Chapter Six
Deborah woke gradually to the sound of water lapping at the hull of the dugout and the swoosh of Tshingee's paddle as he maneuvered the boat upstream. She could hear an osprey flying overhead calling shrilly as it soared in the September sky. Once awake, she lay perfectly still in the bottom of the boat, not yet willing to face her captor.
How am I going to get away from this mad man ? she wondered feverishly. Any thrill of the adventure that had been there was gone; she was frightened now. But what am I afraid of? she wondered. I don't think he'll hurt me; he said he wouldn't. All he wants is to have his brother returned safely. If I were in his moccasins, wouldn't I do the same thing? Deborah nearly giggled at the thought of her analogy. If I were in his moccasins! I'm as daft as he is!
"Did you have a restful sleep?" Tshingee asked gently.
Deborah bobbed up, turning to face him. "What? How did you know I was awake?"
He pulled the wide hand-hewn paddle easily through the water in deliberate even strokes. "A man breathes differently when he is awake than when he is asleep."
"Oh." She drew her legs up beneath her, trying to cover as much of her limbs as possible in the torn shift she wore.
For several minutes Deborah watched Tshingee paddle the dugout, observing how his biceps bulged with each stroke of the paddle. He sat on his knees, his buttocks barely brushing his calves, his back straight. Every muscle in his body seem to contribute to the motion of the dugout, although nothing actually moved but his arms. Every pull of the paddle seemed effortless, and yet the boat moved at the same rapid pace in precisely the same direction without ever wavering from some invisible path.
Deborah lifted her hand to shade her eyes. It was nearly noon. "It's very hot," she commented.
"I have left supplies a little further up the river. I will give you proper clothing there."
"You mean all of this was planned?" Her brow furrowed.
"One must always have a plan."
She tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear. The breeze off the water felt wonderful through her thin shift. She hadn't been outside in the sun and breeze unclothed since she was twelve and had gone swimming in her underthings with Charlie MacCloud. "But you didn't even go to my father. You didn't try to have John released."
"Would it have done any good to speak with him?" His ebony eyes met hers.
Deborah looked away. "No," she answered quietly.
"What other choice did I have but to take you?"
She stretched out her legs. He's already seen all of me, she thought pragmatically. I might as well be comfortable. "Oh, I don't know," she answered, lowering her hand over the side of the dugout to drag her fingers in the water. "You could have kidnapped John instead of me. You could have just broken him out of that corn crib and gotten away."
Tshingee lifted his paddle and rested it across the width of the dugout. "No. My brother would want no bloodshed. It is not his way."
She watched him return to his paddling. "But would it be yours?"
He shrugged his sunbaked shoulders. "Does it matter? We talk of John, not of Tshingee."
"Why has your brother an English name and you an Indian name?"
"We are Lenni Lenape. Indians come from a place called India far across the oceans from here."
"Touché," she whispered, smiling. "All right. Why is it you have a Len-ni Lenap-e name and your brother does not?"
"He does, but he chooses not to use it, just as I choose not to use my Bible name. A tshingee is a wildcat of the forest."
"Wildcat . . ." she mused. "It fits you." Deborah studied Tshingee's handsome face curiously. "But what is your Christian name?"
"Luke. I think it is not a good name for me." Tshingee spoke evenly, but broke rhythm with the paddle.
Deborah giggled. "No. You're right. You don't look much like a Luke. I like Tshingee better, too." She tried not to laugh, but it seemed so preposterous. This man was no more a Luke than she was!
Tshingee glared at her, but then broke into a smile, joining in her amusement. "You would not laugh if you had not been given such a proper name."
"Deborah? You think it fits me?"
He lifted his chin, stroking evenly again with the paddle. His long, ebony hair blew in the breeze, fluttering across his shoulders. "Deb-or-ah," he said softly. "It sounds like a name that rides on the wind. Deb-or-ah, the elusive one, who can be heard, can be smelled, can even be seen, but can never be touched."
She crossed her legs, scooting a little closer to him. Her bare feet nearly touched his knees now. "I never liked it before, but when you say it, it does sound beautiful."
Tshingee continued to paddle the dugout along the shore line of the Migianac River and Deborah watched him in silence. He seemed to enjoy the sights and the sounds of the river as much as she did. Tshingee was not afraid of the silence the way Thomas seemed to be.
Still intrigued by Tshingee's past, she spoke again. "You speak very well for an uneducated man."
"That is because I am not uneducated. My father had a tutor for my brother and me when we were children."
"Did he?" She drew up her knees, leaning forward on them. Her shift fell back, revealing much of her shapely thighs. "Your father was a white man?"
"He had a plantation across the Chesapeake where we once lived. Though my brother and I spent most of our time in my mother's village, we sometimes stayed with our father before he married Madam."
"Then your parents were not married," she said, treading lightly.
Tshingee shook his head. "They were married by the shaman of our village. But my mother had no wish to live in the big house, so my father married Madam so that he might have heirs to pass his plantation to when he was gone."
"It must have hurt your mother deeply."
"It did not. She loved him but she wanted no part of his ways. She was content for him to come to our wigwam when it suited her."
Deborah smiled, looking over the glassy blue water. When it suited her . . . She liked the sound of that. "How wonderful to have such a love," she said wishfully.
Tshingee lifted his paddle out of the water. "You think so, Red Bird?"
Deborah was mesmerized by his heady gaze. The man was intoxicatingly masculine. "I would give anything to be loved like your mother must have loved your father."
Tshingee reached out and stroked her cheek. "You are like no woman I have ever known, Red Bird. I wish you were not my enemy."
Her cheeks grew warm and rosy. "I do not consider you my enemy."
He pulled back his hand and lifted the paddle, the spell broken. "Then you are mistaken," he said coldly.
Deborah looked away, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. She was so confused. This man had kidnapped her in the middle of the night. He had stolen her from her father's house and now he held her captive. He had declared them enemies. So why did she harbor no hostile feelings toward him? Why did she like the way he spoke? Why did she yearn for another kiss?
Tshingee and Deborah were silent for the next hour and then, he suddenly veered into a small cove on the southern bank. "Here we will leave the dugout," he told her, his voice devoid of any emotion. "From here we go on foot."
"Where are you taking me?"
"You are my prisoner. I do not have to tell you where I take you." He leaped out of the dugout into waist-deep water and pulled the boat up to the bank. "Get out," he commanded.
Deborah crawled over the side then slipped into the water and waded to the shore. There, she climbed the grassy bank and waited for Tshingee.
He hid the dugout along the bank, tying it to several saplings and covering it with brush. Once on the bank, he brushed past her. "Come."
Deborah obeyed. She knew there was no need to run. Where would she run to? She had not idea how far they had come or in what direction. The Migianac River had so many tributaries that it would be nearly impossible for her to find her way home. If she did manage to escape, how would she defend herself against the wolves and wild dog packs that roamed the area? No, for now, the best thing to do was to remain with Tshingee and bide her time. Something was bound to happen. Either her father would find them, or the prisoner exchange would take place.
"Ouch!" Deborah stopped and lifted her foot to extract a thorn.
"Come," Tshingee ordered.
She grimaced. "Can't you see, I've hurt my foot?" she asked irritably. "You could go ahead without me and I could catch up later."
"You are a very funny woman," he said, his voice lacking even a hint of humor. He stood with his legs slightly spread, his hands resting on his hips. "Must I carry you?"
She sighed. "No. I'm coming." She hopped a few feet then lowered her foot gingerly. She'd removed the thorn, but the ball of her foot was still smarting.
Tshingee followed a narrow deer trail west and then south again back toward the river. Deborah remained a few paces behind. When he stopped, she stopped. "Wait here," he ordered. "I will return for you."
Deborah nodded and sat down on a bulging moss-covered tree root. The forest was so dark and cool; she shivered, rubbing her bare arms. Fall will soon be upon us, she mused. How long will Tshingee keep me? How long will it be before my father finds me or gives in and releases John? It was strange that although she was angry that Tshingee would do this to her, she found no comfort in the thought of returning to Host's Wealth. Being captured by Indians would certainly be a good excuse to put off my wedding, she thought, chuckling to herself.
A few minutes later Tshingee appeared and signaled for her to follow. A few hundred yards into the woods, they entered a man-made clearing. A large garden plot was overgrown with weeds, but other than that, there was no evidence of any human beings.
"What's this?" She hurried to catch up with Tshingee.
"My people once lived here before they were driven further north by the white men. My supplies are here." Tshingee stopped, waiting for her.
"Are we staying here? Is this where we're going to wait?"
"We go on to my village. There we wait for your father's message saying he has released my brother."
"But he doesn't know where your village is." She laid her hand on his arm. It just seemed the natural thing to do. "How will he find me?"
"Our village has messengers. They will contact the Earl." He put his hand over hers. "But it will be some time. The Earl must understand that the situation is grave."
Uneasiness swelled in Deborah. "You mean I won't be going home soon," she said softly.
He shook his head. "But I promise no harm will come to you. Do as I say and you will remain safe in my care."
She yanked her hand from his arm and stalked away. "You've taken advantage of the friendship I offered you."
"I have not," he answered hotly. "You are the Earl's daughter and he is the man who had my brother arrested."
"The Earl has a son." She swung around, her face flushed with anger. She was as distraught with herself as she was with Tshingee. Why hadn't she fought him? Why had she just let him carry her away like that? Because you wanted him to, her inner voice responded. "You could have kidnapped James," she snapped.
Deborah's words brought Tshingee to a halt. He lifted his ebony eyes to meet hers. "Mayhap you are right," he conceded as much to himself as to her. "A part of me wanted you . . . wants you. I have not been able to forget you, Red Bird, since I first saw you there in my brother's garden. I think maybe this is my way of having you with me, if only for a short time."
Tshingee's honesty shocked Deborah. She had never known a man so forthright with his feelings. "But you've taken me against my will, Tshingee! My entire life has been dictated by men like you. No one ever cares what I think! No one asks what I want! I don't want to be here! I don't want to be a part of this!"
With two long strides, Tshingee closed the distance between them. He drew his face only inches from hers. "I do not mean to hurt you, but John is my brother." He laid his hand on his heart. "He is of my flesh and I must do whatever is necessary to save him. Don't you see that your father gave me no choice?"
Deborah couldn't tear her gaze from his as he took her in his arms and kissed her trembling lips. "Come," he whispered. "Let us get my supplies. We cannot stay long because they will be looking for us, but first we will eat."
Deborah sighed, nodding. She was caught in such a whirlwind of emotion that she felt as if she were drowning. Her desire for this man was suffocating her logic. Her mind was so clouded with his presence that she could feel no true malice toward him. He was right. What choice had the Earl left him but to take this drastic action?
She threw up her hands in resolution. She would make the best of this bad situation. It was the only thing she could do. "All right. Where are these supplies of yours?" She walked away, needing to feel a distance between them. "Let's eat. I'm hungry."
Tshingee retrieved two leather packs from a hollowed-out hole in the ground near the edge of the woods. It had once been a place his people stored food in the winter to keep it from freezing, he had explained. Tshingee then retrieved fresh water from somewhere nearby and Deborah soon found herself sitting cross-legged in the grass eating corn bread and dried berries.
The two ate in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Tshingee stood. "Come. We must go now." He held out his hand and she accepted it, allowing him to help her to her feet.
"I thought you said you had something for me to wear."
From a pack he produced a leather tunic. "It is mine," he told her, "but you can wear it over your . . ." he waved, not knowing the correct word.
" . . . My shift," she finished for him.
He smiled. "Your shift. And you can put these on your feet." He offered a pair of beaded moccasins. "They are mine too but I think they will fit."
Deborah accepted his offerings hesitantly. Dropping the moccasins into the grass, she pulled the sleeveless piece of clothing over her head and fastened the ties beneath her arms. The soft leather tunic fell to her hips, fitting perfectly over her shift. The soft animal hide was pliable, giving her unrestricted movement, yet it covered enough of her torso that she no longer felt unclothed.
Tshingee couldn't resist a smile as he watched Deborah settle on the grass to put on the moccasins. She could nearly have passed herself off as a Lenni Lenape maiden in his tunic with her long, dark hair flowing down over her shoulders. Only the silly ruffles of her shift and the pale hue of her skin gave away her true heritage.
"You're right. They fit fine." Deborah looked up at him, wiggling her toes in the moccasins. "Only a little big."
"If you are ready, we must go." He handed her a length of sinew. "To tie back your hair."
She nodded, running her fingers through her straight hair, pulling back to the nape of her neck. She tied the thick mane with the leather thong.
Without a word, Tshingee picked up the packs and started off across the clearing. Deborah followed.
For hours the two walked. Tshingee followed some imaginary path through thickets of briars and groves of monstrous oak trees. He said little to Deborah except to warn her of a poisonous plant or a low-hanging branch, but he remained courteous, seemingly concerned for her welfare.
At first Deborah walked along, enjoying the stroll through the silent forest, but as the afternoon shadows lengthened, she began to tire.
"We cannot stop yet, Deborah," Tshingee called. "We must go further north and to the west before we make camp." He stopped, waiting for her to catch up. "Do you want a drink of water?"
She wiped her damp brow. Though she had thought the forest cool earlier, once she started walking, she began to fervently wish it were later in the season. "How much further?" she asked, stopping to catch her breath. "We've already walked further today than I've walked in my entire life."
"You are strong. We will go further."
"How much further?" She dropped to the ground.
Tshingee glanced at the setting sun. "Dusk."
"Dusk!" she panted. "That's nearly two hours away."
"Yes. I think so." He started through the forest again. "But do not worry. Tomorrow we will walk longer."
Just as the sun was beginning to set, Tshingee finally declared it was time to set up camp. Stopping on the banks of a tributary of some river off the Chesapeake, the Lenni Lenape brave dropped his packs.
"Here is a good place to stop," he declared, stretching his arms.
Deborah collapsed to the ground. "That's good because I can't take another step."
"You did well for your first day, Red Bird." He watched her, his arms crossed over his chest. "I will go find us some fresh game. You swim. It will wash away the dust of the trail and soothe your tired flesh."
Staring out over the blue-green water, Deborah moistened her dry lips. The river did look inviting. "You won't go far?" she asked, getting to her feet. The thought of being alone here in the forest after dark was not a pleasant one.
"I thought my Red Bird was fearless." He grinned.
"She is." Deborah pulled Tshingee's tunic over her head and began to unlace his moccasins. "But she isn't stupid. I've no weapon to defend myself from wild animals or heathens such as yourself."
He nearly smiled, then lifted his hand solemnly. "I will not go far, I give you my word as a brother of the Wolf Clan."
Leaving Tshingee where he stood, Deborah raised her arms, pointed her toes, and dove into the water, just as Charlie MacCloud had taught her years ago. She surfaced a few feet from the bank and stood on tiptoe to touch the bottom. "It's wonderful," she called, leaning back to rinse her hair.
Tshingee regarded Deborah through half-closed eyes, enjoying the pleasure of the moment. She was a vision of glorious beauty to behold in the misty aura of the day's twilight. Dusk . . . that magical time between day and night when spirits haunted the souls of men flying on the winds of the night breeze . . . Tshingee sighed aloud. Was he possessed by this white woman? Was that why it seemed to him that she beckoned him with every move she made as she cleansed her body?
Tshingee lowered his bow and quiver to the soft ground and walked down the bank and into the water.
Deborah watched. The sight of Tshingee coming toward her was as exciting as it was frightening. She knew it was wrong, this ache she had for him, but she was helpless to fight it. When he lifted his arms, she came forward, meeting him in the waist-deep water.
"Have you cast some witch's spell on me Red Bird?" he whispered in her ear, his lips touching her lobe in a gentle caress.
Deborah's eyes drifted shut as she lifted her arms to rest them on his broad, bulking shoulders. "I am no witch," she answered huskily. "It is you who tempt me."
He kissed the length of her jaw line, the width of her flushed cheeks. "I know this cannot be and yet . . ."
Her mouth met his hesitantly. "And yet nothing has ever seemed so right . . ." she murmured against his lips.
Tshingee caught her chin with his palm, his tongue darting out to trace the line of her perfect lips. "You taste of new honey," he murmured. "Honey of the fireplant."
Deborah parted her lips, accepting his probing tongue with trepidation. A hot, molten joy spread through her limbs as he delved deep. Of its own accord her hand lifted to stroke his sleek, thick mane of hair. She reveled in the sensations their mouths created, a soft moan catching deep in her throat.
Suddenly and without warning, Tshingee pulled back. His hands slipped down to rest on her hips. His ebony eyes searched hers. His mouth ached to touch the soft points of her breasts that strained against the water-logged linen shift. "We cannot, Red Bird. We are not meant to be. It is wrong for me to do this."
She shook her head. "How can it be wrong? It's just a kiss. No one has ever made me feel like this. No one has ever been so tender." Her hands trembled as she stroked the thick muscles of his shoulders.
"You were right when you said I was taking advantage of the friendship you offered." He lifted his hands from her hips and took a step back. "We must forget this, Red Bird. I have no right to touch you. It is not in the stars for us."
"But how do you know? What if it is?" she asked softly. She didn't know what she was saying. All she knew was that her heart pounded beneath her breast and her limbs ached with want.
"We must tell ourselves it cannot be. My brother will be released and you will be returned to marry your man."
Before Deborah could speak again, he turned and waded away. She watched in bitter confusion as he climbed the bank and picked up his bow and quiver. When he was gone, she shuddered, lowering herself into the river. He's right, she told herself, fighting bitter tears of frustration. What's wrong with me to behave wantonly? This man is my enemy, he's kidnapped me and holds me as his prisoner!
Turning those thoughts over and over in her mind, Deborah paid no attention to the silence that settled over the surrounding forest or to the nearly soundless splash down the river. She was aware of nothing but the river's cool water and her own inner turmoil until a hand came from behind, clamping down hard over her mouth.
Deborah swung around angrily, thinking it was Tshingee. A lump of sheer terror caught in her throat. It was not Tshingee but another red man, his face painted in a mask of hideous shades of blue and black! Without thought, Deborah lifted her knee hard against the man's groin. He groaned, doubling over, his hand falling from her mouth.
Deborah managed to let out one terrified scream before the savage hit her in the ear with his fist and she sank into splintering darkness.