Savage Betrayal (13 page)

Suddenly, to his astonishment, a few male slaves rushed forward to good-naturedly assist him further up the beach. They patted his back, cracked jokes and jovially welcomed him into their brotherhood.

Once away from the crowd, the slaves’ mood turned serious. “You had a close call there, friend,” one of them assured him grimly. “That crowd wanted blood.”

“Well they’re not going to get
my
blood!” answered Rottenwood confidently.

“Oh?” answered his new acquaintance, amused. “You’re fortunate you were able to think so quickly and give them someone to laugh at, instead of someone to torment. Perhaps you’ll even be able to fool these oafs and survive as a clown or a comic.”

Several of the other slaves leapt at this suggestion with enthusiasm and assured Rottenwood that it was a great idea.

“In fact,” said another excitedly, “we still have a trunk stuffed with costumes and theatrical props that the last comic used!”

His first informant added casually, “This village recently lost their favorite clown.”

Rottenwood was silent a moment, digesting this new fact. Finally he asked, “What happened to him?”

“Oh,” came the response, “see that old man over there, the one leaning on his cane?” Rottenwood glanced at the old man. “The poor clown was killed for telling a joke about that great, high-ranking old chief.” Several nearby listeners stifled their snickers.

Rottenwood surveyed the decrepit figure more carefully. The old man’s skinny elbows and knees protruded at angles from his tattered kutsack. He looked suspiciously like a slave.

Rottenwood paused. “No loss,” he answered at last, aware his new acquaintances were watching him closely, “as long as the joke was funny!” A trifle weak, he thought critically to himself but his audience guffawed their delight.

Rottenwood laughed along with them. “You didn’t fool me at all. I knew he was no chief,” he assured his new friends. There was another burst of laughter at his patently false claim.

* * * *

Sarita watched Rottenwood pick himself up off the beach. She was amazed at his quick handling of the situation. Well, she thought to herself, if he can do it, I can do it. Not in the same way, of course. She sensed that humor would not work as well a second time, but she realized these people could be won over, if not to like her, then at least to respect her.

A warrior tapped the pointed end of a paddle against her spine. She stood up as gracefully as she could in the wobbling canoe and stepped carefully out. Standing on the beach, she wondered what to do next. Unaware of the hauntingly beautiful picture she made, head held high, she waited defiantly. Her clothes, still in fairly good condition despite the overnight voyage, lent a classical dignity to her regal posture.

Feeling Fighting Wolf’s eyes upon her, she turned and looked directly at him. Their gazes locked for a moment. For a second time she felt his overwhelming presence. Mesmerized by his stare, she thought she saw fleeting admiration in those unfathomable dark eyes. Then it was gone, leaving only a calculating arrogance. His sensuous upper lip curled as he snarled at her to follow him.

Holding her head high, she swept after him, her body swaying gracefully. For a moment, the crowd was silent, watching the beautiful woman follow their war chief. Captive or no, there was no denying the majestic dignity evident in her every step.

As Sarita was halfway through the crowd, she began to hear a malevolent hissing that grew louder. The Ahousats must have guessed her high status from her mode of dress, realized a nervous Sarita. Crude shouts reached her ears as the crowd began to taunt her. Drawing her blanket tightly around herself, she maintained the same steady pace, her eyes focused on the massive, muscled back of Fighting Wolf. Seemingly oblivious to the crowd’s hostility, she swept on, her bearing queenly.

Suddenly, children started throwing pebbles at her, followed by angry women casting bigger rocks. One small stone glanced off her cheek. A sharp pain stung her cheekbone and she jerked her head to the side.

Continuing bravely onward, she was suddenly surrounded by ranting, angry women and cursing men. Hurling insults at her, they began to tear at her clothes.

All at once, a deep bellow brought the angry mob to a halt. Fighting Wolf strode into their midst, scattering men and women into each other and disbanding the crowd single-handedly. Furious, he ordered them to their homes. Smarting under his words, the angry crowd slowly broke up and the villagers made their way suddenly back to their longhouses.

Sarita, already mortified by the angry words and malevolent outpourings of the crowd, was further humiliated by Fighting Wolf’s defense. That it was he, her enemy, who had rescued her, was almost more than she could bear. She resolved not to show him any gratitude as she marched proudly after him, head still high.

As they neared Fighting Wolf’s longhouse, she chanced to see the shadowed form of Rottenwood, leaning against a tree. He had obviously been watching the confrontation. In a flash, so fast she thought she imagined it, he gestured sympathetically. Sarita was startled; she had expected no show of concern from him. Feeling a slight relief that she was suddenly not alone, she stiffened her spine and nodded infinitesimally in his direction. Then she followed the quickly disappearing Fighting Wolf to his longhouse.

Alone outside the longhouse door, she paused. The pressure on her bladder was tremendous. Looking quickly about, she stepped into a nearby bush. Moments later she returned and hurried into the longhouse. No one had noticed her absence.

Once in the darkened interior, Sarita waited until her eyes adjusted to the dim light. She noticed a neat, spacious apartment, lit up by a low-burning fire in the center. Along the walls were cedar plank beds covered in furs. Cedar mats carpeted the floor area. On the walls hung creamy cedar mats painted with black mythical animal figures. Designed to prevent cold drafts from chilling the occupants, the mats were very attractive as well.

Large woven baskets, decorated with designs Sarita had never seen before, were placed neatly in one corner, and obviously held many cooking implements. Several chests of cedar were piled up to section off smaller open rooms within the larger living area. Bundles of dried fish and pungent herbs hung from the rafters, as did many seal bladders full of oil. The floor, in those places where no cedar mats were spread, was clean, noted Sarita in surprise. It looked as if it had been swept with a large branch. Back home, her family tossed fish bones and garbage on the floor as a matter of course, as did all the other families she knew.

The whole living area had a homey atmosphere. Sarita was astonished to find it so. She had not associated a barbarian like Fighting Wolf with such neat, cozy living quarters. Then she remembered the wife she had seen hugging him, and admitted somewhat grudgingly that the woman did keep a neat home.

“I regret the insults you just endured,” said Fighting Wolf apologetically. He smiled, baring gleaming white teeth.

“What do you care, Ahousat dog?” she spat, tossing her head. “It’s your fault I’m here in the first place!” She absolutely refused to thank him for his defense of her in the face of that savage mob.

“True,” he admitted casually. His voice held only amusement. He continued to stare at her, and she felt her face flush.

“What do you want, Ahousat worm?” she demanded.

He smiled slowly. “What would any man want of a beautiful woman?” His eyes roved over her body and Sarita stiffened at the fire that blazed momentarily in those jet eyes.

She snorted. “I will have nothing to do with the man who humiliated my father and brother and killed my people! I loathe you!” Fury raged in her golden eyes.

“Maybe so,” he shrugged. “But, loathe me or not, you’re still my slave to do with as I wish.” The truth in his statement stung her. Before she could respond, he added casually, “So it was your father and brother I humiliated. You must be Sarita.”

Her fury upon realizing he hadn’t even known who she was knew no bounds. “You bastard!” she screamed and launched herself at him, nails curved into claws.

He caught her wrists in a tight grip and held her stiffly from him. Jet black eyes stared into golden cougar eyes. Inwardly he admired her courage, but said harshly, “Control yourself, woman! Here in my longhouse there are plenty of witnesses. The penalty for striking a chief is death!” He watched her warily.

She glared into his eyes. Her seething anger was a tangible thing. “Coward!” she hissed low. “Hiding behind your chieftainship. Are you afraid I, a woman, will kill you?” she taunted. How quickly she changed from physical to verbal attack. Still he held her from him.

Suddenly she realized he was touching her. “Let me go, Ahousat dog!” She began squirming and trying to release her arms from his sure grip.

“No,” he said insolently and transferred both wrists to one hand. Then he pulled the struggling woman closer, his other hand splayed across her back. He marveled at the outrage in those expressive golden eyes.

“Stop it! Let me go!”

“Not until I do this,” and before she realized what he was about, she was pressed up against him, her head fell back and his lips descended.

“No!” she cried. But the sound was caught and muffled in her throat. Her useless struggles served only to arouse him, she realized. His hot mouth devoured her. Tossing her head from side to side, she tried to throw him off.

His only response was to release her wrists and bury his hand in her tangled hair. Easily, he held her head steady and continued his punishing kiss. His lips ground harder into hers until, frightened, she no longer tried to struggle.

What was happening to her? What was he doing? A surge of fear followed by a wave of lethargy swept over her and she leaned into his kiss. The next moment, she was startled at his response. His punishing mouth softened against hers and moved slowly across her lips. When his coaxing tongue suddenly demanded entrance to hers, she stiffened in fear. She pulled away.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since I first saw you.” His reminder of their first meeting—at her ‘wedding feast’—brought Sarita back to reality.

“No! You’re my enemy!”

He looked at her out of glazed eyes that quickly cleared. He pushed her away from him. She stumbled and barely caught herself from falling to the floor.

“Hesquiat slave!” came the muffled curse. “You’re my enemy, too!” How could he have forgotten so easily? How could he forget that her people had killed his own father? He stared at her coldly, recovering his self-control.

He was still staring when Precious Copper pushed back the skin flap on the door and stepped inside. She could feel the charged tension in the air.

“Well, Precious Copper, what do you think of my new ‘wife’?” he sneered, “She’s nothing but a slave. A worthless Hesquiat slave woman that I stole from her father. I’ve taken my revenge against the Hesquiat dogs that killed our father.”

Sarita, stung by Fighting Wolf’s scathing statement, barely noted the pretty young woman who had entered. Holding her head proudly, Sarita stared defiantly back at Fighting Wolf, then swung to face Precious Copper. She would not let these Ahousats intimidate her!

Precious Copper looked from her brother to Sarita and back again. “So I have heard, my brother. Our people are singing of your victorious raid on the Hesquiats even now.” These two were brother and sister, realized Sarita. Then her attention was quickly caught by the deep chanting drifting through the village.

The singing reminded Fighting Wolf that he could not risk putting Sarita in the slave quarters—at least not while his people’s hostility against her was so strong. Later, when the anger had died down, he would send her to live with the other slaves. If she went now she would surely be beaten, possibly killed.

His eyes ran over his latest possession. No, he had other plans for her. She was very beautiful, and he’d only had a brief taste of her in his arms. It might prove amusing to keep her near him for a while…

“I’ve not decided what to do with her yet,” he drawled to Precious Copper, while his eyes moved insultingly up and down Sarita’s lithe form before finally settling on her full breasts. They lingered there caressingly for a moment.

Sarita fought the impulse to cover her breasts with her hands. His black eyes flicked back to hers and she caught the mocking gleam in their dark depths. “Until I decide, she shall stay in my apartments.”

She could not suppress a startled grasp. Then she caught herself. This, then, was to be the start of her life as a slave. Well, she vowed, she would do her best to escape such a degrading lifestyle and she certainly would avoid this—this lecher! She shivered inside at the burning look he was giving her.

Pleased to see he had shocked Sarita, Fighting Wolf turned to Precious Copper and ordered, “I’m placing her in your charge. See that no one harms her when I’m away.” Precious Copper nodded. In a more compassionate voice he added, “Feed her. She’s hungry and thirsty and tired. We all are.” With a final glance at Sarita, he turned on his heel and departed. The skin covering the doorway flapped in his wake.

Sarita warily faced Precious Copper, bracing herself for the confrontation she knew was to come. To her immense surprise, Precious Copper reached out a small hand and grasped Sarita’s tightly. Sarita let herself be led over to the central eating area. Precious Copper gestured to Sarita to sit down, which she gratefully did.

The exhausted captive watched as her captor’s sister prepared a small meal and then served it. In silence, Sarita hungrily bit into the dried fish. Never had food tasted so good, she thought. Thirstily, she gulped the water Precious Copper offered. While Sarita ate, Precious Copper busied herself with household tasks. When Sarita was finished, Precious Copper gestured for her to rise.

Wearily, Sarita got to her feet and followed the smaller woman over to an alcove marked off from the rest of the house. Inside there was a cedar plank bed covered with sea otter furs. A cedar mat carpeted the floor. Walls were formed from piled cedar chests, reaching to the ceiling. The alcove was more private than the rest of the house, noted Sarita apprehensively. But at the moment, she was too tired to care.