“Only the French,” Elise said bitterly.
“And those who would deny his right to be war chief, those who despise his mixed blood.”
“There is nothing I can do.”
“You can watch and listen. Sometimes it is enough.”
Was it a subterfuge to make her feel concern for him? It would not work, not now, not ever, but Madeleine could not know that. Inclining her head in a motion that could be taken for consent if the other woman so wished, Elise turned away.
She had left her departure too late. Reynaud was advancing on her, climbing the steps with his cape flaring around him and a grim look on his face. Alarmed against her will by the hard purpose she saw in his eyes, Elise put out her hand in a useless attempt to stop him. He caught it, drawing it behind his head and swooping to pick her up. She was lifted high against his chest before he swung around, descending the steps once more. She heard the masculine laughter, saw the Natchez, normally so impassive, weaving in their saddles with their amusement. Color flared into her face.
“Put me down,” she said in a furious undertone. Pride and the certain knowledge that it would increase the mirth of the savages prevented her from struggling.
He made no answer, but carried her down the flight of steps to where the horses waited. He shifted her, clasping her rib cage, then threw her up into the saddle. She grabbed the horse’s mane as she sought for balance. With flushed cheeks and eyes downcast to hide her enraged embarrassment, she kicked her skirt into place and gathered up her reins. Settled, she sent a fulminating stare at Reynaud to find him already mounted and watching her, his gray eyes assessing.
Their gazes clashed for a long instant. Then he looked past her to where the warriors sat with Madame Doucet and, glancing back, reached out to adjust Elise’s cloak, which was twisted over her shoulder. It was as if with that single movement he had marked her as his possession, his alone. She had an insane urge to throw off the cloak in a symbolic rejection of that gesture. She might have, except that on second consideration it seemed as if it might well have been a mark of his protection.
They went from the yard before the house in single file with Reynaud in the lead, Elise behind him, and the others strung out in the rear with Madame Doucet sandwiched between them. It was colder as they turned off from the cart track and entered the woods for the fitful sun scarcely penetrated the dense meshing of limbs overhead. During the time that they had spent at Reynaud’s holdings, the leaves had all fallen except for a scattered beech tree or post oak that held on to its fluttering brown covering. In the main, the branches were bare, though clothed by gray rags of Capuchin’s beard near the streams where the air was damp. As they rode the hoofbeats were muffled in the thick carpet of leaves, though now and then the rattling of a layer of crisp dry ones seemed deafening in the quiet.
The miles fell away behind them. It was odd to Elise to see how calmly Madame Doucet viewed her escort. It was as if she hardly realized that the men with her were Natchez, that they might have been the very ones who had killed her husband and carried off her daughter and grandson. What curious logic had she used to allay her former fears? Did she trust them not to harm her because Reynaud was with her or was it simply that, having decided to join the other French women and children, she need no longer fear capture?
She hoped that her own demeanor was even close to being as serene. She felt as if her stomach was in knots as every league took her farther away from the fort in the Natchitoches country. Her anger was allied to a bitter frustration that would not leave her no matter how chilled and tired she became.
She had lost so much; family, home, lands, everything she had gained at such cost. Now her self-respect was gone as well because she had surrendered herself to a man who had betrayed her, because she had become to all intents and purposes his slave. Her face bleak, she contemplated the future. By comparison, going to Fort Saint Jean Baptiste had promised limitless opportunities. St. Amant, Henri, and Pascal must be well on their way to the stockade. She regretted that she had been unable to say good-by to them. They were survivors, all of them, and though she could not quite claim them as friends, there was a curious kinship between them that could not be broken. It galled her to consider what they must think of her failure to join them in their trip to the fort.
The weather did not warm, but seemed to grow grayer and colder. A fine mist began to fall. They stopped now and then to rest the horses, but long before Elise was ready, they were in the saddle again, riding onward.
Once during the early afternoon, Reynaud dropped back to join her. He was almost affable, as if happy to be riding toward the village of his mother’s people once more. He told her the names of the men with them. There was Path Bear, the largest and most fierce looking, a Sun named for the black bear who refuses always to give way when meeting anyone on a trail, and who was chief of the Flour Village, second village in importance after the Grand Village. There was also Long Neck, Red Fox, Shouting Deer, and Spent Arrow, men of the Noble class, many related in some way to Reynaud. They were as tall and broad as he, but darker of skin. Their shoulders as well as their chests were tattooed; one or two even had lines of geometric designs from cheekbone to cheekbone, and most wore ornaments of shell or rings of steel and gold in their ears. To a man, they were alert, watchful, with a hand always near a weapon, either the muskets across their laps, the bows and quivers of arrows slung over their backs, or the small hatchets at their waists. Their vigilance seemed a threat, one that assured she would never be able to get away from the column.
It was getting on toward late afternoon when her chance came. Reynaud had gone ahead a little way on foot, scouting, as had been his habit before as the others rested. Two of the warriors had stepped a short distance into the woods while the others stood leaning against the trees, talking among themselves, cracking and eating handfuls of pecans that they took from pouches tied to the thongs at their waists. Madame Doucet, rubbing her stiff legs and seat, was walking up and down.
Elise wandered along the faint track in the direction they had come as if stretching her legs, too, stopping now and then to arch her back in a parody of aching muscles, though leading her horse at the same time. Just where the track meandered out of sight, she swerved into the woods as though at the urge of bodily functions.
Once hidden from view, she mounted her horse, urging the mare farther away from the others, though she did not dare kick her into a faster gait for fear of being heard. Then behind her came a call. She had been missed. It might be a few minutes before they came after her. She could not risk having that much time, however. She kicked the mare into a run and, bending low in the saddle to avoid the tree limbs, headed toward the open track. By the time she reached it, she could hear the thud of a single set of hooves thundering after her.
She leaned along her mare’s neck, using the ends of the reins as a whip to urge greater speed. She remembered somewhere ahead a point where the path diverged. If she took the wrong fork, would the warrior behind her automatically take the correct one, losing her? Or would she have a better chance of escape if she dismounted, hiding in the woods as she sent the mare on without her?
The cold mist wet her face, streaming back from her eyelids like chilled tears. Her heart was pounding with fear and excitement. Her cloak fluttered and flapped around her, slapping against the straining horse. The sharp hooves of the mare cut into the rich loam of the trail, throwing it up in clods. In Elise’s nostrils was the smell of the wet, dank woods, the warm horse, and the damp wool of her cloak. The fork in the path loomed ahead of her. She had not made a decision. Without checking, she took the correct turning, trusting blindly to the Arabian blood of her mount to give her greater speed.
The horse was tired, however. It was not long before she began to flag. Elise rubbed her neck, whispering, urging her onward. It helped, but not for long. The pounding of the hooves behind her grew louder. There was fury in the sound and a threat. She dared to glance back. It was Path Bear who purs
ued her, riding his spotted plains pony as if they were one in strength and will, ignoring the flecks of foam that flew back from the animal’s neck and withers to dry on his body.
Then he was upon her, leaning in, catching her around the waist. His arm closed like a vise around her and she was dragged from the saddle, snatched brutally against him. He reined in his horse to a dancing stop and half dropped, half flung her to the ground. She caught herself on her hands and knees, feeling the sting of sharp limbs and twigs under her palms. She shook her head to clear it, clenching her teeth against the ache in her joints from the jarring fall, trying to catch her breath.
Path Bear spoke, the words harsh, with the sound of command. She looked up, a dazed expression in her eyes, to see that he had dismounted. He was telling her to get up, she thought. She did not like the way he was standing over her, so she pushed herself erect, swaying a little. Her mare had come to a halt a short distance away, standing with her head down and blowing. Instinctively she turned toward her.
The big warrior reached out to catch her arm, his fingers bruising as he jerked her around. She raised her head, giving him a look of cold scorn as she snatched her wrist from his grasp and stepped back. Once more he spoke, then, swinging away from her, he moved to a tree where he broke off a limb as thick as his thumb and studded with twigs and buds. He slashed it through the air once, twice, then turned and started toward Elise.
He was going to beat her. She felt the blood drain from her face as the realization struck her. Did he think she was a slave that he had the right to discipline or was this the treatment meted out to Indian women who caused trouble? It made no difference, she knew, as she backed away from him. The foolhardiness of her actions leaped to her mind. She should have known escape would not be so easy. She should have considered the consequences more thoroughly. Regardless of her error, however, she had no intention of submitting to the drubbing the Indian planned. With grim concentration, she looked around for a weapon.
There it was, a limb of pitch pine, the hardened core of a rotted pine trunk. She scooped it up and, with cold fury in her eyes, stood her ground. Path Bear stopped, a stunned look making his features blank for an instant before rage that she should defy him took its place. He threw his cape off, then advanced upon her, slapping the limp he held into his palm with whistling blows.
Abruptly he lunged, swinging the limb with hard strength toward her shoulders. She thrust her limb up and out with both hands to catch the blow. It sent splinters and bits of rotted wood flying and numbed her arms with its force. It was all she could do to twist low to parry the next blow that was aimed at her knees. Hard and fast they came. Elise stumbled back, panting with the effort to deflect them. There was no doubt that she would be borne down in short order for her hands ached, her shoulders burned, and there were sharp pains in the muscles in her back. First, however, she would strike at least one blow, though she knew beyond doubt that if it landed squarely Path Bear might well kill her.
The warrior drew back for a final effort that he expected to smash though her defense. In that brief moment, the way was open. Since there had been no retaliation from her, he expected none. With both hands on her stick like a staff, she swung to the side and thrust the jagged end straight toward his midsection. Glad triumph sang in her veins as it landed squarely in his solar plexus.
His eyes glazed and the air left him in a grunting rush as he staggered back a step. He looked down to see the ragged injury she had left as her limb skidded along his muscles to tear his skin. Blood rushed to his face, turning it purplish copper. He crouched to attack.
A command rang out, sharp, authoritative, and the black shoulder of the Spanish-bred barb was pushed between them. Reynaud slid down. He looked at Elise, his hard gray gaze running over her as if to check for injuries, but without a shred of softness as he met her look of startled relief. Without a word, he ducked under the head of his horse to confront Path Bear.
So intent had she and the warrior been on their minor battle that they had not heard the arrival of Reynaud and the other Natchez. Elise looked to where the warriors sat their horses with Madame Doucet among them, slumping in the saddle like a sack of cornmeal after the swift ride. The faces of the Indians held judicious patience, though she thought she saw also surprise edged with humor in the glances they exchanged as they looked from the limb she held to the wound on the top of Path Bear’s abdomen.
Of the exchange between Reynaud and Path Bear, Elise understood not a word. The Indian’s gestures in her direction were violent, accusing. He listened with scant respect to Reynaud, pointing to her once more with an obvious threat. Reynaud sidestepped, blocking the way, his voice firm. Path Bear dropped his stick and shook a fist in Reynaud’s face. Reynaud crossed his arms, his words suddenly flat and stern. The other man stood for a long moment, then dropped his gaze, backing away. He turned and with long strides went to his horse, mounting in a single movement. He looked back one last time, then swung his mount’s head, going to join the others. He spoke to them and in a body they wheeled and moved away at a walk.
Elise let fall the limb she had been holding and shut her eyes with a trembling sigh. Until that moment she had not known how tightly strung her nerves were. She felt weak suddenly as if she might fall if she tried to move. At the slight sound of rustling leather, she opened her eyes to see Reynaud standing in front of her.
“How good are you at screaming?”
It was not an idle question, she saw that at once from the grim cast of his face. Still, it made no sense. “What?”
“You must be punished. I have made it clear that you are my woman and that privilege belongs to me. As much pleasure as it might give me to turn you over my knee, it seems unjust and should be unnecessary if you can bring yourself to cry out at my command. Now.”
At the last word, he swung his hand to slap his open palm against the leather of his Spanish saddle. It cracked in the wooden stillness with the sound of a hard blow. The horse sidled, but did not shift from his position that hid them from the party of warriors.
He reached out to catch her wrist in a hard grasp, pulling her toward him, His voice soft, he said, “Cooperate or I warn you, I’ll be forced to pick up Path Bear’s stick and lift your skirts—”
“Don’t!” she said sharply.
“That’s better.” He released her. “Now!”
They played out the charade, though Elise turned away from him to lean her head against the warm and quivering flank of the barb. Tears gathered inside her, pressing against her throat. It seemed that she had become abnormally sensitive of late with emotions tearing at her that she had thought suppressed out of existence years ago. She wanted to be self-reliant, but fate had conspired against her, bringing loss and pain, fatigue and disappointment. Nothing happened as she expected or as she planned; everything seemed to show her how ill-equipped she was to protect herself.
The blows had stopped. There was an awkward moment of silence. Reynaud broke it.
“Now if you can bring yourself to appear chastened,” he began.
She turned her head swiftly, stung by the jeering note in his voice despite the fact that it seemed directed as much at himself as at her. The tears she had been trying so hard to control rose in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. With an angry exclamation, she swung from him once more, scrubbing at them with the heel of her hand.
“Why?” she demanded. “Why are you doing this?”
“Call it a personal quirk; I am lifting my hand against a woman.”
“No, not that!”
“You mean why am I forcing you to come with me? The answer is simple. I want you.”
The words sent a peculiar sensation along her nerves. “It will do you no good.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“You need not think your — magnanimity this afternoon will make any difference.”
“No, I won’t. And you need not think that because I have stayed my hand this time that I won’t be able to o
vercome my quirk if it happens again.”
She allowed her lip to curl, though he could not see it. “I never doubted that for a moment.”
“Good. We understand each other.”
Did they? Elise could not be so certain. She mulled over what he had said as she permitted him to mount her on the barb and swing up behind her, leading her mare and riding with her before him like a captive to join the others. Resentment and gratitude warred within her, impeding her efforts to separate her thoughts. She wanted to despise him, but could not. She tried to feel incensed at his expression of desire for her and discovered instead a strange trepidation. She reached for her rage at his highhanded actions, drawing it around her as if for comfort. It was only that she was tired, she told herself, tired of riding, tired of this journeying back and forth, tired of conflict and of being sufficient unto herself. It was only a temporary lapse. Tomorrow would be better; it must be.
Reynaud held her slim and supple body in his arms, feeling the softness of her hips through the habit skirt and cloak shifting against him as the horse moved. He knew when she began to relax, leaning on him, and something tightly held inside himself loosened, began to dissolve. It was all he could do not to rein the barb into the woods and have her then and there, once more naked among the leaves with the salty taste of her tears on her lips. It was not the pride he sensed inside her that prevented him, but the sight of her hands lying with the palms turned upward in her lap. They were slowly becoming a bluish purple from withstanding the blows of Path Bear. She had courage, his prickly love, and strength. He must not destroy either by taking her by force, the only way he could have her now. But there was another reason, too. As much as he needed the sweet surcease to be had in her body, he yearned to know her mind, to seek deep within it and sense a welcome for him there. He wanted to share her thoughts, her dreams, her secrets. He wanted her to come to him with desire, to reach inside him and discover how open he was to her. It could not happen yet, if at all. He concentrated instead on what he would like to do to the great Indian bastard who had caused her bruises. The Natchez did not fight among themselves; no quarrel ever came to blows on pain of banishment. It was a pity.
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