Candace McCarthy (22 page)

Joanna curled her body into a ball as she lay on the ground in a hidden hollow, hoping for a short sleep. She was exhausted. When she’d left the campsite, she’d run without stopping, fearful that John would wake up and discover her disappearance too soon for her to make a successful escape.

She was going to get farther this time, she’d decided. He would never catch her. And so she went on until her legs felt like jelly, and she was ready to drop.

As she struggled to get into a more comfortable position, Joanna thought about continuing. She hadn’t wanted to rest, but was forced to. She prayed that after a short nap she’d have the energy to race on.

She wasn’t sure where she was going, and for now she didn’t care. The only thing on her mind was being free. If she could be sure that John Burton had given up the chase and gone home, she would breathe easier. She knew she should be afraid. There were wild animals about, Indians who were not Lenni Lenape, and the danger of exposure should the air temperature turn cold or the weather nasty. But it wasn’t the forest that frightened her; she was afraid of the cold hard murderer who pursued her.

Joanna shivered. She was feeling chilled in only her shift despite the warmth of the late summer sun, but she thought the cold in her bones would pass once she was rested.

A wind kicked up, rustling the trees overhead and the brush around her. Her body trembling, Joanna huddled into a tighter ball, and tried to sleep. Her eyes closed, then flashed open when she heard a sound, but it was nothing . . . a squirrel or some other animal scurrying through the woods.

It happened several times that she heard something, thought it was John, and became alert just as she was about to doze off, only to discover that it was the wind or an animal.

Finally, she ignored the noise, shut her eyes and kept them closed, and felt the weightlessness of drifting. Vulnerable, exposed, yet exhausted beyond measure, Joanna finally slept.

 

 

“Bloody woman!” John raged and fumed as he crashed through the forest in his search for Joanna Neville. He had to find her! Marriage was the only way to save his home in England . . . to save his own neck now that he’d stolen money from her. If she got back to England, and learned that he’d taken some of the Manor’s funds, he would be arrested. And he could easily hang for his crimes.

“Joanna!” he called. “Joanna.”

He stood listening to the silence. The only sound was the increasing wind and the foliage it shook. There wasn’t a man or woman or beast in sight.

“Joanna! Love, don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you!”

But the silence after the sound of his voice lengthened.

Where the devil was she? he wondered. She shouldn’t have run away! He thought of all the precious time that was being wasted because the woman had chosen to escape him.

His arms were aching. Brown’s rifle was weightier than his own gun. The pistol would be ideal for the chase, but Joanna had it, not he!

He snarled as he eyed the gun. Furious, he aimed his rifle at a bird and fired off a shot, but missed it.

Enraged, he hefted the unloaded rifle, and slammed the butt of the handle against the tree, cursing. “I want my pistol!” he growled. “Bloody rifle is heavy and clumsy!”

With jerky movements, he reloaded the gun, pouring in black powder and dropping in shot, reminding himself that he’d best not waste any more ammunition.

He hated the rifle, but he couldn’t let it go. It was his only weapon in a wilderness fraught with danger.

“Cursed woman has caused me nothing but grief!” He glanced down at his ruined garments, and cursed again.

 

 

 

 

Joanna sat up with a jerk, her pulse racing wildly. The smile on her face died as she realized that it had only been a dream. She was still in the forest. Fireheart wasn’t there. He hadn’t come for her, or searched for her for a long time.

Tears filled her eyes and she lay down again. Rain began to fall, and she pulled her knees up to her chest, trying to protect herself from the cold wetness.

She began to shiver. Then she scooped up some of the dead dry leaves that carpeted the ground between the live growth, hoping to shield and warm herself.

Joanna knew she should get up and move to a better place, but she didn’t have the strength, and finally it didn’t matter, as sleep overtook her once again, making her oblivious to the bad weather.

 

 

“We are near,” Fireheart called as he came to a small clearing. It was raining, and the rain had wiped out some of the signs. Some but not all.

“How do you know this?” Rising Bird said, still in the forest.

The chief waved his friend over to his spot. “This.”

Rising Bird stared down at the blanketclad body with mounting horror. He and Fireheart exchanged glances before he reached down to lift the blanket. He felt Fireheart’s fear, perhaps because he shared it. He swept off the cover and stared.

“Gillian,” he said, his chest tightening.

“It is not Autumn Wind,” Fireheart said gratefully, “but someone did this to Gillian, and we know it was not she.”

The warrior nodded. “There is a killer about, and he may kill Joanna.”

“We must find her quickly.” The cold dread that filled his heart made him shiver.

“Kihiila,
before he kills her, too.”

Rising Bird covered up Gillian’s body. Then he and Fireheart continued into the forest, their knives drawn, their gazes alert.

“This way,” Fireheart said as he noted a low broken bush limb. “They’ve gone this way.”

“Do you think they are still together?” Rising Bird asked.

“This man does not know. We can only hope and pray to the Great Spirit that Autumn Wind has managed to escape him.”

The old warrior frowned. “Then we must hurry, for John Burton will be chasing her.”

Fireheart’s chest tightened as he agreed.

“Get up!” A kick in her side jerked Joanna from a sound sleep. When the foot caught her hard in the stomach, she gasped and scrambled to her feet.

“John!” She stood, paralyzed with fear, her thoughts and heart racing.

Rain fell heavily from the sky, drenching both of them. Joanna stared at him. John’s dark hair was plastered to his scalp; his clothes were wet and clinging to him. He wore a white shirt that was soiled and torn, knee breeches, and black shoes with silver buckles and ripped stockings. Seeing the glimpse of his nipple through his soaked shirt, Joanna realized that she was more exposed than he was.

Just as the thought came, his look at her breasts confirmed it, and she covered herself as best she could with her arms. She could do nothing to cover her most private area, and when he glanced below her waist, she shuddered.

“You thought you could get away,” he said, his blue eyes burning, evil. There were cuts and scratches on his face as if, while wandering from the path, he’d had a battle with some bushes. The thought might have otherwise made her smile if circumstances were different, but his expression terrified her.

Joanna felt a knot form in her stomach when she saw no sign of her friend. “Where’s Gillian?”

His smile was grim. “She had a slight accident, I’m afraid.” He fingered the trigger of the gun. “She had the misfortune of learning that those who betray me don’t live.”

She tightened her arms around herself as she felt a mix of horror and burning anger. “You killed her?” She couldn’t believe what he’d said, that he had murdered her best friend.

He laughed as if the fact amused him. “Yes, I killed her! I shot her, my dear future wife, in the heart where all conniving lovers should earn their due.”

Then he began to describe exactly what they’d been doing before he’d killed her, how it felt to pull the trigger, and how she looked when he’d done the deed.

Joanna felt sick. He had made love to her, then coldbloodedly killed her!

“You monster!” she hissed.

“I? I most certainly am not! If I were a monster, Joanna, I would be pulling this trigger instead of just touching it. But I’m a generous man. I’m giving you—us—a chance to talk about this.” He gestured toward the ground. “Sit,” he ordered.

She shook her head, but decided to relent when she saw his expression. She realized, too, that by sitting she could better conceal herself from his lecherous gaze. She sat, uncaring of the cold rain that continued to pour over her body. She began to shiver, her body’s natural reaction to the chill and the man’s nearness.

“What are you going to do with me?”

He gave her a soft smile. “That depends entirely on you, dear Joanna.” He chortled when her answer was just to stare at him. “You don’t understand, do you? You see, I still want you for my wife. As I said, I can be a generous man. Consent to wed me and be a good wife, and I’ll allow you to live.”

“And if I don’t?” she dared to ask.

“Then I’ll have to kill you, just like I murdered poor Gillian. Only your death will not be as nice and as quick as Gillian’s for you, my dear Joanna, have betrayed me not once but twice.”

Grief contorted Joanna’s features as she pictured her friend’s horrible death. “She loved you!”

“And I loved her,” he said. “However, we don’t always get to live with the one we love, do we?” She relaxed slightly when he lowered the gun. “I’ll be perfectly content with you as my wife.”

“I wouldn’t lie with you if you were the last man on earth!” she said with vehemence.

He tried to look amused, but failed. Joanna saw that she had more than annoyed him. The spark that briefly lit up his eyes, which he was quick to conceal, was anger.

“And who would you allow to touch you and lie with you?” he asked. His mouth curved at an idea he thought preposterous. “A savage?” His voice, thick with sarcasm, was aimed to taunt.

A mental image of Fireheart making love to her made Joanna blush and look away.

“A savage!” he exploded, enraged to see her reaction. “Don’t tell me that you care for a savage! Dear God in heaven, your uncle would die from an attack if he learned the truth, if he weren’t already dead.” He eyed her with contempt. “No wonder you wanted to go back to the village!”

She glared at him. “Fireheart is a better man than you will ever be!” she snapped. “And if my uncle were alive, I’d be happy if it killed him!” She fisted her hands at her sides. “Bastard! You are a sorry bastard, John Burton. I hope you rot in hell!”

With a soft laugh, he smoothed his face free of all expression. “Now is that any way to talk about your loving fiancé?” His voice was silky, sensual. Joanna thought she’d be sick.

“You are not my fiance!” she argued.

She didn’t care what he did to her, she thought. She wouldn’t marry him!

And then she remembered the danger. And the flintlock pistol. She had buried the gun in some leaves. He must have read her thoughts for suddenly he narrowed his gaze at her. He lifted his arm and pointed the gun at her.

“Where is my pistol?” he asked, watching her like a hawk.

“I lost it,” she lied, straight-faced. “It was dark and rainy and cold. I meant to keep it. It was my only weapon.” She raised her hands. “I can’t very well hide it on my person, can I?”

She allowed him the indignity of gawking at her . . . at her scantily clad breasts and bare legs. It didn’t matter how he looked as long as he believed that she’d lost the gun.

“Well, can I?” she asked. “I’ve no pockets, no hiding places.”

John stared. “True enough, I suppose.” The arm propping the rifle up wavered.

Joanna willed him to lower the gun so that she could have a better chance of retrieving the pistol. Could she shoot him? she wondered. She must, or die trying.

“Get up,” he ordered.

Her mind raced as she thought quickly. If she got up without getting the gun, her one chance would be lost.

“I’m tired,” she said. “Can’t we rest for a bit more? You woke me up!” she accused.

The whole scene seemed unreal to Joanna. She sat on the ground, getting soaked by the rain while the man whom she had once considered a friend held a gun on her and ordered her to rise.

“You’ll have plenty of time for sleep later.”

“John—”

“Now!” he barked.

His harsh command made her jump. Her hand fumbled beneath the leaves in search for the pistol as she slowly shifted while starting to rise.

“Joanna!”

Her heart pounded as she heard him move closer.

Her hand closed over steel. Triumphant, she gripped the pistol, turned as she rose, then spun and stuck it in the middle of his chest. “Bastard!” she hissed, poking him.

With a roar, he swung his arms with the rifle, and she felt the pain of the rifle connecting with her temple.

She cried out with pain before he hit her again, and the edges of her world began to darken. She breathed deeply, reeling with the painful throbbing, then fighting a feeling of desperation as she lunged at him.

She heard the air gush from his lungs as he was taken by surprise. Pleased, she began to hit and kick him. She felt a glimmer of satisfaction when her knee made contact between his legs and he bent over gasping with pain.

His weak moment gave her time to reach for the pistol and the rifle, but he was on her before she could retrieve both. And the two began to struggle again.

“Bitch!” he cried. Enraged now, he tried to grab her throat, but she evaded him. She tried to knee-kick him in the groin again, but he caught her arms and twisted them behind her back.

She cried with pain, and he laughed and shook her, causing her to whimper as he wrenched her limbs higher.

“I’m going to have to tie you up now,” he said. “What a pity . . . although it does give a man the chance to touch where he wants.”

She cringed at the thought of his touching her. The only man who had touched her intimately had been Fireheart, and she had welcomed his caresses, gloried in them. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—allow John to tarnish the memory of a lover’s touch.

She slumped against him in the hope that he would think her too exhausted to keep up the fight. She wasn’t sure it was going to work at first. But when he had to drag her sagging body back to the spot where the fight had begun, he must have decided to believe it.

Joanna waited until he set her down. She couldn’t let him tie her, or she’d be defenseless.
Where will he find rope to bind me?

He threw her to the ground, pointed the pistol at her, which he had somehow managed to retrieve, and cocked the gun. “One move and I’ll kill you!” he snarled.

And she froze for she knew he meant it.

Just when she thought she’d be safe from being bound, she saw John reach for his shirt hem and tear off a cloth strip.

He was going to use fabric from his garment to tie her she realized with a shudder.

“John,” she said, “I’ll not try to escape again. You don’t have to tie me.”

He glanced at her with disdain. “I’ll not believe you again, Joanna. How can I when you’ve taken every opportunity to try to defy me?”

As he managed to start ripping a second strip, Joanna panicked. “I told you I’d give you Neville Manor,” she cried. “I never wanted it anyway.”

He paused in the middle of tearing. “You’re joking.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t want to go to England. I was a young girl, perfectly content with my life here in the New World.”

His look was disbelieving, then ugly. “Your uncle gave you everything, and this is the gratitude you have toward him?”

“He was a cruel man. I hated him.”

John tore off a second strip. “He was a good man. He was never anything but kind to me and Michael.”

“Perhaps you were the sons he never had.”

“He had a son,” John surprised her by saying. “Kenneth. But Kenneth Neville was a fool so Roderick disowned him.”

Roderick had a son? She was stunned. Never again would she call Roderick Neville uncle. He didn’t deserve the title or her affection. Now it seemed that he didn’t deserve his only son.

“What was wrong with Kenneth?” she asked, curious, hoping to distract John from the thought of tying her up.

“Kenneth?” He looked thoughtful. The rain had slowed to a fine drizzle, less drenching, but no less cold. John, however, seemed totally unaffected by the chill.

“Kenneth was a weak bloke,” he said. “He wasn’t a bad fellow actually, but when Roderick’s wife left him, Kenneth was foolish enough to leave with her. Roderick never forgave his wife or his son for abandoning him.”

“He probably abused her as he did his servants and his niece.”

John tensed. “He didn’t abuse you.”

“Oh, no?” She raised the hem of her tattered shift, and turned to draw his attention to the back of her thighs. “What are these scars from then?”

“The Indians,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction. And then Joanna saw that he wasn’t looking at her scars so much as at the small amount of silken flesh that she had unintentionally displayed of her buttocks.

She quickly lowered her shift and rolled over.

“You will be a better lover than Gillian. I’m sure of it,” he said, making her nervous. She didn’t like his look.

“John, no—”

“I would have waited until we wed, but now you’ve spoiled it. It will work to my best advantage to take you. If I ruin your innocence, we will have to wed.”

She swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. “And what if I’m not a virgin?”

His features contorted with anger. “If you’re not pure, I’ll not have to be gentle with you.” He stroked the fabric strips as one would caress a lover’s skin. Joanna shivered as she was consumed by a cold dread.

“I’m pure,” she said, hoping that he would believe the lie.

The slight softening of his features told her he did. She breathed an inward sigh of relief until she saw his approach . . . and his intent. He was coming to render her helpless with wrist and ankle bonds.

She froze as he came to her, unable to move, unable to breathe. He settled a length of fabric about her neck, and her terror became centered in a new concern. He was going to strangle her. Right here and now, it was all going to end.

But he didn’t tighten the noose. He rubbed the wet fabric against her skin, sliding it back and forth as if he wanted to arouse the sensitive area on her nape. John was titillated, she realized. She was appalled, and the longer he continued, she grew irritated, then angry.

Where were the guns? She looked and saw the rifle on the ground where he’d stood and pulled off pieces of his shirt. The pistol she couldn’t see. Did he have it against her back? Would he take her by surprise as he had Gillian, or would he move around her, watch her face as he slowly choked her then shot the life from her.

Just as she wondered about the pistol, she saw his hands on either side of her, pulling the fabric. It was almost as if he was caught up in the sensual pull and tug of cloth . . . as if it excited him although he had wanted to stimulate her desire.

She grimaced. Disgusting. But she knew now that his pistol was either tucked in the waist of his breeches, or lying on the ground beside him.

He slid the cloth this way and that, moving it to stroke her throat. When he began to murmur dirty things in her ear, she knew she’d been right, John Burton was becoming sexually, dangerously, aroused.

She offered up a silent prayer for guidance. She acted on the thought that came to her, grabbing the cloth strip, giving it a yank and rolling with it at the same time.

She felt John’s weight settle on her briefly as they both fell to their sides. His grunt of pain was quickly followed by his heavy breathing in her ear . . . as he rolled back to her.