“Makedewa!” Winn shouted.
At the sight of the girl, Makedewa dropped Finola none to gently onto the ground, and took off in pursuit. He sprinted after the man who followed her, reaching him quickly. He launched himself at the man and brought him to the ground. Although more wiry than brawn, Makedewa was built like a wrestler with long lean muscles and surprising strength. By the time they reached him, the larger warrior was dead, his throat cut from ear to ear.
The blond-haired girl began to scream as Makedewa stood over her, her hysterical cries merely adding to the sudden onset of wailing from the town. She sat on her backside, her eyes frantic, her mouth agape.
“Yours?” Winn asked, eyeing his brother. Makedewa crouched next to the screaming girl. He put out one hand to touch her and she slapped him away, screaming louder as if it would have more impact with more volume, kicking her tiny feet about the sand as her cheeks flushed raw. She could not be more than fourteen or fifteen, and she was scared senseless by the looks of her.
Maggie noticed the look between the men. Winn arched one brow, and Makedewa nodded back so slightly she would have missed it had she not been looking.
She turned back toward the town as the men decided what to do with the girl.
Near the palisade gates, a young man laid, his neck in an unnatural angle. An ear of corn was shoved down his throat, the yellow silken end waving in the breeze, but his cause of death was more likely the garden hoe impaled in his chest. A boy lay beside him, a child of no more than five, his head cocked at an unnatural angle beneath his starched white collar.
A woman ran screaming down the middle of the street, quickly fallen by the blow of a well-aimed sickle. A warrior walked up behind her, snatched the sickle from the woman’s fallen body, and took a path into the next house.
“Come, we must go!” Winn said. Chetan gave a shrill whistle, and their ponies came forth from the wood line. Chetan mounted up with Finola, who looked to be waking up, and Makedewa tried to get the girl to her feet.
This time she bit him when he reached for her, and Maggie held her breath. Makedewa was no softhearted brave. Although she had never seen the younger brother with a woman, she suspected he would not handle her assault well.
“Let me,” Maggie said, leaving Winn’s side. She kneeled down beside the girl. Although the blond-haired hellion did not fight her, she looked like a fuse about to ignite. She sat there shaking with her curls sticking out around her face, sprawled on the ground with her apron around her knees and a look of sheer terror etched on her face.
“What’s your name?” she said softly. The girl stared blankly back at Maggie, then looked at Makedewa and Winn, then returned to Maggie.
“Rebecca,” the girl said very softly, so low that Maggie knew the others had not heard it. Maggie reached slowly and took her shaking hand. Filthy with blood and dirt, Maggie patted it, hoping to gain her trust so they could all live to see another day.
Fires roared behind them, the flames jumping from house to rooftop, swallowing anything in its path. The blacksmith shop ignited with a bang, the explosion sending them all to their knees with hands over their heads.
“Rebecca,” Maggie said, pulling the girl to her feet. “Ride with us if you want to live. No one will hurt you.”
“They killed my parents, and my baby brother,” she whispered.
“It was not these men. Trust me. They mean you no harm. You’ll ride with Makedewa, I promise we’ll be safe.”
She tilted her head to Makedewa, who stood watching the exchange with Winn a few paces away. Winn swung up on his pony and held out a hand for her, and she used his foot as an anchor to swing up behind her husband.
Makedewa held out his hand to Rebecca, and this time, after one quick look back at the burning town, she took it without biting or slapping him. The girl settled behind the warrior and they prodded their horses into a gallop.
The stank odor of burning flesh clung to them as they raced away from the scene, the cries of the dying following them for miles, even as they passed long out of range.
It would take more than distance to forget such a day, if ever they could. Maggie glanced back over her shoulder at the blazing town and shuddered. She clenched her arms tighter on Winn’s waist and hugged him.
The horse stopped from nearly a full gallop by burying his haunches in the dirt, his response immediate to Winn’s command. The warrior pulled Maggie into his arms and jumped clear of the beast in one motion, his stride purposeful yet laced with anger as he stalked to the cave. She knew better than to argue. Her skin tingled under his touch when he finally placed his hands on her face, cupping her jaw and clenching her hair with such desperation that she could feel the anguish and fear coarse through him. His skin was stained with the scent of smoke and when he kissed her she tasted the whisky he shared with the settlers before the slaughter. Had he obeyed his uncle? Had he participated in the massacre?
His blue eyes clouded as he pulled back, searching her own desperate gaze for a moment. Short, tender kisses followed along her cheeks, her neck, and back to her forehead, where he rested his head against hers. She could not bear to move, her shaking contained by the way he clutched her to his bared chest slick with sweat and blood. Neither one of them dared a word. Their silent truce remained intact when he released her, a fragile stalemate created between them.
Maggie let out a whispered objection as he broke the embrace, but obeyed when he pushed her down to the furs at their feet. She let him cover her with dry furs, sitting cross-legged next to the fire he started. She worried he would never speak or that he would leave, and she felt panicked until he sat down behind her on the furs. Her eyes closed as his arms surrounded her, drawing her back to nest in his lap. She writhed around in his lap to face him when his lips caressed her ear and he chuckled, but she did not miss the edge of sadness in the gesture.
“My stubborn little Fire Heart,” he said, his lips still buried in her hair. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” he asked.
Her words caught in her throat as she returned his stare. Sad, sincere, his eyes were like windows through the warrior, a glimpse of the tormented soul within. She hated to know she caused him such grief, and although there were many more players in this tragedy to cast blame on, the knowledge was of little comfort.
“I was angry at you for being so cold to me,” she whispered. “You let me think you were dead.”
“I sent my brothers to Benjamin with word that I lived, but it was too late. You married him,” he said quietly.
“I saw Thomas Martin shoot you. He said you were dead, he brought your Bloodstone to me as proof.” She touched his face with her fingertips. “Then I found out I was carrying our child. I – I didn’t know what to do.”
She shook her head when he tried to interrupt. “I tried to stop Thomas from firing his rifle that day, and he…he did not take it well.” She swallowed to steady her voice, omitting how Thomas had beaten her severely. “I had to get away from him – he was going to send me to England. Benjamin said he would help me. He said he promised you he would protect me. I thought – I thought you would want me to survive. That you would want our child to be safe,” she paused. “I thought you were dead. If you were alive, why didn’t you come for me? How could you leave me there? How could you let me mourn you?”
His shoulders dropped and his face creased as if the breath had been stolen from his chest, his arms tightening around her when he pressed his lips into her damp hair. He closed his eyes as he inhaled and kissed her ear very softly, then released his sigh in a low rush.
“Makedewa. He told me you carried a child and that you were happy with your husband. I would not steal you away from your happiness…even if it was not with me.”
“But—” she reeled, confused. “Oh…I see. You thought…you thought Benjamin was the father. You thought I wanted to be there?”
He did not answer, and his silence infuriated her.
“So why not just leave me to hang then,
if that’s what you thought?”
“You took my pride when you married him, but still I loved you. I would not let you hang.”
“But you would send me back to my own time, then? With no explanation?”
He pressed his lips against her cheek and she felt his arms tense. “You once said you would give anything to return to your time. I had your Bloodstone. It was all I could give you. It was my only way to protect you.”
Maggie closed her eyes. So much had happened.
“Oh, Winn,” she whispered. “When they told me you were dead, nothing mattered to me anymore. I never loved him, Winn, it was never like that. I wanted to die with you, and damn you, I tried! But then there was the baby…and a reason to keep breathing, at least for one more day.”
She felt his wordless nod against her hair and his chest expanded as he let out a deep sigh.
“I know something of this pain.” His gentle hands closed tighter, and he clutched her back against his chest, his words forced out through a half-choke, half-groan. “I wanted to explain, to tell you so many things. Then I saw you standing there, a fire goddess, like you would strike me down before you let me touch you, I – I lost my head.”
She reached out to touch his face, but he caught her hand and pressed it to his chest against his heart, where she could feel the tortured thud as it beat against her palm.
“I was a fool. Yes, I stayed away, but I knew your ghost would never leave me. I knew I would see your face in my dreams, for all my days. I am so sorry, ntehem.”
Maggie found no words to answer, wanting to comfort him as much as she wished to bury her face in his bared chest and weep. She closed her palms on each side of his face, touching her mouth gently to his. His fingers traced a line down both of her arms, a shudder running through her at the touch of his skin against her own.
“Nouwmais,” he said softly.
“I love you, too,” she whispered back.
“I could not stop, you know,” he said quietly some time later, after their breathing began to slow and they lay with limbs entwined, threaded through furs and soft flesh. “When you married him, I still could not stop wanting you. Even though I knew you were lost to me. These eyes haunt my dreams,” he whispered. Her eyes closed as he pressed his soft lips against each lid, and then grazed across her lips. “I betray all that I am, all that I know. I walk alone now, ntehem, I cannot return to live among my people. Still none of it matters. I lay here with you, and tell you I would do it again, every day of my life.”
His hand closed around her face and he gazed down intently at her, his fingers firm but gentle, his face creased and his brows pinned over his slanted blazing eyes.
“Did you come to me with this power, from your future time? Why do I think nothing of betraying my people, if only to be here, with you, like this?”
“I have no power,” she said softly. She briefly recalled his uncle, the legendary leader who also believed her to be a witch, but the memory passed back into the recess of her mind where it belonged. He shook his head and placed his hand on her belly, using one calloused finger to trace a line from navel to her throat, then up under her chin, where it stopped at her swollen lips.
“No, ntehem, no power,” he whispered. “Only my lifeblood, a prisoner here,” he smiled, then placed his palm against the gentle swell of her belly. “I am your prisoner, Tentay teh. Do with me what you will.”
Maggie heard horses approach, the sounds of hooves scrambling up the mountainside unmistakable. She joined Winn outside to greet the riders, surprised to see it was Makedewa holding Rebecca in his arms. The girl slumped over, clearly unconscious after her harrowing ordeal.
“Chetan returned to the village?” Winn asked.
“Yes, he took the Pale Witch to mother, she will tend her. I brought this one here. I thought – I thought seeing more of our kind might frighten her now. Will you let Maggie see to her?” Makedewa answered.
She stepped up beside Winn.
“Of course I will. Bring her inside,” she replied.
Makedewa cradled the girl easily against his chest and brought her into the cave, where he set her down on the furs next to the fire. Winn said something in Paspahegh which elicited only a grunt from Makedewa, and the two men quickly left.
She stared after them for a moment. She imagined they expected her to know what to do. After all, wasn’t caring for the sick a woman’s duty? Looking down at the exhausted girl before her, all she could think to do was clean her up the best she could manage with limited supplies. It would go a long way towards her tired muscles and weary mind.
She untied the girl’s blood sodden apron and placed it in a pile, adding her scuffed leather boots and brown wool stockings as well. The girl did not stir. Maggie lifted her skirt to untie her starched petticoat, still not accustomed to English fashion, but thinking she could wrestle it off without waking the girl. She found the stays and pulled them loose, and then pulled the petticoat gently off.
She inhaled a quick breath and held it when she pulled the garment away. The lining was smeared with blood. As the breeze hit her skin, the girl opened her eyes and began to thrash, kicking and hissing like a cat held under a waterspout. Maggie did the best she could to deflect her blows, unwilling to hurt her further. Finally she wrapped her arms around her in a bear hug as Marcus had so often done to her when she had flown into a temper, rocking her and murmuring soothing words as she patted her back.
The girl howled against her chest, her pale little hand clenched under her chin as she sobbed.
Makedewa and Winn came to the cave opening at the screams. She held up a hand over the girl’s trembling back in a gesture to stop them, and they remained a few paces away.
“Oh, sweetheart, it’s okay now,” she soothed her.
“I could not stop him,” she cried softly into Maggie’s breast. Maggie held her as tight as the girl could tolerate, rocking back and forth together, mimicking the easy sway of a babe inside a cradle.
“It’s not your fault,” Maggie whispered.
“I wish he killed me. Why didn’t he just kill me?” she sobbed.
Maggie continued to rock her.
“I don’t know,” she whispered, at loss to give her any semblance of comfort.
Despite the closeness Maggie and Winn shared on returning to the cave, when dawn arrived and they went about the business of making camp, Maggie felt the slow strangle of distance growing between them. Makedewa and Chetan joined them after procuring more supplies and she was pleased to hear they would join them soon in their exile. Winn would never admit it, but she knew how much he missed his family and she was glad they would all settle together in one place to ride out the coming winter.
Maggie wondered how Rebecca would adapt. The girl followed Maggie everywhere and took a liking to Teyas, so it was a welcome relief that Teyas decided to join them. The girl was only fifteen, as Maggie suspected, and she looked at the men with tribulation most days but she was smart enough to understand they meant her no harm. They never spoke of returning her to the English, and Maggie had a feeling the girl would not go even if it were offered. Rebecca held a deep shame for what had happened to her.
“It’s better off my Ma and Pa lie dead. Better dead then to know the truth,” Rebecca said.
The cave served as their home and as a central gathering place, the large enclosed space adopting the usage the community long house would traditionally take in their new settlement. The men built two yehakins in a semi-circle outside the cave, and also a smaller house to keep their gathered food and supplies. Teyas and Ahi Kekeleksu joined them as well, and their private sanctuary suddenly was a bustling mini village. Maggie welcomed the companionship but at the same time she longed for privacy with her husband, who seemed to be slipping further away.
It was nothing she could point to that changed things. The first night the others arrived, he held her tenderly in his arms when they slept, yet he made no move to press his attention and she soon fell asleep in hi
s embrace. However, when the next night followed the same routine, Maggie knew something was amiss, and on waking alone in the furs once again she decided to confront him.
Makedewa and Chetan worked on completing the supply house. Makedewa grunted in greeting as Chetan secured a flat bark shingle to the roof and tapped it into place with the blunt end of his iron axe, a gift he had gleaned from the English when they were all still on better terms.
“Have you seen Winn?” she asked.
“He checks the snares by the cliff. Take care if you follow him,” Makedewa answered, disapproval evident in his tone.
“Thank you, I will,” she smiled. She left them to their work. Stopping by the cave to grab her heavy wool cloak, she also tossed some crusty bread and some cheese into a small satchel before she set off up to the cliff in search of her husband. Although she knew the trail well, it still might take a bit of time to find him and she did not want to be trapped without any recourse if her stomach acted up. Most of her nausea had diminished in the weeks they spent in the mountain valley, but there were still waves of dizziness that seemed to get better with a bit of food in her belly.
She found him on the ridge by the cliff, standing at the edge. His ears were sharp and she was surprised he did not hear her advance as he looked out over the valley, his empty gaze searching over the tumble of green that graced the land as far as the eye could wander. His chin dipped down and he cocked his head to the side when he finally noticed her, but he did not turn to greet her.
Maggie slipped her arms around his waist and pressed a kiss to his bared shoulder. He was dressed simply in a breechcloth and buckskin leggings, his copper skin shimmering with a layer of fresh sweat dampening his skin. He placed one hand over hers and held her tightly as he continued to watch the valley.
“I miss you, husband,” she said softly. She felt his ribs move as he let out a sigh.
The Blooded Ones Page 25
