Untamed (50 page)

Then the most terrible screams that could be conceived had come out of the forest, followed by painted men with muskets, knives, and hatchets. And within a matter of moments, everyone who’d left the ship, apart from Sarah, Jane, and a young boy, had been slain, their bloody scalps hanging from beaded belts.

Uncle William will send soldiers. He might even send his Rangers.

Sarah had counted eight attackers, but she could only see three now—her captor and the two who held Jane and the boy. Only rarely did the Indians look back at their prisoners, and then never with concern, their faces terrible to behold, painted in shades of red and black, their heads shaved apart from a single lock of hair that hung from each man’s scalp, their bodies clothed in tanned and painted hides.

And to think that only two days ago she’d told Jane she hoped to see an Indian.

How long they walked Sarah could not say. The pain in her feet became unbearable, and yet she had no choice but to bear it, following where she was led. The Indians picked a path through towering pines, avoiding the snow whenever they could, the ground slanting upward, dark forest all around them. And then, in the distance, Sarah heard it—the distant tattoo of military drums.

Soldiers!

The Indians heard it, too. They stopped, spoke to one another in hushed words Sarah could not understand. Jane leaned against a tree, trying to catch her breath, her long red hair having fallen from its pins to hang down her back in a long braid. The boy looked up at Sarah, fear in his green eyes, his face smattered with freckles. Dressed in homespun, he had the look of the frontier about him. How old was he? Nine? Ten? Had his family been amongst those slain?

The poor child!

Then Sarah thought of her own family. What would they do when they got word she’d been taken by Indians? Would Papa and Mama regret sending her away, or would they blame her again? If only she had been the daughter Mama had wanted her to be and not so bent upon her music. There would have been no scandal, and she would be safely at home in London, far from this wild and terrible place.

The boy moved closer to her, as if seeking a mother’s comfort.

Do not feel sorry for yourself, Sarah, for shame!

She smiled, offering him silent encouragement.

Then their captors turned and looked down at them as if noticing them for the first time. The one who held her tether reached out, took a lock of her hair between his fingers, and rubbed it, his dark eyes boring into hers. She felt her heart shrink under his cold stare, but willed herself to meet his gaze unflinching, refusing to let him see how deeply he frightened her.

Then again she heard it—the beating of drums.

As abruptly as they had stopped, the Indians began to move again, dragging Sarah and the others along, faster this time, first uphill, then down, until the pain in Sarah’s feet was so excruciating it brought tears to her eyes. Then, at last, the Indians stopped, giving them leave to rest near a frozen stream at the base of the hill, even releasing their bonds, as if they knew their captives were too exhausted to escape.

One of the Indians handed Sarah a water skin and motioned for her to drink. This she did and gratefully. But when she reached to hand the skin to Jane, it was yanked from her grasp.

Her captor knelt down before her, a pair of moccasins in his hands, and she watched, astonished, as he discarded her tattered shoes and torn stockings, bathed her blisters in water from the water skin, then slipped soft, warm moccasins over her feet. His face a mask of cold indifference, he stood and strode off to talk with the others.

And for a moment Sarah was alone with Jane and the boy. She met the boy’s gaze. “You’re a very brave young man. What is your name?”

“Thomas Wilkins, miss.” Thomas gave her a sad smile, his gaze dropping to her moccasins. “I think they’re goin’ to keep you alive at least.”

His words caught her by surprise. “Wh-whatever do you mean?”

“They gave you water and moccasins, but not us.” His gaze dropped to her feet again. “They think our soldiers can’t track you if you’ve got moccasins on your feet.”

“But what about you, Thomas, and you, my sweet Jane?”

Not much older than she, Jane had been Sarah’s most faithful companion since she’d come to New York to stay with Governor DeLancey. Jane hadn’t turned up her nose at Sarah like the others, but had shown her sympathy and understanding despite the scandal. Since Margaret’s death, she had been Sarah’s only friend.

She gave Sarah a tremulous smile. “You shall go on, my lady. But I fear we shall be tomahawked in this lonely place.”

A chill that had nothing to do with the cold slid down Sarah’s spine. “
No!
Do not say such a thing! They gave me moccasins only because my feet were blistered.”

But a glance told her Jane’s feet were blistered, too.

Then their captors returned. One hauled Sarah to her feet, while the other two went to stand beside Jane and Thomas. Jane met Sarah’s gaze, reaching with bound wrists to hold the boy’s hands between hers. “We shall be brave, shall we not, Thomas?”

“No!” Sarah cried, panic like ice in her blood, her knees going weak. “Please—”

A rough hand closed over her mouth, strong arms lifting her off the ground, forcing her to turn away as Jane’s voice called after her.

“God bless you, my lady! Don’t forget your English tongue!”

F
or hours, they walked through endless stretches of darkening forest, Sarah struggling to keep up, wolves howling in the distance. But as they went on, a strange thing happened. She became less afraid, as if the bonds on her wrists—and the men who held her captive—were nothing more than a dream.

Surely, Jane and young Thomas would be along soon. Perhaps they were being taken through the forest by a different path. Or perhaps the soldiers had found and freed them.

But night fell, and still she saw no glimpse of them.

Then, through the dark, she could just make out the flickering light of a campfire. As they drew closer, she realized it was the Indians’ encampment. Surely, Jane and Thomas were waiting there for her. New vigor filled her weary limbs, and she hurried forward, eager for the fire’s warmth and some sign of her companions. But they were nowhere to be seen.

Confused, fighting despair and exhaustion, she sat before the fire, shivering, her woolen traveling cloak offering little protection against the cold, her gown tattered and damp. She drank when she was made to drink and ate when food was placed in her hands. Once, she started to hum without realizing it—Bach’s Arioso—only to be struck across the face.

Then her captor draped an animal fur around her shoulders and motioned toward a blanket he’d placed on the ground near the fire, indicating that she should lie down. But she would not lie with him.

And then she saw.

At the edge of the firelight, an Indian sat stitching upon a fresh scalp. Attached to it was a long, red braid.

M
ajor Connor MacKinnon gently turned the bodies over—one of the lasses and the lad, both tomahawked, both scalped.

Och, Christ!

He’d warned that arrogant bastard Haviland that sending redcoats after them had been a mistake. War parties often killed captives if pressed. But Haviland, who didn’t know his head from his arse, hadn’t listened. And now two of the three who’d been taken were lost.

And so young.

Connor crossed himself and whispered a prayer for them, then looked more closely at the lass’s face, the features hard to see in the gloaming. But it was not she.

It was not Wentworth’s niece. He’d stake his life on it.

Wentworth had shown him a likeness of her. A small locket painting, it had shown a beautiful young girl with hair the color of honey and bright blue eyes, her cheeks pink, a playful smile on her rosy lips. The poor lass lying here on the cold ground was plainer than she with bright red hair. Connor gave her cold, lifeless hand a squeeze, then turned away.

There was nothing he could do for her or the lad now.

Nearer to the frozen stream, Joseph held up a pair of battered shoes and torn stockings.

Connor reached out, touched them. The ties on the shoes were of lace, the shoes themselves of finest leather, the stockings silk. “They must be hers. Such frippery takes coin.”

Joseph set the shoes and stockings aside. “The Shawnee think to confuse us by putting her in moccasins.”

The trick might have worked had he and Joseph been redcoats or even unseasoned farmers new to the frontier. But Joseph was war chief of the Muhheconneok people, and Connor had grown up beside him, adopted together with his brothers by the Mahican when he was but a stripling lad. They had learnt to track, hunt, and fight together, earning their warrior marks under the stern headship of Joseph’s father. They knew this land every bit as well as the Shawnee and could not be fooled by such attempts at cunning.

“She’ll be movin’ faster wi’ moccasins on her feet.”

They pressed on, eager to make up for lost time by covering as much ground as possible before darkness fell, following a trail that most others would have missed—a few bent stalks of dried grass, a thread from the lass’s skirts caught on a sedge, an overturned rock. They did not need to speak, each anticipating the other’s actions, enabling them to move quickly and silently.

For five years they and their men had fought side by side—MacKinnon’s Rangers and Captain Joseph’s Mahican warriors. Together they’d hounded the French and their Indian allies, fighting them in forest and field, ambushing their supply trains, spending their own blood to turn the tide of this accursed war. There were no fiercer fighters in the colonies, no men more feared by the French and their Indian allies.

If only their men were with them tonight.

But the winter had been long and cold, and the Rangers had not yet mustered. Most of Connor’s men were still wintering with their wives and bairns, growing fat and lazy, and Joseph’s warriors were warm in their lodges in Stockbridge. None of them were due to report to Fort Edward for a fortnight.

Connor and Joseph had been in Albany to order supplies for spring when a company of grenadiers had marched out of the stockade and down toward the river as if the town were under attack. Connor had learnt that two women and a boy had been taken by Indians about ten miles south of town. He and Joseph had gone straight to the stockade to urge Colonel Haviland to call back the grenadiers and send them instead, only to meet with Colonel Haviland’s scorn.

“Do you expect me to believe, Major, that a rustic and an Indian can succeed where His Majesty’s trained soldiers cannot?”

Then Wentworth had arrived. In a cold fury, he’d upbraided Haviland, ordering him to recall the grenadiers. Then he’d dispatched Connor and Joseph. “Do whatever you must, Major MacKinnon, but bring the captives back safely.”

Connor had never known Wentworth to show concern for captives before, and his surprise must have shown. Then he’d seen something on Wentworth’s face he’d never seen before—fear.

“One of the women is my niece,” Wentworth had confessed, his mask of ice cracking. “Lady Sarah Woodville—she is young and gently bred. I would not see her suffer harm. Do whatever you must to protect her and return her to me. Do you understand?”

“Aye.” Connor understood only too well. Wentworth cared about these captives only because one of them was kin. “For a moment, I thought you’d grown a heart.”

He and Joseph had gathered their gear and set out straightaway, but precious hours—and two innocent lives—had been lost thanks to Haviland and his fecklessness.

He’s no’ the only man wi’ innocent blood on his hands, is he, laddie?

Nay, he wasn’t.

In the distance, a wolf howled, its call answered by another, a cold wind moving like a whisper through the tall pines as darkness fell.

Daylight gone, they had no choice but to stop for the night. They could not track what they could not see, and if they should miss something and lose the trail, they would waste hours finding it again in the morn.

Without a word, they began to make camp.

L
ord William stood at his window staring unseeing into the darkness, the fingers of his left hand worrying the cracked marble chess piece he always kept in his vest pocket—the black king Lady Anne had broken two summers past.

This was his fault.

When Sarah had written to him begging him to let her leave the dreary isolation of Governor DeLancey’s home, he’d had misgivings, but he’d ignored them. At the time, he’d been worried about smallpox and measles, both of which had hit Albany hard this winter. He hadn’t imagined it possible that Indians would dare strike so close to town with a thousand of His Majesty’s troops billeted here.

He’d been wrong.

How he wished now that he had denied her request and admonished her to bear out her exile with fortitude and grace. But the thought of seeing his niece again had appealed to him, so he had relented, arranging for her passage northward. Bright eyed, inquisitive, and talented beyond measure upon the harpsichord, she had always been his favorite.

The last time he’d seen her had been six years ago, just prior to his voyage to the colonies. She’d been but twelve years old and still very much a child. Though her body had shown no sign of approaching womanhood, it had been clear to all that she would grow to become a woman of surpassing beauty. His sister, secretly a severe Lutheran, had restricted her daughters to long hours of daily Bible study and needlework to prepare them for marriage. She’d been openly distressed by her youngest child’s beauty and passion for music, deeming both dangerous to Sarah’s immortal soul.

But William had found Sarah refreshing and had indulged her when occasion allowed, secretly taking her to hear chamber music, lending her books about history, art, and music theory. Perhaps his sister had been right to restrict Sarah. Perhaps she’d seen something in her daughter that William had not.

Last summer, Sarah had caused such a scandal that her father had sent her away, depositing her in New York with Governor DeLancey, an old family friend. When William had inquired as to the nature of the scandal, his sister had written to say that decency forbade her even to mention it. Even knowing his sister’s penchant for exaggeration when it came to matters of sin, William had been intrigued by this, but the summer campaigns had prevented him from inquiring further. He’d hoped to hear the unspeakable truth of it from Sarah on this visit.