The Blooded Ones

by Elizabeth Brown

  Winn spoke to the man, his voice low, yet even she could hear the threat. Silent for a moment in consideration, the intruder glared at Winn. The man then slowly lowered the spear.

  “Shewanakuxkwe!” Winn snapped, turning slightly to glance at her. She did not recognize the word, so she simply ignored it. She backed away a few paces, waiting until she was sure Winn spoke to her. When she did not answer, he swung around in a fury and snatched her wrist, his handsome face contorted in a scowl. “Keptchat! Come here, now!”

  Maggie recognized the word Keptchat immediately. Foolish woman, huh? How dare he speak to her like that after what they had shared moments before? The memory of the first insults between them sharpened her anger, and before she could stem her temper, she turned on her heel and stalked away from him. She wasn’t going to stick around while he insulted her in front of another man.

  The next thing she knew, she was yanked roughly into his arms, his fingers gripping the base of her neck in warning. More from anger than from pain, she cried out and fought his hold.

  “Let go of me!” she shouted, swinging around. When her open palm connected with his cheek, an accident rather than an assault, she heard the other Indian gasp. Winn’s fist tightened on her shoulder when she tried to pull away and she gritted her teeth, vowing she would not let him see how much he hurt her pride. His eyes flashed like glowing coals when she met his stare, and she thought she could feel his body quiver against hers as he spoke.

  “Silence your foul tongue,” he warned, his words spoke low as she remained captured by his gaze. She started to open her mouth, but the scowl clouded his face and he shook her hard, as if to retain her attention. “Get on the horse,” he growled, and then added as an afterthought, “or I will drag you back to the village.”

  With his last word he released her toward the horse, loosening his hold with more sharp uttered words she did not understand. She stumbled and nearly fell to her knees, but the stubborn resolve to defy him gave strength to her shaking legs and she managed to get back to the horse. Thoughts of escaping him with his own mount were not realized quickly enough, and before she could gather her wits, he leapt behind her on the beast and urged it back toward the village.

  CHAPTER 13

  Nemattanew kept silent as they returned to the village, and Winn was glad. The woman stiffened and squirmed in his lap, causing him to groan and clasp her to his chest. He made little effort to curb the anger that seared his veins, for he knew if he did then fear would take over, and he was no man to lose himself in such a lowly emotion. If the other man saw weakness in him, Winn knew it would be reported to his uncle. Nemattanew was his uncle’s most trusted advisor, and if he exposed Winn’s weakness, the decision of Maggie’s punishment could be turned over to the Council.

  Nemattanew would never let Maggie get away with her attack on the favorite nephew of the Weroance. It was bad enough that she tried to walk away from him when he gave her a direct command, but the blasted woman sealed her fate when she raised a hand to him. Yet she still sat in his lap, shaking in rage, and he knew she would attack him again should she have the chance. He regretted the harsh words he spoke to her, but he knew no other way to subdue her when the other warrior challenged him, for as much good it had done. Nemattanew chided him, declaring Winn was no master to the woman, rather he was a slave to her whims. He challenged how a warrior such as Winn could lead their people, if a lowly white woman held so much power over him.

  Winn clenched his fists and thighs, and the horse took it as a signal to move faster, jerking Maggie back against him once again. He had no choice but to prove Nemattanew wrong. He swore as his lips buried in her soft red hair and she stiffened, but he was glad she chose to cease her struggles. He had no idea how to make her understand how tenuous a situation her actions sparked. By the way she described a woman’s place in her time, he knew there was little chance she could see how her actions put her life in danger. What had men become in the future that they let women act so brazen? They must all be weak fools, he sighed.

  When they arrived in the village, he ignored the cries of welcome and rode directly to his yehakin. He leapt deftly off the horse and jerked Maggie down as well, thrusting her into the house before she could add any more credence to the charges against her. Once inside, he let her go, unwilling to let her be the one to shove him away. Her quick-tempered refusal of his attention bothered him more than he cared to dwell on.

  “Leave me alone!” she snapped.

  “You give no orders here!” he sniped back.

  She retreated to the furs, where she stood with fists clutched to her sides, her chest heaving in her rage. By all that was sacred, she was a beauty! Even with her eyes glazed in anger, he still desired her.

  He shook his head against the urges. He needed to break the hold the woman held him trapped in, one way or another. Perhaps then the wicked spell would collapse, along with the confusing need to protect her from the ways of his world. He moved to step toward her, but balked when she stepped back. His insides clenched at her response, and he could find no words to explain the foreign feeling. He did not care for her outspoken defiance, but he liked even less the way she cringed away from him with fear in her eyes.

  Winn scowled. She should be afraid. He was the War Chief, and he cowered before no woman. He would not—could not— continue to let her defy him at every turn.

  “Take your rest now, woman. I will think on your punishment.”

  Her face twisted with a retort, but she wrapped her arms around herself instead before she whispered her defiant answer.

  “You treat me like dirt in front of that – that pervert, but I get punished? You’ll drag me back to the village, will you? Drag yourself back to the village!”

  He covered the distance between them as the black haze of rage clouded his vision. He understood few of her words, but her intent was clear and he would stand no more defiance from her. Still driven mad by his confusing feelings for her, he grabbed her by her upper arms and lifted her off the ground.

  “I will! I must!” he shouted, shaking her as if the action could force her to understand. “I am nephew to the Weroance, War Chief to my people! You, woman, cannot strike me!”

  He groaned a curse when she did just that, hitting him repeatedly with closed fists as she channeled her anger on him. He did nothing to deflect her blows, letting them fall upon his chest until she tired of her assault and let him hold her in his embrace. He once promised her she could rage as she liked in his house, and he would keep that promise. His first thought was to soothe her with sweet words, his blood screaming to hold her until she fought no more. But he realized immediately he knew nothing of how to calm this frustrating woman, the product of some bizarre future time.

  “You cannot – you cannot raise your hand to me. Nemattanew will not let this go,” he said, his voice strained hoarse, her body like a hummingbird in his arms as he struggled to keep her in his embrace.

  “Let me go. Just let me go home. Give me the stone, I will leave,” she whispered. His hand slid up behind her head, holding her close to prevent her from stealing his resolve with her glimmering jade eyes.

  “I cannot let you leave.” I will never let you go. Anything but that.

  “You can let me get away – you can pretend I escaped!”

  “It would not be believed, Tentay teh.” He inhaled the sweetness of meadow flowers as he stroked her neck, keeping his lips pressed into her hair. He sighed when her body relaxed and she leaned into him.

  “What is Tentay teh?” she asked.

  He grimaced at her question, not certain if his name for her would break their fragile truce. “I call you my Fire Heart,” he murmured.

  “Oh.” She fell silent.

  “Ktaholich kweti kishku, Tentay teh.” He whispered against her hair, holding her gently as he pledged a promise in words she could not understand. You will love me one day, Fire Heart.

  She did not ask the meaning and he was glad. He could only whispe
r such promises in his own tongue, leaving it lashed to his pounding heart where it belonged. Her silence bought them a measure of peace, and when he lowered her to the sleeping pallet she did not protest his motives. With the woman curled in his embrace and her back nestled against him, she finally submitted to sleep.

  Winn lay awake as he enjoyed the thud of her heartbeat against his arm and the warmth of her shallow breathing on his skin. He knew he would face questions in the morning and be forced to act on her crime, and he wondered if he was a fool to keep her, but the alternative of letting her go caused his pulse to quicken and a piercing pain in his chest. He should take her life and be glad for it, but he knew from the moment he first laid eyes to her that the path was set. There would be no Red Woman sacrifice to please his uncle.

  No, he would not let her go.

  He woke later when his arms felt empty and he heard the shuffle of her feet across the room. Without shifting position, his eyes opened in narrow slits to see what the woman was up to. He suppressed a laugh when he spotted her rifling through one of the baskets where he kept his garments. She must still be searching for the Bloodstone, not knowing he hid it far away from her devious prying little fingers. Did she think he would not hear her leave his furs in the darkness? He hid a grin when she turned back toward him, and quickly closed his eyes.

  She was a small thing, but not very lithe on her feet, and her feet scraped with each step she took closer to his furs. Her breath came in warm, shallow spurts and it singed his skin when she leaned closer, placing a hand in the furs on each side of his head. He longed to reach up and touch her, but the urge lay stifled as his curiosity burned stronger. What was she doing?

  “Open your eyes!” she hissed. He felt the prick of a cold blade against his neck and readily obeyed.

  The crazed woman held her knife to his throat.

  By the Gods, the woman surely had no sense! First she dared strike him in front of another warrior, now she threatened him with a weapon? Torn between amusement and anger, his face remained impassive as he raised one eyebrow and glanced down at the blade. He swallowed hard when she swung one leg across his belly and straddled him, then pressed the knife harder to his throat.

  Was she trying to kill him, or tease him to death?

  “Looking for something, Maggie?” he asked softly.

  “Yes!” she hissed. “You know what I want! Give me that Bloodstone now, and I won’t kill you!”

  He felt a pinch and a trickle of blood when she moved, her hand unsteady and shaking although fury twisted her face and her eyes stayed firmly latched on his. He raised his brows and slowly placed his hands on her knees. Tracing lightly with his palms as she trembled harder, his fingers came to rest on her hips.

  “Stop that! I will stab you, Winn! I just want the stone!”

  She dug the blade in and he flinched, but it was only a scratch and worth the risk.

  “Cut me now, woman, and I die a happy man,” he grinned.

  She let out a furious screech, and he decided he had been tortured enough. He made no move to take her weapon, but swiftly lifted her and rolled until she lay beneath him. She grabbed the hair at his nape with one shaking fist and kept the knife firmly planted on his neck with the other.

  “I have a knife, you idiot!” she shrieked.

  “So you do. I don’t have the stone, nor will I give it to you.”

  He groaned when she bucked against him and cursed.

  “Let go of me!”

  “You have the knife. Let me go,” he countered.

  “No. You – you’ll punish me,” she whispered.

  “That is the last thing I will do to you right now.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “No, I do not lie!” he growled, his patience wearing at her game. No other woman could have driven him so senseless, nor escaped death after holding a knife to his throat. But for some reason he felt his power drain with her, as if it mattered not that he was the Great War Chief of his people, nor even a man larger and stronger than she was. She battered him to the ground with her stubborn fire, and he could not lift a finger to punish her for it.

  The fingers she clenched in his hair loosened. Her gaze did not waver from his. He dipped his head slowly, aware of the knife between them, and gauged her reaction when he planted a soft kiss against her neck, not sure if she would back down, and suddenly the thought of her panic stopped him.

  For all of her threats and demands, she was no more than terrified. He knew he deserved her fear, in fact he made great effort to show her he would be obeyed. Her behavior put her in grave danger from his warriors. She had no understanding of his time, or the ways of his people. He had none of hers, but he could see it was clearly quite different. He wanted nothing better than to keep her, but she believed the worst of him. She had no idea he would never throw question to his honor by harming a woman. As much as he wished he were a lesser man in that moment, he drew back from her.

  He shifted his body to lie beside her, and pulled her against his chest before she could protest, allowing her to keep the knife if she chose. She was a stake in his arms, her back stiff against his skin, her body shrinking away from his. Let her keep her blade, if it eased her mind. He would show her that hurting her was nothing near to what he truly desired.

  “Stop fighting.” The hoarse command strained from his lips as he pressed them into her soft hair. He pulled a fur over them and tucked her trembling body closer, noticing her knuckles were white and still clutched around the knife handle. He closed his hand over her fist and let it rest over her shaking one.

  “When you must kill a man, strike swiftly,” he whispered against her ear. “But I am not that man. It is only me, eholkon. Sleep now and be safe, ntehem.”

  It is only me – he who loves you. Sleep now and be safe, my heart.

  It was a long time before her furious shaking finally slowed and her fight diminished enough to surrender, but eventually her breath eased into a shallow sleeping rhythm. Sleep did not claim him, and he rose at dawn to find the knife still clenched in her hand.

  He kissed her softly before he left.

  CHAPTER 14

  He sat cross-legged next to Chetan while Makedewa paced near the entrance of the Long House. His brothers stood by his side against the Council, neither in defense of Maggie or against her, merely showing their support for him by their presence. Winn hoped it would be enough to spare her against the accusations Nemattanew made.

  Technically, Maggie was a prisoner, his slave to be precise, since Winn was the one that found her and brought her to the village. Tradition called for the owner to discipline the slave, but if others thought he did not punish her crimes in an appropriate manner, he could be challenged.

  On return to the village, Nemattanew demanded immediate audience with the council. Before Winn could speak, the other warrior described how Maggie slapped his face and ignored his commands. Even worse, he told the Council that Winn did not raise a hand to her in return. Thankfully, Nemattanew had no idea Maggie had attacked him with a knife during the night, and for that he was grateful, since that offense would have him kneeling in the dirt before the Council, begging for her life.

  As he sat beside Chetan that morning, waiting for word of the decision, he hoped his impromptu lie had been enough to sway the Council.

  “Did you truly beat her, as you said?” Chetan asked quietly. Winn avoided his gaze, his throat tight with the lie he would tell his brother.

  “Yes. She has been punished.”

  Chetan snorted in response.

  “I hope she stabs you in your sleep. How do you expect her to act? She knows nothing of our time! You must teach her our ways if you plan to keep her. She is in danger by knowing nothing of our people.”

  Winn sighed, his brother’s words hitting closer to the truth than he realized.

  “She knows much of our people. She chooses to attack me! I know not how to make her listen,” he growled. Chetan glanced over at him, one brow raised, his m
outh parted in surprise.

  “What do you do that angers her?” Chetan asked.

  “Nothing! I do nothing,” he snapped. His brother chuckled.

  “Do less nothing, and more something, or they will break her,” Chetan said, eyeing the Council as they returned in single file to their spots inside the Long House. Makedewa joined them, the strength of his brothers flanking his sides.

  The speaker of the Council remained standing as the others sat, his long bear mantle dragging the floor behind him as his horned stag helmet graced his proud head. Diminutive under the trappings of his station, the man had served since the time before the English arrived, maintaining his position through many wars and deaths. Winn looked up at the wrinkled man now, hoping the decision was a fair one.

  “Winkeohkwet, we have talked on the matter of your slave.”

  “Yes, Council?” he said. His back was straight as a pike, his lungs barely moving as he held them without air, his mouth parched with thirst.

  “We will leave the punishment of your slave to you. For now. Teach her well of what her defiance will cost in the future.”

  He wanted to close his eyes and shout his joy, but instead he lowered his head and humbly bowed to the Council.

  CHAPTER 15

  Damn that man to hell. Her waking thoughts brought the events of the previous day back in rapid succession.

  She groaned at the flush of warmth in her belly at the memory of their encounters, not sure what enraged her more – his treatment of her in front of Nemattanew, or the fact that he withheld the stone from her. Her fingers clenched down on the bedding and she ground her frustration into the furs, feeling abandoned by her own good sense. Damn him. She hated her weakness, despised the way she forgot everything whenever his crystal blue eyes met hers.