Red Bird's Song (7 page)

"I was just trying to help Rob."

"You should trouble more about yourself."

"I'm sorry,” she offered, too little, too late.

He waved aside her reasoning. “Tell me of Rob Buchanan,” he said, hating the very name.

"Rob's father will do anything to recover him. He's the youngest son, the favorite, and the Buchanan's have more wealth than most."

"Is he an able hunter?"

"One of the best shots in the valley. Can you aid him?"

"Perhaps. Be still."

"But—"

Wicomechee shot her a hard glance. “Not one word."

Lips pursed, she nodded.

Finally
. What a stubborn girl.

Wicomechee patted the Long Knife's shoulder and raised his voice. “Outhowwa, Captain Buchanan will pay you well for his son's return. Or, if you prefer, adopt him. Rob Buchanan is a skilled hunter. Think of the meat and skins he could provide your family. His death brings you nothing."

Never one to allow possible reward to slip through his grasp, Outhowwa considered Wicomechee's argument. “I will think on your words.” But it seemed Charity wasn't to be excused so easily. He regarded her with all the warmth of a baited bear. “Foolish woman. She flies without thought.” He shifted his shrewd gaze to Wicomechee. “She must learn."

Wicomechee didn't waver. “I will teach her,” he said, getting to his feet.

Challenge glinted in Outhowwa's eyes. He said nothing more and the tight circle of braves leaned in expectantly.

Now it was up to Wicomechee, and he'd rather do almost anything else than punish this most desirable of all women. She would surely despise him after this.

She lifted eyes awash with fear, like water churning before a storm. Wicomechee seized her arm and jerked her up. She cried out at the accompanying stab in her knee.

Hating himself nearly as much as she must, he shook his head at her and drew back his hand. How vulnerable her face looked...her soft woman's body.

Rob Buchanan roused from his stupor. “No! Don't harm her! Punish me!"

Noble words. Any more punishment and he would lie dead.

Charity fixed her beseeching gaze on Wicomechee. “Mechee—don't—"

Weak from his beating, the Long Knife thrashed vainly.

Despite the surly chief and intent onlookers, Wicomechee could not strike her. He dropped his hand. “I will discipline her, Outhowwa.” Without a moment's hesitation, he pulled her roughly away from the gathering. Once out of sight and sound of the others, he lifted her sobbing in his arms. She sagged in his hold as he bore her over the path.

Wicomechee cursed himself and the cruel fate that now likely awaited him and Charity.

Orange leaves brushed by Charity in a blur. Shaking, crying, she was scarcely aware of the direction Wicomechee carried her. Nor did she care, and only knew that saffron leaves blew overhead in the place where he laid her.

What would he do? Fearing abuse, she turned onto her chest and buried her face in her arms. The gurgle of water and birds calling through the trees mingled with her muffled weeping.

She sensed Wicomechee crouched beside her like a panther lying in wait. Still he said nothing. Did nothing. Yet he had promised the infuriated chief he would punish her.

They remained like this for long minutes, together, yet acutely apart. Gradually her sobs faded into an occasional sniffle and her rigid muscles relaxed. Little by little, she unwound from her tight ball, and dared to lift her head.

She wiped away the last tears from her nose on her sleeve. “You will not strike me?"

Wicomechee regarded her with immovable eyes. “Outhowwa would say I should."

Gone, the kindness and solace she'd known in the night, gone, the man in her dream. Shrinking from this intimidating warrior, she returned to the shelter of her arms. If she could, she would run from him. Better yet, fly.

Wicomechee clasped her shoulder with his strong hand. “Do not hide from me, Charity. We will speak."

She remained huddled on her chest, hugging the leaf-strewn earth. She gasped, feeling him tighten his hold—crying out as he suddenly forced her onto her back. Fresh alarm coursed through her. “Don't!"

He pinned her arms at her sides and bent over her. “Look at me."

He needn't have said it. His eyes compelled hers. Heart drumming, she stared up into his intent gaze.

"The Long Knife pleaded for you and cursed me. He risked death. This Rob Buchanan cares much for you?"

"Yes,” she gulped, “since childhood."

"You also risked death. Do you love him?"

Wicomechee's grim face blurred through her tears. “No. Uncle John and Aunt Mary want—wanted—me to wed Rob,” she stuttered, terrified he would let his hand fly.

"Do you desire this man for your husband?"

"I never did."

He seemed perplexed. “Yet you held to him like a lover."

"That was never my intention. ‘Tis only Christian to aid someone in distress."

"Christian?” he echoed, as though the word offended him. “You speak of your English God?"

She answered in bewilderment, never expecting to witness in this way. “God's son, Christ Jesus, desires mercy."

His lips curled. “Shawnee find little mercy from the English."

"I'm sure it must appear that way at times—"

"At times? Do you know what you speak? English ears do not hear the voice of the son of their God."

She was at a loss to reply and waited, trembling in his grip. Long moments passed under his scrutiny. What was his searching gaze telling him about her? Did she detect a slight softening in his face? His lips weren't drawn so severely.

"So, you possess mercy,” he said at last.

She blinked wet lashes. “Do you?"

He freed her arms and sat back on his heels. “For you, much."

It certainly hadn't seemed that way, but she seized the opportunity and reached an entreating hand to him. “Do not punish me harshly. I beg you."

Regret tinged his eyes as he clasped her outstretched fingers. “Charity, I do not want to."

"You don't?"

He shook his head. “Only to keep you from Outhowwa's wrath. You would not long survive his punishment."

She pulled her fingers away and pushed up on her elbows.

"Rob Buchanan would cut off his hand before ever using it against me."

The steely look returned to Wicomechee's face. “Then he would have no hand and you would lie dead by Outhowwa's."

"I thought you could keep me from harm."

"No. Only make the harm less. When we return, he will look to see if I spoke the truth."

Understanding dawned, and with it came an upswell of fear. “I do not appear punished."

Wicomechee shook his head.

A low wail escaped her. “Dear God. What will you do?"

The flint in his eyes softened. “Shhhh...I will not lash out at you. I despise to make my hand fly against you."

The strong emotion in his admission was beyond anything she'd ever expected. “Do you care for me as much as that?"

"Yes.” He took a swathe of linen from his pouch and handed it to her. “Now you will hate me as you promised."

She blotted her face with the cloth and considered. Slowly, she said, “I don't hate you."

His keen eyes followed her every move. “No?"

She'd never been observed so closely, as if he read her thoughts as well. She regarded him hesitantly. “If Outhowwa is still angry?"

"He can strike me."

She stared at him. “Why would you risk this?"

He smoothed her cheeks and cupped her face in his palm. How was it the hand that had jerked her up so rudely now offered a caress?

"You are
paca
, beautiful.” Closing his arms around her, he drew her gently against him. He combed his fingers through her hair. “Like fire, your hair, and your eyes...never have I seen such a color. You are the sun, the trees, come to life."

Again he was the man in the night, only more so. The man in her dream had spoken tenderly to her, though she couldn't recall his exact words, only the feel of them. Dazed, she held herself still, her breath in her throat.

Wicomechee pressed his lips to the side of her face. “For you, I would risk much."

She listened in deepening uncertainty. Was he simply telling her how he felt, or did something else, something unsavory, lie behind his sweet words and gentleness? Doubt thickened. Did he want what Chaka wanted?

"No—” she whimpered. “Not again."

Wicomechee stiffened and pulled back to look at her. “Why such fear? I said I will not harm you."

"Chaka said the same at first, too. Before he—” she faltered, and then blurted out the rest. “I thought I could trust you, Mechee. But you're like Chaka. Let me go,” she pleaded, struggling to escape his arms. “Let me go."

He restrained her so that she couldn't move. “Go where?"

"Where you will not molest me."

"Calm down, Charity. You make no sense. What troubles you?"

"Don't you know? I was afraid you would—” she stopped, unsure how to explain.

Wicomechee's eyes were like a darkening sky. “Force you? No warrior will—should. Did Chaka do this?"

"I'm not certain what you mean."

He arched one black brow, a raven's wing circling the tempest. “What do you not understand?"

"Exactly what happens when I'm forced. No one ever said."

He exhaled slowly. “If Chaka did this to you, you would know. I need not say."

"Then I wasn't. But it was bad enough."

"Tell me."

She recoiled from describing such an unspeakable act. “He pulled me away from the others, tore my bodice, and pawed my—” she faltered, and finished in a gulp. “Breasts. And kissed me hard—with his tongue."

Wicomechee drove his fist against his knee. “Bastard! I'll—” he caught himself, hissing his unintelligible threat.

She jerked at his vehemence. “Chaka was rather drunk."

"This I also believe.” He glared past her as if at the unseen transgressor. “How did you escape him?"

"The dog barked. Muga and Posetha took me to Waupee."

Wicomechee raked his fingers through loose black hair. “I never should have left you alone in the cave."

"When Chaka seized me, I hoped you would come. He says I will not escape him,” she confided tremulously.

"It is he who will not escape my wrath."

"Don't get yourself into any more trouble on my account."

"I am already. Outhowwa has little liking for me."

Charity had assumed the warriors were as thick as thieves. “Why?"

"Before my birth he very much wished to wed my mother."

She had difficulty imagining Outhowwa as a love-struck youth. “Outhowwa holds her refusal against you?"

"That, and Chaka is his son."

She gaped at him. “Is this why Chaka went after Emma, to punish Colin for leading the war party into the Valley?"

"Chaka was angry Outhowwa did not choose him. He hates that I am a scout.” With that, Wicomechee broke off. Apparently he felt he'd divulged enough. “Come to the stream."

He rose, lifting her with him, and stood her on her feet almost with reluctance. Circling his arm around her shoulder, he guided her past wine-red dogwood, to the stream. She knelt awkwardly to splash her face and drink.

When she glanced around, he was gone. “Mechee?"

Nothing.

Rising a little giddily, she limped over the mossy stones. A bend in the stream revealed him prying a root from a tall leafy plant. He beckoned her near. “This is good medicine.” He mashed the tuber against a stone and licorice scented the air. “Lie down. Rest."

She sank onto the carpet of leaves beneath a golden sassafras tree. He squatted beside her and reached to her rebound knee then stopped. “Who tended this injury?"

"Posetha. Earlier today. He was very kind.” A wave of fatigue engulfed her as the severe tension of the day faded and she felt herself collapsing under its weight. Her eyes would not stay open. “He was bringing me to you. I need—your help.” A huge yawn interrupted her.

"My aid you have. I will care for you."

Reassured, she began to drift. “Like a brother?"

"No. Not like a brother."

Wicomechee's throaty chuckle followed her down into the blessed oblivion of sleep.

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Chapter Five

Charity pushed up on her palms on a bed of evergreen needles and gazed around at the boughs tossing overhead and on every side of her. Hadn't she fallen asleep beneath a bower of yellow leaves with the stream gurgling close by? The spill of water reached her from a distance now and an orange sun hung low over the trees.

Not a soul was in sight; she had no idea where Emma and Colin were, or even where she was...only that she was alone, and it would soon be dark. Did she dare call out to Wicomechee? What if Chaka lurked close by? Her chest tightened.

"Mechee,” she called softly, unable to keep the quaver from her voice.

"You fear I am gone?"

Sucking in her breath, she twisted toward his voice.

With a slight smile, he stepped out from behind a heavily branched spruce. She hated to admit the depth of her relief at his coming. Not only that, but for some reason, he looked different now, and it took her a moment to reply.

"How did I get here?"

He knelt beside her. “I brought you."

She vaguely remembered the comforting sensation of being in his arms. “I thought that was a dream."

His undeniably handsome face creased in a grimace. “You are too heavy for a dream, like carrying a bear."

She sat up straighter. “A bear? Never."

He leaned in closer until the tip of his nose nearly touched hers. “You are certain?"

She detected a teasing spark in the depths of his eyes, and smiled hesitantly.

He lightly touched her lips with the tip of his index finger. “I like this mouth."

"Is that why you teased, to make me smile?"

"How do you know I tease?"

"I am not that heavy."

He slid his arms beneath her, scooped her up, and sprang to his feet. “You will break my back,” he said, staggering as though he could barely support her.

"Mechee—” Giggling, she threw her arms around his neck.