Breath rushed from his lungs. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest. He closed his eyes, bit his tongue, fought desperately not to cry out. Dear God, how much more of this could he take?
***
Lyda stepped back from the prisoner, her hands slick with his blood, and tried not to show her surprise at his words. Though the man spoke with difficulty—in what sounded more like the speech of their enemies, the Tuscarora, than their own language—his meaning was clear.
He would die, but he would not give in to pain.
Something fluttered in her belly.
Here was a warrior.
He was a beautiful man—taller than most men in her village with hair almost as black as a raven’s wing. His face was proud and strong, its male strength softened by long, dark lashes. And his body... She let her gaze travel the length of him, seeing beneath the blood and burns, from his powerful shoulders to his broad chest, slim hips, and muscular thighs. His breast was sprinkled with an intriguing mat of crisp, dark hair that tapered in a line between the ridges of his belly to his sex. She let her eyes rest there for a moment and felt renewed outrage at his rejection of her. Had he not turned her away, she would now know what it was like to have such a man pleasure her.
She had noticed him the moment the warriors had brought him and the other Big Knife prisoners into the village. The men claimed he had slain at least nine Wyandot warriors before one of them managed to strike him on the head with his club, leaving a gash on his left temple. Still, it had taken four men to subdue him and bind his wrists.
Lyda had known from the moment she saw him that she wanted him. When he looked her up and down and then turned her away as if she were worthless, the humiliation had been almost unbearable. She was considered a great beauty by the people of her nation. More than that, she was a woman of power, a holy woman, granddaughter to holy women dating back to the beginning of her people and a daughter of Atsan, the great war chief. No man had ever turned her away. Until yesterday.
She had rejoiced then to know he would be sacrificed in flames and had vowed to play a role in his torment. But now?
Her grandmother slipped another ember beneath his skin. His body jerked, every muscle taut as he strained against the cords that held him. Breath hissed from between his clenched teeth. His brows grew furrowed with obvious agony. Sweat drenched his black hair, ran in rivulets down his face.
But he did not cry out.
Lyda knew what she wanted. She’d had lots of men in her twenty-three years, had taken a few into her mother’s lodge as husbands. Though she had grown tired of them all rather quickly and set them aside, she had rejoiced in the pain of birth and rush of waters that had brought her three daughters into the world. But with a man such as this—a man who looked at her with hatred in his strange blue eyes, who was bold enough to reject her, and who endured suffering with the strength of the bravest Wyandot warrior—think of the children she might bear! They would be proud, handsome, and strong, and their courage would bring her honor.
She would have his seed.
Of course, it wouldn’t be easy. Her father had already committed him to fire and death. And after witnessing his courage, the warriors would be eager to eat his flesh, particularly his heart, so that they might take in his strength. They would not wish to spare him.
But, of course, her father had never been able to deny her anything.
Chapter 1
March 3, 1763
Fort Detroit, Northwestern Wilderness
Nicholas leaned back in the wooden tub, closed his eyes, let the hot water soak the chill from his bones. It had been months since he’d had a hot bath. It was a luxury he availed himself of only when he came into one of the forts to trade—three or four times a year at most. The rest of the time he bathed in icy rivers and lakes when he could. Survival took precedence over cleanliness in the wild.
The lingering scent of the woman’s perfume—a cheap imitation of roses—mingled with the smell of lye soap as Nicholas allowed his mind to drift. From beyond the door came the rumble of men’s voices, the thud of horse’s hooves, and the tread of boots on wooden walkways. Fort Detroit was crowded these days—too crowded for Nicholas’s tastes—and abuzz with rumors that some of the northwestern tribes were banding together for an organized attack against settlers and the English forts that protected them.
The rumors were true, of course. Nicholas had run into a small band of Shawnee not a month ago and had been warned by one of their warriors, a man Nicholas had traded with in the past, that Englishmen were no longer welcome west of the mountains—with very few exceptions.
The war with France had just ended, and already the frontier was about to collapse into new violence and redoubled bloodshed. Whether they were Indian or white, it seemed to be the nature of men to kill. Nicholas ought to know. He had more blood on his hands than most.
Footsteps approached the door.
He reached for his pistol, which sat primed and ready on the wooden floor beside the tub, wrapped his fingers around its polished handle. It was a reflex born of six years in the wilderness. He was no more aware of this action than he was of breathing.
The footsteps passed.
His grip relaxed, and he began to doze in the steamy water.
Doze only. He never slept, not deeply. He didn’t want to dream.
The water was still warm when the sound of quick, light footfalls roused him.
She was back.
