Читать книгу Shawnee Bride - Elizabeth Lane - Страница 12

The sounds, sights and smells of the village were all around her. The acrid scent of wood smoke blended with the savory aroma of simmering beans, corn, squash and wild onion. A wolflike yellow dog sniffed at Clarissa’s leg, then backed away, growling at her alien scent. From inside one of the long bark lodges, a woman’s voice was crooning what might have been a lullaby.

People seemed to be everywhere—working, eating, resting or simply staring at her in undisguised fascination. The younger children, many of them naked, cavorted around her unafraid, their soft black eyes dancing with excitement. Even the women were lightly dressed, some in long fringed buckskin chemises, others in nothing but beads and short leather aprons. From somewhere beyond the clustered lodges came the nicker of a horse.

“Here.” Wolf Heart stopped before a small barkcovered hut. There were several of these, clustered close together in the shadow of the spacious log building she had seen from the river. “For prisoners,” he explained curtly. “This one is yours.”

She stared at him.

“Go inside,” he continued as if he were talking to a backward child. “You’ll be safe as long as you don’t try to leave.”

“And if I do try?” Clarissa feigned a bravado she did not feel.

“You’ll be caught. Your feet and hands will be lashed together behind your back and you’ll be forced to lie that way all night.” His expression softened, but only for the space of a heartbeat. “Do you want to live, Clarissa?”

Her exhausted body had begun to shake. Her legs quivered beneath her, threatening to buckle. She battled the need to sink against him, to draw strength from his broad, hard chest. “Yes,” she whispered, trembling, “I want to live.”

“Then you must do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you. Is that clear?”

She stared up into his face, only half-aware of the Shawnee milling around them. Her lips tightened as she swallowed and nodded.

Wolf Heart exhaled raggedly. The fading light cast his features into sharp relief, making them look as if they’d been hacked from rough stone. “Go into the hut,” he said. “Eat the food you’ll be given. Then try to sleep.” His eyes narrowed. “No matter what happens, whatever you hear—or think you hear—stay inside and don’t look out. Do you understand?”

Clarissa barely had time to nod again before he shoved her through the low entrance and dropped the deerskin flap behind her. Terror clutched at her as she stumbled into the darkness. She had been fighting fear all day. Now that she was alone, danger and despair finally came crashing in on her.

Clutching her knees like a frightened child, she crouched in the center of the small space, fearful of what might be lurking in the deeper shadows. Her shoulders shook. Her throat jerked in spasms of tearless weeping.

Time passed, how much time Clarissa could not be sure, but all at once she was startled into full alertness by the rustle of the hide that covered the hut’s entrance. Firelight glimmered through the narrow opening, silhouetting a low figure that had come inside and was moving toward her.

“Wolf Heart?” The words strangled in her throat. This was not Wolf Heart. It was not anyone she knew.

Clarissa shrank into the darkness, muscles tensed to spring at the first sign of attack. “Don’t come any closer!” she hissed at the hunched, shaggy-looking form that was edging toward her. Her broken fingernails clawed at the hut’s earthen floor, scraping out a handful of dirt. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but tossing it at the intruder’s eyes might at least give her the advantage of surprise.

She was reaching back with her arm when she heard a thin cackle of laughter. In the next instant, the mouthwatering aroma of roast meat and vegetables assailed her senses. Her hand unclenched, releasing the dirt back to the floor. Wolf Heart had said she was to be given food. This creeping presence who had frightened her so was nothing more than an elderly woman bringing her a meal.

Still wary, Clarissa edged deeper into the shadows. The crone spoke to her in Shawnee, her ancient voice raspmg like the stone wheel of a scissor grinder. “We-sah,” she said, thrusting out a bowl made from a hollowed gourd. “We-sah!”

The old woman did not appear dangerous, or even unfriendly, but Clarissa had endured a long and dreadful day. Famished as she was, she could not bring herself to reach out and take the food from the gnarled hand. She cringed like a captive animal, refusing to move.

Only when the woman had backed out of the hut and gone, leaving the bowl on the floor, did Clarissa summon the courage to creep forward. The stew, or so it appeared, was still warm. Its fragrance floated into her nostrils, triggering hunger pangs so intense she almost moaned out loud.

Her hands groped for utensils in the dark space. Finding nothing, not even a napkin, Clarissa managed an outraged little sniff. How on earth did these people expect her to eat? With her fingers?

Apparently so.

Salivating in spite of herself, she poked a tentative fingertip into the stew and licked off the juices that clung there. The earthy taste was so rich it made her head swim.

She used her thumb and forefinger to pick out a small chunk of meat and taste it. Venison—she had eaten it before, at the fort. And here was corn, onion and a slice of vegetable that smelled like squash…

Suddenly she was picking up the bowl, tilting her head back and scooping the stew into her eager mouth, making tiny animal noises as she chewed and swallowed. Clarissa had never been so ravenous. Only the fear of getting sick again kept her from bolting it all down at once like a hungry dog.

Within minutes she had finished off every morsel and cleaned the bowl of juices. Abandoning all pretense of manners, she licked her fingers and wiped them dry on the ragged remnants of her skirt. Crawling forward, she pushed the empty bowl under the deerskin flap. She did not want to give the old woman an excuse to come in and startle her again.