to the campfire flitted through her mind. She recalled nothing after that…except for a tantalizing sweetness that tugged at the edges of her distress like the whiff of some lovely scent. Had she dreamt of John? Only a fleeting sensation returned.

  Likely this was Shoka’s fault, too, robbing her of precious dreams. He had much to answer for but wasn’t among the few men left in camp. Like a leashed dog, she didn’t dare stray to seek him. She stopped pacing. “Meshewa.”

  Looking up at her summons, he left a comrade with a leg wound to his pipe and walked to her on silent moccasins. The sun filtered through the trees, dappling his face and shoulders, setting his hazel eyes alight every few steps. “Have you more hunger?”

  “No. Thank you. Where have all the men gone?”

  He studied her closely, as though seeking an ulterior motive. “They watch trails for enemy warriors, Long Knives.”

  “Did Shoka go with them?”

  “No. He hunts. You look ready to spring, like Peshewa.”

  She felt like a crouched panther flicking its tail. “’Tisn’t you I wish to attack.”

  “Fly at no one, Becca.”

  “After what Shoka put me through last night?”

  “You wish to fight my cousin?”

  “Oh, yes.” She moodily took a sip from her cup.

  “How do you think to win?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly. But I can make his life difficult.”

  Meshewa’s black brows shot up. “Much more can Shoka make your life difficult. Are all English ladies so determined as you?”

  “Hardly,” she scoffed. “Many of the gentlemen are little more than sniveling milksops. I am not easily defeated.”

  “You think Shoka is?”

  She frowned at the reddish coals in the gray ashes of the campfire. “He betrayed me to Black Knife.”

  “No. He did what he must to preserve your life.”

  “That is not my idea of protection. I’m sore all over.”

  “You fought him. If Shoka did not keep you safe, you would be much sorer today. Like the Long Knife.”

  “Long Knives,” she amended. “There are two.”

  “One man died in the night.”

  She flung down her cup and splashed hissing tea against the embers. “Confound it. I thought I saved them.”

  “The lieutenant lives.”

  “Poor fellow.” She sought Lieutenant McClure’s figure through the trees, but didn’t spot him. “How badly injured is he?”

  “Much. Yet, he will live.”

  Pushing the blanket from her shoulders, she set her hands on her hips. “He had better. Or doesn’t Black Knife keep his word?”

  “Do not fear. Black Knife admires his courage.”

  “Black Knife is a weasel-faced bastard,” she ground out.

  Warning darkened Meshewa’s youthful countenance. “Do not speak this.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Say it more, I will bind your mouth.”

  “I’d like to see you try...”

  Stern lines in every contour of his young face, he gripped her shoulders, “Becca—”

  Raising her arms with a sudden snap, she thrust his away.

  Before she could blink, Meshewa grabbed her wrists and spun her around so that her back was turned to him. She kicked a leg behind his, shoving herself backward to knock him off balance. He stumbled and his grip loosened slightly. Tearing an arm free, she drove her elbow into his stomach.

  He grunted. Dodging the second elbow she aimed at his middle, he snaked his arms around her from behind.

  She thrashed in his tight coil, kicking back one leg then the other. He sidestepped her pummeling legs and locked her ankles between his. Clapping one hand over her mouth, he imprisoned her with his other arm.

  “You are fortunate I like you much,” he said.

  She had greatly underestimated the strength and speed of his lean body. Despite the pain she caused herself, she bucked in his hold.

  “Be still!”

  “So, Meshewa, you must tame a devil cat.”

  Rebecca swiveled her head at Shoka’s low voice. With his uncanny stealth, he pushed through the branches, a gutted deer slung over his bare shoulders. She could only glare mutely at him.

  “Becca’s mouth causes her much trouble,” Meshewa panted.

  “Yes.” Shoka shifted his kill down to the grass. Blood from the fresh game reddened his bronzed skin.

  She watched warily as he propped his musket against the silvery-white sycamore then slid off his powder horn, shot pouch, and beaded elkskin hunting bag to hang them from a limb. He deposited his—her—pistol at the base of the tree and pivoted toward them.

  “Give me this wild one.”

  “Do nothing foolish,” Meshewa whispered, and transferred her to his cousin.

  Shoka closed muscular arms around her and swept her off the ground. Her petticoats spilled over his raw masculinity. She didn’t trust the unsettling edge that underlay his calm demeanor. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded the instant her mouth was free.

  He swept her off the ground. “To the stream. Water will teach you respect.”

  Coming to volatile life, she twisted like captive prey in his arms. “No! You’ll drown me in this heavy gown!”

  “Only where the water is deep. I won’t throw you there.”

  “Don’t throw me anywhere. I detest cold water.”

  He smiled, showing strong white teeth. “I know.”

  Easily suppressing her struggles, he sprinted with her through dewy ferns and grasses. The green bank rushed by under his moccasins. He did not stop but stepped over the mossy rocks at the edge of the stream and waded right in. The water rippled up past his knees and wet the bottom of her skirts.

  She cringed at the chill lapping her ankles. “You are cruel, Shoka. John would never do this to me.”

  “I am not your husband, Rebecca.”

  “And shan’t be.”

  “You prefer a Frenchman now?”

  “After last night I prefer almost anyone to you.”

  “I saved your life, Peshewa. You cursed Black Knife to his face.”

  Anger roiled above her loathing of the icy stream. “Damn Black Knife! I hate him!”

  “He cares not. You will learn to hold your tongue.”

  A screech escaped her as the frigid water climbed up her stocking-clad legs. She recoiled from the stabbing chill and clung to him. “Don’t throw me in. Please.”

  Bemusement flickered in his eyes. “Like the wind you blow. First you defy me, now you plead.”

  This was the time to bargain. She closed her arms around his neck for dear life. “I won’t curse Black Knife again.”

  He stopped in mid-stream above the deep pool. “No. You will not.”

  Prying her arms from his neck, he tossed her, back first, into the water. Liquid ice covered her head. The shocking cold took her breath away. She pushed up on the gritty bottom with her hands, spluttering as she struggled to stand in her wet, binding skirts. “You son of a—”

  He shook his head and shoved her back under.

  She surfaced once more and staggered in the current. The layers of cloth wrapped her legs like manacles. “Bastard—”

  Yet again she was dunked beneath the water. It was impossible to get to her feet, let alone at Shoka with any degree of speed or grace. He remained maddeningly unperturbed and out of
reach. Chilled through, she clambered to her knees and eyed him accusingly, taking care to bite back the curses begging her tongue for release.

  He smiled. “You learn fast.”

  She wanted to slap the grin from his face and knock him off his feet. “Help me up.”

  He bent down and reached out his hand. “Here.”

  The opportunity was too inviting to resist. She clasped his fingers and yanked him toward her, but he stubbornly retained his balance.

  “You want me with you?” he asked in irritating mock innocence.

  She stared at him as he settled beside her, water swirling partway up his chest. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “I do not mind cold water. I am well accustomed.”

  “I’m not!” She scrambled to rise in the swift flow.

  Snaking an arm around her waist, he pulled her back down. “I think we will stay.”

  The water churned around her as she fought to escape him. “I’m freezing! I thought you wanted me to live.”

  “The sun is warm. You will not freeze.”

  “I will too! Let me out of here!”

  “Not yet. We will bathe first.”

  “You can’t be serious?”

  “No?” Still gripping her, he scooped handfuls of grit from the bottom and scrubbed his arms, chest, even his head.

  “You’re crazy!”

  He let her go and leaned back in the water to rinse.

  She staggered to her feet. Her unsteady legs toppled her back down onto her knees.

  He surfaced with a grin. “Your turn now.”

  “I’m used to soap.”

  “None here.” He anointed her head with a handful of the streambed, followed by another.

  “For heaven’s sake—” Sand and tiny pebbles trickled down her face and into her mouth. She spat out the grit and pinched her lips together while he worked the mixture over her scalp, then tilted her backwards repeatedly to rinse. Each dunk left her gasping.

  “Enough!” she howled.

  He relented and rose, lifting her in his arms. Her skirts streamed down his legs as he hauled her to a big stone slab and laid her down.

  She hugged the rock’s heated surface, trembling so violently she could barely speak. Rivulets of water ran across the stone and collected in puddles beneath her. “I’ll never be warm again.”

  “Not in this gown,” he muttered, rolling her over. “Why do you wear so much cloth?”

  “I wasn’t dressed for bathing.”

  “Or walking.” He bent over her, his powerfully built body glistening in the sun. “Breathing is also difficult,” he added, and unhooked the sodden panel at her bodice.

  “You scolded me for doing this yesterday, sir.”

  He smiled slightly. “It is different now. Your gown must dry.”

  “Only because you gave me a soaking.”

  “Why must I do this?”

  “Because you delight in tormenting me.”

  “No.” He left the stomacher partly attached and peeled the gown from her, spreading it over several wide grey rocks. “Do you still not understand why I must punish you?”

  It goaded her to concede anything. She lay shivering in her petticoats and glanced away.

  “Must I return you to the water?”

  Refusing to look at him, she watched a solitary raven wheeling high overhead. “You surely are bent on winning this, aren’t you?”

  “I will have your respect.”

  She kept her eyes on the bird. “’Tisn’t easily given. To anyone.”

  “Nor is mine.” He clasped her face in his hand, turning her to meet his stern regard. “When you look at me, your eyes will not hold defiance. Your lips will not speak curses.”

  She argued from between his firm palms. “You require a great deal.”

  “You wish to continue this battle?”

  “Not in its present form. You win. This time,” she added, yelping as he scooped her up and held her out over the water.

  “Not good enough. Speak the words, Rebecca.”

  “You wouldn’t toss me again? Damn it, Shoka!” She halted at her slip-up. “Wait—I respect you!”

  He didn’t drop her into the icy current, but she remained suspended just above the flow. “What more do you want? I’ve surrendered.”

  “For how long?”

  “As long as I must.”

  “Hear me, fair one. You must.”

  She didn’t argue the point, and he drew her trembling back to the safety of the rock.

  “I’m frozen through,” she said between chattering teeth. “My shoes are full of sand, and my fingers too frozen to manage the laces.”

  He unlaced her sturdy leather shoes, cut down from boots by a Philadelphian cobbler for her journey on horseback, not a river crossing on foot. Her toes, clad in cream-colored stockings, peeked out from beneath the embroidered roses and knots of her outer petticoats He emptied the grit, but instead of putting them back on, he tossed her footwear to the bank. Bewildered, she watched them fall.

  “We will get them later. Stay here a while. Such small feet,” he added, smoothing his hand over her toes.

  She shrank from him and tucked her feet farther beneath the soggy ruffles.

  He arched an eyebrow at her. “Do you wish to sit there shaking like a wet cat or will you let me warm you?”

  She didn’t know how to reply. Despite her anger, not allowing him to take any pleasure in her company warred with an incomprehensible desire to enjoy his. Part of her would gladly shove him face first into the water and run for her life, but another less volatile part was tempted to be close to him.

  He decided for her. Closing his arms around her, he gathered her against him. Protest rose to her lips and made it no farther. She couldn’t resist his warmth, his feel, him.

  As if in response to his nearness, the beauty around her came vibrantly to life. She truly saw the vivid blue spread endlessly across the vaulted sky, and rich green cloaking the trees. Mild breezes tossed her hair, carrying the earthy scent of the woods tinged with the lemony fragrance of some delicious blossom. Myriad smooth pebbles lying on the streambed beneath the water gleamed pearly-white, pink, and gold in the sunlight like precious jewels.

  Gradually, her shivering ceased as the day began to feel more like summer than winter. The rigid tension of the earlier morning drained away, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. Catching herself, she lifted her head up then laid it back again. If only she could guard her satisfaction from him somehow.

  He smoothed a sun-dried strand at her temple. “You are warmer now.”

  “A bit,” she said grudgingly, “but I’ll catch my death after that wetting.”

  “No. You have much strength and such beauty.”

  She lifted her head and looked into the dark glow of his eyes. The strength he spoke of was there and in every angle of his handsome face and the curve of his mouth, but he’d have to toss her back into the stream for her to admit it to him.

  “The sun casts a hundred lights in your hair,” he said.

  “You’ll have to cut it to my ears as tangled as it is.”

  He ran his fingers over the untamed tumble falling around her. “I will get you a comb fit for a fine lady.”

  “A brush would be better, to keep my value.”

  He lifted his hand to her face. The tips of his fingers stole over her mouth, chasing a tremor through her. “What must I do to keep your lips colored like the wild rose?”

  “Didn’t you like them blue?”

  “Rose is better.” He lowered his head, inching his inviting lips nearer to hers.

  It was impossible to be this close to the sensual force that was Shoka and not be caught up, any more than she could resist a violent current. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to kiss him back just a little as part of her concession. Only a brief peck, she promised herself, closing her eyes and lifting her mouth to his.

  Unlike yesterday’s near assault, he covered her lips with seductive tenderness. She
returned the coaxing pressure, slipping her arms around his neck for a completely different reason than before. His arms tightened around her and he kissed her harder, then with the building power of a storm surge. A flaming charge pulsed through her chest and jolted within her beyond anything she’d ever experienced.

  She broke away from him as though singed, her traitorous heart beating wildly. “I can’t—you shouldn’t.”

  He seemed to be exerting a powerful effort not to reclaim her mouth. And she fought the urge to let him, battling the need she hadn’t even realized she possessed for this man.

  Cupping his hands at her cheeks, he said, “I know I should not kiss you, but you are so difficult to resist.”

  The resentment of the morning pricked at her like a thorn. “Not last night. You resisted every plea I made you.”

  The fire in his eyes dimmed and an expression of loathing shrouded his sensual glow. “I despised what I had to do.”

  “You wouldn’t even speak to me. Not a single word.”

  “The agreement I made with Black Knife to preserve your life. He punished us both.”

  “Did it truly torment you to remain silent?”

  “Yes.” His voice was emphatic. “I could give you no comfort.”

  She twisted the ring on her middle finger around and around. “That hurt the most. You were a different man.”

  “No. I am the same man you see before you.”

  “How can I be certain you won’t change into that grim warrior again?”

  The corners of his mouth tightened. “You cannot.”

  A tear slid down her cheek. “Then how can I trust you? I needed you.”

  He smoothed her cheeks with his thumbs. “I was with you every moment.”

  “Not so that I knew.”

  “Yet, I was.” He looked down and nodded at her ring. “This has special meaning for you?”

  Blinking at the unwanted moisture in her eyes, she pointed to the initials JNE set in raised letters against a background of black enamel. “It’s a mourning ring. These letters are the initials of John’s name. John Nathan Elliot.”

  Shoka brushed her tears aside. “Do not weep for him, Rebecca. Call to me. Speak my name.”

  “After all you’ve done? How can you even ask that?”