Defiant (6 page)

You are the great-granddaughter of a king, Sarah Elizabeth, the daughter of a marquess and a princess. Show them you are strong!

She drew a deep breath, raised her chin, and fixed her gaze straight ahead.

C
onnor knew the war party had arrived and that she was with them. A murmur of anticipation passed through the village, excited voices penetrating the log walls of the council house, where Connor and Joseph sat, having just smoked the pipe with the village chief, an old woman called Grannie Clear Water.

Grannie had welcomed Joseph like a son, her manner toward Connor somewhat less cordial. Still, she’d fed them both at her fire, accepting tobacco and wampum as gifts from them. She’d listened patiently while Joseph had explained their reason for coming, then had insisted on the Pipe Ceremony. And yet beneath the acts of friendship, Connor sensed the old woman’s mistrust of him. She’d called him a brave warrior, but the word she’d used often meant “enemy” as well. There was no doubt in Connor’s mind that she considered him to be the latter.

She had refused to speak a word on the matter of Wentworth’s niece yet. And there was no rushing her. To bring up the subject again would be rude. She would answer them in her own good time, for she had much to consider. If she yielded too easily to Joseph and Connor’s demand that she release Lady Sarah, she would anger her people, perhaps even lose headship
of the village. Yet she could not ignore the threat of the British or the bonds between her people and Joseph’s.

“They have returned!” a boy called in excited Shawnee.

“Katakwa is back!” shouted another.

Connor willed himself to sit impassively, as did Joseph beside him, betraying no interest in the goings-on outside the council house.

But Grannie Clear Water met their gazes, then nodded, clearly not fooled. She got to her feet with the help of one of her daughters. “Let us go see the cause for all this noise.”

Connor followed her outside, Joseph behind him. They walked to the southern edge of the village, where a crowd had gathered, elders, women, and children shouting at someone, while the warriors of the village stood back and watched in amusement. Connor knew they were yelling at Wentworth’s niece, pouring out the rage they felt about the war on her, putting the weight of their grief and hatred upon her shoulders.

It was a common enough custom—this harrying of newcomers and captives. Connor and Joseph had faced it themselves when they’d arrived this afternoon, though not to such an extreme, for they had entered the village as free men and warriors. When their names had been recognized—the name “MacKinnon,” it seemed, was well known to them—every man, woman, and child had fallen silent. But Wentworth’s niece was a captive, and as such she would bear far worse, no matter that she was young and a woman.

“If this doesna humble her, I cannae say what will.” But even as Connor made light of her predicament, he didn’t like what he saw. He’d been raised to show women gentleness, not to stand idly by while they were treated ill, even if they were haughty and spoiled.

Then the crowd shifted, and he saw her.

So young and fragile she seemed, and yet also defiant. She walked with her head high, neither shrinking from the blows and jabs that were heaped upon her, nor weeping. But he could see she was sore afraid, her eyes wide, her gaze darting here and there, her breathing rapid and shallow. The violence she’d endured was written on her pretty face, a fresh bruise on her cheek, dark circles beneath her eyes, her skin pale. Her honey-colored hair hung in tangled waves almost to her waist, her cloak and gown tattered and dirty.

“So that’s Wentworth’s spoiled princess,” Joseph said.

But Connor didn’t hear him. He forgot the lassie was kin to Wentworth. He forgot he was a guest in this village, bound by custom not to interfere. He forgot everything except the fact that he’d come for her—and she needed his help.

He took a step in her direction, Joseph’s muttered warning calling him back to himself. “If you want to help her, stay where you are and hold your tongue.”

Connor swore under his breath, forcing himself to do nothing but watch while a tall warrior, his face painted in black and red, led her through the throng, his control over her assured by a leather cord he’d bound tightly around her wrists. He gave a tug, jerking her forward as if she were an animal.

Connor wanted to kill him.

Then the warriors of the village began to form two opposing rows, clubs in hand, a sea of onlookers gathering around them.

They were going to make the poor lass run the gauntlet.

Connor started forward, rage drumming in his chest, only to be stopped by Joseph’s iron grip on his arm.

“You know they will not seriously hurt her.” Joseph’s voice was a whisper. “Do not forget, brother, that we are outnumbered.”

The man who held her bonds—the one they called Katakwa—made her stand at one end of the two opposing rows, then removed the leather cords and left her there alone, dark bruises around her wrists where she’d been bound.

She seemed to realize what they meant to do, her panicked gaze darting amongst the warriors, taking in the grim looks on their faces and the weapons in their hands, her breathing erratic, her fingers clenched in her skirts.

Be strong, lass.

Apparently impatient, Katakwa gave her a shove, knocking her to her knees between the first two men, who struck her repeatedly on the back with their clubs, hitting her hard enough to cause her pain, but not hard enough to wound her. She struggled to stand, only to be struck by the next two men the moment she reached her feet, their war whoops and the shouts of the crowd all but drowning out her frightened cries.

Connor gritted his teeth. It took every bit of will he possessed to stand there and do nothing. His father had taught him that God had given men strength so that they could protect
women and children, not so they could harm them. To watch while grown men beat a defenseless lass…

The bastard sons of whores!

She stumbled forward, holding her arms up to her head to ward off their blows, buffeted back and forth as the men struck her. But it was clear she understood now that her suffering would end once she reached the end of the line. Her gaze fixed on that spot, and she tried to run, struggling to stay on her feet as she was struck again and again, until at last she pitched forward and broke free, landing on her hands and knees in the mud.

It was over.

Connor let out a breath, willing himself to stand rooted where he was.

Breathing hard, her body trembling, she slowly lifted her gaze, looking about as if to see what lay in store for her next, fear, shock, and pain mingled on her face, tears sliding down her cheeks. It was then she saw him, her gaze locking with his. And the plea in her eyes was as clear as if she’d cried the words aloud.

Help me!

H
er back and arms still stinging from the sharp blows, Sarah stared up at the man, her gaze taking in the sight of him all at once. Though his skin was brown from the sun, his features were clearly European. His eyes were a deep shade of blue, his hair long and dark, braids at each temple. Unlike the Indian men who had no beards, his jaw was dark with stubble. He wore leather leggings and moccasins like an Indian, but his shirt was of blue-checked homespun, the cloth of it all but concealed beneath a shaggy bearskin coat.

Was he French? He must be. Who else would live amongst Indians hostile to the Crown?

She met his gaze, saw an emotion in his eyes she could not read.
“Aidez-moi, monsieur! Je vous en supplie, aidez-moi!” Help me, sir! I beg you—help me!

Whether he’d understood her, she couldn’t tell, for in that moment her view of him was blocked by beaded skirts and leggings. Gentle hands drew her to her feet, and two gray-haired women guided her away from the crowd, one at each arm, speaking to her softly, like a mother speaking to a frightened child, their words foreign.

When Sarah looked over her shoulder, the man was gone.

As the women led her though the village, it seemed to Sarah that she had passed into another world. Small, round lodges
clustered together looking rather like a village of large gray beehives. Men and women went about their work, the men dressed like Katakwa, the women wearing shirts with leggings and beaded skirts, their hair braided. A butchered deer hung from a wooden frame, its head sitting on a bed of dried reeds. Children ran through the maze of lodges, shouting and laughing, dogs nosing for scraps in the mud.

But, although people stared at her as she passed, there were no more shouts, and no one hit her, pinched her, or pulled her hair. Had the beating she’d just endured been some kind of initiation rite? If so, perhaps the worst of it was over.

She prayed with all her heart it was.

They came to a small lodge, its walls made like the others—great mats of tree bark held in place by twined ropes and rocks. The women pushed aside a door cover of woven grasses and went inside, motioning for Sarah to follow. She ducked down and entered, the door falling into place behind her.

The lodge was dimly lit but warm, a fire burning in its center, smoke curling out through a small flap in the roof that was propped open by a long stick. Mats of woven grasses covered the earthen floor and adorned the walls like tapestries, designs painted on them in shades of red, yellow, and blue. Dried herbs, antlers, feathers, and what looked like the talons of a large bird of prey hung from the poles that made up the lodge’s frame, empty wooden bowls stacked along the wall beside woven baskets filled with acorns, seeds, strips of dried meat. Raised platforms stood against the other walls. Covered with furs and blankets, they must have been beds.

Two other women sat inside tending a kettle on the fire. Both were older than Sarah, one heavy with child, her big belly protruding above her skirt, her breasts bare. And though Sarah knew she should avert her gaze, she’d never before seen the bare belly of a woman who was increasing, nor had she ever seen another woman’s naked breasts. She could not help but notice how full and dark the woman’s nipples were compared to her own.

The women who’d brought her here sat on mats and motioned for her to do the same. Feeling sorely unnerved to be near a woman who was all but naked, she settled her skirts around her and was made to listen while each of them took turns speaking to her with foreign words, smiles on their faces. Unable to understand
them, and keen to avoid seeing things she should not see, she focused instead on their faces.

Like Katakwa, they had lines and dots etched into their skin, but none of them were pierced through the nose. Strings of beads and polished shell were tied around their braids and hung through loops in their earlobes, bands of purple and white shell at their throats. One reached out, tenderly touching the bruise on Sarah’s cheek, another stroking her hair, as if they regretted her suffering.

And her hope rekindled.

“Parlez-vous français?”
Sarah asked, eager to understand them—and to make herself understood. Perhaps they might be persuaded to let her go. “Do you speak English?
Loquerisne linguam latinam
?”

But they looked at her with blank faces, clearly not comprehending what she’d said.

They stood as one and drew her to her feet. Then the one who was with child took up a small knife Sarah had not noticed before and moved toward her.

Sarah’s heart gave a hard thud. She backed away. “N-no! Don’t!”

But the other women held her.

“No! Please!” She squeezed her eyes shut as the blade arced through the air toward her chest, the strength all but leaving her legs as she whispered what she thought would be her last words.
“Lord have mercy upon—”

Then she felt a tug and heard a tearing sound.

She opened her eyes to find her clothes being cut from her body, the knife slicing cleanly through her gown, her stays, her chemise. Fear became rage, and she fought to free herself. “Stop! Why are you doing this?”

But they were stronger than they seemed, their hold on her like iron.

Someone patted her on the arm, the women speaking in soothing tones as the blade cut through her petticoats and skirts, and her clothes fell to the floor, leaving her completely naked. The garments were tossed aside, and the women moved around in front of her, their gazes passing over her body as if they were examining a mare.

Sarah covered herself and looked away, her face burning.
No one had seen her naked since she was a very little girl, not even her mother. To be exposed like this…

Then hands guided her nearer to the fire, and the women sat on their heels, motioning once more for her to do the same. One arm across her breasts, the other covering her most private flesh, she sat, unable to meet the women’s gazes. She heard water being ladled from the kettle, heard something splash, and then felt the press of a warm wet cloth against tender new bruises on her back as they began to bathe her.

Was this their intent? Did they simply mean to bathe her? What did they mean for her to wear afterward? Did they hope to dress her as they dressed?

Sarah had so many questions, but no one to answer them.

Gently, they washed her back, her face, her neck and throat, her shoulders and her arms, spreading some kind of soap across her skin, then rinsing it away, the warm water and the fine leather cloth soothing her sore muscles and bruised flesh. Wherever they washed her, they also applied a honey-scented oil, kneading it into her skin. And as they cared for her, their hands gentle, their voices calming, Sarah felt herself begin to quieten, some of her fear edging away. Being attended to in this manner was not altogether unfamiliar to her, though her lady’s maids never bathed her, nor did they see her naked. They brushed her hair and…

Jane.

Sarah felt a stab of pain behind her breastbone, tears blurring her vision. Only yesterday morning Jane had helped her with her toilette, brushing and styling her hair, helping her with her petticoats and stays. And now sweet Jane was—