Warrior's Caress

Book 0: Heartfire

by Candace McCarthy

Genres: Historical Romance

Synopsis

Reprinted Edition HE HELD HER CAPTIVE Abigail Rawlins came to the shores of Lake Ontario in search of her missing brother. She knew about the threat of Indians, but she never expected to find herself a captive to a mighty chief. Determined to ignore the arrogant savage, she soon becomes fascinated with this white man-turned-Indian. As much as she tries to deny it, Abbey knows that he alone could pleasure her with glorious nights of wild, untamed love. . . SHE HELD HIS HEART Great Arrow was happy to avenge the loss of his betrothed by kidnapping this white woman and then trading her to French trappers. He had been born into an English family, but after being captured and raised by Indians he has no interest in white people and their violent ways. Yet his newest captive has succeeded in stirring his desire like no other. Her fierce spirit makes her stand out, as does her golden hair which shines bright as the midday sun. He'll take this defiant woman as his own, caress her shapely body, and carry her to the heights of white hot passion. . . 93,500 Words

Release date: July 1, 2013

Publisher: eClassics

Print pages: 293

Sample

Fort Michaels; Summer, 1737

Abbey didn’t know what woke her. She sat up, listening, her breath lodged in her throat, as she glanced about the strange bedchamber. Moonlight spilled in through a single window, creating an eerie glow about the room. She could hear the tall case clock in the downstairs hall, a timepiecshe had noticed upon her arrival late that afternoon. But other than the clock’s soft tick-tick-tick that mirrored the steady thumping of her beating heart, the night was peacefully quiet.

She lay back against the feather tick, staring at the ceiling. She was here at Fort Michaels, deep in the New York wilderness, far from her home in England. Colonel William Breckingridge, the fort commander whom Abbey had come to see, was currently away on assignment with the English army. Abbey was waiting for the colonel to return so that she could implore him to find her brother Jamie.

Except for Jamie, Abbey was alone in the world. Both of Abbey’s parents were dead; her physician father’s death six months past ended for him a year and a half of grief and guilt over not being able to save his wife.

“Oh, Jamie,” she whispered into the night. “I need you so.”

Months ago, she had stood alone at their father’s grave in Kent, holding her mother’s ruby brooch, her only legacy of her dead parents’ love. And she had mourned for both herself and Jamie. Then she’d dried her eyes and sold the brooch to finance the journey to be reunited with Jamie.

Abbey’s eyes drifted shut as she recalled the long ocean voyage to the New World. Her quarters had been cramped, crowded, and musty, and there had been days when she’d wondered if she’d been better off in her grandparents’ cold, unloving household. She’d managed to endure the rough seas by thinking of Jamie, and remembering the lovely word pictures he’d painted in his only letter home.

“The sky is so blue and the land has an aura of lush green magnificence, Abbe,” he’d written about the Colonies. He had then gone on in terms of eloquent description of the sights he’d seen and the people he’d met, but mostly of his friend Walt and Walt’s uncle, the boys’ employer, a silversmith in Philadelphia. He’d promised to send for her and their father when he’d earned enough funds for their passage to the New World.

Abbey frowned into the darkness, her eyes open. Jamie doesn’t know about Father’s death. In Philadelphia, she had found her last letter to her brother at the silversmith’s unopened, unread. Jamie was missing, captured along with his friend Walt by Indians while he was delivering a silver consignment to a family deep in the Pennsylvania wilds.

He must have disappeared right after he’d written her, she realized.

Would she ever see Jamie again?

Her chest constricted painfully. Her brother in the hands of savages ! She had to find him, rescue him from the heathens.

She shuddered, envisioning Jamie being tortured ... murdered. Were the bloodthirsty tales she’d heard in England true?

Colonel Breckingridge was expected back at the fort in three days. Abbey was afraid that he’d be furious with her when he learned that she’d deceived his servants by allowing them to believe that she was the niece he’d been expecting from England.

She hadn’t intended to be dishonest, but she’d used the last of her funds to make the journey from Philadelphia, across Pennsylvania, to the fort. Without money, she’d felt desperate. The guide she’d hired had seen her to the fort gate and then promptly left for Philadelphia, where Abbey had contracted his services.

The natural assumption on the head housekeeper’s part that she was Susie Portsmouth, the colonel’s niece, had seemed a heaven-scent solution to Abbey’s dilemma. What other choice did she have but to seek shelter in the man’s household? Surely, the man would understand that she needed a place to stay while she waited for his return! And Abbey was convinced that if the household servants knew her true identity, vulnerable or not, she’d be turned away.

Abbey sat up, staring straight ahead. She simply had to see Colonel Breckingridge! He was a man with a well-known reputation for rescuing white captives from the Indians; he was her only hope at finding Jamie.

But will I be able to convince him to help me, she wondered. Or will he be too angry with my deception?

He would understand! she told herself firmly. You haven’t lived your life as a physician’s daughter and often his helper without learning something about man’s nature ... how to deal with anger or fear ...

With that knowledge to reassure her, Abbey allowed herself to relax back against her pillow. Her eyes drifted shut as she felt a wave of exhaustion overtake her. It was a quiet, pleasant night. The window to her room was open, and the summer night sounds were soothing, lulling her gently to sleep ...

Suddenly, a shrill scream rent the air, shattering the night. Abbey sprung up in bed, startled. Her eyes widened as her gaze fastened on the open window. A naked savage was on the balcony outside her bedchamber!

Heart racing, she jumped from the bed, her gaze searching wildly for a weapon as the fierce-looking warrior climbed from the balcony over the sill. Grabbing the candlestick from the night stand beside her bed, she wielded it before her to fend him off.

“What do you want?” Abbey gasped as the Indian came toward her, wearing only a thin cloth covering his loins. “Stay away from me,” she warned, swinging her only weapon. “Don’t come any closer!”

Eyes glinting in the shadowed room, the Indian babbled in his own tongue; Abbey couldn’t understand him. He was a hideous creature with angular features. His face was painted with war colors; he was bald but for a small dark tuft at the crown of his head.

“Come any closer, and I’ll kill you,” she threatened.

The Indian laughed. “Wa thoon wix sus!” he sneered.

Abbey went numb with fear. She was trapped!

The brave stalked her about the room, his eyes gleaming, his muscles coiled in readiness to attack. Too frightened to scream, Abbey retreated with each step he took, waving her candlestick threateningly.

Suddenly, the warrior lunged for her. Abbey gasped, swinging the candlestick high to smash it against his head. The savage caught her hand, wrenching away her weapon to send it crashing against the wooden floorboards.

Abbey refused to cower as he squeezed the flesh of her upper arm. She struggled wildly, but was stunned into submission when he backhanded her across the face.

Blinded by tears, Abbey gaped at him. The savage cocked his head to the side, a look of surprise crossing his features when she didn’t cry out or whimper for mercy.

His chest glistened in the moonlight. His copper skin looked shiny, greased. His face appeared darker, almost black, in the shadows. He stared at her, his eyes pinning her where she stood, two bright evil orbs glowing in the darkness. She saw herself as he must see her... her fair hair a tangle about her face and shoulders, her blue eyes bright with hostility, her womanly curves embarrassingly evident beneath her thin garment.

Muttering in a harsh, guttural language, the Indian dragged Abbey out the door, into the hall. She heard the screams of Breckingridge’s servants. The house was full of Indians. Propelled by his strong arm, Abbey stumbled along in his wake.

The house echoed with the raiding Indians’ fierce war cries as Abbey’s captor shoved her roughly down the stairs to the front entrance. She tripped on her nightgown and slipped to her knees. His fist tangling in her flaxen hair, the Indian hauled her upright.

Outside in the yard, he gestured toward an area in the compound where women and children were being herded together like animals. “E yoh te an ti,” he growled.

Abbey planted her feet solidly on the ground, refusing to move.

“E yoh te an ti!” her Indian captor barked, enraged, propelling her forward with his cruel grip on her arm. He flung her into the line of captives and went back into the house.

Several Indians guarded their prisoners, so that no one could escape. The women captives sobbed, some grieving over lost loved ones, others whimpering with fright. They were a picture of vulnerability, clad only in their nightclothes, their unbound tresses in wild disarray. Young children cried and clung to their mothers while others appeared too shocked by the commotion to utter a sound.

There were English soldiers—those left to guard the fort. Young soldiers lying dead or wounded. Wizened old-timers felled by hatchets or spears, lying in dark crimson pools of blood.

The gruesome sight chilled Abbey to the bone. Please let this be just a nightmare! But the spot on her arm bruised by the warrior’s hold and the lingering, vile odor of his greased body confirmed that this wasn’t a dream from which she could escape. She was in the hands of savages!

The noxious odor of burning wood filled the yard. A wild male scream rent the air, and Abbey gasped, closed her eyes against seeing a warrior torturing a young English soldier. Tears filled her eyes while she steeled herself against the next blood-curdling howl of pain as the Indian drew his knife across his victim’s bared chest. My God, she thought. They’re monsters!

Oh, God, Jamie! Abbey swallowed hard. Did you suffer so? Would she ever escape to find out?

She must! She must not panic. Her life depended on it. “Use your head, girl, when you meet trouble,” her father had once told her. “Think! And in the end, you will triumph.”

Only by remaining rational would she be able to think of and plan her escape ... if only to return to the Indians and see them pay for their brutality.

A toddler wandered into the yard, bawling for her mother, stumbling, blinded by her tears. Without thought, Abbey broke from the line, scooped up the tousled-haired child, and holding the girl to her breast, soothed and comforted her. A warrior leapt forward, yanking the child from Abbey’s arms. Stubbornly, Abbey held on to the screaming baby. Angered, the Indian went into a wild tirade and cuffed her against the side of the head.

Her temple throbbing from the assault, she snarled at the savage, refusing to be intimidated. “I’m not afraid of you!” she said. Inside, Abbey quaked with fear. But she would not give up the baby.

She met him fierce stare for stare until he stepped back. The Indian was clearly taken aback by her boldness. He appeared uncertain and then he abandoned the struggle to confer with one of his tribesmen. Abbey hid her triumph as she returned to the line of captives.

Why, he’s just a boy! Abbey thought. She shuddered. The stories she’d heard in England about the Indians were true. They were indeed savages to teach their youngsters such wild, animalistic behavior.

Abbey felt satisfaction that she’d held her fear in check, stood her ground. The feeling faded when her gaze met the dark fierce eyes of the savage who had climbed through her bedchamber window. She swallowed hard and clutched the weeping child tighter to her chest.

Her own eyes were dry. I won’t let you break me, she vowed silently.

Iroquois! Abbey gasped and felt renewed terror as she glanced back at the woman behind her in line. Man-eaters!

“Are you sure?” She glanced at Rachel Votteger, the mother of the golden-haired toddler Abbey had refused to surrender to the Indians.

Abbey shuddered when her new friend nodded.

“Mohawks and Onondagas,” Rachel whispered, her eyes mirroring Abbey’s fear. The big German woman glanced about quickly, checking to see if they were being watched. “I heard one of our soldiers”—she inhaled sharply—“before they killed him.”

A shiver raced down Abbey’s spine as she spied a savage staring at her. He was carrying a musket, picked up from a dead British soldier; and she wondered briefly if he knew how to use it. In England, she’d heard stories of the dreaded Iroquois tribes. There were a number of nations besides the Mohawks and Onondagas, but how many she had no idea.

She forced her gaze forward, on the older woman directly ahead of her. The poor creature’s gait had slowed considerably in the two hours of their arduous journey through the woods. Abbey felt instant sympathy for the woman. Abbey’s own bare feet were cut and bleeding from the trek. Her only garment was a thin night rail which had torn on forest brush and was little protection from the night air and the savages’ evil stares.

Where are they taking us? she wondered, shivering, hugging herself. What are they going to do to us when we arrive?

The woman before her stumbled and fell. A warrior was instantly at the woman’s side, muttering in his Indian tongue, kicking and prodding her with a musket.

Enraged, Abbey rushed forward to help the woman rise, and the Indian swung the muzzle of the musket against Abbey’s shoulder. She cried out at the impact; pain radiated across her back and down her left arm. Suddenly, there were three Indians above Abbey and the fallen woman, arguing wildly in Iroquois.

One savage raised his fist in readiness to strike. The other woman cried out, begging for mercy. She was wrenched to her feet and hit by two braves, and she stumbled, falling a second time. The third Indian snorted, spitting at the ground near the woman’s feet, clearly disgusted with the woman’s cowering behavior. He raised his war club with the intent to punish.

Abbey threw caution to the wind and shoved the nearest Indian aside to aid the older woman. “Leave her alone, you brutes!” she shouted.

The Indians moved, gaping.

Abbey gently helped the woman to rise, cradling the woman’s thin shoulders within her arms. “For God’s sake, have you no mercy?”

The woman’s forehead bled where an Indian had struck her. “She’s hurt!” Abbey accused, glaring at the captors.

“Ka jeeh kwa!” The Indian with the war club raised his weapon high into the air, his eyes narrowing. “Ka jeeh kwa!” he bellowed.

“Abbey,” Rachel whispered from behind, “he’s going to strike you!”

Abbey barely flashed Rachel a glance. “Go on, savage! Hit me! I dare you. Hit me!” She was already a mass of bruised, throbbing flesh.

“No, Abbey!” hissed the older woman by her side. She seemed to gain strength as she pulled from Abbey’s grasp. “Don’t anger them. Not if you want to live!”

The light of anger faded from Abbey’s blue gaze. “Are you all right?” She saw the woman nod, heard her swallow.

The woman’s right, Abbey thought. Jamie was out there waiting to be rescued. She mustn’t do anything that would jeopardize her own chance for escape! And what if these Indians knew Jamie’s whereabouts? The thought calmed Abbey, as she realized it would be to her advantage to act more submissive.

She released the woman—whose name was Mary, Abbey learned—and fell back into line to continue the trek.

Fortunately for all concerned, the Indians accepted her decision without further punishment ... and the long journey through the woods continued.

“Kwan Kahaiska,” Silver Fox murmured as he touched his son’s shoulder, “our runner has returned with news. Our braves have left the white men’s fort. They come even as we speak.”

Great Arrow nodded, and Silver Fox saw a subtle easing of the Indian’s tense broad shoulders.

It was hard, this waiting, Silver Fox thought. For two years, the Iroquois had waited for their moment of revenge, two years since that terrible day when Colonel Breckingridge and his English army had attacked and killed a peaceful band of Onondagas, including women and children ... among them Great Arrow’s promised wife.

Vengeance was the Iroquois way. As an Iroquois sachem or chief, Great Arrow would do his duty; revenge would be exacted no matter how long it took. Time didn’t have meaning for the Indians in such matters. The Iroquois were a patient people ... as long as in the end they had their revenge.

Silver Fox frowned as he studied his son. A breeze off the lake tossed the unbound strands of the sachem’s golden-streaked brown hair. As Great Arrow continued to stare across the water, his father recognized the tension in him, in the line of his square jaw, in the taut muscles of the younger man’s lithe warrior’s form. He knew that Great Arrow would find no joy in the final moment of retaliation, for revenge would not bring back dead loved ones. It would not bring Morning Flower back to life.

“What of the white man ... Breck-ing-ridge?” Great Arrow said, turning to gaze at his father through bright silver-colored eyes.

The old man’s gaze clouded. “I am sorry, my son. He was gone from the village. They bring back only his niece.”

“So be it,” Great Arrow said quietly. He looked across the water. “It is written then. The niece will pay for Breck-ing-ridge’s wicked deed. She will pay for she who was taken from among us to the Afterworld.” His eyes narrowed against the sun’s glare. “Soon,” he continued, “it will be over.”

Silver Fox agreed. “Vengeance will be ours.”

The captives were in poor condition as they neared the Indian village along the shores of Lake Ontario. They had traveled through the night and several hours past sunup.

Trudging through the thicket, Abbey stared ahead. She must not falter. The Indians, she’d learned, were intolerant of any signs of weakness. They’d been quick to punish their prisoners when they slowed or stumbled along the way. Those that fell were ordered to their feet; if they didn’t comply, they were dealt with severely.

Abbey was hungry, achy, and exhausted, but she was aware that she’d fared better than the other captives. Her night rail was practically in shreds; her feet were cut and blistered, her arms bleeding. But she was alive. Alive! And she was thankful.

She shuddered, recalling some who were not so fortunate. One young woman—Abbey recognized the Breckingridge household maid—had tripped. Unable to rise, she’d sobbed, pleading for mercy, and had been beaten by not one but four Indians. When the savages were done with her, the woman lay in her own blood, her brown eyes open in a blank, death stare, her limbs twisted at odd angles.

Remembering, Abbey blinked back tears. During the trek when she’d felt too exhausted to go on, when her muscles cramped and she wanted to cry from the agony, it was the remembered horror of the woman’s death that kept Abbey going, that gave her strength.

She would live, damn it! She wouldn’t suffer the same death as the maid. The savages wouldn’t get the best of her! The image of the maid’s death would haunt her forever. Abbey hated these Indians.

The day continued like a nightmare for her. Hours later, her body was bone-weary as she continued the trek. Would it never end? she wondered.

Dusk fell across the land. An owl hooted in the distance, and to Abbey’s surprise, an Iroquois brave answered it.

A signal, Abbey thought, her eyes widening when Indians suddenly appeared from the surrounding woods. The newcomers were tribesmen of her captors. Onondagas, she decided, now recognizing the difference in the way they wore their hair, the Mohawks in a cock’s crest, the Onondagas in short little tufts at the head’s crown. Abbey watched as they greeted one another, and she realized with a sinking heart that they must be near their final destination.

She had the discomfiting sensation of being stared at by a group of the warriors who’d just joined them, one of whom approached her. The Indian grabbed a lock of her hair, yanking it until tears burned Abbey’s eyes.

“A-nik-ha o-non-kwi-eh!” the Iroquois murmured, leering. He gave her a wicked smile as he fingered the long, silky strands. He seemed fascinated with her hair’s golden color.

She shuddered at his nearness, wrinkling her nose at his smell. The Indian turned around and said something to his friends that made the warriors cackle with delight. Angered at his tone and the implication of his look, Abbey slapped his hand away, and he released her as if stung.

The others within the group howled with laughter at her show of spirit, but the brave didn’t find it amusing. Glaring, he caught her arm, squeezing it until she winced. His eyes held the promise of retribution as he scolded her fiercely in Onondaga. Then he spun from her and stalked away.

Man-eaters! Surely it isn’t true that these people eat men! she thought. Chills raised the hairs at Abbey’s nape as the line of captives began to move again. She wondered what the future held for her and the others.

It wasn’t long afterward that Abbey spied a clearing through a break in the line of trees. The travelers had reached the end of their journey. There, ahead, lay a village or hamlet surrounded by a stockade fence. Abbey heard dogs barking.

As the captives were led toward the compound, the child in Rachel’s arms began to cry in earnest, perhaps sensing her mother’s renewed fear.

Rachel tried to calm her child, but the toddler only cried louder.

“Is she all right?” Abbey whispered, flashing the pair a quick glance.

Rachel gave Abbey a crooked smile. She was a big, strong woman, but her captivity had taken a toll on her. “She’s afraid.”

The two women exchanged a look that mirrored little Anna’s fear.

“I’ll take her,” Abbey offered, holding out her arms.

The German woman looked ready to fall. She had carried her baby for miles, and the effort had cost her dearly. But as she had several times during the journey, Rachel declined Abbey’s offer. “Anna needs her mutter,” she said softly. She smiled with gratitude. “I am all right.”

Abbey nodded, but was skeptical.

The mingled scent of smoke and roasting meat was heavy in the air as Abbey and the other captives were led into a large clearing at the center of the village. Human meat? Abbey wondered about the smell with a feeling of sick horror. Venison, she decided with relief at the familiar odor.

Her gaze swept her surroundings, noting the huge long structures made of logs and tree-bark that had been built along the perimeter of the village, surrounding the dirt yard. The air was dusty from the activity of the children and dogs. There were no cook fires to be seen ... just a large empty space. One building stood by itself, away from the others. It was built similarly but on a much smaller scale. It was obviously big enough to house one or two persons. The chief’s? she wondered. And perhaps his bride?

The warriors had burst into the village, hooting and howling, shouting cries of victory. The dogs, running about freely within the compound, went into a frenzy, howling and yelping. The English children, frightened by the noise, began to whimper, clinging to their mothers in their fear.

The Indian women had come from their cook fires and long houses to inspect the captives. Abbey flushed, startled by their dress, for they wore no covering above the waist; their bare breasts hung like copper melons in all sizes. And the young Iroquois children—both male and female—wore no clothing at all.

Encircling the group, the squaws chattered loudly among themselves, their manner jeering as they plucked at the prisoners’ clothing. They pulled hair, spat in the captives’ faces, snatched crying children from their mothers’ arms. And the white mothers reacted ... some with the ferocity of mother lionesses protecting their cubs ... others whimpering and sobbing for their babies to be returned to them.

Abbey stared, horrified, as the Indian women clearly enjoyed the sport in tormenting the helpless prisoners.

One squaw tore the baby from Rachel’s arms. “No!” the German woman wailed. “My Anna! My baby!”

Abbey started to reach for her friend’s child, but she was hauled from the screaming Anna when a squaw caught her by the hair, yanking her back roughly. Fighting the Indian’s hold, Abbey swung her arms about wildly, until someone hit her hard between the shoulder blades.

Abbey was stunned by the blow. She fell to her knees as pain quivered down her spine, making it difficult for her to breathe. She struggled to her feet as the fierce pain subsided.

“Abbey!” Mary cried, and Abbey felt a second strike to her right shoulder.

She gasped with the impact. A third strike to her head. Stars danced before Abbey’s eyes. She fought to stay conscious. A squaw with one blind eye raised her arm to hit again. Abbey closed her eyes in anticipation of the strike, envisioning the one white orb of the woman’s gaze.

The blow never came. Amazed, Abbey opened her eyes. A hush had settled over the gathering of Indian women. All gazes were on an old Iroquois woman, who had come to inspect the prisoners.

The Indian matron wavered in Abbey’s vision, but Abbey felt the power of this woman’s presence. Even in her weakened state, she sensed a new attitude in the air, one of respect for the old matron.

The Indian woman stopped before Abbey, her dark eyes bright, piercing. She inspected the English woman thoroughly. Then she nodded, satisfied.

“So you are the one,” the matron said to Abbey in English. The Indian was short, thin, and dressed in a long deerskin kilt. A quill-embroidered cape covered the upper half of her body. Her dark hair was tied back at the nape and was streaked with gray. She had the eyes of young woman, but the facial lines of someone who’d seen many hard years of life.

“You speak English!” Abbey exclaimed.

The woman nodded. “I am O-wee-soo. Woman of Ice. Head matron of our village.”

“Why are we here?” Abbey asked. “What are you going to do with us?”

“The others,” the matr. . .