Candace McCarthy

by Fireheart

  AUTUMN WIND

  “Come,” Fireheart said, “let us swim.”

  Joanna was reluctant to move. She was supremely conscious of him as a man. Her body pulsated with life at his nearness, and she was embarrassed. She wondered how she could swim without revealing more skin. “Close your eyes,” she said.

  He looked amused. “When you were a child, you showed your breasts.”

  She felt herself flush. “I’m not a child anymore.”

  “Kihiila, ”he agreed with such meaning in his tone. “Come, Autumn Wind, be Lenape again.”

  His words and tone enticed her. The air was warm, but the little bumps rose on her skin. She caught Fireheart’s gaze, was unable to release it. It was dark, but she could make out the planes of his face in the shadow. There was enough light to see the glistening of his dark eyes.

  Then she was facing him in the water, and his hands fastened on her waist, drawing her close. To her shock, she felt his lips on her mouth. She had no time to utter a word; her head spun and her body pulsed with wild sensation.

  Joanna moaned softly as he raised his head and shifted his hands to cup her face.

  “Autumn Wind,” he murmured.

  “Fireheart.”

  She was drawn to him as she’d never before been attracted to another. The awkwardness between them was gone. They were man and woman. Fireheart and Autumn Wind . . . alone together in the night . . . and wanting.

  Books by Candace McCarthy

  WILD INNOCENCE

  SWEET POSSESSION

  WHITE BEAR’S WOMAN

  IRISH LINEN

  HEAVEN’S FIRE

  SEA MISTRESS

  RAPTURE’S BETRAYAL

  WARRIOR’S CARESS

  SMUGGLER’S WOMAN

  With stories in these collections:

  IRISH ENCHANTMENT

  BABY IN A BASKET

  AFFAIRS OF THE HEART

  Published by Zebra Books

  FIREHEART

  Candace

  McCarthy

  eKensington

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  AUTUMN WIND

  Also by

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  For Mom, who has always been there for me . . . for your love, friendship, and support. Thanks. I love you.

  Prologue

  Little River Town—a Lenni Lenape village

  Pennsylvania

  August 1720

  Mary Littleton stood at the door of her wigwam, watching the children at play in the village yard. It was a beautiful hot summer’s day. The shade from the trees above kept out most of the sun’s heat. A light breeze lowered the humidity in the air and tossed about the scent of meat roasting on someone’s cook-fire.

  Mary smiled as childish laughter rang out, followed by giggles. Dogs barked as they ran about the compound, egged on by a group of young boys at play. A woman sat outside the neighboring wigwam, weaving a basket while her young son sat on a mat beside her, munching contentedly on a piece of dried venison. Next door, a young warrior crouched before his lodge, sharpening an arrowhead, glancing up often to grin at the children’s antics.

  Behind Mary, her husband, Rising Bird, slept on their sleeping mat undisturbed by the noise. He’d been gone for a week, and his journey had tired him. His return last night, long after the village had retired, had surprised her. There’d been little sleep between them as they’d held and stroked each other until their soft cries filled the dawn of the new day.

  A young blonde girl came out of Woman with Eyes of Hawk’s wigwam across the way, capturing Mary’s attention. At fourteen, her cousin Joanna Neville was a lovely child with red-gold hair, smooth skin, and eyes of bright forest-green. She was blossoming into a woman, and Mary felt more than a moment’s concern when she realized that the young braves within the village had noticed the changes, too.

  How long had it been since she had brought Joanna here to the Lenni Lenape village to live? Nine years, since the death of the girl’s mother, her own beloved Aunt Elizabeth?

  Mary frowned as she followed Joanna’s progress across the compound. Her young cousin appeared to be conscious of her own beauty as she sauntered across the yard with her hair loose about her shoulders and her only article of clothing a doeskin kilt about her slim hips. She wore a necklace of copper beads and animal teeth, and she had darkened her cheeks and lips with red berry juice.

  Mary’s discomfort grew as Joanna paused as if posing. The girl stood for a moment with her back straight and her chest thrust forward as if to draw attention to her young, firm breasts before she continued across the yard. It wasn’t that Joanna was promiscuous, or wore any less clothing than the other Indian females. Mary’s concern lay with Joanna’s spirited nature. After years of life among the Lenape, she feared that Joanna no longer knew what was proper behavior in the English culture, her birthright. It was something that had begun to worry Mary since she’d received the letter from Joanna’s uncle.

  What if fate took Joanna away from them? Had she done her young cousin a disservice by introducing her to village life?

  It wasn’t the first time that Mary had suffered doubts. She’d struggled with the concern before, but in the past she’d been able to push that worry aside with the knowledge that the child was clearly happy here. The letter from Roderick Neville in England was forcing Mary to reevaluate the child’s upbringing. She had a decision to make, and she wasn’t certain what to do.

  Joanna changed direction as if to walk intentionally past a group of young Lenni Lenape braves. Mary scowled. Was Joanna teasing those boys?

  Tossing her blonde hair back with a sweep of her hand, Joanna rewarded several young men with a flirtatious smile. All of the boys widened their eyes, but one. Mary felt a stirring of unease as she saw the way Broken Bow studied her young cousin.

  Her gaze then fell on another boy, much younger than Broken Bow, and Mary’s expression softened. Yellow Deer adored Joanna, but her cousin had no interest in the brave. He was the youngest of the group and apparently not worthy of her note. Yellow Deer was a kind boy who gazed at Joanna with longing, not with the gleam of boyhood lust.

  Mary sighed. Why couldn’t Joanna be interested in Yellow Deer? Perhaps then, she wouldn’t worry so much about the girl.

  Broken Bow’s eyes never left Joanna as the girl moved on and then stopped to chat with her best friend Little Blossom. Mary made a silent vow to speak with her cousin about the dangers of young males with more on their minds than friendship.

  What should I do? Mary wondered. She loved her life with the Indians. She had come to them as a captive in trade. Terrified, she had wanted only to escap
e until the Lenape people had charmed her, treating her kindly when she expected to be tortured, or worse. The one time she’d tried to escape, she’d been found and brought back by Rising Bird who had faced her not with anger, as Mary had expected, but with kindness. She had quickly learned that peace and serenity were away of life for these Indian people.

  Later, Mary had married Rising Bird, and she had lived with her husband now for over ten years. She’d never once regretted giving up her former English life. Happy and at peace here, she’d wanted the same for Joanna.

  But had that been fair to her young cousin? Joanna had been only a child when Mary had brought her to the village, while she herself had been a full-grown woman. Joanna had gone blindly where she was told, while Mary had chosen her life’s direction.

  Joanna followed Little Blossom into a wigwam, and Mary turned from the doorway, allowing the door flap made from deerskin to fall, shutting her inside.

  Joanna was a good girl, and Mary loved her. I’m really concerned about Roderick Neville’s letter, not her behavior. The man wanted to see his niece. He says he wants to make Joanna heiress to his estate. But how can I make a decision that might force us to lose her? Mary wondered.

  She didn’t want Joanna to go to England. But what if it was the best thing for her cousin?

  She wanted to be selfish and make Joanna stay, but then she would be guilty of keeping Joanna from her inheritance. And how could she deny the child her birthright?

  In England, Joanna could be educated, have beautiful clothes and fine surroundings. And then there was the fact of her uncle, brother to Joanna’s beloved father. Didn’t Joanna have the right to meet the rest of her family?

  Mary’s first notion upon receiving Roderick Neville’s missive was to destroy it. She couldn’t bear the thought of letting Joanna go. After raising the girl, she regarded Joanna more as a daughter than a cousin.

  England was such a long journey by ship. How could she not be concerned about the girl?

  Mary had worried for two days now. She hadn’t told Joanna about her uncle’s letter. She’d wanted to discuss the matter with her husband first. Rising Bird would know what to do.

  She lay down next to her husband, snuggling close for comfort, and attempted to put Roderick Neville’s missive from her mind. She would talk with Rising Bird later when he was well-rested. Then she must decide what was best for Joanna.

  Chapter 1

  Neville Manor—an estate just outside London, England March 1727

  “Joanna?”

  Joanna glanced up from her cousin’s letter to gaze sightlessly at her neighbor and friend, her green eyes glistening from emotional pain.

  “Are you all right?” John Burton asked with concern. “You seem troubled.” The young man frowned as he approached.

  She gave him a smile as she carefully folded the missive. “I’m fine.” When John slipped his arm around her shoulders, she fought the urge to pull away. John was a handsome man with a magnificent physique and beautiful blue eyes.

  Today, John looked splendid in his navy long coat with vest over a white linen shirt. His white stockings made a nice contrast with his matching navy knee breeches, and the silver buckles on his shoes had been polished to a high shine. On his head, a cocked hat sat on his powdered wig in which the hair had been pulled back and secured with a white ribbon at his nape.

  John Burton was the kindest man she knew in England. When John had first visited Neville Manor, it had become clear to Joanna that even her uncle had approved of the young man . . . a fact that might have made Joanna dislike John immediately if it were not for his winning charm.

  John wanted to be more than her friend, but Joanna couldn’t envision him as her husband or lover. If her uncle had still been alive, he would have been pushing John’s suit.

  Uncle Roderick is dead, she thought. I don’t have to please him or anyone but myself.

  Joanna feared that John was longing to propose to her, and that their friendship would be over after she rejected him. She didn’t love John. Marriage might be the best thing for her, she mused, but she wouldn’t marry without love, not even for the sake of Neville Manor. Neville Manor was her late uncle’s estate, now her inheritance. It was a beautiful place, but it held only bad memories for her. She had never been happy here.

  Joanna moved to the window to gaze out over the manicured lawn and garden. The grass was a vast carpet of bright green. The flowers were in full bloom, a riotous splash of spring color, but the sight gave her no pleasure. In the midst of the flower garden stood a fountain where she, a newly arrived young girl, had once sought comfort in the sound of water rushing over its side. A great deal had changed since that first day at Neville Manor.

  How could she enjoy anything about the place when it was at the root of all the pain, heartache, and abuse that she’d suffered at Roderick Neville’s hands?

  Her uncle had thought he’d done her a favor by snatching her away from a life she loved and bringing her to England to “educate” her. She didn’t want to be his heir, nor did she want the full charge of running all of the deceased man’s holdings.

  Had she asked for the responsibility? No. But she had been trained to handle it, and she would do her duty. What else could she do? There were people who lived and worked on her uncle’s property, servants, and employees counting on her to keep the estate running smoothly.

  The manor was beautiful, large, and built of stone, old England at its best. But Joanna could remember only the hurt she’d suffered there . . . the pain of being unable to please her Uncle Roderick. Until Roderick Neville had sent for her, Joanna had been truly happy living among the Lenni Lenape Indians with her cousin Mary. When she had become severely ill, Elizabeth Neville, Joanna’s mother, had sent for her niece Mary to care for her daughter. Orphaned at five, Joanna had lived with poverty-stricken neighbors until Mary had finally come for her. Only Mary hadn’t come for a long time, not until after the death of Joanna’s mother. Mary had been captured by Iroquois Indians during the journey to her aunt’s Delaware home, then traded to the Lenape. She had not been freed for several months. When she did finally arrive, Mary had already married Rising Bird, a Lenape warrior.

  Joanna had been fourteen when Roderick Neville had sent for her, his only niece. She’d wanted to live in the village forever, but the choice had been taken from her when Mary made the decision to send her back to England. Once there, she’d been forced to live with a man who was cold, unfeeling, and cruel in his efforts to tame the “savage” in her. For the next seven years, until his death, Roderick Neville had controlled her, shaping her into the lady he deemed suitable to be his heir.

  “You are a Neville, Joanna,” he’d told her on more than one occasion. “A Neville conducts herself in the proper manner. You will not wear those awful buckskins. You will get rid of those filthy moccasins and wear only the shoes that I bought for you.” He’d pause, and his gaze would harden. “Do you understand?”

  Joanna had been made to understand. Uncle Roderick did not tolerate her “heathen” ways. She had to obey him, or be severely punished for it. She’d hated England and despised her uncle. Once, she had tried to run away, but Roderick had caught her. Her punishment had been so severe that Joanna had not attempted another escape.

  Joanna shuddered and tried not to recall her uncle’s methods of punishment.

  He’s dead. He can’t hurt you anymore.

  Roderick Neville had been a hard man. Had Mary honestly thought him kind?

  I hate this place, but it is mine now, Joanna thought. All that is left me.

  Somehow she would find a way to ease the painful past, and bring joy to this cold, dark manor house. There were many who relied on her. Servants and employees who had also endured her uncle’s cruelty.

  Joanna shivered and hugged herself with her arms. She would make things better for all who lived and worked at Neville Manor.

  “Joanna, you’re shivering!” John’s voice drew her from her dark thoughts,
and she felt the weight of his coat as he draped it about her shoulders. The navy wool was warm with the heat of his body.

  “Thank you,” she murmured without meeting his gaze.

  “Joanna?” He turned her to face him. “What’s wrong? Tell me: Is it the letter?” John’s expression held curiosity mingled with concern.

  Joanna nodded. She glazed into blue eyes so kind and gentle that for a brief second she wondered if she could fall in love with him someday.

  “The letter is from my cousin Mary in the Colonies,” she said.

  Something flickered across John’s face and was gone. “What does your cousin want?” He didn’t seem surprised to hear that she had a cousin. Had he heard about her former Lenape life?

  Her jaw tightened and, angry, she could feel the heat burn in her stomach. Joanna fought to keep her fury where it rightfully belonged—with her late uncle and not with John who had proven to be a good friend.

  “Mary lives in the Pennsylvania colony. She wants me to come.” She moved from the window to the sofa and sat.

  John joined her, his gaze unreadable, but it didn’t seem like he knew about the Indians. “Do you want to go?”

  She nodded. “Someone I know, someone I care about a great deal, is ill and may be dying.” She glanced down at the letter to find her hands in her lap, clutching the parchment tightly. Mary had written to tell her that Wild Squirrel, the sachem of the Lenni Lenape village of Little River, was very ill. Mary had thought that Joanna would want to know because the man had been like a grandfather to her.

  Her throat felt tight as she met John’s gaze. “I know it’s been only a week since Uncle Roderick’s death, but . . .”

  She was torn . . . torn between her love for an old Indian chief who was ill in the Pennsylvania colony, a man she thought of as a grandfather, and her duty to her uncle’s servants. Here she would have to wear the black of mourning for her uncle, and it would be a lie. Terrible or not, she didn’t care that Roderick Neville was dead.