Seneca Surrender (5 page)
Its discovery had caused him to wonder again what had happened to bring this woman to the brink of death.
One fact was certain, however. Duty to his beloved, which was keeping him celibate, was not a sound frame of mind for a healthy male.
“No! Not my mother, not my father! No, it cannot be!”
Her pain sent shivers up and down his spine. This woman had known real torment. It was there in her voice, in her words. The knowledge drew him closer to her, and as her tears became more profound, he rocked back and forth, his arms still wrapped firmly around her.
There was nothing for him to say. Instead he held her until the last her tears became a mere hiccup. Even then he didn’t release her.
Tentatively, he massaged her spine. And it wasn’t until her breathing was free and her eyes were once again closed that he laid her back against his blanket. Beneath it were fragrant, cushy boughs of pine branches, enough so that her body did not repose upon the hard floor of the cave.
Quietly, he exhaled. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was drawn to her. Or perhaps, he conjectured, it was simply that he hadn’t held a flesh-and-blood woman in his arms for too many years.
Finishing on a snort, he realized there was yet work to be done. The fire required stoking and if he were to nurse this woman back to complete health, additional sustenance had to be found at once. While his meager diet of dried meat, corn and berries might satisfy him, she would require the healing properties of fresh meat to restore her vigor, and it needed to be in a liquid form since she was not conscious enough to eat on her own.
Dutifully, he rose up to begin his work, though he couldn’t help but wish for his grandmother’s presence beside him, speaking words of wisdom to him. An herbalist, she would have known the exact plants and foods that would bring this woman back to health. Unfortunately White Thunder’s skills in this realm were rudimentary; he had never harbored an interest in learning the craft.
“No! Do not ever touch me again! My body is my own! Get back away from me!”
Again, White Thunder fell to his knees beside the woman, taking her up in his arms to give comfort.
“I will repay my parents’ debt to you, but I swear it shall not be in this manner!”
Her words made White Thunder want to weep, for he did not misunderstand. Did the Englishmen misuse even their own kind?
As the woman’s tears fell, White Thunder found that his own grief, though of fifteen years in length, mingled with hers.
“No! No!”
Gently he rocked her back and forth, until at last her fears again quieted.
But it was not so for White Thunder’s. Even though he would never act on such a thing, his body was ready and willing for the ultimate action between a man and a woman. The reaction surprised him; it also caused him to consider a truth: Man lives best with a flesh and blood woman, not her mere image. And when absent …
He sighed against the fragrance of the English woman’s hair. He had best not like it too readily. Until Wild Mint’s murderer was found and justice served at last, there could be no other woman in his life.
Perhaps, like the white man’s double-edged knife, this was a test of him, of his strength and devotion, for no matter which way the knife was thrust, it cut.
But enough. The woman in his arms needed special sustenance and attention. He would give her both.
Three
The delicious aroma of meat and vegetables awakened Sarah. Was that a soup she smelled?
She opened her eyes and looked up at the dark ceiling of … where was she?
Were those stalactites hanging from a ceiling about ten feet above her? She narrowed her eyes so as to obtain a better look at them. And if these massive columns were stalactites, what were they doing here in her bedroom? Weren’t these icicle-like projections of rock, formed by the action of water and corrosion, normally to be found in caves and caverns? She was in her bedroom—wasn’t she?
Carefully, slowly, she took in the dark terrain of her surroundings. Except for the dim light of a flickering fire at her feet, she was surrounded by a murkiness so dense, it was like staring into the starless black of night. There was a chill in the air, though luckily the warmth from the fire presented her with a means to keep in her body heat. Moisture filled the air. Was it raining outside? If so, that would explain the sound of dripping water that seemed to come from somewhere close by to her. Was she in a cave?
And if she were in a cave,
why
was she here? Sarah searched her memory. Unfortunately she could recall only rudimentary details … but that didn’t include her name …
why
was she here? Sarah searched her memory. Unfortunately she could recall only rudimentary details … but that didn’t include her name …
Closing her eyes, she endeavored to remember what had happened. But there was nothing there to present itself to her, no memory, nothing to answer her questions.
Returning her attention to the environment, she discovered a feeling of warmth beneath her, like the flannel of a blanket, and there was some indefinable softness wrapped around her. Miserably, that’s when she became aware of her situation: She was naked beneath this blanket.
Where was she? Why was she naked? What had happened to her?
All at once, a tantalizing scent of pine added its fragrance to the aroma of food, and she wondered at its source until she moved slightly and realized she was sleeping atop pine boughs. She was definitely not in her bedroom.
She exhaled and slowly moved her head so as to take in more of the features of her surroundings. Perhaps if she could see a little bit of it, she might recall what had happened to her and why she was here. Her name would be a good place to start.
Turning her vision to the right, she soon realized there was little to see except the blackness that seemed to penetrate this place. However, in the flickering light off the cave wall, she made out the silhouette of a man. Firelight seemed to paint his shadowy image in glimmering flashes of light and dark.
She could tell very little about him, save that he appeared to be as big as a bear. If she shifted just so—not so much as to draw his attention, but enough to look toward the fire—she could see him in the flesh.
For a long moment, she studied him. Then she lay back. He wasn’t so big after all, though he did look to be tall, perhaps six foot or more. He was an Indian, also. Odd that she should know that detail about him, but not remember her own name.
He wore his hair like the Mohawk did. Except for a section of longer hair styled atop his head, he fashioned his hair clipped close to the head. However, a section of his mane was allowed to grow to great lengths in back, and tied to this longish hair were what appeared to be eagle feathers.
Her gaze ranged down over his body and she noted that, excluding several tattoos covering his arms, his chest and arms were bare. He wore necklaces of stones and beads around his neck and the ever present breechcloth that the Indian male seemed to favor was tied around his waist. There was also a red cloth sash fashioned around that slim waist, and leggings that came up high on his legs outlined the muscles of his thighs. Undecorated moccasins covered his feet.
Was the man a Mohawk warrior? Perhaps. But Sarah knew there were six tribes that made up the Iroquois Nation, though how she knew this piece of knowledge when she couldn’t recall who she was, was not quite clear. However, she decided that this man might originate from a different one of the tribes that made up the Iroquois Nation, since his hairstyle mimicked the Mohawk, but was not exactly the same.
Hopefully he was not Ottawa.
Sarah frowned. Why would she hope he was not Ottawa?
Again she tried to concentrate. But her mind seemed to draw nothing but blanks.
The man was handsome, she decided, and Sarah allowed herself several more glimpses, admiring the clean look of bare chest and that strange mixture of short and long hair. Odd, too, that she wasn’t afraid of him.
Shouldn’t she be?
It did strike her as peculiar that a man so muscular, so incredibly male and so obviously fitted for manly tasks was at work over a fire, doing chores considered feminine. He was cooking a meal. Despite herself, his image made her smile.
But why should she smile? She was naked beneath this blanket and couldn’t remember the most elementary things about her life. Logic alone would dictate that she should be afraid.
But she wasn’t.
Did she know this man? Was that why she wasn’t frightened? Frustrated, Sarah let out a soft moan, and returned to her assessment.
He was young, perhaps younger than she. There was also something about him that stirred her curiosity. His demeanor was very sexual, although why she should think so, she didn’t understand, unless … perhaps he was her husband? Or maybe it was his attire—or lack thereof—that caused the consideration.
Unfortunately that thought had the effect of reminding her that she was scantily dressed. Had this man taken advantage of her? Now came the fear, and a sensation of vulnerability swept over her.
Again she wondered, who was this man? Who was she? Wretchedly she realized that there was nothing else for it but to find out what was going on, and after chasing the knot that seemed to have collected in her throat, she asked, “Excuse me, sir, but have I had an accident? ”
The man looked up from his work and glanced askance at her. He said, “You are awake at last.”
He spoke English. Sarah frowned at the thought, marveling again at how much she “knew” without knowing. However, he hadn’t answered her question, and she tried again, “Yes, sir, I am. But please, I beg you to tell me, have I had an accident? ”
“You have,” he said simply.
“Do you know what happened? And if you do, sir, could you please relate it to me?”
“I do not know exactly what happened to you,” he replied. “I was hoping that you might be able to explain the story to me.”
“Oh.” Gazing quietly toward her hands, she found them to be nervously clutching her blanket. Their color was pale, she noted, at least when compared to the sight of this man’s hands, which were brown. Perhaps her next question wasn’t the right query to ask, given their circumstances, but she couldn’t help herself as she probed, “Sir, are you my husband?”
He hesitated a moment as his gaze scanned her features. “I am not,” he said at length.
Sarah took in his reply with some bit of shock, again more than aware of her state of undress beneath the blanket. She said without thinking, “I am deeply unhappy to hear that, sir.”
He frowned. Seeing his reaction, she asked, “Sir, please excuse my coming directly to the point, but I would know immediately, if you please, if it is your intention to torture or rape me.” She stopped and cleared her throat, realizing she was more than a little afraid of his reply.
But he answered her readily. “That is not my intention.”
Sarah paused as she let out a breath. “I am very happy to hear that.”
He nodded and returned to his work next to the fire, presenting her with his back.
“Pardon me, again, sir, but I feel I must bring your attention to the fact that I am in quite an ill state of dress beneath this blanket, and I was wondering—”
“It was necessary to remove your things after I brought you here,” he explained, interrupting her. “Your clothes were wet and you were very warm with fever. It was done to tend to you, and for no other reason.”
“Ah,” she said, and she paused while she sought to test her failing memory. Once again there was nothing there to steer her in any direction. It was as though her memory had been wiped clean.
He continued, “I little understand the English woman’s style of dressing, nor did I recall which piece of cloth went where, and so I did not attempt to re-dress you once your fever had abated.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
The man turned to regard her. It was the first time she had looked upon his face in full. It would have been most reassuring had a memory of recognition stirred to tell her something about him, or about herself. But it was not to be.
Again, not able to help herself, she asked, “Do I know you well, sir? ”
“
Neh
, no.”
Neh
, no.”
She took in this fact well enough, then asked, “Do I know you at all? ”
“We have never met.” So saying, he presented his back to her.
Sarah remained silent, unsure of how next to proceed. If this man didn’t know who she was, how then was she to discover it herself?
In the end, she decided to change the subject and commented, “That smells delicious.” She came up onto her elbows to see if she could discover what it was he was cooking. “I think I’m hungry.”
“That is to be expected.”
He didn’t turn around or say anything further, not even to indicate when she might eat, and so after a while, Sarah lay back against the soft bed of blankets and pine boughs that cradled her. Somehow, she didn’t feel strong enough to make a point of it. If he didn’t desire to share his meal with her, it was beyond her to do anything about it.
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