by E. B. Brown
His hands bunched into fists and he stepped back from her, his eyes flashing black jade. She could see every muscle of his bronzed chest tense, the sinews in his thick arms straining as he listened to her taunts. She refused to let him leave, backing him further beneath the waterfall into the darkness until his legs hit a flat stone shelf.
“You listen to me, Winn. I would not let you take me. You are not man enough for me,” she baited him. Her voice cracked with the last, and she was not sure if he would even respond by the way he looked at her. Was that passion in his black eyes, or hate?
She tried to stem her shaking as she glared at him, her breath coming in short gasps. His lips curled back, his eyes narrowed, and his jaw tightened, and in the next moment he had her pinned against the slate shelf, his body trembling against her own.
“What game is this, woman?” he demanded.
“No game. Take your hands off me, half man!” she shot back, and knew she had gone too far. He jerked her roughly around, clenching his hands against her breasts and slamming his weight into her back as he pushed her against the rocks. She could feel his breath, hot and moist against her ear, his arousal hard against her thigh as she tried to block out the urge to melt into him. She was not finished with him yet. She would make him relent, or else all they had suffered, all they had done, all of it would have been for nothing.
Squirming in his arms, she bucked against him, causing him to grasp her face with one hand and her hip with the other. His lips traced a path down the back of her neck, sending rivulets of electricity down her spine.
“Why do you taunt me, Maggie? Would you have me ravish your body? Is that what you play at?” He twisted her head to the side and his mouth closed over hers, no restraint, crushing her lips until she tasted blood between them. His fingers caressed her, sliding against her as she bucked back against him and battled his embrace. As much as she fought him, she wanted every ounce of his anger, each breath of his desire, all that he had to give her she would gladly consume.
“Then release me, if you hate me so much!” she cried.
His eyes were glazed over as if he could see through her, and she could feel the torture of longing running through her starving blood as it screamed to join his. She did not recognize the man behind the embers of his eyes, his soul consumed by the raging fire, his fingers searing into her skin now like burning coals.
“No,” he groaned. “No!”
His breathing came coarse but rapid, his pulse pounding against her hand when she tried to touch his neck, but he jerked away from her touch and covered her mouth with his own. The taste of salt and blood surged between her lips, and she could feel his sweat lap at her skin as he raised her hips against the sloped shelf. She cried out when he caught her wrists in one hand and thrust them above her head. His eyes seared through her, and she knew there was no way back.
“Did your husband touch you like this? Do you forget him when I touch you?” he growled, squeezing her wrists. Her hips bucked yet he held her tight. “Would you have me take you now, woman?”
“Yes,” she moaned. His tongue silenced her cries, her resistance drifting downward, swirling in an endless rhythm.
“Open your eyes and see me, woman. You will see my face, not his. I would have you remember me, ntehem.”
Maggie responded to his command, but her eyes widened when she realized what he was saying. Winn thought she wanted Ben. He believed she loved Ben. She had to tell him the truth, she could not let him believe such a lie.
“Halloo! Ooot, oooot!”
The familiar call of his brother echoed through the cavern. Time screeched to a stop. He held her tightly and rested his cheek against her heaving belly as he struggled to control his own ragged breaths. The rush of water from the falls sounded so loud, nearly as loud as Winn’s stilted breathing, filling the air between them. He let her arms loose and she slowly lowered them around his neck. His eyes, once crazed with anger and lust, now echoed with regret.
She sat up as he moved away, struggling to control her trembling. She watched him walk, naked and aroused, to the mouth of the crevice and shout a greeting in reply. He stood for a moment with his back to her, his shoulders betraying emotion left unspoken as they heaved and trembled. He finally turned back to her, his fists clenched at his sides.
“Go back to the cave. Wait there until I return.”
She had no choice but to obey. It was far from her nature to give in when he gave such commands, but she knew she had no option. He did not look at her as she rose and walked to where the fur lay discarded, but she saw the way the eyes of his brothers followed her and she took full advantage of it.
Winn could pretend she was nothing to him and claim he no longer loved her, but she doubted he meant for her body to be displayed to others. She doused her trembling with the surge of anger rising in her blood, and lifted her chin as she straightened her naked body to full height. Chetan’s eyes bulged when she walked past the fir without picking it up, and she knew it was the first time she ever saw Makedewa grin in her presence. She stalked past it and continued on to the cave, her hips swinging and her auburn hair whipping in her wake.
She watched silently from the cave as they prepared to leave.
***
Winn sat ready on his horse. He was prepared, dressed in his war feathers and streaked with dark greasy paint. His mount stomped impatiently beneath his, as if sensing what his master would do. One of the other men gave word to depart, but Winn knew he could not yet go. Chetan gave him a hard look, shaking his head with a sign when Winn raised his hand to stop them. His glare was full of knowing, as if his brother could read the thoughts that haunted him. The other men did not appear surprised to see Winn dismount and stalk back toward the cave. Someone chuckled, obviously amused at the warrior. Their grumbles meant nothing to him, as they were nothing to him.
He had no plan and knew nothing of what he would do when he saw her. He trembled with rage at her, the anger he carried in check for himself.
Ntehem, his heart, his love.
To have her back in his arms after all this time, to touch her soft creamy skin, was torture. He was a liar, and a bad one at that, for he was certain she could see straight through to his soul. It wounded him to know she let the English man take her body and plant his seed, but he was a liar when he said he would not do the same. If she could truly be his, he would take her again and again, every day until they died.
Yet he could not keep her when she loved another. He knew the last gift he could give her was the safety of her own time, in the future. Suddenly the only thing he knew was that he needed to make her understand.
Words failed him as he approached her. He meant to tell her he loved her and that no matter what he always would. There were sweet words he knew would soothe her fire so she could listen, but none of the words emerged. He wanted her safe, but he wanted to ravage her. He wanted to leave her, but the thought of life without her shattered his heart. None of it made sense, the conflict driving his blood frantic through his veins, pounding in his chest.
Her skin still glistened with moisture, and her half-dried hair fell in amber ringlets around her shoulders. Lips swollen and pink, nipples erect and pointing beneath her flimsy cotton shift, she glared at him in challenge, and he was lost. In seconds he crossed the space and was on her, eliciting a startled cry before he crushed his mouth to hers.
She pushed at his chest as if to stop him, but it was too late. He lifted her by the waist and parted her thighs with his knee as he pressed her harder against the stonewall, oblivious or uncaring of her protest he did not know. The feel of her in his arms, her skin sliding against his, sent his senses to that place between darkness and light where he could hold her forever and never account for his sins. There he could possess her soul, hold it captive, pretend she felt love for no other, let her soothe the aching emptiness she left in the hollow of his chest.
“I will have you!” he whispered in a guttural groan as he lifted her hips and
plunged. He lost his breath as her slippery tightness surrounded him, and she drove her teeth to his shoulder as she cried out.
A primal moan escaped him and he succumbed to the need, gripping her hips in his hands again as he started to move. He could not bear the sweetness of her embrace, the way her mouth parted slightly open, her soft white throat thrown back so he could see her pulse throbbing at her jaw. He could need no other, love no other, and for each day he lived without her, he would picture her like that, in the final moment he gave her glorious release.
He clutched her so tightly he could feel her heart pounding against his breast, his forehead bent against her shoulder as his shallow breathing came under control. She looked up when he raised his head, meeting his gaze with the beginning of a shy smile.
Her smile tore a hole through his heart. She looked radiant, happy. Like a woman in love. But he knew better, and he hated himself for needing more from her, for needing her whole heart instead of fragments of what they once had.
“Did he ever take you like that, Fire Heart?” he asked, the words seeming to come from some foreign place he no longer recognized. He knew he was a swine. Her rosy cheeks suddenly lost color and tears rimmed her eyes at his words. He deflected her blow but held her wrist tight, slipping away from her. He stepped back and let his breechclout fall and she slid slightly downward on the wall as if her legs lacked strength.
He turned and left.
It was finished. He would send her back with the Bloodstone to the life she missed, the only gift he could give her, sending her away with the last vestiges of his blackened heart in her keeping.
It had only taken minutes for Winn to rejoin the others, but he could see from their stares they suspected what had happened. He ignored Chetan’s questioning glance as he stalked to his mount and threw himself astride.
***
They searched the site of the ambush, but the English were long gone. One wagon remained, the horse lathered and heaving as it lay in the creek, the cold water rushing over its broken leg. Makedewa put an arrow through its skull to give it peace, and the animal ceased its struggle.
“Two whites were left. I saw them ride back to Wolstenholme Towne. They had Benjamin Dixon bound and took him as well,” Makedewa said, swinging his bow over his back. “I followed them for some time, and they say they will see him hang.”
“Let him hang,” Winn muttered, turning his shoulder to his brother. He walked off a few paces and pulled his breechclout aside to relieve himself before they mounted the horses again. Damn the white man, let him hang for what he had done, Winn thought bitterly as the stream came forth onto the soil. What kind of man could let his wife hang? As much as Maggie had ever enraged him, and no matter what had been left unsaid between them, he would still die himself before he watched her swing from a noose. It hardened his heart to know a man he called brother held so little care for the woman he took such trouble to steal away from him.
The stream ended, and Winn replaced his breechclout, dropping it back in place and then tightening the cord at his waist. An image of Maggie entered his vision, lying back on the rock, her soft full breasts spilling across her chest and her sweet rounded belly trembling under his hand, and he shook off the memory before the urge to turn his horse around took over.
“What is it, brother?”
Winn did not turn to Makedewa, struggling to keep his voice even.
“Tell me again what you know. How far gone is Maggie with the child?”
“I know not. Benjamin Dixon said she breeds, but not how long.”
A burning bile rose in his throat as he realized the truth. Her protests, her anger when he taunted her about Benjamin. Her swollen belly. He had seen many women with child, and suddenly it hit him that Maggie was not newly pregnant, she looked a few months gone. She was carrying his child, and he had ravished her like a rutting stag against a stonewall. He thought he would vomit.
“Dixon is mine to kill when we arrive.” Winn walked away from him, but Makedewa followed at his flank, his face wide in astonishment.
“What mean you? I thought-”
“That one…he deserves death for his deceit.” He let his words fall off, unwilling to meet his brother’s eye at his rash change in plan. “You say they took Benjamin back to town?”
“Yes, he was bound and gagged. I think they beat him as well, his face looked like deer meat,” Makedewa grinned, but then became grim. “You know, brother, she will hate you if you kill the father of her child.”
“The child she carries is my blood.”
Winn scowled and Makedewa raised an eyebrow but refrained from asking any more questions.
Chapter 23
Maggie left her horse ground tied in the woods, and made the rest of the way on foot. She was close to the wall surrounding the town, and although she knew a way to steal into the fort near Finola’s cabin, she thought the horse was better off hidden in the brush.
The loose log was where she remembered, and she uttered a sigh of relief when it pivoted upward with minimal persuasion like a seesaw, leaving a gap near the ground that she could crawl through. She knew if she was spotted there would be no way out this time, and she would be immediately recognized in the outfit she wore. She had no choice but to throw bits and pieces together over her torn shift, swathing a piece of fur around her shoulders and wrapping her legs in makeshift leggings with the rest of the fur she shredded. Although she tried to hide her flaming hair by dividing it into two thick braids and circling her head with a thick rawhide band, she would not be unnoticed by any stretch of imagination.
She came up behind Finola’s cabin and peeked around a corner toward the church, knowing most of the activity took place down that end of town and people tended to gather nearby. The sun had barely risen for the day, so she did not expect much activity, and she was lucky to find no prying eyes as she darted through the front door of the cabin. She slammed it closed behind her and immediately checked the lone window. Satisfied no one approached, she turned to Finola.
“Maggie?” the older woman cried, swiftly crossing the room and throwing her arms around her. Maggie clutched her in return as they cried, Finola patting her face and kissing her cheeks in her joy.
“How did ye escape them? Was it Benjamin? He promised me he would free you! Why did you come back, girl, you must go! You cannot stay here!”
“Finola, he saved me. He killed two men. We have to help him.”
“You make no sense! You must leave this place! Go to Chetan, he may know where Winn hid your Bloodstone, and ‘tis the only way for you to return to your time. Please, Maggie,” Finola pleaded, grasping her hands tightly in her own. “Winn would have wanted you safe. It is the only way.”
Maggie felt her skin pale as she gripped Finola’s hands tighter so she could find the words.
“Winn is not dead, Finola. He lives still.” Her explanation came forth in a rush, jumbled and scattered, but the truth none the same. Finola froze at her tale, nary taking a breath, until tears began to stream down her beautiful weathered face.
“My grandson lives.” Maggie held her again as they both cried.
“Yes. But we need to help Benjamin right now. Then we’ll find Winn.”
Maggie shrugged off the anger she held for him, overcome by relief and love for the stubborn savage man. He had left her so quickly after their frantic joining, his words cutting through her soul, but she had little time to consider it in face of the need to help Benjamin. Winn would be furious she left the cave, but she would be damned if she let the brooding warrior make demands after he let her believe he was dead for so long. She could stomp off in a temper just as well as he could, and if he was hell bent on pushing her away, then she would make him pay for it.
Finola considered her words for a tenuous moment, then patted her hand.
“I will bring him his Bloodstone. It is the only way to free him now.”
***
Maggie sat down hard on a bench as Finola recounted her tale
. Finola was there the day Benjamin was found by the English, a skinny, mute, starving boy dressed in strange blue trousers and half mad with hunger. Adopted by Agatha Dixon, Finola helped nurse the ten-year old back to health, and he eventually found his tongue.
She kept the secrets he shared with her about the strange place he came from, a place where children drove things called bicycles and adults put their offspring in daycare all week. He spoke of a father he rarely saw, but cried when he could no longer remember his face. And she kept his darkest secret safely in her cabin, swathed in silk and tucked underneath her mattress. A near black Bloodstone, creased with a single vein of crimson, hanging neatly from a thick rawhide cord.
“Benjamin was a traveler,” she whispered, already knowing the answer. She saw the mark that seared him, the mark that mirrored the one on her own hand. She held her palm out to Finola, who nodded sadly.
“I know not from what time he comes.”
“We need to get it to him. He can go back to his own time and be safe again.”
The woman frowned as she considered it. “It is too dangerous, child. What if they see you?”
“We have to try. I can’t just let him die. He saved my life, even if he took his sweet time about it. If we can send him back, we have to risk it.”
“Well,” Finola said, looking her up and down with a frown. “You’d best change into something suitable, and take ye my cloak. Get ye dressed, and hurry about it.”
Maggie nodded, wordless. Finola placed a cap over her bright blond locks and put a cape over her shoulders, and Maggie changed quickly into one of her dresses. She tucked her hair into a tight bun underneath a white bonnet, which shielded her face when she kept it lowered.
She hoped they would never suspect she might return to town. Hell, she knew it was not one of her best schemes, but she found her actions fueled by pure adrenaline after the way Winn left her.
Finola’s dress was quite serviceable, yet much less appropriate for scrambling through the underbrush, but it would do.
