Defiant (7 page)

One of the Indian women began to wash Sarah’s breasts, the startling sensation drawing her back to the moment, making her gasp.

“No, please don’t!” She tried to push the woman’s hands away, but the other women restrained her, speaking soothingly to her. She was given no choice but to endure it—the touch of a woman’s hands, the rasp of the cloth across her nipples, the slickness of the soap, the heat of the water, the silky warmth of the oil. It felt so strange and unsettling, her face hot with shame.

If Mother could see this…If Mother should learn of this…

And Sarah feared she might be sick.

They washed and oiled her breasts, her belly, her hips, her legs, and her feet, which they gave extra care, clucking and frowning over the blisters as if truly distressed to see that she’d been hurt. When this was done, they bent her over a deep bowl of heated water and washed her hair, then brushed away the tangles with a bundle of stiff grasses, smiling and speaking in approving tones about her locks. And as they brushed her hair with gentle strokes, the sensation familiar and pleasing, Sarah began to feel unbearably sleepy, exhaustion taking hold at last.

Then the one who was with child draped a fur around Sarah’s shoulders and motioned her toward the bed. Thinking they wanted her to sleep, she gratefully crossed the lodge and lay down, but when she made to cover herself with the fur, they stopped her, one of the women approaching the foot of the bed with what looked like small clamshells in her hands.

With no warning, three of the women pinned Sarah to the bed, spreading her legs far apart and holding them there, pinning her with their weight.

“What are you doing? No! Stop!” She tried to twist away, but the three of them together were far stronger than she alone.

Then the one with the clamshells settled herself between Sarah’s thighs and, using the edge of the shells, began to pluck away the hair that covered Sarah in
that
place.

“Oh!” It was terrible and indecent, and it hurt more than Sarah expected.

But far worse than the physical pain—or the deep humiliation of knowing that they were looking at that most secret part of her—was the shock that came when she realized why they were doing this. They hadn’t simply bathed her so that she could feel clean again. They were preparing her body for a man’s use.

Sarah squeezed her eyes shut, turned her face away, and prayed.

C
onnor was standing near the door of the council house when she entered. In the middle of saying something to Joseph about their plan for the council meeting, he forgot he was speaking—and stared.

They’d taken away her clothes, bathed her, and dressed her
as a Shawnee bride in a skirt and leggings of fine white doeskin decorated with quills and beads. Her long hair hung in gleaming braids, a band of purple wampum encircling her throat. A wrap of white doeskin rested on her shoulders to keep her warm, its ends clutched in her hands as she fought to conceal her bare breasts, their curved, creamy undersides still visible.

The sight of her stole Connor’s breath, heat lancing through his gut. But then his mind took hold, and cold fury doused the heat in his blood. The lass wasn’t Shawnee, but by dressing her thus, they were claiming her, clearly intending to marry her to Katakwa tonight.

She looked shaken, her cheeks flushed with shame. She saw him and her eyes went wide. She called out to him in perfect French.
“M-monsieur! Ayez pitié de moi et—” Sir! Take pity on me and—

Before she could finish or he could answer, the women of Katakwa’s family led her away, Connor’s gaze following her as she was led to the back and made to sit behind Grannie Clear Water, who would decide her fate tonight—if she hadn’t already done so.

Joseph pressed closer, speaking for Connor’s ears alone. “There can be no doubt what they plan to do with her. Katakwa will claim her as his wife.”

“We cannae let that happen. It would take us weeks to muster the men and return for her. The old woman is no fool. She’ll move the village the moment we depart, perhaps even send Katakwa away wi’ his bride, thinkin’ to keep the soldiers from attackin’ the village. By the time we find the lass again—
if
we find her—her own mother wouldna ken her.”

“There are worse fates to suffer. The people of his village say he is a good man according to their customs—a brave warrior and skilled hunter.”

Connor knew Joseph didn’t mean what he’d just said. “She is an English noblewoman. Do you expect her to be content livin’ here in a
wikkum
wearing animal hides and bearin’ the children of a man who doesna ken where England lies? Besides, he cares naugh’ for her. You saw how he treated her.”

Joseph nodded. “And yet it might be better for her to accept this fate than for all three of us to be killed in a vain to free her.”

“I vowed to Wentworth that I would do all I could to return her safely.”

Joseph raised an eyebrow. “You made no such vow. I was there. He
commanded
you to do anything you must to retrieve her. Since when do you obey Wentworth?”

“Look at her. She’s terrified. I cannae turn my back on her and leave her here.”

“Nor can I.” Then Joseph turned away, ending the conversation, leaving Connor to wonder when the lady’s plight had come to matter so much to him.

Elders drifted through the doorway, took their places around the fire. Katakwa entered, a dozen of his warriors behind him in a show of strength. He spared not a glance for Connor and Joseph, but strode through the council house in his finest attire, his shirt decorated with quills, a bearskin draped over one shoulder, wampum around his throat, his face washed clean of paint.

Then one of the old woman’s daughters guided Connor and Joseph to places across the fire from Katakwa. Connor sat cross-legged on a soft layer of mats, glad to find he had an unbroken view of Lady Sarah—and she of him. He reached inside his shirt and drew out the strip of MacKinnon plaid he’d taken from the hilt of his
claidheamh mòr
, binding it around his right wrist where she was sure to see it. Even if she didn’t know clan colors well enough to recognize him for a MacKinnon, she would see that he was no Frenchman.

As of yet, she had not spotted him. She sat, flanked by Katakwa’s sisters, her gaze darting anxiously around the council house, her arms crossed demurely over her breasts, her defenselessness striking him hard. How confusing and terrible it must be for her not to understand a word that was spoken about her, to be a captive and know nothing of her own fate, to find herself half naked and alone amongst strangers.

You’re no’ so alone as you think, my lady.

Then she spied him and the plaid at his wrist, and her gaze met his once more, a questioning look in her eyes.

“My lady.” He mouthed the words, gave a slight bow of his head, and felt a sense of satisfaction at her surprise. He warned her with a subtle shake of his head not to say a word, then looked away.

Grannie Clear Water began to speak, explaining to her people that Katakwa had returned with a captive whom Joseph and Connor had come to claim. She spoke of Joseph at length,
honoring his father and people, then looked over at Connor. “The name of Mack-inn-on is known to us, too, as one who fights for the English. But Mack-inn-on tells us that he comes in peace. He brought gifts of wampum and tobacco and smoked the pipe with us today, and he is blood brother to the
Muhheconneok
, and so we make him welcome at our fire.”

Then Joseph raised his hand, silently asking permission to speak, which Grannie Clear Water granted. “We thank you, Grandmother, for your kind welcome and for the food you shared with us today. We await your wisdom in the matter of this woman. We humbly ask that someone who speaks her tongue be given the task of sharing with her all that is spoken so that she might not sit in darkness. If a daughter of the Shawnee sat at my father’s fire, he would do no less for her.”

There was a murmur as Grannie Clear Water considered Joseph’s request.

Katakwa stood, not waiting for Grannie to call upon him. “The tongue of her fathers is dead to her now. Let the woman learn Shawnee if she wishes to understand and be heard.”

Grannie Clear Water held up her hand to silence him. “You are right to ask this, Joseph Aupauteunk. Who here knows the talk of the English?”

Heads turned, the council house silent.

As Connor and Joseph had suspected, there was no one else who spoke English.

Connor raised his hand and answered in Shawnee. “I am able to make their talk, Grandmother. I learned their words as a child before they drove my father, the chieftain, from our lands and forced us to come across the sea.”

Joseph had told Grannie Clear Water how Connor’s family had fought the English and been exiled to these shores in hopes that the story would soften her dislike of him. Connor reminded her of that story now.

Her gaze bored into his. She gave Connor a single nod of her head, which he returned.

Then he met Lady Sarah’s gaze, speaking calmly but quickly. “My lady, I am Major Connor MacKinnon. I was sent by your uncle to retrieve you.”

At the mention of her uncle, a look of astonishment came over her bruised face. Then she opened her mouth as if to speak.

“Dinnae speak, my lady. You must listen and do as I bid you.
There is much at stake. I’m to be actin’ as your interpreter so that you might understand what is bein’ said here tonight. But ken ere we begin that I shall do all I can to free you. Do you understand?”

She nodded, watching him through eyes filled with desperate hope.

Katakwa was invited to speak first. He was a tall man, strong and well formed, his body that of a warrior. No doubt many a Shawnee woman dreamed of lying beneath him at night. For a moment, he stood in silence, but when he spoke his voice filled the council house.

He reminded the people of his deeds and that he was war chief from a long line of war chiefs. Then he told them all how his wife had been ravished and killed by English trappers last summer and that his grief at her death was still great. He spoke of her virtues and her skill as wife and mother, drawing shouts of agreement from the others of his village, who clearly sorrowed for her, too. The emotion in Katakwa’s voice left no doubt in Connor’s mind that Katakwa had cherished her.

And some of Connor’s anger left him.

He knew Iain and Morgan would go mad with rage and grief should Annie or Amalie die in so terrible a fashion. They would never stop until vengeance had been won. And although Connor had never had a wife, nor loved any woman, he understood only too well what grief could do to a man. During those dark months when he’d thought Morgan dead, slain by the French, grief had eaten at his soul and he’d done far worse than Katakwa.

Connor could not condemn Katakwa without also condemning himself.

He faithfully spoke Katakwa’s words in English.

Lady Sarah listened, her gaze fixed on him.

Then Katakwa came to the heart of it. “I am left with three small children who have no mother. My hearth and bed are cold. I vowed on my wife’s spilled blood that I would take from the English what they took from me, and so I took this woman. Though I could have slain her, I choose instead to honor her by making her one of us and taking her as my wife.”

And Connor knew in that instant that freeing the lass would not be easy, for a vow made on the blood of a dead loved one
was not to be set aside lightly, no more for a Shawnee husband than for a Scotsman.

He finished speaking Katakwa’s words into English, his mind too caught up in what was being said to see what effect this speech had upon the lady.

“No!” Lady Sarah’s cry took him by surprise. She shot to her feet, tearing the band of wampum from her throat, scattering purple and white beads across the floor. She looked from Connor to Katakwa and back, her voice trembling as she spoke, her accent regally English, one arm still crossed protectively over her breasts. “I’ll not be his wife! I’ll not marry him!”

S
arah felt the heat of every gaze upon her, her pulse rushing in her ears. She tried to ignore the crowd, speaking only to Major MacKinnon. “He and the others killed Jane and poor Thomas! I would rather—”

Before she could finish, fingers bit painfully into her arms, and the women who’d bathed her pulled her down to sit upon the mats again, holding her fast. They glared at her, one of them giving her a sharp slap across the face. She struggled to free her arms so that she might at least cover her breasts, but they would not release her.

The old woman who sat before her spoke to Major MacKinnon, who answered in the strange language of the Indians, whatever he said causing Katakwa to leap to his feet and shout, his gaze falling for one terrible moment upon Sarah.

When the hall was silent again and Katakwa had settled, Major MacKinnon at last met Sarah’s gaze and spoke in English once more. “My lady, you must hold your tongue and keep your place, else you may suffer harm. Do you understand?”

She swallowed, her cheek still stinging. “Yes, sir. But I cannot marry him!”

“I told them that Katakwa offends you and you refuse to marry him, but their chief, Grannie Clear Water, she who sits
before you, would put you in mind of the fact that you are a captive and have no say over what is to become of you.”

Her father had said something very similar to her before sending her away.

Her stomach sank, a great emptiness filling her. “But, sir, I—”

“Have courage, my lady.” With that, Major MacKinnon’s attention shifted away from her and back to the elderly woman who sat before her.

The old woman was their chief? Long silver braids fell down her stooped back, beads and small, striped feathers of brown and black at their ends. She began to speak again, gesturing toward an Indian man who sat beside Major MacKinnon.

Dressed differently from the others, he was the most striking Indian she’d seen thus far, with long dark hair, his face free of paint and etchings, a beaded band around his forehead, a single dark feather braided into his hair.