Wicked Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (44 page)

      
Joss awakened to the sounds of men's voices and the snort of horses. She rolled over, sensing at once that Alex had left her again. When she sat up, her muscles protested in some exceedingly unlikely places. A hot flush stole over her as she recalled their night of incredible excess. Would he think her as wanton as his Muskogee mistress? As seductive as the Cyprians he'd kept back in London?

      
Once the very idea of Jocelyn Woodbridge, wanton seductress, would have sent her into peals of laughter. Now she was no longer certain it was so absurd. If she could discern nothing else, she had seen that Alex desired her quite desperately. God knows, she seemed to have a natural affinity for passion. He had uncovered a dark and earthy side of her that she would never have dreamed she possessed. He held her prisoner with it.

      
Her first impulse was to wish she could be free of his magnetic hold over her body. But further consideration led her to admit to herself that she would take all the passion Alex was willing to expend on her and she would return it in full measure. Even if he could not be faithful to her, she would be faithful to him, in spite of the other women. She was his wife. She knew beyond doubt that he would return to her when he tired of the others. In time the pain in her heart would lessen, she assured herself.

      
Perhaps, she thought, touching her belly reverently, his seed had already taken root. A slow smile curved her lips as visions of a brood of golden-haired little boys and girls danced before her. Lonely spinster no longer, she would be a mother. Perhaps in time, she and the children might even draw him away from his wicked ways. Clinging fast to the cheery thought, she rose and dressed, eager to see what the commotion in the square was all about.

      
Poc waited for her at the foot of the stairs. She knelt to pat his head, then winced at her sore muscles. "Come on, you could use a bath, too," she said, making a face at his tangled, muddy fur. When they emerged from the house, one of Tall Crane's grandsons was waiting for her.

      
He nodded shyly until she greeted him in halting Muskogee. Then he brightened considerably and responded in English, "My brother and I go to set snares for rabbits. Could we take the Little Warrior with us?"

      
Little Warrior was the name the children had given Poc, who loved to accompany them on woodland jaunts. Knowing the youths would be safer with the dog to protect them, she agreed.

      
Sensing an adventure, Poc barked excitedly and followed the boys, tail wagging.

      
By the time she approached the square, it was virtually deserted. No one had replied to her call at Charity's other house. Her mother-in-law and father-in-law were early risers, as was Charity. Perhaps the women were already at the school, preparing for the day's lessons. As for the men, she would find out their plans for the day from Barbara, but first she needed to bathe away the musky residue of her night of passion.

      
She returned to her quarters and gathered up toweling, a change of clothing and the small pack that held her personal articles, including a new lavender soap Alex had indicated he liked on her. As she made her way along the twisting, overgrown path to her secluded bathing cove on the river, she remembered in vivid detail the scandalous and seductive things he had said to her and done to her last night.

      
Deeply engrossed in such intense memories, she did not notice the Muskogee warrior who materialized out of the underbrush until he blocked her way. Before she could attempt to speak, a hand grabbed her throat from behind while a hard arm slammed around her ribs, crushing the breath from her.

      
She kicked and flailed, trying to scream for help, but her tormentor's fingers squeezed her vocal chords painfully, cutting off her air supply. The last thing to flash into her mind before she lost consciousness was that the man in front of her had his face painted half vermilion, half black, the way Alex had described the Red Stick warriors in full war paint!

* * * *

      
"Have you seen Jocelyn?" Barbara asked Charity an hour or so later at the schoolhouse.

      
Charity looked up from the primer she was using, a thoughtful expression on her face. "No, I assumed she was sleeping late after Alex left."

      
"I checked their quarters, then walked down to the river where the women are bathing. No one has seen her, although the pack containing her soap and combs is missing, which would indicate she intended to bathe."

      
"Perhaps she went somewhere to swim in private," Charity suggested.

      
Knowing Joss's excessive English modesty, Barbara nodded. "I'll see if she's farther up the river. It isn't like Jocelyn to be gone so long," she murmured worriedly.

      
Another hour of searching produced not a trace of Joss. By this time Charity had organized the town's youths under leadership of the few remaining elder warriors to begin a systematic search. Around midmorning one of the old men returned carrying a long strip of toweling that he had found on a pathway to the river. He reported there were unmistakable signs of a struggle. Sun Fox's bride had been kidnapped!

* * * *

      
Joss did not know how long she had been unconscious, but the land over which her captors rode looked decidedly unfamiliar. She had awakened tied across a horse's back. As soon as the band of Red Sticks realized she was conscious, one forced her to ride sitting up, thereby allowing them to increase their pace.

      
She was gagged and her wrists bound tightly in front of her with rawhide thongs that chafed painfully. At least they had not killed her or attempted rape. She tried to console herself with that as her mind tumbled frantically over the deadly situation in which she found herself. Why had they taken her? Where were they headed? As they rode across the high rocky spine of a ridge, she cursed her poor sense of direction.

      
The one benefit of her dire predicament was that she was too terrified of the Red Sticks to remember her fear of horses. Insects assaulted her skin, sweat trickled down her face and soaked her tunic front and back. Her derriere quickly began to ache as it always did when she rode. Then her stomach began to growl and her tongue, parched by the noisome gag, swelled painfully. Each breath she drew took an effort. And she had thought the journey to Coweta with Barbara was arduous!

      
At least they had allowed her to keep her belongings, which were tied to her mount. The pack was filled with things she feared might appeal to savages—her scented soap, combs and spectacles, even a bottle of belladonna extract, and of course, her father's gold timepiece. She would give over everything else, but fight fiercely to keep her beloved heirloom.

      
To take her mind off her misery, she surveyed her captors. There were ten men, led by one whose pale eyes indicated he was of mixed blood. All were decked out in frightening Red Stick war regalia.

      
When they stopped at twilight, she was so exhausted she sank to the ground in a heap. They ignored her as she managed to pull loose the thong that held her gag in place and spit out the vile-smelling rag. Then she tried to untie her rawhide bonds with her teeth. Useless. They must have known she could not succeed. No help for it, she would have to try to communicate with them. Surely they understood some English. Alex had not explained much about the complexities of Muskogee politics, but he had said that even the most militant and anti-white of the Upper Creeks traded with the Americans.

      
"Why have you captured me? Where are you taking me?" She waited for a response but received none as the men unpacked some stringy dried meat from a pack and began to chew, talking with their mouths full. They totally ignored her.

      
Taking a deep breath, she stood up, testing her legs. Her throat hurt when she swallowed and her head was a bit woozy, but she could walk. There was no hope of outrunning them—even if she had any idea in which direction Coweta lay. Her best hope lay in rescue. Perhaps she could make a trail for Alex to follow. Never for an instant did she doubt that he would come after her.

      
When she walked up to them, the group of Red Sticks ceased talking and stared impassively at her. Their faces were grotesquely distorted by the red and black paint, their eyes watchful and cold. "I'm thirsty. Do you have water?" She pantomimed drinking and the mixed-blood leader raised a battered canteen, sloshing it from side to side. He did not offer it to her.

      
She reached for it and he held it back, saying something sharply in his own language. Then he took a long pull from it and handed it to one of his companions, who did likewise. She gasped out the Muskogee words for "water" and "drink." One of the savages grunted and allowed her a few swallows. If she had not been so desperate with thirst, she would have thrown it at one of them. Instead she drank the brackish, tinny liquid greedily.

      
No sooner had she finished the last few drops of the water, than the Red Sticks mounted up again. One of the full bloods scooped her up and shoved her onto her horse. Joss gritted her teeth to keep from crying out at the bone-jarring pain in every part of her body as they rode off in the gathering darkness.

      
Her hands groped for her pack, which they had tied in front of her legs onto the makeshift saddle. No one seemed to notice as she reached inside. Numb fingers fumbled through the familiar toilet articles until she found the soap. Breaking off a chunk of it, she dropped it onto the road, praying there would be no rain to wash it away before it could be found.

      
Near dawn they reined in and stopped. Joss came out of her stuporous sleep of exhaustion and looked up. The mixed-blood leader was speaking in serviceable English to a white man dressed in buckskins.

      
"I have brought her as you said," he stated to the white man.

      
She looked at the tall, buckskin-clad stranger. He was thin, but had a look of wiry strength that belied his gawky build. He wore his pale tan hair cut a la Brutus, giving her hope that he was an Englishman. When he spoke, his flat nasal drawl quickly disabused her of the notion. "The hair looks too dark. Let me see her face," he said.

      
Her captor responded, seizing a fistful of her unbound mane and yanking it cruelly down until her neck nearly snapped.

      
Once the American saw her features, he cursed violently."You damnable idiot, McQueen! That's not Lady Barbara. I've never seen this chit before in my life!"

      
"She is yellow haired, a white woman in the Muskogee village. She speaks with an English accent. Who else could she be, Kent?" McQueen asked.

      
What does this man want with Barbara? What will he do with me?
she wondered with rising panic.

      
"Who else, indeed," the thin American drawled, studying her face and figure, all too well revealed by the torn tunic and ruched up skirts. He eyed her bare legs speculatively and Joss shivered. His pale, cold eyes were more menacing than those of the savages. She said nothing as he rode up beside her. "What is your name, madam?"

      
Her mind raced. Would it do her any good to pretend to be Barbara's maid, someone of no value? No, they'd probably kill her in a trice. "I am Jocelyn Blackthorne, Alex's wife."

      
"Ah," Kent said as a slow, nasty smile spread across his face. "I'd heard the young whelp had taken a bride back in London. Fancy that he's brought you to visit his backwoods relatives. Perhaps you will serve as well as your mother-in-law."

      
"Serve what end?" she asked, struggling to keep her voice level.

      
Kent's smile vanished. "You will learn the answer to that when we reach Mobile on the gulf."

* * * *

      
"Alex, thank heaven you've returned! We didn't know how long it would take the message to reach you," Barbara cried as her son leaped from his winded, lathered mount.

      
"Tell me what happened," he demanded grimly. As she related the mysterious events sunounding Joss's abduction, a fist of iron seemed to squeeze his heart. Joss was gone, kidnapped by renegades, perhaps hurt or—no, he would not allow himself to even consider that she was dead.
 

      
He had ridden away and left her, too proud to confess his confused emotions, to reveal his vulnerability to her. Now he knew he loved her beyond reason. And he had never even realized it until he received his mother's frantic note. He had never told her he loved her. But he would tell her every day for the rest of their lives—once he found her.

      
Barbara studied Alex's haggard face, glistening with a week's growth of whiskers. His eyes were dark circled and his mouth a bloodless slash. If there had ever been the slightest doubt that her son was in love with his wife, it was gone now. Pray God it was not too late for them. If Joss were killed, she feared Alex might never recover.

      
"Your father hasn't received my message yet, but I expect his return any time. Will you wait for him?" she asked when she had finished her narration.

      
"No. I'm leaving as soon as I switch horses. Tall Crane and the other warriors should be along a few hours' ride behind me. Tell him and the rest that I couldn't wait for them," he replied as Poc came running toward him, barking frantically.

      
"The poor animal's been beside himself ever since Reed Grass and Corn Stalk brought him back the night after Joss's abduction," Barbara said. The terrier had searched the village for his mistress, crying piteously, even refusing food.