The crowd cheered.
Aye, Katakwa was fast—fast and sleek as a catamount.
Connor moved just beyond Katakwa’s reach to take advantage of his own height and longer reach, and the two circled each other again, Connor biding his time, waiting for the right moment.
Once more Katakwa lunged, swinging his knife at Connor’s chest, his tomahawk arcing through the air toward Connor’s head.
Connor twisted to the left out of harm’s way and slashed at Katakwa’s exposed right side with his knife, a thin line of red welling up along Katakwa’s skin.
Now they had each drawn blood.
Katakwa looked down at his wound and laughed. He moved in on Connor again, slashing at Connor’s belly. Connor parried, struck back, driving Katakwa hard. Knives and tomahawks arced through the air, men lunging, twisting, slashing, until both were drenched in sweat. Then the handles of their tomahawks collided in midair, catching just beneath the blades.
Each man tried to force the other to yield until both of them shook with the effort. Their gazes locked, and Connor saw hatred and bloodlust in Katakwa’s dark eyes—and behind them grief and desperation. Katakwa wanted the English to suffer for his pain, just as Connor had made the French suffer when he’d believed Morgan slain.
Distracted by his thoughts, Connor was nearly knocked off balance. He caught himself, pushed back, driving with all his strength. Katakwa grimaced, Connor’s nostrils filling with the stink of his breath, his blood, his sweat as they grappled, tomahawks still locked. But Connor’s height and strength gave him the edge, and he slowly forced Katakwa’s tomahawk aside.
Katakwa spun to his right, slicing at Connor’s belly with his knife. But Connor turned the blade back with the handle of his tomahawk, catching Katakwa’s shoulder with his own knife. More blood spilled.
Katakwa was relentless. He pivoted and drove at Connor
again and again, blade flashing. He cut through Connor’s leggings and came damn close to gutting him, undeterred by the cuts Connor landed upon his shoulder and chest. Then Connor felt Katakwa’s foot catch against the calf of his left leg.
But thanks to Joseph, he was prepared.
When Katakwa tried to trip him, he raised his left foot, caught Katakwa behind his knee, and sent him toppling onto his back, turning the warrior’s ploy against him. Katakwa’s tomahawk flew out of his grasp, landing in the mud ten feet away.
Connor could have thrown his knife in that instant and killed Katakwa where he lay, but he had no desire to leave the man’s children alone in the world. Instead, he stepped back and gave Katakwa time to regain his feet, tossing his tomahawk into the dirt at Joseph’s feet, ignoring the enraged look on Joseph’s face at this act of compassion.
Katakwa seemed not to care that he’d been given a reprieve. Breathing hard, he rose, his knife now in his right hand, his wary gaze fixed on Connor.
Connor switched his knife to his right hand, too.
Driven by rage, Katakwa glared at him, circling and circling, his body poised to strike, blood smeared on his skin, mingling with sweat and mud.
Connor saw in Katakwa’s eyes the moment he decided to lunge. He caught Katakwa’s right wrist between his blade and his left forearm, slicing downward hard and fast, severing the tendons in his forearm. As the knife fell from Katakwa’s useless hand, Connor pivoted around to his right and brought his blade to rest against Katakwa’s throat.
“You fought well, Katakwa, war chief of the Mequachake Shawnee, but you have lost. Your life—and your captive—are now mine.”
I
t was over.
Major MacKinnon had prevailed.
Sarah’s freedom was won.
“Thanks be to God!” Light-headed with relief and still clutching the wooden rosary, she swayed on her feet, felt Joseph’s arm encircle her shoulders, holding her steady.
In London, such contact with a man, particularly one of his station, would have been scandalous and would have alarmed her. Here in the wilds of America it gave her comfort.
Joseph’s voice was quiet as he interpreted Connor’s words. “‘You fought well, Katakwa, war chief of the Mequachake Shawnee, but you have lost. Your life—and your captive—are now mine.’ Katakwa says, ‘Send me to my wife, MacKinnon. I grow weary of this world.’”
Sarah squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head away, unable to bear watching the major slit the Indian’s throat.
Then the major spoke again, and Joseph swore under his breath.
“There is naught to fear, Sarah.” It was a measure of how shaken she was that Sarah barely noticed the improper and familiar way in which Joseph addressed her. “Connor isn’t going to kill him. He says, ‘I give you back your life so you might
be a father to your children. They are all you have of your wife now. Cherish them. I claim only the woman.’”
A murmur ran through the crowd.
Sarah opened her eyes in time to see Major MacKinnon release Katakwa and give him a light shove, his actions tugging at her heart. “He spared Katakwa’s life—for the sake of his children.”
Major MacKinnon was not only brave and a skilled officer. He was also a gentleman, a man of honor.
“Oh, he’s a saint. Or a damned fool.” Joseph glared in the major’s direction, but Sarah could see there was more worry than venom in his gaze. “It is unwise to leave an enemy alive at one’s back. Let us hope we don’t have to fight Katakwa on our way back to Albany—though I doubt he’ll ever hold a weapon in that hand again.”
The old chief stepped forward and spoke first to Major MacKinnon and then to the crowd. People stared at her, at the major, at Katakwa, murmuring amongst themselves. Clearly, they had not expected Major MacKinnon to win and didn’t like what she was telling them.
Then the chief let out a whoop, which the crowd reluctantly picked up, the strange sound rising in a crescendo until it filled the village.
“Why are they cheering? What did she say?”
Joseph looked down at Sarah. “She said that Connor is a great warrior and that he is blood brother to the Shawnee now because he spared Katakwa’s life. She also said that Connor has won you fairly and that the Shawnee should rejoice, for tonight they will celebrate a wedding—your wedding.”
“Wedding?” Sarah couldn’t help but laugh.
But Joseph wasn’t smiling. “The old woman does not jest. The only way Connor could stop her from giving you to Katakwa was to challenge him for the right to take you to wife. Connor won. Grannie Clear Water means to see the wedding celebrated and consummated before we are allowed to go.”
Sarah stared up at him, unable to believe what he’d just said. “Surely, the Indians cannot force us to marry, sir.”
“Oh, I think they can.” He looked down at her, his expression grave. “You forget that we are outnumbered. If we wish to return you safely to your uncle, we must not defy the old woman, for here in this village, her word is law.”
The village seemed to close in around Sarah. “Wh-what are you saying? Am I to have no choice in this?”
“Yes, you have a choice. You can either marry Connor and spend one night as his bride, knowing that he will take great care with you and guide you to freedom, or you can marry Katakwa, who will not care how much he hurts you and who will keep you—if he doesn’t kill you for the trouble you’ve caused him.”
She felt the blood drain from her face at these words. “That is no choice, sir. In either case, I must surrender my virtue. That is like asking me to choose the style of my own execution—whether I should I like to be hanged or shot.”
To her astonishment, Joseph chuckled. “I’ve never heard a woman speak of lying with Connor in that way before. In my village, there are women who would gladly fight you for the right to bed him.”
“I am
not
a woman from your village.”
His eyes narrowed. “No, you are not, for if you were, you would be grateful for the better fate Connor has won for you with his blood. Rather than thinking only of yourself, you would be beside him now, tending his hurts.”
Shocked at this rebuke, Sarah took a step backward. “But I…I am the daughter of a marquess. I cannot marry either—”
“You are new here, so I will explain. In this land, nobility comes not from one’s fathers or a title or from the land one owns, but from one’s actions.” His voice was hard-edged, and his words seemed harsh to her. “The MacKinnon brothers are the highest nobility to those who live on the frontier—true warriors, men who know how to fight and survive, men who put the lives of others before their own. Your family’s wealth, your title, your virtue—they mean nothing out here. They won’t fill your belly, and they won’t keep you alive. What matters most right now is your survival.”
“Am I to simply surrender myself to that evil woman’s will?” Sarah could hear the note of hysteria in her voice, but she was too shaken to subdue it. “I will be ruined!”
“You will be alive.” Joseph gaze softened. “I know you are scared, Sarah, but remember—this is not what Connor wants either. It is being forced upon him as well, but he is willing to do whatever he must to bring you safely home. But now go and see to him. He fought for you, and he bleeds.”
Then Joseph turned and walked away, leaving her to stare after him.
And it seemed to Sarah that the world had gone mad.
H
olding a rum-soaked cloth against the cut on his belly, Connor watched Lady Sarah struggle to thread his needle. The lodge the Shawnee had set aside for him and Joseph was dim, lighted only by the hearth, but even so her fingers were strangely clumsy for a young woman who had surely spent much of her life doing needlework.
“I’ve never stitched a wound before. I’ve no wish to hurt you.” She held the thread and needle level with her gaze.
It was the first time he’d been alone with her, the first time he’d been this close to her. Perhaps the lust for blood was still upon him, the heat of the fight still in his belly, for he could not help but notice how very bonnie she was—the gentle curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips, the clear blue of her eyes. He’d just fought for her, and although his mind knew she did not belong to him, something in his blood wanted him to claim his prize now as a Highland man would have done in days of old. Knowing that he might well have no choice but to lie with her tonight wasn’t making it any easier.
Get your mind out of your breeches, MacKinnon, and find a way out of this, aye?
“Dinnae fret, lass. I’ve been stitched upon afore. It willna hurt overmuch.”
“What you suffer, you suffer for my sake.” There was true distress in her voice, her bruised cheeks pale.
“This isna your doin’, my lady.” How could this sweet creature be kin to Wentworth? Connor could see nothing of that whoreson in her. “’Tis my own fault for no’ keepin’ my mind on the fight. I let stray thoughts distract me and am lucky my innards are still inside me.”
“You risked your life to save mine.” She looked up at him, clearly troubled. “You could’ve been killed. How can I ever repay such a debt?”
“It seems to me you’re doin’ that right now.”
And some of the worry left her eyes, a tired smile tugging at her lips.
She wouldn’t feel quite so indebted to him when he told her
what the Shawnee expected of her tonight. He’d thought at first to appease Grannie Clear Water by enduring whatever rituals made up the Shawnee wedding ceremony, then retiring with Lady Sarah to the solitude of a lodge where he could keep her under his protection—and get some bloody sleep. But the old woman had other plans.
Grannie Clear Water hated him for defeating Katakwa. He could see it in her eyes. She hated him even more for sparing the man’s life, for it put her in Connor’s debt. She knew Connor had fought solely to free Lady Sarah, not because he truly wished to wed her. Now she thought to force him not only to marry the lass, but also to bed her.
At first, Connor had thought the
cailleach
was out of her mind. Did the old hag think she could command his cock? He would simply pretend to take Lady Sarah, offering a bit of his own blood as proof that he had breached her if need be.
But then Grannie Clear Water’s daughter had explained the ancient custom of having the village midwife spend the first night in the lodge with a newly married couple to aid the husband should he have difficulty consummating the union. When Connor had told her that Shawnee men might need such help but that Scotsmen most certainly did not, she’d taken offense and insisted Shawnee customs would be followed—unless Connor wished to give Lady Sarah up.
And so Connor was trapped and Lady Sarah with him.
How in the name of Christ was he going to tell her?
Give him a battle over the devious plotting of women any day. Lead balls, knives, and tomahawks he understood, but the female mind…
Not that it would be an odious task to bed Lady Sarah. Everything about her was pleasing to him—the softness of her voice, her delicate features, her womanly shape. She smelled like honey, gleaming from the oils they’d smoothed into her skin. Her honey-gold hair shone even in the firelight, her braids thick and hanging well below her breasts. And her breasts—he didn’t have to imagine them, for he’d seen them. Full and firm they were, made to fill a man’s hand, their delicate tips rosy and ripe for suckling.
Connors felt his blood grow hotter, and he knew he needed to shift the direction of his thoughts before he found himself sporting a bulge in his breeches. He should not be thinking of her in a carnal fashion. The lass had already been through hell,
the dark bruises on her cheeks a reminder to him of all she’d endured. If he were forced to go through with this, he would only add to her suffering and humiliation. She had no more desire to lie with him than with Katakwa.
At last she managed to thread the needle. “Do you wish to drink some rum first?”
He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Nay, lass. I’ve suffered far worse.”
Her gaze skimmed over his bare belly and chest to fix on the scar on his right shoulder. “You were shot.”
“Aye. An ambush. I’d be gone to bones now if it weren’t for Joseph and his men. They spotted the Abenaki and gave us warnin’.”