Red Bird's Song (4 page)

Heart racing, she bolted upright. “Get me out of here!"

Men stirred on every side of her. Sleepy voices grunted.

"Hush. You will wake all.” Grasping her shoulders, Wicomechee pushed her down onto the woolen blanket.

She struggled to rise, choking back the scream begging her throat for release. “Please. I beseech you."

He forced her to remain where she was. “Calm down."

"I can't. If I don't get out—"

"Shhhh...” He bent over her and spoke in her ear. “Hear me, Charity. I will take you from here if I must."

Her panic eased slightly. “You will? You promise?"

"Have I not said? You see the way, just there.” He pointed to the ghostly opening then wrapped the edges of the blanket around her. “You shake like a leaf in the wind."

It whistled beyond the cave and the cold air blew inside. Despite the chill, she'd far rather bolt out into the teeth of the bluster and lie beneath the stars than remain in here. “It's so dark, Mechee,” she said in a small voice.

He lay down beside her so that his shoulder pressed against hers. “You fear the dark?"

Denial was pointless. “And those it holds."

"None seek to harm you."

She was acutely aware of men slumbering all around her. “Chaka could kill me before I even knew."

"No. I will keep you safe,” Wicomechee reassured her.

She relaxed a little more. “How long have we been here? I don't remember coming."

"Night is far gone. I brought you."

Memory returned of him forcing her to trudge on and on through the dark woods until she'd slumped onto the ground weeping uncontrollably. She must have fallen asleep the instant he'd lifted her. A sharp twinge of resentment ran through her. “You were cruel—"

"For bringing you?"

"For making me go on."

"That was cruel? You do not know the meaning of this word,” he said gruffly.

"I fear you will teach me."

He turned onto his side facing her. Even in the blackness she felt the force of his personality. “Because I made you walk? Has no one made you walk, made you work?"

"Not like you did,” she said through chattering teeth.

"I tended your knee, fed you, carried you. Was I to leave you along the trail?"

"Someone would have found me."

"Or another war party. If hunger and cold did not kill you first. You would perish out here."

"Maybe so,". she argued. “But you were still harsh."

He made an impatient sound under his breath. “If I warm you, will you say I am harsh?"

A startled gasp escaped her as he pulled her against his chest, molding her to him. She had the sense of his hard thighs and long legs pressed along hers. His scent enveloped her, a blend of earth, trees, and wind mingled with his own unique essence.

"Do you suffer now?” he whispered.

All protest died on her lips. She was too stunned to speak. The heat from his solid warmth penetrated the cloth between them, easing her chill. Yet this new awareness of his strong body lying next to hers was stirring in a way she'd never experienced. Only her father and brother had ever held her, and never like this. Nor had their embrace evoked any of the odd quivers fluttering inside her now.

What on earth was wrong with her? She should beg him to let her go, insist, if he would heed her, but the feel of him was so unexpectedly inviting...the masculine scent emanating from him oddly comforting, and she was sorely in need. Berating her weakness, she remained as she was.

He settled onto his back and nestled her in the crook of his arm. “You can bear my punishment?"

Refusing to concede any gratification, she said nothing.

"Sleep, stubborn one."

Charity's last sensation as she drifted into oblivion was of Wicomechee lightly stroking her hair...like the man in her dream, but he couldn't possibly be him. She must have struck her head as well as her knee.

The second time Charity opened her eyes, sunlight filtered through the rock walls of the spacious cave. Golden rays slanted across Wicomechee and Colin Dickson seated on one side of her speaking quietly together. Chestnut hair fell below the Englishman's shoulders, not tied back as he'd worn it two years ago, and the fine clothes were gone. His high top moccasins and leggings were like Wicomechee's, though his blue hunting shirt covered his thighs.

Lying perfectly motionless, she shifted her drowsy focus to Wicomechee and lingered there. This was her first opportunity to study him without being observed in return.

Streaks of paint smudged his face, but
savage
, the term she was used to hearing, did not apply to him. There were characteristics in his mannerism that reminded her of Colin, the way he tilted his head, gesturing with long tapered fingers, his earnest expression and fluency, as though he were a mix of Shawnee and English.

Perhaps Colin had transferred some of his finer qualities to his adopted brother. Wicomechee was undeniably attractive. She'd never expected that in a warrior. His eyes reminded her of dark pools where the deep-woods fern grow. His nose, neither too large nor too small, complimented his smooth brow, high cheekbones and strong chin. Nor could she fault his gleaming hair, or muscular chest partly revealed beneath the cream-colored hunting shirt open at the neck. But his intimacy in the night left her bewildered, as did her disquieting response.

Colin's presence was reassuring. He was about the same age her brother, Craig, would have been if he'd lived, eight and twenty. In a comforting way Colin seemed like an older brother and he had some control over these warriors, although the close bond between him and Wicomechee perplexed her.

The Englishman held a sleeping little girl in his arms. Brown ringlets concealed her face and a striped blanket wrapped her. Charity hadn't seen any other captives taken. “Mister Dickson, whom have you got there?"

Colin shifted his gaze to Charity. Sadness hazed the blue depths. “Lily McCue."

Charity cringed. “What of Lily's family?” she asked, dreading his reply.

Grim lines edged Colin's mouth. “Dead."

Her stomach twisted in a sick knot. She envisioned Mister McCue lying in the field and his young wife crumpled by the hearth. “No,” she cried softly. “I liked the McCues."

Colin blew out his cheeks in a heavy sigh. “So did I. One of the other war parties attacked them. I could in no way intervene for their lives."

Charity sat up, feeling her aches from yesterday's ordeal. Helpless to alter the McCue's grisly fate, she fixed accusing eyes on Wicomechee. How could she, for one single moment, forget who—or what—he was?

The fire in Charity's jewel-like eyes and the tremor at her pretty mouth told Wicomechee she sought a target to strike. He could stare endlessly at this English beauty, but had the distinct impression he was about to be attacked.

She loosed the first volley. “How can your people be so heartless?"

He bristled. Here was this glorious girl in all her ignorance daring to berate him. “You speak to me of caring, daughter of the Long Knives? Your people cause us much suffering, also to Shawnee women and children."

"That doesn't make it right to attack ours, or unarmed men,” she flung back.

"Would you have our warriors wait until your men stare at us down a musket barrel? And leave your women to birth an army of sons to grow up to fight us and steal our land?"

She sputtered. “That's not what I meant."

"Yet this is what I know. You have no understanding."

"No. But I have,” his adopted brother, Waupee, interceded. “Man to man. That's how war should be conducted, if it must be. What chance have these helpless ones?” he asked, looking from the child he cradled to his woman still asleep beneath a dark blue blanket.

Wicomechee's conscience chided him, but the hardship his people endured ate at him like a festering wound. “Shawnee anger is great,
NiSawsawh
."

"And you know I despise British rule in America."

"The English will not allow us to trade for what we need. Without powder, shot, muskets, how are we to hunt, to eat? They must pay for the suffering they bring,” Wicomechee insisted. “Perhaps then they will hear us."

Waupee shook his head glumly. “I despair of them ever hearing. Men in power are far removed from the harsh reality of life in the frontier.” Lily whimpered restlessly and he patted her back. “Hush, little darling,” he soothed, and spoke again to Wicomechee. “It is not they who suffer from the rage their scornful policies create, but these."

"Many helpless ones are also stung when the hornets fly in anger. This, I too, regret,” Wicomechee conceded.

Charity's baffled gaze slid between them, settling on Wicomechee. “What will happen to Lily?"

He pointed across the cave to the warriors clustered in sunbeams and shadowed corners. The mood of the group was relaxed, partly due to the strong drink taken from homesteads. The casks had been tapped. Braves poured the brew into wooden and stoneware cups, sharing the stash between them. He singled out one man with the sinewy look of a lean wolf.

"Wacuchathi took her captive to adopt in place of the daughter he lost to white man's sickness."

Charity glared at the unaware brave. “That's wrong."

"Is it better she dies?” Wicomechee asked.

"That warrior took part in the murder of Lily's family.” Charity turned to Waupee. “Can you do nothing for her, Mister Dickson?"

He eyed Charity in sorrowful resignation. “It is Wacuchathi's right to keep Lily, but he doesn't object if I care for her until we reach the village."

"Why did all of the McCue's have to die?"

Wicomechee answered simply. “No warrior wanted them."

"Captives are taken for different reasons,” Waupee said. “Lily was the only one they felt inclined to trouble with."

"Aren't some captives later tortured, Mister Dickson?” Charity asked with a hitch in her voice.

"Sometimes in revenge for braves lost in battle. Not you, Miss Edmondson,” he hastened to add. “None of you are destined for torture."

She shifted uneasily. “And if we were?"

"I would do all in my power to aid you. Far more captives are adopted into the tribe and treated well than those tortured. Some are also sold or traded."

The tremble in her lower lip belied the proud tilt of her chin. “You make us sound like slaves."

"For all intents you are,” Waupee said.

She started to speak to Wicomechee. The question seemed to falter at the tip of her tongue and she returned again to Waupee. “What will become of me?"

"You are my brother's captive. Why not ask him?"

Her gaze averted, she asked, “What if I don't like what Mechee intends?"

Waupee smiled at her variation of his name. “
Mechee
? You are fast becoming familiar with him, are you not?"

A pink blush colored her cheeks and crept down her throat. “Even so."

Wicomechee almost smiled at the telltale flush, but he knew she'd never admit to feeling anything for him beyond loathing. “Fear not. I will not be harsh."

She refused to meet his eyes. “You were yesterday."

Annoyance thrust through him. The stubborn, ungrateful—

Waupee cocked his head at Wicomechee. “What did you do to this fair lady, brother?"

"Let her speak. She wishes your pity,” he muttered.

Her eyes flashed. “Why should I speak, Mechee? You will only deny your treatment."

He lifted his hands, palms up. “What treatment?"

"I said you'd deny it,” she shot back.

Wicomechee grasped her smooth cheek and turned her face for Waupee's inspection. “Show
NiSawsawh
your swollen cheeks, your bloodied mouth. Have you still all your teeth?"

"My face did not suffer."

"No? Shall I remove your clothes to show him the bloodied bruises on your back and legs where I beat you?"

Her auburn brows arched and she stared at him open-mouthed. “Don't you dare."

"Do not call me cruel with no mark on you. I only made you discover the use of your legs. Endurance will come."

Wicomechee doubted Charity was appeased, but she said nothing more with him threatening to strip her. If he hadn't been so irritated, he might have chuckled at her shock. He wished they could speak of something besides the strife between them. When she wasn't irate, her soft voice and musical accent was pleasing to his ears.

Waupee's woman roused from sleep with a moan. She shifted onto her back and circled a hand over her swollen middle. “I might as well have fallen off your horse as sore as I am."

"I was afraid of that as unaccustomed as you are to riding,” Waupee said gently.

Even blinking sleepily in the muted light, Emma's gray eyes reproached him. “I never expected the need to keep in form, as though in readiness for riding to hounds. That is an occupation for the idle gentry and rakes."

Wicomechee pondered the strange reference.

Waupee smiled faintly. “You'll get no argument from me. What of breakfast? Does that meet with your approval?"

She sat up with a frown and pushed back tumbled lengths of pale gold hair. “I could do with a wash first. Will you allow me this, sir, or will I swiftly find myself thrust back upon your mount?"

"We're in no hurry at present. A spring lies not far from the cave. I'll just settle Lily and take you,” he said, and rested the little girl among the leaves.

Emma considered him. “How is it a reckless adventurer is cradling a child?"

"The poor lass rushed at me the instant she saw me."

Pity softened the antagonism in Emma's face. “Perhaps you remind Lily of her father. You're the same height and both handsome—similar in appearance,” she hurriedly amended.

"I'm also the only white man here. No matter. Children may be just the thing to settle me.” He gave Emma a crooked smile and reached down to take her hand. “Let's have you up."

She groaned as he pulled her to her feet, and rubbed her lower back. “I might have fared better walking."

"Never,” Charity said. “Your mother feared you would tire yourself out nut gathering."

Emma winced and her rounded figure sagged under the weight of emotion.

Remorse crossed Charity's expressive face. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken of Aunt Mary."