Fireheart

by Candace McCarthy

Genres: Historical Romance

Synopsis

A Woman Bound By Her Future. . . Raised by the Lenni Lenape tribe, Joanna Neville returns to them after spending six years in England under the strict hand of her uncle. The carefree young girl known to her tribe as "Autumn Wind" is now an heiress with the bearing of an English blue-blood. But her passion remains untamed, as she is about to discover when she is reunited with a man from her past. . . A Brave Chosen To Lead. . . Fireheart is no longer the lovestruck youth he once was when he knew Autumn Wind. Upon the village sachem's death, he will be the new leader. Yet beneath Fireheart's grim weight of responsibility lies a need that can be filled by only one woman--a woman whose prim and proper facade masks a spirit as wild as the wind. . .and a desire waiting to be unleashed. 100,000 Words

Release date: September 1, 2013

Publisher: eClassics

Print pages: 352

Sample

Neville Manor—an estate just outside London, England March 1727

“Joanna?”

Joanna glanced up from her cousin’s letter to gaze sightlessly at her neighbor and friend, her green eyes glistening from emotional pain.

“Are you all right?” John Burton asked with concern. “You seem troubled.” The young man frowned as he approached.

She gave him a smile as she carefully folded the missive. “I’m fine.” When John slipped his arm around her shoulders, she fought the urge to pull away. John was a handsome man with a magnificent physique and beautiful blue eyes.

Today, John looked splendid in his navy long coat with vest over a white linen shirt. His white stockings made a nice contrast with his matching navy knee breeches, and the silver buckles on his shoes had been polished to a high shine. On his head, a cocked hat sat on his powdered wig in which the hair had been pulled back and secured with a white ribbon at his nape.

John Burton was the kindest man she knew in England. When John had first visited Neville Manor, it had become clear to Joanna that even her uncle had approved of the young man . . . a fact that might have made Joanna dislike John immediately if it were not for his winning charm.

John wanted to be more than her friend, but Joanna couldn’t envision him as her husband or lover. If her uncle had still been alive, he would have been pushing John’s suit.

Uncle Roderick is dead, she thought. I don’t have to please him or anyone but myself.

Joanna feared that John was longing to propose to her, and that their friendship would be over after she rejected him. She didn’t love John. Marriage might be the best thing for her, she mused, but she wouldn’t marry without love, not even for the sake of Neville Manor. Neville Manor was her late uncle’s estate, now her inheritance. It was a beautiful place, but it held only bad memories for her. She had never been happy here.

Joanna moved to the window to gaze out over the manicured lawn and garden. The grass was a vast carpet of bright green. The flowers were in full bloom, a riotous splash of spring color, but the sight gave her no pleasure. In the midst of the flower garden stood a fountain where she, a newly arrived young girl, had once sought comfort in the sound of water rushing over its side. A great deal had changed since that first day at Neville Manor.

How could she enjoy anything about the place when it was at the root of all the pain, heartache, and abuse that she’d suffered at Roderick Neville’s hands?

Her uncle had thought he’d done her a favor by snatching her away from a life she loved and bringing her to England to “educate” her. She didn’t want to be his heir, nor did she want the full charge of running all of the deceased man’s holdings.

Had she asked for the responsibility? No. But she had been trained to handle it, and she would do her duty. What else could she do? There were people who lived and worked on her uncle’s property, servants, and employees counting on her to keep the estate running smoothly.

The manor was beautiful, large, and built of stone, old England at its best. But Joanna could remember only the hurt she’d suffered there . . . the pain of being unable to please her Uncle Roderick. Until Roderick Neville had sent for her, Joanna had been truly happy living among the Lenni Lenape Indians with her cousin Mary. When she had become severely ill, Elizabeth Neville, Joanna’s mother, had sent for her niece Mary to care for her daughter. Orphaned at five, Joanna had lived with poverty-stricken neighbors until Mary had finally come for her. Only Mary hadn’t come for a long time, not until after the death of Joanna’s mother. Mary had been captured by Iroquois Indians during the journey to her aunt’s Delaware home, then traded to the Lenape. She had not been freed for several months. When she did finally arrive, Mary had already married Rising Bird, a Lenape warrior.

Joanna had been fourteen when Roderick Neville had sent for her, his only niece. She’d wanted to live in the village forever, but the choice had been taken from her when Mary made the decision to send her back to England. Once there, she’d been forced to live with a man who was cold, unfeeling, and cruel in his efforts to tame the “savage” in her. For the next seven years, until his death, Roderick Neville had controlled her, shaping her into the lady he deemed suitable to be his heir.

“You are a Neville, Joanna,” he’d told her on more than one occasion. “A Neville conducts herself in the proper manner. You will not wear those awful buckskins. You will get rid of those filthy moccasins and wear only the shoes that I bought for you.” He’d pause, and his gaze would harden. “Do you understand?”

Joanna had been made to understand. Uncle Roderick did not tolerate her “heathen” ways. She had to obey him, or be severely punished for it. She’d hated England and despised her uncle. Once, she had tried to run away, but Roderick had caught her. Her punishment had been so severe that Joanna had not attempted another escape.

Joanna shuddered and tried not to recall her uncle’s methods of punishment.

He’s dead. He can’t hurt you anymore.

Roderick Neville had been a hard man. Had Mary honestly thought him kind?

I hate this place, but it is mine now, Joanna thought. All that is left me.

Somehow she would find a way to ease the painful past, and bring joy to this cold, dark manor house. There were many who relied on her. Servants and employees who had also endured her uncle’s cruelty.

Joanna shivered and hugged herself with her arms. She would make things better for all who lived and worked at Neville Manor.

“Joanna, you’re shivering!” John’s voice drew her from her dark thoughts, and she felt the weight of his coat as he draped it about her shoulders. The navy wool was warm with the heat of his body.

“Thank you,” she murmured without meeting his gaze.

“Joanna?” He turned her to face him. “What’s wrong? Tell me: Is it the letter?” John’s expression held curiosity mingled with concern.

Joanna nodded. She glazed into blue eyes so kind and gentle that for a brief second she wondered if she could fall in love with him someday.

“The letter is from my cousin Mary in the Colonies,” she said.

Something flickered across John’s face and was gone. “What does your cousin want?” He didn’t seem surprised to hear that she had a cousin. Had he heard about her former Lenape life?

Her jaw tightened and, angry, she could feel the heat burn in her stomach. Joanna fought to keep her fury where it rightfully belonged—with her late uncle and not with John who had proven to be a good friend.

“Mary lives in the Pennsylvania colony. She wants me to come.” She moved from the window to the sofa and sat.

John joined her, his gaze unreadable, but it didn’t seem like he knew about the Indians. “Do you want to go?”

She nodded. “Someone I know, someone I care about a great deal, is ill and may be dying.” She glanced down at the letter to find her hands in her lap, clutching the parchment tightly. Mary had written to tell her that Wild Squirrel, the sachem of the Lenni Lenape village of Little River, was very ill. Mary had thought that Joanna would want to know because the man had been like a grandfather to her.

Her throat felt tight as she met John’s gaze. “I know it’s been only a week since Uncle Roderick’s death, but . . .”

She was torn . . . torn between her love for an old Indian chief who was ill in the Pennsylvania colony, a man she thought of as a grandfather, and her duty to her uncle’s servants. Here she would have to wear the black of mourning for her uncle, and it would be a lie. Terrible or not, she didn’t care that Roderick Neville was dead.

Joanna turned a beseeching gaze on her friend. “John, I know ’tis a lot to ask . . . but I’d hoped that you would come and keep an eye on things here at Neville Manor.”

“Me?”

She was relieved to see a pleased look enter John’s gaze. She smiled as she nodded. John Burton was a second son with the skill of running an estate, but it was his twin brother, Michael, older by only three minutes, who had acquired his father’s wealth. If John was bitter about Michael’s legacy, he’d never shown it.

He was the perfect choice to oversee the property in her absence. John had the freedom to come to Neville Manor and the knowledge to run it properly. She trusted him. And now, judging by his reaction, she realized that he would enjoy himself while he worked.

“I’d be honored to look after things while you are away,” he admitted. Then he frowned. “Who will escort you to the Colonies? ’Tis not a journey to be taken by a young woman alone.”

“I’ll bring servants with me,” Joanna said. “When I get to the New World, I’ll hire someone to take me the rest of the way.” Would she make the trip only to learn that Wild Squirrel had died? She didn’t tell John that she’d be going into the wilderness, or that her final destination was a Lenni Lenape village. He didn’t have to know. She wasn’t concerned for her safety, but she didn’t expect John to understand that.

Just as she’d feared, John suddenly looked worried. “Joanna, what if it’s not safe?”

Joanna smiled. Thoughtful as always, John wanted what was best for her, even while he looked forward to the challenge of running Neville Manor. “I’m not afraid,” she said, meaning it. She relented on her decision to keep silent. “I once lived there.”

A servant appeared in the parlor doorway before Joanna could judge John’s reaction to the revelation. “Miss Neville, Miss Gordon is here to see you.”

“Gillian!” she cried with genuine pleasure. “ ’Tis good to see you!” She smiled with welcome as she approached her friend.

Gillian Gordon, a lovely woman with hair of midnight and eyes of violet, was dressed in the latest French fashion in a shade of lavender that became her. Joanna had been friends with Gillian since her uncle had introduced her to a group of young ladies of the same age, daughters of neighbors who were the “right kind of” families. Joanna and Gillian had bonded immediately, although Joanna had had more difficulty with the other girls.

Gillian’s smile was as warm as Joanna’s as the two women embraced then eyed each other with affection.

“You’ve come at the right time,” Joanna murmured in her friend’s ear. “I’ve much to tell you.”

Gillian glanced at John before whispering to her friend. “With him here?”

Joanna shook her head as she smiled at John. “John, you’ve met my friend Gillian, haven’t you?”

“Charmed,” he mumbled distractedly, barely acknowledging Joanna’s friend except for a brief glance at the neckline of her gown, which was low and exposed the upper swells of her young breasts. Blushing, he quickly returned his gaze to Joanna. “I’ll call on you tomorrow to discuss details,” he told her.

Knowing that he referred to his temporary position as overseer of the estate, Joanna nodded and followed him to the door. Once John was gone, she turned to her friend with a grin and an offer of tea.

Deep in the Pennsylvania wilderness,

June 1727

“How much farther, Mr. Grace?” Joanna asked.

Her hired guide and Indian tracker, Mortimer Grace, crouched and fingered the dirt of the trail. He rose to his feet, looking thoughtful. He was a young bearded man with the wisdom of age in his gray eyes. He wore buckskins and looked more at home in the forest than in a town. “About a half day’s journey,” he replied as he brushed off his hands.

Joanna nodded. She thought as much herself. The surrounding forest looked familiar, but it had been years since, she’d been to the area, and there were probably acres upon acres of woodland that she could have mistaken for the forest where she’d once lived. That’s why she’d hired the Indian tracker. He was familiar with the Lenni Lenape people, and he knew their signs well. And he’d come highly recommended as a man she could trust. Her own gut instincts told her that what she’d learned about him was true.

As Mortimer continued through the woods, Joanna fell into step behind him. Following were her two servants from Neville Manor, silent and unhappy to be traipsing through the woods. Cara Jones, her personal maid, was a loyal servant girl, only too willing to go where Joanna led her. Harry Mett, the young man who had once worked with Patrick Williams, Roderick Neville’s groom, was not only loyal to the new mistress of Neville Manor, but also smitten with Cara.

Conscious of their steadfast loyalty and presence behind her, Joanna made a silent promise that once back in England, she would reward her employees well.

She continued in Mr. Grace’s wake, her thoughts nervously turning to her destination as they left the trail and Mr. Grace began to clear a path.

It had been years since she’d seen her cousin Mary. Would she recognize her? The pain that had begun earlier in Joanna’s stomach sharpened as she recalled the day she’d left her Indian family, the resentment she’d felt toward Mary. It had festered over the years, fueled by her uncle’s cruel treatment of her. Didn’t Mary realize what manner of man Roderick Neville had been?

Tears filled her eyes as she recalled all the nights she’d cried herself to sleep, wishing she were back in the New World, in the wigwam with Mary and Rising Bird.

I’m a grown woman now. I mustn’t allow my memories to upset me. Uncle Roderick is dead, and I’m alive. I’ll never suffer his abuse again.

Sunshine burst through the foliage overhead, brightening the day and lighting Joanna’s path. Joanna felt the tension within her leave. The flaming knot in her stomach loosened.

She would be all right. She would visit the Lenni Lenape people, then return to England where she belonged.

She inhaled deeply of the fresh forest air, and felt her heart quicken as she detected the scent of roasting meat.

The Lenni Lenape village of Little River

The Pennsylvania colony

Fireheart entered the wigwam silently, unwilling to disturb the ailing man who lay on the sleeping pallet. Beside him on a rush mat sat the man’s wife, Stormy Wind, embroidering a new set of moccasins. She rose when she saw Fireheart, as if waiting for him to come.

“Stormy Wind,” he greeted her as she approached him.

Their gazes locked, hers tired and sad, his worried. “He does not wake, does not eat,” she said gravely.

He gave a silent nod, and then Stormy Wind touched her nephew’s arm before leaving to allow Fireheart time alone with his uncle.

“How is he?” he asked the shaman who had remained, standing near the bed.

Raven Wing shook his head. “He sleeps uneasily.” He studied his chief with concern. “This man worries.”

A ball of tension formed in Fireheart’s gut. The sick man was his uncle, and he had loved him for his entire life. As Wild Squirrel’s health continued to fail, Fireheart felt an overwhelming fear.

Wild Squirrel was their leader, sachem of the Lenni Lenape. If the old man died, Fireheart would become the next sachem. It was destined to be, Fireheart knew, but he was in no hurry to become chief. He wanted his uncle to live long and prosper, and to be alive for the birth and marriage of Fireheart’s sons.

Raven Wing left the wigwam, leaving Fireheart alone with his uncle. Approaching the sleeping pallet, Fireheart studied the sick man.

“Be well, Grandfather,” he said, using the title of respect. “Fight your sickness and come back to us.” His eyes glistened as he bent his head and began to pray.

As if the Great Spirit were listening, the old man stirred, drawing Fireheart’s attention, at the moment he opened his eyes. The chief’s gaze cleared as he focused, and lit up when he saw Fireheart.

“Fireheart,” he rasped.

“Grandfather, it is good to see you awake. How are you feeling?” Fireheart could barely contain the rush of joy.

The old man grimaced as he shifted in bed. “I’m alive, but barely.”

Fireheart experienced alarm. “Shall I get Raven Wing?”

Sighing, Wild Squirrel closed his eyes. “No.” After several seconds, he opened them again. “We must speak.”

The young man nodded. “If you wish.” But he feared what his sachem would say.

“You are the son of my sister, Doe at Play,” the chief said. “When I leave this great white path, you will be sachem. ”

“You must not talk of leaving—”

“I am an old man.”

“Maata, you are not old, merely a man of experience. You have many years left as our leader.”

“If the Great Spirit wills it,” Wild Squirrel said.

“He must,” Fireheart said forcefully. “He must!” Wild Squirrel smiled faintly in acknowledgment of his nephew’s loyalty and love for him. “You are a good man, Fireheart. A wise choice for sachem. I could not have picked a better chief for our people.”

“Do not talk of me as chief!” Fireheart exclaimed, upset by the discussion. “You are chief! You are sachem. It is you our people need for wisdom and guidance.”

“Fireheart.” The sachem spoke quietly and with patience. “You must face the fact that someday I will pass from this life, and you will lead our people.”

“I know this,” the brave replied. “But the time is not now.”

“I grow weaker by the day.” The chief closed his eyes.

“Nay! You are awake. It is more than you did yesterday.”

“Aye,” Wild Squirrel admitted. “It is so.”

“Then let us not continue such talk. Let us speak of other things instead.”

“What shall we discuss?” the old man asked.

“I will tell you of Raining Sky and her latest antics.”

The chief’s eyes glowed at the mention of Fireheart’s cousin. “Ave.” A smile of amusement touched his lips. “Tell me what the girl is doing to make your life hard these days.”

But as Fireheart began to tell tales, Wild Squirrel slept again.

Memories assailed Joanna as she entered the Indian compound. A huge fire burned in the center square, and from the kettle hung over the flame came the delicious smell she’d detected while still in the forest.

Women and children came out of their lodges, eyeing the white people curiously, with a wariness that Joanna understood.

Young Indian maidens, each with their hair in two dark plaits, studied Joanna’s clothes and blonde hair shyly. A small Lenape baby was content in a cradleboard strapped to his mother’s back, perhaps steeping. Small toddlers with honey-brown skin played in the dirt, naked, while their mothers stood by protectively, staring at Joanna, her servants, and her guide.

Were they in the right village? she wondered. Was it possible that one of these maidens had been her friend?

She recalled one Lenape girl in particular—Little Blossom. Little Blossom had been Joanna’s confidante and closest friend.

As she waited for someone to approach them, Joanna studied her surroundings more closely. Some of the Lenape wigwams were domed while others were rectangular huts, all made of sticks and birch bark. Joanna was pleased as she recalled the pleasure of living inside. As she stared at one of the dome-shaped wigwams, she remembered how it felt to lie on her sleeping pallet in the warmth of a summer’s eve. As she pictured the onslaught of winter, she distinctly recalled how it felt to huddle inside near the fire to ward off the winter’s chill. Rising Bird used to tell stories as they sat by the warm fire, adventurous tales that had captured young Joanna’s attention and kept it riveted.

“Miss Neville,” Mortimer Grace’s voice drew Joanna from her memories.

She followed the direction of the guide’s gaze, and stiffened as she spied the approaching warrior. Everyone else had stepped back as if afraid to come closer.

“Talk with him,” Joanna whispered.

Mortimer nodded, then greeted the warrior. The Indian wore his hair in two long dark braids with a tuft of hair that stuck up at the crown of his head. A breechclout and moccasins were his only clothing. His chest was tattooed, and his ears were pierced with strips of leather for earrings. A beautifully embroidered belt was slung about the waist-string that held the fringed cloth covering his loins.

The men exchanged words in the Lenape tongue. They spoke so quickly that Joanna couldn’t follow them, and she wondered if she remembered how to speak the language. Aware of her servants standing in fear behind her, Joanna kept a respectful distance from the pair as Mortimer and the Indian continued their conversation.

“Dear heavens!” Cara exclaimed when she saw a bare-breasted Indian matron exit from a wigwam. “Don’t any of them have morals?”

Joanna turned to her personal maid with a smile. It hadn’t startled her that most of the women were bare-breasted. She had seen it before when she was a child.

“The Lenape see no shame in the female form,” she explained. “They are a proud people, surrounded by everything that they love.”

“You sound as if you’ve lived among them,” Harry commented.

She frowned as she remembered those early days. “I did,” she replied. “I lived here as a child, but my childhood seems like a distant memory.”

Where is Mary? Joanna searched the sea of faces for one that looked familiar. Was her cousin among these people?

Where were Rising Bird and Wild Squirrel? What if they had come to the wrong village? What if the chief had died?

“Mr. Grace,” she said when the two men paused in their conversation.

The Lenape warrior focused his attention on her with a narrowed gaze. She stared back at him without intimidation.

“Did you speak about Wild Squirrel?” she asked.

“Aye, Miss Neville, I did,” Mortimer replied. “This is his village. They call it ‘Little River.’ ”

“I see,” Joanna said. The village might be in a different place, but it had the same name as when she’d been here last. The Indian frowned at her. “Ask him about Rising Bird.”

The tracker asked the question in Lenape.

The warrior’s brow cleared as he responded rapidly, nodding as he did so. He must have been telling Mortimer Rising Bird’s whereabouts for the Indian was gesturing with his arm toward the opposite side of the village.

“The warrior’s name is Turtle That Hops. He said to tell you that Rising Bird lives over there,” Mortimer said, pointing. “Nearer to the lake.”

Turtle That Hops. Joanna tried to remember if she had known a brave by that name, but her memory didn’t serve her. She followed the direction of the tracker’s pointing hand with her gaze. “Tell him that I’d like to see Wild Squirrel before I visit Rising Bird.”

“The white woman wants to see your sachem,” Mortimer said in the Indian’s native tongue.

Turtle That Hops frowned. “Our sachem is ill. He cannot have visitors.”

Mortimer glanced at Joanna with an apology in his expression. “He said that Wild Squirrel is ill and cannot be disturbed.”

“Tell him I know this,” Joanna said with impatience. “Never mind. Let me try to talk with him myself.” She thought long and hard to find the Lenape word for “grandfather.”

“Nukuaa,” she said, recalling the term for “father” instead. “Nukuaa ... Xan-eek-wh.”

“What did you say to him?” Harry asked.

“I said “father” and “squirrel.” I wanted to say that Wild Squirrel was my grandfather, but I couldn’t remember the word for ‘grandfather’ or ‘wild.’ ”

“Your grandfather!” Cara exclaimed. “I didn’t know you had an Indian grandfather!”

“It is a title of affection or respect,” Mortimer said.

Cara blinked. “Oh.”

A woman exited the nearest wigwam, and froze when she saw the newcomers. “Joanna?” she gasped.

Joanna narrowed her gaze. Mary.

Mary hurried forward to give Joanna a hug. She looked the same but slightly older, Joanna thought with dispassion. Dark hair worn pulled back at her nape, warm brown eyes, and the same sunny smile.

She didn’t return the embrace or smile after Mary released her. She gazed at the older woman as she would a stranger. She didn’t want to feel any love, any emotion at all. For the present, she was successful in tamping down her feelings.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Mary said with a waver to her voice. “You must have received my letter.”
. . .